I watched last night's debate and I've been digesting the reaction to it all day, via the news sites and blogs I frequent. A few of my own impressions:
1) McCain is a much better debater than he is speechmaker. I was impressed by his breadth of knowledge, at least about international relations and general world history. I thought his rantings about earmarks were laughable, given their relative insiginifance in the larger scheme of things.
2) While McCain's knowledge of the world is impressive, I thought that Obama did not give much ground to him on foreign policy and the Iraq War. I remain impressed that Obama was one of the few prescient ones in 2003 whose first inclination was to question whether Iraq was really a place we needed or wanted to invade.
3) I grew tired of McCain's obvious disdain for Obama. He did not, even once, look him in the face. Not once. He seemed patronizing and contempuous. Obama stayed respectful, as he always does.
4) I was watching the debate on CNN and they have this neat little tracker on the bottom of the screen that gauges audience reaction in real-time. You get to watch the reaction of 35 people to every moment in the debate. When they like something they turn the dial up, and when they don't like what they hear, they turn the dial down. They were evenly splite among Democrates, Republicans, and Independents, and you could watch how each separate group reacted. Anyway, the most intresting thing I noticed was that when one of the candidates went blatantly negative, all trend lines would immediately go down. McCain was far more negative (or, as those sympathetic to him might say, "aggressive") than Obama. Whenever he got snide, the audience generally reacted negatively.
5) I don't think anyone who has already made their mind up will change their minds as a result of the debate. The two basically repeated things they've already said before. However, their body language, their basic demeanor, and their temperaments were on display. Obama was calm and collected. McCain was annoyed and dismissive, as if to say, "how do you even share this stage with me?" Clinton did that too.
She lost.
6) Palin (and McCain) better hope that she does better with Joe Biden than she did with Katie Couric.
7) In the end, people generally see what they want to see in these kinds of things. I'm no exception.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Money; or, how greed is the true ruling party in the U.S.
After eight years of truly unprecedented expansion of presidential powers (see The Military Commissions Act, the Protect America Act, the FISA Amendments Act, the Detainee Treatment Act, and the Patriot Act), is it really surprising that the Bush administration is so keen on now controlling financial markets as well?
(If I were really cynical, I might suggest that Bush would never let the market correct itself, because that might lead to a depression, which would be bad for Republicans during an election year).
The reaction from the Right has been interesting. Some, indeed, are skeptical of the $700 billion bailout plan, justifying their skepticism by citing their "conservative" political ideology. But where were they when the Bush administration justified new law after new law that expanded executive power with the argument that essentially tells us to "trust them"? Trust that they won't abuse their new spying powers; trust that they'll conduct the war soundly despite their lies which led to the war; trust they not turn the "War on Terror" into a justification for torture, etc., etc. Meanwhile, Bush issues "signing statements" that allow him to circumvent any legislation that pertains to the executive branch, he installs Justice Department lawyers who were required to pass ideological litmus tests, he practices political vindictiveness when anyone in the administration is criticized from within the government (his administration's outing of CIA agent Plame), and he regularly stonewalls, or lies to, the media, or just doesn't talk to them (Palin has recently picked up on this tactic, preferring stump speeches to interviews and press conferences).
In sum, whenever Bush has the option between more or less power, he has ALWAYS chosen more.
The reaction from the Left (although I think there isn't really a true "Left" in this country) has been curious as well. Democrats in this country are as culpable for our economic welfare as anyone. Though Phil Gramm [R, and McCain adviser] wrote and sponsored the 1999 Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, which overturned Depression era regulations on the market--which helped to grant banks the type of decision-making power they so abused in the recent decade--several Democratic Senators signed it, as did President Clinton; I'm thoroughly convinced that Democrats are just as beholden to capitalism, in all its good and bad qualities, as Republicans are. It's a complete myth that Democrats are not friendly to business. Clinton, for all the hatred he incites from the Right, made economic decisions based upon a free-market mindset. Now, the economy did well in the 90's (due in part to the "dot.com" boom, which history, not Clinton, was responsible for), but perhaps only now we're experiencing the long-term effects of laissez-faire economic policies.
