Friday, September 29, 2023
Bad Poetry: Things That Feel Like Home
Thursday, September 28, 2023
Web Log for 9.27.23
Book Review: The Violent Bear It Away
Title: The Violent Bear It Away
Author: Flannery O’Connor
Date: 1960, 1983
Publisher: Farrar Straus & Giroux (1960), Signet (1983)
ISBN: none
Length: 148 pages (compressed paperback)
Quote: “Tarwater’s uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging his grave.”
By 1960 events like the plot of The Violent Bear It Away would have become local legends: Once, long ago, before we had a school or a cemetery, there was a family who suffered from episodes of violent rage, and this was what became of the last of that line...
The title of this novel is taken from a Bible verse. “It” here refers to what belongs to “the kingdom of heaven” in this lifetime. Tarwater and his sick, cruel relatives live in a quiet, beautiful country, and try to understand a religion of quietness, gentleness, and beauty...but they can understand it only through the twisted minds they have in common, which means that their violence destroys it.
The uncle dies, straightforwardly enough, from a stroke caused by the cardiovascular disease his choices have been hastening on for years. He is eighty-four, fat, a big meat eater and heavy drinker, and when fourteen-year-old Tarwater gets drunk on his uncle’s liquor, it’s not as if being drunk is unfamiliar to the boy. Nevertheless Tarwater gets frustrated by the work of digging the grave and lifting the uncle’s 200-pound body, and ends up burning down the house with his dead uncle in it before fleeing to his other surviving relative, his uncle Rayber.
The dead uncle, Old Tarwater, was a devout Protestant of some sort—not, apparently, a Baptist—but his religion only colored his outbursts of violent insanity. His salvation, perhaps, has been his ability to protect and nurture young Tarwater; the quality of his nurturance has left a great deal to be desired but the boy is physically healthy and, apparently, as sane as any of his family can be.
Rayber has convinced himself that, by being a devout atheist, he’s suppressed his own violent insanity...except that now and then he knows he’s not completely suppressed it. He, too, has been saved from his psychosis by his ability to protect and nurture his son, whose brain damage is more visible than Rayber’s and the two Tarwaters’ violent episodes.
Old Tarwater has told young Tarwater that the boy will inherit his “gift of prophecy” and must baptize his feeble-minded cousin. Rayber tells young Tarwater that the boy must reject religious faith in order to stay sane. Of course, Rayber says, handing Tarwater a glass of water, he can pour a little water over his cousin’s head, if it will make him feel better. It won’t hurt the smaller boy much. Tarwater rejects this idea of mock baptism in front of his mocking uncle. Rayber applauds this choice of sanity, and starts leaving the children alone together.
Nevertheless, when the inevitable happens, Rayber knows what’s happened to his son as well as if he’d been watching, and understands that he’s merely used Tarwater to carry out his own violent impulse...this time. By the end of the story two of these four lunatics are still breathing, but we know they won’t be for long.
The great mistake people have made in interpreting this novel, I believe, is reading it as a statement about “The South” or about something typically Southern. It is of course typical of the small-town South that legends about what became of a family of bad men, long ago, continued to be retold for years after all the characters were dead, but B.A. Botkin collected similar legends in the North. Flannery O’Connor set her story in the place where she chose to live. People do not choose to live in places where stories like this one would be considered typical.
I read it as more of a religious statement. O’Connor was a Catholic; for her Old Tarwater’s Protestant religion was all wrong and had no power to save, but Rayber’s dogmatic atheism was evil and had power to destroy.
Alternatively the story can be read as embroidery on the feminist cliché that “When men are left alone together they’re always in bad company”; the psychotic family has no living women, and possibly that’s what’s wrong with the men.
Or it can be read as what I suspect it may have been written to be—pure horror, the story of an adolescent whose struggles against his genetic fate only set him more firmly in the trap of insanity and violent death. O’Connor’s father had died young from lupus; in 1950 O’Connor had nearly died from the same disease. It’s possible that she was motivated to write about a young man doomed to hereditary insanity as a way to think about being a young woman doomed to hereditary pain, disability, disfigurement, and premature death. It was probably her religious faith, although she wrote little about it for most of her life, that allowed O’Connor to live out her days with her sanity intact, as her body self-destructed. Imagining what her life would have been like without that faith might have been all the inspiration she needed to create the Raybers and the Tarwaters.
