Selfishness

I've been thinking a lot about selfishness this week (trying to figure out, once again, why I'm such a great guy) and came across this rather succinct description of selfishness from Aleksi Remizov's The Clock:

And to make live livable it was necessary to erect a temple for oneself and to believe in its impregnability, and neither to see nor feel anything else.

That's exactly what we do when we believe we're better than others -- when we believe that the others around us are objects, things to be acted upon, rather than people. We build up ourselves until we ans what we think and what we do (and what we think we do) are perfect, unassailable. Then we think of nothing else.

I guess we are pretty far from Edward Bellamy's idealized world, aren't we?

Yes, I've thought a lot about Edward Bellamy these past few weeks. I've often thought it would be a fascinating thing to live in a pre-Vietnam world (that's the era that turned the United States psyche sour, I believe) just to share, even for a little while, that unbridled optimism. Certainly, that was not a perfect world. If we could have had the desegregation movement without Vietnam, this might be a better place to live. But here I am one little man imagining changes in history that are way beyond his comprehension.

Thanks, Napoleon

On a whim, I watched Napoleon Dynamite tonight. Made it a double-feature day, paired with Peter Weir's Master and Commander, which I watched earlier. (I know you don't care. Bear with me. But you do have to admit that's probably as mismatched a double feature as you've ever heard of.)

Napoleon Dynamite is just sooooo Eastern Idaho. Laid back nerds with delusions of grandeur. But like Uncle Rico and Kip (and, to a lesser extent, Napoleon) we find our own screwy, misfitted and, above all, local ways to pull ourselves out of the commonality and excel, even if it's only as the best Crapperware salesman in Preston.

I'm sure there are many who might regard living in a city like Preston -- a collection of just a few thousand souls, frankly, out in the middle of nowhere, even for Idaho. But I'd live there. I've lived in similar communities. Rexburg, for one, but i get the feeling that Preston is just a little bit more on the humble side than good ol' Rexburg. Idaho Falls has kind of that Preston vibe, even with it being a bigger city. But Preston. Good ol' Preston. Love driving through there now on the way to and from Logan, just to catch a glimpse of Big J's and the Pop'n'Pins Lanes.

Then there are those landscapes -- rolling hills, fields. Yeah, that's about it. Plus the juniper scrub and the doofy little forests in the folds of those hills, where the north wind can't get to. It just says home to me.

Bambi II -- the Revenge

I just finished reading one of those books that makes you feel happy and like a total jerk at the same time. It's Helen Hoover's The Gift of the Deer, which Terry Pratchett might describe as one of those "every creature his brother" situations in which Ridcully the Brown would fit as well as a Mormon in Rome.

Hoover's book features three generations of deer who find food, refuge, attacking hens and the dubious benefits of human companionship in the meadows and forests surrounding the remote Minnesota cabin Hoover and her husband Ade lived in during the 1960s. It's not as preachy as other "we can live with nature" books that I've read and, in one glaring way, goes against what I've learned about wild animals -- regularly feeding them near human habitation is not the smartest thing to do, because they become accustomed to humans, not all of whom are the nice "every creature his brother" type. But, I suppose, Hoover's novel does describe the "humans and animals living in peace and felicity" we can read about in other books, such as the Forgotten Door and, strangely enough, Doctrine and Covenants Section 77.

Hoover preaches against those who have injured animals put down for "reasons they call humane" -- yet is the indirect cause of the demise of four of the eight deer who share the meadow and the family's hospitality because they've become accustomed to humans and recognize too late the dangers of humans toting rifles.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy reading the book, nor would I mind repeating Hoover's experiences, but in an Edward Bellamy world, not necessarily our own.

A Few Christmas-Related Thoughts

Attended the kids’ annual Christmas Extravaganza at the high school last night. Nothing like watching a bunch of first-, second-, and third-graders dance to the Hava Nagaela and the driedl song, followed by Joseph and Mary wandering through the crowd followed by wise men and shepherds walking as if they were miniature grooms: left, together; right, together. And Joseph and Mary had a disco ball in the manger, which cast snowflakes (Snowflakes? In Palestine?) down upon them as the shepherds crowded in and the wise men kept a respectable distance befitting their status as bearers of what looked like ice cream tubs wrapped in shiny paper. A Josh Groban wannabe sang “Mary Did You Know,” a song, I’ve decided, is better sung by someone who takes a more subdued approach to the song. It’s not a song that calls for creschendos and lots of lilt and panache, but one that calls for a more humble approach, said the amateur music critic.

