Politics And Prose

Two reviews of the new book,Daniel Patrick Moynihan: a portrait in letters of an American visionary / edited by Steven R. Weisman. , one by Hendrik Hertzberg in The New Yorker, and by David Brooks in the Times begin differently, and that is quite telling:

Despite the well-established American loathing of politicians as a class, everything seems to get named after them, begins Hertzberg in his 3,969 word essay, not using the first-person pronoun until the 1,109th word. Brooks, juxtaposed, uses it as his 6th (of 1,881) word: Sometime in the late 1980s, I had lunch...

The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears

Mengestu, Dinaw. (2006). The beautiful things that heaven bears. New York: Riverhead Books.

 A wonderful read.

Mengestu has a fine ear for the way immigrants from damaged places talk in the sanctuary of their own company, free from the exhausting courtesies of self-anthropologizing explanation. He gets, pitch perfect, the warmly abrasive wit of the violently displaced and their need to keep alive some textured memories — even memories that wound — amid America’s demanding amnesia. Mengestu understands the threats these men face, not least the threat of expectations. Ken can finally afford to buy himself some dental work that would help him assimilate upward, but he chooses not to: “ ‘You can never forget where you came from if you have teeth as ugly as these,’ he said. He grinned once more. He tapped a slightly brown front tooth for effect.”

Sparely described, yet fully so, Joe from Congo and Ken from Kenya are magnificent characters that round out the male side, and the African side, of Stephanos.

What more potent setting is there than Washington for a novel about the architecture of hope and memory? As Stephanos wanders, Bloom-like, down back streets and broad avenues, he takes in both the neglected statuary that attempts to do the official work of remembrance and the anonymous heroisms of ordinary people, unnoticed by anyone but a neighbor or a storekeeper or a child. Mengestu also widens his canvas by giving the novel a romantic turn, reviving an old plot device: a stranger comes to town.

All they ever share, physically, Stephanos and Judith, is a kiss; spiritually they are reluctant to get closer.

It’s rare that a novelist who can comfortably take on knotty political subjects like exile, memory and class conflict is also able to write with wisdom, wit and tenderness about the frisson of romance. Mengestu skillfully sketches the precarious attraction between Stephanos and Judith, but his portrait of the bond between Stephanos and Naomi is even more extraordinary. In our culture’s rigid judgment, a friendship between an 11-year-old girl and a 36-year-old man is creepy by default. The bravest thing about Mengestu’s novel is the way he pours such deep, nonsexual yearning into this relationship, which is life-saving for Stephanos and Naomi alike.

It is a beautiful relationship that has substance and elan.

Again and again, Stephanos’s story makes us consider what it means to be displaced: from a local community, from a distant nation, from a love you had hoped to settle into. In Mengestu’s work, there’s no such thing as the nondescript life. He notices, and there are whole worlds in his noticing. He has written a novel for an age ravaged by the moral and military fallout of cross-cultural incuriosity. In a society slick with “truthiness” — and Washington may be the capital of that — there’s something hugely hopeful about this young writer’s watchful honesty and egalitarian tenderness. This is a great African novel, a great Washington novel and a great American novel.

Amen. 'Tis indeed.

La Misma Luna

I wasn't sure if this would work for me, what with the pretty face and all, but I was surprised by it. This is a good movie. Mexicans crossing a river are found by the Migra, and some are separated from the rest of the group. A small boy lives back in his Mexican home, his mother winds up in East LA. He's cared for by his abuelita, and gets a phone call from his mother every Sunday morning at 10. When his abuelita dies, Carlitos decides he'll go and find his mother. He's shown helping a woman who is a sort of broker {Doña Carmen 'La Coyota' } for those hoping to cross the border. That is a topic that is not discussed anywhere, that I know.

Going to a young couple who had contacted Doña Carmen, offering to smuggle peopleacross the border, as they are US citizens, Carlos pays them to smuggle him across. but they are stopped at the border, their nervousness giving them away. Cleared, they go, only to be stopped, and their car impounded, as they have outstanding tickets.

Carlitos loses his money, is almost sold to a child pornographer or pimp, and is rescued by Reyna, a woman who feeds Mexicanaborers who need the help. This is also a topic not commonly discussed; in fact, both are (and aren't).

The movie is a bit of a tear-jerker, and melodramatic, but it works. It is well made, the story flows, and I enjoyed it a lot.

