Library of Eden Pears - oil painting by Victoria Accardi 2009 2 days ago I left the library triumphantly- I had returned all my borrowed books! My step was lighter as I walked out into the sunshine with nary the threat of a looming due date spasmodically  interrupting my thoughts. Today - I have five books out. Here’s how it happens:In naked innocence I drove to the library to meet my son. He was not there, he was on the green playing ultimate frisbee but, “Can I please give [him] 1/2 hour.”  I have eggs in the car, but okay - I tell him 10 min. I went upstairs to sit in one of the comfortable chairs and took out my own book, Women in Love. I swear I did not look at the books displayed on tables and counters as I walked up, because - I don’t need another book to read. I know that. But there as I sat down, I could not help but notice, on a low table placed directly in my line of vision, a display of the library’s canon of Carlos Fuentes. Oh no. He died last week while I was in South Carolina; my aunt and uncle noted his passing as they had met him and remembered him fondly. They put that (amongst 1000) seed in my head, the seed of writers to read. I’m  just going to look at the titles, I tell myself. Oh, there’s a book of essays, just a quick peek at the titles of the essays. The book Myself with Others begins with an essay titled How I Started to Write. I am resolute: I’ll only just read this one…. “The French equate intelligence with rational discourse, the Russians with intense soul-searching. For a Mexican, intelligence is inseperable from maliciousness - in this, as in many other things, we are quite Italian: fuberia, roguish slyness, and the cult of appearances, la bella figura, are Italiante traits present everywhere in Latin America: Rome, more than Madrid, is our spiritual capital in this sense. For me, as a child, the Untied States seemed a world where intelligence was equated with energy, zest, enthusiasm.” It is a brief but fascinating telling of his early years; the influence of different countries and writers on his formation as a man and as a writer. His sense of humor pervades in descriptions of all sorts:  explaining his decision to write in Spanish,”The English language, after all, did not need another writer. The English language has always been alive and kicking, and if it ever becomes drowsy, there will always be an Irishman…”  talking about his friend writer Alfonso Reyes,”He liked to quote Goethe: Write at dawn, skim the cream of the day, then you can study crystals, intrique at court, and make love to your kitchen maid.”  But it is what he has to say about language and literature that is most impressive and moving,”Like bread and love, language is shared with others. And human beings share a tradition. There is no creation without tradition. No one creates from nothing.”  Women in Love sat on my lap as I read the essay. It’s not my fault after all that there is so much to read, sweet fruits of literature that call out to me begging to be tasted. Chagrined, I checked the book out. I should probably stay away from the library, temptress that she is. “We have not finished thinking, imagining, acting. It is still possible to know the world; we are unfinished men and women.” Carlos Fuentes  1928-2012

Library of Eden

Pears - oil painting by Victoria Accardi 2009

2 days ago I left the library triumphantly- I had returned all my borrowed books! My step was lighter as I walked out into the sunshine with nary the threat of a looming due date spasmodically  interrupting my thoughts. Today - I have five books out. Here’s how it happens:
In naked innocence I drove to the library to meet my son. He was not there, he was on the green playing ultimate frisbee but, “Can I please give [him] 1/2 hour.”  I have eggs in the car, but okay - I tell him 10 min.

I went upstairs to sit in one of the comfortable chairs and took out my own book, Women in Love. I swear I did not look at the books displayed on tables and counters as I walked up, because - I don’t need another book to read. I know that. But there as I sat down, I could not help but notice, on a low table placed directly in my line of vision, a display of the library’s canon of Carlos Fuentes. Oh no. He died last week while I was in South Carolina; my aunt and uncle noted his passing as they had met him and remembered him fondly. They put that (amongst 1000) seed in my head, the seed of writers to read. I’m  just going to look at the titles, I tell myself. Oh, there’s a book of essays, just a quick peek at the titles of the essays. The book Myself with Others begins with an essay titled How I Started to Write. I am resolute: I’ll only just read this one….

“The French equate intelligence with rational discourse, the Russians with intense soul-searching. For a Mexican, intelligence is inseperable from maliciousness - in this, as in many other things, we are quite Italian: fuberia, roguish slyness, and the cult of appearances, la bella figura, are Italiante traits present everywhere in Latin America: Rome, more than Madrid, is our spiritual capital in this sense.

