LITERATURE: The Consolation – Perfection

As I come to the end of Book III, all the while watching Boethius nodding his head wildly excited in agreement with Philosophy’s logic, I am suspicious of the steps I’ve been taking in the thought process, and wonder indeed if logic itself forms many branches to arrive at a single conclusion.

In this latest idea of unity–the fragments of happiness would not be the whole, and they depend upon each other, are in fact one and the same–is a bit contrived I might suggest.  Then too, Nature and God may be seen as one power, the ultimate good, or having come by the perfection of a Supreme Being, having that nature of inability to accept its opposite. 

This takes more explaining, to you here who have not read or don’t remember, and to me, busy trying to punch holes in the veil Philosophy puts before my eyes.

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LITERATURE: Mrs. Kimble – Paths

Happily, all paths are crossing and coming around nicely to the third section of the book, and thus, most likely Ken Kimble’s third wife, Dinah.  My problem here seems to be though that all are too conveniently interconnected.

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LITERATURE: The Consolation – Logic

I’m reading this a bit harder now, resistant to its all-too-easy message.  I am questioning the logic, as if it is twisted to produce rather than by strict deduction.  I need go back–or simply be more cautious in the forward reading–and pay more attention to those qualms of doubt.

In my mind I realize the implications, and also that I need not accept these words of Boethius.  In my mind, I recall my stubborn inability to assume, but rather take the mark of incorrect:  Assume that all redheads are bad-tempered; Jane is a redhead; therefore, Jane is bad-tempered.

Every fiber of my being shouts NO! 

Maybe just my inability to take direction, but tendency instead to ramble, stumble through this lifetime trying to find my own.  I seek, I think, unhappiness or rather, exquisite happiness to be proven to exist. 

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LITERATURE: The Consolation – The Answer…

…is in God.

"Grant, Oh Father, that my mind may rise to Thy sacred throne.  Let it see the fountain of good; let it find light, so that the clear light of my soul may fix itself in Thee.  Burn off the fogs and clouds of earth and shine through in Thy splendor.  For Thou art the serenity, the tranquil peace of virtuous men.  The sight of Thee is beginning and end; one guide, leader, path, and goal."  (Part III, Poem 9, p. 54) 

As I suspected, a belief in something other-worldly must exist to accept the principles of happiness that can only be found in the perfection offered by a Supreme Being, and untainted by the way of man–as everything upon this earth appears to be.

To forego any belief and trust in happiness upon this earth except in that knowledge and firm conviction that there is a great beyond this lifetime…well, that takes faith.  Boethius probably has it. 

But then again, if this belief itself, this trust in soul that flies from earth to live forever on, brings contentment and true happiness to mortal man, what does it matter if it be true or false?  The happiness is here and now, and disappointment is impossible, as if no more exists, then that as well does not.

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REALITY?: Running Hot and Cold

Arizona, flowers bright and vivid blooming on short prickly trees that don’t need trimming.  No grass to cut, sand squishing in between your toes beachlike, but without an ocean rippling in to cool them.  Flat airy houses where eclectic doesn’t seem to fit.  But work is there.

Connecticut, flowers all more vivid for their hiding under snow for half the year.  Soft green grass and colored leaves that leave as litter on a brittle ground of autumn.  Soft white snow for but a day before it’s muddied by the sanders.  And the work is not here. 

It all comes down to nature, down to sand.  Beneath our feet, running down the hourglass.

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LITERATURE: Mrs. Kimble

I’m well rid of Birdie, Mrs. Kimble #1, and into Joan, Ken Kimble’s second wife.  Birdie was a pathetic creature, unable to get over her husband’s leaving her with two small children, and finding comfort in wine.  I was sympathetic to a point–when I found out she was only twenty-six.  Her uselessness and lack of ambition–even in the prefeminist days of 1969–was annoying.  I was around in 1969; women were always strong, they were just loathe to reveal it in ways that made them independent and self-sufficient.  Funny how the housewives of the era are shown to be weak and helpless on their own, yet they ran the households, raised the children, and waltzed around a man whose only required asset was his paycheck while they were married.  It’s not the way it was.

Jennifer Haigh steps up the pace a little bit with Joan’s section, although we still get bogged down in details and are just starting to meet a Ken Kimble character who is still alien to us, a third way into the book.  There is a smooth enough transition into the hop from Birdie to Joan (although Birdie is left standing drunk and sobbing at her father’s funeral) and I hope that we do find out the trailing stories of all the women to bring them back to the present point of the opening–Ken Kimble’s death.

