Archive for the ‘Journal’ Category


foundation

On a vacation with my father and brother to Sanibel Island when I was thirteen we rented this little cabin wherein resided this free love era television that seemed to only get one channel, and it was on that channel on that television in that beach-side cabin that I was first introduced to the wonders of science fiction in the form of the incomparable Star Trek(TOS). I was hooked at once and immediately became an entrenched fan and have let my imagine go boldly ever since. Because of this it came as no surprise to me that I would quickly become enamored of the many pillars of science fiction literature and I am always delighted when my reading cycles thereward leads, and this week it has done just that.
In preparation for diving into the mysteries of the universe of science in the form of Michio Kaku’s Hyperspace I thought I’d couple it with the often prophetic world of fiction, more specifically Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy. For fear of having this editorial become as extended a work as my Gone with the Wind piece I think I will take each book as it comes rather than publish them all at once.
Foundation seems to be unique even amongst the giants of the genre in that, rather than focusing on a single character through a set of trials to a conclusion, this novel shrinks the characters beneath the scale of a galactic timeline where the influence of a single life can so easily be lost like so many billions of stars in the far flung cosmos. Because of this I have had to take a different mindset into the world of the foundation and its founder Hari Seldon. If one were to look at this novel with some of the classical tools of criticism this work could suffer mightily. Mr. Asimov’s characters are often as two dimensional as they are temporary. The three main protagonists, Hari Seldon, Salvor Hardin, and Hober Mallow, have little distinguishing characteristics other than the fact that each, in his own time, is the smartest man in the room. Mr. Asimov’s keeps his descriptions to a minimum and leaves the reader to design his own vast galactic empire with the sparse pieces he provides. However, what effort is spared in character and setting is spent tenfold in the math, science, politics, religion, and humanity that shape the vast scope of the overarching narrative.
On its surface this work asks the reader to suspend a good deal of disbelief to be sure, but I feel that hyperbole as example, of which I am no stranger as anyone who has argued with me to an extent where I refer to my society of four people model can attest, is one of science fictions most effective tools. The first challenge comes in the future math of psychohistory. This combination of history, sociology, and statistics predicts, with perfect accuracy through the first novel at least, every action of vast societies containing trillions of people. That being said however, the collapse and aftermath of Mr. Asimov’s galactic empire is not dissimilar to our own historical empires. The second challenge is perhaps a personal one. I am of the belief that the human race, which this work hints at being the foundation for the galactic empire, would necessarily have to evolve out of many of the base traits that seem to have lingered even to the empire at its height. That is perhaps a Roddenberry-esque view of things, but if we are even going to progress to the point of becoming a global society, much less a stellar or galactic one, we will have to make significant strides as a species so much so that it is hard for me to reconcile that feeling with the sixteenth century kings and nobles Mr. Asimov has reigning in the remnants of the fall of the empire.
Beyond these obstacles are challenges of an entirely different stripe and the kind that truly show the great worth of Foundation and of science fiction in general of which this novel and its successors are by many thought chief. These challenges are the best that literature has to offer and that is to openly challenge what and how the reader thinks. Mr. Asimov pulls no punches as he sets his sights on technology, economy, humanity, and religion each in turn and each with staggering effect. When Hari Seldon convinces the last generations of the galactic empire to allow him and thousands of other scientists to seed a colony, aptly called the foundation, they are hoping to preserve, with the aid of the galactic encyclopedia, the sum knowledge of human discovery and innovation. Having this knowledge cannot prevent the fall of the empire but in theory it can prevent much of Seldon’s apocalyptic view of thirty thousand years of death and barbarity before the rise of a second empire. Having done this the foundation comes into contact with the first of what Hari called crises. This initial crisis is the loss of technology and the effect that it would have on the civilization at large. It is chilling to imagine what would happen to today’s population should it suddenly and irrevocably be stripped of its technology. In this instance it is not even taken so much as it was forfeited by the atrophy of mind that Mr. Asimov intimates is the cause for the collapse. The people of the empire’s twilight days have lost the curiosity to understand how things work and thus, after the fall, are unable to maintain all of the technology that sustained them. Because of this progressive ignorance, that is evident even today, the foundation is able to barter safety from its degenerating neighbors by dealing in science and maintaining a balance of power in its immediate vicinity.
From this bartered form of technology rises a religion by which the foundation begins to extend control over the hostile parties nearest it. In order to maintain its independence and a measure of control the foundation turns to mysticism. As coined by Arthur C. Clarke, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”, and it is on this tenet that the foundation gambles its survival until the next great crisis. The foundation withholds the inner workings of their scientific knowledge, an act I have some moral objection in my distaste for the opinion that scientific discovery actually belongs to anyone though it is hard to see the desperateness of the situation as anything but mitigating, and uses their monopoly on medicine, travel, chemistry, physics, and even luxuries to subjugate the four kingdoms on the outskirts of the old empire. This religion which keeps truth as power is spiritual successor to many of the errors of theological religion and falls victim to the rationalization of the ends justifying the means.
The last major crisis of this first of three parts is when the farce of the religion myth begins to break down as the people nearer the galactic core, in this case the remnants of the old empire and possessors yet of some of the property if not authority thereof, begin to realize that the foundation is using religion to dominate the faithful and begin banning the religious institutions in their domains. During this crisis the foundation must evolve one more time. Realizing the restrictions of the religion myth which they had surrounded their technology with the foundation, which by this point had assimilated non-scientific elements, had to adapt to become mercantile in nature. Freeing the foundation from the oppressive stigma of religion it turned to economic warfare to secure its survival.
I did not go into these crises in detail, nor did I mention the internal struggles that brought the foundation thrice to the tipping points that Hari Seldon predicted, and I refrained from doing so that I might conclude with what I believe is the most striking point of the entire work to this point. Hari Seldon and his disciples, for better or for worse, establish the most staggering monument to hubris that I can possibly imagine. Inflicting ignorance on people for the sake of a mathematical theorem, regardless of your certainty of prognostications, is a dangerous road. This image challenged me throughout the work and had me asking myself again and again what I would do. Is thirty thousand years of death and destruction worth the free will and enlightenment of billions upon billions of people? Where is right and wrong in such a far flung and chaotic scenario? It is these and other questions that have me diving directly into the next volume eager to debate myself yet again and praising Isaac Asimov’s incredible work.

Gone with the Wind

The American Civil War, if I can be forgiven by my neighbors for referring to it thus owing to the fact that the terms War for Southern Independence and War Between the States are simply not as well known, has lately taken center stage in my reading life. Considering myself, among other things, to be a southerner I quickly found myself immersed in the infinitely complex and volatile society of mid nineteenth century America. This trend began with my recent reading of Bruce Catton’s book The American Heritage History of the Civil War which, due to the fascination with this subject that this extremely well written work instilled, led immediately to my moving on to James McPherson’s Battle Cry of Freedom which I am still currently reading. However I have a tendency, if not out and out habit, of coupling factual historical readings with historical fiction set in the same time. This has presented me with the perfect opportunity to finally sit down and read Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind. Even though Ms. Mitchell was born thirty-five years after the end of the war, on my birthday no less, it is the setting of her novel that makes it suit my purposes so well in the same way that Kenneth Roberts’ Arundel accompanied David McCullough’s 1776. Because of the scope and length of Ms. Mitchell’s work I’ve decided to comment in turn on the parts as they are read in order to keep their elements fresh in my mind. Though I’m sure I will not succeed entirely I hope to minimize my opinions as to the war and its repercussions on the world in which I now live, those who know me well know I have a poisonous strain of editorializing in me. Here I wish simply to write, for my own sake and any interested, to record my experience with this book.