For me, as a child, the Untied States seemed a world where intelligence was equated with energy, zest, enthusiasm.”

It is a brief but fascinating telling of his early years; the influence of different countries and writers on his formation as a man and as a writer. His sense of humor pervades in descriptions of all sorts:  explaining his decision to write in Spanish,
”The English language, after all, did not need another writer. The English language has always been alive and kicking, and if it ever becomes drowsy, there will always be an Irishman…”  
talking about his friend writer Alfonso Reyes,
”He liked to quote Goethe: Write at dawn, skim the cream of the day, then you can study crystals, intrique at court, and make love to your kitchen maid.” 

But it is what he has to say about language and literature that is most impressive and moving,
”Like bread and love, language is shared with others. And human beings share a tradition. There is no creation without tradition. No one creates from nothing.” 

Women in Love sat on my lap as I read the essay. It’s not my fault after all that there is so much to read, sweet fruits of literature that call out to me begging to be tasted. Chagrined, I checked the book out. I should probably stay away from the library, temptress that she is.

“We have not finished thinking, imagining, acting. It is still possible to know the world; we are unfinished men and women.”

Carlos Fuentes  1928-2012

After a stressful series of errands to run and an hour to kill before I had to go to the library to meet my son, I went to a little cafe to sit for a moment: actually it was only after I was anxiously and studiously weighing the expenditure, indulgence, extravagance  and a voice finally screamed at me in my head GO HAVE A CUP OF COFFEE AND A COOKIE FOR CHIRST’S SAKE, JESSICA! that I wearily drove there. I had forgot earlier in the day that I was going to meet my son so had already been to the library to pick up a few plays that we are reading for our book group. I brought one of the plays in with me to read, my choices were Aeschylus’s Agamemnon, Euripide’s Medea, or Sophocles’ Oedipus. I choose Oedipus because it was the newest most handsomest book. These are all stories everyone is familiar with, but it is interesting to read or re-read them. David R. Slavitt’s translation was a crisp, clip of a read. The first half seemed to go something like this: Oedipus: Tiresias, prophet man, tell me who killed Laius.Tiresias: No sir.Oedipus: You better tell me right now.Tiresias: No way.Oedipus: Wow, you are seriously pissing me off.Tiresias: Never the less…Oedipus: Tell me immediatly or I will banish you!Tiresias: Go right ahead, I didn’t even want to come here. And so on. Oedipus tries to get his wife Jocasta involved, but she wisely sides with Tiresias and then in a flash of understanding tries in earnest to get him to drop his inquiry. It’s all very tragic as a Greek tragedy should be I suppose - torn hair, gnashing teeth, eyes poked out: a bloody mess. I don’t know, maybe my formative years were unduly influenced by books such as Hyemeyohsts Storm’s Seven Arrows and John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire, (both unusual stories of consenting adult incest) but I just wanted to say to Oedipus and Jocasta, “Relax. You didn’t know. How can the sin of incest be a sin if there was no intent anyway? Perhaps going forward, you have some issues to work out, but hey, your kids all seem fine: as Fezik asks in The Princess Bride- ‘Doesn’t that you make you happy?’ No need to torture yourselves. Yes, you killed your father, but the crime was murder not really patricide. Come on people, letter of the law verses spirit, everybody chill out.”This is probably why I don’t write fiction. Then again, I can make my own little Greek drama out of purchasing a cup of coffee….

After a stressful series of errands to run and an hour to kill before I had to go to the library to meet my son, I went to a little cafe to sit for a moment: actually it was only after I was anxiously and studiously weighing the expenditure, indulgence, extravagance  and a voice finally screamed at me in my head GO HAVE A CUP OF COFFEE AND A COOKIE FOR CHIRST’S SAKE, JESSICA! that I wearily drove there.

