That there could have been some error in the reporting, some grotesque misunderstanding. But it was true.
That there could be some measure of comfort to the parents of the children and all of the other victims; and comfort to the grandparents and aunts, uncles, and godparents. But how.
That there could be words. But after these, there are none. For the moment, that is, till the serious, adult conversations start.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Book Comment: Among Flowers - A Walk in the Himalya
Among Flowers - A Walk in the Himalaya
by Jamaica Kincaid
National Geographic Directions, 208 pages
This book was exotic, interesting, and odd.
But then, how can a book about a fervent gardener going to Nepal not be interesting? When so much of a modern person's life is focused on enhancing their level of coziness it's surely a delight to see someone like the author endure deprivations and take on extraordinary physical challenges towards a lovely goal. Really, who among us wouldn't prefer reading about tent-camping in a soggy field filled with leeches or facing down grumpy Maoists than experiencing it?
The goal is to acquire seeds for plants that will survive and thrive in a Vermont garden. The book is at its best when she encounters a beautiful specimen she had only seen in another context or a variation. The reader feels the author's delight in seeing a flower that's humdrum at home come to full, enormous, technicolor life in a tiny, remote Nepalese village. Even a person whose interest in gardens plummets after sniffs of basil and sightings of tomatoes can understand the author's tremendous joy.
Which leaves us with the odd, starting with the stilted syntax. It's part eighteenth century, part Hemingway, part Book of Genesis rewritten into the first person singular. Maybe this is her signature style? The reader doesn't actually hear the author say "And I found it all good. Good, I found it," but it wouldn't be a shock.
She sems to take contrarian pride in being rather a pill on the trip--continually asking the others in the group, "What is this?", losing interest completely if the answer involves a plant that wouldn't cope in Vermont, and--why not?--a fair amount of whining. If the author regrets taxing her companions so on an already arduous journey she stoically keeps that sorrow to herself.
Then there are the perplexing Where Was the Editor? bits. Once you establish that you're using Fahrenheit there's really no need to add it to every temperature forever and ever, amen. The author will express a feeling somewhat poetically only to use that same phrasing for the same experience a few paragraphs later. She'll describe what was for dinner and quickly tell she didn't eat. Did every night's trip to the bathroom need to be recorded? And she makes so many references to "My son, X" a fed-up reader might conclude that she doesn't have a son at all, let alone one named, X.
Lastly, it isn't a moral stain that the author refers to the Nepalese man who cooks for the group as Cook, or the man who lugs the table and chairs as Table, but man, it sure would have been nice if she could have remembered their names. Even the phonetic rendering of what it sounded like would have been a step up. Is it cultural denseness or again this contrariness, this sense of my way, right or wrong? And as the author doesn't hear the porters' names is she really, truly seeing the Nepalese girls, each one of which she declares beautiful?
None of the apparent cross-cultural hiccups would mind if the trip in and of itself didn't scream of First World class privilege. Despite the loveliness of the idea, aspects of the book come across as just another example of the West's determination to Get What it Wants--be it South American bananas, Iraqi oil, or perhaps the seeds is a lovely flower in the Himalaya.
by Jamaica Kincaid
National Geographic Directions, 208 pages
This book was exotic, interesting, and odd.
But then, how can a book about a fervent gardener going to Nepal not be interesting? When so much of a modern person's life is focused on enhancing their level of coziness it's surely a delight to see someone like the author endure deprivations and take on extraordinary physical challenges towards a lovely goal. Really, who among us wouldn't prefer reading about tent-camping in a soggy field filled with leeches or facing down grumpy Maoists than experiencing it?
The goal is to acquire seeds for plants that will survive and thrive in a Vermont garden. The book is at its best when she encounters a beautiful specimen she had only seen in another context or a variation. The reader feels the author's delight in seeing a flower that's humdrum at home come to full, enormous, technicolor life in a tiny, remote Nepalese village. Even a person whose interest in gardens plummets after sniffs of basil and sightings of tomatoes can understand the author's tremendous joy.
