The muse of Virginia Woolf

Vita Sackville-West, was an English aristrocrat and writer of some repute. She was also the muse of Virginia Woolf, who based her novel Orlando completely on her. This was actually documented by Virginia Woolf in her diary:

And instantly the usual exciting devices enter my mind: a biography  beginning in the year 1500 and continuing to the present day, called  Orlando: Vita; only with a change about from one sex to the other

Vita Sackville-West was a part of the Bloomsbury group (which included Virginia Woolf and her husband) and was married to Harold Nicolson, a writer and a politician. They had an open marriage and both had several affairs with people of the same sex.

Although most know her primarily for her affair with Virginia Woolf, she was an accomplished writer in her own right and was even awarded the Companion of Honour for her services to literature. Her skill in writing is apparent in her passionate and beautifully written love letters to Virginia Woolf in one of which she claims:

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia

As stated above, she served as a model for Woolf's novel Orlando which traced the life and love of the eponymous hero. Interestingly enough, although the character starts of as a man, at a certain juncture, Orlando turns into a woman with the same mind and intellect.

Despite Vita's various affairs and unusal lifestyle, she is reported to have had a close bond with her husband and her son actually defended her choices.

Book Review of Life of Pi by Yann Martel

by Meg Tufano

If you have ever taken a fiction writing course, you’ll know that the core lesson taught is to make sure your characters do the unexpected thing, but, at the same time, make sure whatever they do seems plausible and true to character. Anne Lamott in what is probably the most engaging book about writing fiction ever written, Bird by Bird, tells about writing so far out into unexpected places that she would become half crazy trying to pull the pieces together for her readers. My own experience, such as it is, in writing fiction is that I find I want to write my own story, about what I have learned and what I have seen, very little of which is unexpected, and even less is probably interesting to a reader. 

In Life of Pi, Yann Martel takes the fiction-writer’s advice to the extreme—his book is the most unexpected story imaginable—and if he has lived even one day of the experiences he writes about then my admiration of him knows no bounds because his life must be so interesting that I wonder how he could ever find time to write! How he was able to make the story of a child and a 450 pound tiger surviving a transatlantic journey in a lifeboat believable? This isn’t good fiction writing, this is magic.

I first read Life of Pi when it came out. I remember feeling amazed, exhilarated, breathless, so totally caught up in the story that—like very good writing should do—I just enjoyed the book, didn’t notice the writing (good writing is (according to the fiction writing courses) transparent), set it down, and went on with my life with a little more enthusiasm, and a lot more hope and faith that, if we dig deep, human beings can overcome anything. 

I read it again this past month (December 2006) for our book club and, this time around, I’m astounded by Martel’s achievement because even though the story remains riveting, I now can see that what makes the story work is the wisdom that comes through on almost every page. It is the intellectual and spiritual wisdom of the character of the title, Pi, that makes him such a believable character. When the totally unexpected happens, his actions ring true because we have come to trust his judgment about life, people, and, most especially, tigers, all the way through the book.

For an example of his judgment of people, early in the book, Pi has an interaction with one of his teachers, an atheist, who says to him, “There are no grounds for going beyond a scientific explanation of reality and no sound reason for believing anything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, close attention to detail and a little scientific knowledge will expose religion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist.” (p. 27) It turns out that the teacher, in his painful childhood, had asked “Where is God?” every day.
Medicine later saved him from his polio and, from then on, he believed in medicine and science; and not God.

