There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.
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There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.
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“How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”
Be careful what you wish for.
[image] Oscar Wilde - image from Wikipedia
Man sells soul to the devil in return for…something, in this case a body encased in eternal youth, while a portrait takes on the outward manifestation of his aging and his sins. It ends badly, as deals with the devil usually do. This is hardly a unique tale. In fact, it is a bit of a trope, a Faustian bargain. There is a lovely listing here of examples new and old. Absent, of course, is the most famous, and least successful example of a soul-selling, really more of a soul-buying, from Matthew 4:1-11, when the devil made Jesus an offer he actually could refuse. Don Corleone would have been very disappointed.
But it is a bit more complicated than that, as these things often are. It is always a challenge and an adventure to read a classic. Books become regarded as a base part of our culture for reasons. They can establish motifs, or ways of seeing the world that resonate with their contemporary audiences (well, not always) and future generations. They can offer us a portrait of a time and place, a culture, a class, a social or political issue. They can illuminate moral questions, deal in universal themes, offer insight into human motivation, whether individually or en masse. And we come to see them in particular ways. In The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the prior re-pub in this Gravelight series, what one finds in the original is not quite what one might expect, given how popular culture has transformed the story by bleaching out important nuance. That is less the case with Dorian Gray, at least in part because there appears to have been fewer iterations of the tale in popular entertainments. But, nonetheless, our understanding of the story is generally of the bare bones sort. There is plenty of flesh to give those bones some added heft.
[image] Jeffrey Keeten - they came to take his furniture, but the only way they will take his books is from his cold dead hands - image from his site
The history of a book matters. Keeten’s introduction offers an excellent take on how Dorian was received at publication. It generated quite a bit of attention on its release. There were many who were not amused. That may have contributed to the fact that The Picture of Dorian Gray is singular in being the sole novel published by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. The subject matter was considered a big no-no in 1890. The Dorian of the title is a man of many tastes, and apparently insatiable appetites. He manages to bring ruin to both men and women. It was not, in particular, the ruination of women that caused a storm. The periodical in which it was first published was withdrawn from bookshops due to the outrage.
Wilde was a very popular writer of the time, wearing his sexuality like a badge. A tough stance to assume in a culture that preferred to sate it appetites and interests discretely. His novel was a shocker for the time in portraying homosexuality in interest, if hardly in action. The painter of Dorian’s portrait is clearly smitten with him, dazzled by his physical beauty, which he sees also as representative of an underlying perfection.
For all the shock of its homosexual content, there is no physical contact of that sort in the pages. (an earlier version may have been more direct) All is insinuation, suggestion, hinting. It is the same technique that has worked quite well for ages in the horror genre. Shadows, rattling chains, creaky doors, unsourced moans. Sometimes we are offered the shocker scene in which the monster is revealed. The Opera Phantom’s mask is pulled off to reveal the horror of his face. Hyde’s deformity is revealed as the window into Jekyll’s soul. And so it is here. Dorian’s true nature is revealed. The “I’m shocked, shocked” reaction of contemporary critics suggests more about what they were projecting onto the novel than what was actually there.
[image] The portrait, used in the 1945 film by Ivan Le Lorraine Albright - image from Wikipedia
So, what is the horror that is on display? It is the hedonism of the late 19th century English upper class, sashaying about in the interesting, entertaining, appealing drag of philosophy. Henry argues for the unashamedly sybaritic life. Art need have no meaning, no being other than itself. Apply to humans. Is art, is beauty the highest value? When beauty is left to dangle free, disconnected from any higher value, what is its impact on the world? Actions have no moral content. It is in fact a positive good to live a life dedicated to the primitive accumulation of sensation, through the arts, through physical pleasures, not just of sex, but of sight, smell, sound and touch, to experience beauty in all its forms. Try everything. Art for art’s sake in the guise of human experience. Some people have an amazing ability to come up with excuses for their excesses, explanations, some reason for why they shouldn’t be held accountable for their actions. Like the poor and taxes, we will always have the morally challenged, the malignant narcissists, the sociopaths with us.
beauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible....
But if this was on the up and up, there would have been no need to keep one’s behavior secret. It is clearly a place where freedom crosses the line into license. The practitioners of such a “philosophy” knew they were up to no good. They merely wanted to hide from the responsibility. Dr Jekyll was quite happy to have an alter-ego he could let loose on the world, to have the sorts of fun he could not have as himself in public view. They knew, not just that their behavior was wrong, not just that it ran afoul of extant mores, but that their reasoned explanation was taffeta thick.