I should not be too negative, simply because I arrived on scene feeling as a negative-vibe merchant. The kids, obviously, worked hard, and our daughter took her role as a sheep very seriously. Our oldest, on the other hand, could have passed the whole evening sitting in the bleachers with Mom and Dad, especially when it came to the barf-inducing stage fright, which I thought was pretty extreme for a kid among a sea of kids who had to go out, beat on a drum with dozens of other drum-beaters, then wave it about as if he were casting some kind of voodoo spell. Not that I blame him. I remember that exact same feeling when I had to participate in similar programs in elementary school. Especially square dancing exhibitions. Same feeling I had today when I had to participate in a safety drill at work. Urghh.

People as People, not Objects

I read two interesting books these past few weeks, books that really paint a picture of contrasts.

The first is Edward Bellamy's idyllic exploration of an American socialist utopia in Looking Backward, which I wrote about here.

The second is Aleksei Remizov's (pictured above) The Clock, which on one level I suppose you could chalk up as a typical Soviet indictment of western capitalism as the novel focuses on a family's financial and social deterioration after their clock shop falls on hard times. But in reading the novel, I feel Remizov's work trandscends the mundanity of East/West socioeconomic conflict and centerd squarely on the vain wishes and desires anyone might have or express when times are tough. Each character finds, however, that the escape hatches he or she envisions taking or takes represent only temporary respite from life's troubles not faced squarely.

Kostya Klotchkov, for example, decides he can erase the insults brought on by his crooked nose by obliterating time, which he sees as a burdensome taskmaster. In his task of winding the church clock, he sets it back an hour, then another hour, then breaks off part of the clock's big hand, all the time thinking he's become a benefactor to the city by stopping time's march.

Khristina Klotchkov, in another example, searches for that on emystical change, be it love, a purse of gold, the return of her husband from exile he imposed upon himself because of his business failure, as a way to stop the inexcorable closure of the family shop. She seems to do everything but figure out how to keep the shop open.

Then therea re others, Nelidov, who wallows in unrequitted love, Mr. Klotchkov senior, who hides in the simple pleasures of games and chocolates to avoid having to help his son and daughter-in-law save the shop he built, and a myriad of other characters who seek escape to nerw horizons in order to avoid the bitterness of the present.

Looking at the contrast between Bellamy's novel and that of Remizov, however, really cements in my mind the necessity of looking at people as people rather than as objects. Bellamy, in his novel, advocates looking at people as people, people to be loved, cared for, nurtured, employed as they desire and otherwise cared for. Remizov's novel paints people solely as objects -- especially in the minor character of Khristina's infant daughter, who only appears when Khristina is at her lowest, looking for affection and finding it there. Remizov's characters are all inherently selfish, while those of Bellamy are selfless.

Some might choose to paint Remizov as the realist and Bellamy as the dreamer, as the selflessness on a societal level that Bellamy paints in his novel seems out of reach in today's society. I find that attitude intriguing, especially in what purports to be a Christian nation, where the ethos of Christianity points us towards selflessness. Selfishness may indeed be the easiest societal route to take, but it causes us to look too inward for self-satisfaction ans self-righteousness that the Bible's talk of whited sepulchers warns us against. Remizov may be the realist, but I find more and more that realism is extremely cynical and denies that humanity can rise above the troubles of the day to find a nobler path.

Remizov, by the way, is an atypical Russian writer. Though he uses the typical Russian device of eliciting pity for his characters, he's also done some unorthodox writing, notably The Sacrifice -- which I'm trying to locate -- a gothic horror novel in which, according to Wikipedia, "a ghostly double of a father comes to kill his innocent daughter in the mistaken belief that she is a chicken." That's almost British sci-fi satirical, quite a leap for a staid Russian.

Am I A Book Jerk?

There are a lot of causes out there.

Two that make me scracth my head are these:

Save a journalist: Buy a newspaper.

Save an author: Buy a new book.

I was a journalist. I am an aspiring author. But I don't buy newspapers and I can't remember the last time I bought a new book.

The book cause, especially, confuses me. Me, I haunt thrift stores. If I can't get it for less than a dollar, it's got to be a damn good read for me to pry my wallet open. Am I supporting authors by doing this? Do the thrift stores send them a residula from my 50-cent purchase? Hardly. And no. Am I, in fact, a publishing industry pirate, buying books on the sly, stealing bread from the mouths of struggling authors?