Part 1

Before I can begin any in depth discussion of this book I must acknowledge the influence of the 1939 movie. Luckily I have only seen it once so my memory of it is limited to single moments and a very sparse outline of the plot. I will say that the description of Rhett Butler in the work seems so uncannily similar to Clark Gable, the actor who portrayed him, that I have suspicions that the character may have been written with the actor in mind.
The novel opens by presenting one of the most infuriating characters I have ever had the pleasure to read in the person of Scarlett O’Hara. Nearly everything she thinks or does is so perfectly antagonistic to anything I would consider even remotely attractive in a human being that it takes real effort on my part to calm my desire to just shake her, though I do try to make allowances, small ones, for her age and the society in which she was raised. Ms. Mitchell sets up her characters with great skill against the backdrop of southern plantations in the dawn of the 1860’s and despite the slow measured pace of the first chapters I felt I was in a real, if a bit idyllic, place. I say idyllic in that the picture painted of a master that treats his slaves well, goes out of his way to unite slave families, and is unwilling to use corporal punishment, while I don’t doubt that this scenario happened, I likewise believe it was far from the standard practice. However, that aside, the attitudes of the southern aristocracy and their mannerisms seem to coincide fully with the historical accounts from both Mr. Catton and Mr. McPherson. It is the strange contradictory nature of this setting which I believe is so engrossing about the opening of this work. The mix of the hereditary high mindedness of the old world monarchies and rough and ready brawlers, drinkers, gamblers, and good natured country folks is so unique that when the historians refer to “southern civilization” it isn’t hard to see why that distinction needs to be made.
Ms. Mitchell seems to draw the most attention to her characters when she is having them contradict societal norms. Scarlett is unique in that she doesn’t hold to any of the notions of how a lady should behave, a code of conduct that seems to have been quite strictly adhered to by all the other women of the county, and Rhett stands out for similarly having a less than universally southern worldview. Scarlett is spoiled and selfish while Rhett is a scoundrel suspected of a cardinal sin of northern sympathies and ways. There is very little of Rhett seen before the close of part one so as to prevent a more accurate evaluation, however for Scarlett there is sadly more than enough.
Scarlett’s motivations, in a fury for being rebuffed by Ashley Wilkes, turn to spite, vengeance, and selfishness. All of these things could perhaps be overlooked in time but she does them with the intention of causing pain. Perhaps Charles Hamilton deserved what he got when he fell for all the wrong parts of Scarlett O’Hara, and for certain his short life after the marriage spared him from having to see her in any real light, but it is harder to forgive Scarlett as soon as the terrible wake of her selfishness begins to include her son for whom she has little affection. I cannot begrudge her the frustration that comes with the very strict regimen that constrained widows in the south at that time, seeing as she only even remembered her few months husband as a doe-eyed stutterer who worshiped her blindly, but to punish the child because she was foolish, a fact she admits even to herself, is a cruelty beyond words. She is free with her hate and resentments as well as fiery, passionate, and self assured. For all her faults though she is also very compelling and a strong driving force that propels the narrative into the next part and the onset of the war years.

Part 2

There is a subtle skill in the execution of the second part of this work that I think may be hard for me to precisely explain. With the narrative changing scenes from the country plantations of Tara and Twelve Oaks to the newly christened city of Atlanta Ms. Mitchell deftly draws a number of parallels that simultaneously highlight her characters and vastly widen the scope of her work. Scarlett is spoiled, selfish, and annoying, but it wasn’t until a fuller picture of Rhett Butler, of whom only a glimpse was given previous, was provided that I began to see what was so frustrating about the atypical southern belle. In a word, hypocrisy, it is Scarlett’s utter disinterest in the rules of the society in which she lives coupled with her crippling dependence on the good opinion of that same society that is the lynchpin of what drives me crazy about this girl and never is this hypocrisy more apparent than when she is foiled against the scandalous blockader.
Rhett has the same disdain for southern social norms that Scarlett does, however his feelings are not disguised. An open war profiteer, gambler, and social outcast Rhett found an immunity to the slings and arrows of an indignant population by simply being necessary. So in this way, as he did with Scarlett, Rhett exposes the contradictory nature of the things around him. The matriarchs of the city could curse him for a thief in and out of their parlors and bazaars while Dr. Meade could attack him in print, but their indignation was never such that his business ventures seemed to suffer. The outraged southerners still bought his silk and hairpins and other luxuries only further assuring that trinkets of this nature would remain the list of his blockade running in effect choking off the last pipeline for the war goods they swore to be in so dire need of. Buying his tea and his sugar at exorbitant prices and then berating him for the actions they support is laughable in the darkest and most realistic ways. This is the society that won’t accept charity from a prostitute but it will buy useless luxuries from a food speculator. In the interest of equanimity I must acknowledge that as a man Rhett has much more freedom to buck social trends than Scarlett does and it is only because as a reader I have an omnipresent view of her motivations that I know her acquiescence stems more from her want of adoration than it does from fear of reprisals.
Ms. Mitchell presents a much changed south in part two. Where once there were exuberant soldiers gladly running off to war with the gallant tears of the victory assured families they leave behind streaming after them, there are now defiantly optimistic rebels and a population that refuses to admit it’s own war weariness. Beneath this grand backdrop, which looms over the work and the characters in it though is only indirectly experienced through letters and the effects the war is having on the home front, there are several relationships that take on even greater significance in this section. The first, and clearly most prominent, is that of Rhett as he consistently challenges Scarlett’s stubborn adherence to the conventions he hates. However, I think the secondary relationships between Rhett and Melanie, Scarlett and Melanie, and Ashley and Scarlett are all the more telling. Rhett’s softness towards Melanie seems to come from his genuine respect for her owing to the fact that she is naturally the great lady that all of the southern women pretend to be. This hints that perhaps it is the pretense of the society rather than its fundamentals that he is so antagonistic towards. Scarlett on the other hand struggles with her intense jealousy of Melanie for her possession of Ashley, the one thing Scarlett wants most, and a begrudging respect that appears whenever Melanie’s great quality of character cannot be denied. She wants desperately to hate her rival but never seems quite able to dismiss Melanie’s heroic elements, at least until the announcement of Melanie’s pregnancy at which point Scarlett’s jealousy truly usurps her restraints. And through all of this Scarlett steadfastly clings to the certainty that she and Ashley were in love and, but for his stubborn attachment to the cause and his families desires that he should marry Melanie, would be together someday prompting another confession of her feeling just as he leaves to return to the war in Virginia from his Christmas furlough.
It is interesting that the novel is less than half way finished as Ms. Mitchell sets the stage for the final months of the war.

