What are you currently reading?

[hopefullytrusting]

Mailer's Harlot's Ghost - the only book to match his arrogance and ego, lol.

[ritter]

Well, the (shorter) essays by Mario Praz I read were very enjoyable, but had a distinct ivory tower air to them, and a sort of snobbishness (for lack of a better term) that, strangely, was endearing. One of the texts I read was an extract from La casa della vita, a sort of memoir describing his home. Cyril Connolly wrote that it "has a bravura of boredom, an audacity of ennui that makes one hardly believe one's eyes" , and Praz does not fail to mention this negative critique in a chapter he added later to the book. Praz's apartment is now a museum displaying his collection, and  I'll definitely try to visit next time I'm in Rome.

Now, moving on to something much lighter: Vasco Pratolini's Le ragazze di Safrediano, a comedy set among the popular classes of Di là d'Arno Florence.

[Mister Sharpe]

Started reading this exact edition (available for free on Archive.org --- this is a treasure trove of a site, blessed be whoever conceived and created it!)

Indeed. I would not have been able to readily access Clare Delius' Frederick Delius: Memoirs of My Brother (1935) without it! I donate to them every year around the holidays.   

[Todd]

From the NIH: Cognitive warfare: a conceptual analysis of the NATO ACT cognitive warfare exploratory concept

[Mandryka]

A good book, I read it many years ago and don't remember anything. But the aftertaste lingers to this day.

Too much. I felt as though I was being lectured to all the time, and I really know nothing about Austrian history. I got about a quarter of the way through though. It's the sort of thing which needs a course.

[Mandryka]

Two thoughts about this so far:

1. Roth is a latter day Dostoevsky.
2. I need to have more sex, more partners and more variety.

[San Antone]

True Grit by Charles Portis



The second movie by the Coen Brothers with Jeff Bridges, Hailee Steinfeld (in her theatrical-film debut), Matt Damon, and Josh Brolin is close to the book, and far superior to the earlier film starring John Wayne and Glen Campbell.

[Florestan]

Heine's mordant irony gave me many chuckles and not a few LOLs.

[Florestan]

Alfred de Vigny's Chatterton (Shutter-TAWN, as the French are wont to pronounce)

Good God! It boggles the mind that there was a time when this drivel passed for great literature and it's deeply saddening that scores of people, especially youngsters, took it seriously. This is a major piece of evidence for Goethe's claim that Romanticism is disease(d).

Let's begin with the beginning, ie with the preface. Vigny claims in all earnestness and expressis verbis that society (read, the State) should provide "poets" with a regular lifetime payment, in order for them to freely, leisurely and carefree pursue their vocation. And by "poets" he means not only those who have indeed published several volumes of verses, but also --- again, expressis verbis --- all those who have scribbled even two quatrains only, and regardless of their quality, because who's to say that they are not to become great artists in the future? What they ask is only (only!) "to live and to dream" (exact quote) and therefore what they need is only (only!) "bread and time" (exact quote). And he adds that the costs will be minimal, because "poets" are rare. Obviously, psychology and economics were not Vigny's fortes.

Now, on to the play itself. Chatterton (described as an 18-year old "poet" whose body is "exhausted by vigils and thought" --- perish the thought of such a wretched being!) has cornered himself into a very bad situation, out of which he can't lift himself but for gaining a certain amount of money by which to pay his debts. In despair, he writes to the Lord-Mayor of London, who has known his father, asking for help; an old friend of Chatterton (whom he despises for no other reason than he, the friend that is,  is a jolly good fellow) also offers to intercede on his behalf upon the right honorable person. Eventually, the Lord-Mayor offers him a position paid sufficiently enough for him to pay his debts: personal chief valet. One would think that any normal person would have leapt at the opportunity to avoid being imprisoned for debts, besides considering that at night the Lord-Mayor sleeps, leaving his poet chief valet enough spare time to scribble his quatrains. But hey, what do you know? Attending to the needs of the Rt. Hon. Lord-Mayor of London is way beneath the dignity of one who can rhyme in mock-Old-English (and who, after having successfully passed and published a long poem as the work of a 12th-century monk, after the manner of Ossian, bitterly complains that the reviews do not credit himself, Chatterton, as the author). Better death than such a humiliation, therefore he swallows a lethal quantity of opium, thus also provoking the death by nervously-induced stroke of his landlord's wife, whom he loves and by whom he is reluctantly loved (needless to say, the landlord is an insensitive capitalist brute). All the eminently sane, sensible and sympathetic enjoining of a Quaker doctor (the sanest, most sensible and sympathetic character of the play) are of no avail.