Which leaves us with the odd, starting with the stilted syntax. It's part eighteenth century, part Hemingway, part Book of Genesis rewritten into the first person singular. Maybe this is her signature style? The reader doesn't actually hear the author say "And I found it all good. Good, I found it," but it wouldn't be a shock.
She sems to take contrarian pride in being rather a pill on the trip--continually asking the others in the group, "What is this?", losing interest completely if the answer involves a plant that wouldn't cope in Vermont, and--why not?--a fair amount of whining. If the author regrets taxing her companions so on an already arduous journey she stoically keeps that sorrow to herself.
Then there are the perplexing Where Was the Editor? bits. Once you establish that you're using Fahrenheit there's really no need to add it to every temperature forever and ever, amen. The author will express a feeling somewhat poetically only to use that same phrasing for the same experience a few paragraphs later. She'll describe what was for dinner and quickly tell she didn't eat. Did every night's trip to the bathroom need to be recorded? And she makes so many references to "My son, X" a fed-up reader might conclude that she doesn't have a son at all, let alone one named, X.
Lastly, it isn't a moral stain that the author refers to the Nepalese man who cooks for the group as Cook, or the man who lugs the table and chairs as Table, but man, it sure would have been nice if she could have remembered their names. Even the phonetic rendering of what it sounded like would have been a step up. Is it cultural denseness or again this contrariness, this sense of my way, right or wrong? And as the author doesn't hear the porters' names is she really, truly seeing the Nepalese girls, each one of which she declares beautiful?
None of the apparent cross-cultural hiccups would mind if the trip in and of itself didn't scream of First World class privilege. Despite the loveliness of the idea, aspects of the book come across as just another example of the West's determination to Get What it Wants--be it South American bananas, Iraqi oil, or perhaps the seeds is a lovely flower in the Himalaya.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Film Comment: Lincoln...
...wherein Daniel Day-Lewis gives us a moment's fright early on as his characterization of the 16th president flirts with parody. Are those cornpone anecdotes heading somewhere or is the great actor channelling a heretofore unknown love of SCTV?
No need to worry. DD-L, screenplay writer Tony Kushner, and of couse Steven Spielberg know what they're doing. The seemingly off-topic stories--parables, if you will--always come to the heart of the issue at hand.
The issue is the 13th Amendment. Lincoln wants an amendment outlawing slavery ready to sign before his second inaugural. The Democratic Party just took a lickin' in the election but instead of softening their absolutist views they had become more rigid. Secretary of State Seward, and a talented trio of patronage-jobs-offering oddballs desperately try to secure the votes. Lincoln's concern is that the Emancipation Proclamation was only a war-time measure, and that come the end of hostilities black people who had been free--indeed, who had joined the Union army to fight for their freedom--would be forced back into slavery.
It's difficult not to flinch at the anger-slash-fear of those opposed to the amendment, their dread of the country absorbing 4 million free blacks, 4 million people hell-bent on revenge and ready to snatch and grab from decent, God-fearin' folk. What next, they ask? The franchise for black men?
Secretary of State Seward was played by the wonderful David Strathairn (who probably could have played a first-rate Lincoln, too). A plumped up James Spader shone as one of the get-the-vote trio, totally unafraid of DD-L. Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens was a marvel, really giving us a taste of the days when people spoke beautifully as opposed to our "like, you know" caliber of political discourse. (Nice last scene with him, too. Was Kushner being creative or is fact more fascinating than fiction?)
While the up for anything Joseph Gordon-Levitt did what he could with the small part of Lincoln's son Robert, Sally Field's Mary Todd Lincoln didn't really work for us. Yes, the real-life woman was rumored to be "tetched", but the wimpering and scenery chewing and the googly eyeballs and pursed lips...it was a wee bit too much. We realize she knew heartache but as a modern person would say, "It's all about you, isn't it?"
We sat anxiously as the votes were cast, even knowing the outcome.
In the second inaugural Lincoln wondered if the horrific cost of the war - 600,000 dead, eight month's worth of 9-11's - was due to the moral sin of slavery. Was every drop of blood equal to the blood drawn from the lash? A reasonable question, posed by an extraordinarily reasonable, creative and bright man.
Recommend Plus.
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