Part 3

If the war was a far off spectre in the first and second parts of this work Ms. Mitchell brings it barreling into the forefront with the third. It is easy for a student of history to be caught up in the battles, the troop movements, the political theory, and all of the things that make the memory of war entertaining and gallant and picturesque, and it is often this opaque prism through which wars are viewed that turns generals and politicians into history’s heroes. With uncanny skill Ms. Mitchell polishes that rearward looking lens and shows, as best as one can in writing, what we’d rather not remember about the awful nature of war. With the army of General Sherman slowly creeping towards Atlanta, the believed impregnable fortress and lifeblood of the Confederacy, it is hard not to feel real ache as first the luxury, then the comforts, and lastly the safety of the city are eroded away page by page. It is amidst the bloody wreckage of the beleaguered southern army, where the women of Atlanta toiled tirelessly, that I began to see the outlines of a slowly changing Scarlett O’Hara from the one I had known to this point. She still harbors the silent disdain for the war and the cause that are depriving her of all the things she loves about life, yet she still works in the hospital. By this point she had already been openly flaunting her disregard for the old rules of social propriety, which were crumbling every bit as much as the confederate cause, so it is hard to define her dedication to this task as merely an attempt to purchase the good humor of the court of public opinion. She was becoming sharper and colder, but she shows this interminable stubborn strength. It is in this strength that Ms. Mitchell seems to finally couch the lance of a hero, however tragically flawed. Despite her internal rants about Melanie and her baby and everything else that hampers her life Scarlett can never bring herself to leave them or send them away. It is almost as though even with all her promises to do otherwise she time and again cares for those she claims to have no need of.
I think the moment Atlanta finally falls and Scarlett is forced to flee the city is the true turning point for her as a character. She may not hold the weight of responsibility as gracefully as her mother had, but there is nothing lacking in her determination, willpower, and fortitude. She is clear headed and resourceful and, though she longs to rest herself in the protection of someone who will tell her what to do, finds a way to do what nothing in her life had prepared her to accomplish. From leading the household back to Tara upon fleeing Atlanta, to resurrecting in part the once grand plantation she found that the entire responsibility for every life there rested with her alone. Scarlett had always been cold, selfish, and ruthless and these traits grate on the nerves of a society at peace (my nerves were no exception) however, these are the very same traits with which she, and I think I don’t overstate my meaning in using the word, valiantly clings to life. At this point I think it’s important to look into two parts of Scarlett’s character, what she thinks and what she does. Throughout the trials of being driven from Atlanta, saving Tara from looting, and struggling to see that her family is fed and clothed her mind still shouts the constant wishes to be free of the freeloaders and those who look to her for guidance, to find a way to shed herself of Melanie and Beau her baby, and even bemoans the presence of her own son. But if it weren’t for my intrusions on her secret thoughts I would no doubt have the angelic view of Scarlett that Melanie has. This makes me wonder even to the lengths of what makes good and evil. Is he who fights and believes somehow more righteous than he who fights yet does not believe?
Both Rhett and Scarlett are stripped of their engineered detachment from the war and the south and I feel that I was presented a defenseless view of them both. Rhett was confronted with the actions of the ordinary soldier, not the politicians and generals for whom he had such disdain, and I think even after all his show to the contrary was truly ashamed of himself. Not because he didn’t believe in the cause, but because he had no attachment to his fellow man which he saw in its purest form as the soldiers helped each other flee the city. Scarlett, for her part, realizes the truth in what her father had told her many times before, that she had a great love for Tara, and the steely resolve that was forged in those months of tribulation hardens into a determination to do much more than persist, but to thrive. Every bit as strong as her love for Ashley she sets herself to move any mountain, defy any convention, break any law to keep and hold the ground so dear to her and for that I cannot help but admire her and fear for her enemies of which I am sure the coming years of the reconstruction will be chief.

Part 4

The aftermath of the war, as I suspect is true of all wars, was rife with all of the strange hypocrisies peculiar to the inescapable oppressiveness of human society. The north had forbidden the south, through force of arms, from forming their own country which is a harrowing thought for a nation that to this day disbelieves itself capable of this type of tyranny of thought. That is not to say that allowing the existence of a country in which slavery persists is not an inherent evil, but the abolishment of that institution is sadly where the righteousness of the north ends. I will leave the bulk of my discussion on this issue for my closing remarks and it is only here mentioned because it is the early years of the reconstruction that is the centerpiece of much of the fourth part of Ms. Mitchell’s work. With the end of the war Scarlett, and the rest of what had been the confederacy, were confronted with the harsh realities that defeat in war has never been historically associated with leniency from the victor. Georgia had become an occupied territory and many of its white citizens were denied the right to participate in a government they were forced to be a part of. During this occupation pushes her “at any cost” mentality to a new extreme when she is immediately confronted with the stark reality that Tara is in just as much danger from the reconstruction as it ever was from the war. Carpetbaggers and Scalawags begin coming out of the woodwork to build fortunes on the ruins of southern civilization and those who had been a part of the confederacy had little recourse to stop it. The imposition of a new three hundred dollar tax, levied at the behest of the twice disgraced Jonas Wilkerson, threatens to bury Tara and the O’Haras once and for all. It is in the light of this threat that Ms. Mitchell shows the lengths to which Scarlett will go to prevent such an inconceivable tragedy. Casting off what was left of the tolerance of southern society Scarlett is willing to turn Yankee sympathizer, thief, and even prostitute in order to stave off the wolves at Tara’s door.
Here, during the reconstruction, Scarlett’s single-mindedness begins to have consequences she never intended. Her every action thus far has been to secure two goals, one to keep and rebuild Tara, and the other to keep Ashley near her. Until this point her relentless pursuit of these goals has been nothing but a boon to her family and for the most part overlooked by society. However, with the ending of the war the tolerance of her socially unacceptable behaviors dries up along with whatever credit the good will of the Sainted Melanie had bought her. Scarlett forfeits everything in her flight from the two things she fears most, fear and uncertainty. She takes control of Frank Kennedy’s store, after stealing him from her sister with a lie about Suellen’s unfaithfulness, and begins to ruthlessly apply her business savvy to work building a fortune which she believes to be the only reliable weapon against her fears. She colludes with scalawags, carpetbaggers, union soldiers, and republicans, purchases and operates lumber mills with the aid of a tyrannical foreman and convict labor, and deals fast and loose so far as honest and the quality of her products are concerned. This is all an extension of her earlier take no prisoners, at all costs, attitude that asserted itself in her desperate struggle for survival after the fall of Atlanta, but there is also something very different about it. Where defending Tara from a looter at the end of a pistol seemed the righteous act of a woman determined not to let the tide and times snuff her and hers out of existence, her fast dealing and near idolatry on the subject of money and material wealth begins to blur the lines of morality. Ms. Mitchell’s creeping, and I think inevitably tragic, masterstroke of asking, “What are the limits of morality with regard to survival?” in two vastly different scenarios and frightening the reader into the realization that the answers can be far from congruent.
I do not believe that Scarlett is responsible for the deaths of Frank Kennedy and the other members of the Ku Klux Klan that rode into the night seeking a vigilante justice they felt pressured into by the occupying union army. The causality theories regurgitated by so many of my unfortunate generation are abhorrent to anyone who believes that personal responsibility can and must be one of the keystones of our society if it is to withstand the weight of its own humanity, so I do not count the death of Scarlett’s second husband amongst the list of unintended consequences of her actions. However, I believe Ms. Mitchell is setting the stage for a tragic final act where, in true Shakespearean fashion, the trait most responsible for our heroin’s perseverance will ultimately claim her soul. Where else can Scarlett’s mad scramble for wealth and security and engineered happiness lead but to disaster? As Scarlett finally falls into the arms of Rhett in a whirlwind of scandal and rumor it seems as though she’s about to get everything she ever wanted, and exactly what she has asked for.