Now, I hold no illusions. The number of writers who earn a living solely from their writing is infinitely small. For the rest of us, we have to write because we love to write, not because we think we're going to make a living out of it. I thought I'd make a living in writing by being a journalist. Took me nearly ten long, terrible years before I finally came to a startling conclusion: I'm not that fond of journalism. Now I'm a technical writer, making much better money. But this kind of writing does not fill the soul, but as Theodor Seuss Geisel found in writing ad copy, it does fill the fridge.

So I rarely buy new books. Probably the least time I paid for a new book was back in the mid-90s, when I paid $24 for a hardback copy of Richard Adams's Tales from Watership Down. And I read that one once, before putting it up on the shelf to collect dust.

So buying used books does nothing for the published writer. But I argue it does loads for the unpublished writer. Just this week I've read books by Robert C. O'Brien, one of my favorite authors, and am reading one by Aleksei Remizov, a Russian author I probably would never have found in the book store just because I rarely wander into the "literature" section. What I'm saying is that the thrift-store shopper has a better chance of being exposed to a wider variety of writers, writing styles and such, broadening an aspiring writer's horizons without having to spend a lot of lolly.

And it's amazing what you can find at the thrift store, too. My favorite find: A copy of Melba the Brain, signed by author Ivy Ruckman, including a personal note to the book-owner, one of her daughters. How it ended up in a thrift store in Idaho I'll never know, but it's mine now. And I'm proud of it, though Ruckman didn't get a penny from me.

Learning from the Masters

Ah, if only the Hieronymus Machine were real.

Not that we need, of course, a Medieval bit of eldritch, telepathic machinery telling us all to do bad things. We manage that pretty well on our own, even though it might not be all in the coordinate, Molotov-cocktail-throwing, blowgun-using fashion, nor in a style that necessitates building sinister little dolls, belt buckles, watch faces and other gewgaws out of that magical rock malignite in order to spread the influence of the Machine far and wide, as in Robert C. O’Brien’s book, The Silver Crown, in which the Machine plays a central role: Mysterious cult has Machine, brainwashes children who are trained in the arts of arson, assassination and, very likely, the “Earth-shattering kabooms” favored by Marvin the Martian with his Illuduim Pu-36 Explosive Space Modulator. In opposition: A ten-year old girl heroine Ellen Carroll possessed of the silver crown, good counterpart to the evil black crown worn by the cult’s leader, an English archaeologist who unearthed the Machine in 1947 Spain and hauled it to what might be rural Kentucky. With her is Otto, the truck-wracking mountain boy of mysterious origin who lives in the woods with his aging, adoptive mother.

Now, you may ask, why am I writing about this book, a children’s novel? Go ahead. Ask. Be like that. I’ll tell you anyway. Because I really like Robert C. O’Brien’s books, notably Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, which I read in the third grade and became enthralled with. The Silver Crown could have been like that book, if not for the last chapter which, O’Brien nearly admits in his prose, was slapped together at the last minute. He acknowledges his characters will play the game of “What I don’t understand is. . .” for years, so he has one of the characters sloppily theorize on the entire book’s plot in about eight pages. A disappointing end to an otherwise well-written book. Granted, it’s his first novel (and I have no room to speak, as I have written thusfar a total of zero novels; I could use a Hieronymus Machine to help me finish one of the several that I've started). But it is interesting to learn what we can from those who have paved the road before us.

To me, it’s a lesson that sometimes it’s not completing the story that’s the best thing, but completing it correctly that counts. It’s easy to tell that O’Brien through clearly through the writing process in his NIMH book, and in his other books – certainly Z for Zacharaiah, where he left the fate of his heroine hopeful but entirely ambiguous. In either case, the endings were thought out carefully, or appeared naturally (I know the nature of writing and the possibility of careful planning cannot overrule the happy chance of just having something fall into place). The last chapter of The Silver Crown is forced, painful and muddled in its attempt to tie together every clue and every character unnecessarily.

But perhaps I’m overanalyzing. Like the folks who sell Hieronymus Machines today. I don’t want to look like a weirdo, so I’ll go with the muu-muu.

