steveatwaywords's reviews
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Was reading The First Philosophers by Waterfield at the same time. Thought the parallel reading would be interesting, but too much. Waterfield's book is mostly raw text from philosophers and Nietzsche's is broader perspectives and connections. Both worthwhile, but I'm valuing what was said before interp. 

First, I will admit that, as my 3rd book by or about Wendell Berry, returning to Port William felt familiar, and so do its characters and themes. The primary draw of Berry is this idyllic, pastoral nostalgia for an American era of rural hard work and Natural (with a capital N) spiritualism, whether or not it finds its voice in church.

Jayber Crow, a protagonist only in that he is the novel's only narrator, reflects back upon his hard-working and earnest life while seeking his own Natural connection to the All-Mighty. For Berry, the good is wrapped up in this idealized encapsulation of memories, of days with sun, cricket, and river, afternoons with old men sharing company at the barbershop, Sundays and in-between times appreciating the clean air and pure voices. There is no real evil in such a community; everyone perhaps has quiet stories they tell only themselves, but they move forward as best they can. 

Outside the community, however, is the cruelty and evil of the world, with nameless workmen and ignorant schoolmasters, bringers of war and even upper class cruelties, modernization and formal education and the fools who succumb to it. The greatest tragedy in the novel is brought about not by a human (blameless in the incident) but by an unexpected arrival of an automobile. 

Through all of it, Jayber seeks meaning and love and finds them in the most Platonic of spaces, in the river which draws him and binds him, his name and relationship to the biblical Jonah, and in his own conception of marriage and devotion. I do not wish to omit that Berry is a fine storyteller, that his prose and his character voices are genuine, authentic, poetic. Hence his appeal.

Read this as you choose. If you seek to live in the seeming of simpler times, to reflect upon how the modern world has turned everything upside down, to bemoan The Economy, and to believe that only here is an Idealized Love and Life possible, this book is for you. If you wonder, however, about the improvident problematics of his chosen Love, about the white Christian homogeneity of the community, and about the categorical absolutes of good=simple/evil=modern, then perhaps brace up a bit. As I suggested in a review of a different book on Berry, his hypotheses are perhaps sound only when they ignore the vast global voices telling other stories. 

First, if you'd like a quick jab between the eyes of what the global discourse from the "other" looks like when discussing reading and the American Way, this is that book. The only reason that it is not a full five stars is that the jab is far too brief to be more than momentarily distressing.

Alameddine surely knows this. Here are two essays on reading, thinking, the state of literature, and the notion of politics in "art." They were published here because they were available to him to be published, having found small audiences elsewhere; but what I truly want now is far more from Alameddine, more of his reflections and even the opportunity to settle in more fully on the accusations, to issue the full warrant for his claims and anecdotal evidence.  What accusations? Why, against me, of course. And I am ready to declare myself guilty.

The first essay is on a subject I have long argued myself, that we drive a polemic stake between the words politics and art, as if we can somehow cordon off aesthetics as an absolute, "untainted" by the nasty corruption of human interaction. This is Gautier's "art for art's sake" idea, and of course Alameddine makes it clear that all statements, artistic or not, are inherently political, even those which (politically) attempt to step away from politics. The privilege which belongs to the "Aesthete" is just that, a position which can afford idealism because it has the assuredness of comfort. And, of course, the political novel belongs to the "Other" who has grievance. Is this white liberal reviewer guilty? Of course: I write what I choose to write, in the pretense that subjects "other than" politics are also viable and worthy of explorations. Worse, I may recognize the political elements of my writing and keep them (safely) in the realm of feeding my own liberal gratification.