[image] Hurd Hatfield as Dorian in the 1945 film - image from Wikipedia
It is not the barely latent bisexuality of the novel that marks Dorian as fallen, it is that he had ruined peoples’ lives, men and women, not by having sex with them, (which is suggested, but never acted out on the pages) but by corrupting them in various ways, by causing them to become as self-centered, as pleasure-seeking as he was. A person can get away with this if he or she is wealthy enough. Paying off porn stars to keep quiet about an extramarital fling certainly fits into such a scenario. Dorian manages to keep his scandals at bay with the use of his wealth.
It is as true today as it was when Wilde was writing this book, the selfishness, the hedonism, the amorality of the wealthy feeds on the blood and life forces of those they exploit, few of whom can afford to fight back directly. (You go, E. Jean!) I imagine this is a core of what Wilde was getting at, and the real reason his critics were so angry at him.
Dorian does not come to his corruption unaided. He arrives as a beautiful young man, who is seen as being as pristine inside as he is on the surface. The Victorians were very concerned with exteriors, believing that they served as personal screens displaying to the world a person’s character. But then he is introduced to Lord Henry Wotton. Henry proceeds to emit a torrent of nonsense, albeit amusing nonsense, mocking the morals of the time. Wilde, speaking through Henry, is cattier than my living room when I shake a container of treats. Henry offers a torrent of false, cynical aphorisms, suitable material to be printed on small pieces of paper and tucked inside poisoned fortune cookies. Were he opining today, Henry would be posting outrageous clickbait opinions on Twitter. Here are a few examples. They are legion, and will sound familiar in tone to characters from Wilde’s 1895 theatrical triumph, The Importance of Being Earnest
…beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid.
…the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet-we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together or go down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces.
…as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible.
It is the cynical Henry who finds in the gullible Dorian the raw material with which to cast the young man into a representative of his very hedonistic view of life. Dorian offers the plasticity of the young to the dubious molding of the amoral. The young man is all ears. He even takes time away from the painter, Basil Hallward, to learn at Wotton’s feet. .
To a large extent the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.
We are offered a bit of background on Dorian, to help explain his vulnerability to Lord Henry’s dark influence. And are even given a bit of theatrical brimstone to explain how the deal with the devil is achieved. Neither really matters much.
[image] Angela Lansbury as Sibyl Vane in the 1945 film - image from Wikipedia
Early on, Dorian is smitten with a beautiful young actress, Sibyl Vane, who considers him her Prince Charming. It is Sibyl’s appearance, her elevated acting performances, in addition to her beauty, that attracts Dorian. But when her dazzling talent on stage suddenly vanishes, she can no longer offer Dorian the thing he most admired, and he dumps her, cruelly. It is the first crime to which we are witness, the first time his painting changes. The pursuit of beauty and sensation above all else has claimed its first victim. There will be many more, but most of those bad behaviors take place off screen.
Wilde put all of himself into this novel
“Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry is what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be.”
Unlike Lord Henry, and Basil Hallward, though, Wilde acted on his urges. Unlike Dorian, Wilde was imprisoned for his actions. Unlike Henry’s and Dorian’s depraved indifference to the harm they caused others, it is not clear that Wilde was a cruel person.
Dorian is clearly a corrupt individual. Whether he arrived there unaided or had a push is of secondary importance. Lord Henry is clearly corrupt as well, even though we do not see him engage in any physical acts of treachery. Perhaps the corruption of youth, pulling Luke Dorian to the dark side is enough. Henry and Dorian both represent the worst of the amorality of the Victorian age, the hypocrisy of the upper class. This seems the true target of Wilde’s effort. He is not celebrating amorality, but pointing an accusing finger at it, and letting us know who are its most damaging practitioners. At one point Dorian even shows enough residual humanity to want to turn over a new leaf, not appreciating that to succeed he would need to upend an entire forest. (don’t write. I know that the leaf in question was supposed to mean a book page.)
Keeten goes into some detail on the derivation of the name Dorian Gray. Why not Loki? There are reasons. In fact, there is a lot you will enjoy learning when you check out his introduction. It is rich with detail about the author, the book, and the controversy that surrounded its publication. It also looks at the lasting impact Wilde has had on modern culture. It will definitely increase your appreciation of this wonderful novel.