To Pi’s way of thinking, the teacher’s “details seemed bleak,” but, more to the point, he didn’t argue with him because, “I was more afraid that in a few words thrown out he might destroy something I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? What a terrible disease that must be if it can destroy God in a man.” (p. 28)

From this moment on in my second time reading the book, I became conscious that I was dealing with a writer who had such a depth of field in his own view of the world that I was going to see things as I’d never seen them before in a novel and, for reasons I’ll explain later, I had missed them the first time I’d read the book. I don’t know what I thought of God when I first read the book, but God is a lot of things to me now, and the most important relationship I have to God is personal, internal, not perfectly defined, but powerful nonetheless. If Pi were to have asked me about this teacher’s atheism at that moment in his life story at that earlier reading during my life story, I would have logically told him to ask the teacher if he thought good medicines could come from God, or our ability to see things rationally and scientifically could be divine gifts. But Pi didn’t need me to point out this rational argument, Pi realizes this for himself a few paragraphs later when he reveals that this atheist teacher became his own favorite teacher, and that, “It was my first clue that atheists are my brothers and sisters of a different faith, and every word they speak speaks of faith. Like me, they go as far as the legs of reason will carry them—and then they leap.” 

Pi believes in God, and believes in atheists. A writer who can carry this off—and carry you into understanding how this can make sense—is a miracle worker, wouldn’t you agree?

I have since become an equal-opportunity Christian believer since then (equal-opportunity because I see nothing in the New Testament that won’t admit everyone to the party—and I attend any church I happen to find, especially if a friend invites me, whether to a Mosque, a Buddhist meditation, a Quaker meeting, a Baptist hand-clapping Biblebelt swinging Sunday night foot-stomping celebration, or a serene Catholic Mass.) And I have been seriously humbled and even more seriously edified by the experience of bringing up two boys, then launching them into adulthood. I am reading this book again near the end of (naïve) motherhood—but more on this in a moment.

Where my faith stands now is that I believe, along with C.S. Lewis, that any true good that any person attributes to God, God accepts as you or I would accept a compliment about something we’d made even if someone, by some accident, did not know our name. I’m not even sure God has a name. The name Jesus, in his day, was as close to calling a person John Smith as you could get. And I suspect that was the point: “There among the least am I.” 

In other words, I believe “The kingdom of God is within . . .” each and every one of us. (Christianity is not—despite its current reputation—a religion at all but has been taken over by the modern equivalent of the hypocritical Pharisees, but don’t let me get lost and drown in the modern current of disputations.) In sum, I love God, therefore I love people, and, therefore I love what makes us human (intellect, ability to love, and friendship above all). In these respects, I now have a lot in common with Pi. As to motherhood—again, let me digress.

With regard to science, my favorite person in history is Galileo, the inventor of the scientific method. How did Galileo begin his world-changing revolution? He began with the thesis that a rational God created everything. Therefore, everything must have rationality. So? Look around long enough (following strict rational rules) and you will find elegant, rational and amazing truths. Frankly, in my opinion, scientists appear to take the second half of Galileo’s method for granted, but if I try asking a scientist why he or she believes he’ll find anything sensible in his observations—evolutionary theory, for example, seems an extremely sensible, elegant, way to “grow” the world—he or she can only gulp helplessly, and maybe blush if honest; just as I must do when asked why God would permit a child to suffer. My faith in the Christian God demands a leap over what Jesus called his offensiveness, “And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended by me.” (Matt. 11:6; Luke 7:23); and, for scientists, their faith demands a leap over what they might call paradox (two truths which are opposite, but both true, such as human life which grows more complex and intelligent but integrated, but includes the reality of ever-increasing entropy).

But Pi knows the “offense” and paradoxes well, and that’s why he finds that scientists are his brothers. The little doubts that are part and parcel of Pi’s faith (if you have no doubt, you have knowledge, not faith), are also the very foundation of scientific method. Science has faith that it will find something rational, but it never says it “knows” anything, only that “the hypothesis has not been disproven,” that is, it keeps Cartesian doubt close to its heart, as a kind of faith in the human tendency to overrate itself. Both atheist scientists and believers float, but in a shaky, shaking, boat. However, for Pi, even as one has doubts, one must move past them in order to stay on course, just as in science one goes past hypotheses to theories: “[If Christ] burst out from the cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.” (p. 28) Doubt as a basis for coming to faith in ideas is
something Pi can accept, but it is agnostics who “get stuck in [Pi’s] craw.” (p. 28)

Which leads me ineluctably back to the main part of Martel’s wonderfully riveting story:
Pi and the tiger crossing the ocean in a lifeboat. But to tell that part of the story might ruin it for a new reader, so I won’t go too close, but just talk around the edges as to how Pi survives the trip (something we know he will do from the first chapter, so I’m not spoiling things).

