A Canadian Thanksgiving

Thank you, Nobel Committee.  Alice Munro, Nobel Laureate. Finally.

Alfred Nobel.  Made his fortune in explosives.

So gratifying to see that a writer who has devoted her career to cultivating a relatively small bit of land exquisitely well has finally been recognized with the biggest prize of all. Yes, it may be a bit old-fashioned, but her prose is exquisite and sparse, and there are many doses of truly modern thought hidden within. The space between the words is just as important as the words themselves. What's not said is crucial.

And no ego.

Speaking of ego, when will Philip Roth be recognized by the Swedes? So often we (they) get things wrong. As Roth put it in American Pastoral:

'You fight your superficiality, your shallowness, so as to try to come at people without unreal expectations, without an overload of bias or hope or arrogance, as untanklike as you can be, sans cannon and machine guns and steel plating half a foot thick; you come at them unmenacingly on your own ten toes instead of tearing up the turf with your caterpillar treads, take them on with an open mind, as equals, man to man, as we used to say, and yet you never fail to get them wrong. You might as well have the brain of a tank. You get them wrong before you meet them, while you're anticipating meeting them; you get them wrong while you're with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again. Since the same generally goes for them with you, the whole thing is really a dazzling illusion empty of all perception, an astonishing farce of misperception. And yet what are we to do about this terribly significant business of other people, which gets bled of the significance we think it has and takes on instead a significance that is ludicrous, so ill-equipped are we  all to envision one another's interior workings and invisible aims? Is everyone to go off and lock the door and sit secluded like the lonely writers do, in a soundproof cell, summoning people out of words and then proposing that these word people are closer to the real thing than the real people that we mangle with our ignorance every day? The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive; we're strong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that -- well lucky you.'

Alas, Nobel Committee, you got one right this year, but your track record leaves quite a bit to be desired. You are in good company.

Broken Ties

Jhumpa Lahiri has always excelled at depicting both the value of close human connections and the inevitable pain when those connections are broken. Sometimes the cause of the break is a geographical move, hence she writes often about those who move across the globe to start a new life. Sometimes the break is brought about by a more personal change or failure.  Nonetheless the pain is real and the loss palpable. And when the fractures compound one another the losses build over time and the effects deepen to the point of irrevocability.

Her latest novel, TheLowland, contains more breakage than can be inventoried here. Invaluable relationships are shattered by circumstance, by intent, bu politics, by individual shortcomings. Most of the damage is never repaired, but in fascinating ways the characters each react in their own way.  One continues to invest in new connections, sometimes not so wisely, but always with an open heart and good intent.  Others never heal, remain closed forever, and reflect and inflect their own pain on their peers and on subsequent generations. 

Lahiri. Part of a truly international generation of writers.

The writing is straightforward and effective.  No pyrotechnics here, just good old-fashioned well edited affecting prose.  If there are few outstanding gems to be found,

there are many pleasing semi-precious stones scattered throughout.  And, maybe more importantly there are very few real clunkers.  The result is a moving if rather pessimistic book that shows us over and over again how difficult it is to protect even our most valuable relationships.  The prevailing feeling from the book is the long-term dull pain that comes from those losses. There is hope. We can move forward and strive to make new connections, we can try to heal and minimize the pain, but we are all inevitably deeply scarred.

Interesting that a book with such a dark message can be both moving and uplifting.  My own personal circumstances involve some major recent personal upheavals, so I could easily relate to Lahiri’s characters. But I was not depressed by the book at all.  I took some comfort in knowing that others experience pain similar to my own, and that some do manage to move forward in deeply meaningful ways. Others don’t.  There are lessons to be learned there.

We'll Always Have Beijing

This summer I enjoyed my first visit to China, a week in Beijing and the surrounding countryside.  So glad to have made the trip; not sure I’ll be going back soon.

The Forbidden City.  The scale is hard to show in a photo.

It really is another planet.  Pollution, over-crowding, odd foods, capitalism gone wild:  it’s the wild, wild west all over again.  But also strong cultural traditions and confidence, really good food, and a positive attitude about the future that probably will conquer all in the long run.