I suppose there might be a modern version in which Gray and his portrait are linked by quantum entanglement, or one should be made if it does not already exist. The battle between inner self and outer manifestation is certainly an eternal literary theme.
For the second time, a sojourn down the Gravelight illuminated alley of classic horror has proved stimulating and enlightening. From Keeten’s smart, incisive intro to the chance to see what the original of a household-name classic was really on about, The Picture of Dorian Gray offers a richly rewarding reading experience, clever, funny, dark, shocking, intelligent, satirical, and satisfying.
There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.
Review posted - 02/23/24
Publication date – 11/6/23
I received copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray from Gravelight Press in return for a fair review.
Items of Interest -----Les Cent Nouvelles - a book of coarse French stories referenced in Chapter 4 -----Margaret of Valois -----Manon Lescaut - an 18th C. novel in which young lovers live a life of sexual and social freedom, while giving morality little thought – referenced in chapter 4 -----The St. James’s Gazette - referenced in chapter 10 -----Elephantis - author of a sex manual in Classical Greece – noted in Chapter 11 -----Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans – cited in the introduction – Dorian’s reading of this 1884 celebration of sensory gluttony contributes to his corruption -----Wiki Deals with the devil in popular culture...more
The power of this tale is the fact that nearly everyone on the planet knows the story, even though few have actually read the book. For the Victorian
The power of this tale is the fact that nearly everyone on the planet knows the story, even though few have actually read the book. For the Victorian reader, Stevenson hides the twist of the book until near the end. For those readers, Hyde and Jekyll were two men until Jekyll’s confessional letter sets them straight. - from the intro
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He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.
There is much to be gained by re-reading the classics. Great works of literature are considered great for a reason, mostly because the truth of their excellence persists over time, as each generation discovers them anew. In a parallel vein many become embedded in our culture, and suffer, in popular application, the erosion of original purpose, of nuance. A 2012 study of memory found that:
Every time you remember an event from the past, your brain networks change in ways that can alter the later recall of the event. Thus, the next time you remember it, you might recall not the original event but what you remembered the previous time. - from the Northwestern article linked in EXTRA STUFF
I expect this can be applied on a grander scale, to society and culture at large. Our recollection of the stories produced by the Brothers Grimm in the 19th century, for example, bears little resemblance to the truly grim tales they actually told, thanks in considerable measure to Disney. On becoming popularized, stories can become simplified, stripped down. Alice might recognize the great peculiarity of reducing complicated things to their elements to the extreme of absurdity.
“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice; “but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!” - Alice in Alice in Wonderland
What we have achieved in our collective recollection of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is just that, a grin without a cat. Jekyll has been reduced to a well-meaning physician, and Hyde a monstrous container for human evil. Black and white. Jekyll good, Hyde bad. Not so fast.
[image] Stevenson in Samoa - image from Britannica
Jeff Keeten, long-time Goodreads superstar reviewer, offers his take on the book in a thoughtful introduction. He points to the existence of an earlier, possibly more lurid version, of the novella, a 19th century Go Set a Watchman. Good or bad, it would have made a fascinating counterpoint to the final. Keeten provides some wonderful details about the writing of the story, and shows a thematic continuation from Stevenson’s prior work.
[image] Jeffrey D. Keeten - image from Gravelight Press – it is remarkable what vast amounts of makeup and digital touching up can accomplish
For a quick refresher, there has been a series of dastardly deeds committed in a London neighborhood. We learn of these through Gabriel John Utterson, a lawyer, and friend of Jekyll. A culprit has been identified. Mr. Hyde, a known associate of Doctor Jekyll. Utterson is asked by Jekyll to treat Hyde as his heir. But as knowledge of Hyde’s activities becomes more widespread, Hyde must go into hyding (sorry). Exposition is handled via direct observation, but also via documents from another professional peer, and Jekyll’s final message to Utterson.
I read the original version of this novella (thirty-something thousand words) a lifetime ago. Can’t say that I remember it from that reading all that clearly. But I do recall the sense I have acquired from seeing multiple productions of the story on screens, and in print, both tellings of Stevenson’s story and interpretations of the work that extracted, or tried to extract, the substance of the allegory and apply it in a modern context. In its simplest understanding, the story highlights the conflict between good and evil in human nature.
