Wednesday, September 16, 2020
Tuesday, September 15, 2020
The Island
What is guilt? Who is guilty? Is redemption possible? What is sanity? Do persons have a telos, a destiny, both or neither? Ostrov (The Island) asks and attempts to answer all these questions and more.
A film that improbably remains one of the best of this century: "reads" like a 19th century Russian novel; the bleakly stunning visual setting is worth the time to watch alone.
Unlike Dostoevsky, the film is saturated with a literalism that is more or less typical of Eastern mysticism (in Karamazov, the corpse of Zosima begins to stink: it could not have been otherwise in his novel). Whether this is a virtue or a flaw or something else for Ostrov, I suspect depends strongly on the viewer. My own take is "something else".
Monday, July 27, 2020
Sacred Forests
An acquaintance sent this article on the small forest preserves in Ethiopia. The video is less than 10 minutes and well worth watching. The pictures in many ways tell thousands of words. Interesting to me: many of the visuals remind me of parts of north and central California where the trees and shrubs were removed to make way for cattle grazing - the visual effects I think are best captured by the late great radical novelist Edward Abbey's description of a "cow-burnt west". Deforestation in Ethiopia was also driven by agriculture to a large extent as well.
Now these forests are occupied by a handful of eremites. Their lived experience in these patches of natural oasis lends toward a wisdom that we seem to have lost in our industrialized and bustling commercial existence: "“In this world nothing exists alone,” he said. “It’s interconnected. A beautiful tree cannot exist by itself. It needs other creatures. We live in this world by giving and taking. We give CO2 for trees, and they give us oxygen. If we prefer only the creatures we like and destroy others, we lose everything. Bear in mind that the thing you like is connected with so many other things. You should respect that co-existence.” As Alemayehu explained, biodiversity gives rise to a forest’s emergent properties. “If you go into a forest and say, ‘I have ten species, that’s all,’ you’re wrong. You have ten species plus their interactions. The interactions you don’t see: it’s a mystery. This is more than just summing up components, it’s beyond that. These emergent properties of a forest, all the flowering fruits—it’s so complicated and sophisticated. These interactions you cannot explain, really. You don’t see it.”"
In my mind I see these eremites like Zosima in the Brothers Karamzov: "Love to throw yourself on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don’t be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is not given to many but only to the elect." Of course I may be romanticizing these good people's experience in these forest patches - I've never been there and never met any of the eremites that do.
And yet, as the author notes: "The trees’ fate is bound to ours, and our fate to theirs. And trees are nothing if not tenacious." For these Ethiopians, at least, a tree is tied inextricably to their salvation. But isn't it true that for all of us the tree is a source of life and ought to be honored as such?
Now these forests are occupied by a handful of eremites. Their lived experience in these patches of natural oasis lends toward a wisdom that we seem to have lost in our industrialized and bustling commercial existence: "“In this world nothing exists alone,” he said. “It’s interconnected. A beautiful tree cannot exist by itself. It needs other creatures. We live in this world by giving and taking. We give CO2 for trees, and they give us oxygen. If we prefer only the creatures we like and destroy others, we lose everything. Bear in mind that the thing you like is connected with so many other things. You should respect that co-existence.” As Alemayehu explained, biodiversity gives rise to a forest’s emergent properties. “If you go into a forest and say, ‘I have ten species, that’s all,’ you’re wrong. You have ten species plus their interactions. The interactions you don’t see: it’s a mystery. This is more than just summing up components, it’s beyond that. These emergent properties of a forest, all the flowering fruits—it’s so complicated and sophisticated. These interactions you cannot explain, really. You don’t see it.”"
In my mind I see these eremites like Zosima in the Brothers Karamzov: "Love to throw yourself on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don’t be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is not given to many but only to the elect." Of course I may be romanticizing these good people's experience in these forest patches - I've never been there and never met any of the eremites that do.
And yet, as the author notes: "The trees’ fate is bound to ours, and our fate to theirs. And trees are nothing if not tenacious." For these Ethiopians, at least, a tree is tied inextricably to their salvation. But isn't it true that for all of us the tree is a source of life and ought to be honored as such?
Sunday, June 21, 2020
Modern Times
I’ve found myself, quite unintentionally, immersed in modernism recently. I had been previously spending a lot of time on Renaissance era music and art, so I don’t have a good explanation as to how I got from there to here. But taking stock of things, I was: reading Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet, listening to a strange melange of Iannis Xenakis, Holly Herndon, Pink Floyd’s The Wall, and looking closely at a series of paintings by Makoto Fujimura. Pretty much the only active exception I could come up with was znamenny chant recordings. None of these works necessarily relate and I’m not sure I can explain the reason for this clustering outside of coincidence.
I think many times the term "modernism" is conflated with "contemporary" in casual use. But by "modernism" in this case I mean, first and foremost, a mode of artistic exploration that breaks with prior, established forms, be they “rules” or aesthetic norms, seeing them as having exhausted their capacity to express themselves. Of course, these also involve the introduction of new forms and rationalizations for those shifts - ways to capture meaning in a way that carries forward a fresh energy of its own (at least for a time), often with an inchoate nod to "progress". I suppose the most recent manifestation of modernism may be transhumanism, but this obsession with the form seemed to have pervaded so much of the 20th century - in painting the emergence of cubism to the obsessiveness with abstraction (which finally gave way to a resurgence of figurative painting), in literary theory the move from structuralism to post structuralism and the disintegration into deconstruction. Poetry as well: proto modernists like Emily Dickinson paved the way for not only "high modernists" like Eliot but a full range of form-experimental poets, from ee cummings to BH Fairchild. These were not always entirely positive developments - I’ll take Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue over Bitches Brew any day of the week. But then again, I’ll take Dostoevsky over Tolstoy 10 times out of 10. In some sense, we have to take these developments as they come and eventually sift the wheat from the chaff.
