Another Book Thread

[Kepler]

Pulled All the President's Men down off the shelf yesterday for a reread. It might be a more interesting read now than it was in 1974. Context.

We are still living in its wake. Those scum started a jihad that gave us Fox, Bannon, Hate Radio, Gingrich, and the Federalist Society.

 

[burd]

We are still living in its wake. Those scum started a jihad that gave us Fox, Bannon, Hate Radio, Gingrich, and the Federalist Society.

Roger Stone would have been perfect for that bunch. I understand he did some work for the Nixon campaign, but he was probably a rookie then and not part of the team.

 

[Kepler]

Roger Stone would have been perfect for that bunch. I understand he did some work for the Nixon campaign, but he was probably a rookie then and not part of the team.

He was part of it. He has a full back Nixon tattoo.

 

[burd]

He was part of it. He has a full back Nixon tattoo.

When you'd sell your soul for Nixon and Trump . . .

 

[Kepler]

When you'd sell your soul for Nixon and Trump . . .

These are the successors of Joseph McCarthy and Roy Cohn. They are scum.

 

[Kepler]

It is also possible for the underestimation of the overestimated to swing back too far.

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty."

 

[Kepler]

 

[Kepler]

 

[dxmnkd316]

I don't understand "ships Jamie and Cersei"

 

[Kepler]

I don't understand "ships Jamie and Cersei"

"Ships" is child slang for "supports" or "roots for" as in trying to make a Thing happen romantically. Claudius is banging his brother's wife, Gertrude, which is vaguely incestuous.

Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,
Th’ imperial jointress to this warlike state,
Have we (as ’twere with a defeated joy,
With an auspicious and a dropping eye,
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,
In equal scale weighing delight and dole)
Taken to wife.

-- Act 1, Scene 2


In 1533, Henry VIII used the condemnation in Leviticus to divorce Catherine of Aragon, who had been married to his older brother Arthur, so that he could marry Anne Boleyn, who gave birth to Elizabeth I*, the reigning monarch when Hamlet was performed in 1601:

If a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless

-- Leviticus Chapter 20, Verse 21

tldr: He's sucking up to Liz by supporting the argument which enabled her to claim legitimacy. It's a political statement.


* Fun fact: Elizabeth was born less than 8 months after Henry and Anne were formally married. Henry and Anne had secretly married 2 months before, but Elizabeth was formally conceived out of wedlock.

Henry was then a bigamist from the time of the marriage to the annulment by Cramner, by which time Anne was already 5 months pregnant.

 

[dxmnkd316]

Roger.

 

[burd]

In the last 2 weeks, I’ve included two rereads in with some first reads. The rereads include Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! Putting aside for a moment the question whether either of them is worth rereading, how can two authors use the same language with such differences in style? How would a new learner of the English language manage both of them?

And how fortunate we are that so many artists follow their own voice.

 

[Kepler]

TIL Pushkin was an absolute POS.

Funny AF though.

In stilly fields, far from Jerusalem,

Far from those sports and young philanderers,

Bred up by Satan but to ruin us,

A gentle beauty, seen as yet none,

And not capricious, lived her tranquil life.

Her husband was a man respectable

And old. A carpenter and joiner he,

The real workman in the town,

And day and night having so much to do,

Now with his level, now with faithful saw,

He little tasted of these charms he owned.

The hidden flower, as though by ancient fate

To some high other honor designate,

Upon its little stem did not unfold.

The languid man with his old sprinkling pot

Gazed on the flower at times, but sprinkled not.

He lived, a father, with his tender bride;

He fed her well — and nothing else beside.

But from just heaven in those days of old,

The All-highest God inclined a gracious eye

Upon the comely shape of his hand-maiden,

The bosom sweetly pure — and feeling heat,

In the depth of his all-wisdom he ordained

To bless the blameless garden thus forgotten,

And make it fertile with mysterious fruit.

Then summoning his favorite, Gabriel,

He told him in straight prose about his love.

The church somewhat suppressed their conversation,

The evangelist perhaps was negligent,

But following an Armenian tradition

Gabriel received the praise of God,

Was noted tactful and intelligent,

And down to Mary in the twilight sent.

He would have liked, I judge, a different honor.

He had as an ambassador been true,

Delivered documents, brought back the news —

All well enough, but still he had pride!

He veiled his inward thought: professed that God

No safer herald-angel had, nor surer —

To put it in our earthly tongue — procurer.

But now the old fiend, Satan, slumbered not.

He heard while sauntering among the stars,

That God had this young Jewess in his eye,

A sweetheart who should save our tottering race

From everlasting torment in his hell.

The fiend was irritated — and was active.

The All-Highest meanwhile, sitting in the sky

In sweet despondency, forgot the world,

Which tripped without him on its own sweet way.

But Mary, look! A most exquisite snake!

With lovely luring scales and shiny colors!

There in the branches right above your head!

And listen too! “Beloved of heaven,” he says,

“Fly not — I am your most obedient slave!”

