Thursday, May 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, March 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
Friday, February 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
Thursday, February 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
Monday, February 13, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Monday, February 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
Saturday, January 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Friday, January 20, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
mek
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
According to AOL news, today, MSN has already delivered the information although its spokesman won't say yes or no; Yahoo has said that it has submitted to all government subpoenas.
mek
mek
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
Monday, January 09, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, January 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
Saturday, December 31, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,
Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.
mek
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,
Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
Monday, December 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
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