[image] John Barrymore in Hyde mode – 1920 – image from Public Domain Movies
There are many tales that address what the natural state of humanity is, i.e., how might we behave without the benefit of civilization. Lord of the Flies pops to mind as a premier example of the genre. Keeten, in his excellent introduction, points out that Stevenson had shown in his other work an interest in internal moral divisions within people. Britannica describes Treasure Island as at once a gripping adventure tale and a wry comment on the ambiguity of human motives. But divisions are not necessarily slashed in straight lines down the core of our moral being. More than all else, one thing stood out for me in this latest reading. It is not a battle between good and evil. It is much more an attempt at accommodation. There is plenty of cat to go with that conflictual grin. Jekyll is no paragon. (BTW, according to Daniel Evers, of the University of Bristol, the proper Scottish pronunciation of Jekyll is ‘Jee-kul.’ – article on this is linked below.)
[image] Spencer Tracy in the dual role, really, really wants you to pay your share of the bar bill - 1941 – image from Fiction Fan Blog
He does not so much conduct objective research into where in people is drawn the line between good and evil. On the contrary, Jekyll knows he has urges and desires that are not considered socially acceptable. He is not so much looking to suppress those by some form of internal bifurcation. No, no no. He is looking to give his dark side free reign, while sparing his Jekyll side the inconvenience of conscience. So, what was Stevenson writing about? What was his intent? To show the hypocrisy of the Victorian upper class? I have not seen any specific report that he was a political writer in the way of Dickens, who used his work to highlight the class horrors of an age. Stevenson’s aim seemed more tilted toward demonstrating the internal conflict between good and evil that permeates us all.
[image] Frederic March’s 1932 version ignored Stevenson’s subtle distinction between the two – image from Fiction Fan Blog
And what is the relevance to today? How might we use the lens of this tale to gain a focus on our present? As noted above, classic tales are often reinterpreted to offer us a new take on modern themes. My favorite among these is the 1990s staging of Richard III, with Ian McKellan. I was blessed in being able to see it in person in Brooklyn, and later as a film. It was breathtaking, using a 16th century drama as a vehicle for portraying 20th century fascism. I get chills still, just thinking about it. It became clear to me that RLS’s scenario could be applied, as well, to the contemporary political realm.
[image] Richard III as a fascist dictator … Ian McKellen in the 1996 film image from The Guardian - photo by Ronald Grant
In this take, the good doctor might be seen as the Republican Party of the mid-to-late 20th century. No longer the party of Lincoln, the GOP largely abandoned the good work their predecessors might have been proud of. Instead, particularly after the Southern Strategy of Richard Nixon, it became a party that was not only willing to tolerate its excesses, the racism
[image] (In 1971 – Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde offered an interesting twist - image from British Horror Films
that opposed civil rights legislation, the classist hostility that opposed the New Deal and Great Society, and any allegiance to sustaining a fair voting system. They understood that they had these urges and constructed potions meant to separate the worst behavior from the respectable core. This is where we get the Tea Party, Q, Oath Keepers, Proud Boys, Three Percenters, and other on-the-ground kinetic actors, spurred on by demagogues spreading disgraceful lies, the Rush Limbaughs of the world, the Alex Joneses, the demagogues-du-jour on Fox News. The party wanted to let their fascist freak flag fly, but deniably. So, Jekyll wanted to give his dark urges a way to be sated, while maintaining a clear conscience, or, at the very least, deniability. Doctor Jekyll is not a good guy. And, as with the GOP, once you breathe life into your darker side, that darker side will not be satisfied with partial residence for long, no matter how many lies he tells, or how much orange hair dye he might use. As with Jekyll, over time, the GOP feels less and less constrained by decency, as they boldly attack voting rights, civil rights, even the law itself, with a decreasing need for an external beard. What might Jekyll v. Hyde stand for in your understanding of the 21st century? There may be other elements that jump out for you, aspects that shift your take on the dumbed-down vision most of us have of the J/H conflict.
[image] In a 1990 production, Michael Caine is really tired of the other actors calling him Alfie. - image from TV Worth Watching
There is a short story added on at the end, Markheim. It is rich with familiar elements and it is clear that, published only a year before J/H, it was a primary source from which the longer tale grew. It would be easy, though, to see it as an alternate ending to the later novella.