O’Connor, according to those who knew her, laughed hysterically when she read parts of this and her other stories aloud. Despite the close and not unempathetic attention she gave them, for her her fictional characters were “freaks, not folks,” distinguished mainly by their lack of resemblance to anybody she actually knew. I didn’t catch myself even smiling as I read The Violent Bear It Away. In some of O’Connor’s short stories, and in parts of the tragic novel Wise Blood, I do find chortles. For me the tone of The Violent Bear It Away alternates among the three reactions Stephen King described as terror, horror, and gross-out.
Are there people who need to be reminded that dogmatic atheism is as inherently demented as any other form of psychotic religiosity? I don’t know. Would The Violent Bear It Away work, for them, as a warning? I don’t know. Is its redeeming value, in the end, its insight into the psyche of a talented writer facing painful premature death? Possibly. Anyway, if any Stephen King fans out there have been advised to write a term paper on something considered “better literature,” this book is for you.
Do We Need a Scam Watch Newsletter?
Wednesday, September 27, 2023
Book Review: Southern Living Vegetable Cookbook
I'm reading new books for you as fast as I can...I can read only so many pages on a screen at a time, and when new books turn out to be 800 pages long, that does slow down the queue. Here's an old book some people may want.
Title: Southern Living Vegetables Cookbook
Author: Lena Sturges
Date: 1975
Publisher: Oxmoor House
ISBN: none
Length: 80 pages
Illustrations: drawings by Ralph Mark
Quote: “If the vegetable begins to lose color, it is beginning to overcook.”
Southern Living was a spin-off from Progressive Farmer. These recipes show where progress was being made. When did Grandma ever worry about vegetables being overcooked? Did she ever eat them any other way? Crispness was undesirable in a world where most adults had bad teeth.
Still, it was only 1975, and several recipes call for four tablespoons of butter where one would do, or half a cup of oil and half a cup of vinegar where the juice and rind of one lemon would add as much oiliness and sourness as the salad could need.
What vegetarians and dieters will love about the Southern Living Vegetables Cookbook is that vegetables are promoted from side dishes to entrées. If you’re not a total vegan, but are trying to consume more vegetables and less meat, this is a cookbook for you. Vegetable omelets, or vegetables cooked with milk, contain enough animal fat and protein to make cruelty-free meals. Several recipes leave room for meat as flavoring or garnish for a dish that features vegetables.
What children, and adults with childlike taste such as the writer of this review, won’t love about this cookbook is that many recipes are designed to sneak second-rate veggies to the table behind layers of cream sauce, crumb topping, cheese, or even pie crust. To make an asparagus casserole, after cooking asparagus in the usual way you use the water to make a cream sauce, spread the asparagus in a greased dish, cover with cornflake crumbs, then chopped boiled egg, then cream sauce, more crumbs, more sauce, and shredded cheese, and bake for half an hour. Right. What I want to know is, who would let asparagus get into a shabby enough condition to need such a deep burial? Fresh asparagus is something you have to stop children from eating right out in the garden. I prefer to wash off the topsoil, myself, but I’ve never seen any reason to cook asparagus. It looks so much more, er, adult, while it’s raw, with a droplet of water glistening on the tip...
Grandma didn’t use recipes like these because she liked to nag children to eat vegetables. She invented these recipes during the long dark winters when the family ate their way through crocks of salted-and-vinegared vegetables and jars of overcooked vegetables they’d put up during the summer, and since they had no other vegetables and were on the verge of scurvy, they found it good. But Southern living is about having a garden and using vegetables while they’re so fresh that even the shelled peas, stringbeans, and potatoes taste good raw. Crisp, juicy, just slightly sweet, Southern vegetables are supposed to be treats for children.
The Southern Living Vegetables Cookbook was not written with restricted diets in mind, but does contain several meat-free, grain-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free recipes. Several recipes use all natural ingredients and can be made entirely from garden produce. And some don’t even bury the healthy veg in saturated fats and simple carbs.
