Especially compared to Buddhism and Stoicism, there's only a scant popular literature on Epicureanism, which nonetheless has some similarities to thosEspecially compared to Buddhism and Stoicism, there's only a scant popular literature on Epicureanism, which nonetheless has some similarities to those other two philosophical schools, as well as some interesting differences. Wilson's probably the best of those on the topic. This is an odd sort of book, which simultaneously presents a digest of Epicureanism and applies it to contemporary debates, which means a chapter might move from, say, a consideration of ancient Greek philosophy to a very short gloss on abortion, all in a matter of a few paragraphs. I admire what she's trying to do, making the system applicable to current events, but her recitations of those events is sometimes too glib. Nonetheless, for those looking to engage with Epicureanism, this is an excellent book....more
A welcome antidote, though it probably lasts too long, so to speak.
Hecht is smart, and has an encyclopedia approach to her subject: what happiness meaA welcome antidote, though it probably lasts too long, so to speak.
Hecht is smart, and has an encyclopedia approach to her subject: what happiness means in America today (or 2007: there are a couple of topics that date the book). How happiness continues to be cramped by puritans of very stripes.
Her basic thesis is straightforward, and correct: 1) That there are multiple kinds of happiness--day-by-day, euphoric, long-lasting, and these sometimes work at cross purposes, though all come together to make a fulfilling life. 2) That the root of happiness is reached by practicing four essential habits, present in all wisdom traditions (as she calls them): know yourself, control your desires, take what's yours (and leave what's not), remember death.
After an introduction, the book devotes a chapter to each of these. Hecht then moves on to her contentions, instigations, and provocations. These are divided into four sections, with several chapters each on drugs, money, bodies, and celebrations. She argues a middle path (which is nonetheless out of step with official rhetoric in America) that drugs and money have a place in a happy life. All things equal, it's easier to be happy with some money. And drugs do make people happy--heck, that's why there are antidepressants. But, as with other desires, they should be controlled. Same thing with our bodies--feed them, enjoy food, don't obsess over being too fit or too thin, neither of which, on average, make people happier. With celebrations, she seems to suggest that America could use more civic rituals. (It's an argument she makes regarding money, too: money turns us inward, our entertainments isolating).
As I say, I find all of this persuasive, because it fits with my prior biases. I only wish the book could have been a little more focused, Hecht wearing her learning a little more lightly. As it is, there are a lot of tangents and it is easy to get lost in sections since she wanders so widely. This too can be a fine approach to the subject, but it sits uneasily with what is otherwise an enumerating imagination. Never quite coheres, I guess I'd say. ...more
Of the various coyote-themed books I'v read recently, this is the best non-fiction. That sounds like damning with faint praise--it's not.
Van Horn is iOf the various coyote-themed books I'v read recently, this is the best non-fiction. That sounds like damning with faint praise--it's not.
Van Horn is interested in expanding nature writing from its traditional American focus on wilderness and the pastoral to the city, particularly Chicago, and coyotes are one of his guides, the small predators moving in to cities around the country. It's a chance to think about the wildness that exists within urban areas. (Nature is everything, so it is no great insight to say city's are natural; that they are wild is something else.)
There are elements of the standard personal essay here, but they do not overwhelm the rest of the story, which stays pretty rigorously focused on wild things, be they coyote or falcons or rivers. If there's a criticism, it's that some of the early essays are pretty light, van Horn only really hitting his stride in the last section of the book, which is excellent.
His tendency, as is the wont of so many American nature writers, is to reach immediately for the spiritual significance of his observations; even when he cites one of his other guides through the essays, the ecological thinker Aldo Leopold it's Leopold's grander statements, not his more scientific ones. It is true, though, that van Horn is not so intent on transcendence--except in the parochial sense of transcending the human mind and admitting the mindedness of other animals, in this mood reaching for the third of his guides, Lao-Tzu.
As I say, these build to the final and best section, when he considers greenways, waterways, and mindways through the city, culminating in an imaginary conversation between the three guides. He doesn't get the voices quite right--closest to Leopold, furthest from Coyote, but he does mostly pull it off, no small feat....more
A survey of stoicism and Buddhism in search of commonalities and advice for life in the modern world. Parts are perhaps too superficial and the concluA survey of stoicism and Buddhism in search of commonalities and advice for life in the modern world. Parts are perhaps too superficial and the conclusion forgoes important parts of the book about morality and ethical behavior. But it is a smartly conceived and executed book well worth mulling. ...more
I finished reading this book--I still have to _digest_ it. Rosenberg offers the right mix of examples, questions, how-to, and underlyingYep, yep, yep.
