LITERATURE: Chekhov’s La Gigale

Despite the length of Chekhov's stories and the intricate details he gives as he builds plot, there is a flawlessness in his manner of captivating the reader into feeling he/she understands exactly what's going on with the characters. There is an almost gossipy tone, or cattiness in the telling, so subtle yet the reader cannot miss it. It is tongue-in-cheek; truth hidden behind a mask of polite story.

At Olga Ivanovna's wedding, all who knew her were present.
"Look at him" she said to her friends, pointing to her husband, seeming to wish to explain why she had married an ordinary man, who had nothing about him. (p. 16)

It's amazing. With that simple opening we are already aware of the main character and the possible conflicts: Olga married someone she doesn't feel measures up to the standards of her friends; their opinions are very important to her; she is likely a petty, silly woman.

Chekhov then goes on to describe some of those friends, all are "considered celebrities" in some artistic field, artists, writers, musicians, singers, who in Olga's mind are of higher social importance than her husband, a well known doctor. Chekhov gives us insight into these people in a simple statement:

In the midst of this society Dymov himself felt strange, superfluous and small, though he was tall and broad-shouldered. It appeared to them as if he were in another man's dress-coat, and that he had the beard of an office clerk. However, if he had been a writer or an artist, they would have said that with his beard he reminded them of Zola. (p. 17)

How skillfully Chekhov shows us that the husband Dymov understands his wife's friends' opinions and is a bit intimidated but still remains a gracious host, and where the group's concerns are with their self-centered egos and phony values.

Chekhov's female protagonists are very often a narcissistic fluff of a woman, over-dramatic and useless yet so passionate about their whims that they self-righteously believe that whomever is damaged in their efforts are fair wages of war. They recognize their selfishness, their blindness to the "good" man they have treated so horribly, but with a twist of the knife, Chekhov likes to make it just a few minutes too late for any redemption.

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WRITING: Writers as Fools

It seems that the author–or his/her publisher–I've tried to graciously instruct against leaving his/her self-marketing blurbs as spam comments on this weblog isn't smart enough to take the hint and attempted to place two more comments this morning before I took the time and trouble to block any further commenting.

But I will give them the notoriety they seek by publishing the name of the author: S. G. Kiner (commenter using M. L. Kiner) and the publishing house (POD) as Strategic Book Publishing Co. sans links because I've found that anyone Googling them is likely to land on this post as well and see the reality beyond the hype and the lengths to which self publishing can sink. This gives me great pleasure.

In checking out this first book by this author on Amazon, I find two reviews and the obvious: glowing, long, overstated, by reviewers who have not reviewed any other books for Amazon; in other words, likely written by friends, family or the author himself.

There are loads of good writers out there. I think that I have been one of the most active in encouraging others in their writing endeavors and a cheerleader for good writers and for friends who are striving to be published or to improve their work, but I will not be used by some bozo to sell books.There is no reason to use spam as a marketing tool if you're any damn good at all.

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LITERATURE: Next Up – William Gibson’s Neuromancer

Evidently I can't copy and paste Amazon's book image (which only means that they don't get the link back to them either) but after running through some of my choices, I've pulled this out and read the first couple of pages.

This is very different from what I've been reading lately, and yet my reading roots are in horror and sci fi so it'll be like visiting an old friend. The opening scene, oddly enough, reminds me of A Clockwork Orange in the oddity of the language, the words and thus the characters that seem alien to us.

Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay.

Should be interesting.

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LITERATURE: The Reivers – Finale

A delightful, fast-paced ending to this story and once again I find myself loving Faulkner's style. Though I struggled through (thought it terribly plodding) the first quarter of the book that set up the environment and the characters, the base he laid down for us clearly had a purpose in that we become comfortable with the characters, already know how they interact, and then can more easily see them more intimately as they face the conflicts of Faulkner's tale.

Just as with his characters, Faulkner lays down a simple base situation and then creates the complications that keep one on edge. A stolen automobile turns into a trade-off for a horse that makes a race necessary to win back the car. The horse is known to balk at running ahead and then we find the horse has been stolen prior to being traded so there is that extra need to sneak around as more folk get involved. Faulkner gives us side stories too; the whorehouse with Miss Reba, and Miss Corrie who is inspired by Lucius not to ply her trade but find a decent way to make a living–which of course messes up Boon Hoggenbeck's plans and causes even more trouble with the southern lawman Butch.

But the characters, and the close look at their personal interactions and particularly the way black and white keep close yet at a distance to each other is the heart of the story. Ned is not what he seems, he is a clever man who knows the ways of blacks and whites both and knows how to fit in either world to suit himself without compromise. And Faulkner shows us the differences between the cultures and yet ends the story with the Boss and Colonel Lincomb and Mr. van Tosch, the horse's owner, wheeling and dealing on the final outcome of a race with the same sense of finagling that Ned applied.