[image] Eddie Izzard has signed on to play a trans Dr Jekyll in an upcoming production
And, of course, it would be perfectly natural if, at the end of reading, or re-reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, you are of two minds about it all.
in one of my more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size; it was large, firm, white and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bedclothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.
Review posted - 7/07/23
Publication date – 4/3/23 – of this volume – J/H was first published in 1886
I received an ARE of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from Gravelight Press in return for a fair review, and a printout of my special formula. Thanks, folks,
This review has been cross-posted on my site, Coot’s Reviews. Stop by and say Hi!
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It was definitely a fun experience for me to trot down memory lane for a re-look, and a better look at J/H. Keeten’s smart intro definitely helps. You might also check out some of the links below for more. Gravelight promises a slew of horror classics, one new one every six months or so. Upcoming are The Picture of Dorian Gray and Frankenstein, complete with Keeten’s insightful introductions. Nifty collection material for horror afficionados, and ideal gifts for Halloween. No, I do not get a commission!
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
[image] Cover of the original publication - image from Goodreads
It began in 1945 as a radio talk, Memories of Christmas, for the Welsh Children’s Hour program. He later merged bits from a 1947 piece called Conversation About Christmas and sold it to Harper’s Bazaar in 1950 as A Child’s Memories of Christmas in Wales. In 1952, Caedmon Records asked him to record himself reading it for the B-side of a collection of his poems. The title we have come to know for the piece, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, was from this recording. Thomas had been unable to remember the title used in the Harper’s magazine version, so recalled as best he could. It turned into kind of a big deal, as the recording is seen as seminal in starting the audiobook industry in the USA.
[image] Dylan Thomas in the White Horse Tavern - image from Peter Harrington – The Journal – photo by Bunny Adler
Set in Swansea in the 1920s, Thomas offers a fragmented memory, recalling not just one particular Christmas but his childhood Christmases in general.
One Christmas was so much like the other, in those years around the sea-town corner now, out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
It is a mix of his perspective as a child and his finer focus, looking back as an adult.
The particular Christmas that stands out includes images of a neighbor’s house catching fire
The overall timbre is warm and loving. But there are hints as well of darker elements in the world around. Some bred from imagination
the winds through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe web footed men wheezing in caves… perhaps it was a ghost… perhaps it was trolls…
Others from observation
We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill…I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out… Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers.
There is also mention of chasing the English and bears in deep Welsh history, a reference to wars that ended with English subjugation of Wales.
The story is about the sequence of events from one Christmas afternoon, when a neighbor’s calls of “Fire” draw the fire brigade and all breathing neighbors, the narrator and his co-conspirators addressing the possible conflagration with the launching of multiple snowballs. It offers a portrait of youthful shenanigans, and homes filled with boisterous “uncles” and tippling, excluded “aunts.”
Gleeful image-making permeates
"Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."
The boys imagine themselves as Eskimo-footed Arctic marksmen, snow-blind travelers on north hills, see their large boots as leaving hippo prints, and approach a maybe-haunted house with carols.
It is a tale about memory itself as much as about Thomas’s recollections of childhood, as individual experiences, although some are specifically recalled, merge into sometimes single, catch-all recollection.
Please do listen to Thomas’s reading, a poet’s reading of prose, elevating his story to a form somewhere between literature and song. A smile sprung forth on my face on hearing this (yes, I have heard it more than a couple of times before. The smile returns every time.) and lasted well beyond the delivery of the final sentence. It would, on occasion, pull upwards, straining my cheeks and gums, before settling back a little in preparation for the next assault. The scenes he recalls, and his snarky commentary, will make you smile, probably in recognition of the sort, if not the specifics, maybe even laugh out loud. It always gets a passel of LOLs from me.
The language is celestial, as is his world-class talent for imagery and word-play. It will lift your spirit and make it hover for the duration of the reading, maybe even a while beyond. You could do worse than making the playing of this recitation a seasonal tradition.
One thing this story is likely to do is to spark personal recollections of Christmases of our youth. I would love to hear about yours.
Thomas’s recalled 1920s Christmases resonated with my memories of Christmases in the 1950s and 1960s Bronx. Mine were certainly not all snow-filled, but, as with Thomas’s recollections, they all occupy the well of memory with a fine dusting of white. Unlike Thomas, there is not a single Christmas that stands out from my childhood. Like his, mine have taken on a general character, merging into a common fuzzy-edged recollection.