I finished reading this book--I still have to _digest_ it. Rosenberg offers the right mix of examples, questions, how-to, and underlying philosophy to make clear his ideas about how to communicate n a manner likely to bring accord (which does not mean you're going to get your way!) It's not an everyday language, though everyday language could be improved by heaping teaspoons full, but one for fraught times, or when one needs to slow down. ...more
This is a much better book than its cousin, Changeable. Greene's ideas have a specificity lacking in the other, with a detailed implementation plan. TThis is a much better book than its cousin, Changeable. Greene's ideas have a specificity lacking in the other, with a detailed implementation plan. The book is pitched for people dealing with challenging students in institutional settings, but I'm interested in using it for my own child, at home. In which case some of the more bureaucratic aspects may not be as necessary.
The one hesitation I have with the book though is its hidden assumption that behaviorally-challenging children are actually rational actors with insight into their own motives. This is not my experience, and so some of his examples seem far too easily solved collaboratively than should be the case. Nonetheless, I still appreciate the baseline theory that children generally want to do right, and when they are not its because of a lack of skill, not willpower....more
The approach is right; I appreciate the mantra--skill not will--and the few examples given are helpful. But the book doesn't really give the reader anThe approach is right; I appreciate the mantra--skill not will--and the few examples given are helpful. But the book doesn't really give the reader anything to dig into. Mostly, it's a brag, or an advertisement: the system works! It's helped lots of institutions! There's research! But not much more than that. Pity....more
A thought-provoking interpretation of Buddhism. Epstein allies Buddhist practice not with cognitive-behavioral theory, its usual accomplice rather witA thought-provoking interpretation of Buddhism. Epstein allies Buddhist practice not with cognitive-behavioral theory, its usual accomplice rather with the less fashionable Freudian psychoanalysis (which puts me in mind of John Gray, whose philosophy similarly unites the two).
After an introduction in which Epstein describes his dawning realization that more explicitly bringing Buddhist ideas into his therapeutic sessions might help his patients, the book is arranged according to the eight-fold path, and Epstein's interpretation of each:
1. Right view: here he argues--in a move reminiscent once more of Gray--that meditation should not be seen as a nostrum, a way to find inner peace or clarity; not a way to solve one's inner conflicts. The point of meditation is to confront impermanence, nothing more. Including the impermanence of the self.
2. Right motivation: he argues that the goal of meditation and associated practices is not to purify (though cleansing is part of meditation) but to engage fully with life. Emotions are not (just) an obstacle but a path to change, too. There is not antiseptic perfection.
3. Right speech: Epstein acknowledges the traditional understanding--no rumors, gossip, hurtful words--but applies this to how we speak to ourselves as well. Being willing to give up the (often negative) stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.
4. Right action: Once more, there is a classical explanation with which Epstein is in agreement--don't kill, steal, etc.,--but he adds his own gloss. He sees it almost as behaving ritualistically; setting aside the ego's demands for instant gratification to do appropriate work, too. (It's also a brief for being slightly unorthodox, if doing so is in accord with higher principles.)
5. Right livelihood: in addition to avoiding the wrong jobs, this injunction, as Epstein has it, should encourage us to consider how we live in the world generally--what interactions are jobs demand, and not just whether we are successful (for conventional values of success).
6. Right effort: Neither with too much strain nor not enough, always allowing for the self to show through our activities, too. Take what is good, and leave the rest. (This is probably the vaguest of the chapters.)
7. Right mindfulness: Epstein emphasizes that mindfulness is an introductory technique, to teach the practice of being aware (awake) but not the ne plus ultra of Buddhism, as it has come to be seen in the West. It is not a method of self-improvement but can be translated as "remembering." It can be thought of as a muscle that can be used to self-observation--and that is what leads to insight.
8. Right concentration: Concentration is only right when it helps one recognize impermanence and loosens the grip of ego, not when it allows when to build a protective wall of peacefulness to escape the world. Concentrate on the breath; relax; feel more grounded. Then go on. ...more
Some books just work, and you excuse all their faults.
That's this book for me. I'm not objective about it, barely impartial. I can acknowledge there wSome books just work, and you excuse all their faults.
That's this book for me. I'm not objective about it, barely impartial. I can acknowledge there were weird crotchets. But I liked it anyway. A lot.
Russell is a fine writer, but not an excellent one. Her prose is sometimes too prosaic. She seems to sometimes get lost in her paragraphs--or I do--and the rhythm is off, emphasizing the wrong words. She tries for parallelism that never gives a lift to either of the narrative lines.