Part 5

I don’t really know how to start summarizing my feeling about the closing section of this book. As I finished the last lines I immediately ran to the computer to begin writing and when I got here found myself a bit overwhelmed. Watching as Scarlett and Rhett teeter on precariously towards the breaking point is a heartbreaking sight and I think therein lies the real tragedy of the entire situation and it is the birth of Bonnie seems to be catalyst for the final schism of the Butler family. Even as Rhett moves Heaven and Earth to establish his daughter in the society he had so long derided, Scarlett is clinging to the false security of her association with what are slightingly called “new people” and her misguided belief that the reconstruction’s hold on the south would be as immortal as it was absolute. It is hard not to sympathize with Rhett; through all of his years of waiting for Scarlett to truly come to him and being so terribly afraid of revealing his feelings for her knowing what havoc she could wreak should she even suspect the depths of his love. It is devastating to know, whether Scarlett realizes it or not, that these two scoundrels who love each other so much should be kept apart by their perfect inability to trust one another. Neither one of them is willing to admit, even for a moment, the vulnerability required to take the first step towards openness, and by the time Scarlett belatedly comes to that realization it is too late.
The deaths of Melanie and Bonnie, the former being hard to bear even as a reader and the latter foreshadowing Rhett’s utter collapse, cut the last lines of defense for both of these characters. Rhett had poured all of his unrequited love into the little girl who so reminded him of the woman he felt he could never truly have, and Scarlett finally stumbles into the sad truth of Melanie’s greatness just as she was about to lose her. With the end of the war far behind them and the receding of the omnipresence of the reconstruction Scarlett is left to wonder at the house that her survival instinct built and how fragile it really is. Ms. Mitchell floods the final moments of this epic with an oppressive darkness with Melanie’s failing health, Scarlett and Rhett’s progressively worsening alcoholism, and the general sense that the fortunes and stability of everything they had worked towards and relied upon were dry sandcastles that would never survive real scrutiny. Not to be lost amongst the bevy of tragedies that fill the last pages of this novel Scarlett finally sees Ashley in the light that she had been denying for her entire life. Like all of the sadness that rains at the close of this work it comes just too late leaving any redemption that could be gained from this realization as hopeless as it is without remedy.
But even with such a dark and crushing finale the novel ends with a strange contrast. The novel explores not only the loss of the southern confederacy, but really the southern way of life. It’s greatest pillar, Melanie Wilkes, dies in defiance of the hand fate had dealt her, the apparently indestructible Rhett and Ashley are crushed beneath the weight of things they never had the strength the bear, and soon the homeland they had all known would fade into a memory barely more real than legend. However, despite all of this we are left with Scarlett defiantly unbeaten. She still has her eyes set on tomorrow with every intention of undoing whatever break Rhett had allowed in his love for her. Even without the two people who had been the bulwarks of her strength, Ellen and Melanie, she never appears truly lost though her thoughts fear that potentiality often. Her selfish, stubborn, and pig headed nature along with her uncanny ability to defer the objections of her conscience for her own ends are unendurably frustrating and had me alternating between being her ally and her enemy throughout the length of the work. Whatever else can be said about her I think that, whatever her methods, there is a redeemable quality in her staunch refusal to let anyone or anything break her leaving the only question being whether or not she was ultimately changed by the terrible events that closed the novel.

Final Thoughts

Having rambled for some time now I will try and keep this brief. It would be small of me to say something so trite as “I enjoyed this book very much”, but with the sting of its turbulence still hanging on me I find it hard to say much else. I thoroughly enjoyed Ms. Mitchell’s storytelling, her uncomfortably violent and starkly realistic characters, and the epic scope of what could have been little more than a tragic love story. I could feel the hunger during the lean years of the war, Scarlett’s desperation to forge a lasting security for her and her family, the heartbreak that lingered over Rhett throughout at his inability to break into that stubborn heart beating for a man she didn’t even know she didn’t love, I could even feel the oppressive sense of loss as an entire way of life died away. Some mention of the historical inaccuracies should be made of which I think the almost heroic depiction of the Ku Klux Klan might be the most egregious. I’ll not argue that perhaps there were a few members who saw vigilantism as their only recourse to a corrupt reconstruction government, but to paint the entirety of that type of organization with such a broad and generous stroke is a stretch even for historical fiction. This and other historical alterations, particularly involving the scope of corruption in restoration governments which I think have perhaps been exaggerated for dramatic purposes, and the portrayal of black characters, many of whom come across dangerously close to generalizations based upon stereotypes rather than fully fleshed out characters, should not be disregarded, but I also think that these licenses do not damage the true quality of this work and leaving me questioning my understanding of people and glad having read it. I can ask no more from a wonderful work of art.

I knew it wouldn’t take me long before I was again returning to the top ten brand of self analysis, and sure enough here I am. Even during the compiling of my favorite musical works which I posted earlier my mind was frequently making another list, that of my favorite albums. I’m not precisely sure why I make this distinction other than to say that having list that combined the two forms of music was far too difficult to rank without constantly contradicting myself. So, having no authority to answer to save the good Lord, who is probably annoyed at the vanity of these lists regardless of their content, I feel free to have two distinct lists and for no other reason than it pleases me that I should do so.
I think one of the themes that runs through the list, having had a much more difficult time narrowing it to ten than on my previous effort, is the strong lyrical content. I am very much in love with poetry and many of the albums here listed are very strong on that count. As before I have to stipulate to a couple of criteria I have set for myself before beginning my list. I have chosen these albums as whole works and many albums were left off of this list not so much for my lack of fondness for them, but rather because they did not have the top to bottom cohesiveness that these have. In other words if I had a list of favorite songs many would be from albums not here listed. Because of this stipulation I have excluded greatest hits and other compilation albums leading to the absence of works like Bon Jovi’s Cross Road and Kris Kristofferson’s 16 greatest hits. With the preface complete these are my ten favorite albums as I find them today.

10. My Private Nation by Train

My Private nation

“When it rains it pours and opens doors
And floods the floors we thought would always keep us safe and dry
And in the midst of sailing ships we sink our lips into the ones we love
That have to say goodbye”

It’s lines like this that elevate what would otherwise be just another pop rock band lost amidst the depressing chaos of modern music to wondrous heights. By far the most contemporary album on my list I have always felt that Train has been done a great disservice by the marketing of their work. I cannot deny the appeal of the witty banter of their playfully upbeat and catchy singles but I think it often distracts from the true quality of their work. For anyone who dismisses this band for their popularity and radio friendly image I’d say look past all the Hey Soul Sisters and the Drops of Jupiters and find the Mississippis and Lincoln Avenues that are hiding on these albums.

Favorite Songs: My Private Nation, Lincoln Avenue, Following Rita

9. Astral Weeks by Van Morrison

Astral Weeks

After the crafted lyricism of My Private Nation Astral Weeks can appear a bit chaotic but for all its apparent discord there is something very unifying about this impressionistic work. An album that I fear would have no chance of being published today there is a wonderful stream of conscience element to the lyrics that seem to defy interpretation. I always like to turn this album on and just let my mind wander wherever it wants. I really enjoy the jazz and folk elements particularly when the flute peeks in quietly. This album lets you dive in and find things you never thought you were looking for when you do.