Can it be possible? A miracle!

Who speaks these words of accent soft and level?

Whose is that oily voice? Of course! The Devil.

The wily beast unwound his rattling tail;

He arched his neck up slowly like a yoke,

And slid right down in front of gentle Mary.

Breathing hot wishes in her breast, he said:

“Young Eve like you

Was modest in her garden, clever, kind,

But without love she bloomed in melancholy.

Alone, and eye to eye, the man, the maid,

Along the shore of Eden’s shining waters,

Dragged out in quietness a resting life.

A bore to them the day’s monotony:

The shady grove, their youth, their idleness —

Nothing, awakened in their bodies love.

With hand in hand they walked, existed, ate.

They yawned by daytime, and by night they held

No festivals of passion, knew no joys . . .

What say you? Is not that old Hebrew God

A tyrant, glum, unjust and stubborn, who

Loved Adam’s girl and kept her for himself?

And where’s the honor there? Where is the fun?

I just resolved, in spite of the Creator,

To break this dreadful sleep of man and maid.

No doubt you’ve often heard how it all happened:

Two apples, hanging in the wondrous bough,

A happy sign, a symbol of love’s summons,

Made clear to her vague imaginings,

Awakened in her breast a vague desire.

She knew her beauty, knew the bliss of it,

The trembling heart, the lover’s nakedness.

I saw them — O, I saw the exquisite

Beginnings of my science, love! Away

Into the little thicket wood they walked.

Their glances quickly wandered, and their hands.

Between the darling legs of his young love,

Embarrassed, mute and awkward, Adam sought

The lovely drunken ravishment of bliss:

He put his question to the source of joy,

And seething to the deeps, he lost himself.

And Eve, unfearful of the wrath of God,

All flame, with hair thrown wide, and lips that barely,

Barely moved to answer Adam’s lips,

And tears of love, and love’s unconsciousness,

Lay in the palm-tree’s shadow — and young earth

Strewed with her brightest blossoms their young love.”

And suddenly the serpent disappeared.

A beauteous youth was sitting at her feet,

And light that streamed upon her from his eyes

In silence asked most eloquently something.

With one hand he presents to her a flower,

The other crumples back her simple linen,

Steals up hastily beneath her gown,

And the light finger touches playfully

The tender mysteries. It all seemed new

And wonderful to Mary, and ingenious.

And blushes that were not the blush of shame

Played forth upon her beauty virginal,

And languid heat and an impatient sighing

Lifted the young lovely breast of Mary.

She did not speak: she suddenly lost strength,

And closed her glistening eyes — a simple lass!

Inclining toward her Fiend her gentle head,

She cried but “Ah!” and fell back on the grass.

And suddenly above the wearied maid,

Cavorting on a sporting wing, appears

Young Gabriel, love’s envoy, son of Heaven!

At sight of him our beauty hid her eyes.

The Accursed spoke, and frowning, hot with hate,

Biting his lip and sideways glowering,

He struck the Archangel Gabriel in the teeth.

The Angel yelled; he tottered; his left knee

Went down to earth; but suddenly he rose

And, filled with unexpected heat, he swung

And sent the Fiend a right hook to the jaw.

The Devil groaned; he paled; they leaped and clinched,

And knit together, rolled across the meadow.

When just by luck the squirming Gabriel grinned

And set his teeth into that fatal spot

(Superfluous in most all kinds of battle)

The haughty limb wherewith the Devil sinned.

Yelling for mercy, the Accursed fell,

And staggered dimly down the road to hell.

Breathless upon this battle Mary stared;

And the victor turned to her with grace.

He knelt before her, gently pressed

Her hand; she dropped her eyes and Gabriel kissed her.

She blushed confusedly, but stayed quite still;

And Gabriel made bold to touch her breast.

“Leave me alone!” she whispered. And with this

The last faint groan of innocence

Was stifled in a mighty angel’s kiss.

Already Gabriel with tidings fair

Flies home to heaven: God is waiting there.

“Well, what’s the news?” he says.

Says Gabriel:

“I did all that I could — I sounded her.”

“And she?”

“She’s willing.”

In her small corner, drunk with memory,

Our Mary rests upon a rumpled sheet.

Her body burns with bliss and with desire.

New heat already in her youthful breast,

She whispers in the darkness, “Gabriel!”

Another gift is waiting for his love.

She moves away the covers with her foot,

And downward gives a little happy smile.

She is complacent in her nakedness,

With her own grace and loveliness surprised.

And in a tender-thoughtful midnight spell

She sins a little, charming-languidly.

She drinks the cup of tranquil consolation.

I hear you laugh, O crafty Fiend in hell!

But look! Darts in the window from above

On snow-white wings a little fluffy dove!

He circles, tries a happy tune — and flap! —

He lights right in the languid maiden’s lap!

Under the little linen gown he hustles,

He pecks her rose, and squirms about, and rustles,

With little claw and little beak he bustles.

