LITERATURE: Henderson The Rain King – Foreshadowing and Tension

Bellow does this so smoothly and efficiently that I’m appreciating his writing style more and more.  It is impossible to pick out and lay them all out here, but there are little events, little worries voiced by Henderson in reminding us of what he feels he is, what he’s doing here in Africa, and the colossal mess he’s made of things so far–the frog episode and the dead man in the hut–that have the reader holding his breath as he takes part in the rain ceremony. 

He makes a wager with the King that on this bright, cloudless day no amount of ritualizing can bring rain, and then worries about exactly what the King wants.  The King, Dahfu, has been friendly but cautious and a bit aloof.  He has already explained to Henderson that all his luxuries, his naked women, the rich and gaudy clothing and his tendency to expend little energy are short-lived, and that he will be dethroned and killed when he shows any sign of weakness (Darwin here, survival of the species in action as the strongest, most virile vie for rights to rule and procreate).  Henderson has plenty then to fret about, and as we watch the contest in the arena to pick up and move the heavy statues of the gods in a bid for rain, we know damn well Henderson’s train of thought.

So inflamed was my wish to do something.  For I saw something I could do.  Let these Wariri whom so far (with the corpses in the night and all in all) I didn’t care for–let them be worse than the sons of Sodom and Gomorrah combined, I still couldn’t pass up this opportunity to do, and to distinguish myself.  To work the right stitch into the design of my destiny before it was too late.  (p. 176)

So little by little we realize just as Henderson does, what it may be that he’s looking for.  In the meantime, Bellow grants us that no-don’t go there stomach churn of the adventure novel.

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LITERATURE: Henderson The Rain King – Language, Simile and Wisdom

Bellow uses very out-of-place similes in this adventure in the remotest parts of Africa:

Through my depths as in a tunnel went a shock like the ones big buildings get from trains which pass beneath.  (p. 164)

All the noise had died, had gone like the wrinkles of a cloth under the hot iron. (p. 165)

While we know that Henderson is an American, it seems as if Bellow seeks to remind us with both reference to past events in his life and his similes known only to a civilized contemporary world, that we musn’t get lost with him in the jungle here.  I do find myself very much into Henderson’s experience and already have found that much of his thought is spoken in an oddly formal and yet very colloquial manner:

I was dying to say what I felt  Like, "Oh, King, that was royally done.  Like a true artist.  Goddammit, an artist!  King, I love nobility and beautiful behavior."  But I couldn’t say a thing.  I have this brutal reticence of character.  Such is the slavery of the times. We are supposed to be cool-mouthed.  As I told my son Edward–slavery!  And he thought I was a square when I said I loved the truth.  Oh, that hurt!"  (p. 166)

The mixture makes for interesting reading and pins the character down by its eccentricities.  There may also be another purpose for Bellow’s similes and style besides imagery and grounding, and that may be to specifically contrast the two worlds; the one that Henderson comes from with which we are familiar, to the one we see–and he feels still is the answer he seeks–in this primitive village setting.

One more thing caught me in this portion of the reading, this immediately following the quote above:

Anyway, I often want to say things and they stay in my mind.  Therefore they don’t actually exist; you can’t take credit for them if they never emerge.  (p. 166)

What is Bellow the author, through Henderson, telling us about communication, perhaps writing in particular?

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WRITING: A Twinge

Noticing the incoherent swirl of story as I sit and try to clear my mind of useless thoughts, it hurts me, but I listen, unwilling and unready yet to take another on.

Reluctantly I write them out–the usual persistent insistent voice I’ve long shut ears and mind to till it can no longer be avoided.

Black-fingered dreams held them in, the soft sounds lulling my mind into safely confining pools of shining water where only the good make passage and all others drown.  Dawn’s shrieking sun bleeds through the curtains to threaten with the reality of day.

Tee-hee.  It’s true, whoever I might be reading can inspire but also gravely influence my words.  Augustine must be giggling in his place beside the Great and Holy One.

Perhaps it comes again around, the need to speak in poetry.  Or better, keep silent just a tad bit longer.

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REALITY?: Mornings that Settle the Soul

I love the mornings after a summer rain.  Bluest sky washed of the marks of clouds.  Flowers vibrant, wet, lifting up their heads still crowned by sparkling sunshine caught in raindrops.  Grass is greener, leaves more broadly smiling, waving to each other across the yard.  The sharp clear chirrup of the cardinals comes piercing through the day like sounds of squeaky clean.  Earth no longer dusty brown but rich and deep mahogany.  The air is pure and fresh, and breathfuls penetrate the soul with magic peace.

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REALITY?: Of Storms and Skunks

071307r First there came the smell of smoke but something else…a skunk.  As Jim and I sniffed our way outside the house we confirmed it: either a skunk was running around with his tail aflame, or the neighbors have an odd choice for barbeque tonight.  The sky was brilliant with color, odd layers of colored clouds. A half hour later we had the most lovely thunderstorm.