Which brings me back to Pessoa, one of the literary giants of the Portuguese language. His Book of Disquiet was a lifelong project, which features a series - a seemingly never ending series - of reflections by a number of "heteronym" personalities he developed. The paragraphs are often redundant and the themes seem to run on, making for a difficult book to read in long sittings. As a consequence I've been pecking away at it slowly. It becomes more difficult as time goes by for another reason: the postured aloofness to life seems sometimes fake, sometimes pretentious: more what one would expect from an 18 year old than a mature writer who has mastered his craft. And yet Pessoa himself seems at times to long for a return to immaturity: "My only regret is that I am not a child, for that would allow me to believe in my dreams and believe that I am not mad, which would allow me to distance my soul from all those who surround me."
But still, the writing at times is simply gorgeous. There's not so much beauty in what Pessoa says as in how he says it. He retains completely the form of language, but deliberately evacuates the novel of its structure. What we are left with are in some sense "micro-essays" that sometimes connect and at other times disassociate. Taken as words that invoke meaning, they are often depressing, sometimes nonsensical. Taken as words that invoke feeling - a feeling of language arranged to be something more than just words - they can be spectacular.
The tension between the words as meaning and words as expression is impossible to escape: "Nothing satisfies me, nothing consoles me, everything—whether or not it has ever existed—satiates me. I neither want my soul nor wish to renounce it. I desire what I do not desire and renounce what I do not have. I can be neither nothing nor everything: I’m just the bridge between what I do not have and what I do not want.” What does one make of this when considered as creed? Unlikely anything positive. Yet this pericope is rendered in a particularly dreamy sort of way that infects the reader when immersed in the dream-like narrative in which it is situated. It's almost inescapable.
Few novels have made me pause for such extended periods of time to ponder not so much what the author has to say but how he says it. It's like a kind of poetry rendered without a poem.
---
A nod to New Directions Publishing, by the way, for making this project happen. Their edition of Disquiet I suspect will be seen as definitive for some time.
I think many times the term "modernism" is conflated with "contemporary" in casual use. But by "modernism" in this case I mean, first and foremost, a mode of artistic exploration that breaks with prior, established forms, be they “rules” or aesthetic norms, seeing them as having exhausted their capacity to express themselves. Of course, these also involve the introduction of new forms and rationalizations for those shifts - ways to capture meaning in a way that carries forward a fresh energy of its own (at least for a time), often with an inchoate nod to "progress". I suppose the most recent manifestation of modernism may be transhumanism, but this obsession with the form seemed to have pervaded so much of the 20th century - in painting the emergence of cubism to the obsessiveness with abstraction (which finally gave way to a resurgence of figurative painting), in literary theory the move from structuralism to post structuralism and the disintegration into deconstruction. Poetry as well: proto modernists like Emily Dickinson paved the way for not only "high modernists" like Eliot but a full range of form-experimental poets, from ee cummings to BH Fairchild. These were not always entirely positive developments - I’ll take Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue over Bitches Brew any day of the week. But then again, I’ll take Dostoevsky over Tolstoy 10 times out of 10. In some sense, we have to take these developments as they come and eventually sift the wheat from the chaff.
Which brings me back to Pessoa, one of the literary giants of the Portuguese language. His Book of Disquiet was a lifelong project, which features a series - a seemingly never ending series - of reflections by a number of "heteronym" personalities he developed. The paragraphs are often redundant and the themes seem to run on, making for a difficult book to read in long sittings. As a consequence I've been pecking away at it slowly. It becomes more difficult as time goes by for another reason: the postured aloofness to life seems sometimes fake, sometimes pretentious: more what one would expect from an 18 year old than a mature writer who has mastered his craft. And yet Pessoa himself seems at times to long for a return to immaturity: "My only regret is that I am not a child, for that would allow me to believe in my dreams and believe that I am not mad, which would allow me to distance my soul from all those who surround me."
But still, the writing at times is simply gorgeous. There's not so much beauty in what Pessoa says as in how he says it. He retains completely the form of language, but deliberately evacuates the novel of its structure. What we are left with are in some sense "micro-essays" that sometimes connect and at other times disassociate. Taken as words that invoke meaning, they are often depressing, sometimes nonsensical. Taken as words that invoke feeling - a feeling of language arranged to be something more than just words - they can be spectacular.
The tension between the words as meaning and words as expression is impossible to escape: "Nothing satisfies me, nothing consoles me, everything—whether or not it has ever existed—satiates me. I neither want my soul nor wish to renounce it. I desire what I do not desire and renounce what I do not have. I can be neither nothing nor everything: I’m just the bridge between what I do not have and what I do not want.” What does one make of this when considered as creed? Unlikely anything positive. Yet this pericope is rendered in a particularly dreamy sort of way that infects the reader when immersed in the dream-like narrative in which it is situated. It's almost inescapable.
Few novels have made me pause for such extended periods of time to ponder not so much what the author has to say but how he says it. It's like a kind of poetry rendered without a poem.
---
A nod to New Directions Publishing, by the way, for making this project happen. Their edition of Disquiet I suspect will be seen as definitive for some time.