The Fog

A few hours ago, I went for a walk in the fog. Started out on a one-lane track out through the cheat grass into the sagebrush north of RWMC, then decided to go off the beaten path (well, by following a lesser-traveled track to a pole line way out in the distance) just to get some air in my lungs. It was so quiet, and so odd to be at the center of this ping-pong ball of cloud with only a flat circle of black sagebrush and yellow grass to keep me company. The grass was wet and quickly soaked my pant legs and boots, but I didn’t care. I followed the track beneath the pole line, leaving behind the last human footprints and following the tracks of the antelope who stroll through the brush here. Found lots of scat and startled a few rabbits. At least I think they were rabbits, though considering where I work I probably can’t rule out radioactive badgers. I thought I’d be able to catch a trail back to the main road, but the trail no longer existed. So I stuck with the pole line for a while, then had to go cross-country, following another pole line back to the complex. Got soaked. But it was worth it. I was in my own little world of grass and brush and skittering noises in the underbrush and condensation dripping off the humming power lines. I could have stayed out there forever. But as it was, the walk took only a half hour. I like a good fog. And bad poetry:

When the cheat grass lurches and rustles I stop my walking and quickly turn around
hoping to catch a glimpse of the thing that made the noise
nothing
not even a movement of vegetation.

I continue walking underneath the humming power lines dripping with condensation
from the fog
and stop again
as a rabbit or ghost or coyote bursts from the brush behind me
nothing again
I scan the sage brush and do not see the white-tail, the black nose
might as well be a radioactive badger

I walk and no longer whirl at the sounds of nothing brushing through the fog
not even the crows are out, calling, calling
flying and chasing each other in the blue sky
nothing but fog
black sage brush
yellow grass
wet grass that brushes dew on boots and pant legs
feet sink into the cracked, powdery dirt cut by antelope tracks

Whirl
still nothing making the noises in the brush
it's probably dripping water
or a vampire rabbit
watching from a hole
waiting for me
to turn my back.

So, No Barge Pole?

So Barack Obama has selected Hillary Clinton as his Secretary of State. While part of me wants to give his selection the benefit of the doubt (as we’ve had some unlikely secretaries of state in the past who have gone on to accomplish wonderful things) another part of me wonders why Obama doesn’t keep the Clintons away using someone else’s barge pole.

I suppose I’m having a hard time thinking this is anything more than a political appointment (as if ANY of the appointments in Washington are anything but political). The Clinton name is such a lightning rod for negativity and, frankly, portable bleepstorms that you’d think any savvy politician would keep his or her distance. I love the idea of political reconciliation. But I'm cynical enough to believe that 99.9 percent fo such reconciliation is a carefully-applied veneer meant to disguise the fact that the reconciliated are keeping very close tabs on each other, watching for a moment of weakness. But then again, maybe she’ll be able to avoid the bleepstorms and keep thing working. Time will tell.

Rather than get feverous, however, I decided I’d best spend my time learning something about the office of Secretary of State and where they fit into the big picture.

First of all, the secretary is fourth in the line of succession to the presidency, behind the Vice President, and speakers of the House and Senate. The secretary used to be second in that line, until President Harry S Truman signed into law some legislation that put the House and Senate leaders into the mix, making it so the president could not “appoint” the successor immediately following the Vice President. (Note: That Hillary Clinton will lie at No. 4 on the line of succession is not a concern to me; I’d be much more worried if our current No. 8, Secretary of the Interior (and former Idaho governor) Dirk Kempthorne were to become president.)

Now it’s trivia time: Three secretaries of state have won the Nobel Peace Prize:

George Marshall, secretary under Truman from 1947-1949. Won the prize as the author of the Marshall Plan, which was used to help reconstruct Europe after World War II.

Cordell Hull, secretary under Franklin D. Roosevelt from 1933-1944. Won the prize for his work in helping to establish the United Nations.

Frank Kellogg, secretary under Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover, 1925-1929. Won the prize as co-author of the Kellogg-Briand Pact, which started out as a treaty of nonaggression between the United States in France but evolved, under Kellogg’s insistence, to a worldwide peace pact that lasted for, well, about three years. But A for effort, man.

So, could Clinton join these ranks? If I’ve learned anything about politics in the United States, anything is possible.

Random Thoughts

Got to thinking about the past last night. The kind of past that means lavender tuxedos with frilly shirts, big glasses and that warm, fuzzy feeling you had as a kid that knowing people who dressed occasionally in the stufrf you remember were in charge and everything was happy and good.

Got to thinking about public images last night. The kind that you wonder about, if they're worth compromising by going against your principles to avoid taking a stand on a hot-button issue and accepting a fence-sitting, middle-of-the-road attitude and thus compromising your principles in order to remain popular. No happy and good fuzzy feeling here; just a sense of selling out to popular opinion. Not that it happened. But many might wish it were so.

Heard the first comedian making fun of Barack Obama over the weekend. He was British, one of the denizens of BBC4's "The Now Show." He enthused how "Martin Luther Messiah" was going to fulfill his first campaign promise by giving everyone in America a puppy. A good feeling and a belly laugh out of that one. And I voted for the guy.