Indeed, there are a lot of ways in which this is a not-as-good imitation of Terry Tempest Williams's spectacular Refuge. And maybe that's what I give Russell so much rope. I recently read a theory that those of us born in the second half of the twentieth century only ever really love ten music albums, and spend the rest of our lives (like junkies) looking for others that recreate the wonder of first hearing any of those ten. I think there's a large amount of truth in that--and I think it applies to books, too. So Russell's "Standing in the Light" excites the same neuronal network that exhilarated me when I first read Williams's book. Fair enough.
I still like this one.
The faults, though I recognize them, don't seem like faults. They're the peccadillos of a friend. The on-the-nose prose can be jolting in its way, as when, early in the book, Russell very matter of factly describes all the things she doesn't like about herself. I nodded--and felt exposed.
The struggle she describes is one I identify with closely: the struggle to find what, for lack of a better word, is an immanent faith, something that sees all of existence as holy, or wonderful. A struggle that admits some mysticism, still hews closely to science, but demands something more, too.
Russell interweaves her own issues--fifty-ish, not as successful as she'd like to be, an empty-nester, hypocritical on even her own core values, recognizing that she is part of a vaster social network that requires all kinds of compromises and leaves no one pure--and search for a way to look at the universe that resolves them with stories of her life in New Mexico's Gila River Valley, and short biographies of thinkers whose path she is following: the Greek Epicureans, the Stoics, Spinoza.
Russell loves nature, and the book has some stretches of what could be called nature writing, especially about the birds of New Mexico. But she also recognizes that she is a white, middle-class woman living in America, who drives cars and eats fast food. This is not a valorization of pure wilderness--and I really liked that. It met me where I was.
In her quest, Russell is searching, too intellectual, and continually backsliding--I identified with those, too. She comes to something approaching a resting spot by the end of the book, but its not clear. Part of that is a fault, I think--the book never has a really insistent (or even obvious) narrative drive, and the last couple of chapters meander before petering out.
Again, though, it makes me think of an intense and wide-ranging conversation with a friend. Those, too, end without obvious resolutions, or even obvious end-points. I was more than willing to forgive the foible for everything that came before.
It stands, for me, with Williams, of course, but also with John Gray's The Silence of Animals....more
Pray for me: I'm the father of a 12 year old daughter.
This book is a helpful, though not groundbreaking, book meant to guide parents through the undenPray for me: I'm the father of a 12 year old daughter.
This book is a helpful, though not groundbreaking, book meant to guide parents through the undeniable difficulties of raising girls into strong women at the beginning of the 21st century. Damour's approach is generally progressive, feminist, and self-reflective, realizing that a lot of the ways we socialize girls and teach them to be polite are also the ways we instill stereotypes. All useful fodder for thought. She brings in some brain science, and mostly dismisses the notion that hormones play much of a role in girls's behaviors, but the neurology is light--which I think is good, since explanations on brain biology, in my opinion, usually far exceed the actual science.
She identifies seven strands of maturation--she is clearly building on the work of Anna Freud, Piaget, and Ericson, though her strands are not really crises that have to be negotiated as much as skills to be learned. The gist is that adolescence is much like toddlerhood, with girls (and boys) unevenly learning what they need for the next, more independent stage of their life. Again, these are helpful ways to think about the growing-through-adolescence of young women. The book's structure, however, vitiates some of its utility.
Each chapter, by an large, is devoted to one of the strands of maturation. Though subdivided, the chapters mostly lack landmarks and signs for the reader, and are very heavy on the examples and narration. Damour has an easy style, so it's not an arduous read by any stretch, but it is difficult to find the points she wants to make and see them all laid out. The end of each chapter is devoted to signs to watch for, but these are generally so vague--usually just extreme forms of the behaviors she is discussing--that they are not particularly helpful.
As she outlines it, the strands are:
Parting with childhood: girls are learning to become independent, though they are not adept, and use their parents as anchor points in their exploration--which often leads to conflict, as they yo-yo back and forth between competence and independence and need for support. (What to worry about: either not becoming independent, or doing so too quickly.)
Joining a new tribe: girls at are looking for friends to help them into adolescence, which means breaking with earlier friends and finding new ones. Damour is of the opinion that a girl with even one good friend is fine. She notes that these new friendships can be difficult--do girls try to be popular (she notes that popular girls are also often not liked: they are seen as powerful, but not friendly)? How closely do they stick together? The parents role is to allow this new exploration and remind the girl of their best selves, and that they should want a tribe that allows them to express it. Parents actually have very little power here, and the best they can do is to make sure that whatever friends the girl chooses, she continues to meet the expectations of the family (such as not blowing off grades for friends). Girls will have interpersonal drama, and it is not the job of the parent to step in and solve the problems. (When to worry: no friends, being bullied, bullying.)