Thursday, April 11, 2019
Friday, January 18, 2019
Mind Over Matter
"Plotinus gave exquisitely refined expression to the ancient intuition
that the material order is not the basis of the mental, but rather the
reverse. This is not only an eminently rational intuition; it is perhaps
the only truly rational picture of reality as a whole. Mind does not
emerge from mindless matter, as modern philosophical fashion would have
it. The suggestion that is does is both a logical impossibility and a
phenomenological absurdity. Plotinus and his contemporaries understood
that all the things that most essentially characterize the act of
rational consciousness—its irreducible unity of apprehension, its
teleological structure, the logical syntax of reasoning, and on and
on—are intrinsically incompatible with, and could not logically emerge
from, a material reality devoid of mind. At the same time, they could
not fail to notice that there is a constant correlation between that act
of rational consciousness and the intelligibility of being, a
correlation that is all but unimaginable if the structure and ground of
all reality were not already rational. Happily, in Plotinus’s time no
one had yet ventured the essentially magical theory of perception as
representation. Plotinus was absolutely correct, therefore, to attempt
to understand the structure of the whole of reality by looking inward to
the structure of the mind; and he was just as correct to suppose that
the reciprocity between the mind and objective reality must indicate a
reality simpler and more capacious than either: a primordial
intelligence, Nous, and an original unity, the One, generating,
sustaining, and encompassing all things. And no thinker of late
antiquity pursued these matters with greater persistence, rigor, and
originality than he did."
DB Hart commenting on the new translation of Plotinus's Enneads.
DB Hart commenting on the new translation of Plotinus's Enneads.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Robinson Jeffers
Today is the birthday of one of the most under-rated American poets (in my view, one of the best we have produced), the builder of Tor House and Hawk Tower, which can still be visited in Carmel, California. A timely documentary on an American genius.
The website for Tor House visits, a fascinating experience:
http://www.torhouse.org/
The website for Tor House visits, a fascinating experience:
http://www.torhouse.org/
Thursday, November 22, 2018
The Way
Walking the Camino one meets people from all walks of life - hailing from virtually everywhere, from nearly every continent and creed. All on a path to their destination. Isn't that life itself?
Monday, November 12, 2018
Conceptions of Fudo Myoo in Esoteric Buddhism
My own interest in understanding Fudo Myoo in Mahayana Buddhism have largely stemmed from an long standing admiration of Japanese art in the Edo wood block tradition - but I thought this was a rather interesting exploration of esoteric Buddhism and by implication currents of Japanese culture.
https://tricycle.org/magazine/evil-in-esoteric-japanese-buddhism/
https://tricycle.org/magazine/evil-in-esoteric-japanese-buddhism/
On Education
'We study to get diplomas and degrees and certifications, but
imagine a life devoted to study for no other purpose than to be
educated. Being educated is not the same as being informed or trained.
Education is an "education", a drawing out of one's own genius, nature,
and heart. The manifestation of one's essence, the unfolding of one's
capacities, the revelation of one's heretofore hidden
possibilities - these are the goals of study from the point of view of the person. From another side, study amplifies the speech
and song of the world so that it's more palpably present.
Education in soul leads to the enchantment of the world and the attunement of self.'
Thomas Moore, 'Meditations'
Education in soul leads to the enchantment of the world and the attunement of self.'
Thomas Moore, 'Meditations'
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Lizok's Bookshelf
The first of Eugene Vodolazkin's novels translated to English was, of course, Laurus, which ranks as one of the significant literary works of the current century. I was impressed by the translators ability to convey not just a feel for what I presume the original has, but a kind of "other-time-yet-our-timeness" that seems an essential part of the authors objective. I recently picked up Volodazkin's Aviator and thought to look up the translator as well. I was delighted to find her blog on modern Russian literature, which can be found here:
http://lizoksbooks.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-2018-nose-award-longlist.html
http://lizoksbooks.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-2018-nose-award-longlist.html
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Sea of Fertility
In a discussion on some of my reservations on Murakami's take on 20th century Japanese literature, a friend commented on Mishima's Sea of Fertility tetrology with some real insights I thought worth preserving and sharing, albeit anonymously (if you're not into Japanese literature, now's a good time to stop reading):
"My
perspective is different: it was a perfect echo of the end of “Spring
Snow” and a final liberation of the main character from his
self-constructed prison of beliefs. Honda’s life across the novels
represents the false path: of consciousness the inglorious
decay and death of the soul trapped in a repetition of situations that
it cannot fathom being forced into waking. He is forced into being an
observer of his own life eventually debasing himself into a “peeping
Tom” even as he works as a judge. The irony is rich. Honda decays
through the four novels since he clings to the memory of his friend
(Kiyoaki) and does not understand the constructed nature his experience
and desires. He is asleep. He wants Matsugae’s final dream to be the
truth (that they will “...meet again under the Falls.”) His desires have
been leading him in a circle and the final scene in the garden is his
recognition of what the Abbess (Satoko from Spring Snow) was trying to
convey to him. When she tells him, “There was no such person as Kiyoaki
Matsugae”, it is her attempt to cure him of his delusion (and spiritual
illness that has rendered him desperate and weak - chasing the ego
illusions of his youth and seeking the reincarnation of his friend
everywhere.) Honda lives in the dream of his ego and desire. In the
final scene, he wakes up for the first time. I loved the image of the
shadows falling on the garden. He is finally dying, stripped of
illusion. I found it to be Mishima at his most powerful. I agree about
“Sailor”, that is a great novel and much more Japanese in its economy of
expression. Now, Haruki Murakami is a world apart from Kawabata and
Mishima. I love his use of the unconscious/Id as a place to inform and
enthrall: the labyrinth of dreams. Most of his characters are trapped
(at least part of the time) in this “place”: eg Kafka on the Shore,
Windup Bird Chronicle, Hard-boiled Wonderland and End of the World, etc.