We did get to see The Forbidden City and The Summer Palace, two important sites in Chinese history, so I thought I should honor that experience by reading a little about it.  Anchee Min’s Empress Orchid is the first half of the story of Tzu Hsi, an important figure in late 19^th-century and early 20^th century Chinese political history.  Shes was the controversial Dowager Empress that essentially ruled the country for many years. She lived in The Forbidden City, and The Summer Palace as we see it today exists in its present form because of her.

The Summer Palace

It is incredibly difficult to bridge the cultural gap between American and Chinese cultures.  Maybe even impossible.  This book is a valiant attempt.  We learn that power plays in The Forbidden city many years ago are essentially the same as those today in The White House today. And the privileged life enjoyed by the Emperor’s family had its own hardships, both physical and emotional.

The Great Wall. Yes, it is great.

Nonetheless it should be said that this is not great writing.  The historical research is all too obvious, and the prose is often clunky and rarely pleasing.  The story itself is interesting, though I’m not sure it makes a satisfying book.  But such is the lot of historical fiction; you don’t get to contrive the larger plot. It is what it is, and you have to do your best to make an appealing book out of it.  Not sure this one entirely succeeds.  I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t visited China the book would have left me cold.  But I did make the visit, and that’s why I read it.

Beijing is one of the few large Chinese cities to preserve significant historical sites.  It’s not Hong Kong or Shanghai.  It’s not just another international city with skyscrapers and incredible shopping.  It is the site of a huge piece of history, and it’s there for us.  Enjoy it if you can.  I highly recommend a visit.  It’s available to us now and the sites are accessible.  Who knows how long that will be the case?

Schumann Fantasy in C Major, op17

Ever since I first heard the Clifford Curzon recording many years ago, this piece has held a special place in my heart.  I was also privileged to hear Curzon teach the piece in a a master class in France in 1972.  I find it to be one of the most enigmatic pieces in the repertoire.  It lives in the guise of a traditional three-movement large-form piece for piano solo, but it is anything but traditional. Some aspects are truly bizarre, almost supernatural. The irrationality, yes insanity of it all is apparent, as is the searing talent at its core, as well as the incredible innovation in its composition. Stunningly, even disturbingly inventive, it contains some of the most beautiful pianistic inventions of all time, and also some of the most unusual juxtapositions and transitions.  It’s a piece that can’t be easily categorized, but it’s an important part of the canon of the Romantic solo piano repertoire.

All of the formal flaws of the piece can be excused in the light of its remarkable inventiveness, spontaneity, and most of all its sincerity.  If there’s a ‘New Sincerity’ in modern rock music, this is the ‘Old Sincerity’, the original.  I can’t imagine anything more heartfelt, more sincere, and ultimately more sad and at the same time uplifting.

The technical difficulties are daunting, but I think I've got my arms around them now.  I've worked on it for several months, and have played it from memory a few times for friends.  It is, after all, a virtuoso piece, and there is the circus element here.  “Will he fall? Is there a net?” No, there is no net, and the tension from the technical difficulties in the second movement is palpable.  I think it’s almost acceptable to fail, to have it all come off the rails.  That too is sincere, and sincerity is the most important element here.

I cannot imagine what it was like to be Robert Schumann.  Today he would surely be diagnosed as schizophrenic or manic depressive, medicated, and his great creativity suppressed.  Nonetheless his life was a chaotic and unpredictable combination of the greatest euphoria and the deepest depression.  That chasm is the essence of his music, and his great sincerity is the only way to bridge the chasm.  He doesn't fully understand, and neither do we.  But the great depth of sincerity makes us accept that conundrum nonetheless.  In essence, this was his experience.

I do find it thrilling to walk a few steps in those shoes. But I’m so grateful they’re not mine; I can discard them at will.  He could not. 

I cannot imagine.

Emmy Awards

I remember the Emmy awards 40 years ago.  All of America watched the same shows and we rooted for our favorites.  If our faves won we were happy, if not we groaned but we understood. We had seen the other shows and we had at least some scornful respect.

