Last night I finished reading Saint Patrick of Ireland, by Philip Freeman, and this evening I finished Alexander the Great: Journey to the End of the Earth, by Norman F. Cantor. It wasn't a deliberate attempt at comparison, just the order in which my requested library materials became available. I stumbled across Saint Patrick while actually browsing for the book on Alexander, which wasn't available at the library, and given that it's March, I thought it would be nice to do some further reading. And Alexander is so often mentioned in discussions regarding ancient history, but I recently realized that in spite, or perhaps because, of a very poorly made documentary I watched, I knew nothing about this man designated as "Great."
What struck me most about the Saint Patrick book was that the author really didn't say much about Patrick. By writing a book about him, he presumes to know quite a bit, but most of the book was phrased along the lines of "Patrick might have done _____ during _____ (insert a 50-year range)." It's nice to be honest and approach a subject cautiously, but if halfway through your research you realize you don't have enough substance to write a decent book with a reasonable amount of factual information, do your future readers a favor and give up for something more worthwhile. Don't just fill in the gaps with cheap shots at other historians much more entertaining than yourself. Yes, I am referring to the ever-popular Cahill, who write How the Irish Saved Civilization, because even though the premise of his book was a little off and the Irish didn't exactly "save civilization," it was such an absorbing read, and full of some great trivia. However, the one thing that came across very strong in Freeman's book was the translation of Patrick's Letters and Confession. His fervent zeal for the souls he was converting is refreshing, considering that the Christian church at the time was generally financially driven. For a man to seek an official position in the church not for temporal security or tax exemptions, but as the means of bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ as he knew it to the nation that enslaved him in his youth, well, it's touching and inspiring. His love for the people he converted was so evident in his letters.
Alexander's biography was much more interesting, because the author stuck to facts throughout, only delving into speculation in the final chapter, in which he pondered the numerous ways Alexander had a lasting impact on the world—a legitimate activity, considering Alexander's empire, and six of the seven cities he formed and named after himself, collapsed almost immediately after his death at the young age of thirty-three. What was really cool is that I also just finished watching a six-part documentary on the history of India, and Alexander's conquest effectually ended there.
I'm not so sure about all this reading of ancient history. It's pretty horrible to contemplate that even the "Golden Age" of Classicism celebrated brutality and abuse in numerous forms, or at the least turned a blind eye on appalling social injustice. Men's rights were regularly trampled on, not to mention the fact that women and children had no recognizable rights at all. And they had some seriously gross rituals and customs. I might say something to the effect that it makes me grateful I live in a modern age, which would be unequivocally true, but it also gives me reason to ponder human nature and why societies end up with horrible traditions like the ones I've been reading. No specific answers yet.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Les Mis
Les Miserables is the best musical ever. Not objectively, really, but I think a lot of people would say it is. Its popularity is so overwhelming that even after it has closed multiple times on broadway, the public still loves it. I've been a fan ever since sophomore year of high school, when marching band did a very odd, cut up version of it on the field which, in retrospect, was very bad. I remember the announcer's proud statement that "Attack on Rue Plumet" depicts a famous battle in the French Revolution ... inward bleeding ensues, as that particular song is about a contemplated street robbery by a band of thugs, and the story itself has nothing whatsoever to do with the French Revolution. Well, it served its purpose. I checked out the Original Cast Recording from the library, read the libretto, learned all the real songs, read the unabridged novel the following year, and saw the stage tour the year following that (even in the nosebleeds, I cried buckets when Gavroche died). Beautiful story. Beautiful message. Beautiful, if loose, adaptation to stage.
This is why PBS aired yet another Les Miserables in Concert special recently. I saw the one they did fifteen or so years ago. Dad and I watched some of it last night, and now I need to say my piece so I can get over it.
First of all, I really wonder who was in charge and what they were on when they decided to cast Nick Jonas as Marius. I'm perfectly willing to have an open mind about the so-called talent of former Disney Channel stars, and I'm sure part of it was motivated by a desire to reach a younger, hipper audience, but it was hard to listen to even a few words come out of his mouth without cringing. And Eponine? It's possible she might be half American and half British, but there's no excuse to switch back and forth with the accent. I'm probably really hard on put-on accents. Back in college, a lovely production of "An Ideal Husband" was very nearly spoiled for me because whoever played Sir Robert couldn't do his accent right. But this Eponine had more than just an accent problem going against her. Her delivery was off, big time, and she had a Keira Knightly complex with her lips. The two of them muddling their way through Eponine's death scene got so painful we just skipped to the next song. Cosette was okay, I guess, and I know this is mean spirited, but when the girl who plays the beautiful damsel in distress looks like a blond-haired beaver it's a little distracting.
The big chorus parts were a trainwreck, particularly "One Day More," which is usually one of my favorites. I don't know exactly why it failed so miserably; something was off with the tempo and the different parts couldn't seem to balance right, but it was more than that.
The really puzzling thing was that as spot-off as so many of the parts were, three of the most important parts were spot-on. I've heard a lot of different Jean Valjeans, and most of them were quite good, but none of them were as good as this particular guy. His performance of "Bring Him Home" was practically flawless—such a sonorous voice, with beautiful delivery. And Javert, even though his recitative was a little delayed, had some serious power. He might have been better singing a bass part, but I still enjoyed him. Finally, Lea Salonga, who played Eponine the last time someone tried something like this, was re-cast as Fantine. And yup, she's still just as good as when she was Eponine, Mulan, Miss Saigon, and even Princess Jasmine. I love her.
It really makes me wonder. If Nick Jonas is the future of the stage musical ...
This is why PBS aired yet another Les Miserables in Concert special recently. I saw the one they did fifteen or so years ago. Dad and I watched some of it last night, and now I need to say my piece so I can get over it.
First of all, I really wonder who was in charge and what they were on when they decided to cast Nick Jonas as Marius. I'm perfectly willing to have an open mind about the so-called talent of former Disney Channel stars, and I'm sure part of it was motivated by a desire to reach a younger, hipper audience, but it was hard to listen to even a few words come out of his mouth without cringing. And Eponine? It's possible she might be half American and half British, but there's no excuse to switch back and forth with the accent. I'm probably really hard on put-on accents. Back in college, a lovely production of "An Ideal Husband" was very nearly spoiled for me because whoever played Sir Robert couldn't do his accent right. But this Eponine had more than just an accent problem going against her. Her delivery was off, big time, and she had a Keira Knightly complex with her lips. The two of them muddling their way through Eponine's death scene got so painful we just skipped to the next song. Cosette was okay, I guess, and I know this is mean spirited, but when the girl who plays the beautiful damsel in distress looks like a blond-haired beaver it's a little distracting.
The big chorus parts were a trainwreck, particularly "One Day More," which is usually one of my favorites. I don't know exactly why it failed so miserably; something was off with the tempo and the different parts couldn't seem to balance right, but it was more than that.
The really puzzling thing was that as spot-off as so many of the parts were, three of the most important parts were spot-on. I've heard a lot of different Jean Valjeans, and most of them were quite good, but none of them were as good as this particular guy. His performance of "Bring Him Home" was practically flawless—such a sonorous voice, with beautiful delivery. And Javert, even though his recitative was a little delayed, had some serious power. He might have been better singing a bass part, but I still enjoyed him. Finally, Lea Salonga, who played Eponine the last time someone tried something like this, was re-cast as Fantine. And yup, she's still just as good as when she was Eponine, Mulan, Miss Saigon, and even Princess Jasmine. I love her.
It really makes me wonder. If Nick Jonas is the future of the stage musical ...
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Born to Run
I just finished reading Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall. Wow!