Harnessing emotions: As their world expands and their empathy increases, girls experience a lot more emotions, usually very intense. She says that the reasons so many girls act dramatically is because that is how they are experience the world, and so telling girls to calm down or reign it in comes across as slighting their reality. But it is hard for parents, because girls hold everything together during hectic days then dump it on their parents because they know they can let down there--emotional outbursts are a sign of trust. Sometimes they even try to harness their parents's emotions, make their parents mad or upset so that they do not have to be. The role of the parent is to accept that their daughter is going through these intense times and try to teach them how to appropriately respond to the emotions. (When to worry: clinical anxiety, depression, or self-destructive behaviors.)
Contending with authority: As they enter adolescence, girls see that adults are far from perfect, and, indeed, are often hypocritical and sanctimonious. This makes girls very skeptical of adults. Damour advises parents to be willing to own some of their faults, and to start ceding some of their authority--or at least be willing to explain their positions, if not always willing to change their minds. Rather than making rules be about rules, she advises that parents explain why certain behaviors are dangerous, and offer that as an explanation for why the rule exists. (What to watch for: girls who never test authority, girls who do so always, and girls being used as pawns in arguments among adults.)
Planning for the future: Adolescents, in general, are bad about planning for the future. Rather, they tend to be impulsive--which is especially bad in the era of social media, where impulses are immediately broadcast. Family policies for social media are important. Parents are sometimes better about seeing future decisions, but, again in this strand, frequently lack power, and so the ideal would be to couple a girls's decision making powers with her responsibilities--the more responsible she is, the more power she has to make other choices. There is likely, on the other hand, to be lots of anxiety about smaller issues--tests for example--and certain to be disappointments, as well. Once more, the idea isn't to tell the girl to get over it--to deny the anxiety or minimize the disappointment--but to validate the feelings, without letting them overwhelm her. Easier said than done. (What to watch for: over-planners and girls with no plans at all.)
Romance: There's a Freudian aspect to this section: girls realize when they are young that romance is a special kind of relationship that they are not allowed to engage until they are older. Adolescence is when they get to finally explore. Damour emphasizes that despite many fears of adults, girls are generally slow to move into dating and not sure what being in a relationship even entails. She advises parents to remind them of their own inner compass. Damour is not judgmental about sex--she seems to approve of a high school senior who had no-strings-attached sex because it worked for the girl--but is aware that the double-standards in society can trap girls in stereotypes they might want to avoid. There is also a section on homosexuality. (What to worry about: dating older guys, girls whose only validation is through their looks or romantic relationships.)
Self care: It is hard to gauge whether girls are ready to take care of a lot of their needs because they hide behind veils of obedience: nodding without really listening, and so being unprepared. Once we account for that, we might get a better sense of where are daughters are along this continuum. Damour emphasizes that, once more, parents do not have a lot of power along this strand, and that the issues are particularly difficult. There is the issue of weight and eating in the context of the media; she advises parents try to start conversations based around images on TV or in magazines. She notes that modern technology interferes with sleep; she also notes that girls will likely experiment with drugs, drinking, and sex, and straight ultimatums are likely to cause more problems than they would solve. It has to be a constant negotiation. (When to worry: eating disorders, unwillingness to take care of one's self.)
There is a very short pro forma concluding chapter.
Damour is good with metaphors, and I only wish these could have been tied to a book structure that was more broken into "how-to" sections and less about extended examples. Useful nonetheless....more
Zachiah Murray is a landscape architect in the Santa Cruz area, and she is a Buddhist follower of Thich Naht Hanh (who writes the A chimera of a book.
Zachiah Murray is a landscape architect in the Santa Cruz area, and she is a Buddhist follower of Thich Naht Hanh (who writes the introduction and founded the publishing house that put out this book). The book is presented as a series of Gathas for when works in a garden, with commentary.
Studded throughout the book is also landscaping advice, some of it oddly specific (such as what size mesh to use to keep gophers away from plant roots).
Much of it is advice-that's-not-advice: let the vision flow, be adaptable, etc.
There's a whole great hunk of it that seems to owe more to American Romanticism than Buddhism: nature is a reflection of my soul, working in the garden is communicating with Others, that kind of thing.
Only a few snippets here and there get at the more radical notions of Buddhist ontology and epistemology: the idea that things co-create one another (which is very different than nature being a mirror of the soul) and the idea that there is no stable self. She does come to these points, here and there, but not in any sustained way.
I don't think it's Murray's intention, but this blending gives the book a New Age-y vibe, the loosey-goosey thoughts of a hipster into artisanal things. Which is fine, I guess, but seems, ironically, too adrift from the very earthy pastime of gardening to really feel solid....more
Daphne Merkin's This Close to Happy is nominally a memoir of her depression, which seems to have set in during her adolescence and dogPerhaps too raw.