Now we watch what we want when we want.  I've recently seen all three seasons of Downton Abbey and the first season of House of Cards.  That's just about all of the current TV I've watched, which puts me pretty much on my own island. Not unlike others, I guess.  But what does that say about the Emmy's? Without a common viewing experience how can such awards be meaningful?  Most of the awards went to shows I'd never seen, and many went to shows I'd never heard of.

But let's not romanticize the past.  Most of what was broadcast was just plain awful, and it all lived within a very narrow mainstream creative range. Now there's still lots of crap to watch, but there's much much more of everything, including the good stuff. And thanks to almost unlimited bandwidth the range is enormous.  There truly is something for everyone.

Nonetheless there was a stronger sense of community back then. Common experience that encouraged a sense of belonging to something larger then ourselves. Shared sacrifice for a larger good was more accepted. Today's fragmentation and focus on the individual does have political, economic, and sociological consequences. I guess we have to look elsewhere for shared experience. Online social networks certainly help to bring people together. Sports still connect us, both as participants and viewers. I hope we continue to find new ways to connect, on almost any terms.

Meanwhile the Emmy Award Show is at least a way to find out what I should perhaps be watching. And unlike the past, I can watch it as I please.

Space

When we have open time before us, what do we do?  3:00am and can't sleep? Lull in the work day? Free eve? Immediates away?  Alone unexpectedly? It's easy to fill the time with a crossword, sudoku, something easy from the to-do list, a quick errand, an overdue email, etc.  Then there are heavier options: read something serious, practice the piano, write something serious, cook something creative.

For me a good answer lately is to do nothing. Constant motion can keep me from attending to myself. Instead, be still.  Be comfortable with nothing. During the nothing something meaningful will emerge.  It always does, but it requires courage to keep listening to the nothing.

Upstairs, Upstairs

Anthony Trollope, contemporary of Dickens, famous in his day.  47 novels published, and by his late years already considered old-fashioned. Nobody reads him today, or at least so it seems.  I love his books, though I am aware of his limitations.  Every so often I return to Trollope for another sanity dose, be it an installment from the Chronicles of Barsetshire or the Palliser novels.  Always does me good.

Uncle Anthony

The Eustace Diamonds is one of the Palliser novels, and it’s vintage Trollope: a microscopic discerning account of a very thin slice of upper crust London society in the mid 19^th-century.  This is truly all upstairs.  No downstairs.  That would be is beneath his notice.  We have a set of characters that represents a very narrow range of London society, but nonetheless we can enjoy very finely etched distinctions.  And we also have a kaleidoscope of character juxtapositions. Just about every conceivable combination occurs, and the results are fascinating indeed.  We have plenty of social and political commentary, but again within an extremely narrow range.  Lawyers will be lawyers, be it 1870 or 2013.  The game is still the same.  Politics and money still have a stranglehold on government.  Not much has changed, and probably not much will.

The extraordinary moral vision of Dickens is completely absent.  Trollope takes a relatively objective observer’s point of view, and the lack of moral imperative can be tedious.  We almost feel like we’re reading a train schedule, just a record of what is, with little explicit indication of what might be, what needs to be, or what must be.  Also, the influence of Wilkie Collins is clear.  (The Woman in White remains one of my all-time favs.) The Eustace Diamonds came out only a few years after the fabulously successful The Moonstone, and the effort to get on the new bandwagon is evident, understandable, and forgivable.

It’s a long book, about 800 pages.  It’s divided into tightly structured short chapters, and was initially published as a serial.  Hence it doesn’t read quickly.  Like a telegram, it has many ‘stops’, but I’m happy to devote a month to this book.  The subtle and gradual revelation of character is very rewarding, and the plot is well crafted.  And even at 800 pages, the book is clearly part of the larger picture, the Trollope universe of characters and context, one that I take great pleasure in visiting and revisiting every so often.  The writing is effective but limited.  Little of the extraordinary range of Dickens is in evidence.  Listen to Uncle Anthony tell his story.  He’s a bit of a bore, but if you have the patience to hear him out, you won’t be disappointed.

I will never forget some of the characters in The Eustace Diamonds.  Trollope was a master, and it’s our loss if we toss him aside in favor of our latest fads.