Some people you meet are just really hard core, and this book was all about them. Except for excessive quotations of people dropping the f-bomb, I highly recommend it to everyone.
McDougall tells a meandering story that doesn't really even seem like a story because he goes off on so many tangents, but they all sort of tie together in the end—at a showdown race featuring some of the greatest distance runners of the Western hemisphere, in the middle of nowhere. He's a journalist and writes like a journalist (although his is of the magazine style, which still has creative integrity, as opposed to the newspaper style, which is really an anti-style): sensationalist, hyperbolic, and full of narrative cliché. In spite of it, and even because of it, I was completely absorbed from start to finish.
The major question he wanted answered from the start was really why so many doctors tell people that running is bad for them. He was an athlete who jumped from sport to sport and never encountered any problem until he attempted distance running. In search of a cure for the pain, he began to wonder if running really is so bad, why do some of the healthiest people in the world run so much and never get injured.
What's not to love about a book full of ultra-running anecdotes including barefoot running, vegan diets, beat poetry addicts, crack-pot scientists in search of the key to the reason humans have survived so successfully as a species, and Bushmen hunting parties; centered around a fighter who dropped out of time and memory for a life of solitary running all over the mountains and canyons of southern Mexico, scores of miles away from even a telephone?
It makes me want to go for extreme living. I thought I was pretty hot stuff for having run a marathon, but reading Born to Run has made me realize that a marathon is just ho-hum old news to these people. Last night, motivated by what I had read so far, I went for my very first run in my Vibram five finger toe shoes—I even went without my headphones, and didn't even miss them. People say when you run "barefoot" for the first time your calves get really sore, so I opted to do only a mile. I felt so great after a mile that I didn't want to quit. Alas, it was getting dark and I had told my brother that if I didn't return in less than 15 minutes he had to come looking for me. So I did one extra block and went in, but I'm so excited about those shoes!
And I'm excited to have new stuff to think about as a result of reading the book. Thank you, Heather, for the book recommendation. Stellar, as usual.
Some people you meet are just really hard core, and this book was all about them. Except for excessive quotations of people dropping the f-bomb, I highly recommend it to everyone.
McDougall tells a meandering story that doesn't really even seem like a story because he goes off on so many tangents, but they all sort of tie together in the end—at a showdown race featuring some of the greatest distance runners of the Western hemisphere, in the middle of nowhere. He's a journalist and writes like a journalist (although his is of the magazine style, which still has creative integrity, as opposed to the newspaper style, which is really an anti-style): sensationalist, hyperbolic, and full of narrative cliché. In spite of it, and even because of it, I was completely absorbed from start to finish.
The major question he wanted answered from the start was really why so many doctors tell people that running is bad for them. He was an athlete who jumped from sport to sport and never encountered any problem until he attempted distance running. In search of a cure for the pain, he began to wonder if running really is so bad, why do some of the healthiest people in the world run so much and never get injured.
What's not to love about a book full of ultra-running anecdotes including barefoot running, vegan diets, beat poetry addicts, crack-pot scientists in search of the key to the reason humans have survived so successfully as a species, and Bushmen hunting parties; centered around a fighter who dropped out of time and memory for a life of solitary running all over the mountains and canyons of southern Mexico, scores of miles away from even a telephone?
It makes me want to go for extreme living. I thought I was pretty hot stuff for having run a marathon, but reading Born to Run has made me realize that a marathon is just ho-hum old news to these people. Last night, motivated by what I had read so far, I went for my very first run in my Vibram five finger toe shoes—I even went without my headphones, and didn't even miss them. People say when you run "barefoot" for the first time your calves get really sore, so I opted to do only a mile. I felt so great after a mile that I didn't want to quit. Alas, it was getting dark and I had told my brother that if I didn't return in less than 15 minutes he had to come looking for me. So I did one extra block and went in, but I'm so excited about those shoes!
And I'm excited to have new stuff to think about as a result of reading the book. Thank you, Heather, for the book recommendation. Stellar, as usual.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Creepy
So last night a friend posted on Facebook that she wanted someone to go kayaking with her today. I was so there.
The unfortunate thing about having pulled off a feat like running a marathon is you start to think you're invincible or something. We took off in the kayaks on the lake. I was a little less than enthusiastic about the particular lake, given that it has a terrible reputation for being polluted and dirty and a dumping ground for all kinds of nasty things—as well as a habitat for alligators and poisonous snakes. However, my person was not actually going to be in the lake.
Well ...
Everything started out fine, I guess. I couldn't figure out why my kayak insisted on veering to the left the entire time, but I just used my buff muscles to keep it in check. It's kind of a windy day, but I love wind, and waves are pretty cool too.
We got pretty far out, and then found a little cove where the water was calm. That was actually when I started to get nervous, because we kept seeing little circles of bubbles, and both of us felt something (not a rock) bang against our oars at some point.
I was glad to be heading back, even though it was against the wind.
A heavy wind combined with a rather large wave, and this clumsy redhead fell into the lake. The middle of it. Nowhere near the shore. Actually, that was probably a good thing, as I didn't want to risk a run-in with any water moccasins or alligators.
Panic at a time like that can kind of paralyze you. The odd thing is I don't usually panic. Unless large bodies of water are involved. I'm steeling myself for the nightmares I'm going to have tonight. Okay, I take that back. I do panic. I remember beginning to panic last week when I thought for a moment a friend and I were stuck in an elevator. But not nearly as much as I panicked when I fell into the lake and started drowning.
I used to be enough of a swimmer to keep myself alive. I also used to float a lot more easily. I'm going to take that latter as proof that my body fat percentage has been drastically reduced.
The bottom line is, there I was in the middle of the lake, drowning. I don't know how one climbs back into a kayak in the middle of a lake, so I did what any reasonable person would do—I screamed for help. But I have one of those voices that don't carry. At all. When I used to want to get the attention of my middle school kids, I'd raise my pitch rather than my volume. You can't raise your pitch when you're drowning in a lake. After two or three attempts to call out to my friend, she turned back and saw that I was in the middle of the lake.
The only thing I could do was grab on to the back of her kayak, leave mine behind, and try to row back to shore. After about 30 minutes (during which I clung to a hook on the back of her kayak, floating on my back with my legs hooked around the back of it and desperately terrified I was either going to swallow some of the nasty lake water or be attacked by an alligator), we got to a place with a ladder up to a little dock. A really nice man gave us a ride back to where we parked.
Just a few more problems. First, I was going into hypothermia. I think. When my friend suggested that, I laughed, but apparently it's not a laughing matter. Even after a very hot shower and some dry clothes, my lips were blue and I couldn't stop shaking. Second problem, the kayak.
When it dumped me out, it also dumped my flip-flops. Can you imagine being a boater, going out onto the lake and seeing a tumped-over kayak and a pair of foam flip-flops? I'd be worried there was a body nearby. So the police were called, and they referred my friend to the Lake Patrol, who very kindly made sure everyone was okay then went out in their boat to fetch the abandoned kayak.
About the time she went to meet them and get it back, I had finally stopped shivering and relaxed enough to have some fruit snacks and watch Spirited Away.
I'm really looking forward to summertime, when the livin' is easy.
The unfortunate thing about having pulled off a feat like running a marathon is you start to think you're invincible or something. We took off in the kayaks on the lake. I was a little less than enthusiastic about the particular lake, given that it has a terrible reputation for being polluted and dirty and a dumping ground for all kinds of nasty things—as well as a habitat for alligators and poisonous snakes. However, my person was not actually going to be in the lake.
Well ...