What is any person sane of mind and body to make of this rubbish?

Now, according to Wikipedia

[Vigny's] mother ... was a strong-willed woman who was inspired by Rousseau and took personal responsibility for Vigny's early education

Suddenly, it all makes a lot of sense: whenever Rousseau is invoked, mental and moral confusion at best and plain mental and moral madness at worst is at work. As Pierre Lasserre very aptly put it, there's nothing in Rousseau that is not Romantic and there's nothing in Romanticism that is not Rousseau.

[JBS]

Alfred de Vigny's Chatterton (Shutter-TAWN, as the French are wont to pronounce)

Good God! It boggles the mind that there was a time when this drivel passed for great literature and it's deeply saddening that scores of people, especially youngsters, took it seriously. This is a major piece of evidence for Goethe's claim that Romanticism is disease(d).

Let's begin with the beginning, ie with the preface. Vigny claims in all earnestness and expressis verbis that society (read, the State) should provide "poets" with a regular lifetime payment, in order for them to freely, leisurely and carefree pursue their vocation. And by "poets" he means not only those who have indeed published several volumes of verses, but also --- again, expressis verbis --- all those who have scribbled even two quatrains only, and regardless of their quality, because who's to say that they are not to become great artists in the future? What they ask is only (only!) "to live and to dream" (exact quote) and therefore what they need is only (only!) "bread and time" (exact quote). And he adds that the costs will be minimal, because "poets" are rare. Obviously, psychology and economics were not Vigny's fortes.

Now, on to the play itself. Chatterton (described as an 18-year old "poet" whose body is "exhausted by vigils and thought" --- perish the thought of such a wretched being!) has cornered himself into a very bad situation, out of which he can't lift himself but for gaining a certain amount of money by which to pay his debts. In despair, he writes to the Lord-Mayor of London, who has known his father, asking for help; an old friend of Chatterton (whom he despises for no other reason than he, the friend that is,  is a jolly good fellow) also offers to intercede on his behalf upon the right honorable person. Eventually, the Lord-Mayor offers him a position paid sufficiently enough for him to pay his debts: personal chief valet. One would think that any normal person would have leapt at the opportunity to avoid being imprisoned for debts, besides considering that at night the Lord-Mayor sleeps, leaving his poet chief valet enough spare time to scribble his quatrains. But hey, what do you know? Attending to the needs of the Rt. Hon. Lord-Mayor of London is way beneath the dignity of one who can rhyme in mock-Old-English (and who, after having successfully passed and published a long poem as the work of a 12th-century monk, after the manner of Ossian, bitterly complains that the reviews do not credit himself, Chatterton, as the author). Better death than such a humiliation, therefore he swallows a lethal quantity of opium, thus also provoking the death by nervously-induced stroke of his landlord's wife, whom he loves and by whom he is reluctantly loved (needless to say, the landlord is an insensitive capitalist brute). All the eminently sane, sensible and sympathetic enjoining of a Quaker doctor (the sanest, most sensible and sympathetic character of the play) are of no avail.

What is any person sane of mind and body to make of this rubbish?

Now, according to Wikipedia

[Vigny's] mother ... was a strong-willed woman who was inspired by Rousseau and took personal responsibility for Vigny's early education

Suddenly, it all makes a lot of sense: whenever Rousseau is invoked, mental and moral confusion at best and plain mental and moral madness at worst is at work. As Pierre Lasserre very aptly put it, there's nothing in Rousseau that is not Romantic and there's nothing in Romanticism that is not Rousseau.

Ah, but bear in mind that while de Vigny invented some things (like the lovestruck landlady--she existed, but without any love interest), the play doesn't deviate too much from the true story)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Chatterton

[Brian]

Discussion prompt!

My partner and I were talking tonight about artists who reached their peak after "retirement age" in the traditional sense. I thought of Verdi writing Falstaff at age 78-79 and R. Strauss writing his Four Last Songs at age 84. She argued that authors are different and authors noticeably decline earlier.

I'm curious if anyone has data points to suggest about authors and the aging curve. All I have thought of is Philip Roth, who I think peaked around age 70, and nonfiction writer Jacques Barzun, who published his masterpiece at 93 and lived for 11 more years. Alice Munro was in her top form before being felled by dementia around age 80, whereas Christie and Wodehouse are examples of long-careered authors who did tend to prove the point about a decline after a certain age.