Favorite songs: Astral Weeks, Cyprus Avenue, Slim Slow Slider

8. A Trick of the Tail by Genesis

A trick of the tail

“Forever caught in desert lands one has to learn
To disbelieve the sea”

I have my uncle Steve to thank for this entry. Tony Banks and the now Peter Gabriel-less Genesis really go above and beyond with this work both musically and lyrically. It’s a bitter sweet listen having to reach back in time to find this level of musicianship. I told myself I wasn’t going to let this list devolve into complaints about the parade of unfortunate currently spilling out of the radio so I’ll try to keep myself on course. Over all this is another entry in the Genesis catalogue that really enticed my ear to really listen to the album as a whole. I considered putting The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway in this spot, and despite the fact that I really love that conceptual and expansive work the tangential and rambling narrative seems to sometimes distract itself, which I’m sure was the point. The deciding factor for me was the mastery that I believe allows A Trick of the Tail to have so much more to say than its distorted fairy tales would let on.

Favorite songs: Dance on a Volcano, Squonk, Mad Man Moon

7. In the Wee Small Hours by Frank Sinatra

In the wee small hours

“My cigarette burns me, I wake with a start;
My hand isn’t hurt, but there’s pain in my heart.
Awake or asleep, ev’ry mem’ry I’ll keep
Deep in a dream of you.”

For anyone who wants to defend the position that it’s the singer and not the song that matters this album is your battle standard. That’s not to say that these songs are not undeniably wonderful, but for someone such as myself to cherish so highly a work where the performer had little or nothing to do with the writing of the songs he performed indicates how strongly I believe Frank Sinatra’s heart wrenching performance was indeed the breath of life that gives this album its power. By power of course I mean the crushing weight that this album carries with it throughout. This album is a very personal one for me and can be a strangely comforting companion in sadness. I guess it would seem a bit strange to seek out this album when sad as you would think it would compound the issue to a crippling level, but I’ve always felt that simply diving into that feeling and exploring it helped far more than trying to cure it with the distractions of an upbeat or uplifting distraction.

Favorite songs: In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, Deep in a Dream, I’ll be Around

6. Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf

Bat out of hell

“The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling
Way down in the valley tonight
There’s a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye
And a blade shining oh so bright”

For all of the serious in the world sometimes you just need to be a teenager again even if only for a moment and I can’t think of anything in music that captures the epic, turbulent, self-destructive, reckless, irreverent, careless, and free spiritedness of that age than Meatloaf and Jim Steinman’s riotous anthems. Eight and nine minute titans sing out with their tongues set firmly in their cheek and with total disregard for the song structures of the music of the day, an inspiration I have proudly assimilated into my own work. Jim Steinman, whether or not you approve of his bombastic and over the top approach, paints with many a skillful musical touch that are the hallmarks of not just his work on the Bat Out of Hell trilogy but all of his work. All the fireworks and thunder of a classic rock album with one of the saddest and truest songs I know.

Favorite songs: Bat Out of Hell, Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad, Paradise by the Dashboard Light

5. The Stranger by Billy Joel

The Stranger

“Well we all have a face
That we hide away forever
And we take them out and
Show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel
Some are silk and some are leather
They’re the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on”

Anyone who knows me knows that Billy Joel was going to be on this list somewhere the only question being where and which album and I want it known that the album choice was not as simple as it might appear. Ultimately I couldn’t deny the power of The Stranger, but Turnstiles and the much underappreciated(in my opinion) Streetlife Serenade made very strong showings as well. I cannot say how much I love the way Billy Joel plays the piano. He’s so creative and fluid that if it weren’t for the power of awe I’d be extremely jealous. I also appreciate how his writing seems to avoid, because of his willingness to allow a song to develop naturally, classification. Music has become all about “what does it sound like” and try to nail artists into a genre. When they don’t quite fit they say things like “he’s a rocker who sings ballads” or, “he’s a pop star with a bit of rock crossover” of course none of this covers his fifties rock work, doo-wop, blues, jazz, orchestral, and myriad of other pieces and works he’s done. I don’t know if it’s the case, but I’ve always thought he was more interested in writing the songs he wanted than how they were received or catalogued.

Favorite songs: The Stranger, Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, She’s always a Woman

4. Nether Lands by Dan Fogelberg

Nether Lands

“Seldom seen
A scarecrow’s dream
I hang in the hopes of replacement
Castles tall
I built them all
But I dream that I’m trapped in
the basement.”

If I have any aspirations as a lyricist one of them will inevitably be to have half as much skill as a wordsmith as Dan Fogelberg. The poetry of his songs, this album in particular, is absolutely stunning. Perhaps the falsetto on the song Nether Lands doesn’t age as well as the rest of the album and maybe even dates the work in a small way, but this is less than a footnote on a work that can be looked at just as much as a collection of poetry as an album of music. I don’t mean to say that the music is in any way superficial it’s rather the opposite. The songs from a musical standpoint appear to work as a cohesive unit, I would have to do a much more detailed listening than I’ve done in some time to say with certainty how, but even the most passive of listens can’t but conjure a strange continuity to the tracks.

Favorite songs: Dancing Shoes, Loose Ends, Scarecrow’s Dream

3. Who’s Next by The Who

Who's Next

“Out here in the fields
I farm for my meals
I get my back into my living.
I don’t need to fight
To prove I’m right
I don’t need to be forgiven.”

After much internal debate I went with this album instead of the iconic rock opera Tommy. What gave this album the edge is, while I initially stipulated that the albums were to be looked at as a whole, this one works just as well in its parts as it does as a whole whereas Tommy does not. This is the quintessential rock album as far as I’m concerned and for evidence you need look no further than its titanic opening track Baba O’Riley. I think this is also the strongest collaborative effort for the band as a whole. From Keith Moon mercilessly attacking the drums to John Entwistle getting a chance to stretch his song writing muscles to Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend at the height of their respective skills there’s nothing about this album that I don’t like.

2. I Robot by The Alan Parsons Project

I Robot

“Sooner or later when your big chances come,
You’ll look for the catches but there’ll be none.
Remember before you grab the money and run
That someone is watching you…(he’s gonna get you)…”

My piano teacher Dave Clark introduced me to The Alan Parsons project way before I was old enough to understand what the heck was going on. I think he gave me more credit for maturity than I deserved. However, I held on to this album for a couple of years revisiting it every once and awhile trying to find out what he was raving about so often. Then suddenly one day it just clicked and music was never the same again. This album is every bit as much an experience as it is a collection of songs. I love Tales of Mystery and Imagination nearly as much but this one is in a whole other league in my book. This work lingers with me every time I listen to it and I am honestly chilled when I hear The Voice.

Favorite songs: Some Other Time, Don’t Let it Show, The Voice

1. Rain Dogs by Tom Waits

Rain Dogs

“Hey little bird,
fly away home
Your house is on fire,
children are alone”

I was so very tempted to put the entire trinity (Swordfishtrombones, Rain Dogs, and Frank’s Wild Years) in this spot but just managed to restrain myself. While I feel that the three albums can and should be listened to in concert and so wonderfully compliment and complete one another I had to admit Rain Dogs is unique even amongst its brethren. I guess if I may be permitted a totally classless comparison, for which I hope to be forgiven by Tom Waits should he ever hear about this, it’s like the original Star Wars trilogy while all good Empire Strikes Back is in a class by itself. Tom Waits is perhaps not easily accessible to many, I could perhaps even go so far as to say most, but many of his works are filled with a musical genius that I fear has gone extinct in the world coupled with incomparable poetry this album and I Robot were the only elements of this list that ranked themselves without need for debate.