Literature has to have room for all of them. I like the other Murakami,
Ryu Murkami, whose “Audition” and “Famous Hits of the ShÅwa Era” are
dark, psychotic tales of unrestrained, escalating violence but redeemed
by deep probing of unconscious, hidden motives (the inhuman work of the
unconscious that guides the characters like the Greek sense of fate
(Moira)) and occasional black humor."
Friday, May 25, 2018
Top 10 Albums Meme
I’ve been hit by a barrage of social media posts on people’s
top 10 albums, so I thought I would take a look at what I have listened to the
most in the last 5 years or so. I’m not claiming these are my favorites or “the
best” albums recorded (in fact there are many better albums I enjoy). But I was
somewhat surprised to find that I do return to the the same albums over and
over, so here’s the top 10, in no particular order.
1)Alina, Arvo Part
If you were going to stereotype and box in Part’s work, this
would be a good album to use. It’s also amazing enough that it could run on a
continuous loop forever and I’d be pretty happy with that.
2)Benedicta: Marian Chants from Norcia, Monks of Norcia
Yes, the music hasn’t changed much from the middle ages. And
yes, these are actually monks singing, who somehow managed to top the Billboard
charts. The term to use is sublime – this music is quintessentially music of
peace and another album that bears repetition with ease.
3) Mi Sueno, Ibrahim Ferrer
I know the whole Bueno Vista Social Club thing was trendy,
but this music – Cuban bolero to be precise – is full of passion, charm, and
romance: it music for human beings (which is harder and harder to find these
days). This is at once a work of art and a testament to real life.
4) Dream River, Bill Callahan
I don’t even know what to categorize this music as: it’s not
popular music, rock, easy listening, country or folk. But it has elements of
most of those. Callahan’s baritone voice sounds like someone is speaking to you
rather than singing. This album just gets better with the years of listening
and it’s by far his best.
5) The Harrow and the Harvest, Gillian Welch
Appalachian roots, contemporary musical twists – I don’t
know what they call this: alt-blue grass? In any case, its Welch’s best album
and a solid, if somewhat dark, listen.
6) In the Spur of the Moment, Steve Turre
Turre does his jazz trombone (no conch shells on this album
– which I am happy about) along with Ray Charles on piano for the first third
or so, later trending toward more Afro-Cuban jazz style. I know the complaint
on this one is that it feels a bit passionless in parts, but it’s a hard mix
not to feel good about.
7) Treasury of Russian Gypsy Songs, Marusia
Georgevskaya and Sergei Krotkoff
I’ll admit that it sounds like Georgevskaya has smoked more
than a few cigarettes. But this is timeless music, a timeless voice, from a
timeless culture. Sophie Milman’s Ochi Chernye is sultry and seductive (she is
really fantastic), but somehow I like Marusia’s better.
9) Skeleton Tree, Nick Cave
Nick Cave is uneven at best and often mediocre but this
album is distilled pain in poetic form and a major work of art. For some reason I
listen to this end to end semi regularly on my morning commute.
10) OCMS, Old Crow Medicine Show
End to end, just hits the right notes over and over again.
From introspective to political to just plain fun, these guys made real music
for real people at their peak. Things fell apart after Willie Watson, but there
is an almost perfect collection of authentic songs.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Karamazov
Chapter 3 - Conversations and Exhortations of Father Zosima
.... Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don't harass them, don't deprive them of their happiness, don't work against God's intent. Man, do not pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin, and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it, and leave the traces of your foulness after you- alas, it is true of almost every one of us! Love children especially, for they too are sinless like the angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and, as it were, to guide us. Woe to him who offends a child! Father Anfim taught me to love children. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the farthings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass by a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man.
Remember particularly that you cannot be a judge of anyone. For no one can judge a criminal until he recognises that he is just such a criminal as the man standing before him, and that he perhaps is more than all men to blame for that crime. When he understands that, he will be able to be a judge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous myself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If you can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is judging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without reproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same spirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more bitterly than you have done. If, after your kiss, he goes away untouched, mocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling-block to you. It shows his time has not yet come, but it will come in due course. And if it come not, no Matter; if not he, then another in his place will understand and suffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled. Believe that, believe it without doubt; for in that lies all the hope and faith of the saints.
Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that it
is the suffering of being unable to love....
.... Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don't harass them, don't deprive them of their happiness, don't work against God's intent. Man, do not pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin, and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it, and leave the traces of your foulness after you- alas, it is true of almost every one of us! Love children especially, for they too are sinless like the angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and, as it were, to guide us. Woe to him who offends a child! Father Anfim taught me to love children. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the farthings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass by a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man.
At some thoughts one stands perplexed, especially at the sight
of men's sin, and wonders whether one should use force or humble love.
Always decide to use humble love. If you resolve on that once for all,
you may subdue the whole world. Loving humility is marvelously
strong, the strongest of all things, and there is nothing else like
it.
Every day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and
watch yourself, and see that your image is a seemly one. You pass by a
little child, you pass by, spiteful, with ugly words, with wrathful
heart; you may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and
your image, unseemly and ignoble, may remain in his defenseless heart.
You don't know it, but you may have sown an evil seed in him and it
may grow, and all because you were not careful before the child,
because you did not foster in yourself a careful, actively
benevolent love. Brothers, love is a teacher; but one must know how to
acquire it, for it is hard to acquire, it is dearly bought, it is
won slowly by long labour. For we must love not only occasionally, for
a moment, but for ever. Everyone can love occasionally, even the
wicked can.
My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds
senseless, but it is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing
and blending; a touch in one place sets up movement at the other end
of the earth. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but
birds would be happier at your side- a little happier, anyway- and
children and all animals, if you were nobler than you are now. It's
all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds too,
consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort of transport, and pray
that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy,
however senseless it may seem to men.....