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LITERATURE: The Consolation – In Action

No lesson is learned the better than when lived.  And often that which seemed one way, becomes another when applying a different theory.  That which seemed most difficult to me of Philosophy’s logic was that of honor in striving for achievement. 

"But, when it comes to the location of the good which they desire, they are blind and ignorant.  They dig the earth in search of the good which soars above the star-filled heavens.  What can I say to show what fools they are?  Let them pursue their riches and honors and, when they have painfully accumulated their false goods, then they may come to recognize the true."  (Book III, Poem 8, p. 49)

While I have never had the opportunity nor the urge to accumulate great wealth, honor that comes with earning and hard effort has always been of great–and now I see, unjustified–importance.  For that which can be too readily conferred is not worth holding as a source of happiness.  The satisfaction is in the having done, but must be done with and one must move beyond. In understanding pride and honor,its transient nature need be seen as such.  Last night I learned to apply this reasoning to an event in a forewarning manner, instead of searching through memory to depend upon the understanding.  Lesson learned.

I see where Boethius, through Philosophy, is heading, and in wrapping up Book III, he starts to create the alternate lifestyle that can (he claims) offer true happiness.  Nature is but a foundation, but it is the false images given it by man that fool him onto the wrong paths.

"Therefore, that which is self-sufficient, which can do everything by its own power, which is honored and famous, is not this also most pleasant and joyful?

(…) "Then," Philosophy went on, "it must be granted that, although the names of sufficiency, power, fame, reverence, and joy are different, in substance all are one and the same thing."

(…) Human depravity, then, has broken into fragments that which is by nature one and simple; men try to grasp part of a thing which has no parts and so get neither the part, which does not exist, nor the whole, which they do not seek."  (Book III, Prose 9, p. 51)

The total package.  Let’s go for it.

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REALITY?: Thoughtfulness

How sweet and kind; a young man just stopped in and brought me a CD of Eva Cassidy to thank me for rushing a frame job through he brought in yesterday for a Valentine’s Gift to his wife.

There really are some good people in this world.  And I don’t mean because he brought me something, because even if he’d just stopped by to let me know that his wife was pleased it would have been enough… 

…in Boethius’ book; in mine as well.

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LITERATURE: Consolation – The Bad Goods

Philosophy sums up the falseness of that which men seek as happiness, and gives her reasons for each being unable to bring true good and happiness to those who take these paths:

"There is no doubt, therefore, that these are the wrong roads to happiness; they cannot take anyone to the destination which they promise.  Let me briefly show you the evils within them.  If you try to accumulate money, you must deprive someone else of it.  If you want to cover yourself with honors, you will become indebted to those who can bestow them; and, by wishing to outdo others in honor, you will humiliate yourself by begging.

"If you want power, you risk the danger of your subjects’ treachery.  if you seek fame, you will become involved in difficulties and lose your security.  If you seek a life of pleasure–but who would not spurn and avoid subjection to so vile and fragile a thing as his body?  Indeed, those who boast of bodily goods are relying on weak and uncertain possessions.  For you are not bigger than an elephant, nor stronger than a bull, nor as quick as a tiger."  (Book III, Prose 8, p. 48)

Put like this, it would seem to be that we’re better off not coming out of the cave.  This all seems so negative–and very close to my own attitude it’s scary.  This "something will go wrong so don’t even try it" formed advice would seem to be anti-happiness in its fear of risk versus rewards.  But this is not truly the advice Philosophy gives, but rather in knowing the risks, know as well the need not to depend upon these things for happiness.

Here is where she will bring in the answer.  Thing is, she’s run out of material things and would then I guess head in the direction of the spiritual, or the gaining of the knowledge.  I’m curious.

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REALITY?: Happiness Blips

"Young man rhythm’s got a hold on me too, I’ve got the rockin’ pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu…"  (Johnny Rivers)

Temp high.  Why?  The temperature’s up and I saw the eagle and the phone rang too.  Temporary, transitory, uncontrolled.  Independent and undependable–I know that.  But not money, or fame or power; comes from nature two out of three.

Boethius might approve if I can’t help a smile.