What's been curious about the past eight years is that, in terms of the the war, and other domestic policies that stem from it (like FISA, which intrudes upon every American's privacy by making warrants obsolete), it has been Democrats (or at least a handful of them) that have been arguing for prudence and governmental restraint. It's been Republicans who have been more than willing to expand government, and its power over citizens, to an extent this country has not seen. I wonder if a Democratic president would have been granted the same powers by a Republican legislature? Probably not. That is why purely Partisan politics is so unhealthy. It's a voluntary abnegation of one's brain--and makes people (in this case Republicans) do things they normally wouldn't do (grant goverment more and more power). Partisanship makes it impossible to hold leaders accountable for their bad decisions.
Now it will be up to Democrats, and a handful of "conservatives", to at least make sure there's some restraint practiced in this bailout.
There really is no ideological consistency left in American politics. Sometimes that's good: you don't want your leaders to be absolutely ruled by any dogma to the point they become so inflexible that all their ideas and decisions are prescribed by some program or philosophy (if that were the case all you'd need is a copy of said program, and anyone could be president). On the other hand, it's getting really hard to tell right from left these days.
Perhaps "bipartisanship" is just a ruse, so that those without any values can cater to what they really care about: money, and those they are beholden to because of money.
(If I were really cynical, I might suggest that Bush would never let the market correct itself, because that might lead to a depression, which would be bad for Republicans during an election year).
The reaction from the Right has been interesting. Some, indeed, are skeptical of the $700 billion bailout plan, justifying their skepticism by citing their "conservative" political ideology. But where were they when the Bush administration justified new law after new law that expanded executive power with the argument that essentially tells us to "trust them"? Trust that they won't abuse their new spying powers; trust that they'll conduct the war soundly despite their lies which led to the war; trust they not turn the "War on Terror" into a justification for torture, etc., etc. Meanwhile, Bush issues "signing statements" that allow him to circumvent any legislation that pertains to the executive branch, he installs Justice Department lawyers who were required to pass ideological litmus tests, he practices political vindictiveness when anyone in the administration is criticized from within the government (his administration's outing of CIA agent Plame), and he regularly stonewalls, or lies to, the media, or just doesn't talk to them (Palin has recently picked up on this tactic, preferring stump speeches to interviews and press conferences).
In sum, whenever Bush has the option between more or less power, he has ALWAYS chosen more.
The reaction from the Left (although I think there isn't really a true "Left" in this country) has been curious as well. Democrats in this country are as culpable for our economic welfare as anyone. Though Phil Gramm [R, and McCain adviser] wrote and sponsored the 1999 Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, which overturned Depression era regulations on the market--which helped to grant banks the type of decision-making power they so abused in the recent decade--several Democratic Senators signed it, as did President Clinton; I'm thoroughly convinced that Democrats are just as beholden to capitalism, in all its good and bad qualities, as Republicans are. It's a complete myth that Democrats are not friendly to business. Clinton, for all the hatred he incites from the Right, made economic decisions based upon a free-market mindset. Now, the economy did well in the 90's (due in part to the "dot.com" boom, which history, not Clinton, was responsible for), but perhaps only now we're experiencing the long-term effects of laissez-faire economic policies.
What's been curious about the past eight years is that, in terms of the the war, and other domestic policies that stem from it (like FISA, which intrudes upon every American's privacy by making warrants obsolete), it has been Democrats (or at least a handful of them) that have been arguing for prudence and governmental restraint. It's been Republicans who have been more than willing to expand government, and its power over citizens, to an extent this country has not seen. I wonder if a Democratic president would have been granted the same powers by a Republican legislature? Probably not. That is why purely Partisan politics is so unhealthy. It's a voluntary abnegation of one's brain--and makes people (in this case Republicans) do things they normally wouldn't do (grant goverment more and more power). Partisanship makes it impossible to hold leaders accountable for their bad decisions.
Now it will be up to Democrats, and a handful of "conservatives", to at least make sure there's some restraint practiced in this bailout.
There really is no ideological consistency left in American politics. Sometimes that's good: you don't want your leaders to be absolutely ruled by any dogma to the point they become so inflexible that all their ideas and decisions are prescribed by some program or philosophy (if that were the case all you'd need is a copy of said program, and anyone could be president). On the other hand, it's getting really hard to tell right from left these days.
Perhaps "bipartisanship" is just a ruse, so that those without any values can cater to what they really care about: money, and those they are beholden to because of money.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Universal Thump
“and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.”
--Moby Dick, Chapter 1 “Loomings”
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a stong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.”