There are themes that run through the story that hold it together beyond the racial issues and the friendships; Minnie's gold tooth that means so much to her that the boy Otis steals. The evil natures of Otis and Butch against the honesty of Lucius or Ned. The ability to change, or strive to improve by watching others and learning; this comes to Lucius, of course, as an eleven year-old boy who learns he can lie and steal and yet shows others how he keeps his promises, is loyal, and willing to defend the dignity of others, as he does with Miss Corrie. Boon Hoggenbeck gets himself into more trouble than ever simply by the boy's influence and example.

Faulkner has each character wanting something and shows how they will go about getting it; this is a major element of fiction and he has endowed each of the main characters with a desire, a means, and an ultimate decision to make and they all come out finding what they need at a price they were willing to pay.

Loved the story, loved the intricacy of the plots that Faulkner neatly brought together through introductions of new characters and conflicts. All I need to remember is that starting a Faulkner novel is the toughest part; enjoying and finishing it is easy.

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LITERATURE: The Reivers – The Heart and Soul

Forgive the language that's considered politically incorrect as a racial slur now –it had a different, less evil meaning in the era of the story, simply meaning what 'black' or African American means today (except coming from the mouth of Butch Lovemaiden, the stereotypical Southern lawman, whose "boy," is no less demeaning)–but this explanation of Ned's as answer to the Colonel's question of behavior is priceless:

"You can't know," Ned said. "You're the wrong color. If you could just be a nigger one Saturday night, you wouldn't never want to be a white man again as long as you live." (p. 291)

There's pride in that, and each man treats the other with respect though a difference in social status and culture is certainly accepted as a natural state of being. These families have crossed racial barriers in their bloodlines, and without hesitation acknowledge it without shame or concern, and yet the wall stands more because of social status than color, though color certainly marks the division as clearly as football jerseys at a game.

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LITERATURE: The Reivers – Fiction as a Time Capsule

Faulkner wrote this novel, his last, in 1961–it was published in 1962, the year that he died at age 65. The story takes place in the present, that is, around the 60s when one considers that the narrator is in the present, telling a story that happened to him back fifty years ago, or around 1905. Faulkner's own life span corresponds somewhat to the time frame, his being around the same age as the narrator as a child. What makes this interesting then, is adding in the time factor of the era in which it is being read, for example, my reading of it in the year 2009.

So much had changed in the American South between 1905 and 1960 and particularly in the areas of race and gender rights and struggles on which Faulkner focuses. I have been through Georgia on a road trip back in '61; though I was only a kid myself I do remember the separate public bathrooms for blacks and whites. Here, nearly a half century later things have changed so very much again, striving for a balance and equality of spirit that transcends the legal letter of the law that was itself so ponderously slow in coming.

How different do we read a book then, a story that encapsulates a time period of which we have little knowledge except from slanted history texts, if not through those who've been there, who write the feeling rather than the flatness of the time?

And meanwhiles, stop fretting about that gal, now you done said your say to Boon Hoggenbeck. Hitting a woman don't hurt her because a woman don't shove back at a lick like a man do; she just gives to it and then when your back is turned, reaches for the flatiron or the butcher knife. That's why hitting them don't break nothing; all it does is just black her eye or cut her mouf a little. And that ain't nothing to a woman. Because why? Because what better sign than a black eye or a cut mouf can a woman want from a man that he got her on his mind?"  (p. 263)

Then again, I guess some things take longer to change.

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REALITY?: Marriage is…

…finding ways to make each other laugh when maybe no one else would think it's funny.

On weekends when I take a shower and he's sitting at his computer in the office directly across from the bathroom, he wolf-whistles as I step out naked from the shower. It's a silly little thing he always does and after nineteen years I say 'thank you" as automatically as he whistles at me without even turning away from the monitor.

This morning, as I stand there, kick off my slippers, still fully-robed, he stands in the hall with the last of our conversation and a cup of coffee. I pull off a kneesock. He whistles. I stare down at my bare foot and up at him and we laugh.

See?  I knew that no one else would think it's funny.

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REALITY?: Healthcare

After spending almost all of yesterday coming up with figures and ideas to help comprehend my own feeling that we should step away from the idea of insuring every American and head towards the more feasible and reasonable concern that every American should have access to free medical services, I'm sort of feeling that it was a waste of time. For one thing, my betters have argued the point, folks with more intelligence and knowledge than I and yet what seems to me to be a logical and fair distribution and assurance of healthcare for all isn't accepted as such. Only one politician, Dennis Kucinich, comes to mind as having considered this train of thought.