‘Tis He — precisely He! — and Mary guessed

That someone else was in the birdie’s breast.

Squeezing her knees together tight, she screamed,

She sighed, prayed, trembled, wept, but seemed

Unable to forestall the little dove.

He cooed and quivered in the heat of love,

Then fell in rapture, lightly slumbering,

Love’s blossom shielded by his downy wing.

At last the little pigeon flew away.

And weary Mary thought: What can I say!

One, two and three— that’s quite the revel,

To have all on a single summer day

The Deity, an Angel, and the Devil!

 

[ScoobyDoo]

I have completed all 6 Dune Novels that were written by the original author. 5 and 6 were a slog but had some good moments. I stand by my original assessment of the series. The entire series is propped up by the first novel Dune. I have now started reading the expanded universe written by the son and a co-writer.

I am interested to see if there is anything else there.

 

[Kepler]

Yeats, no!

Leda and the Swan
- William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.


How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?


A shudder in the loins engenders there

The broken wall, the burning roof and tower

And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

 

[Slap Shot]

Just finished Notes From Underground by Dostoevsky. Aside from being a wonderfully thought-provoking read, it also got me thinking that Kepler is certainly the modern personification of The Underground Man.

 

[Slap Shot]

Didn't know where else to put this, but I just finished the 4-part podcast of Shane Gillis and Louis CK called The Presidents. They walk through the history of all of them, spending more time on some than others. What I liked is that aside from it being somewhat irreverent, is they discuss many details that unless you studied up on a specific POTUS you probably never heard about. Family history, rivalries, friendships, political history, etc.

I'm sure it's elsewhere but I listened via Spotify.

 

[Kepler]

Just finished Notes From Underground by Dostoevsky. Aside from being a wonderfully thought-provoking read, it also got me thinking that Kepler is certainly the modern personification of The Underground Man.

I actually did get that feeling when I read it in college.

How can a man of consciousness have the slightest respect for himself?

The best definition of man is: a being that goes on two legs and is ungrateful.

And the most prescient of all:

I, for instance, would not be in the least surprised if all of a sudden, apropos of nothing, in the midst of general prosperity, a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his arms akimbo, say to us all: "I say, gentleman, hadn't we better kick over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our own sweet foolish will!" That again would not matter, but what is annoying is that he would be sure to find followers -- such is the nature of man.

 

[burd]

Half way through “Andrew’s Brain” by E. L. Doctorow. Enjoying it. Recall enjoying others, like Ragtime, Billy Bathgate, and The March. This one is different, though.

 

[Kepler]

From Peter Bell the Third, by Shelley:

Hell is a city much like London --
A populous and a smoky city;
There are all sorts of people undone,
And there is little or no fun done;
Small justice shown, and still less pity.

There is a Castles, and a Canning,
A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh;
All sorts of caitiff corpses planning
All sorts of cozening for trepanning
Corpses less corrupt than they.

There is a ----, who has lost
His wits, or sold them, none knows which;
He walks about a double ghost,
And though as thin as Fraud almost --
Ever grows more grim and rich.

There is a Chancery Court; a King;
A manufacturing mob; a set
Of thieves who by themselves are sent
Similar thieves to represent;
An army; and a public debt.

Which last is a scheme of paper money,
And means -- being interpreted --
"Bees, keep your wax -- give us the honey,
And we will plant, while skies are sunny,
Flowers, which in winter serve instead."

There is a great talk of revolution --
And a great chance of despotism --
German soldiers -- camps -- confusion --
Tumults -- lotteries -- rage -- delusion --
Gin -- suicide -- and methodism;

Taxes too, on wine and bread,
And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese,
From which those patriots pure are fed,
Who gorge before they reel to bed
The tenfold essence of all these.

There are mincing women, mewing,
(Like cats, who amant miser?,)
Of their own virtue, and pursuing
Their gentler sisters to that ruin,
Without which -- what were chastity?

Lawyers -- judges -- old hobnobbers
Are there -- bailiffs -- chancellors --
Bishops -- great and little robbers --
Rhymesters -- pamphleteers -- stock-jobbers --
Men of glory in the wars, --

Things whose trade is, over ladies
To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper,
Till all that is divine in woman
Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman,
Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper.

Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling,
Frowning, preaching -- such a riot!
Each with never-ceasing labour,
Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour,
Cheating his own heart of quiet.

And all these meet at levees; --
Dinners convivial and political; --
Suppers of epic poets; -- teas,
Where small talk dies in agonies; --
Breakfasts professional and critical;

Lunches and snacks so aldermanic
That one would furnish forth ten dinners,
Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic,
Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic
Should make some losers, and some winners; --

At conversazioni -- balls --
Conventicles -- and drawing-rooms --
Courts of law -- committees -- calls
Of a morning -- clubs -- book-stalls --
Churches -- masquerades -- and tombs.

And this is Hell -- and in this smother
All are damnable and damned;
Each one damning, damns the other
They are damned by one another,
By none other are they damned.