Two boys, on a land beneath the ocean. The light from the sun filters through miles of water and seaweed forests as they look up through their watery sky. They aren’t on the bottom of the ocean, but rather from their little world inside the world the sea is their sky, hovering just abover the reach of their fingers like a low ceiling. They have few periods of light during their days as they are constantly moving in and out of the shadows of the continents that pass like clouds overhead. Once a day the ruins of an antique castle float over them like the rising and setting of an ancient moon. Both boys want to know where the light comes from, but they also know that they could never hold their breath long enough to swim to the surface. One of the boys tells the other that there is a great eel living in the ruins of the castle above them (I say eel, but it might have been a snake, when I woke up I couldn’t remember accurately for the life of me) that, if they can catch it, can swim fast enough to take them to the surface before they drown. So they jump up into the water when the castle is passing them by and swim into the ruins. Once inside they catch the eel, or snake, and it races up through the water (the sensation was incredible, felt so real) until it splashingly deposited them on the surface.

I was driving to Memphis for something, with my friend Grant, and we had to be there by 830(no idea why). It was dark and I got lost on the road. There’s lots more to the driving part…mostly confusion and strange roads. Eventually we ended up in this beautiful city. You couldn’t drive into it because everything was so close together. Anyway, we leave the car and go in. The streets are narrow and filled with people. The buildings are all made of this warm white stone on the outside, but are rather modern on the inside. Someone tells me it’s called Sumnerville…I might have been told or I might have just known I’m not sure which. So we keep wandering through the streets and shops and Grant keeps telling me it’s time to go but we never head back to the car. Then we run into Amanda and it feels like I was there to meet her which confuses me cause I thought I was on my way to Memphis. I start telling her that we’re late, but instead we all continue to walk through the city. Eventually we come to a bar that is filled with people and live music. We walk in past the smokers into a corner of the bar. Amanda and I sit down on the floor because there aren’t any chairs left. The last thing that happened was that she fell asleep next to me and Grant says, “You missed it…”

In the morning, no later than four or so, a boy awakens suddenly to a painful stinging of numbness in his left arm. After a few moments of discomfort and wading through his staunch self assurances that he wasn’t having a heart attack, he tries to force himself back to sleep. However, the lingering echo of the numbness and his general state of disquiet prevent him from doing just that so he settles on going for a walk. He isn’t sure why, but he was sure that his restlessness wouldn’t settle for less than movement of some kind or another, and walking seemed to be the only option at that time of the morning.
His suburban neighborhood was like a strange honeycomb of streets and cul-de-sacs, and even though he had grown up there, that span being the better part of two decades, he wouldn’t have been able to name ten of the streets by name if pressed. He swallows a Xanax, Wellbutrin, and Lithium, he plugs in his IPod and steps out into the night. The moon wanes gibbous high on his left as he trades the cold tile of the foyer for the hard concrete of the porch. He doesn’t have any particular destination or distance in mind so he just queues up “Rain Dogs” and resolves himself to walk until all the tracks have played.
For the first few minutes he follows the main road that cuts directly back through the subdivision ignoring the many branching paths as he goes. He eventually reaches the rear of the neighborhood and, having seen only a few early morning joggers and even fewer active cars, he decides, rather than to just turn and retrace his steps back to his house he would simply take every left turn that presented itself until he reached one of the major cross-streets that borders his housing development. Even as the idea comes to him he feels that it is both wildly intriguing and strangely exciting.
He knew that in a well ordered development this could lead to a decidedly rectangular, and ultimately self-defeating path, but from what he had seen of his neighborhood’s senselessly winding roads and poorly planned dead-ends he felt reasonably safe, and it wasn’t as though he was planning to adhere to his route schedule against all obstacles, he left just enough leeway in his turning instructions to prevent disaster. Thus, with logic stolidly in his corner, he turns left.
He walks for what feels like hours as the music separates him from the sounds around him. He drinks in the smells around him, the good and the bad. The crisp twinge of wet grass and sweet flowers not yet oppressed by the heavy heat of the sun and the occasional rank odor of an open garbage can hover in patches of air that he wades through as he passes. Suddenly the strong scent of decay creeps out at him from behind a fence in an abandoned yard of an empty house that crawls past him on the right side. He assumes it’s an opossum or armadillo, but he doesn’t look to see.
Almost immediately his left turn odyssey carries him out of familiar waters as he comes to the first new street. Rather pleased with his own game he begins to wonder how so many winding roads of photo-copy houses can fit in such a small place. This thought was followed quickly by the outlandishly amusing one that perhaps the development contained more houses than there was physically room for…the mundane version of Dr. Who’s TARDIS. It wasn’t a thought that lasted long.
He keeps encountering new street after new street, left turn after left turn. Some of the roads did bend and wind to the right, but he doesn’t count that against himself as he disqualified all optionless diversions along a given road as “non-turns”, and he thanks them for keeping him from walking in circles. His logic is impeccable.
The long shadows of the intermittent streetlamps and the feeble glow of the pale moonlight do little to illuminate the darkness beneath the trees overhanging the road, and he frequently finds himself moving into and out of the light like Morse code…should anyone be watching him from above. He thinks about running at a steady pace to make his typing more legible, but that’s nonsensical. As the walk continues, he beings to feel stranger and stranger about the neighborhood’s unfamiliarity. He wonders how so much of it can be so foreign to him after living there so long.
As the last few songs on the album begin to pipe into his ears he realizes that he’s been walking for nearly an hour without sighting a familiar street. At first he wonders if he hasn’t somehow wandered far away from home. He attacked the sudden fear with logic, “That’s ridiculous!” he admonishes himself aloud as he checks his suddenly quickening steps to prove his certainty to himself. He knows that he hasn’t crossed any of the streets that border the development; he would have recognized them instantly if he had. Despite his logical deduction he couldn’t help his sudden wondering…maybe his pharmacist had given him a bad xanax. In that case what could he trust? Certainly not his logic.
“Maybe I’m delusional, I could be reading the signs wrong,”
“How would you know if I was?”
“But if I’m delusional there’s no reason the delusion should be limited to simply the street signs,” he reasons as he stops walking.
“Makes sense to me, but under that logic how would I even be sure I’ve stopped walking?”
“Maybe I didn’t even start…” he says curiously.
He had spent most of the previous evening stressing about the end of the world. Not the hysterical panic of a religious sense which never scared him much due to the leeway given by the possibility of an afterlife, but the sobering panic caused by the sinister, inexplicable, and brutally sudden end peeking out from the pages of Carl Sagan’s and Stephen Hawking’s books which had so completely consumed his attention hours before his sleeplessness set in. He didn’t know what it was about someone explaining the universe that scared him so, but he kept going back for more, as if he were addicted to that fear.
With his thoughts drawn back to the night before his heart begins to beat more and more quickly both from his growing concern over being lost, and his fear of the cruel insensitivity of the universe around him. As always he shelters himself in self diagnosis,
“Don’t worry,” he says to himself, “your heart’s beating fast both because of the anxiety and the exercise. You haven’t slept much and are walking to calm down. Not manic at all. Just let the medicine do its work. You aren’t going to die.” It was like a rote prayer to logic, but seldom did anything to help. What did help was, just as the second to last song came on in his headset, he looked up and noticed himself standing at the crossroads of a familiar street, and he immediately knows where he is.
He wasn’t sure if he had misread the sign as he came to a halt, or whether in his panic he had just not paid attention, but at that moment he didn’t care. He makes his way back to the main road that runs across the western face of the subdivision bus as he walks through the early morning sprinklers to his house something still seems strange. The water splashes across his shoes as he tromps steadily over the puddle laden sidewalk and wonders.
When he finally reaches his own porch again, he looks up at the moon. He hardly expected to find it in precisely the same position, after all he had been walking for over an hour, but as sure as he had been that the moon was waning when he left he is now doubly sure that it is waxing now. For a moment he wonders at which point he was, or is, mistaken since logic dictates the moon could hardly wane and wax in the same night let alone the same hour. The moon seemed to be a mirror image of the one that had hung over him when he left, but he decides that when he left the house he was certainly at his most agitated so it was clearly the most likely time for his mind to misinterpret. Praising the restorative power of exercise on the unsettled mind he pushes his way back into his house and declares himself cured.