Remember particularly that you cannot be a judge of anyone. For no one can judge a criminal until he recognises that he is just such a criminal as the man standing before him, and that he perhaps is more than all men to blame for that crime. When he understands that, he will be able to be a judge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous myself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If you can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is judging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without reproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same spirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more bitterly than you have done. If, after your kiss, he goes away untouched, mocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling-block to you. It shows his time has not yet come, but it will come in due course. And if it come not, no Matter; if not he, then another in his place will understand and suffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled. Believe that, believe it without doubt; for in that lies all the hope and faith of the saints.
Work without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to
sleep, "I have not done what I ought to have done," rise up at once
and do it. If the people around you are spiteful and callous and
will not hear you, fall down before them and beg their forgiveness;
for in truth you are to blame for their not wanting to hear you. And
if you cannot speak to them in their bitterness, serve them in silence
and in humility, never losing hope. If all men abandon you and even
drive you away by force, then when you are left alone fall on the
earth and kiss it, water it with your tears and it will bring forth
fruit even though no one has seen or heard you in your solitude.
Believe to the end, even if all men went astray and you were left
the only one faithful; bring your offering even then and praise God in
your loneliness. And if two of you are gathered together- then there
is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other
tenderly and praise God, for if only in you two His truth has been
fulfilled....
If the evil-doing of men moves you to indignation and overwhelming
distress, even to a desire for vengeance on the evil-doers, shun above
all things that feeling. Go at once and seek suffering for yourself,
as though you were yourself guilty of that wrong. Accept that
suffering and bear it and your heart will find comfort, and you will
understand that you too are guilty, for you might have been a light to
the evil-doers, even as the one man sinless, and you were not a
light to them. If you had been a light, you would have lightened the
path for others too, and the evil-doer might perhaps have been saved
by your light from his sin. And even though your light was shining,
yet you see men were not saved by it, hold firm and doubt not the
power of the heavenly light. Believe that if they were not saved, they
will be saved hereafter. And if they are not saved hereafter, then
their sons will be saved, for your light will not die even when you
are dead. The righteous man departs, but his light remains. Men are
always saved after the death of the deliverer. Men reject their
prophets and slay them, but they love their martyrs and honor those
whom they have slain. You are working for the whole, are acting for
the future. Seek no reward, for great is your reward on this earth:
the spiritual joy which is only vouchsafed to the righteous man.
Fear not the great nor the mighty, but be wise and ever serene. Know
the measure, know the times, study that. When you are left alone,
pray. Love to throw yourself on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the
earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men,
love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with
the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don't be ashamed of that
ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is
not given to many but only to the elect....
Saturday, July 08, 2017
Dark Eyes
Dark Eyes
(A traditional Russian folk song translated by Greg Pavlik)
The eyes so black, passionate eyes
Fiery eyes, so beautiful!
How I love you - how I fear you!
You know I saw your eyes at the witching hour!
(A traditional Russian folk song translated by Greg Pavlik)
The eyes so black, passionate eyes
Fiery eyes, so beautiful!
How I love you - how I fear you!
You know I saw your eyes at the witching hour!
I cannot explain your deep, deep darkness!
I see a mourning within you for my soul,
I see the flame of triumph within you:
it consumes my sorrowing heart.
It does not make me bitter, it does not make me sad,
This my fate, my consolation:
All that is good is a gift from God,
And I sacrifice it all for those fiery eyes!
Original Russian by the Ukrainian poet and writer Yevhen Hrebinka.
1.
ŠŃŠø ŃŃŃŠ½ŃŠµ, Š¾ŃŠø ŃŃŃŠ°ŃŃŠ½ŃŠµ,
ŠŃŠø Š¶Š³ŃŃŠøŠµ Šø ŠæŃŠµŠŗŃŠ°ŃŠ½ŃŠµ!
ŠŠ°Šŗ Š»ŃŠ±Š»Ń Ń Š²Š°Ń, ŠŗŠ°Šŗ Š±Š¾ŃŃŃ Ń Š²Š°Ń!
ŠŠ½Š°ŃŃ, ŃŠ²ŠøŠ“ŠµŠ» Š²Š°Ń Ń Š² Š½ŠµŠ“Š¾Š±ŃŃŠ¹ ŃŠ°Ń!
2.
ŠŃ , Š½ŠµŠ“Š°ŃŠ¾Š¼ Š²Ń Š³Š»ŃŠ±ŠøŠ½Ń ŃŠµŠ¼Š½ŠµŠ¹!
ŠŠøŠ¶Ń ŃŃŠ°ŃŃ Š² Š²Š°Ń ŠæŠ¾ Š“ŃŃŠµ Š¼Š¾ŠµŠ¹,
ŠŠøŠ¶Ń ŠæŠ»Š°Š¼Ń Š² Š²Š°Ń Ń ŠæŠ¾Š±ŠµŠ“Š½Š¾Šµ:
Š”Š¾Š¶Š¶ŠµŠ½Š¾ Š½Š° Š½ŃŠ¼ ŃŠµŃŠ“ŃŠµ Š±ŠµŠ“Š½Š¾Šµ.
3.