Take out

A day in the life of Ming Ding begins as a pair of hammer-wielding loan sharks come to the door of Ming's squalid apartment. Their ultimatum, delivered in Mandarin, is as simple as it is virtually impossible to fulfill, needing to give them $800 by the evening or the debt will be doubled. With the family he supports half a world away, Ming has a single rain-soaked shift at his job in which to pay off his thuggish creditors. Ming Ding anonymously and almost wordlessly delivers Chinese food on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

That's from the DVD's description. And it had a sort of grittiness to it (though at times it seemed amateurish). Then, as it is about to end, he gets into an elevator and two hip-hoppers start to rob him, one pulls out a gun, and I turned it off.

Unheroic conduct

Ran across this one whilst doing RFID work on the 290s.

Cristofo Colon

After reading Flotsametrics, by Curt Ebbesmeyer, I got this Columbus biography; Ebbesmeyer praised Columbus as an important navigator and an antecedent in flotsametrics. This book is not so much a biography of the man as a biographical sketch of the explorer and sailor. Well written, it flowed easily and was a good read.  John Noble Wilford has written a number of other books.

Nobel a platform for outspoken Vargas Llosa

The Nobel Prize in literature brings a long-awaited accolade to Peruvian author Mario Vargas Llosa, and also a new platform for him to assail leftist leaders Hugo Chavez of Venezuela and Fidel Castro of Cuba.

Fidel is an anachronism, as he himself recognizes.

Vargas Llosa has regularly directed barbs at Chavez, denouncing him as autocratic. When the novelist visited Venezuela last year to attend a pro-democracy forum, he was stopped by authorities at the airport for nearly two hours. He said he was questioned and told that as a foreigner he didn't "have the right to make political statements" in Venezuela.

What a bunch of mierda. People who are afraid of words are cowards, and will, in the long run, lose.

Chavez disputed that account at the time, saying his critics were putting on a show to discredit his government. Chavez invited Vargas Llosa and other intellectuals to debate on live television, then backed away from a direct debate after critics suggested a one-on-one contest with Vargas Llosa — with equal time for each.

Chávez would look a fool debating Llosa one-on-one. In a gaggle, he could let pandemonium and disorder be his allies, as he usually does.

He burst onto the literary scene in the early 1960s with the novel "The Time of the Hero" (the Spanish title was "La Ciudad y los Perros") — a book that drew on his experiences at a Peruvian military academy and angered the country's military. One thousand copies of the novel were burned by military authorities, with some generals calling the book false and Vargas Llosa a communist.

How ironic. Then again, irony is the stuff of life.

Vargas Llosa Is Awarded Nobel Prize in Literature

The Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, whose deeply political work vividly examines the perils of power and corruption in Latin America, won the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature on Thursday. Announcing the award in Stockholm, the Swedish Academy praised Mr. Vargas Llosa “for his cartography of the structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual’s resistance, revolt and defeat.”


In an interview with The Times in 2002, Mr. Vargas Llosa said that it was the novelist’s obligation to question real life. “I don’t think there is a great fiction that is not an essential contradiction of the world as it is,” he said. “The Inquisition forbade the novel for 300 years in Latin America. I think they understood very well the seditious consequence that fiction can have on the human spirit.’”

Free food for millionaires

Really good book. Read it in four days (Monday was a rainy off day). Koreans live all around me in Flushing, and I wanted to read a book about Koreans in America. This one takes place in New York. The family of the main character, Casey Han, lives in Queens (Maspeth, between the gas tanks {does anyone not a New Yorker recognize that landmark?} and Queens Boulevard). She has graduated Princeton, has no job, an Anglo boyfriend and no plans to go to law school; the last three rankle her traditional father. Punched, tossed out, Casey goes to Manhattan, stays at the Carlyle Hotel (as would an aunt, or grandmother, of her best friend), and begins an adventure. There are numerous characters, many fleshed out nicely, and the narrative technique of going inside each head is used effectively.

Reviews are mixed, but I found it a wonderful read.

The Hezbollah project

Joe Klein reviews a book about Hizbullah by journalist Thannasis Cambanis.