A Separate Peace

 

A Separate Peace, by John Knowles, has always been a book surrounded in mystery ever since it entered my care many years ago. Though it has been patiently resting on my desk since it was assigned me by a teacher I can no longer name, though I feel some confidence in saying that it was probably in the middle school years, it has since continually caught my eye in passing. All of my books have been moved and reorganized a dozen times or more in that span and each time for some unknown reason this one would always end up near me. Normally this would be no great thing as it’s not uncommon for me to have books lying about everywhere, but in this case it was a book that I was very little acquainted with. Now I am sure that, before the reading I’m about to discuss, I had read the book at the time of its assignment, however, I am just as sure that I did so under protest which is the manner in which I did all school activities. It’s amusing to see that even though I’m sure I exerted the full force of my engrained antagonism against this book for its chief sin of being homework I still kept it. In all this time it never occurred to me to get rid it and I’m afraid to admit it might be because somewhere inside me I actually believe that because a teacher somewhere told me that this book contained something I needed, when he or she could have given me any of a million books, that it could not be entirely without merit. This startling confession aside I was wandering a bit aimlessly through my room when I became possessed of a need to finally revisit this quiet yet persistent little book. My hand-me-down, mid-seventies, and well worn paperback with browning pages was more than ready to be remembered.

It didn’t take me but a few pages into the first chapter for me to recall the one small plot point that had found a crevice to survive in deep in my memory. When Gene, the narrator, begins to set the stage for the New Hampshire boarding school I remembered a simple little fact, someone falls down the stairs at the end. That was it, the only piece of this novel that had survived from the first reading and all it took was a mention of the polished marble of the first hall to revive it. There is an interesting parallel between the narrative structure and my current reading. Gene is returning to the sight of the novel fifteen years later and laments the efforts to preserve the Devon school. The polished wood and marble seem to him newer and more haunting than when he had lived there, whereas to myself, who was similarly returning to the school after a comparable length of time found it ripe with foreboding. For him the tragedy was behind him and for me it lingered ahead. Gene was confronted with a Devon that was starkly different from the one carved into his memory. The tree, which towered over the landscape as an event far more than it did in any physical sense, the fields, and the dormitories all in conflict with the school he remembered,

 

“This was the tree, and it seemed to me standing there to resemble those men, the giants of your childhood, whom you encounter years later and find that they are not merely smaller in relation to your growth, but that they are absolutely smaller, shrunken by age. In this double demotion the old giants have become pigmies while you were looking the other way.”(Knowles 6)

Though this thought may be indicative of Gene’s want to diminish the significance of that tree it also stirred my native distrust of first person narrators, particularly in flashback. This distrust, which has been an invaluable reading tool and joyfully employed and honed while delving into the depths of such works as The Island of Dr. Moreau and Grinning White Teeth both of which are perhaps due for more extensive reading, sets in early in this novel and daringly lays in the foreground throughout. I found myself constantly wondering if the idealistic portrayal of Phineas was accurate or merely another aggrandized childhood memory. This brings to light one of the major themes that I have found within this work and that is of the question as to whether or not we can, by choice, dictate the reality we live in.

This novel is set firmly in the hands of a band of school boys, Phineas and Gene in particular, coming of age during the height of the second world war. Despite the appearance of complete seclusion from the global struggle it seems that the strain of conflict seeps even into the marrow of the school. Athletics and academics evolve into arenas that forge jealousies and rivalries indicating that there is some animalistic competition in human nature that exists regardless of religion, politics, or background. The tragedy behind this fact is that it seems to assert itself without warning or instigation as though it was just there all along waiting for any excuse to usurp the mind wherein it lay waiting. Phineas, as described by a guilt ridden narrator, appears to be alone immune from this competition. He beats a school swimming record with no regard for any accompanying accolade, he creates games that cannot be won, and I think truly believes his staggering physical accomplishments are shared somehow with anyone and everyone. Many of the tragic elements of this novel flashed onto the page and were gone before I could even rightly comprehend what had happened. Gene’s sudden jealousy, his causing Phineas’ fall from the tree, his conflicting need for honest forgiveness and fervent denial all strike in well timed succession throughout the book.

I think that Phineas’ determination to disbelieve the existence of the war, while attributing it to the controlling interests of far away old men, and Gene’s several attempts to alter the history of his actions in his own mind highlight these boy’s need to control the truth of the world in which they live. Phineas looks to protect himself from the truth of what he’s lost both physically and with regard to someone he refers to often as his best friend, and Gene looks to do the same with the shame he feels over what he has done. They both seem to think that if they just believe it hard enough they can convince the world, and thereby themselves, that nothing bad ever happened. Even when Gene finds the courage to confess what he did that truth is too terrible for them to believe openly so they choose to have a delusion that it simply never happened. Of perhaps some historical significance this is quite similar to the United States before its forced entrance into the war where there seemed to be a determined self imposed ignorance of what was going on in Europe in the hopes of remaining detached.

However, the deconstruction of these delusions has two phases that succeed one another towards the end of the book. The first is that of Leper, the naturalist entranced by the image of the war supplied by the government, and the second is Brinker’s tribunal. Both of these events force Leper and Gene respectively to confront the world as it is rather than how they would see it. Gene cannot cope with Leper’s psychotic break and coldly turns away from him. I believe that this is in part because, as he to that point had refused to see, it would force him to admit that in its rawest form human nature might be beyond restraint in which case the evil that consumed him which had caused him to shake his friend from a tree forever changing Phineas’ life would endanger every moment of every day from then on. He could never be certain that another time or another second of lapsed watchfulness would not spill some other horror.  In this way the denial of the evil done becomes every bit as tragic as the evil itself. Even as Brinker begins his school yard tribunal having suspected the truth behind Phineas’ fall both Phineas and Gene hold fast to their desperate belief that it just wasn’t true.

It is Phineas’ flight from the tribunal which led to his falling down the stairs of the First Hall that had stuck with me after all these years, however I did not remember at all what had followed. I had prepared myself for Phineas to die on those stairs which is why finding out that he had only reinjured his broken leg bewildered me and left me emotionally unprepared for his death following the complications with setting the bone. It struck me very soundly in a way that could only be engineered by my vaguest of memories from all those years ago. This makes Gene’s confession, the honest and whole confession which was unlike his first attempt to do so, so much more powerful. The novel builds this tragedy throughout with simple strokes and deceptive subtlety. With the backdrop of a world at war this story shows that even the last refuge of peace there is a darkness hiding.