071307r2

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LITERATURE: Confessions – On Learning Methods

I’m at a point of being stuck for a wee bit as Augustine appears to deride formal education for the more natural method of observation.  But there are a few things that seem necessary to take into account, such as if he is upbraiding himself for taking this path or whether he is questioning teaching methods of forced learning of some directions of study, and of which, the simple staples or the literary prose are indeed the better and more of value.

Piled on top of this I take it are some misjudgments by his peers and scholars of his own station that may color his tone of voice.

So this must be reread, in a quiet room, with the open mind of peace.

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REALITY?: Friday the 13th

It’s always been my lucky day–what, maybe once or twice a year anyhow.  So I saw a doe as I was driving uptown this morning and she stopped by the side of the road and waited until I went by.  That’s lucky.

Then at CVS I picked up a prescription and was rewarded with those $10 free bucks (given after 5 scrips filled) and on the way out found tee-shirts 4/$10.00.  Picked out four for Jim, went up to the register and the girl rang them up for $7.50.  I pointed out the error and she said that no, two of them rang up at $1.25 each.  So I ran back and picked up two more for me and ended up paying $1.25 for 6 tees.

Superstition doesn’t end at picking lucky dates, of course; things have to happen in groups of three.  A phone call completed the charm.

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REALITY?: Topical

Michael of 2 Blowhards has a post with good links to a Mike Steinberger article for Slate regarding one of my other favorite topics, perception.  Check it out: What if You Don’t Taste What I Taste?

To be honest, the only way I’ve been able to make it through and maybe even understand a lot of situations in life is to keep in mind that everyone thinks differently, sees differently, feels differently and chooses accordingly.

It’d be kinda nice though to someday meet somebody who sorta is a bit more along my line of thinking at least sometimes.

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BLOGGING: A Mile Marker

Well here it is, folks, here it is: Spinning post No. 4000.  There were hundreds more on other weblogs, most of which have been wiped out at whim. And here it is, still three months away from my four-year anniversary. That’s 3.93 posts per day.  And, there were some days there where I got all pouty and wouldn’t write.

But this, this is a milestone.  Just think:  four-thousand things to say, to write, to share.  Good God, I fear that maybe I’ve been given only so much and no more and one morning will find me cold dead, with stiff fingers still poised above keyboard, an empty shell drained of all wisdom and wit with nothing left to impart to the world.

Well, that’s it.  That’s all I wanted to say.

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LITERATURE: Henderson The Rain King – Quirks & Motifs

Now something like this would be ripped apart by online critique groups for its obvious point of view faux pas;

I smiled, but I am certain my smile looked like a grievance.  The hairs about my mouth were twisted by it.  (p. 151)

Now that is one of the lesser sins.  Bellow often has his character clearly describing himself as he cannot possibly see to do so.  In the scene above, it is a stretch, but it is possible to allow that Henderson felt and so from experience surmised the twisting hairs of his moustache and beard.  In other areas, however, he is more "out of body" in experiencing his features.

It seems, however, that Bellow does a lot of describing the physical characteristics of the characters.  So much so that it’s dawned on me that Henderson has a clear fascination with the visual externals of those he meets and constantly wonders how he too appears to them.  Face, eyes, lips, nose, size, all float through the book as imagery.  But what more do they mean?  Are they thread tying together the pieces or are they the pattern of narrative?

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BLOGGING: Of Painted Wings and Giant Rings

(God, I love that; I love coming up with a phrase from the past, going with the flow of the writing, remembering to check on the phrase via Google, and finding I remembered it well.  Almost as big a kick as calling upon Spellcheck after a long-winded diatribe and finding no errors.  No real ones anyway; the ones Spellcheck squiggles with green lines are only because Spellcheck’s not as cool as I am.)  Post title from lyrics, Puff The Magic Dragon.

Just a bunch of links that caught my attention this morning and since I have nothing to add but wanted to share them:

From Mark Bernstein, some coverage and thought on blogging and writing and does it help or hinder the so-called expert.

From Mark’s site I wandered a bit (yay! hyperlinks!) to this terrific piece he’s offered on Writing the Living Web.  A small comment here, since Augustine’s Confessions have brought out the Catholic guilt: I have gravely sinned against Tips #5, #6, #7, and most heinously against Tip #3.

At Steve Ersinghaus’ playground of thought, we get some ideas of hands-on iPhone-ing and a confession of reading not being merely enjoyable, but hard work.  His references to Tinderbox and Storyspace, of course, go back to their inventor, Mark Bernstein mentioned above.  Good grief–is the internet shrinking so that we’re already stumbling over each other, just as the airplane made the world smaller?  (This, by the way, is a matter of half empty/half full since the easy travel also expanded one’s world by its access.)

And then on to Scott’s Conversational Reading, where he voices a neat little two-word review of The Salon’s take on Oprah, and in particular, what started this train of thought, her blessing on Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret, a self-help book that promotes the positive thinking will get you anything myth.