Everything started out fine, I guess. I couldn't figure out why my kayak insisted on veering to the left the entire time, but I just used my buff muscles to keep it in check. It's kind of a windy day, but I love wind, and waves are pretty cool too.
We got pretty far out, and then found a little cove where the water was calm. That was actually when I started to get nervous, because we kept seeing little circles of bubbles, and both of us felt something (not a rock) bang against our oars at some point.
I was glad to be heading back, even though it was against the wind.
A heavy wind combined with a rather large wave, and this clumsy redhead fell into the lake. The middle of it. Nowhere near the shore. Actually, that was probably a good thing, as I didn't want to risk a run-in with any water moccasins or alligators.
Panic at a time like that can kind of paralyze you. The odd thing is I don't usually panic. Unless large bodies of water are involved. I'm steeling myself for the nightmares I'm going to have tonight. Okay, I take that back. I do panic. I remember beginning to panic last week when I thought for a moment a friend and I were stuck in an elevator. But not nearly as much as I panicked when I fell into the lake and started drowning.
I used to be enough of a swimmer to keep myself alive. I also used to float a lot more easily. I'm going to take that latter as proof that my body fat percentage has been drastically reduced.
The bottom line is, there I was in the middle of the lake, drowning. I don't know how one climbs back into a kayak in the middle of a lake, so I did what any reasonable person would do—I screamed for help. But I have one of those voices that don't carry. At all. When I used to want to get the attention of my middle school kids, I'd raise my pitch rather than my volume. You can't raise your pitch when you're drowning in a lake. After two or three attempts to call out to my friend, she turned back and saw that I was in the middle of the lake.
The only thing I could do was grab on to the back of her kayak, leave mine behind, and try to row back to shore. After about 30 minutes (during which I clung to a hook on the back of her kayak, floating on my back with my legs hooked around the back of it and desperately terrified I was either going to swallow some of the nasty lake water or be attacked by an alligator), we got to a place with a ladder up to a little dock. A really nice man gave us a ride back to where we parked.
Just a few more problems. First, I was going into hypothermia. I think. When my friend suggested that, I laughed, but apparently it's not a laughing matter. Even after a very hot shower and some dry clothes, my lips were blue and I couldn't stop shaking. Second problem, the kayak.
When it dumped me out, it also dumped my flip-flops. Can you imagine being a boater, going out onto the lake and seeing a tumped-over kayak and a pair of foam flip-flops? I'd be worried there was a body nearby. So the police were called, and they referred my friend to the Lake Patrol, who very kindly made sure everyone was okay then went out in their boat to fetch the abandoned kayak.
About the time she went to meet them and get it back, I had finally stopped shivering and relaxed enough to have some fruit snacks and watch Spirited Away.
I'm really looking forward to summertime, when the livin' is easy.
Monday, March 21, 2011
I Was A Fan
This morning, a great soul was put to rest, and he will be greatly mourned by his fans.
Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.
My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.
He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.
And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.
Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.
My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.
He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Connections
I'm feeling a major let-down after running that marathon a while back. It's not the greatest thing for your mental energy to go from running 30+ miles every week to running zero. Or, in the case of this week, eleven. Poor me. I'm so out of shape.
Because I've been out every evening for one thing or another (gosh, this unemployment business is getting busier and busier!), I haven't cooked anything all week. So my best solution was to get my brother to help me make cookies. I thought it would be a good idea to add some marshmallows to an already yummy chocolate-peanut-buttery glob of stuff that's really not healthy.
Unfortunately, marshmallows make cookies go pfthththth ....
In Brother's immortal words, they look like bird turds.
But now we have this fabulous idea to crumble them up and mix them in with some homemade chocolate ice cream.Yes, there is a major reason why exercise must be a vital part of my life.
So, on to another subject. I don't generally think it's a good idea to write blog entries of this type, but I think this one will be okay. I hope it comes across in the spirit of fun and slight self-mockery I intend it to, as opposed to a package of whining. Few things are worse than people whose online presence consists of nothing but a whining pity-party.
First, I ask a question: isn't the whole point of having a closet to have a space where you can put all the stuff you don't want anyone to see?
I don't necessarily have skeletons in my closet, but I do have dirty gym clothes and a disorganized pile of odds and ends. It mystifies certain Rational family members that I don't really like it when people go in there; it has become a very emotional issue of late, as we have been undergoing quite a lot of home maintenance, and the only entrance to the attic is—you guessed it—through the ceiling of my closet.
It also happens that I have a lot of clothes that don't go in the dryer, and I had them hung up to dry on hangers in the closet doorway while I went for a brief trip out of town. Who should come over while I was gone, but our A/C guys? Not only did they remove my clothes in such a way that got them covered with attic mess, but the attic mess was all over the floor—not just in and around the closet.
Aaargh!
While I know it's no-one's particular fault, and no-one is specifically out to get me, I still felt violated. I went into the depths of despair and started feeling like a loser because I don't have a job and I just can't get my cover letter right.
What does not having a job have to do with the maintenance dudes messing up my closet and interrupting the drying of my clothes? Absolutely nothing.
Here's the point of this story. When I told my mother, she totally got it. No long drawn-out attempt to make sense of that connection was even necessary.
She is priceless.
Because I've been out every evening for one thing or another (gosh, this unemployment business is getting busier and busier!), I haven't cooked anything all week. So my best solution was to get my brother to help me make cookies. I thought it would be a good idea to add some marshmallows to an already yummy chocolate-peanut-buttery glob of stuff that's really not healthy.
Unfortunately, marshmallows make cookies go pfthththth ....
In Brother's immortal words, they look like bird turds.
But now we have this fabulous idea to crumble them up and mix them in with some homemade chocolate ice cream.Yes, there is a major reason why exercise must be a vital part of my life.
So, on to another subject. I don't generally think it's a good idea to write blog entries of this type, but I think this one will be okay. I hope it comes across in the spirit of fun and slight self-mockery I intend it to, as opposed to a package of whining. Few things are worse than people whose online presence consists of nothing but a whining pity-party.
First, I ask a question: isn't the whole point of having a closet to have a space where you can put all the stuff you don't want anyone to see?
I don't necessarily have skeletons in my closet, but I do have dirty gym clothes and a disorganized pile of odds and ends. It mystifies certain Rational family members that I don't really like it when people go in there; it has become a very emotional issue of late, as we have been undergoing quite a lot of home maintenance, and the only entrance to the attic is—you guessed it—through the ceiling of my closet.
It also happens that I have a lot of clothes that don't go in the dryer, and I had them hung up to dry on hangers in the closet doorway while I went for a brief trip out of town. Who should come over while I was gone, but our A/C guys? Not only did they remove my clothes in such a way that got them covered with attic mess, but the attic mess was all over the floor—not just in and around the closet.
Aaargh!
While I know it's no-one's particular fault, and no-one is specifically out to get me, I still felt violated. I went into the depths of despair and started feeling like a loser because I don't have a job and I just can't get my cover letter right.
What does not having a job have to do with the maintenance dudes messing up my closet and interrupting the drying of my clothes? Absolutely nothing.
Here's the point of this story. When I told my mother, she totally got it. No long drawn-out attempt to make sense of that connection was even necessary.
She is priceless.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
You look so ... so .... stoopud.
I read a comment on a blog one time about Jane Eyre, where the poster said something to the effect of, What's not to like about a story where two ugly people get together?
Indeed.
I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.
It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?
Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.
I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...
It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.
What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.
So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?
It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.
What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.
As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.
I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.
Indeed.
I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.
It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?
Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.
I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...
It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.
What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.
So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?
It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.
What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.
As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.
I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Comfort Books
I blog about comfort books a lot. Today was a comfort book day. I'm not sure why.