Daphne Merkin's This Close to Happy is nominally a memoir of her depression, which seems to have set in during her adolescence and dogged her all her life, forcing her to institutionalization several times. The first chapter sets out the memoir's ambitions: to offer a female perspective on a disease which affects women more often--even as its mostly men who write about it, and in very masculine ways.
But the rest of the book doesn't really follow up on this promise. It dwells, instead, on her highly dysfunctional family, the poor coping mechanisms that she developed, and her belated, mostly unsuccessful attempts to find different ways of living. There are some glances at her depression, and she is fairly insistent that her particular depression was caused by what seems a loveless childhood. But the main focus of the book is her battle axe mother.
Merkin is defensive about her travails. She knows she grew up in great privilege and graduated into more: good entry-level jobs, developing an attractive body (that she didn't even realize was attractive), which allowed her to experiment sexually as she wanted. (One weirdness of the book: in a few cases she names her past lovers, who are semi-famous, but other times hides their identity. I wonder what prompted her to the different strategies.)
I don't really think that she needs to be as defensive as she is--this isn't the hardship olympics, after all, and living without love from one's parents is tragic, whatever the material circumstances. (I think of the old John Hiatt song: "You can learn to live with love or without it, but there ain't no cure.") Ultimately, I think her worry over whether she really deserves to be as miserable as she feels blunts the edge of the book.
Because most of the time her descriptions are fairly flat. She's a competent writer, but she's not sure what to say, which means the narrative comes out as one damned thing after another, all of it miserable, and almost none of it specific: her anecdotes lack the killer detail. The book gets boring, not because of her privilege, but because the story all seems the same, different ways of phrasing, "My mother didn't love me."
What it feels like is, not a book, but a letter you'd write to a friend, trusting that they know you enough, care enough about you, to be moved by these things that happened to a very specific you. The structure is odd, almost as if she is remembering things as she writes them and following them to the end, then suddenly jumping to another topic. But you don't want your friend to worry too much, and so there's an ending that feels inauthentic, a quick swerve to prove you're actually doing all right.
That's the rawness that doesn't quite work. It's not that the book is too emotionally raw--indeed, the emotion is blunted by the defensiveness, by the flatness of the narrative.
The book could have better conveyed what it was like to be Merkin, and certainly could have paid better attention to her depression itself, but I still feel for Merkin, I am sorry that she grew up under such terrible circumstances....more
Like listening to a conversation among strangers: titillating, but not exactly enduring.
Victor Pelevin rewrites and updates the myth of Theseus and thLike listening to a conversation among strangers: titillating, but not exactly enduring.
Victor Pelevin rewrites and updates the myth of Theseus and the minotaur for the information age. The story is told as a long conversation among a number of characters on an internet chat room: Organizm(-:, Romeo-y-Cohiba, Nutscracker, Monstradamus, IsoldA, UGLI 666, and Sartrik. Each of the characters, in turn, reports that they have awoken is a room, dressed in ancient Greek clothing, not sure of where they were or how they got there. They communicate this on an (ahem) thread initiated by Ariadne. They subsequently spend time interpreting a series of dreams that Ariadne reports—these are about the so-called Helmet of Horror, which seems to be the head of a minotaur. The conversation then expands to discuss virtual reality.
The various participants each have their own characteristics—Nutscracker is the VR expert, Monstradamus the know-it-all, UGLI 666 a fundamentalist Christian and so on. They report that there rooms open on different labyrinths, these in accord with each person’s qualities: Nutscracker’s is a series of videos of people auditioning for the role of minotaur and Theseus; Monstradmus’s is a dead end, with a gun that has a single bullet; UGLI 666’s is a church with a medieval labyrinth. Ariadne, who reports her dream—her labyrinth is another bedroom, with a very soft bed and sleeping pills.
These various discussions circle around the question of what does the labyrinth mean, what plays the role of the minotaur, when will Theseus come and see them, and who are the so-called monitors that censor the messages—cutting out curse words, hiding identifying details. Eventually, at the end—this cannot really be a spoiler, since we’re not reading Becket—Theseus does arrive, and the book becomes increasingly difficult to parse: it’s a puzzle-book, and to understand the end one has to understand the puzzle. That’s Pelevin’s big point, too: we all have to understand our historical situation. We, as readers, are also caught in a labyrinth. He opens the book with a quote from Borges: “No one realised that the book and the labyrinth were one and the same.”