The space between Thanksgiving and the special morning was always filled with great excitement and anticipation. Going to see the Christmas displays at Macy’s, Saks, Lord & Taylor’s, and even more stores, became a tradition, as was visiting the massive tree at Rockefeller Center. I got to sit on Santa’s lap at Macy’s at least once, but had sense enough to be skeptical even as a sprout. Why would someone claiming to be Santa’s helper look and dress just like him? Something clearly did not add up. The hunt for presents hidden in closets, cupboards, and underneath anything that had an underneath was a seasonal sport.
On Christmas Eve, my sisters (all three much older) would head out for midnight mass, fresh in finery, make-upped, seeming serious. I had no notion at the time that such a display might have been as much a mating ritual as an act of piety. I was spared that particular form of torture, (a Mass even longer and presumably more unendurable than the ones I was forced to attend every week) excused by my youth. Despite my concerted attempts to remain awake hoping to spot Santa, most years I was long asleep before they all arrived back home, cherry-cheeked, coats and hats asparkle as the dim light inside our front door was magnified by reflections from unmelted flakes.
Christmas morning was a bubbling mass of excitement as we all gathered in the living room, and took turns opening gifts. There was always one for me, and for my brother labeled “From Santa,” supplemental to the gifts from our parents, and each other.
As if we were not wired enough from a night of short sleep followed by a meth-level increase in respiration, Christmas breakfast tended to be French toast, slathered with Aunt Jemima’s, Log Cabin, or Vermont Maid. Attending Mass was mandatory, of course. It is a wonder the church did not crumble to the ground from all the child and pre-adolescent vibrations juddering the pews. We would always unwrap an annual gift, a fruit cake, from my father’s aunt, a mysterious figure I never actually met.
In the years since I have come to think of Christmas as akin to the baseball season for us Mets fans. The lead up was all excitement, wondering what goodies might come our way, hoping for some surprises, and that some gift wishes might come true. The reality was rarely very satisfying, filled as it was with things like socks and pajamas. There were toys, of course, but usually of the Woolworth’s sort, things like cap pistols, and plastic trains that rolled uneasily around a circle of plastic rails. Occasionally, there would be something more interesting. A Davy Crockett coonskin cap was a memorable hit. It was my brother who actually got me some of the more exciting, larger-ticket items, a yellow, battery-operated bulldozer, a robot that shot missiles, a wireless walkie-talkie that was pretty cool for 1960.
The day itself was always an opportunity for some of the neighborhood kids to try out brand new sleds. The Bronx may not have San Franciscan hills (although the West Bronx is particularly rich with steep slopes) but there were plenty of hills, snow, slush and ice-covered land to be challenged. Even if you did not get a new sled, there was certain to be a neighbor kid who had, and there was a chance he might let you take it for a ride. Of course, there were always cardboard boxes and trash can lids that offered a sliding descent if not a lot of control. Not that it ultimately made a lot of difference to me. It was while attempting to steer an actual sled down a Tremont Avenue sidewalk that my face made a dent in a stubbornly unmoving tree. Sadly, sledding was one of many skills I never managed to acquire. The tree in our tiny living room was real, in the early years, but as adolescence approached, and my parents ploughed further into middle age, it was supplanted by a disappointing plastic imitation.
The toys were soon in pieces. The new PJ’s supplanted their high-water, short-sleeved predecessors. Winter settled in, and the disappointment of not getting what you really wanted faded. Dashed hope settled back underground, like a perennial, biding its time until the next season arrived for it to sprout forth once again, all shiny and new.
When I had children of my own, I tried to install a few elements to make the day special. We had a tree of course. Watching It’s A Wonderful Life became a Christmas Eve tradition, and I read The Polar Express to them at bedtime. The girls would always find, on Christmas morning, a letter from Santa (typed, in an appropriate font, in red. My hideous penmanship would have been too obvious.) encouraging the sorts of feelings and behavior one might expect from a benign spirit. I made my own Christmas cards for many years, with their names included among the From list. But it was mostly something for me. My greatest parental Christmas triumph, however, was singular. The girls were on the verge of disbelieving. We had recently moved into a new place, a house that featured a beautiful, albeit no longer functional fireplace. I carved a linoleum cut of reindeer hoofs, and proceeded to make hoof prints leading from the fireplace into the living room and kitchen. The girls could not believe that any parent would willingly make such a huge mess, and THEY BOUGHT IT!