How I Shake Off a Bad Mood
Tuesday, September 26, 2023
Shelter Dogs by the Numbers
As in the vintage movie, two adult females who had had hard lives became friends. Now they do everything together and, their foster human says, they're ideal for someone who has an active social life with other humans, because they'll keep each other company when you're out. They came from a small-town shelter that wasn't getting much traffic. Petfinder let them be listed in cities to which their foster human can transport them if you pay. As a result of this arrangement each dog's "adoption fee" is on the high side, but they have run up vet bo;;s amd you might be able to haggle down to a "buy one, get one free" deal. The dogs are small, just under 25 pounds, and are said to be friendly and cheerful and full of energy. They like to run. At least one human in their ideal home likes to run a few miles a day, too.
Monday, September 25, 2023
Book Review: Adrian Mole the Lost Years
Book Review: Adrian Mole, the Lost Years
Author: Sue Townsend
Date: 1984-1994
Publisher: Soho Press
ISBN: 1-56947-015-4
Length: 309 Pages
Quote: “No letter from Sarah Ferguson today.”
“Not lost enough,” says a caricature of Margaret Thatcher on the cover of this book. I beg to differ. This book contains a short reprint from True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, most of Adrian Mole from Minor to Major, and all of Adrian Mole, the Wilderness Years.
Adrian Mole is the definitive nerd-as-opposed-to-geek. Theoretically intelligent enough for all sorts of opportunities, he tends to defeat himself, in real life, by his overwhelming real-world stupidity. He’s the sort of guy who’s invited to do a radio talk, where his lack of money and fashion sense won’t be held against him, and promptly tells the folks in radio-land that he’s wearing a shirt from a rummage sale, over a T-shirt with a message that embarrasses him, and “executive striped trousers” and “designer training shoes.” He’s the sort who reads a passage on clichés in The Complete Plain Words and notes that his writing style needs to improve “by leaps and bounds.”
In The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Pandora Braithwaite was his academic rival. In The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole, she was his first girlfriend. Though not quite as perfect as Adrian has always thought her, she’s destined to go further than he, in life, and will be elected to Parliament while Adrian is still relying on his mother to finish his first book manuscript . (For a recipe book, Adrian’s first deliberately published work will show a remarkable degree of feminist consciousness.)
Meanwhile, Adrian’s diary should appeal to anyone who enjoys the blog genre. He dutifully reacts to the news items of each year of his fictional life. His reactions vary from standard-TV-viewer to unique. He forms a crush on Sarah Ferguson, without losing his feeling for Pandora, and sends her a poem pleading, “Don’t marry Andy...Come to Leicester, come to Leicester, marry me!” He dutifully visits Bert, the senior citizen he met when he and the other thirteen-year-olds had to do community service projects (for school, not as a punishment). There’s a chortle on every page, and the laugh is usually on Adrian, but none of his friends or neighbors is beyond ridicule.
If you use out-loud laughter as a painkiller and mood elevator, keep a copy of at least one Adrian Mole book handy at all times.
Butterfly of the Week: The Obscure Pachliopta Schadenbergi
This male, typical of the subspecies micholitzi, has been quietly fading in a French museum for twenty years. When living, his pale pink spots might have been redder. The female is a little larger than the male--not a lot. The museum's pair's wingspans measured 74 mm for the male, 75 mm for the female. The easiest way to recognize the male, even spread out as a museum specimen, is by the little scent folds on the inside of his hind wings.
Sunday, September 24, 2023
Bad Poetry: Losing Track of Time
Book Review: Blessed to Be a Blessing
Title: Blessed to Be a Blessing
Author: James K. Wagner
Date: 1980
Publisher: Upper Room
ISBN: 0-8358-0410-0
Length: 144 pages
Quote: “God has the power to achieve his purposes, but he does not superimpose it on our will.”
This is a book for church workers who want to “have an intentional healing ministry in [their] church[es].” It’s part of the charismatic movement thart appeared in several mainstream churches around 1980.
As disillusionment with the wilder claims of charismatic “healing ministers” set in, many churches lost interest in this kind of ministry. Wagner does not encourage the kind of false hopes that did harm to some who hoped for healing. He discusses possibilities like “[The patient] may not be cured of the cancer, but may yet receive help in one or more of the other areas,” and “All physical healing is temporary...physical death is not the end but the transition.” The Bible is as clear about the fact that some members of the apostolic church were not physically healed as if is about the fact that others were. Paul himself prayed about a “thorn in the flesh” (he was short, arthritic, nearsighted, and bald) and concluded that God intended for him to live with it.