I had forgot earlier in the day that I was going to meet my son so had already been to the library to pick up a few plays that we are reading for our book group. I brought one of the plays in with me to read, my choices were Aeschylus’s Agamemnon, Euripide’s Medea, or Sophocles’ Oedipus. I choose Oedipus because it was the newest most handsomest book. These are all stories everyone is familiar with, but it is interesting to read or re-read them. David R. Slavitt’s translation was a crisp, clip of a read. The first half seemed to go something like this:

Oedipus: Tiresias, prophet man, tell me who killed Laius.
Tiresias: No sir.
Oedipus: You better tell me right now.
Tiresias: No way.
Oedipus: Wow, you are seriously pissing me off.
Tiresias: Never the less…
Oedipus: Tell me immediatly or I will banish you!
Tiresias: Go right ahead, I didn’t even want to come here.

And so on. Oedipus tries to get his wife Jocasta involved, but she wisely sides with Tiresias and then in a flash of understanding tries in earnest to get him to drop his inquiry. It’s all very tragic as a Greek tragedy should be I suppose - torn hair, gnashing teeth, eyes poked out: a bloody mess.

I don’t know, maybe my formative years were unduly influenced by books such as Hyemeyohsts Storm’s Seven Arrows and John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire, (both unusual stories of consenting adult incest) but I just wanted to say to Oedipus and Jocasta, “Relax. You didn’t know. How can the sin of incest be a sin if there was no intent anyway? Perhaps going forward, you have some issues to work out, but hey, your kids all seem fine: as Fezik asks in The Princess Bride- ‘Doesn’t that you make you happy?’ No need to torture yourselves. Yes, you killed your father, but the crime was murder not really patricide. Come on people, letter of the law verses spirit, everybody chill out.”
This is probably why I don’t write fiction. Then again, I can make my own little Greek drama out of purchasing a cup of coffee….

Primitive Urges I was all set to get through my history pre req this first summer session with Western Civ, but it was cancelled at the last minute. The choices were slim for the evening classes so I enrolled in Art Appreciation. It’s an art through the ages intensive, but all in all there are worse ways to spend ones evenings than looking at beautiful works of art. In our first class we contemplated the possible reasons for Paleolithic and Neolithic cave paintings. I saw an interesting documentary years ago, (read: I cannot remember the name of it) that suggested a lot of the art was hallucinogenic-ally  generated. They went to Africa to talk to Bushmen whom at least had memories of  relatives in similar ceremonies producing very similar images: Dots, or spotting that one might experience while on drugs, grid lines, hand prints (babies and people tripping seem to love their own hands). I read The Story of Art to my children by E.H. Grombich a couple of years back, and it is a wonderful art history book (his book A Little History of the World is also excellent for the under 10 crowd). He didn’t discuss the hallucinogens, but he had a lovely attitude concerning art’s evolution. In his interpretation art does not “improve” or get better, it simply changes and builds upon former ages and techniques. The only problem with the book was that I got it used from Amazon and its previous owner had obviously been a smoker. Now, whenever I look at art, I feel as though I ought to be holding a cigarette. Sister Wendy also does a wonderful job of presenting art to the masses. Every time I think of her I hear her saying, “Mr. Degas, I don’t think I like you.” Oh my, she is sweet. Simon Schama is another good art/historian documentarian and writer. Last summer I read the first half of his hulking  Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (I harbor high hopes of finishing it this summer), his attention to artist Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s influence on the softening attitudes of the hoi polloi towards Marie Antoinette (and the emerging age of Romanticism) were very interesting (alas, poor Marie, too little too late- c’est la vie). I did not mention the drug induced painting theory in class- don’t want to make the wrong impression; but then when I got home and read the text, there it was- already a well accepted theory. Now if I can just manage to stay alert after 8 pm I may be okay- I just have to remember to bring a supply of my drug of choice: chocolate.

Primitive Urges

I was all set to get through my history pre req this first summer session with Western Civ, but it was cancelled at the last minute. The choices were slim for the evening classes so I enrolled in Art Appreciation.

It’s an art through the ages intensive, but all in all there are worse ways to spend ones evenings than looking at beautiful works of art. In our first class we contemplated the possible reasons for Paleolithic and Neolithic cave paintings. I saw an interesting documentary years ago, (read: I cannot remember the name of it) that suggested a lot of the art was hallucinogenic-ally  generated. They went to Africa to talk to Bushmen whom at least had memories of  relatives in similar ceremonies producing very similar images: Dots, or spotting that one might experience while on drugs, grid lines, hand prints (babies and people tripping seem to love their own hands).