ŠŠ¾ Š½Šµ Š³ŃŃŃŃŠµŠ½ Ń, Š½Šµ ŠæŠµŃŠ°Š»ŠµŠ½ Ń,
Š£ŃŠµŃŠøŃŠµŠ»ŃŠ½Š° Š¼Š½Šµ ŃŃŠ“ŃŠ±Š° Š¼Š¾Ń:
ŠŃŃ, ŃŃŠ¾ Š»ŃŃŃŠµŠ³Š¾ Š² Š¶ŠøŠ·Š½Šø ŠŠ¾Š³ Š“Š°Š» Š½Š°Š¼,
Š Š¶ŠµŃŃŠ²Ń Š¾ŃŠ“Š°Š» Ń Š¾Š³Š½ŠµŠ²ŃŠ¼ Š³Š»Š°Š·Š°Š¼!
I see a mourning within you for my soul,
I see the flame of triumph within you:
it consumes my sorrowing heart.
It does not make me bitter, it does not make me sad,
This my fate, my consolation:
All that is good is a gift from God,
And I sacrifice it all for those fiery eyes!
Original Russian by the Ukrainian poet and writer Yevhen Hrebinka.
1.
ŠŃŠø ŃŃŃŠ½ŃŠµ, Š¾ŃŠø ŃŃŃŠ°ŃŃŠ½ŃŠµ,
ŠŃŠø Š¶Š³ŃŃŠøŠµ Šø ŠæŃŠµŠŗŃŠ°ŃŠ½ŃŠµ!
ŠŠ°Šŗ Š»ŃŠ±Š»Ń Ń Š²Š°Ń, ŠŗŠ°Šŗ Š±Š¾ŃŃŃ Ń Š²Š°Ń!
ŠŠ½Š°ŃŃ, ŃŠ²ŠøŠ“ŠµŠ» Š²Š°Ń Ń Š² Š½ŠµŠ“Š¾Š±ŃŃŠ¹ ŃŠ°Ń!
2.
ŠŃ , Š½ŠµŠ“Š°ŃŠ¾Š¼ Š²Ń Š³Š»ŃŠ±ŠøŠ½Ń ŃŠµŠ¼Š½ŠµŠ¹!
ŠŠøŠ¶Ń ŃŃŠ°ŃŃ Š² Š²Š°Ń ŠæŠ¾ Š“ŃŃŠµ Š¼Š¾ŠµŠ¹,
ŠŠøŠ¶Ń ŠæŠ»Š°Š¼Ń Š² Š²Š°Ń Ń ŠæŠ¾Š±ŠµŠ“Š½Š¾Šµ:
Š”Š¾Š¶Š¶ŠµŠ½Š¾ Š½Š° Š½ŃŠ¼ ŃŠµŃŠ“ŃŠµ Š±ŠµŠ“Š½Š¾Šµ.
3.
ŠŠ¾ Š½Šµ Š³ŃŃŃŃŠµŠ½ Ń, Š½Šµ ŠæŠµŃŠ°Š»ŠµŠ½ Ń,
Š£ŃŠµŃŠøŃŠµŠ»ŃŠ½Š° Š¼Š½Šµ ŃŃŠ“ŃŠ±Š° Š¼Š¾Ń:
ŠŃŃ, ŃŃŠ¾ Š»ŃŃŃŠµŠ³Š¾ Š² Š¶ŠøŠ·Š½Šø ŠŠ¾Š³ Š“Š°Š» Š½Š°Š¼,
Š Š¶ŠµŃŃŠ²Ń Š¾ŃŠ“Š°Š» Ń Š¾Š³Š½ŠµŠ²ŃŠ¼ Š³Š»Š°Š·Š°Š¼!
Sunday, June 18, 2017
The river floes break in spring... take 2
Alexander Blok
The river floes break in spring...
March 1902
translation by Greg Pavlik
The river floes break in spring,
And for the dead I feel no sorrow -
Toward new summits I am rising,
Forgetting crevasses of past striving,
I see the blue horizon of tomorrow.
What regret, in fire and smoke,
the lament of the cross,
With each hour, with each stroke -
Or instead - the heavens’ gift stoked,
from the bush burnt without loss!
Original:
ŠŠµŃŠ½Š° Š² ŃŠµŠŗŠµ Š»Š¾Š¼Š°ŠµŃ Š»ŃŠ“ŠøŠ½Ń,
Š Š¼ŠøŠ»ŃŃ Š¼ŠµŃŃŠ²ŃŃ Š¼Š½Šµ Š½Šµ Š¶Š°Š»Ń:
ŠŃŠµŠ¾Š“Š¾Š»ŠµŠ² Š¼Š¾Šø Š²ŠµŃŃŠøŠ½Ń,
ŠŠ°Š±ŃŠ» Ń Š·ŠøŠ¼Š½ŠøŠµ ŃŠµŃŠ½ŠøŠ½Ń
Š Š²ŠøŠ¶Ń Š³Š¾Š»ŃŠ±ŃŃ Š“Š°Š»Ń.
Š§ŃŠ¾ ŃŠ¾Š¶Š°Š»ŠµŃŃ Š² Š“ŃŠ¼Ń ŠæŠ¾Š¶Š°ŃŠ°,
Š§ŃŠ¾ ŃŠ¾ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°ŃŃŃŃ Ń ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°,
ŠŠ¾Š³Š“Š° Š²ŃŠµŃŠ°ŃŠ½Š¾ Š¶Š“Ń ŃŠ“Š°ŃŠ°
ŠŠ»Šø Š±Š¾Š¶ŠµŃŃŠ²ŠµŠ½Š½Š¾Š³Š¾ Š“Š°ŃŠ°
ŠŠ· ŠŠ¾ŠøŃŠµŠµŠ²Š° ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°!