--Moby Dick, Chapter 1 “Loomings”
The writer, and author of Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace, offed himself (I prefer not to use the phrase “committed suicide,” because I think it contains a solemnity that does not always apply to suicide) a few days ago. I have not read his most well-known work, but I hope to get to it when I have time.
I actually own the book and when I went to look for it yesterday, I saw it, somewhat ominously (auspiciously?), next to a Bible I own. I own a few and this is not one I normally look at (prefer KJV). The Bible actually seemed more out of place than Infinite Jest did, since, because I am not a meticulous shelfer, it was resting alongside my other canonical, contemporary novels. Pynchon and DeLillo aren’t too far away; Nabokov lingers nearby.
Anyway, I took it down and read the first few pages. I had known that Wallace received his MFA from the University of Arizona (my current school). But I was delightfully surprised to see immediate references to places in Tucson that I know—the Randolph Sports Complex (where I recently took my dad for a very hot round of golf, and which is right by the Target and In-n-Out that Michele and I frequent). Like Leslie Marmon Silko’s inclusion of Tucson as a setting in her great novel, Almanac of the Dead, it was nice to be able to visualize the inspiration for a novel’s setting. Tucson has a certain lore surrounding it that makes it a conducive place for novelistic settings (it’s also one of DeLillo’s settings in his best novel Underworld).
What is not so delightful is the idea that someone with Wallace’s talent and introspection could not find a reason to live any longer. I mean, I know the reason why; his basic perspective on life is probably closer to Hobbes's "nasty, brutish and short" than any more Romantic explanation. Wallace would likely have added, “and very lonely.” [Actually, not wanting to be too presumptuous about diagnosing Wallace's state of mind or general philosophy of life, I did a little looking, and he’s quoted in his Salon interview declaring, “there is this existential loneliness in the real world. I don't know what you're thinking or what it's like inside you and you don't know what it's like inside me. In fiction I think we can leap over that wall itself in a certain way.”] This was, to a lesser extent I think, Melville’s basic attitude, especially after he received little to no recognition for works of art that he knew were masterpieces, but which so few readers actually understood (luckily, at least, they’d start to understand in the 20th century).
The difference, maybe, is that Melville at least found communion with the writers he loved to read, and the art he created, despite the public’s lack of appreciation. Literature and writing were to Melville what the sea was to Ishmael--what kept him from pistol and ball. [I think they were for Wallace, too, but he also felt that the "redemptive" quality of art was kind of a cliche (see interview)]. In the end, it seems, Wallace found the walls that separate us finally insurmountable, even if he did, for awhile, find his literary endeavors well worthwhile. I wish (for his sake) he could have been more like Pynchon and Beckett, who find an equal amount of absurdity in the world, but instead choose a more comic (but no less serious) demeanor in the face of absurdity. They use their art to mirror absurdity back to itself, so that perhaps whatever sense may be gleaned from life might be captured in the quick shimmer of competing reflections. (An equivalent aural image might be the feedback shriek when a mic is placed next to its amplifying apparatus).
I guess something like this isn’t too unprecedented. Artists almost have to be basically dissatisfied with the world, or else they wouldn’t try to remake it. Writers with even much more talent than Wallace, like Virginia Woolf, have also found recourse in places like the bottom of a river. Kurt Cobain and Ernest Hemingway found the end of a shotgun. So it goes.
That provides little comfort. But I suppose Wallace wasn’t trying to comfort anyone.
I did some searching for interviews he had given and I found a couple. A transcript of one he did for Salon, and his live interview with Charlie Rose. In the interview with Rose he talks about going to see David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, and how it changed his perspective on art and what art can do and what makes a great artist. This connection was somewhat eerie since I’ve been thinking a lot about Lynch’s work lately. He probably watched Blue Velvet (at The Loft?) at a theatre I frequent. Michele and I just finished watching Twin Peaks, and I’ve recently watched Eraserhead, Dune, and Inland Empire. (There’s nothing too coincidental about this, since Lynch’s audience is certainly not that limited. But still.). Wallace talks to Rose about what he believes to be Lynch’s primary aesthetic—the confluence of the grotesque and banal. Lynch did not invent this aesthetic, by any means, (I think it’s a vital aspect of Flannery O’Connor’s work), but he probably did use it more provocatively than anyone ever has, and certainly to an extent much more profound than any film director.