I read The Story of Art to my children by E.H. Grombich a couple of years back, and it is a wonderful art history book (his book A Little History of the World is also excellent for the under 10 crowd). He didn’t discuss the hallucinogens, but he had a lovely attitude concerning art’s evolution. In his interpretation art does not “improve” or get better, it simply changes and builds upon former ages and techniques. The only problem with the book was that I got it used from Amazon and its previous owner had obviously been a smoker. Now, whenever I look at art, I feel as though I ought to be holding a cigarette.

Sister Wendy also does a wonderful job of presenting art to the masses. Every time I think of her I hear her saying, “Mr. Degas, I don’t think I like you.” Oh my, she is sweet. Simon Schama is another good art/historian documentarian and writer. Last summer I read the first half of his hulking  Citizens: A Chronicle of the French Revolution (I harbor high hopes of finishing it this summer), his attention to artist Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s influence on the softening attitudes of the hoi polloi towards Marie Antoinette (and the emerging age of Romanticism) were very interesting (alas, poor Marie, too little too late- c’est la vie).

I did not mention the drug induced painting theory in class- don’t want to make the wrong impression; but then when I got home and read the text, there it was- already a well accepted theory. Now if I can just manage to stay alert after 8 pm I may be okay- I just have to remember to bring a supply of my drug of choice: chocolate.

A Love Story, for real. Oh Rhubarb, you’ll never leave me! If you do, I’ll eat you up…in a crisp.

A Love Story, for real.

Oh Rhubarb, you’ll never leave me! If you do, I’ll eat you up…in a crisp.

Charleston. Short Story.

I have spent the last week in Charleston, South Carolina, a beautiful city if ever there was one. I was visiting my aunt and uncle: enjoying their city and most especially their company.

It all began with William Trevor. Both my aunt and uncle have an earnest ardor for books. My uncle has a passion, in particular,  for short stories and thought I would enjoy the subtle poignancy of William Trevor. I read Teresa’s Wedding and was a convert. Office Romance, Afternoon Dancing, and the ironic Last Wishes all quietly shinning a light on some of life’s saddest aspects.
What could easily have passed for massive door weights, were two volumes presented enthusiastically to me of V.S. Prichett essays and short stories. The essays were almost exclusively about writers and were wonderful. I just had to read his story entitled Sense of Humor, how could I pass up a title like that? I could not. Lovely reading all.

Things to do when you’re not reading:

Charleston is a beautiful city, surrounded by rivers, lakes and of course the ocean. Sea kayaking  is a beautiful sport that my uncle loves. The zeal with which people embrace kayaking is infectious. I innocently believed that one simply got in the water and paddled, hopefully in a forward direction at will. Oh dear me no! There are strokes to learn, techniques to master, celebrity paddlers to marvel over, and don’t even get started on the rolling. It’s one of the those wonderful (if sneakily expensive) activities that offers endless permutations and advancement, but at each stage a full measure of enjoyment can be drawn. A most excellent sport that captures (by the hips) the primordial pleasure of gliding across a surface.

“He tasted the almost preverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line.” - Continuity of Parks, Julio Cortázar

Next we were onto South American writers. My uncle was a professor of Languages (Spanish and Portuguese). A mutual admiration of Jorge Luis Borges led to Julio Cortázar’s wonderful short stories Axolotl, Letter to a Young Lady in Paris, Continuity of Parks, The Night Face Up, Blow-up, and my favorite, The Yellow Flower. His stories are presented with a light tone that belie the metaphysical under-notes that linger.