Pi’s faith is what is most important to his survival and he has many experiences of the divine during his life. Martel’s description of Pi’s boyhood experience of God is worth reprinting in its entirety:
“One such time [I felt in touch with the sacred was when] I left town on my way back [home], at a point where the land was high and I could see the sea to my left and down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was in heaven. The spot was in fact no different from when I had passed it not long before, but my way of seeing it had changed. The feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas before the road, the sea, the trees, the air, the sun all spoke differently to me, now they spoke one language of unity. Tree took account of road, which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea, which shared things with sun. Every element lived in harmonious relation with its neighbour, and all was kith and kin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like the centre of a small circle coinciding with centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah. . . . The presence of God is the finest of rewards.” (p. 62-63)

Faith is Pi’s rudder; and, probably, the entire meaning of the story of Pi’s whole life is encapsulated by his (fictional) biographer in the phrase, “the better story.” (p. 64) Which brings me to what I alluded to earlier, why my interpretation of the book changed so much in the years. “The better story,” certainly describes my own coming to faith. The night I made my own leap over “the offense,” I was surrounded by philosophers, scientists and new acquaintances at what was termed a “Bible study,” something I vaguely assumed would be something like my undergraduate Greek classes, translating the New Testament for homework, vainly arguing about what “is” is. But this study was in the living room of a family home and was more like a (happy) family discussion about important life issues.

On one side of the room were believers, speaking about life in ways that were so attractive, so meaningful, that I listened more to the tone of their words than their logic. I wondered, just for a moment, while still sitting on the agnostic other side of the room, “Could it be true?” And then, in the next instant, I re-evaluated my life as if the story were true. Like Pi, my life was no different from when I’d evaluated it not long before, but my way of seeing my life had changed. A life with ultimate meaning was the better story and, suddenly, it seemed much more plausible, much more likely, made much more sense out of why in the world I cared so much about beauty, doing the right thing, above all, why I cared about my family and my friends, about loving and being loved. It even made more sense out of my suffering, especially my suffering with a very sick, suffering, child (my younger son was seriously ill at birth).

For a long minute I imagined what it would be like to be sitting on the other side of the room with the believers, to see life their way every day, all day, and, just like Pi, I suddenly felt the center of my small circle of self coinciding with a much larger—infinite—one. My chair didn’t move, but I was transported to the “other” side and so entered the mysterious, mighty Kingdom of God. I was launched into the greatest story, and Christened with a kind of spiritual champagne that still bubbles up within.

Which is not to say I haven’t fallen prey to doubt and fear. The tiger that I’m afraid of in my lifeboat weighs not quite 450 pounds, but is represented—not by striped fur—but by the two young men I call my sons. Anyone who has children knows the total anxiety of watching one’s children become adults, each one of whom is now required to be in a separate boat, must deal with his or her own dreads as all of us weave our way across our oceans, the tides working their way on us. I have spent so many nights saying to God, “Why have you forsaken (me, them, us)?” that I fear God will one day reply, “Stop being a nag!”

Pi advises that we face our fears head on: “[Fear is] life’s only true opponent.” “. . . so you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. If your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly attacked the opponent who defeated you.” (p. 161) A better description of the method and meaning of depth psychology was never written (at least never so succinctly!) Facing fears is the daily practice that keeps my faith alive!

Writing such as Martel’s in Life of Pi is a “light of words” shining in the darkness that can so powerfully attack us. For all I know, his story may have very well contributed to my having enough imagination to receive faith. I should add that making the story of a tiger and a young boy crossing the ocean believable, Martel has also contributed to my hope that my own two boys will sail safely over the deep. In sum, Martel has written not just an unexpected story, and a believable one, but one that can lead one to “the better story,” the one that not only enlightens, but saves. It is not just good fiction, but, to me, more like a miracle.