I make no pretense at review, however I did enjoy the work and its sad reminders that even in our closest friendships we sometimes let jealousies fester. There is no doubt that I gave it a fairer reading then I did before but there is certainly a wealth more here than I have discussed today. It puts me in the mind to revisit other works that have a similar sort of place in my memory such as Bridge to Terabithia. I will return A Separate Peace to its place on my desk and there’s no doubt my mind will linger there again in the fields of the Devon school someday soon.

Knowles, John. A Separate Peace. New York: Bantam, 1975. Print.

 

 

The Twenty-Fourth of May 2013

 

It has come to my attention that with any artistic endeavor in the modern arena there is an accompanying clamor for a bevy of biographical information. Every submission, whether poetry or prose, has a corresponding dialogue box patiently waiting for the life story of the submitter. At best it’s an attempt on the part of promoters to find a marketable trait or unique bit of history that will catch the interest of customers and at worst it’s some sort of benchmark for the fitness of the artist. The latter is quite frightening as all who can write are fit to write and should do so. However, I understand that my pathological need for privacy and my hope that future success, of which I hope to have some, be divorced from anything that could be labeled personal fame are more than lofty goals in the age of information. So, though I believe that everything of biographical significance that could be furnished by me can be found with ease within my body of work, I have decided to compromise with that ego that must be restrained daily and offer by way of opinion and general thought that biography that I have refused to write for book and album cover alike.

I have always thought that what a person enjoys says a lot about them. In part this is why I love to look at a person’s bookshelf whenever I visit their home for the first time. I will be offering up my bookshelf for scrutiny at a later date, but with that same premise in mind I thought it would be interesting to fist explore my musical library through the prism of the now famous top ten list, my ten favorite musical pieces to be precise. Now as important as it is to make the distinction between songwriter, which I am, and composer, which I am not, I would like to emphasize the difference between favorite and best. In so far that these works are my favorite they are the best, however I’m not seeking a theory debate on the quantitative value of these pieces. My musical theory has always been a shameful weak spot in my studies and I am ill suited to converse intelligently thereon. So I would ask for leniency on account of my lay interpretation of, and entirely emotional response to, these great works. One final point before I begin, I do not wish by this list to imply that I have no fondness for contemporary music. However, I’ve decided to leave a discussion of my favorite albums, therein being the distinction, for another time. Likewise, the music portions of operas and ballets were not considered as I believe the stage performance of these works are an integral part of their existence so to weigh them on orchestration alone is to do them a great disservice. All of that being said these are my current favorite pieces of music.

 

10. Vivaldi Concerto in D major RV 228: I think it is pieces like this that suffer most from the romanticization of symphonic programs (at least in regards to my experience over the years with the Florida Orchestra perhaps the baroque works are more popular elsewhere). From the vibrant first notes through the pensive longing of the second movement and energetic finish there always seems to be something hiding just beneath the surface here that my ear ever feels just on the edge of hearing. It’s a wonderful little mystery that I can listen to over and over again.

9. Rachmaninoff  Piano Concerto #3: I never get tired of defending this piece against its titanic predecessor, but one of the finest performances of live symphonic music I’ve ever had the privilege of attending was Lilya Zilberstein’s flawless playing of this work so I don’t know if I have been unduly biased in that regard. Granted everything that Rachmaninoff wrote for the piano makes me wonder how anyone can reproduce his works, as an amateur piano player this one is particularly humbling. I’ll never forget the moments of power and moments of simplicity that I can only call sweet with a purely Rachmaninoff ending.

8. Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E minor: Already being a great fan of the violin makes loving this piece easy. Unlike other concertos Mendelssohn leads with this beautiful instrument which catches my ear in the first seconds and doesn’t let go until turbulent and triumphant end. This work has several themes that have just stuck with me ever since my first time hearing it, particularly the supremely romantic andante. It’s perhaps this unbelievably lovely movement that helped me decide between Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto #2, which would be in this space, and Mendelssohn’s wonderful work. The internal debate on this point was furious.

7. Saint-Saens Piano Concerto #2 in G Minor: Like the Mendelssohn concerto already listed this work dives right into the featured instrument and begins one of the most riveting, mysterious, and almost threatening pieces that I know of. There is a strange sadness to the opening that seems to haunt the work. This sadness is relieved in part by the lightness of the second movement though not losing the hints of mystery it hides before thundering into its concluding movement. This piece has been my companion for many years especially when I’m feeling particularly pensive.

6. Dvorak Violin Concerto in A minor: Like many of the other composers on this list I have been forced to pick one piece for fear of having only three or so artists even represented. Dvorak, being one of those composers with several works I would consider favorites, could very well have had three entries of his own with his ninth symphony and cello concerto in addition to this one. That being said for some reason the violin concerto has a singular effect on me particularly the joyous and exuberant finale. I always seem to get swept away by the vitality of this piece and often find myself starting it over once I’ve finished it.

5. Corelli Concerto Grosso #2 in F major: I could just as easily have selected Corelli’s entire sixth opus for this entry but I forced myself to pick just one of the twelve concertos. I love them all but find myself listening most frequently to this one. It is uplifting and beautiful and everything I love about baroque music. Its third movement opens quite gravely but opens up into a wonderfully forward looking theme that feels hopeful and fulfilling. It’s one of those elegantly simply phrases that catches my heart strings every time I hear it.

4. Handel’s Messiah: As a musician and a Christian it is hard not to be stirred to the very foundations merely at the mention of this work. Like another piece that is coming up on this list its length prohibits regular listens and I always have to set aside time to delve into the emotions that this work conjures. Though I’ll admit to cherry picking movements on occasion with Ev’ry Valley Shall be Exalted, Hallelujah, and Worthy is the Lamb being the principle offenders. There might be some ethnocentric bias seeing as it is written in English but regardless it is one of those works that profoundly altered the way I listen to music.

3. Mahler Symphony #2: This piece is a monster no two ways about it. From its nearly ninety minute running time to the sheer scope of its themes everything about this work is huge. Aptly referred to as “The Resurrection” this piece explores musically death, the meaning of life, and the hope for an everlasting transcendental existence after earthly death. Having first experienced this symphony live I can barely hope to express the thunderclap this work produced for me. I can remember leaving the building not even quite sure what had happened to me, not unlike the unfortunate car wreck I was in recently, only in a more jubilant and thrilling way.

2. Bach Mass in B minor: If I was a tenth as good at anything as Bach was at writing music I would have cured cancer by now. There are so many of his works that I honestly believe I cannot live without that I don’t even know where to start. However, I feel that in some ways this piece is in a way a dictionary of the baroque era of music. This is the lexicon of words with which the composers of the age wrote their masterworks and for me this is what makes it the sure choice for my list. There is more musical and emotional depth here than I would ever be able to summarize or even paraphrase. Like the Messiah this work requires an investment of time, nearly two hours, but is worth every single minute.


1. Beethoven Symphony #9: At the risk of sounding cliché, it begins and ends here. I’m ashamed to say I had a debate with myself about picking a different Beethoven piece simply because of this work’s unimaginable renown. Thankfully I came to my senses and realized that not picking this piece because everyone knows it to be one of the greatest creations of mankind is as sophomoric as those who believe things are valuable because no one has heard of them. While there is little to be said about this supreme achievement that someone has not already said for my own part the first seconds of this monument warned me that what was to come was unlike anything I’d ever experienced and in every way that was true. Light and dark, agony and ecstasy, three movements of supreme unsolvable mystery followed by pure revelation in its simplest form this work breaks me down and builds me back up every time I listen to it. And never was there sweeter heartbreak my life.