Other sights to see:

Charleston has America’s only tea plantation. What look like endless rows of perfectly manicured hedges are tea bushes which get a haircut every 20  days by something called the “green monster,” it brings the top leaves in for processing. After chopping up the leaves it’s just 50 minutes oxidation for black tea, 15 for oolong and naught for green. Maybe it’s not so puerile, simply an evocation of watching Mister Rogers factory tours as a child delighting in the hidden processes, but learning about these sorts of things brings out a certain…elation in me. We all really enjoyed the tour.
A fruit is nothing
picked out of season.
Even a brute’s praise
won’t stand to reason.  - Antonio Machado (Proverbs and Songs #5)

The weekly market on the downtown green was a wonderful finish to a week spent enjoying some of the fantastic food and restaurants that Charleston is known for. The flowers, fruits and vegetables in all their colorful bounty exemplifying all that is wonderful about the south.

Walking the piquant streets of the city with my aunt, lounging on the beach, visiting the Gibbes Museam of Art where we saw the incredible skill of artist Mary Whyte (Working South watercolors) and  wonderful, whimsical, mysterious photographs of Traditional African American Gardens of the South by Vaughn Sills, coming back each day to sit, chat and read enjoying the lovely order of my aunt’s home- her former life as a master (doctorate, in fact) librarian the leading aesthetic which, naturally, I keenly appreciate-

“I who always imagined Paradise
To be a sort of library.” - from The Gifts, by Jorge Luis Borges

The wonderful abiding quality of short stories is the condensed presentation of feeling and ideas. Every moment matters, every tone has purpose and meaning. These very same attributes define the ideal vacation. If you are lucky enough to visit a beautiful spot in the world generously hosted with love, intelligence and grace, then you, as I,  have experienced the perfect short story. Edited to perfection.

A las palabras de amor
les sienta bien su poquito
de exageración. 

- Songs, Antonio Machado

For words of love
a bit of exaggeration
feels good.

but I never exaggerate.
Here is some incredible music that has nothing to do with South Carolina apart from my first hearing it there:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUibjcu2L_s&feature=relmfu

Reflecting Pond “Thinking always involves a certain amount of inner revolt and he was annoyed at having anything like that in him.” - Les Misérables I had a hard time getting through the last few pages of Les Misérables. It’s difficult to read while weeping-blurry vision, worrying about getting the pages wet, (it is borrowed after all) my heart aching for Jean Valjean…. What an epic. It was the hunger that struck me. Hunger for affection, a place in society, love, bread- It is the heart of the book. The other organs are: politics; social, religious and economic philosophy; the history of nunneries, sewers, and the French Crown; Napoleon and the battle that did not take place at Waterloo; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…..M. Hugo does not hold back. In a way it compares to Moby Dick: there is a compelling story that is interspersed with an array, nay- an onslaught, of ancillary information. But where Melville is very….American in his near  pedantic display of knowledge and Calvinistic glory to the work required to write and read it (I don’t mean to suggest that I didn’t like Moby Dick, “like” is an appropriate word for my level of enthusiasm, and it’s true that I never laughed so hard as I did reading of poor Ishmeal’s night sleeping with Queequeg). Hugo is very…..well, French I suppose. He has a much lighter touch than Melville. The breadth and depth of knowledge is there, but it is put forth with a sort of insouciant humor. His pedantry comes from pure joy. He just wants to share all the interesting bits, not because one should know, but because, hell- one wants to know. There is something alive about Les Misérable, and the manner in which Hugo inserts himself into the story, as the writer of the story, which is somewhat unusual,  gives the book a clear place in time. As you come to know and enjoy Hugo the writer, the story and history are brought to a reaching distance. You feel as though you’re just listening to a really great conversationalist. Plus, he wins the prize for best chapter titles ever- a small sampling: Tholomyés Is So Cheery He Sings a Spanish DittyA Chapter Where Everyone Adores One AnotherNapoléon in a Good MoodDo We Have to Think Waterloo Was a Good Thing?Poverty, Misery’s Good NeighborWhat Is There to Do in a Bottomless Pit but Talk?It May Be Muck, but It Is Still the SoulSometimes We Have Run Aground When We Think We Have Landed Of course as the main title suggests there are some wrenching moments…Fantine’s teeth (I’ll never recover from that) Jean Valjean’s redemption, Javart’s crisis of idenitity, Gavroche…I had to put the book down when he met his end. “Well I never!” said Garvoche. “Now they’re killing my dead on me.” I just loved that little gamin.And Enjolras: “We’re hungry here. Are we really going to die like this without eating?” Or Grantaire: “On that note, I insist on drinking.”  Even Éponine. So many of the people in this book- “All these beloved beings, sorrowful, valiant, charming, or tragic..” It is hard to let a good book go, you get so that you miss everyone. It’s really such a beautiful and powerful story. The love and compassion that Hugo shows for humanity is infectious. A 1200 page book is a commitment, but the reward is a complete immersion into the mind and heart of the story. There is plenty of time for a long swim in the tale, at times turning on your back to rest, at other times speeding along with the current taking in the twists and turns. I’m done now, back on shore. I’ve only to wring my heart out and pick up my next book. The translation I read was written by Julie Rose, and I never once wondered how a different translation would have sufficed. It is a marvel. I can say no more- “He kept his mouth shut, precisely because his heart would have leapt out of it.” “You have to be neither a dilettante nor a virtuoso; but you have to be an artist. When it comes to civilization, the thing is not to refine but to sublimate.”Les Misérables - Victor Hugo