Haunting deaths from a novel

In The World According to Garp, the deaths of novelist T.S. Garp, and 33 years earlier, his father Technical Sergeant Garp (whose first name we never know) are both memorable.

Technical Sergeant Garp, a ball turret gunner, is mortally wounded in a World War II dogfight, and badly brain-damaged. He has recurrent priapic episodes but is not fully conscious and can only speak the word "Garp." Nurse Jenny Fields, from an aristocratic New England family, cares for him as he slips out of this world. She notices, as he begins to fail, that first he loses the G, and can only say "Arp." Soon he loses the P, and she knows she is losing him.

Once a Garp, then an Arp, now only an Ar; she knew he was dying. He had just one vowel and one consonant left.

Jenny, eager for a baby, climbs atop the dying gunner and uses his arousal reflex to impregnate herself. A few weeks later he is dead. She never reveals the identity of her baby's father to her family, but she names her son T.S. Garp in his father's memory, and raises him as a single mother.

Garp is a successful writer, but he becomes controversial. He criticizes a group of young women who call themselves the Ellen James Society, named for a young rape survivor whose assailant had cut out her tongue with the intention of preventing her from testifying against him; the Ellen Jamesians voluntarily cut out their own tongues in solidarity. Garp fails to see the point in this self-mutilation and is eventually assassinated by an exceptionally crazy Ellen Jamesian.

- Stephanie Vardavas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

A poem by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rage at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Short Story : The Sniper by Liam O' Flaherty

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O'Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen--just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man's head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "I'm hit," he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof coverd his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.

Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards--a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.

Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper's head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it a drought. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.

When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into O'Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face.

Most heartbreaking novels

I have read this two Novel way back on High School, Noli Me Tangere  (when 3rd year high school) and El Filibusterismo (when 4th year high school).

These two novel was written by our Philippine National Hero Dr. Jose P. Rizal.

Rizal's first novel -- the Noli Me Tangere--

is a scathing, full-scale indictment of the Philippine political and religious regime. In this novel, Rizal tried to do what no one has been willing to do -- he replied to the calumnies which, for centuries, have been heaped upon us and our country; he described the state of our society, our life, our beliefs, our hopes, our desires, our laments, and our grievances. And what is surprising is that he has unmasked the hypocrisy, which under the cloak of religion, came among us to deprive us, to brutalize us. Rizal distinguished the true religion from the false, from the superstitious, from that which traffics with the Sacred Word to extract money, to make us believe in foolishness which Catholicism would blush at if it had knowledge of it. Moreover, he unveiled what lay hidden behind the deceptive and brilliant words of our government. Rizal did not let his fellowmen off the hook, though. He had also told our fellowmen of our faults, our vices, our culpable and shameful apathy with regards to these miseries. It may be noted that the facts Rizal had related are all true and real. 

The facts Rizal brought to his fellowmen's attention through Noli Me Tangere: 
  
The corruption and brutality of Spanish priests and the injustices to the Indios. 

The Friars have made the Catholic religion an instrument for enriching themselves and perpetuating themselves in power by seeking to coerce the ignorant Filipino in fanaticism and superstitions instead of teaching them true Catholicism. 

The Noli Me Tangere is, therefore, not merely an attack on the Spanish colonial regime. It is a charter nationalism. It calls on the Filipino to recover his self-confidence, to appreciate his own worth, to return to the heritage of his ancestors, to assert himself as the equal of the Spaniard. 

In his novel, Rizal has given a sort of encouragement to his countrymen to struggle against their bad qualities, and afterwards they have reformed. 
The title of Noli Me Tangere is a Latin phrase, which means "Touch Me Not." Basically this phrase was not originally conceived by Rizal, for he admitted taking it from the Bible. It is from the book of St. John (Chap 20:13-17). It was said that on the First Easter Sunday, St Mary Magdalene visited Jesus in the tomb, who had just risen from the dead. 