So as to my second crime, I am guilty of reading the writers of these "comforting myths," the widely-published "Cute Others" (Alameddine's term) that represent the various quarters of foreign writing: Tan, Li, Alameddine, Adichie, Borges or Marquez, Rushdie. Excellent writers all, they poke at the Western culture gently enough that I am gratified in my political righteousness. But, of course, not so gratified as to expect, let alone desire, change. The problem, of course, is that finding the vast majority of Others out there is not altogether easy: they will not be published by mainstream or even most indie presses, let alone find their way to translation. (And to underscore this point, when I typed in "Comforting Myths" + "Alameddine" to bring up this text, I instead found first--and this is god-attesting truth--three other titles came up: a book on the Supreme Court, Comforting the Grump: Forestville Silver Foxes #5, and My Butt is Comforted By the Realization That I'm Okay and Everything Will Be Alright. I throw myself on the judge for mercy.)

So yes, everything Alameddine writes smacks of truth-telling, and not just for neo-colonialism: we can just as easily add queerness and a host of other marginalized communities to the mix. But how do we right it? He doesn't know (if it was easy . . . ). And, guilty, that suits me fine, doesn't it?

So yes again, I want more from him on this, more from others on this. Uproot me. Drain the atmosphere of capitalism and class. Find me the reading list. Reveal the connective threads between my condescending to review this text and Salih's Season of Migration to the North. I'm ready, and I am not. But that's what I signed up for. 

Wolkstein's reconfiguring/retelling of the original tale of Inanna is compelling and accessible, told closely enough to the translations from cuneiform but with the fresh eye of a master storyteller to lend them what I would describe as a fitting goal: an ancient tale which privileges the narrative mysteries of its first utterances.

This is no small task, and along with the telling comes Wolkstein's essays and notes, at once personal and academic, about her love and passion for working alongside the archivists and for breaking the myth open to probe about its inner workings: what must have been understood by the Sumerians, how symbols or signifiers worked differently in their time, what archetypes are in operation that surround and overshadow the text, etc. All of these are critical reads alongside the text itself, so for someone seeking more than a simple telling, Wolkstein delivers. 

And this myth, unsurprisingly, as fragmentary and obscure as it might be for us archaeologically, is not a simple story, despite its seeming barrenness of critical detail. We see in it early conceptions of magic--these powers of the living gods--of suffering and despair, of the mysteries of death and the underearth, of ritual and justice. For a story which had lasted centuries or millennia in its prime, finding it restored this way reveals for us some primary story in ourselves.

Wilson takes on a subject fresh and welcome in the realm of mythological fantasy: the Sumerian and Akkadian gods. Bringing the gods literally to life and walking the earth around the early mortals in the time of Gilgamesh, we see the multifold dramas unfold between them in extraordinary if melodramatic detail.

And this is the dilemma Wilson and readers both face. On the one hand, if we want an "authentic" tale of the ancient Fertile Crescent, we must look to the myths of which we have very little in terms of fully-developed story: the poetic fragments we've arranged even where complete are challenging to interpret and demand a great deal of imagination. Replicating their story would be both brief and perhaps unenlightening. On the other hand, filling in all the details of the complex relationships and subplots that may have occurred to account for those original stories (which Wilson does) is bound to demand an unauthentic telling, conflicts with the original text. This is what happens.

Today's readers demand plot-level semi-rational explanations in fantasy; Mesopotamian mythology didn't work that way. We are left with an adventure tale from multiple points of view that is at times adventurous, at times comedic, and at times simply head-scratching in its purpose, character additions and scenes which seem superfluous or gratuitous to the original myth, diluting the potent mystery of the original. At the level of story Wilson is writing (nothing as ambitious as much of the work of Madeline Miller, for instance), none of the gods think deeply or richly about anything; they are dull plotters and schemers, which is why so many readers find them unappealing  or unlikeable. On the contrary, they should be unappealing, but for reasons more substantive than being of shallow character.

So if you want to read this, somehow imagining that you will find genuine exposure to the original mythology, reconsider. And if you wish a decent adventure story of the ancient world of gods who happen to have familiar names, you might--and then only might--find this rewarding. For me, I won't be continuing the series.

(P.S. Reading Enheduana by Sophus Helle or Inanna, Queen of Heaven & Earth by Diane Wolkstein each will give you the original myths in accessible form from the cuneiform tablets.)