Reflecting Pond

“Thinking always involves a certain amount of inner revolt and he was annoyed at having anything like that in him.” - Les Misérables

I had a hard time getting through the last few pages of Les Misérables. It’s difficult to read while weeping-blurry vision, worrying about getting the pages wet, (it is borrowed after all) my heart aching for Jean Valjean….

What an epic. It was the hunger that struck me. Hunger for affection, a place in society, love, bread- It is the heart of the book. The other organs are: politics; social, religious and economic philosophy; the history of nunneries, sewers, and the French Crown; Napoleon and the battle that did not take place at Waterloo; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…..M. Hugo does not hold back.

In a way it compares to Moby Dick: there is a compelling story that is interspersed with an array, nay- an onslaught, of ancillary information. But where Melville is very….American in his near  pedantic display of knowledge and Calvinistic glory to the work required to write and read it (I don’t mean to suggest that I didn’t like Moby Dick, “like” is an appropriate word for my level of enthusiasm, and it’s true that I never laughed so hard as I did reading of poor Ishmeal’s night sleeping with Queequeg). Hugo is very…..well, French I suppose. He has a much lighter touch than Melville. The breadth and depth of knowledge is there, but it is put forth with a sort of insouciant humor. His pedantry comes from pure joy. He just wants to share all the interesting bits, not because one should know, but because, hell- one wants to know.

There is something alive about Les Misérable, and the manner in which Hugo inserts himself into the story, as the writer of the story, which is somewhat unusual,  gives the book a clear place in time. As you come to know and enjoy Hugo the writer, the story and history are brought to a reaching distance. You feel as though you’re just listening to a really great conversationalist. Plus, he wins the prize for best chapter titles ever- a small sampling:

Tholomyés Is So Cheery He Sings a Spanish Ditty
A Chapter Where Everyone Adores One Another
Napoléon in a Good Mood
Do We Have to Think Waterloo Was a Good Thing?
Poverty, Misery’s Good Neighbor
What Is There to Do in a Bottomless Pit but Talk?
It May Be Muck, but It Is Still the Soul
Sometimes We Have Run Aground When We Think We Have Landed

Of course as the main title suggests there are some wrenching moments…Fantine’s teeth (I’ll never recover from that) Jean Valjean’s redemption, Javart’s crisis of idenitity, Gavroche…I had to put the book down when he met his end.

“Well I never!” said Garvoche. “Now they’re killing my dead on me.” I just loved that little gamin.
And Enjolras: “We’re hungry here. Are we really going to die like this without eating?” 
Or Grantaire: “On that note, I insist on drinking.”  
Even Éponine. So many of the people in this book- “All these beloved beings, sorrowful, valiant, charming, or tragic..” It is hard to let a good book go, you get so that you miss everyone.

It’s really such a beautiful and powerful story. The love and compassion that Hugo shows for humanity is infectious. A 1200 page book is a commitment, but the reward is a complete immersion into the mind and heart of the story. There is plenty of time for a long swim in the tale, at times turning on your back to rest, at other times speeding along with the current taking in the twists and turns. I’m done now, back on shore. I’ve only to wring my heart out and pick up my next book.