I could wish that Wagner had given more attention to the healing visions in which some people report being directed to seek for instructions that will facilitate physical healing.
I thought, too, while reading this book, of one of those casualties of certain “healing ministries.” During the 1980s a “healing minister” came out with his retinue, and they laid their hands on the head of a cerebral palsy patient who had spent her life in a wheelchair, and prayed. To the extent that they were praying for her to stand up and walk, their prayer was answered firmly, “No.” She has never walked all the way across a room. Nevertheless, during the rest of the 1980s the thirty-something patient learned to type on a computer, got a job, and did much to educate people about brain injuries.
If Wagner had been present, he might have quoted from page 66 of Blessed to Be a Blessing: “When a person comes for healing he or she is always helped in some way.” As things were, the so-called healer announced that the lady remained unhealed due to unconfessed sins. He maintained this position after the lady had published tedious little confessions of every impatient word, lustful fantasy, or stolen cookie she could remember. Then the church became disillusioned with this minister and with the idea of healing prayer. They might have benefitted from this book.
Even Wagner, however, fails to discuss the possibility that the lady’s “healing miracle” could be that she would discover, or motivate someone else to discover, a physical cure for injuries like hers.
Although this book is addressed to pastors and contains liturgies for healing services in a church, it can be used by people who want to pray for healing at home or in small groups. Wagner tries to prepare people to understand that the answer to such prayers may be a dramatic recovery, an emotional healing journey, a subtle impression to consult a certain doctor or book, or even an impression that someone’s “healing” might involve writing off a wrecked body and moving on into eternity.
It may also be helpful to bear in mind that those praying, as well as those prayed for, may receive “help” from healing prayers. When my husband failed to recover from flu, and I prayed for him, the first clear impression I received was that I was concerned about my shortcomings, but “he was suffering for his own sins.” When I shared this impression with my husband, he immediately admitted something I had suspected before—that he felt worse after angry outbursts and felt better after praying for those who seemed to have provoked his periodic rages. (This was a month or two before we learned that he had multiple myeloma; after his death I learned that hypertensive rages may be an early warning of this rare form of cancer.) Later both of us prayed, and received an impression that his healing would consist of an almost painless departure from a body that was past physical repair. While some kinds of bone cancer are extremely painful and some patients feel pain with multiple myeloma, my husband consistently reported that what had felt like stiff muscles or rheumatism, while he had seemed healthy, had given way to numbness.
I mention these things to show why people should avoid projecting their disappointments onto others, “You prayed for your relative, and he died.” A simplistic approach to healing prayer tends to disillusion people. A broader understanding of the many levels on which healing is possible seems less likely to generate ill feeling. If you are searching for this broader understanding, Blessed to Be a Blessing is for you.
Web Log 9.22.23 to 9.23.23
Now, THIS is a phone. Not that the shape is the only consideration if reasonable people ever go back to using phones.
See how convenient the size is: Fits into the same pockets and wallets as a card or a folded dollar bill. Matte finish, well balanced shape, fits between thumb and fingers, so it's not constantly sliding out of your hand or even off your desk, much less out the car door and into the sewer. Screen will not display pictures, much less snap pictures of you without your consent--yes, that's a thing. And you paid for the service by buying a plain card, cardboard, not even plastic, with a string of digits on the card, which you punched into the phone after paying for the card in cash. People could hear your voice but that did not enable them to steal your identity because it did not connect to any other piece of information about you except your location...which was mobile. Picking up this phone was not an instant breach of basic common-sense personal security, the way picking up the Android is. This was a good kind of phone. If the companies want people carrying cell phones everywhere, they need to get back to the design that worked. This time, make sure the phones, which are permanently locked into a fee schedule of 10 cents per minute of conversation or 3 cents per text message, are guaranteed to be fully maintainable for a minimum of 50 years from the date of purchase or the lifetime of the company. Throw in a year of free service to make up for having forced the useful kind of phones out of service, and the companies might have a deal. Though there needs to be something to offset the companies' unilateral decision to cancel their contract with their loyal customers, too...something like "Customers may set up a service agreement by furnishing their legal names to the company, after which they may reset the cost of 'additional minutes' cards to 1 cent per card if they feel like it." Seriously. You don't cancel the contract under which you sold an object if you want to sell anybody any other object, ever again!