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LITERATURE: Mrs. Kimble – Inconsistencies

Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s coming off of Marquez, McCarthy, Steinbeck, Faulkner, but I seem to be getting irked by some small inconsistencies in Haigh’s writing.

He came to her silently at night, careful not to wake his parents on the other side of the wall.  She remembered his cold hands under her nightgown, his breath hurried and shallow.  His eyes shut tight, he seemed to disappear inside himself like a turtle retracting its limbs.  The first few times, at Hambley, he’d withdrawn from her, making a mess on the floor; once they were married he simply left the mess inside her.  (p. 42)

Not quite in sync with the already revealed fact that she was pregnant when they married.

She hadn’t thought of Evelyn in years.  It was a special gift of hers; the ability to rewrite past disasters, to unhappen them in her mind.  The worst debacles, her memory simply refused to record, so that there were periods of her life she barely recalled at all: her mother’s illness, the long months after her death.  Birdie’s memories of Missouri stopped after the first year, when the gossip about Ken and Evelyn Luck started.  (p. 43)

She then continues on to tell the story of Evelyn, albeit briefly, but remembered.  Although I do love the line, "to unhappen them in her mind." Then the Kimbles move to a college town, and another affair starts up:

A particular girl called often, first several times a week, then every day.  "This is Moira Snell," she announced each time, as if Birdie should recognize  her name.  Her husky voice became as familiar as that of the weather girl, a plump little blonde who stood in front of a Virginia map on television.

Then one morning the husky-voiced girl came to the house.  She looked nothing like the weather girl: she was tall and thin, her eyes rimmed with dark liner, her hair the color of molasses, hanging straight and shiny down her back.  She wore blue jeans and a blouse that left her shoulders bare.  She wasn’t wearing a bra.  (p. 43)

In the first paragaph, it would certainly seem to me that if Moira called daily, Birdie certainly should recognize her name.  The reference to the weather girl in the first paragraph seems awkward, since its only purpose in the second is to say that Moira looked nothing like the weather girl (why would she?) and there was no comparison made between the voice either.

Perhaps I’m just being too picky, but the author seems to want to draw our attention to details, but the details don’t add up to either enhance or reinforce any point.  This is where good editing would have helped, I think, to make the narrative smoother and more tuneful.  Language shouldn’t make one halt and wonder in the way of Huh? unless its so damn good that it’s an Ohmygod sort of Huh? immediately followed by a wow.

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LITERATURE: Mrs. Kimble

Fifty pages into this novel, and there’s basically a good developing story of the first Mrs. Kimble as it plays out after her husband’s left her.  Birdie is a drinker, trying to get a job and raise her two children by herself after starting out as attempting to fit the role of minister’s wife.  We’re led around both by Charlie, her six-year-old who understands his mother’s problems but naturally gets upset at the lack of food, as well as Birdie herself in the active plot. 

The story’s believable but a bit slow.  While it seems that everyone Birdie runs across is given a physical description, the repetition of short sentences and overload of needless information drags on the pace of the story.  Within this structure, we go back in time to establish what got Birdie to this point. 

There are also a few nitpicky things that bother me in the language:

Reverend Kimble directed the choir with watery strokes, eyes closed, a heaviness in his fingertips, as if they’d been dipped in something sweet and elastic.  (p. 27)

Her grandfather had owned a vineyard that produced a sweet, cloudy wine he called Tidewater Tea.  (p. 37)

She glanced at the luncheonette window, at the HELP WANTED sign affixed with yellow tape, the letters barely discernible, faded by the sun. (p. 39)

Outside the sky was bottle blue, clear as glass; the sidewalks were busy with shoppers. (p. 39)

On the first quoted sentence, I don’t quite get the picture of "watery stroke" especially when complicated by sweet and elastic.  I get the general idea, but am not wild about the imagery.

On the second, I don’t really know about "cloudy" wine except that it hasn’t been fined or settled  properly.  Another reference early in the book described Birdie’s teeth as "stained blue from wine."  While I know that red wine turns blue in the presence of detergent, I’m not sure anyone’s teeth ever turned blue from wine.

On the third, Birdie is reading this sign from inside the diner.  I would assume it would be read in mirror image and while that can be assumed, it’s a detail that could have been more intense based on its symbol of desperation, but instead, some of the other less important sights are given much more import.