The translation I read was written by Julie Rose, and I never once wondered how a different translation would have sufficed. It is a marvel. I can say no more- “He kept his mouth shut, precisely because his heart would have leapt out of it.”

“You have to be neither a dilettante nor a virtuoso; but you have to be an artist. When it comes to civilization, the thing is not to refine but to sublimate.”
Les Misérables - Victor Hugo

Swimming Still (The Tao of Augustus) “I can swim - I just don’t move anywhere!” “I know the feeling Augie,”  I answer him laughing. It’s not the same as treading water. Not at all. woven paint by Augustus Accardi (age 9)

Swimming Still (The Tao of Augustus)

“I can swim - I just don’t move anywhere!”

“I know the feeling Augie,”  I answer him laughing. It’s not the same as treading water. Not at all.

woven paint by Augustus Accardi (age 9)

“People say, ‘Oh, Mr. Sendak. I wish I were in touch with my childhood self, like you!’ As if it were all quaint and succulent, like Peter Pan. Childhood is cannibals and psychotic vomiting in your mouth! I say, ‘You are in touch, lady—you’re mean to your kids, you treat your husband like shit, you lie, you’re selfish… That is your childhood self!”
Maurice Sendak, on what childhood means. (via theatlantic)
Trite and True I found this Robin’s egg shell on a walk the other day and carried it home to show my boys.The jet stream of my pace was a constant threat: I had to hold it in such a way so that I didn’t crush it in an effort to keep it safe or let the force of the air take it from me and smash it mercilessly on the ground by too loose a hold.This beautiful little shell became a sort of analogy of parenting, relationships to others, to one’s self.That is until my own reductive peusdo profundity struck me and I just about crushed the thing from laughing. Ah yes, life in an eggshell. Walking on eggshells, a good egg, a rotten egg, you have to break an egg to make an omelette, huevos rancheros…well maybe not that last one, but if you can’t eat philosophy-what good is it?

Trite and True


I found this Robin’s egg shell on a walk the other day and carried it home to show my boys.
The jet stream of my pace was a constant threat: I had to hold it in such a way so that I didn’t crush it in an effort to keep it safe or let the force of the air take it from me and smash it mercilessly on the ground by too loose a hold.
This beautiful little shell became a sort of analogy of parenting, relationships to others, to one’s self.
That is until my own reductive peusdo profundity struck me and I just about crushed the thing from laughing. Ah yes, life in an eggshell. Walking on eggshells, a good egg, a rotten egg, you have to break an egg to make an omelette, huevos rancheros…well maybe not that last one, but if you can’t eat philosophy-what good is it?

Can’t See What’s Said When I lived in Italy I watched a lot of T.V. My favorite morning news show opened each day with the music of the Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony. I can’t hear that song without thinking of my little kitchen with the T.V. on the counter (on the counter! I loved that- I literally never left the kitchen). Then I would watch L’Occhio lo Spese (If I remember the title correctly, something like: eye on shopping) which was a strange show that, I think, was geared towards housewives, cooking and food in general. I remember one show that discussed broccoli for the entire hour. And it was fascinating - there are a lot of varieties. I also learned to store parsley (prezzemoli: I love saying that word) wrapped in tin foil to preserve it longer (it works). In the afternoon they would show American tv shows (some of which I’d never even heard of), but I began to really appreciate dubbing for the first time in my life. Films that are dubbed into English are generally horrendous, but this was an entirely different level. I became convinced and truly awestruck of the craft when I happened to see an episode of Law and Order that a friend of ours was guest starring in. They had him down. I mean - he was in a little danger of sounding better dubbed…it was surreal to see him speaking perfect Italian (especially as I was straining to follow along). From Kenneth Brannagh’s Hamlet (I enjoyed it much more than I ever did in English) to American soap operas: it was my method of learning the language. I quickly became fascinated with the dubbing. As a foreigner I felt almost like I was deaf, I would catch myself focusing with rude intensity at people’s mouths as they spoke, lip-reading, to assist my comprehension. When dubbed,the odd sensation of seeing English but hearing Italian can perplex. I’m finally making a little headway with the backlog of magazines I have not read and there, in a recent issue of Harper’s, was an article on the history and artistry of dubbing in Italy (Reading My Lips by Chiara Barzini). I had just assumed I was being weird, going off on a tangent, but no. It is actually true. They are damn good at it. Many Italians don’t even want to hear the actual actor’s voices, they prefer the dubbers. It is a generational career that we have Mussolini’s nationalistic fervor to thank for (he didn’t want any other language spoken). The Doppiaggese (as the translators are called) actually had to come up with all sorts of weird translations to avoid the use of such quintessential English words like “cocktails” (they no longer do this as evidenced by words like “lo shopping” that they use to describe that American leisure sport where one goes out all day to stores but doesn’t buy anything essential like -food: that would be covered under fare la spese). The translators inadvertently added to and changed the language;  fanculo is a Doppiaggese bastardization of vafanculo (fuck you), shortened so that it would match the actors lips more accurately. Purists argue against dubbing, and I agree with the arguments (if you want to to see the film, you want to see it as it was made and intended), but…reading subtitles does take away as well. Either way something is lost. When I was forced to stop reading subtitles and stop reading lips, well,I just had to listen to the language, watch the story unfold and relinquish my mania for complete comprehension. In other words: Sit back. Relax. And enjoy the show.