So, I should put down how I understand this book to work. I will say, upfront, I generally do not like puzzle books of this sort (“The Sound and the Fury” is the least satisfying of Faulkner’s works, in my opinion, for this reason), and I didn’t make a study of Pelevin’s novel: I read it once. So I am certain that I got some details wrong. But I think I understood the big picture.
The book is rooted in Buddhist notions of mind. That’s what the Helmet of Horror is, an extended tweak on Buddhist psychology. Humans are completely at the mercy of their perceptions, he is saying—we all wear the Helmet of Horror ourselves, trapped in it and its infinite generation of the moment ‘now’ from the elements of the past. There are various ways to gain access to its workings—one of these is through dreams and self-introspection—and it should be understood as the same kind of thing as virtual reality: the same coding that goes into VR is at work in constructing our own perceptions.
In addition to perceptions, our thoughts are structured by the discourse into which we are born, and given to us by the culture in which we are raised. This is the ground, and we are the minotaur. We just don’t usually recognize it, thinking, instead, we are Theseus. But we wear the helmet; and when we look in the mirror, we see the minotaur, but think it’s someone else.
The key figures here are the two who show up the least, Sartrik (that is, little Sartre) and Theseus (also spelled Thezeus). It is important that the letter T is simultaneously near the center of the word Minotaur—its heart, so to speak—and isomorphic with a cross. T—Theseus, the Zeus—is the savior. It can be Jesus, as UGLI 666 notes, but need not be: it’s anything that pushes us out of the bounds of regimented discourse and to new ways of understanding the world. (Even as these new ways just create new discourses themselves, which also serve to hide the labyrinth, the minotaur, and Theseus.)
Sartrik is the one who recognizes what is really going on, and cogently explains that everyone wears a Helmet of Horror. He’s also a drunk (his labyrinth is a fridge full of alcohol), presumably because of his knowledge. But the group doesn’t fully understand what Sartrik is trying to tell them; only when Theseus arrives and forces a change does the matter become clear—although the text is anything but.
Theseus forces the minotaur to recognize itself, to be born, and also to die—another Buddhist image of infinite cycles. The first letter of the character names spell out—and at the time of Theseus’s arrival, they are put in the order to spell out—Minotaur. And what do they say? Moo. In an introduction, Pelevin says that the Minotaur does not like the word—presumably because it is then forced to recognize its own nature: as part bovine, or, in this case, as part virtual reality—MOO here referring to the text-based virtual games that were present at the beginning of the internet. (These are still sometimes called MOOs.) But then Theseus leaves, and we get the momentary return—again spelled out by the letters of the names—of the Minotaur’s father, Minos.
Following that—again, the acrostic is the clue (or should I say clew?)—comes a new thing, with Sartrik replacing Theseus. We are meant to know that the new thing is really old, though—the characters write Pre Pasiphaë—meaning, before the Minotaur’s mother—and reconfigure themselves as the Minosaur, a dragon, a dinosaur. And at its center is Sartrik, a drunk existentialist, pushing towards a new discourse, a new set of moderators. So they have recognized their own situation, but nothing’s changed, ultimately. After all, they all just remain people known only by their nyms, avatars, and what they write to each other: each remains in the labyrinth of his or her own prison. And so are we.
Which is all well and good, though it takes a lot of work to get here, and there were certainly some large chunks of exposition I skimmed. Overall, it was a good read—that’s what I meant when I compared it to listening in on someone’s conversation. Even the mundane can seem pretty interesting when you’re eavesdropping. I read the book through pretty quickly, swept up by the conversation. In the end, though, I’m not sure where it gets us? We’re all trapped by our own perceptions of reality? Yeah, fair enough. The only hint at freedom comes in recognizing our situation—though we cannot necessarily change it. Ok, heard that one, too.
In the introduction, Pelevin shows that he understands the rugged, contradictory demands of myth, how they are both supposed to tough on the central themes of human existence but also supposed to be untrue. And they might also be the codes by which we live—what he calls, using computer lingo, the shell code. I would have liked to hear him develop his ideas in an essay. Because I don’t think what he did in the book works as well.
The threaded nature of it—I get the temptation, when discussing Ariadne, to use a computer thread. And there are echoes of philosophical discourses, from Plato through Galileo, a traditional form, if one not used to much effect anymore. But the discursive nature of the myth also drains it of its power, its weight. And it dates it—the reference to there being no additional Star Wars stories after the death of Darth Vader is just wrong, now, and I wonder for how long the central metaphor of a chatroom will even be understood; in 2006, when this was published in English, it might have looked timely; now it looks hoary, if not archaic.