ŠŠ°ŃŃ
1902
Translators note: I updated this after some reflection. The original translation used the allegorical imagery that would have been common in patristic writing and hence Russian Orthodoxy. For example, I used the image of Aaron's rod in lieu of the word "cross", which appears in Russian (ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°). The rod of Aaron was commonly understood to be a type of the cross in traditional readings of Old Testament Scriptures. Similarly, the final line of Blok's poem "ŠŠ· ŠŠ¾ŠøŃŠµŠµŠ²Š° ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°" literally translates to "from Moses's Bush". In my original translation, I rendered the final line "from the bush of Moses, the Mother of God". Since at least the 4th century, the burning bush was interpreted as a type of Mary, the Theotokos (or God-bearer) in the patristic literature (see for example, Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Moses). In Russian iconography there is even an icon type of the Mother of God called the Unburnt Bush. While the use of "rod" and "Mother of God" allowed me to maintain the rhyme pattern (rod/God in place of ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°/ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°) of the original poem, it created a awkward rhythm to the poem, especially in the final line. It also added explicit allusions to patristic images that are not explicitly present in the original poem, perhaps fundamentally altering the author's intention. A neat experiment but also one that I think ultimately failed.
The new translation returns to a more literal translation without allegory: "ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°" means simply cross and that is how the poem now reads. The final line has been abbreviated from my original translation, though somewhat less literal - "ŠŠ· ŠŠ¾ŠøŃŠµŠµŠ²Š° ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°" is now rendered as "from the bush burnt without loss" rather than the literal "from Moses's bush" or the more awkward original translation "From the Bush of Moses, the Mother of God". The new translation I believe captures more closely the original meaning and manages to maintain at least the rhyme pattern of the original (now cross/loss in place of ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°/ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°). Overall, this is far from a perfect translation but I think it is an improvement.
The new translation returns to a more literal translation without allegory: "ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°" means simply cross and that is how the poem now reads. The final line has been abbreviated from my original translation, though somewhat less literal - "ŠŠ· ŠŠ¾ŠøŃŠµŠµŠ²Š° ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°" is now rendered as "from the bush burnt without loss" rather than the literal "from Moses's bush" or the more awkward original translation "From the Bush of Moses, the Mother of God". The new translation I believe captures more closely the original meaning and manages to maintain at least the rhyme pattern of the original (now cross/loss in place of ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°/ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°). Overall, this is far from a perfect translation but I think it is an improvement.
One final comment about Blok himself that perhaps illustrates why I am still conflicted about the changes to final line: Blok was a master of the Symbolist movement in Russian poetry, wherein he worked unconventional rhythms and rhyming into his poetry. On that score, I feel somewhat more at liberty to ignore the meter of the original and attempt to express something of a musical quality in English. However, Blok was also deeply influenced by the great philosopher Vladimir Soloviev, a proponent of Sophiology in the Russian intellectual tradition. This led to him writing many of his early poetic compositions about the Fair Lady, Sophia the embodiment of Wisdom. It is with this in mind that I feel some regret at removing the reference to the Mother of God, a human embodiment/enhypostatization of Divine Wisdom.
Friday, April 14, 2017
We're All In This Thing Together
This song pretty much summarizes everything I've learned to be true about life after nearly five decades of living...
Well my friend, well I see your face so clear
Little bit tired, a little worn through the years
You sound nervous, you seem alone
I hardly recognize your voice on the telephone
In between I remember
Just before we wound up broken down
We'd drive out to the edge of the highway
Follow that lonesome dead-end roadside sound
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
Well my friend let's put this thing together
And walk the path that worn out feet have trod
If you wanted we can go home forever
Give up your jaded ways, spell your name to God
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
All we are is a picture in a mirror
Fancy shoes to grace our feet
All that there is is a slow road to freedom
Heaven above and the devil beneath
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
Well my friend, well I see your face so clear
Little bit tired, a little worn through the years
You sound nervous, you seem alone
I hardly recognize your voice on the telephone
In between I remember
Just before we wound up broken down
We'd drive out to the edge of the highway
Follow that lonesome dead-end roadside sound
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
Well my friend let's put this thing together
And walk the path that worn out feet have trod
If you wanted we can go home forever
Give up your jaded ways, spell your name to God
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
All we are is a picture in a mirror
Fancy shoes to grace our feet
All that there is is a slow road to freedom
Heaven above and the devil beneath
We're all in this thing together
Walkin' the line between faith and fear
This life don't last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
The river floes break in spring...
Alexander Blok
The river floes break in spring...
March 1902
translation by Greg Pavlik
The river floes break in spring,
And for the dead I feel no sorrow -
Toward new summits I am rising,
Forgetting crevasses of past striving,
I see the blue horizon of tomorrow.
What regret, in fire and smoke,
What agony of Aaron’s rod,
With each hour, with each stroke -
Or instead - the heavens’ gift stoked,
From the Bush of Moses, the Mother of God!
Original:
ŠŠµŃŠ½Š° Š² ŃŠµŠŗŠµ Š»Š¾Š¼Š°ŠµŃ Š»ŃŠ“ŠøŠ½Ń,
Š Š¼ŠøŠ»ŃŃ Š¼ŠµŃŃŠ²ŃŃ Š¼Š½Šµ Š½Šµ Š¶Š°Š»Ń:
ŠŃŠµŠ¾Š“Š¾Š»ŠµŠ² Š¼Š¾Šø Š²ŠµŃŃŠøŠ½Ń,
ŠŠ°Š±ŃŠ» Ń Š·ŠøŠ¼Š½ŠøŠµ ŃŠµŃŠ½ŠøŠ½Ń
Š Š²ŠøŠ¶Ń Š³Š¾Š»ŃŠ±ŃŃ Š“Š°Š»Ń.