While reading my email, I came across Goodreads' Jane Eyre challenge, and I tried to enter it, but it wouldn't let me. Then I started thinking about how much I might really want to see the movie when it comes out next weekend, so I looked it up. Of course it's only limited release, so if I want to see it I will have to go to the Angelika.
And then I realized that it's been years since I read the book. I just love that book. I thought I had moved past it, but I think I will just accept here and now that whenever I start to think I've moved past something, whether it be a personal tendency or behavior, or an infatuation with a book, I rarely truly move on.
Reading Jane Eyre for the twelfth (?: I lost count around nine, so this is an approximation) time is just as tumultuous and intense as it was the first time! I got about 1/3 through and put it down because it's just so overwhelming. It's not the comfort book I really needed.
Now, here is a comfort book:
While reading my email, I came across Goodreads' Jane Eyre challenge, and I tried to enter it, but it wouldn't let me. Then I started thinking about how much I might really want to see the movie when it comes out next weekend, so I looked it up. Of course it's only limited release, so if I want to see it I will have to go to the Angelika.
And then I realized that it's been years since I read the book. I just love that book. I thought I had moved past it, but I think I will just accept here and now that whenever I start to think I've moved past something, whether it be a personal tendency or behavior, or an infatuation with a book, I rarely truly move on.
Reading Jane Eyre for the twelfth (?: I lost count around nine, so this is an approximation) time is just as tumultuous and intense as it was the first time! I got about 1/3 through and put it down because it's just so overwhelming. It's not the comfort book I really needed.
Now, here is a comfort book:
Monday, February 28, 2011
I Ran a Marathon
on Saturday. The entire thing was on the beach. Literally. It was fun. It took a very. long. time. 26.2 miles is a long way. I will do another one. Probably.
The thing is, running on the sand uses muscles you never knew you had, and whoa did that hurt. The first thing I said, to everyone's amusement, was, "That was hard." I have been known to say clever, witty things every so often, and you'd have thought that running for as many hours as I did, not to mention all the months I spent training and knowing that at one point I would cross the finish line, I could have come up with something more quotable.
I've decided that all the things people say about marathons are true. At some point it stops being physical and becomes mental. Positive thinking is everything. You can transcend physical pain and exhaustion and do the improbable—it just takes lots and lots of built-up willpower.
It doesn't hurt that at the end, I got a free mango orange smoothie and a nice, warm bath. And this time, I had an entourage of five people to cheer for me when I crossed the finish line! Thanks, family. You're wonderful. :)
The thing is, running on the sand uses muscles you never knew you had, and whoa did that hurt. The first thing I said, to everyone's amusement, was, "That was hard." I have been known to say clever, witty things every so often, and you'd have thought that running for as many hours as I did, not to mention all the months I spent training and knowing that at one point I would cross the finish line, I could have come up with something more quotable.
I've decided that all the things people say about marathons are true. At some point it stops being physical and becomes mental. Positive thinking is everything. You can transcend physical pain and exhaustion and do the improbable—it just takes lots and lots of built-up willpower.
It doesn't hurt that at the end, I got a free mango orange smoothie and a nice, warm bath. And this time, I had an entourage of five people to cheer for me when I crossed the finish line! Thanks, family. You're wonderful. :)
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Five Thousand Year Leap, by W. Cleon Skousen
I can't remember what I was reading—some sort of political commentary—that recommended this book. It has been sitting on my nightstand for several months, and I finally made it a priority. This, as with previous book reviews I have posted on this blog, is less a book review than a disorganized and arbitrary expression of thoughts that have occurred to me as a result of reading the book.
The political climate of today, as in most previous days, is turbulent. Most people I know are uncomfortable and/or unwilling to discuss political issues. I don't necessarily fault them for that, but I do find it lamentable. I wish we could engage in open and friendly discussion of what is best for our nation, and that the dialogue could be based on reason rather than juvenile name-calling and finger-pointing. It seems to me that too many people are confused by the words tolerance and agreement and can't really seem to emotionally distinguish the two.
I myself am not exactly sure where I fall in the mess of political opinion. There are several people whose opinions and judgment in general I trust implicitly but whose political views I find myself continually reluctant to espouse. I've made a concerted effort over the past several years to become informed, and to avoid jumping to ignorant and simplistic conclusions based on brief and shoddy news coverage. I attended a political rally just to see what it was all about.
After reading Skousen's work, I decided that my loyalty is to the Constitution. I was under the impression that the validity of the Constitution is under attack. Then I began my daily reading one of the online newspapers I subscribe to, and the very first article I came across rendered my decision obsolete, because everyone has his/her own definition of what the Constitution actually says, and I am not really seeing the proponents of either sides of controversial issues claiming that the Constitution has lost its value and authority. Just about everyone would, if asked, claim loyalty to the Constitution. Or maybe they wouldn't.
Regardless of all that, I do know that if we are ignorant of the political issues that surround us (and it seems to me we are generally heading in a direction to become less so), we are destined to be ruled by a less than savory government.
By examining the thinkers and writers who influenced the Founding Fathers, Skousen attempts to re-clarify many misunderstood or misrepresented ideas and principles set forth in the Constitution. I wouldn't say, like Glenn Beck has (by the way, I have neutral thoughts about Glenn Beck; I neither like nor dislike him), that every American citizen should read this particular book, but every American citizen should, somehow, become knowledgeable about the creation and history of the American government.
One person's take, no matter how well-researched and unmotivated by political agenda, is not enough to be content with. Therefore, I will be reading more. Me, read? What a novel concept.
And finally, I firmly believe that a nation of people who do not, individually and collectively, take responsibility for themselves and their families is never going to have a healthy political scene.
So let's all be responsible, okay?
The political climate of today, as in most previous days, is turbulent. Most people I know are uncomfortable and/or unwilling to discuss political issues. I don't necessarily fault them for that, but I do find it lamentable. I wish we could engage in open and friendly discussion of what is best for our nation, and that the dialogue could be based on reason rather than juvenile name-calling and finger-pointing. It seems to me that too many people are confused by the words tolerance and agreement and can't really seem to emotionally distinguish the two.
I myself am not exactly sure where I fall in the mess of political opinion. There are several people whose opinions and judgment in general I trust implicitly but whose political views I find myself continually reluctant to espouse. I've made a concerted effort over the past several years to become informed, and to avoid jumping to ignorant and simplistic conclusions based on brief and shoddy news coverage. I attended a political rally just to see what it was all about.
After reading Skousen's work, I decided that my loyalty is to the Constitution. I was under the impression that the validity of the Constitution is under attack. Then I began my daily reading one of the online newspapers I subscribe to, and the very first article I came across rendered my decision obsolete, because everyone has his/her own definition of what the Constitution actually says, and I am not really seeing the proponents of either sides of controversial issues claiming that the Constitution has lost its value and authority. Just about everyone would, if asked, claim loyalty to the Constitution. Or maybe they wouldn't.
Regardless of all that, I do know that if we are ignorant of the political issues that surround us (and it seems to me we are generally heading in a direction to become less so), we are destined to be ruled by a less than savory government.
By examining the thinkers and writers who influenced the Founding Fathers, Skousen attempts to re-clarify many misunderstood or misrepresented ideas and principles set forth in the Constitution. I wouldn't say, like Glenn Beck has (by the way, I have neutral thoughts about Glenn Beck; I neither like nor dislike him), that every American citizen should read this particular book, but every American citizen should, somehow, become knowledgeable about the creation and history of the American government.
One person's take, no matter how well-researched and unmotivated by political agenda, is not enough to be content with. Therefore, I will be reading more. Me, read? What a novel concept.