Which is the other part of what I was trying to get at when I compared this to eavesdropping on strangers. It was fun to listen, and I enjoyed—as much as I could—piecing together the little pieces into a bigger vision of what’s going on (though I realized to get an even more complete idea would require more of a time investment). It’s all very ingenious. Pelevin is smart, knows lots of things, arranged them in a cover way that was also readable—and yet, it seems, ultimately, forgettable, too.
Which is the last thing you’d want from a myth. ...more
A short meditation on the mysterious powers of the natural world in its most humble manifestations.
Elisabeth Tova Bailey was struck down by an unknownA short meditation on the mysterious powers of the natural world in its most humble manifestations.
Elisabeth Tova Bailey was struck down by an unknown disease that rendered her bed-bound and incapable of the simplest tasks--even reading was too difficult. Gifted--though she thought it more a burden--with a snail and some flowers, she found herself drawn to the small animal. A connection formed, one that allowed Bailey a different perspective on her own condition, and a way to escape its seeming total control of her body.
This story is the kind of nature writing I most appreciate, focused not on the Romantic connection to some vast wilderness only a few are privileged to encounter, and bemoaning its inevitable decline, Bailey instead pays attention to a small and ever-present piece of the natural world, and limns its connection to human lives.
The book interleaves Bailey's description of her day-to-day struggles with accounts of the snails life and, more generally, the natural history of snails. There's an obvious parallel to be drawn, between Bailey's inability to move, and the slow pace of snail lives, but Bailey leaves this most intimated, rather than explicit. She is a straightforward writer; overtime, the prose does generate some poetic power, but for the most part she focuses on the pragmatic. If this means she never quite reaches virtuosic highs, it also means she avoids embarrassing over-reaches.
In the end, the parallel between her and the snail doesn't really hold anyway, since she comes to see the snail's world, though small in scope, is rich and textured in a way hers isn't--except that she follows the snail and (later) is able to read on the animals's biology, giving her additional insights into what she is watching. Snail and snail natural history are the stars in the book, and Bailey herself, as well as her disease, slip to the background.
In its intention, Bailey's book reminds me a bit of Toni Bernhard's "How To Be Sick." In both cases, the authors focus on how to escape the dictatorial control of a sick body and a mind focused on that sickness to the exclusion of everything else. Indeed, I think Bailey's book is probably best read in conjunction with Bernhard's--"How To Be Sick" amplifies the themes and gives resonance to Bailey's otherwise intense focus....more
I liked this, admittedly, because it mostly fit with my own preconceptions.
Although the title makes it seem like a self-help book, it's not really; itI liked this, admittedly, because it mostly fit with my own preconceptions.
Although the title makes it seem like a self-help book, it's not really; it's a bit of science journalism--well, psychology journalism--built around a self-helpish question: does positive thinking and affirmations really help. And the answer is no: indeed, quests for peace and happiness tend to make people less happy, less content. Because getting to those places is hard, and momentary, and so dissatisfaction tends to be the result.
The first half of the book is best, the second half veering off, further and further from the main points, both, seemingly, to bulk up the book itself, and second to get cover a range of subjects that Burkeman apparently reported on for various newspapers. The break point is chapter five, when Burkeman visits with Eckart Tolle, and has to do a lot of tapdancing to prove the interview isn't proof he's accepting everything Tolle says or getting sucked into the cult of self-help gurus. The point of the chapter is still valid, and its on topic, although Burkeman could have probably approached the subject from a different perspective.
The last three chapters, though, only tangentially touch on the main points of the book. One is on the benefits of insecurity, but dwells too much on securing systems against terrorist attacks; one is on accepting failure, which gets lost in a thicket about product development, and trips over itself, as it notes that stories of successful people who overcome failure make the critical mistake of not looking a all the people who fail--and stay failed. But then what does it mean to embrace one's own failures? The final body chapter considers the wisdom of contemplating one's own death; again, this is a subject that was hinted at in earlier chapters, and so could have been approached from a different perspective, but instead Burkeman visits a Day of the Dead ceremony in Mexico. The chapter is much more literally lost.
The earlier body chapters are solid, reminiscent of John Gray (the philosopher, not the Mars-Venus guy), though more palatable. The first of these is on the truths passed down via the Stoics, and the utility of confronting worst-case scenarios rather than avoiding them: the confrontation has the effect of neutralizing anxiety in a way that positive thinking does not. The second is on Buddhist practices, particularly mindfulness, as a way of stepping outside of the mind's constant chatter and viewing it dispassionately.
In both of these, Burkeman is dealign with vast bodies of knowledge. I am not pretending to be an expert on either subject, though I've read my share of Buddhist books, but he seems to digest this material fairly well and present it clearly and succinctly without sacrificing nuance, which is no mean feat. He points to questions these various practices raise--the existence of some omniscient intelligence, the existence of a consciousness-beyond-consciousness--but does not get drawn away from the main point of the book, as he does in later chapters.