Š§ŃŠ¾ ŃŠ¾Š¶Š°Š»ŠµŃŃ Š² Š“ŃŠ¼Ń ŠæŠ¾Š¶Š°ŃŠ°,
Š§ŃŠ¾ ŃŠ¾ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°ŃŃŃŃ Ń ŠŗŃŠµŃŃŠ°,
ŠŠ¾Š³Š“Š° Š²ŃŠµŃŠ°ŃŠ½Š¾ Š¶Š“Ń ŃŠ“Š°ŃŠ°
ŠŠ»Šø Š±Š¾Š¶ŠµŃŃŠ²ŠµŠ½Š½Š¾Š³Š¾ Š“Š°ŃŠ°
ŠŠ· ŠŠ¾ŠøŃŠµŠµŠ²Š° ŠŗŃŃŃŠ°!
ŠŠ°ŃŃ
1902
Sunday, May 01, 2016
Why I am a Dostoevskyan Humanist
An explanation in 5 parts, by reference to the works of those who were not.*
'Lo! I show you the Last Man.
"What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?" -- so asks the Last Man, and blinks.
The earth has become small, and on it hops the Last Man, who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable as the flea; the Last Man lives longest.
"We have discovered happiness" -- say the Last Men, and they blink.
They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him; for one needs warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbles over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams. And much poison at the end for a pleasant death.
One still works, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becomes poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wants the same; everyone is the same: he who feels differently goes voluntarily into the madhouse.
"Formerly all the world was insane," -- say the subtlest of them, and they blink.
They are clever and know all that has happened: so there is no end to their derision. People still quarrel, but are soon reconciled -- otherwise it upsets their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.
"We have discovered happiness," -- say the Last Men, and they blink.'
"What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?" -- so asks the Last Man, and blinks.
The earth has become small, and on it hops the Last Man, who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable as the flea; the Last Man lives longest.
"We have discovered happiness" -- say the Last Men, and they blink.
They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him; for one needs warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbles over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams. And much poison at the end for a pleasant death.
One still works, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becomes poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wants the same; everyone is the same: he who feels differently goes voluntarily into the madhouse.
"Formerly all the world was insane," -- say the subtlest of them, and they blink.
They are clever and know all that has happened: so there is no end to their derision. People still quarrel, but are soon reconciled -- otherwise it upsets their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.
"We have discovered happiness," -- say the Last Men, and they blink.'
Friedrich
Nietzsche: Thus Spoke Zarathustra
The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb, Hans Holbein
“All actual life is encounter.”
Martin Buber, I and Thou
Martin Buber, I and Thou
“It is not the responsibility of knights errant to discover whether the
afflicted, the enchained and the oppressed whom they encounter on the
road are reduced to these circumstances and suffer this distress for
their vices, or for their virtues: the knight's sole responsibility is
to succour them as people in need, having eyes only for their
sufferings, not for their misdeeds.”
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote
“Wherever an altar is found, there is civilization."
Joseph de Maistre
* model for composition stolen gratuitously from an online challenge.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Something Amiss
Looks like this curious non-review of the novel Laurus seems to
have been referring to "Brahmins" as "Brahman" - I suppose republished to correct the mistake:
Russian Brahman by Alan Jacobs | Articles | First Things
www.firstthings.com/article/2016/04/russian-brahman
First Things
Russian Brahmin by Alan Jacobs | Articles | First Things
www.firstthings.com/article/2016/04/russian-brahmin
First Things
Whatever his problematic grasp on Hindu concepts, it's obvious Jacobs knows little to nothing about the tradition of Russian yurodivy, which makes this review overall kind of silly at best. Interested readers can refer to the hagiographies of Xenia of Petersburg or Feofil of the Kiev Caves Lavra to become acquainted with some of the conceptual background to the novel, both published by the monastery press in Jordanville, NY in English. As a complement the Pavel Lungin movie Ostrov is worth watching carefully - the film is based partly on Feofil, though like the life of St Xenia, it explores the theme of vicarious repentance. (It was not until the third time I saw the film that I fully grasped it - the visuals are stunning and in many respects a distraction.)
On a similar vein, the reviewer seems to be unaware of the standard - far too standard to be universal in fact - Eastern Christian view of the spiritual life: purification, illumination and theosis. This is particularly strong in the present tense Eastern Orthodox tradition with the popularization on the compendium of texts on prayer from the patristic and medieval eras known as the Philokalia, so there should be no surprise that it is echoed by a Russian Orthodox novelist writing about a fictional early Russian spiritual figure. These are themes that recur in entirely secular Russian literature as well as, for example, the surrealist Vladimir Sorokin. Mistaking normative Eastern Christianity with Hindu/Dharmic spirituality seems like a fundamental error that even a high school student would have avoided. I am astonished by this given the relative popularity of the Way of the Pilgrim, which contextualized the Philokalia in 19th century Russian spirituality explicitly. This, I fear, provides an acute illustration of the siloing of intellectual life in America these days (if not a somewhat obvious poverty).
All of that aside, what continues to trouble me in general is the fact that most of the reviews of Laurus that I've seen have been oriented toward theological critiques - endorsements or arguments revolving around the reviewer's reading of what the author might want us to think about religion. And yet it is obvious that Vodolazkin did not write a religious apologetic (Jacobs invokes Karamazov, which is simultaneously a religious argument and a humanistic work - but Laurus is anything but the former). Laurus deserves a review as a work of notable - even great - world literature: which is to say first and foremost an exploration of what Vodolazkin is attempting to accomplish as a writer and what that has produced as a work of literature. The lack of serious analysis is particularly puzzling given the devices Vodolazkin uses to deal with language, identity, personality, relationship, and - yes - time. We could do with a few less sermons and a bit more thought.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)