Wallace also taught quite a bit later in his career, and he addresses the difficulties of teaching writing to young people who are, on a certain level, illiterate: not in the sense that they can’t read, but that they don’t read (and he is surprisingly non-judgmental about that fact). He also touches on what it’s like to be a writer—how when he’s writing, his schedule usually consists of writing for an hour, and then spending the following eight hours worrying about not writing. Working on my diss, I can completely sympathize with this feeling of dread that writing produces. The fatigue and strain of constantly questioning yourself.
Anyway, here is the video. It’s interesting even if you have no idea who he is.
--Moby Dick, Chapter 1 “Loomings”
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a stong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.”
--Moby Dick, Chapter 1 “Loomings”
The writer, and author of Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace, offed himself (I prefer not to use the phrase “committed suicide,” because I think it contains a solemnity that does not always apply to suicide) a few days ago. I have not read his most well-known work, but I hope to get to it when I have time.
I actually own the book and when I went to look for it yesterday, I saw it, somewhat ominously (auspiciously?), next to a Bible I own. I own a few and this is not one I normally look at (prefer KJV). The Bible actually seemed more out of place than Infinite Jest did, since, because I am not a meticulous shelfer, it was resting alongside my other canonical, contemporary novels. Pynchon and DeLillo aren’t too far away; Nabokov lingers nearby.
Anyway, I took it down and read the first few pages. I had known that Wallace received his MFA from the University of Arizona (my current school). But I was delightfully surprised to see immediate references to places in Tucson that I know—the Randolph Sports Complex (where I recently took my dad for a very hot round of golf, and which is right by the Target and In-n-Out that Michele and I frequent). Like Leslie Marmon Silko’s inclusion of Tucson as a setting in her great novel, Almanac of the Dead, it was nice to be able to visualize the inspiration for a novel’s setting. Tucson has a certain lore surrounding it that makes it a conducive place for novelistic settings (it’s also one of DeLillo’s settings in his best novel Underworld).
What is not so delightful is the idea that someone with Wallace’s talent and introspection could not find a reason to live any longer. I mean, I know the reason why; his basic perspective on life is probably closer to Hobbes's "nasty, brutish and short" than any more Romantic explanation. Wallace would likely have added, “and very lonely.” [Actually, not wanting to be too presumptuous about diagnosing Wallace's state of mind or general philosophy of life, I did a little looking, and he’s quoted in his Salon interview declaring, “there is this existential loneliness in the real world. I don't know what you're thinking or what it's like inside you and you don't know what it's like inside me. In fiction I think we can leap over that wall itself in a certain way.”] This was, to a lesser extent I think, Melville’s basic attitude, especially after he received little to no recognition for works of art that he knew were masterpieces, but which so few readers actually understood (luckily, at least, they’d start to understand in the 20th century).
The difference, maybe, is that Melville at least found communion with the writers he loved to read, and the art he created, despite the public’s lack of appreciation. Literature and writing were to Melville what the sea was to Ishmael--what kept him from pistol and ball. [I think they were for Wallace, too, but he also felt that the "redemptive" quality of art was kind of a cliche (see interview)]. In the end, it seems, Wallace found the walls that separate us finally insurmountable, even if he did, for awhile, find his literary endeavors well worthwhile. I wish (for his sake) he could have been more like Pynchon and Beckett, who find an equal amount of absurdity in the world, but instead choose a more comic (but no less serious) demeanor in the face of absurdity. They use their art to mirror absurdity back to itself, so that perhaps whatever sense may be gleaned from life might be captured in the quick shimmer of competing reflections. (An equivalent aural image might be the feedback shriek when a mic is placed next to its amplifying apparatus).
I guess something like this isn’t too unprecedented. Artists almost have to be basically dissatisfied with the world, or else they wouldn’t try to remake it. Writers with even much more talent than Wallace, like Virginia Woolf, have also found recourse in places like the bottom of a river. Kurt Cobain and Ernest Hemingway found the end of a shotgun. So it goes.
That provides little comfort. But I suppose Wallace wasn’t trying to comfort anyone.