And finally, I firmly believe that a nation of people who do not, individually and collectively, take responsibility for themselves and their families is never going to have a healthy political scene.
So let's all be responsible, okay?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Can You Hear It?
It is a fact that my nephews are the cutest and smartest little boys on the planet. This has been proven.
Anyway, my sister-in-law was telling me about a book that she read to the oldest nephew (he's four). She forgot the title of it and had to go back and look it up, but it is called Can You Hear It? and is published by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had the local library system send it to me, and it is so great!
This book is arranged around thirteen pieces of classical music that come on a CD inserted in the front cover of the book; the text is questions and prompts about the music and the accompanying art prints. It is didactic in nature, designed to invite small children to listen carefully to the music and make connections between music and art.
Generally, books like this get on my nerves—I mean the ones that are specifically designed to be used as a lesson. Not only are they usually inane and patronizing, they are also badly written and boring.
Not so with Can You Hear It? The music choices were both sophisticated and kid-friendly, and the art was, well, from the Met. I wasn't overly impressed with the Met when I was actually there, with the exception of the Modern exhibit (I really like Marc Chagall!), but it must have been because I was tired from sleeping in a crooked bed and walking all over Manhattan in the snow. That, and I had some lingering annoyance from the pigeons who kept trying to steal my hot dog on the steps of the museum.
All that aside, the art was good. Much like the music, it was sophisticated but still accessible to children.
Some people have expressed the opinion that people who like children's books lack maturity. I find the opposite to be true.
It is my opinion that most of the greatest stuff (art, music, universal truth) is accessible to children. Some of it is created specifically for them. I feel very strongly against watering things down for the little ones, and the book just confirmed my opinion. Expose them to great stuff in its simplicity, and they will appreciate it.
Proof? My four-year-old nephew loved it. But like I said before, he's pretty great himself.
Anyway, my sister-in-law was telling me about a book that she read to the oldest nephew (he's four). She forgot the title of it and had to go back and look it up, but it is called Can You Hear It? and is published by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had the local library system send it to me, and it is so great!
This book is arranged around thirteen pieces of classical music that come on a CD inserted in the front cover of the book; the text is questions and prompts about the music and the accompanying art prints. It is didactic in nature, designed to invite small children to listen carefully to the music and make connections between music and art.
Generally, books like this get on my nerves—I mean the ones that are specifically designed to be used as a lesson. Not only are they usually inane and patronizing, they are also badly written and boring.
Not so with Can You Hear It? The music choices were both sophisticated and kid-friendly, and the art was, well, from the Met. I wasn't overly impressed with the Met when I was actually there, with the exception of the Modern exhibit (I really like Marc Chagall!), but it must have been because I was tired from sleeping in a crooked bed and walking all over Manhattan in the snow. That, and I had some lingering annoyance from the pigeons who kept trying to steal my hot dog on the steps of the museum.
All that aside, the art was good. Much like the music, it was sophisticated but still accessible to children.
Some people have expressed the opinion that people who like children's books lack maturity. I find the opposite to be true.
It is my opinion that most of the greatest stuff (art, music, universal truth) is accessible to children. Some of it is created specifically for them. I feel very strongly against watering things down for the little ones, and the book just confirmed my opinion. Expose them to great stuff in its simplicity, and they will appreciate it.
Proof? My four-year-old nephew loved it. But like I said before, he's pretty great himself.
Civilization
I just finished reading How the Irish Saved Civilization. Remember when this book was the trendy thing, back in 1995? I do. Well, there's a reason for that—it's a great book.
History isn't exactly my strong point. I'm rather conceptual, and I have trouble remembering specifics with any precision. This is why I delve into the fluffier, more popular history books. You know, the ones that read like a novel.
I have probably read more nonfiction over the past six months than I have the rest of my life put together (not including mandatory reading in college). What I've noticed is that repetition and multiple perspectives are the key to understanding. The lights keep coming on brighter and brighter for me, at least regarding the Ancient World.
Thomas Cahill's work is so lyrically written it ought to be read out loud. He writes a nice, pretty, short little book full of summarization and generality, and most people regard the premise to be, while not outright incorrect, at least skewed.
That's fair enough, I guess. A major portion of the book is focused on Saint Patrick, whose life and work I was under the impression had been rather unreliably documented. Cahill either knows more than most historians, or he makes more assumptions. But either way, I found Patrick, or Patricius, fascinating to read about, from his Romanized Celtic childhood, to his enslavement in Ireland, his subsequent miraculous escape and return home, and finally his sincere and heartfelt mission to bring Christianity to the foreign, disorganized people who had stunted his education and ruined his youth.
And this compact history of Ireland helped me form a much clearer picture of what happened in Western Europe during both the Classical Age and the Middle Ages, because he didn't just focus on Ireland. Before even mentioning Ireland, he described the events that led to the Fall of Rome, and followed that up with the type of culture the Romans had created before they fell—succinctly described through the life and works of Augustine of Hippo.
I knew there were several parallels between our own society and that of Ancient Rome, but I didn't realize how many parallels. This was apparent in reading the introductory chapter, before any of the author's concluding commentary. The other thing that occurred to me, though I don't think for the first time, is that throughout history, it is interesting what happens when a society is materially and politically stable enough to become literate. After a while, it grows stagnant, and most of the art becomes mere cheap, shadowy imitation of the former great work. Cahill uses Ausonius and Virgil as examples. And I was reminded of how much I prefer Virgil over Homer, as odd as that may sound. Note to self: if I ever decide to publish anything, I will need to make sure I'm not copying Twain or Hawthorne. Or Jonathan Edwards (hehe). Virgil was, according to Cahill, the only person to successfully write a national epic. Or something along that line. Greece had its Homer, and England Shakespeare—but apparently they just sort of happened. Virgil's Aeneid was more contrived, and by all tradition should not have been successful. But it was. Maybe this is why we always talk about the elusive "Great American Novel."
At any rate, the book was both entertaining and enlightening, as long as the reader understands that the big picture is focused on Ireland and its people as the heroes. I don't see anything wrong with that, as Cahill never claims to be giving a clinical and objective examination of such an interesting era of our past.
It's like the book I read a few months ago, Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. The author was obviously in love with Genghis Khan, even though he has gone down in history books for centuries as one of the cruelest, barbaric of villains. It isn't fair to expect someone to write a book about a person or group of people in history without having an intense love and favoritism for them. That much was obvious when I contrasted that book with one I came across about Attila the Hun. Attila's author felt no passion for him, and the parts I managed to get through were singularly boring.
I'd be happy to read many other works that glorify specific cultures and people, and look forward to the rest of my reading life being peppered with other such colorful histories.
History isn't exactly my strong point. I'm rather conceptual, and I have trouble remembering specifics with any precision. This is why I delve into the fluffier, more popular history books. You know, the ones that read like a novel.
I have probably read more nonfiction over the past six months than I have the rest of my life put together (not including mandatory reading in college). What I've noticed is that repetition and multiple perspectives are the key to understanding. The lights keep coming on brighter and brighter for me, at least regarding the Ancient World.
Thomas Cahill's work is so lyrically written it ought to be read out loud. He writes a nice, pretty, short little book full of summarization and generality, and most people regard the premise to be, while not outright incorrect, at least skewed.
That's fair enough, I guess. A major portion of the book is focused on Saint Patrick, whose life and work I was under the impression had been rather unreliably documented. Cahill either knows more than most historians, or he makes more assumptions. But either way, I found Patrick, or Patricius, fascinating to read about, from his Romanized Celtic childhood, to his enslavement in Ireland, his subsequent miraculous escape and return home, and finally his sincere and heartfelt mission to bring Christianity to the foreign, disorganized people who had stunted his education and ruined his youth.