Good reading stuff.   

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LITERATURE: Reading Genre

Perhaps a silly thought, or just me being me, or the strange scratching sounds in the dark garage as I sat and pondered life and literature, but I recalled a particular reading feeling from the past, much as you can smell garlic bread from a meal with a lover long gone.

There was a time when I read mysteries–detective, non-fiction, sci fi and horror–almost exclusively and certainly daily, one after another.  Upon occasion I’d pick up something out of keeping, perhaps a classic or a character-focused literary novel.  What I remember feeling is that odd sense of tension unsatisfied (dare I compare it to a sexual experience of not quite reaching that climax?), waiting for the blast and flash of gunfire, a body on the bedroom floor, that No! don’t open the door!  It took a chapter to get over that uncomfortable feeling of stressful letdown. Of course getting back into a Stephen King after that hit twice as hard with the shock.

It makes me wonder then, if this is one of the reasons for the "literary fiction is boring" statements you’ll hear from the diehard action plot-lovers.  There is a "need for speed" that will be lacking in the lovingly prepared prose of the opening setup of many novels that are meant to bring the reader into the story rather than leave him a spectator–albeit a very excited one.  With the ton of diverse reading I’ve been doing in the past couple years, separated more by era and character rather than by pace or number of bodies bleeding out, I think it’s been a case of getting used to the changes, educating the palate to more readily accept both the escargot or the french fry at the first whiff.

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LITERATURE: Confessions – Translation

Being aware of the language use as I read, I’m also aware that unless there’s a copy of the original around to read in the language written by Augustine, the text is subject to the choice of the translator, and therefore, not pure Augustine.  This naturally bothers me.  And why wouldn’t it?  It’s obvious that in English, a teeny comma can change meaning in a sentence.  After four semesters of Spanish, it was even more obvious how difficult it is to capture one language into a fair representation of another.

I’m using Oxford World’s Classics edition, translated by Henry Chadwick (1991), and this comes from Book 1, chapter 12:

If I was conceived in iniquity and in sins my mother nourished me in her womb’ (Ps. 50:7), I ask you, my God, I ask Lord, where and when your servant was innocent?  But of that time i say nothing more.  I feel no sense of responsibility now for a time of which I recall not a single trace.  (p. 10)

Online, I found this translation by Albert C. Outler(1955):

But if “I was conceived in iniquity, and in sin my mother nourished me in her womb," where, I pray thee, O my God, where, O Lord, or when was I, thy servant, ever innocent? But see now, I pass over that period, for what have I to do with a time from which I can recall no memories?

Also online, at Bartleby’s, a Harvard Classic with a translation by Edward Pusey (1909-14):

But if I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me, 28 where, I beseech Thee, O my God, where, Lord, or when, was I Thy servant guiltless? But, lo! that period I pass by; and what have I now to do with that, of which I can recall no vestige?

The first obvious difference is the missing "nourished" in Pusey’s translation.  He also uses beseech in place of ask or pray.  The innocent of Chadwick and Outler’s versions becomes guiltless in Pusey’s. A trace becomes a memory becomes a vestige.  There is an influence of the contemporary as we look at the particular time periods in which the Confessions was translated, and language choice was evidently affected by the translator’s colloquialisms and normal style as well as era.

Basically the meaning among the three remains the same, notwithstanding the tone.  But for the sensitive reader, this is part of the entire reading experience and does indeed change his own interpretation which, of course, is yet another generation of perception.

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LITERATURE: Confessions – On the Nature of Man

There has evidently always been the question of whether the egg or the chicken came first, and Augustine, in this epistle of faith includes science in the form of empirical consideration of infants–thereby acknowledging ignorance of his own infancy and the relationship with all mankind in this instance–addresses the nature of man:

Yet for an infant of that age, could it be reckoned good to use tears in trying to obtain what it would have been harmful to get, to be vehemently indignant at the refusals of free and older people and of parents or many other people of good sense who would not yield to my whims, and to attempt to strike them and to do as much injury as possible?

(…) I have personally watched and studied a jealous baby.  He could not yet speak and, pale with jealousy and bitterness, glared at his brother sharing his mother’s milk.  (p. 9)

Augustine does not merely quote the notion of original sin–a religious belief–but rather backs up his opinion that evil is inherent in man’s nature and must be overcome to be abandoned in favor of the good.  This is a point that has been argued likely for thousands of years and there still is disagreement on it.  Why is it relevant or necessary to know? 

Because society must establish some sort of functioning community and it does that by understanding the natural tendencies of the individual.  Rather than blame upbringing or society alone for spoiling a perfect infant predisposed to do good, it needs to recognize that the tendency leans toward selfishness and disregard for others.  Hence, approach the matter from a different point and adapt a reasonable solution accordingly.

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REALITY?: Heat Hanging

I venture outside to sit in a slow watchful mood.  A monarch butterfly, heat-activated to a frenzy of hang-gliding flight goes by and by and by, with absolutely no destination in mind.

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