I did some searching for interviews he had given and I found a couple. A transcript of one he did for Salon, and his live interview with Charlie Rose. In the interview with Rose he talks about going to see David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, and how it changed his perspective on art and what art can do and what makes a great artist. This connection was somewhat eerie since I’ve been thinking a lot about Lynch’s work lately. He probably watched Blue Velvet (at The Loft?) at a theatre I frequent. Michele and I just finished watching Twin Peaks, and I’ve recently watched Eraserhead, Dune, and Inland Empire. (There’s nothing too coincidental about this, since Lynch’s audience is certainly not that limited. But still.). Wallace talks to Rose about what he believes to be Lynch’s primary aesthetic—the confluence of the grotesque and banal. Lynch did not invent this aesthetic, by any means, (I think it’s a vital aspect of Flannery O’Connor’s work), but he probably did use it more provocatively than anyone ever has, and certainly to an extent much more profound than any film director.
Wallace also taught quite a bit later in his career, and he addresses the difficulties of teaching writing to young people who are, on a certain level, illiterate: not in the sense that they can’t read, but that they don’t read (and he is surprisingly non-judgmental about that fact). He also touches on what it’s like to be a writer—how when he’s writing, his schedule usually consists of writing for an hour, and then spending the following eight hours worrying about not writing. Working on my diss, I can completely sympathize with this feeling of dread that writing produces. The fatigue and strain of constantly questioning yourself.
Anyway, here is the video. It’s interesting even if you have no idea who he is.
Coda #1: The interview ends at about the half-hour mark. His final words in the interview are definitely not auspicious, and definitely are ominous: "attention and respect doesn't really change anything...I don'treally have a brass ring and I'm kind of open to suggestions about what one chases...I haven't found any satisfactory new ones, but I'm not getting ready to jump off a building or anything."
Coda #2: Knowing that I won’t get to Infinite Jest for awhile, I still wanted to read something by Wallace, and remembered an article he wrote for Harper’s that I knew I had sitting around somewhere. Luckily at this time all my Harper’s dating back to 2001 are in the same stack. (This is why I keep them around, Michele).
I highly recommend it for anyone interested in understanding his general perspective on language, his humor and wit, and his absolute mastery of English (in all its various forms and dialects).
http://www.harpers.org/media/pdf/dfw/HarpersMagazine-2001-04-0070913.pdf
His traces will survive him, even if they do not lessen the sadness his death evokes.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Socialism for the Rich
When huge banks like Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, and Bear Sterns, who are run by people who make exponentially more money than the average American citizen, and when enormous institutions like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, which are inextricably enfolded within this very same banking industry, suddenly go flop as the result of terribly irresponsible and greedy business decisions, they are more than happy to let the government come to the rescue.
They are quick to accuse any regulating gesture as socialist; yet when they're in trouble they are fully willing to submit themselves to the Federal Reserve, and to accept American tax dollars so that at least some of their investors might get some of their money back.
And these are the people that some want to handle social security and our health care industry?
In W's words, "Wall Street got drunk." Hm. Perhaps, then, more sober heads are needed these days.
They are quick to accuse any regulating gesture as socialist; yet when they're in trouble they are fully willing to submit themselves to the Federal Reserve, and to accept American tax dollars so that at least some of their investors might get some of their money back.
And these are the people that some want to handle social security and our health care industry?
In W's words, "Wall Street got drunk." Hm. Perhaps, then, more sober heads are needed these days.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
One side, and the other
It's been nice sharing my office with Ada. When I have her in the crib, her vision is now good enough to where she can see me at my desk. I made this origami mobile for her before she was born.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Lies and Scare Tactics
After a nice day working on my diss and teaching, keeping my mind off politics, I have to end the day like this.
This is what the McCain campaign now resorts to: they have no arguments (did you see their convention? it was all biography!), and so they resort not just to distortion (that happens in any election cycle), but to straight up LIES. Does this ad purport that Obama actually supports teaching sex education to kindergartners? They incite the "culture wars," because folks, they got nothing else.
The truth: part of Obama's legislation promoted the importance of teaching young children about the difference between a "good touch" and a "bad touch." In other words, it promoted teaching kids, obviously in a delicate manner, how to avoid becoming a victim of sexual abuse!
And is Sarah Palin, who likely also "supports this message," really one to be lecturing Americans on how to teach children sex education?
Ha!
I want to meet the idiot who watches an ad like this and actually swallows it whole.