Friday, September 22, 2023
Book Review: Wise Blood
Book Review: Wise Blood
Author: Flannery O’Connor
Date: 1949, 1983
Publisher: Farrar Straus & Giroux (1949), Signet (1983)
ISBN: none
Length: 232 pages (1949), 120 pages (1983)
Quote: “Do you think I believe in Jesus? Well I wouldn’t even if He existed.”
The Bible says, “The fool hath said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” Wise Blood (which exists in a bulky, eye-friendly form and in a compressed, closely printed form) is an expanded variation on this theme. Whether you have the original 232 pages or the unabridged packed-down 120 pages, what you have is the tragic history of a young fool.
The word “fool” has always included the ideas of genuine stupidity, of sickness, and of wrongheadedness, or any combination of all three. Hazel Motes, a shellshocked veteran, seems to be both sick and wrongheaded. He is also ignorant. He probably would never have been at the head of any class in any school, and he didn’t spend much time in school, but he’s not stupid enough to be easily written off. He is not more than twenty-three years old, apparently attractive to women, very serious, very sensitive, and very confused. Deeply religious before the war, he comes home determined to be an atheist, but he’s not cynical enough to be a good one. He gives up his attempt to organize a “Church of the Truth Without Jesus Christ” when his followers fail to keep his doctrine pure.
Before he dies—and there’s no room for doubt that he wants to die—Haze is determined to commit some Major Sins, and he commits some, in the laughable way that’s probably only possible for a very young and very goodhearted ex-Christian. He offers his virginity to a sleazy woman. That’s not bad enough. He rents a room from a decent woman, preaches atheism, is revulsed by his followers, and decides to seduce an old blind preacher’s daughter. To his disgust, the preacher is neither really blind nor really a Christian; it’s not clear whether his partner-in-fraud is really related to him, but being seduced is nothing new to her. The landlady steps in to help Haze get rid of this pair of scam artists, tries mothering him and even gets her hopes up about marrying him, but by this time Haze is walking around with barbed wire wrapped around his chest and gravel in his shoes, trying to die of pneumonia.
O’Connor was a Catholic, looking down on the Protestant peasantry of North Georgia. It’s hard to imagine her ever thinking of Haze as someone that God, as O’Connor understood God, wasn’t actively trying to redeem, through the grotesque days of his decline; but she couldn’t quite bring her antihero to salvation. And Wise Blood is probably easier to take if the reader is also Catholic, or Buddhist, or something that allows some hope for Haze’s posthumous redemption.
It’s also an anti-war tract. Men like Haze are still floundering around the streets of our cities today. As I read I found myself thinking, “Not true: friends and relatives of mine who saw horrible things, not even in Germany where they were told they could feel good about them, but in Korea and Vietnam, came home and were okay, as long as they hadn’t taken drugs.” Yes, but they had homes to come back to. Haze doesn’t. Haze, as fictional character, represents all the guys who joined the Army because their parents were homeless or on welfare or dead, or because they’d stomped or been kicked out of their parents’ or wives’ homes, or because they’d done something stupid and needed to get out of town fast. These were not the soldiers to whom we sent food treats in Vietnam. They were the ones to whom nobody wrote letters. I used to see them, and some of them were as old as Haze but were still alive, at soup kitchens in Washington. They were still visibly deranged. Most of them had, at some point between 1945 and 1985, taken some sort of drugs or “medication.” Mostly it hadn’t helped. Most of them were still carrying heavy loads of hate, grief, and guilt; many were also twitching. This is one of the things wars have always done to young men, and, these days, to young women.
O’Connor’s way of writing stories like Wise Blood is not for everyone. How can this tragic story be told as if it were a satirical comedy? O'Connor probably intended that most readers would want to rescue, if not to adopt, Haze. She intended to kill him by torture, anyway, and part of the torture is setting him in a scene like a Hogarth painting. These things exist, O’Connor tells us, and you, who are almost certainly stronger than I am, can do something about them, now that I’ve forced you to see that they’re there. Go and do it.