[image] Cover of the original Caedmon recording
The season has settled into another phase for us. ¥es, there is still a tree, although this year is likely to be the last of the real ones. There is my wife and our close immediate relations. The tree skirt is reliably populated with resting felines. My children are scattered so are not a presence, which is sad. I have long since ceased making my own cards, Goodreads review-writing having absorbed that artistic impulse. We still have a special meal, including some foods that only appear once a year. We still exchange gifts on Christmas day. And on Christmas eve I harangue my wife into tolerating yet another showing of It’s A Wonderful Life. I still end up in tears. I can only hope that my kids (all grown up now) have happy memories of the holiday, and that they have found some traditions to carry forward for their own (someday) children.
No review coming for this. I re-read it for background in reviewing The Horseman, in which the famed rider of Sleepy Hollow is given a new take. The oNo review coming for this. I re-read it for background in reviewing The Horseman, in which the famed rider of Sleepy Hollow is given a new take. The original is a fun read, with Ichabod as a gold-digger of a school-teacher looking to get with the beautiful local heiress, to the chagrin of the Gaston of the town, one Brom Bones, who does his best to scare off the interloper. It speaks to the period, place (there is a lot of local scenic and cultural color) and superstitious bent of area residents. Whether Irving thought this was the case, or made it up of whole cloth I have no idea. God knows there are plenty today who subscribe to all forms of unprovable nonsense. Worth checking this one out if you are planning to read Horseman. Oh, looks like I wrote a tiny review after all. Didn't intend to. I did, however, intend to watch the TV series, Sleepy Hollow, which was delicious fun, but the very handsome Ichabod Crane on that show bears no resemblance to the gangly, unattractive Crane of the original story, which goes off in very different directions.
It is intimidating to offer a truly critical look at such a classic, so we will ease into it with a few images.
The GOP has offered us a ready-made itIt is intimidating to offer a truly critical look at such a classic, so we will ease into it with a few images.
The GOP has offered us a ready-made item to begin this list, and yes, I know that John Stewart already snagged this one and threw it back. [image]
I turned up a visual art concept that fits in, for a restaurant based on EH themes:[image]
Although I did not sit for this photo, the resemblance is indeed striking[image]
And, of course [image] The Old Man and the Cee Lo.
I suppose am certain there are plenty more images one might lure into our net, but sticking to words for a bit, we will pass on the porn offering, The Old Man and the Semen. How about the moving tale of a Navy Construction veteran, The Old Man and the Seabees, or an obstetrical episode of Grey's Anatomy, The Old Man and the C-Section. Then there might be a psychological drama about a man with bipolar disorder, The Old Man and the See Saw, or a book about an elderly acupuncturist, The Old Man and the Chi. How about a Disney adventure in which Paul Hogan rescues a pinniped, yes, gentle reader, The Old Man and the Seal. Maybe a bit of Cuban self-affirmation, The Old Man and the Si. I could go on, of course, and probably will, at home, until my wife threatens to leave. The possibilities are rather endless. But the Geneva Conventions might be brought into play, and we can’t have that. Tackling such a review head on seems, somehow, wrong, like using paint by number to copy the Mona Lisa, carving the Pieta out of gigantic blocks of cheddar, writing a love poem for your beloved using MadLibs or (view spoiler)[ Yes, the forces of righteousness sanity wanted this one deep-sixed:
…checking for skid marks on Ghandi’s dhoti. Ok, 12-year-old inner me is all giggly now. (hide spoiler)] At some point, though, I guess you have to, you know, fish or cut bait.
I struggled mightily with this one, finding a hook, then having it pull away, grabbing hold of an idea and watching it disappear beneath waves of uncertainty. I tried waiting a while, resting between attempts, losing myself in other contemplations. Smiling a bit, but always hoping for something I could finally yank aboard. Notions of religious connections, Papa’s personal philosophy, and story-telling technique all pulled in diverse directions. As you will see, it was a not a simple contest. And I am not certain that what I ultimately caught is all that filling.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky.