     "Touch Me Not, I am not yet ascended to my Father, but to go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father, and to my God and your God." 

*******

El Filibusterismo was written in dedication to the three martyred priests Mariano Gomez, Jose Burgos, and Jacinto Zamora, whose deaths left an indelible mark in his mind.

Like Noli Me Tangere, Fili aims at enlightening the society, at bringing the Filipinos closer to the truth. But whereas in the first novel, we are encouraged to ask and aspire for change and liberation, in this novel, the society is urged to open its eyes to reality and rebel against the Spanish government for its oppression and abuse.

In Noli, there is aspiration, beauty, romance, and mercy. In Fili, all the reader will feel is bitterness, hatred, and antipathy. The romance and aspirations are gone. Even the characters' personalities seem to have undergone radical change. This is how different Rizal's second novel is. Considering that both were written by the same author, the plots are poles apart.

Outright scorn and bitterness may already be felt at the beginning of the story, where Simoun promotes abuse and tyranny in the Spanish government, in the hope that the people will reach the limits of their endurance and declare a revolution.

Simoun, who is actually Noli's Ibarra in disguise, conveys an entirely different personality in Fili. While Ibarra is trusting, aspiring, and loving, Simoun is now cunningly careful in his dealings, distrusting, and extremely bitter. Something changed in Rizal; and this is reflected in the personalities he gave his El Filibusterismo characters. 

- Allegrei Fernando

Why one should read Catcher in the Rye?

Catcher in the Rye is more than the sum of its parts. Sure, it has great characters and interesting events, but these things don't quite capture the novel's spark.

The grander themes of the book give the Catcher of the Rye its je ne sais quoi. 

Catcher in the Rye is a masterpiece of teenage angst. It was one of the first books to truly capture the isolation, confusion and blind anger of adolescence. 

These years of teenage-dom are hell. Somehow you need to figure out who you are. That's a tall order for someone whose life has been planned, prepared and guided up to that point. Uncertainty breeds fear and anger. You're torn between your parents', society's and your own desires. Tough stuff.

Holden Caulfield is the blueprint of a disenchanted teenager who gives the bird to everyone and stomps off into his room. He struggles with his own rebellion. Thinking that he's "cool," he hires a prostitute, but can't consummate the transaction because of his lingering morality. Heck, he doesn't know what he's rebelling against half of the time. It's not just the rebellion that strikes a chord with us. It's the emotional isolation, alienation and confusion that we can all relate to.

We were all teenagers once, after all.

Even the writing style captures the unique self-absorption of the teenage mind. His narrative allows the reader to peek into Holden's brain. Even the sequence of events contribute to the quintessential teenage tone of this book. Like our lives, Holden's story is a story of miniature dramas strung together. And who can forget the curse worrds?

Holden's no phony -- he's the real deal.

- Christina Hartmann

On Haruki Murakami

What's appealing to me in Haruki Murakami's writing is well captured not in his novels or short stories but rather in his semi-autobiographic book, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running". I run long distance too and so the physical setting matched my interests, but his personal attitude (which I feel is reflected in all of his fiction too) was what caught my attention.

Murakami lives in the present and is the most anti-hyperbolic writer of all those that I have read. He and his protagonists report life in a matter of fact, minimalist, highly observant yet not self indulgent manner. He is the opposite of the chest pounding heroes of Western culture, and captures the grace and wonder in every day life for people who will never star in a Hollywood box office hit. His is a story of the daily grind, of elevation over the mundane not by rejecting it but by accepting it, assimilating it into you, and ascending to new levels of mastery by persistence and intent-filled repetition.