Secondly, I realize that my husband and I may be rather unusual in that we've each had only one major surgery and hospital stay in our lives, haven't gone to doctors on a routine basis until recently, each have maybe one or two emergency room visits, haven't been on prescription medications until recently (he for maybe five years, me, one and half years) and if we have a cold we use cough medicine and chicken soup. Also, when looking at my parents (who died at ages 90 and 92), my mother was in the hospital three times giving birth, once for gall bladder surgery, and then after her final fall, move to a rehab and then to an Alzheimers unit–all of which was a 6 week total term–and my dad's single surgery for appendicitis when he was a kid, I'm safe in saying that we haven't been much of a drain on the system. Maybe we're not your average family.  But there is more information to be found that could give a more accurate picture, such as even this on health care costs by EBRI as well as government statistics. Another good one from Families USA here.

So what my day has resulted in is just this, a 2008 breakdown of our own expenses and costs, and as such, is not likely a valid argument without a larger cross-section of families with which to compare. It did make me a bit more convinced in my own argument however, to at least feel that this course of action should be investigated a bit more throroughly and, of course, to be strongly against any further bailout offering to the insurance industry.

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LITERATURE, WRITING & TECHNOLOGY: Catching the Cliche’

This post from Good Experience, “A Kindle Trick Changes the Reading Experience” found the ability of the Kindle, or likely any equipped e-lit reader, to catch the overused and abused phrase in a piece of work. In this instance, it was the cliche “his heart in his mouth” in the novel Pillars by Ken Follett. It showed up thirteen times–seventeen if you counted those indicating “her” as well.

Since I’m not one of the rich kids on my block, I’m borrowing the example used by Mark Hurst in his post to show the screenshot Kindle comes up with when queried:

pillars-search-page-2-m.gif
While this seems a neat way of finding these problem areas, most word processing programs are capable of doing the same and I don’t know why an author, then his editor, wouldn’t take this track as an easy and more efficient (rather than depending upon memory) manner of catching them. 

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BLOGGING: And the Wayward Writer

Tee-hee. My bad.

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WRITING: Again and Again and Again

Sorta stalled on this latest story, the idea coming at me full tilt and since that's not what I am used to, I feel like I am filling in a form rather than creating a story.

Meanwhile, I go back to the last two stories that I haven't looked at in a couple weeks and see where I could polish, improve, clarify, unclarify, tweak and twiddle until once again I reach that point where they bore or thrill me and I send them out or bury them in the file.

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LITERATURE: The Reivers – Pace

Faulkner has kept this story strictly linear, straight first person narrator, starting with a dramatic opening scene, then continuing with setting up of environment while introducing his characters and their relationships. Pretty straightforward writing style here, and except for the rather overbloated detail of setting up the story, the only literary element missing was a more intense pace.

Now we are starting, with the theft of the automobile, the new characters of the ladies, and the trading of the automobile for a horse that needs to learn how to run and win a race, to have some much-needed action. Now I'm not one who needs action, but we did need something by way of strong conflict at this point of the story, and we get this in the rush to meet a deadliine and the underlying threat to all if they cannot win back the car.

Faulkner is still Faulkner, however; we are gradually finding quite an interesting character developing in Lucius, the eleven year-old narrator. We have already seen him change the character of Boon, and of Miss Corrie. We have seen a change in him as he struggles to become worldy-wise while retaining his own sense of ethics.

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WRITING: Practice on Simile

We age like oaks; grow taller, yes, but thickening too, adding years in rings that bear no diamonds but a measure of what we've learned and when.

We stand firm, losing flexibility yet growing ever upward and branching out. Roots a mirror of our progress.

We reach an age, a day when we can touch the sky–or think we can–and sap climbs slower to force the leaves of great ideas. Eventually, our skins are carved by others who seek endurance in a name.

And when we fall, we may softly turn back into earth in time. Or for a special few, go out in flames that warm the hearts of those we leave behind.

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WRITING: Inspiration vs. Mapping?

Had an interesting conversation last week with Carolyn as to how differently each of us form our narratives. Carolyn goes into quite intricate diagramming of the story before it's written–and while she'd fight me on this likely, Tinderbox or Storyspace would be a delight to her organized mind.

Steve appears to like the involvement of even closer planning as he works in hypertext. Chris is trying out a new way; having been a planner (and involved in creating a hypertext program of his own) and now inspired by that first sentence:

I half-woke up, was thinking about random things when this sentence
popped into my head: “The monsoons made us think of home.” I wrote
maybe two pages of a scene and had no idea where it was going, but the
hard part was over: I had a beginning. I just had to work out what it
meant.

It may move him back into a non-linear format of hypertext even as he begins at a beginning. Nothing is right; nothing is wrong with how one starts and progresses through a story. I've gone back to linear text because the purpose of hypertext doesn't suit me; though when it does, I use it to my own urges rather than formal styles, and that's something I'll likely do with whatever medium or method I explore. Forms are tools, not hard templates to an artist. Else a blank canvas can become a simple paint-by-numbers.

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WRITING: Practice

I watched the wind
hesitate;
in its pause
several salamanders
gripping onto
golden parasols
floated
landed
on the spongey moss
bordering
the garden
waking
fluted daffodils
that yawned
into bloom.

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