The third body chapter is on how goal-setting can be dangerous, making tasks more difficult to perform. The peg for his chapter is more contemporary than the first two, a mountain climbing disaster and corporate consulting, but Burkeman manages to stay focused on the topic. He concludes that goals certainly have their place, but they need to be gripped loosely; there is a balancing act between selecti a specific goal and then choose whatever methods are available to achieve it; and looking to see what resources are available, and crafting them into a goal. The fourth of the body chapters is on how positive thinking tends to reinforce the sense of self, and this sense often becomes an obstacle; better to hold onto that sense loosely, as well. It's a point made by Buddhists, of course, but Burkeman decides he'd rather talk to Tolle about the matter.
There are obvious connections to cognitive behavioral therapy, and Burkeman briefly notes these, but his vision is wider than that offered in a lot of CBT, more philosophical, less interested in categorizing errors of thought. And so in the introductory and concluding chapter he offers not a chart of questions, like they use in CBT, but a way of life, what Keats called "Negative Capability" and has also been glossed--mutatis mutandis--as the backwards law or negative path or law of reversed effort: do not try to make things right all the time, but find the rightness in the things being wrong. ...more
I know, I know: now I'm that guy. "Author X and Y used to be great, but now he's not even funny." Sorry.
Which isn'tNot as good as Muth's other books.
I know, I know: now I'm that guy. "Author X and Y used to be great, but now he's not even funny." Sorry.
Which isn't to say this book isn't good. It is. Just compared to the excellence of his earlier books, it is lacking. The images are muddier. The set-up redundant. And the parables exhausted: especially borrowing the over-used one from Loren Eiseley about saving starfish.
These are worthy enough sentiments, and the moralizing is still done with a light-touch--though not as light--and the art is still good. Go ahead and read it. It's still worthwhile....more
For a moment, it promised something interesting, before becoming platitudinous.
This book came highly recommended by Terry Tempest Williams, and that wFor a moment, it promised something interesting, before becoming platitudinous.
This book came highly recommended by Terry Tempest Williams, and that was enough to intrigue me. I've become somewhat allergic to conventional nature writing, but she assured that this was different, merging natural history with the social and cultural to create something more open than the usual paeans to wild places.
Sounded good.
And the beginning seemed to fulfill that promise. Hoffman was open. He was unwilling to say that certain places were better than others, better homes--this counts as radical in the staid confines of nature writing--and early chapters continued this theme. Well, they're not really chapters: the book is more a collection of essays that circle around the meaning of home.
At any rate, these early chapters were focused on the time when he and his wife lived in London. It would be expected in nature writing for the author to disparage London as the antithesis of nature, but Hoffman resisted that urge. He acknowledged that London had been home to numerous waves of immigrants over the centuries, a real, lived-in and sometimes-loved home. And acknowledged as well that there was nature here, though mostly ignored. He ignored a great deal of it, too--the sparrows and finches and pigeons, even as he at least recognized they existed, in order to focus on a few more striking species, including feral parakeets. (He's a birder, and nature for him is most accessible in avian form.)
One might quibble a bit about his focus on these more outstanding species. And there's a sneaking elitism, too: he quotes Rilke about the beckoning world (this provides the subtitle) and pats himself on the book for bothering to notice what so many ignore--but that's ok. He's noticing that there is nature in the city. That there are homes here, and a sense of place.
But then he and his wife tire of their commutes and move to Greece, a choice largely made because of the birds in the area. And the rest of the book becomes routine. He sings the praises of the pastoral life and its more humane rhythms. He loves that there are some birds he rarely sees--because it means the world is wild. He talks of his neighbors--he lives near Albania and Macedonia. He compliments their welcoming nature. The language slips and becomes boringly conventional, like a travel brochure, not like lived experience any longer. Exact phrases are repeated in separate chapters of this very slim book.
According to some of the paratext, the Hoffmans worked a farm when they first moved to Greece, and I guess that's true, but most of the rest of the book (all? I remember no counterexamples, but might have missed something) makes them out to be the traditional heroes of pastoral nature-writing: they are observers. Again and again, they are on holiday, staying in some hotel where they can see new birds. Hoffman is beckoned by the world, and his special astuteness allows him to see what others miss. But the social and cultural world is described in textbook terms--it's only the bird life that actually feels as though it were understood through experience.
The true work of those beckoned by the world is looking at it, not working it. (I imagine coming from London to Greece would have made them fairly well-off.) Hoffman's is the usual very privileged position. And so, after a promising beginning, it ends where these kinds of books usually end. ...more
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