Sophus Helle is a treasure, finding a terrific balance in presenting what has been previously fairly less accessible texts, the current best understanding of the ancient priestess of Inana and original author, Enheduana of the Akkadian city of Ur, c. 2300 BCE.

None of the terms identifying the subject of this book may be understood casually, however. Enheduana's biography and authorship are each separate entities, each with their own set of ambiguities and conceptual challenges. Her politics and the role of the goddess Inana are equally enigmas in several ways. Fortunately, Helle does not leave any of these issues unattended, but not only offers some of the best and most readable translations of the original texts we have, but takes the time to write extensively, openly, and fairly to new readers and learners about the questions and what is at stake in each of them. He has, in short, become himself a part of the Enheduana authorship.

To be sure, the original cuneiform tablets we have--somehow so innumerable as to themselves be confusing (her texts were used by school students in later centuries)--are still fragmentary, assemblages of various versions and storylines. Where we have little, Helle leaves the translation a graphic blank of ellipses to demonstrate how much remains. Then, in both introductions and later full essays on what has survived, he reveals what we might learn of Akkadian society and politics, of her life and repute, and broader implications of her place in later centuries and today. 

And while I enjoyed the reading of the tablets, the surprising "humanity" which finds their way into them, the genuine challenges and personal anxiety over her time and struggles, I also appreciated the work these texts must have done in the politics of her time, as works of rhetorical narrative driven to shift power. Moreover, Helle's illuminations of these struggles were a highlight of the reading for me. 

As an introduction to the study of these texts, of cuneiform and ancient Sumer, this is a fine read, one I will likely refer to again and again.

Stephany's arrangement of the ancient Babylonian myth of creation is much more approachable and readable than what I remember of my 1990s grad school days. Here is the myth presented as direct translation from the tablets themselves, where we have them, without a "modern retelling" or desperately opaque circumscriptions. Both the Creation story of the world and mankind are here along with "Atrahasis," the Babylonian flood myth. This alone makes the book a great read for those interested in a more authentic experience of this earliest of tales.

That said, I found myself still wishing for something a little different. Stephany offers some introductory remarks, all welcome for a new reader, but these are quite brief, fewer than 10 pages to account for the contextual history and import of the tablets. Likewise, the Endnotes are frustrating in their thinness, clarifying some terms here and there. 

This leaves the text to speak for itself, largely, and it almost does, save for the translation itself. Stephany chose to complete the translations by filling in the missing lines with best guesses or lines from other texts of similar nature. Sometimes this is a line or two; sometimes it is a gap of 20+ lines. These new lines are marked clearly, true; and it's a fine editorial choice, I guess, IF he also included explanations for where these lines came from and why they were selected.  Further, where more than one tablet is synthesized to tell a narrative, Stephany chooses to repeat the sequence nearly word for word--sometimes across pages--which throws the tale out of chronology. Where these syntheses occurred is not marked. In fact, no marginalia are included at all (tablet or line numbers, footnotes over endnotes, and the like). No other notes or supplemental essays

As a result, this makes for more difficult reading for the amateur (like me) who seeks explanations for what he is reading and how it fits together.  We are left to our own devices to research elsewhere. And for someone more academically-driven to study, the text's absence of marginalia or methodology will certainly be perplexing, perhaps rendering the translation with little merit. On the positive side, if you are a reader who wants to see how Babylon's myth is really brought to us and won't question the translation or archaeology of it, this is a fine and relatively quick read.
 

Kang's novel, first of all, is not about vegetarianism: this is only an introductory metaphor/incitement for its larger story: the impositions on women's bodily autonomy. Even this, of course, is a grotesque simplification of the novel, but since so many reviews seem to limit the novel's themes as belonging to Korean women, a geographic/cultural wall-breaker here seems a good place to start.

Yes, the novel has a number of incidents and complications that strike fairly uniquely to Korea, but this is hardly a wonder from a South Korean writer. I suppose all novels which take place in Boston apply only to American East Coast urban harborites. Kang's patriarchal control is only the first and easiest to grasp of the limits:  Yeong-hye's father, her husband, her brother-in-law, each take turns first misapprehending then correcting, abusing, and abandoning her. Too, though, her own sister struggles with this understanding, having worked so hard for love and family in more traditional ways. In fact, there are no individuals or institutions along the way (from businesses to a series of hospitals) that treat her differently from the male family. The presumption is that she is sick.