And this compact history of Ireland helped me form a much clearer picture of what happened in Western Europe during both the Classical Age and the Middle Ages, because he didn't just focus on Ireland. Before even mentioning Ireland, he described the events that led to the Fall of Rome, and followed that up with the type of culture the Romans had created before they fell—succinctly described through the life and works of Augustine of Hippo.
I knew there were several parallels between our own society and that of Ancient Rome, but I didn't realize how many parallels. This was apparent in reading the introductory chapter, before any of the author's concluding commentary. The other thing that occurred to me, though I don't think for the first time, is that throughout history, it is interesting what happens when a society is materially and politically stable enough to become literate. After a while, it grows stagnant, and most of the art becomes mere cheap, shadowy imitation of the former great work. Cahill uses Ausonius and Virgil as examples. And I was reminded of how much I prefer Virgil over Homer, as odd as that may sound. Note to self: if I ever decide to publish anything, I will need to make sure I'm not copying Twain or Hawthorne. Or Jonathan Edwards (hehe). Virgil was, according to Cahill, the only person to successfully write a national epic. Or something along that line. Greece had its Homer, and England Shakespeare—but apparently they just sort of happened. Virgil's Aeneid was more contrived, and by all tradition should not have been successful. But it was. Maybe this is why we always talk about the elusive "Great American Novel."
At any rate, the book was both entertaining and enlightening, as long as the reader understands that the big picture is focused on Ireland and its people as the heroes. I don't see anything wrong with that, as Cahill never claims to be giving a clinical and objective examination of such an interesting era of our past.
It's like the book I read a few months ago, Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. The author was obviously in love with Genghis Khan, even though he has gone down in history books for centuries as one of the cruelest, barbaric of villains. It isn't fair to expect someone to write a book about a person or group of people in history without having an intense love and favoritism for them. That much was obvious when I contrasted that book with one I came across about Attila the Hun. Attila's author felt no passion for him, and the parts I managed to get through were singularly boring.
I'd be happy to read many other works that glorify specific cultures and people, and look forward to the rest of my reading life being peppered with other such colorful histories.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Showaholic
I just got back from a 3 1/2 day trip to New York. While there, Sis and I went to four Broadway shows. At one point, I would have thought that excessive in the extreme. Now, I am determined that if I ever do go back to New York, I will see as many shows as possible. Museums are cool, as are skyscrapers and monuments—but I did not realize what an experience it is to attend a quality stage production.
This post really should have pictures. I might try to add some later, if Sis doesn't mind my stealing them. She's the photographer.
We went to The Fantasticks the night we arrived. Indeed. Good, clean, Shakespearean-derived, family-friendly fun. There is a reason it is the longest running show ever. But it was a good thing that was the first one, because it would have seemed tame and lame compared to the others. It was on a tiny stage, had a total of 10 people performing (8 actors and 2 musicians), and was a cute, clever little show. As long as you're willing to embrace the cheesiness, which I always am when it comes to musicals.
Because of Sis's fear of over-scheduling ourselves, we didn't plan on Phantom of the Opera. That was my idea, and she was not so excited about it, actually. We went to the ticket booth the day of and purchased half-priced tickets, but the seats were amazing. What I learned:
* Even if you pay four times as much for the good seats, you will enjoy the show ten times more than if you do nosebleeds. I will never do nosebleeds again.
* Sometimes the original cast isn't as good as later players. I can't imagine seeing and hearing a better group of singers/actors/performers than ours. I would not have believed such good singing was even possible had I not heard it myself—and not just from the leads. Let's be honest. Raoul has always gotten on my nerves a little, in spite of my traditional fascination for the clean-cut, honest-to-goodness nice guy. He's such a pretty boy. I didn't know that someone could actually give him a presence and make him real. This was masterfully done by Sean McLaughlin. He was rather wonderful. And the character of Madame Giry doesn't come through in the recording at all, so I was pleasantly surprised by Cristin J. Hubbard, who didn't sing too much but whose intensity complemented that of the leads. Carlotta was good; Sis pointed out that in this version she was actually a good singer. Additionally, André and Firmin were splendid. I loved the scenes with all the note-reading. They're kind of stupid if you just listen to them, but watching them performed is fun. And, finally, Hugh Panaro as the Phantom and Sara Jean Ford as Christine. Wow! Just ... wow. Looking at the press photos you would never expect that kind of talent. Again, I didn't even know that kind of talent existed.
* Musical theater is just as much about acting as it is singing. Duh, but true. This goes back to my previous statement about getting a good seat. When you can actually see the expressions on the faces of the players, and when the players are good, it becomes an experience beyond just a good show.
* Nothing really good in life can be packaged up and sold. The experience of a good show is one you have to have first-hand, in person. If you haven't, you can't say you like or dislike them.
* I think that Broadway shows are different from Hollywood productions in that they actually do find the serious talent, as opposed to the people with the most notoriety.
So even though Sis has seen the movie too many times, and we've regularly listened to the original cast recording since our early teens and have all the songs memorized, that show was above and beyond expectation.
Our third show was Spiderman. It hasn't officially opened yet; we got tickets to the pre-show, so there was a possibility of some of the LED display screens overheating and turning off, as well as other lighting and technical glitches. There is also all the hype about the injured crew members and the death of one of the people in charge. But our viewing went without a perceptible hiccup.
The reason you see Spiderman is for everything but plot. The music, particularly the Arachne songs, was great. Actually, the Arachne songs were heavenly. She was first introduced with beautiful acrobats swinging from the tops of the rafters, weaving gold banners as they swung lower and lower towards the floor. I was surprised at that, considering that they were composed by Bono and The Edge. Not that I don't think they're good, but I didn't anticipate their coming up with that sort of a sound.
The money that went into the show was obvious—display screens and set changes and stunt characters flying all over the theater. My expectation for Spiderman was high, and it didn't disappoint. Some of the show didn't quite come together as well as it might have, but I still liked it. Oh, and I just found out, from Sis telling me what was on Wikipedia, that they're still working on the ending. That makes sense, then, why it was a little lame.
And even though it won't be the same, I'm excited for when the recording is released.
The last show we saw was Wicked. Sis was particularly desirous to experience this one, as touring musicals don't make it to where she lives. I saw the tour a while back. I wrote about it on this blog, too. That was fun, but again, it was not the same as seeing the real thing. I don't have too much to say about it, other than that I liked it. A lot. We agreed that we liked our Elphaba, but not as much as we like Idina Menzel. Ours let the fervor of her delivery get in the way of her singing, particularly during the first half. A minor detail. Glinda was just lovely. I think, also, that there is a big difference between the show at home and when it's on tour, not just because of the talent factor, but the company's familiarity with the sounds of their own stage. The singing comes across more clear, easy to understand, and vibrant.
Yay Broadway! Yay New York!
This post really should have pictures. I might try to add some later, if Sis doesn't mind my stealing them. She's the photographer.
We went to The Fantasticks the night we arrived. Indeed. Good, clean, Shakespearean-derived, family-friendly fun. There is a reason it is the longest running show ever. But it was a good thing that was the first one, because it would have seemed tame and lame compared to the others. It was on a tiny stage, had a total of 10 people performing (8 actors and 2 musicians), and was a cute, clever little show. As long as you're willing to embrace the cheesiness, which I always am when it comes to musicals.
Because of Sis's fear of over-scheduling ourselves, we didn't plan on Phantom of the Opera. That was my idea, and she was not so excited about it, actually. We went to the ticket booth the day of and purchased half-priced tickets, but the seats were amazing. What I learned:
* Even if you pay four times as much for the good seats, you will enjoy the show ten times more than if you do nosebleeds. I will never do nosebleeds again.