What I appreciate about the Obama campaign is that, even during the primaries when the Clintons used a defeat-at-all-cost strategy, and even when the McCain campaign flat-out lies about him, he has never resorted to anything like this. Surely McCain is not without honor, but his campaign is a circus freakshow masquerading as a political campaign. Obama does not employ people like Karl Rove, his minion, or his vile political philosophy. These Sophists reborn will get what's coming to them--the same thing the Clintons got for all their effort to exploit Obama's non-whiteness: a resounding defeat.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Melville '08
I'm going to avoid the Palin saga. If you're reading this blog regularly, you can probably predict my reaction anyway...besides, one of my favorite bloggers, Andrew Sullivan, has it covered (link on the right).
After all, this blog purports to be interested in politics AND literature, and I haven't posted anything about the latter at all.
I was reading Melville's Mardi today, the novel he wrote just before Moby Dick. Mardi is kind of a warm-up for Melville--not a great novel, but you can definitely see his talent ripening, before it finally comes to fruition in 1850.
A passage like this is typical of Melville's later style, which is built upon occasional interruptions of the plot to allow his narrator to soliloquize. This kind of interruption--which is a kind of editorializing--is left behind in the twentieth century novel (and poetry) when the idea that showing is superior to telling, becomes the aesthetic norm. Yet, I can't help but appreciate passages like these:
"But how fleeting our joys. Storms follow bright dawnings.--Long memories of short-lived scenes, sad thoughts of joyous hours--how common are ye to all mankind. When happy, do we pause and say--'Lo, thy felicity, my soul?' No: happiness seldom seems happiness, except when looked back upon from woes. A flowery landscape, you must come out of, to behold."
This passage speaks to my own introspection. Being someone (writing a diss) who is forced to spend a lot of time with his thoughts, I sometimes think back upon times when I've been most happy. I think this passage has it right: true happiness is rarely a conscious state of mind. You only realize happiness long after the fact. This must be true in some respects, since to focus in on your own happiness would automatically mean that you're less attuned to the moment that's actually making you happy.
I can think of some exceptions though. I'm consciously happy when I spend time with Ada. Another example: after I returned from my honeymoon with Michele, I knew that I had just spent one of the happiest weeks in my life. So maybe the above passage isn't universal, even though I think it's generally true.
When I look back upon the time Michele and I spent in Tennessee, for example, we had some difficult times that I wouldn't qualify as "happy." We were constantly broke, we had just gotten married and moved to a place far, far away from home. There were challenges to overcome. But when I look back upon that time as a whole, I do regard it as a "happy" time for us. Though we struggled, we were living in the moment and growing stronger and more mature together. I think these are the types of moments, or extended moments, Melville is writing about here--the kind that need some time to ferment before thier true significance can be enjoyed.
Part of me also responds to this passage on an academic level. Happiness, like most abstract ideas, has a cultural history. The word "happy" derives from the Old English word "hap," which is closer to the idea of having good fortune. The way Melville uses the word, and how we conceive of "happiness" now, can be dated back to the mid 16th-century, but it really only becomes culturally commonplace until the 19th (the OED, of course, is my source for this info).
This more contemporary inflection of "happiness" is a human invention, and if one were in a cynical mood, one might suggest it's over-pursued in our contemporary culture. Actually, one need not be cynical to at least conjecture that our culture purports to know the source of happiness (if not, why the centrality of the self-help craze?), not realizing that its offering up golden calves.
The thing I love about literature is that passages like these are relatable on a personal level; but they can also be dissected beyond the self.
This next passage contemplates, not happiness, but mourning, and different types of sadness. Once again, one can see how emotionally astute Melville has become at this point in his career, and how lyrical. Its theme of sadness contrasts nicely with the passage above:
"Misery became a memory. The keen pang a deep vibration. The remembrance seemed the thing remembered; though bowed with sadness. There are thoughts that lie and glitter deep: tearful pearls beneath life's sea, that surges still, and rolls sunlit, whatever it may hide. Common woes, like fluids, mix all round. Not so with that other grief. Some mourners load the air with lamentations; but the loudest notes are struck from hollows. Their tears flow fast: but the deep spring only wells."
Melville compares two types of sadness--the common kind, which eventually dissipate into the swirl of life and memory, and the deeper kind--the kinds that we don't as readily forget. One could conceive of all types of metaphors for this difference. But Melville chooses to draw upon the image of a pearl swirling around at the bottom of an ocean. It's a perfect image. The pearl is small amid the ocean, but its made of strong material and persists. It's hidden, but it's also distinct. It's buried, but it endures amid lesser sadness. Most importantly, the pearl is a beautiful object, one to seek after and cherish. Not all mourning should be dismissed or forgotten. When placed alongside happiness, in the cycle of human emotions, the two play off, counteract, and ultimately compliment one another.