On the last, bottle blue is usually pretty dark, but that aside, the glass of the bottle as relating to the "clear" of the sky seems to be the wrong understanding of clear.  Clear as unmarked is one thing, clear as transparent is another.  This doesn’t reflect a sky unless there’s something beyond the sky that we can see through it.

But then there’s this that is wonderful, where Birdie’s children have broken a jar of pickles in a small store:

The jar seemed to float in the air forever.  Now, Charlie thought, and it obeyed, landing with a satisfying crash.  The pickles looked soft and alive on the cement floor.  For a moment he expected them to skitter away, like wild things that had been kept as pets. (p. 16)

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LITERATURE: Consolation – On Money

Perhaps I should read through to the end before I post on this or any other book, because I change with it as clarifications are made, but the arguments along the way are some fun too.  I don’t mind admitting when I’m finally convinced I’m wrong, nor balk at changing mind in view of it; in fact, it seems a lifting of the veil and sparks, I’m sure, a great Hurrah! among those who watch my faltering steps to gain my footing up the mountain.

Here, Philosophy uses the material form of wealth to illustrate her principle:

"And now let us see whether riches really drive away need.  Don’t the wealthy become hungry and thirsty; don’t they feel the cold in the winter?  You may argue that they have the means to satisfy their hunger and thirst, and to protect themselves against the cold.  Nevertheless, the needs remain, and riches can only minimize them.  For if needs are always present and making demands which must be met by spending money, clearly there will always be some need which is unsatisfied.  And here I do not press the point that, although nature makes very modest demands, avarice is never satisfied.  My present point is simply this:  if riches cannot eliminate need, but on the contrary create new demands, what makes you suppose that they can provide satisfaction?"  (Book III, Prose 3, p. 42)

This is a very pointed and logical way of reasoning.  And the only thought that I take issue with is the basis on which Philosophy claims that new demands are created.  The following is the pre-argument for the above. 

"Then wealth cannot give a man everything and make him entirely self-sufficient, even though this is what money seems to promise.  But I think it most important to observe that there is nothing in the nature of wealth to prevent its being taken from those who have it.

(…) "And why shouldn’t you agree, since every day those who are powerful enough snatch it from those who are weaker.  In fact, most lawsuits are concerned with efforts to recover money taken by violence or fraud.

(…) "Therefore, a man needs the help of others to protect his money.

(…) "But he wouldn’t need it, if he had no money to lose.

(…) "Well then, the situation is upside down; for riches, which are supposed to make men self-sufficient, actually make them dependent on the help of others."  (p.42)

I do understand the concept, and the bitter reality of it, but would argue that it not be a preassumed stand that "man needs the help of others to protect his money".  This is what Philosophy claims as the basis for its inability to promote self-sufficiency.  We must assume the evil nature of man who lusts after his neighbor’s wealth, or, in a more grassroots manner, even assume that if a man, let’s say, has wealth dependent upon his lands, he himself is dependent upon the work of others to bring it to fruition. 

But I argue none too emphatically as Philosophy is being practical and realistic rather than suiting her arguments to an idealistic world.

That’s okay; I’m sure I’ll find something else to question as I go along.

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REALITY?: Proofreading

And so I sit, poring over two legal contracts, ink spread blurry in their facsimile form, with magnifying glass in hand to help clarify the handwritten notes.  The last few times, the last few unsigned contracts, one alone held eighteen errors.  I grow bitter and resigned to this incompetence and deceit and yet go on.  Things I want not to know are made the clearest.  "Solomonette" someone had dubbed me, but justice has weighed heavy on my head and questions its own sense.  Fortune and Misfortune go hand in hand and what, as Boethius says, are their nature after all, but temporary. But enduring are their effects when fraught with man’s intentions thus discovered.  An overwhelming sadness accompanies any hope an offer brings.

And still my hair is ever growing greyer and my eyes are weary for the sharpening.

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LITERATURE: The Study of It

"It usually happens with poetry, but sometimes with certain short stories or novels, too: a student says, "Why can’t they just write it so people can understand?" And everyone in the class nods in agreement. Because what we read should be written so that we can understand it. It should not be unduly difficult, it should not make us feel stupid, it should not be what we don’t like. It should be accessible, transparent—a clear window on a bright day; not a mirror, not a wall."

Excellent post by Matt Cheney at Strange Horizons regarding the accessibility of written language in story form.  Thanks to Jeff at Vanderworld for the point.

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