In Murakami's books I often find aspects of characters that are me rather than those that I may wish I could be. The surreal and supernatural in his writing strike me not as real paranormal activity but rather a projection of what's extraordinary about all of us, the ordinary people. Especially for someone who chose to live in the belly of the hyperbolic beast, Silicon Valley, where founders are demi-gods and the hype economy is rampant, reading Murakami provides me with perspective, an anchor, and a realization that although I am flawed like everyone else, I can find redemption in my day to day routine. That is truly an inspiring message.

- Ohad Samet

A few lines from Tom Robbins' Still Life with Woodpecker

"How can one person be more real than any other? Well, some people do hide and others seek. Maybe those who are in hiding--escaping encounters, avoiding surprises, protecting their property, ignoring their fantasies, restricting their feelings, sitting out the Pan pipe hootchy-kootch of experience--maybe those people, people who won't talk to rednecks, or if they're rednecks won't talk to intellectuals, people who're afraid to get their shoes muddy or their noses wet, afraid to eat what they crave, afraid to drink Mexican water, afraid to bet a long shot to win, afraid to hitchhike, jaywalk, honky-tonk, cogitate, osculate, levitate, rock it, bop it, sock it, or bark at the moon, maybe such people are simply inauthentic, and maybe the jackleg humanist who says differently is due to have his tongue fried on the hot slabs of Liar's Hell. Some folks hide, and some folks seek, and seeking, when it's mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding. But there are folks who want to know and aren't afraid to look and won't turn tail should they find it--and if they never do, they'll have a good time anyway because nothing, neither the terrible truth nor the absence of it, is going to cheat them out of one honest breath of earth's sweet gas."

"Now tequila may be the favoured beverage of outlaws but that doesn't mean it gives them preferential treatment. In fact, tequila probably has betrayed as many outlaws as has the central nervous system and dissatisfied wives. Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh dew of the doglands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; tequila, the buzzard god who copulates in midair with the ascending souls of dying virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!"

The most touching short story I have ever read

“Once upon a time, there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work.

One day, as he was walking along the shore, he looked down the beach and saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself at the thought of someone who would dance to the day, and so, he walked faster to catch up.

As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, and that what he was doing was not dancing at all. The young man was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean.

He came closer still and called out "Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

The young man paused, looked up, and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean."

"I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" asked the somewhat startled wise man.

To this, the young man replied, "The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die."

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, "But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!"

At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, 
"Made a difference to that one.”

- Loren Eiseley

Why is Shakespeare great?

I don't think there's any such thing as a comprehensive list of reasons for the greatness of Shakespeare. It is, ultimately, a subjective thing, and there are probably others out there with at least as good a case for "greatness" whom you've never heard of due to the accidents of history. Ultimately, Shakespeare was the right guy in the right place at the right time.

We can list some of the properties that go into that, but I wouldn't say that they make him objectively "great".