Created in the early 1980s, Hezbollah was a joint venture of Israel and Iran. Israel inadvertently provided the motivation with its brutal 1982 invasion of Lebanon and attempt to establish a pro-Israeli puppet government there — undoubtedly, the worst foreign policy decision the Jewish state ever made. Iran, intoxicated by the euphoria of its 1979 revolution, provided the money, military training and equipment to its fellow Shiites in south Lebanon who, up till then, had been a disdained underclass in Lebanon’s polyglot ethnic mash-up. Israel continued to provide the motivation, by occupying a sliver of southern Lebanon until 2000, and Iran — using its Syrian ally as a go-between — continued to provide money and arms. But along the way, an extraordinary thing happened: Hezbollah developed a successful formula for governing the Shiite districts in southern Lebanon.

Klein is a shrewd observer of US politics, and has written numerous books, including the infamous Primary Colors.

Nasrallah is an extraordinarily shrewd leader. He lives modestly and has made sacrifices for the cause; he lost his oldest son in the war. He can be funny and self-deprecating in public. He has an “almost erotic” appeal for his followers, many of whom are afflicted by an eschatological delusion (the return of the Mahdi) that is remarkably similar to the Christian Rapture myth. Nasrallah’s rhetoric is fierce and his anti-Semitism flagrant, but, Cambanis writes, he has none of the pomposity that characterizes the family dynasties in the rest of the region. He makes smart decisions — refusing to take vengeance on those who collaborated with the Israelis during their occupation; allowing a looser, more permissive form of Islam to Lebanon’s Mediterranean sunbathers and beer-drinkers than his Iranian sponsors permit. And, most important of all, he is an ingenious marketer, especially in his ability to redefine success: victory is survival.

The ability to define vistory over Israel in any form is a major coup.

He also fails to put Lebanese Hezbollah in the context of Iran’s larger terrorist network — which includes Saudi Hezbollah and a surprisingly active Latin American wing. Who runs those? How does Hezbollah fit into Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Quds Force structure? 

Hezbollah, sadly, may prove over time to be the strongest indigenous response to the colonial hubris visited upon the Middle East by Western powers since the end of World War I.

Gatz

A MAN sits down at a gray metal desk one morning and tries to boot up a computer from the Flintstone age, one with a screen that looks like an old cathode-ray TV set. Nothing happens, so he pulls out a paperback and begins to read aloud. The book is “The Great Gatsby,” but this guy apparently skipped 10th-grade English when it was assigned. He reads slowly, haltingly, stumbling over pronunciations, getting the emphasis all wrong. The last time we heard “Gatsby” read this badly was in the old Andy Kaufman sketch.


This is how “Gatz,” Elevator Repair Service’s seven-hour performance now at the Public Theater, begins. When I saw it last winter, produced by the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Mass., the set was a spectacularly cluttered office that appeared to be part warehouse, part paper-pushing operation and part waiting room — not a bad metaphor, if you think about it, for the inside of your own head. And what goes on in your head is, in a way, the real subject of “Gatz,” which is not, strictly speaking, a staged reading of “The Great Gatsby,” even though every one of the book’s 47,000 words is pronounced onstage. Neither is it a dramatic adaptation of Fitzgerald’s novel. It’s more a dramatization of the act of reading itself — of what happens when you immerse yourself in a book.

Book reviews

The lampshade: A Holocaust Detective Story From Buchenwald to New Orleans. 940.5318 J
Mark Jacobson. Illustrated. 357 pages. Simon & Schuster. $26.

Poisoning the press: Richard Nixon, Jack Anderson, and the Rise of Washington’s Scandal Culture. 973.924 F
Mark Feldstein. Illustrated. 461 pages. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. $30.

Ronald Reagan, as governor of California, said that Anderson and the columnist Drew Pearson, his employer at the time, “shouldn’t be using a typewriter” but “a pencil on outbuilding walls.” (Pearson and Anderson had reported that some of Reagan’s staff members were gay.) J. Edgar Hoover called Anderson “a flea-ridden dog” who was “lower than the regurgitated filth of vultures.” Nearly everything Richard Nixon said about Anderson — the pair were bitter 25-year antagonists — is unprintable here. But Anderson’s exposés about Nixon’s wrongdoing reduced the president’s special counsel, Charles Colson, to sputtering, as if someone had stuck a fork into his forehead, “Oh! Ach! Oh!” 

And Britt Hume, Anderson's protegé, is now a Fox News (news used ruefully) pit bull. Anderson died in 2004.