Can’t See What’s Said

When I lived in Italy I watched a lot of T.V. My favorite morning news show opened each day with the music of the Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony. I can’t hear that song without thinking of my little kitchen with the T.V. on the counter (on the counter! I loved that- I literally never left the kitchen). Then I would watch L’Occhio lo Spese (If I remember the title correctly, something like: eye on shopping) which was a strange show that, I think, was geared towards housewives, cooking and food in general. I remember one show that discussed broccoli for the entire hour. And it was fascinating - there are a lot of varieties. I also learned to store parsley (prezzemoli: I love saying that word) wrapped in tin foil to preserve it longer (it works). In the afternoon they would show American tv shows (some of which I’d never even heard of), but I began to really appreciate dubbing for the first time in my life. Films that are dubbed into English are generally horrendous, but this was an entirely different level. I became convinced and truly awestruck of the craft when I happened to see an episode of Law and Order that a friend of ours was guest starring in. They had him down. I mean - he was in a little danger of sounding better dubbed…it was surreal to see him speaking perfect Italian (especially as I was straining to follow along). From Kenneth Brannagh’s Hamlet (I enjoyed it much more than I ever did in English) to American soap operas: it was my method of learning the language.

I quickly became fascinated with the dubbing. As a foreigner I felt almost like I was deaf, I would catch myself focusing with rude intensity at people’s mouths as they spoke, lip-reading, to assist my comprehension. When dubbed,the odd sensation of seeing English but hearing Italian can perplex.

I’m finally making a little headway with the backlog of magazines I have not read and there, in a recent issue of Harper’s, was an article on the history and artistry of dubbing in Italy (Reading My Lips by Chiara Barzini). I had just assumed I was being weird, going off on a tangent, but no. It is actually true. They are damn good at it. Many Italians don’t even want to hear the actual actor’s voices, they prefer the dubbers. It is a generational career that we have Mussolini’s nationalistic fervor to thank for (he didn’t want any other language spoken). The Doppiaggese (as the translators are called) actually had to come up with all sorts of weird translations to avoid the use of such quintessential English words like “cocktails” (they no longer do this as evidenced by words like “lo shopping” that they use to describe that American leisure sport where one goes out all day to stores but doesn’t buy anything essential like -food: that would be covered under fare la spese). The translators inadvertently added to and changed the language;  fanculo is a Doppiaggese bastardization of vafanculo (fuck you), shortened so that it would match the actors lips more accurately.

Purists argue against dubbing, and I agree with the arguments (if you want to to see the film, you want to see it as it was made and intended), but…reading subtitles does take away as well. Either way something is lost. When I was forced to stop reading subtitles and stop reading lips, well,I just had to listen to the language, watch the story unfold and relinquish my mania for complete comprehension. In other words: Sit back. Relax. And enjoy the show.