Still, this "diagnosis" of Yeong-hye is hardly arbitrary, nor is her style of vegetarianism anything like most readers have come to expect. As cliched-meatlover arguments wash over scenes, her diet also is ill-informed, driven by a kind of hidden dream-motivation more than any reasoned notion of environment, animal welfare, nutrition, or its like. Her behaviors which follow are strikingly outside of social norms, and some are potentially dangerous to others. It is tempting--too easily tempting--for readers to worry for her, too, to hope that a secret will be unlocked that might "return her to normal health."

No such luck.

This readerly presumption itself could/should be questioned. What demands do we make--and how do we--when we imagine someone is unwell? What is a restoration to normal that satisfies us? And we might ask as well, what is the least we might ask of each other? That we all show propriety? keep residence? remain alive? On the reverse are choices individuals make; and somewhere in between, perhaps, negotiated or presumed, is what a society (or gender) tolerates.

All this and I haven't really talked about what the novel is about, its three distinct parts each from different points of view, its three "cases" for examination, how different encounters address the consequences for their meetings and intimacies with Yeong-hye. These are unexpected, sometimes grotesque or perverse, always unsettling, and all--physically, psychologically, even institutionally--rooted in our foundations of meat, of flesh.

No, The Vegetarian is not about a diet. It is about bodily autonomy, and one woman's attempt to escape the carnal completely.

 This is a unique and even fun look one Muslim girl's adjusting to American culture. Fahmy is careful to point out that her experience is not the same as that of others, that this is mostly her own perception and struggles with fitting in and finding self-agency. The result is a fast-paced, image-heavy story of adventures and mis-adventures in learning who she is. 

Though the story takes place as our heroine enters high school, the story itself seems most appropriate for middle school readers. The situations, the framing and simplifications of the challenges, the absence of any complicated dialogue or narration, all speak to younger readers, if American-born. If immigrant readers are learning English, however, this is a great "early read" on the experience, though again, I know most teens to be far more savvy in their thinking now than our protagonist is in this story. 

We see despair, frustration, numerous embarrassments and failures to fit in, and--perhaps most conspicuous and serious--a racist teacher and Americans ignorant to who she is. Significantly, it is Huda's mother (and older sister) who helps her find her own agency, even without predicted lectures. 

Young non-Muslim readers will find this a terrific story as an introduction to difference and to Islam; and young Muslim readers will soon discover that their experiences adjusting are shared, and need to be. 

There is a lot to like about "Anya's Ghost." The premise of a Russian immigrant family making choices about how to adjust, especially Anya who works to hide her accent and fit in. The selfish protagonist who will pay many prices of character to achieve those connections. The "haunting" of a past/tradition that neither Anya nor ghost wish to admit to. It's all the makings for a terrific exploration and tale.

Unfortunately, partly for its length and audience and partly for, I think, its lack of ambition, the story falls short, devolving to an adventure to solve what the ghost intends. The ghost is probably too scary for very young readers, but not vivid or developed enough narratively for older ones. If Brogol intended a parallel of ghost-past to Anya-past, it's not clear enough and not valid enough to be marked as theme. The traditions of Russian family are not equivalent to the dark past of a restless spirit, in any event. 

So we are left with a story of moral character: what principles will we sacrifice for ease of life, for selfish gain? This is a theme which is plain enough, but a too obvious one again for older readers; as offered, it is empty of complexity or nuance, though through its set-up plenty is available. The end result is a story which sets aside the uniqueness of its premise and becomes a kind of "race" to prevent the villain from achieving its ends. (Sigh.)

Of note, too, the story has several scenes and events which are not for younger readers: alcohol and drug use, but also some darker behaviors and attitudes around pre-marital sex. These are mostly left with little comment in the narrative, though the ghost's violent past is treated as traumatizing.