After all, this blog purports to be interested in politics AND literature, and I haven't posted anything about the latter at all.
I was reading Melville's Mardi today, the novel he wrote just before Moby Dick. Mardi is kind of a warm-up for Melville--not a great novel, but you can definitely see his talent ripening, before it finally comes to fruition in 1850.
A passage like this is typical of Melville's later style, which is built upon occasional interruptions of the plot to allow his narrator to soliloquize. This kind of interruption--which is a kind of editorializing--is left behind in the twentieth century novel (and poetry) when the idea that showing is superior to telling, becomes the aesthetic norm. Yet, I can't help but appreciate passages like these:
"But how fleeting our joys. Storms follow bright dawnings.--Long memories of short-lived scenes, sad thoughts of joyous hours--how common are ye to all mankind. When happy, do we pause and say--'Lo, thy felicity, my soul?' No: happiness seldom seems happiness, except when looked back upon from woes. A flowery landscape, you must come out of, to behold."
This passage speaks to my own introspection. Being someone (writing a diss) who is forced to spend a lot of time with his thoughts, I sometimes think back upon times when I've been most happy. I think this passage has it right: true happiness is rarely a conscious state of mind. You only realize happiness long after the fact. This must be true in some respects, since to focus in on your own happiness would automatically mean that you're less attuned to the moment that's actually making you happy.
I can think of some exceptions though. I'm consciously happy when I spend time with Ada. Another example: after I returned from my honeymoon with Michele, I knew that I had just spent one of the happiest weeks in my life. So maybe the above passage isn't universal, even though I think it's generally true.
When I look back upon the time Michele and I spent in Tennessee, for example, we had some difficult times that I wouldn't qualify as "happy." We were constantly broke, we had just gotten married and moved to a place far, far away from home. There were challenges to overcome. But when I look back upon that time as a whole, I do regard it as a "happy" time for us. Though we struggled, we were living in the moment and growing stronger and more mature together. I think these are the types of moments, or extended moments, Melville is writing about here--the kind that need some time to ferment before thier true significance can be enjoyed.
Part of me also responds to this passage on an academic level. Happiness, like most abstract ideas, has a cultural history. The word "happy" derives from the Old English word "hap," which is closer to the idea of having good fortune. The way Melville uses the word, and how we conceive of "happiness" now, can be dated back to the mid 16th-century, but it really only becomes culturally commonplace until the 19th (the OED, of course, is my source for this info).
This more contemporary inflection of "happiness" is a human invention, and if one were in a cynical mood, one might suggest it's over-pursued in our contemporary culture. Actually, one need not be cynical to at least conjecture that our culture purports to know the source of happiness (if not, why the centrality of the self-help craze?), not realizing that its offering up golden calves.
The thing I love about literature is that passages like these are relatable on a personal level; but they can also be dissected beyond the self.
This next passage contemplates, not happiness, but mourning, and different types of sadness. Once again, one can see how emotionally astute Melville has become at this point in his career, and how lyrical. Its theme of sadness contrasts nicely with the passage above:
"Misery became a memory. The keen pang a deep vibration. The remembrance seemed the thing remembered; though bowed with sadness. There are thoughts that lie and glitter deep: tearful pearls beneath life's sea, that surges still, and rolls sunlit, whatever it may hide. Common woes, like fluids, mix all round. Not so with that other grief. Some mourners load the air with lamentations; but the loudest notes are struck from hollows. Their tears flow fast: but the deep spring only wells."
Melville compares two types of sadness--the common kind, which eventually dissipate into the swirl of life and memory, and the deeper kind--the kinds that we don't as readily forget. One could conceive of all types of metaphors for this difference. But Melville chooses to draw upon the image of a pearl swirling around at the bottom of an ocean. It's a perfect image. The pearl is small amid the ocean, but its made of strong material and persists. It's hidden, but it's also distinct. It's buried, but it endures amid lesser sadness. Most importantly, the pearl is a beautiful object, one to seek after and cherish. Not all mourning should be dismissed or forgotten. When placed alongside happiness, in the cycle of human emotions, the two play off, counteract, and ultimately compliment one another.
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