• Shakespeare wrote in English, which is the most important language in the world. As much as half of the world speaks at least some English, and it's spoken everywhere. Wherever you go, if you fly to get there, the pilot spoke English.
• Shakespeare wrote in Elizabethan English, the language of the King James Bible, the world's most popular bible. For many, the sound of Elizabethan English is the Voice of God, both because it's wide-spread and because it conveys a formality that seems to hit just the right tone. Shakespeare and the KJV sound so similar that the Internet is rife with quizzes challenging you to tell which is which.
• Shakespeare was incredibly prolific. He sometimes wrote several plays a year, over a long career. Not every Shakespeare play is a winner, but there are simply more works out there than by any of his contemporaries. By sheer random distribution, he got more bites at the apple of producing a great play.
• Shakespeare had some potent friends. Many great works of his contemporaries are lost. Shakespeare's friends put together a Folio of works after his death. We don't have all of his works, but we have many of them.
• Shakespeare wrote in a wide variety of styles over that long career. He wrote comedies, tragedies, and histories. This diversity gives him an even greater chance of writing something that clicked with an audience. And it also leads us to say he was "great" simply for having produced great works in such a wide array of forms. There's something in Shakespeare for everybody, from soaring soliloquies to fart jokes.
• Shakespeare, like his contemporaries, performed on a bare stage. That required a lot of imagination from his audience, but it also makes his works highly adaptable. You can do Shakespeare in everything from a grand operatic style to three guys in a wagon. Shakespeare has adapted to the times for four centuries.
• Shakespeare stole great stories. Personally, I find it a bit weird to go to see a play based on a story by William Shakespeare, or see Shakespeare translated into another language. I'd rather see it as an author dipping into the same well of great stories Shakespeare did. But that explains part of Shakespeare's appeal: they all want to re-tell the same stories he wanted to re-tell.
• Shakespeare was vague and inconsistent. In my opinion, it was because he worked fast and didn't go through many editing cycles. In addition, his work seems designed to be edited down to suit the purpose: important plot points are told several times. Again IMO I think that this inconsistency yields only an illusion of psychological depth, but still, it's a great touchstone for actors and directors to use the work in myriad ways. Whether Shakespeare intended it or not, you get psychological depth.
• Blank verse poetry is very potent. It mimics the natural sounds of English while containing a rhythmic thrust. It feels good in the mouth of an actor to say, and when done well it feels good in the ear of an audience to hear. It ties into thousands of years of epic poetry.
• Shakespeare had a knack for a turn of phrase. Like the KJV, something about it sticks in the mind. Some of it may have to do with the language: Shakespeare's lesser-known contemporaries also contributed a few cliches to the language. Shakespeare somehow cranked them out by the literal hundreds, or even thousands.
• Shakespeare was a genius in an age of geniuses. The Elizabethan era produced some of the most fantastic minds in all of history, all gathered in one place. Shakespeare's plays are a reminder of a truly epic period in history, a golden age to be treasured and longed for.
• There's a kind of network effect. If you know one playwright, you know Shakespeare. It is the common language for everybody who wants to talk about the theater. If you don't know Shakespeare, you'll find it harder to connect with anybody. It's like a common mythos that derives great value from being universal totally aside from its individual value.

None of this completely covers it. Shakespeare is a phenomenon, and I really believe it could have been somebody else and just wasn't. And I've talked a lot about epiphenomena rather than trying to explain on a word-by-word basis what it is I find so damn fascinating about the plays myself. I am enraptured by them for reasons that have nothing to do with any of this. They speak to me. I have no idea whether they also speak to anybody else, or if they do, why they should. But my friends and I talk, think, argue, rehearse, perform... and then go back and do it all again, because we simply enjoy it. It's like asking why people watch birds or drive fast: we love it, and if you don't, you find your own thing.

- Joshua Engel

Call me Ishmael

Let's be honest: "Call me Ishmael." is *not* a very great opening line on its own, and I think as a sentence it doesn't really deserve a spot on any best-of lists. But the whole opening paragraph it easily one of the best ever, and its first sentence is important because the opening would be weaker, more dull, if it started at the second sentence. After the first sentence, it continues:

Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

Without the first sentence, this might be a fairly standard, "David Copperfield kind of crap" opening to a book. "Some years ago..." is such a humdrum opening, applicable to any story, that it would significantly worsen the first impression. And yet jumping from the introductory "Call me Ishmael" to the emotional brain-dump of the rest of the opening chapter sets the scene in an important way. This is not a story told by a narrator who knows the listener well: this is a complete stranger who introduces himself and them jumps right into some really TMI-level emotional stuff right away—like a crazy person, like the Ancient Mariner. In several ways this sets a pattern of sudden intimacy that recurs in the rest of the book.

But what resonant intimacy! Damp drizzly November in my soul? I want to knock the hats off of every person I see? Taking to the sea "is a way I have of ... regulating the circulation"? Why don't you tell us about your mother, and your bowel movements, too? Nevertheless, the first ¶ of Moby Dick has always drawn me in immediately, I think because of my own hypos. The whole first chapter is just an irresistible gem. Well, the whole book, really:

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid.

There's even an erudite-for-today fart joke before you get past page 5:

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the forecastle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim)...

- Orion Montoya