* Sometimes the original cast isn't as good as later players. I can't imagine seeing and hearing a better group of singers/actors/performers than ours. I would not have believed such good singing was even possible had I not heard it myself—and not just from the leads. Let's be honest. Raoul has always gotten on my nerves a little, in spite of my traditional fascination for the clean-cut, honest-to-goodness nice guy. He's such a pretty boy. I didn't know that someone could actually give him a presence and make him real. This was masterfully done by Sean McLaughlin. He was rather wonderful. And the character of Madame Giry doesn't come through in the recording at all, so I was pleasantly surprised by Cristin J. Hubbard, who didn't sing too much but whose intensity complemented that of the leads. Carlotta was good; Sis pointed out that in this version she was actually a good singer. Additionally, André and Firmin were splendid. I loved the scenes with all the note-reading. They're kind of stupid if you just listen to them, but watching them performed is fun. And, finally, Hugh Panaro as the Phantom and Sara Jean Ford as Christine. Wow! Just ... wow. Looking at the press photos you would never expect that kind of talent. Again, I didn't even know that kind of talent existed.
* Musical theater is just as much about acting as it is singing. Duh, but true. This goes back to my previous statement about getting a good seat. When you can actually see the expressions on the faces of the players, and when the players are good, it becomes an experience beyond just a good show.
* Nothing really good in life can be packaged up and sold. The experience of a good show is one you have to have first-hand, in person. If you haven't, you can't say you like or dislike them.
* I think that Broadway shows are different from Hollywood productions in that they actually do find the serious talent, as opposed to the people with the most notoriety.
So even though Sis has seen the movie too many times, and we've regularly listened to the original cast recording since our early teens and have all the songs memorized, that show was above and beyond expectation.
Our third show was Spiderman. It hasn't officially opened yet; we got tickets to the pre-show, so there was a possibility of some of the LED display screens overheating and turning off, as well as other lighting and technical glitches. There is also all the hype about the injured crew members and the death of one of the people in charge. But our viewing went without a perceptible hiccup.
The reason you see Spiderman is for everything but plot. The music, particularly the Arachne songs, was great. Actually, the Arachne songs were heavenly. She was first introduced with beautiful acrobats swinging from the tops of the rafters, weaving gold banners as they swung lower and lower towards the floor. I was surprised at that, considering that they were composed by Bono and The Edge. Not that I don't think they're good, but I didn't anticipate their coming up with that sort of a sound.
The money that went into the show was obvious—display screens and set changes and stunt characters flying all over the theater. My expectation for Spiderman was high, and it didn't disappoint. Some of the show didn't quite come together as well as it might have, but I still liked it. Oh, and I just found out, from Sis telling me what was on Wikipedia, that they're still working on the ending. That makes sense, then, why it was a little lame.
And even though it won't be the same, I'm excited for when the recording is released.
The last show we saw was Wicked. Sis was particularly desirous to experience this one, as touring musicals don't make it to where she lives. I saw the tour a while back. I wrote about it on this blog, too. That was fun, but again, it was not the same as seeing the real thing. I don't have too much to say about it, other than that I liked it. A lot. We agreed that we liked our Elphaba, but not as much as we like Idina Menzel. Ours let the fervor of her delivery get in the way of her singing, particularly during the first half. A minor detail. Glinda was just lovely. I think, also, that there is a big difference between the show at home and when it's on tour, not just because of the talent factor, but the company's familiarity with the sounds of their own stage. The singing comes across more clear, easy to understand, and vibrant.
Yay Broadway! Yay New York!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Best is in the Beginning?
We watched the latest Wallace and Gromit short this evening. I thought it was pretty lame. And I'm even a fan of their uber-silly alien comic.
Maybe I get uncomfortable with stories where the chubby girl is the villain.
Mostly, though, it has caused me to think about artists, how some of them do their best work first, and some develop into their role as creators of classic works.
Which is better, I wonder?
A lot of people say Keats is only as famous as he is because his life was cut so tragically short and his work showed more the promise of genius than actual genius.
And then, there is James Joyce, whose Finnegan's Wake is an acknowledged work of genius that absolutely no-one understands.
Suffice it to say that my favorite claymation short remains A Close Shave.
"What's wrong with Wendsleydale?"
Maybe I get uncomfortable with stories where the chubby girl is the villain.
Mostly, though, it has caused me to think about artists, how some of them do their best work first, and some develop into their role as creators of classic works.
Which is better, I wonder?
A lot of people say Keats is only as famous as he is because his life was cut so tragically short and his work showed more the promise of genius than actual genius.
And then, there is James Joyce, whose Finnegan's Wake is an acknowledged work of genius that absolutely no-one understands.
Suffice it to say that my favorite claymation short remains A Close Shave.
"What's wrong with Wendsleydale?"
Friday, January 14, 2011
Zero
I finished reading Zero: the biography of a dangerous idea this morning. It was a great read. Among other things, I learned that:
* The Babylonians' number system was base 60, and their notation obviously made sense to them, but not to me, because 1 and 60 were apparently represented by the same character.
* It was the Hindus who originally used the base-10 system that we call the Arabic numerals generally used today.
* Aristotle is to blame for fear of the number zero. His philosophy discounted the existence of nothing, or void. The Greeks were extremely afraid of nonexistence, to the point that it seeped into Christianity--which is why, when Dionysius created the Gregorian calendar, later revised by the Venerable Bede, he started with the year 1 instead of the year 0. Now we are forever confused, and just about everyone celebrated the turn of the millennium a year too early. Consequently, he also calculated Christ's birth about four years off.
* The Mayans had a much more interesting calendar. 18 months of 20 days: 0-19. Could you imagine writing zero as the date on your paper as a student?
* Pythagoras and his cult had people put to death for supposing the existence of irrational numbers, and numbers and shapes were interchangeable to the Greeks.
* The Romans' biggest contribution to mathematics was the murder of Archimedes. And they were the ones who didn't admit the existence of negative numbers. Ouch.
* Even Descartes, who formed the Cartesian plane, didn't admit negative numbers existed.
* Pascal used probability to justify having faith in God.
* A whole bunch of stuff about black holes and event horizons and wormhole theory and string theory that I understood well enough to understand it but not well enough to explain it.
And finally, in Appendix A, it is proven that
* Winston Churchill was a carrot.
* The Babylonians' number system was base 60, and their notation obviously made sense to them, but not to me, because 1 and 60 were apparently represented by the same character.
* It was the Hindus who originally used the base-10 system that we call the Arabic numerals generally used today.
* Aristotle is to blame for fear of the number zero. His philosophy discounted the existence of nothing, or void. The Greeks were extremely afraid of nonexistence, to the point that it seeped into Christianity--which is why, when Dionysius created the Gregorian calendar, later revised by the Venerable Bede, he started with the year 1 instead of the year 0. Now we are forever confused, and just about everyone celebrated the turn of the millennium a year too early. Consequently, he also calculated Christ's birth about four years off.
* The Mayans had a much more interesting calendar. 18 months of 20 days: 0-19. Could you imagine writing zero as the date on your paper as a student?
* Pythagoras and his cult had people put to death for supposing the existence of irrational numbers, and numbers and shapes were interchangeable to the Greeks.
* The Romans' biggest contribution to mathematics was the murder of Archimedes. And they were the ones who didn't admit the existence of negative numbers. Ouch.
* Even Descartes, who formed the Cartesian plane, didn't admit negative numbers existed.
* Pascal used probability to justify having faith in God.