[hopefullytrusting]

Discussion prompt!

My partner and I were talking tonight about artists who reached their peak after "retirement age" in the traditional sense. I thought of Verdi writing Falstaff at age 78-79 and R. Strauss writing his Four Last Songs at age 84. She argued that authors are different and authors noticeably decline earlier.

I'm curious if anyone has data points to suggest about authors and the aging curve. All I have thought of is Philip Roth, who I think peaked around age 70, and nonfiction writer Jacques Barzun, who published his masterpiece at 93 and lived for 11 more years. Alice Munro was in her top form before being felled by dementia around age 80, whereas Christie and Wodehouse are examples of long-careered authors who did tend to prove the point about a decline after a certain age.

Robert Bly felt he didn't really start to write until he was 46.

Broch wrote his greatest work at 59.

Gadamer might be one of the longest examples of being consistently great. Wrote his greatest work at 60, and was still producing high quality work at the end of his life - 102.

[JBS]

Thomas Pynchon just published a novel; he's 88. How good it is, of course, remains to be seen.

[ritter]

Domenico Rea's essay Le due Napoli ("The Two Naples"), in which he juxtaposes the city with its literary representations.



Rea (1921 - 1994) was one of the most prominent Neapolitan writers if his generation. His second novel, Ninfa plebea, was adapted for the screen by Lina Wertmüller.

[AnotherSpin]

Lovely stuff from the wonderful Douglas Harding.

[ritter]

Taking a break from Italian 20^th century literature, and finally tackling a book of been meaning to read for about a year now: William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.

[Brian]

Discussion prompt!

My partner and I were talking tonight about artists who reached their peak after "retirement age" in the traditional sense. I thought of Verdi writing Falstaff at age 78-79 and R. Strauss writing his Four Last Songs at age 84. She argued that authors are different and authors noticeably decline earlier.

I'm curious if anyone has data points to suggest about authors and the aging curve. All I have thought of is Philip Roth, who I think peaked around age 70, and nonfiction writer Jacques Barzun, who published his masterpiece at 93 and lived for 11 more years. Alice Munro was in her top form before being felled by dementia around age 80, whereas Christie and Wodehouse are examples of long-careered authors who did tend to prove the point about a decline after a certain age.

Thanks to Trusting and JBS for suggestions here. I did a little more digging and found a number of authors who seem to have peaked around age 70 (including Magda Szabo and Alan Bennett) and a number more who seem to have abruptly stopped or retired or gone into decline around age 70 (including Eudora Welty and Halldor Laxness). Roald Dahl wrote Matilda at 72 and died shortly after. Herman Wouk appears to have actively published new novels until nearly age 100 but I've never encountered any of the work from the last 30 years of his life. The journalist Roger Angell was also quite active into his 90s.

Saul Bellow's Ravelstein, published at age 85, appears to be one of the latest-life pieces of writing to gain a wide audience. Elmore Leonard and Toni Morrison were also very active until a similar age, though with declining reviews for their very last works.

[hopefullytrusting]

Thanks to Trusting and JBS for suggestions here. I did a little more digging and found a number of authors who seem to have peaked around age 70 (including Magda Szabo and Alan Bennett) and a number more who seem to have abruptly stopped or retired or gone into decline around age 70 (including Eudora Welty and Halldor Laxness). Roald Dahl wrote Matilda at 72 and died shortly after. Herman Wouk appears to have actively published new novels until nearly age 100 but I've never encountered any of the work from the last 30 years of his life. The journalist Roger Angell was also quite active into his 90s.

Saul Bellow's Ravelstein, published at age 85, appears to be one of the latest-life pieces of writing to gain a wide audience. Elmore Leonard and Toni Morrison were also very active until a similar age, though with declining reviews for their very last works.

I think what I love most about creative creation is something Steiner pointed out - we will never figure it out - John Livingston Lowes and I.A. Richards both did brilliant studies on Coleridge trying to discover how he did what he did - the rich field of associations - the hooked atoms - but there is always something missing, empirically, as I could have had the same experiences as Coleridge, and I would have not become Coleridge - as we know him.

Additionally, history simply remembers what it remembers - I do work with anthologies, and they are a fantastic source to see how things fall in and out of the canon, as creation never stops but anthologies must, and then it comes down to how much do you trust the person doing the anthologizing? And there is no one qualified to do that, even on the scale of the state - much less national, global, or cosmic.

[Florestan]

Paul Feval - The White Wolf

Not a great writer, to be sure, but a damn good story-teller.

[Mandryka]