Thursday, September 21, 2023
Link Log for 9.21.23
Book Review: What's Bred in the Bone
Book Review: What’s Bred in the Bone
Author: Robertson Davies
Date: 1985
Publisher: Macmillan / Penguin
ISBN: 0-14-00-97112
Length: 436 pages
Quote: “If one member of the Cornish family is shown to be a crook, the financial world will be sure that the whole Cornish family is shady.”
They are. What else is new? But if you’re a person who enjoys long novels full of picturesque details and complex relationships, you may get some pleasure from finding out how, when, and why they’re shady.
For one thing, they’re the sort of people for whom the term “cousin” does not automatically exclude the thought “bedmate.” I understand that in England, where part of What’s Bred in the Bone takes place and where some of my better documented ancestors lived, many people feel this way. I had more Irish than English ancestors, myself, and the cousin-lust motif grosses me out. And I don’t think Davies minded grossing readers out; holding my nose and reading on, I come to scenes that could hardly be meant to serve any other purpose for any reader.
One of the questions the novel promises to answer is whether Frank Cornish was homosexual, or, if not, what was his sexual aberration. I don’t want to spoil the plot for anyone who wants to know that sort of thing, but I will warn readers that a formative influence on Frank was discovering his secret, shameful, shut-in half brother. The half brother is abnormal because their mother tried so hard to abort him, but Frank’s elders blame his abnormality on the fact that he was conceived outside of marriage. Unable to do much else, the half brother fiddles with himself a lot.
We’re supposed to share the adult Frank’s shame and horror at the harm done by Victorian efforts to deny sexuality. I find myself pondering the shifting fashions in moral conventions, and wondering which of our society’s taboos will seem most outrageous to our grandchildren, like Victorian denial or the early twentieth century’s ideas of eugenics. Will it be the 1960s view that the worst sexual sin was to withhold erotic pleasure from another person, thereby causing frustration, which might cause hostility, which might cause nuclear war? Will it be the current effort to claim that homosexuality is “gay” and is “just as good,” at least for humans, rather than being the symptom of overcrowding and harbinger of disaster that it is for other animals?
Well...Cleveland Amory, a fine writer and a great American, maintained that women can’t be curmudgeons. Out of respect for his views on this subject, as a quintessential curmudgeon, I will not claim that novels like What’s Bred in the Bone are helping me develop toward being a curmudgeon. I will say that, along with my inner children and inner sages and all the other trendy denizens of my psyche, I have an inner curmudgeon. Sometimes he is loud.
Robertson Davies had an inner curmudgeon too. Possibly that’s why I’ve enjoyed his short nonfiction so much. Definitely it’s at least partly a defect in me that I didn’t enjoy What’s Bred in the Bone, the first and last Davies novel I’ve read. Davies’ inner curmudgeon had no objection to Peeping Tommery. Mine has. And unfortunately this novel is mostly about people’s dirty little secrets.
When it’s not, What’s Bred in the Bone does contain the kind of felicities to which Davies rose in his short essays. Fun facts float out like bread on the waters: “The name of the Recording Angel was Raduriel...the Angel of Biography, and his name was the Lesser Zadkiel.” Clever phrases bubble up: “lettuce-juice words like ‘extra-terrestrial,’” “a drunken detrimental called Old Billy,” “a man who knew his place, but also knew his worth.” We can hear the Liszt rhapsody performed at “pell-mell speed,” see the schoolboys drawing and shellacking silly faces on their raincoats, feel Frank’s admiration for a cousin who “was a Terror, even among the Chegwidden lunatics.” For sheer word-smithcraft, I agree, Davies deserved the fame he enjoyed. I merely prefer his craft dedicated to fun facts, literary criticism, and parodies rather than continually twitching shower curtains and giggling at the back views of people.
If you don’t agree, you may have remembered by now that Davies was Canada’s best known writer during the years before Atwood and Gibson teamed up. No doubt at least we can agree that, some of the time, he deserved his reputation. If you like wit and literacy mixed with smut, this book is for you.