* A whole bunch of stuff about black holes and event horizons and wormhole theory and string theory that I understood well enough to understand it but not well enough to explain it.
And finally, in Appendix A, it is proven that
* Winston Churchill was a carrot.
Monday, January 10, 2011
"Try this; your taste buds will dance and sing!"
This one is for Dad and Janeheiress, who can't see me eating anything without asking what it is.
There are many great side effects to being a serious runner, not the least of which is the necessity of eating more food. The more I run, the more I need to eat, but I'm trying to find things I like that are actually good for me. I love food. Here is a list of particularly yummy stuff:
1. Belgian waffles
2. Hummus
3. Chocolate Cream of Wheat
4. Fresh green beans
5. Fresh spinach
6. Red bell pepper
7. Pesto
8. Tortellini
9. Avocado
10. Pineapple
11. Strawberry chocolate protein smoothies
I had items 5 - 8 together for lunch today, with a side of item 4. This afternoon I'll go for another run, but today is a short day, so only 5 miles.
Life is very, very good.
There are many great side effects to being a serious runner, not the least of which is the necessity of eating more food. The more I run, the more I need to eat, but I'm trying to find things I like that are actually good for me. I love food. Here is a list of particularly yummy stuff:
1. Belgian waffles
2. Hummus
3. Chocolate Cream of Wheat
4. Fresh green beans
5. Fresh spinach
6. Red bell pepper
7. Pesto
8. Tortellini
9. Avocado
10. Pineapple
11. Strawberry chocolate protein smoothies
I had items 5 - 8 together for lunch today, with a side of item 4. This afternoon I'll go for another run, but today is a short day, so only 5 miles.
Life is very, very good.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
James Horner
My sister and I have lots of favorite phrases, but one of them now is, "back when James Horner used to be good." Because he's pretty much become the king of recycling.
I used some of my Christmas money to buy the soundtrack to The New World. I just love that movie. Love it. It is one of the most beautiful pieces of cinema ever. Terence Malick was very daring to make a movie like that, knowing full well that most people would hate it because it's "slow." To the average viewer, I guess slow equals boring. I happen to disagree.
Even though most of the music is directly copied from Braveheart, some of it is "just, like, you know, really good" (another favorite phrase). There's a part in the movie with just a simple little piano melody going on in the background. I was sure it would be on the soundtrack, in spite of not hearing it in any of the clips I caught on iTunes.
Sure enough, the part I wanted wasn't there.
I don't want to complain too much, because I really do like the soundtrack. It's nice.
But why is it that I always fall in love with the music that isn't included in the OST? Is it me? Or is it the recording companies?
Saturday, December 25, 2010
A Very Merry Christmas Dinner
Course One: Spinach Salade
This one I came up with myself. Ingredients included fresh spinach leaves, sliced radishes, sliced carrots, craisins, sliced almonds, and Italian cheese. I topped it with a very thin coat of dressing made from olive oil, apple cider vinegar, dried basil, black pepper, and minced garlic. Yum.The Main Course
The main course consisted of Roasted Muscovy Duck, puree of curried lentils, and fresh green beans. I was really stressed about the duck, having never made one or even tasted it before. I started out planning to use Julia Child's instructions in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but I found some instructions on the duck's packaging that seemed easier and better. They had the seasonings and stuff all right, but their timing was off. It took about three times as long to cook it than what they said. Oh, well. It was a good duck. People say duck is really gamey, but I thought it was fine. In fact, I think it tastes better than turkey, and even most chicken. 
I accidentally overcooked the green beans, and that was a very big disappointment for me, because if there's anything I hate, it's overcooked vegetables. I got busy disemboweling a pomegranate, and I didn't realize the beans would cook so fast in water that had yet to achieve a rolling boil. I guess rolling boil just isn't possible in a kettle as big as the one I was using. In the end, it was okay, because Sis sprinkled swiss cheese over them, I popped them in the oven for a few more minutes, and they were great. According to her, they were the greatest green beans she's ever tasted. I'm not going to assume that just because there are lots left over people didn't like them—there was SO MUCH food, and three pounds of green beans is just not going to be finished off.The lentils were an interesting experiment. It was suggested to serve lentils with the duck, but my cookbook didn't have a recipe for them. So, I surfed the internet a little, then made one up. My family liked them, because they like curry and garlic. I guess they weren't pretty enough to be included in any photos.
Course Three: Vichyssoise
This dish was particularly exciting for me for several reasons. One, I just love potatoes. Two, I love to say the name of it—"Vichyssoise" has such a brilliant ring to it. Three, I tried it many years ago at some stranger's house, and it was just so good. My version was nothing like the other one. I am told it tasted more like gravy than soup. But it was good. I'm looking forward to the leftovers. It is made from potatoes and leeks and served cold.
Course Four: Fruit
The most aesthetic portion of dinner was the fruit. Fruit is so pretty anyway, isn't it? Preparing the pomegranate was fun, but next time I will give myself longer to get it done.Course Five: Lemon Tart
Again, I am either a little dim or some cookbooks just aren't very good. We had so much trouble figuring out how to make the sugar crust that I handed it over to Sis. She did a great job, but she was confused the entire time. We chilled it overnight, and I was done trying to follow the recipe in the book. So I dug through some more cookbooks and decided what to mix together that would make a good lemon tart.
Let's just say that tart is an apt description of the dessert. Next time I think I'll try to get the lemon peel finer.
Highlights:
Getting so excited to cook!
Mom got to watch John Wayne movies while I was in the kitchen.
Grandpa said "My compliments to the chef."
Pretty much everyone asked for a second piece of tart.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Conversations With Myself
Mile 1: I wore these shorts because they used to be skin tight. Why are they falling off?
Mile 2: Wow, I remember the days when I wasn't a walking snot factory. I think I'll have some more Strawberry Halls when I get home.
Mile 3: Slumdog Millionnaire is pretty cool.
Mile 4: I wonder how much longer this basketball game is going to last. At least it isn't a smutty sitcom.
Mile 5: Nothing like techno synthesized violins mixed with electric guitar. I'm sure they heard music like this all the time in the 12th Century.
Mile 6: I'm still breathing. This is good.
Mile 7: I need a dragon!!!!!
Mile 8: Maybe a breast reduction isn't a bad idea.
Mile 9: The dude next to me is running really fast. After I run a marathon, I think I'll practice running really fast. It looks fun.
Mile 10: Wait a second. Oh, they start the time over after you've been running 100 minutes.
Mile 11: Surviving.
Mile 13: I could slow down. No, that'll just mean I have to run more minutes.
Mile 14: I'm awesome.
Mile 15: Time to hobble over to the water fountain. That was fun.
Mile 2: Wow, I remember the days when I wasn't a walking snot factory. I think I'll have some more Strawberry Halls when I get home.
Mile 3: Slumdog Millionnaire is pretty cool.
Mile 4: I wonder how much longer this basketball game is going to last. At least it isn't a smutty sitcom.
Mile 5: Nothing like techno synthesized violins mixed with electric guitar. I'm sure they heard music like this all the time in the 12th Century.
Mile 6: I'm still breathing. This is good.
Mile 7: I need a dragon!!!!!
Mile 8: Maybe a breast reduction isn't a bad idea.
Mile 9: The dude next to me is running really fast. After I run a marathon, I think I'll practice running really fast. It looks fun.
Mile 10: Wait a second. Oh, they start the time over after you've been running 100 minutes.
Mile 11: Surviving.
Mile 13: I could slow down. No, that'll just mean I have to run more minutes.
Mile 14: I'm awesome.
Mile 15: Time to hobble over to the water fountain. That was fun.
Friday, December 17, 2010
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