So opens The Old Man and the Sea, the book, we hear tell, that convinced the Nobel committee to reel in EGH with the biggest literary hook of them all. Santiago is an old, unlucky, but skilled Cuban fisherman. He has an able assistant, the young Manolin. The lad is not a blood relation, but he sees a father figure in the old man, and he may be a younger reflection of the old man himself. Maybe Santiago sees himself in the young man and takes some strength from that. Like the best sort of father, he teaches the boy to fish rather than fishing for him. But Santiago’s ill fortune has marked him as someone to be avoided and Manolin’s parents have put the kibosh on their professional association. The old man is determined to salvage his reputation, and his honor, and bring in some money by going farther out than the other fishermen are willing to sail, in search of redemption. No herald calls him to action. No dramatic event sparks him to excessive risk. It is an internal challenge that powers his engines. But it is a quest nonetheless on which Santiago embarks.
Any time there are fish involved, one might presume a degree of soul saving. I do not know enough Hemingway to have a take on whether or not that figured here. I raise it only as a passing thought. But the second sentence of the book offers a hint. “In the first forty days…”clearly places Santiago’s travails alongside another person who spent forty days in a different barren environment. It was after being baptized that Jesus spent his time in the desert, preparing for what awaited. Is Santiago to be tested here? Will he be offered a route away from his difficult path?
The waters are becalmed. Nothing moves. A moment, then, for a digression. OK, let’s try some simple arithmetic, if Jesus, at age 30, spent 40 days in the desert, and Santiago has gone 84 days in his version of the desert, just how old is the old man? 63, according to my calculations. Possible. I do not recall seeing an actual age noted, so I am gonna go with that. I know you guys will let me know if an actual age is revealed somewhere and my squinty geezer eyes missed it. Done. I can feel a slight breeze beginning to flutter the sail.
Some sort of religion seems to flow through this fish tale. Not only are we sprinkled with forty-day references, but Santiago discusses sin. In his struggles he suffers physical damage in which some might see an echo of Calvary. But I think that is a stretch, personally. So, we have a bit of religion, and a quest. What is Santiago questing for? Redemption would fit in nicely. Having failed for a long time, he feels a need to redeem himself in the eyes of his community. Maybe not a religious thing, per se, but swimming in the same waters. And speaking of religion, water as a baptismal element is always a possibility, although somewhat diluted here, as Santiago makes his living on the water.
The old man is strong, skilled and determined. Maybe it is his character that is at issue. Maybe somehow, taking on this challenge is a way to prove to himself that he is truly a man. He goes about his business, and his fishing is his fate, maybe even his life. It is in how he handles himself when faced with this challenge that will show us the sort of person he is, a common Hemingway theme, and he does just that.
This is a very short novel, more, maybe, a novella or large short story. But it has the feel of a parable. There is definitely something going on here even if it keeps slipping out of my analytical net.
I was reminded of another well-known fish story, Moby Dick (really, allow a little literary license here people. Yes I know the whale is not a fish. Geez.). Whereas in that one, the fisherman, Ahab, sets himself against the whale, and therefore either fate or god, seeing a personal enemy, Santiago sees the fish as his brother, a fellow creature in the universe acting out his part. The challenge is always about oneself and not about the external enemy, or rival. In fact, the fish and Santiago are both victimized, together, by the sharks that feast on his catch.
Then he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his determination to kill him never relaxed in his sorrow for him. How many people will he feed, he thought. But are they worthy to eat him? No, of course not. There is not one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behaviour and his great dignity.
One might be forgiven for seeing here a possible reference to catholic communion and the relative merit of so many of those who receive. Is the fish (a Christian symbol if there ever was one) meant to be Jesus or some other form of deity, as Moby was?
Could it be that Hemingway’s notion of religion is less Christian and more a sort of materialist (as in non-spiritual, not as in accumulating stuff) philosophy? Lacking the proper tackle for that I will leave such considerations to those who have spent more time than I trolling Hemingway’s waters.
The writing is mostly either third-person description or the old man’s internal, and sometimes spoken, dialogue. Regardless of the literary ambitions splashing about here, the story is about a very sympathetic character. Santiago is a man not only of physical strength, but moral character. He is not portrayed as a saint, but as a simple man, maybe even, in a way, an ideal man in his simplicity. He knows his place in the world, faces the challenges that world presents to him and using only his skill, intelligence, strength and determination, overcomes (or not). It is easy to climb on board as a Santiago supporter. He is a fellow who is very much a part of the world, even as he contemplates larger things.
The Old Man and the Sea is a small story, but it is a whale of a tale. If you have not fished these waters before, don’t let this be one of those that got away.
WB32
==============================UPDATES
1/5/13 - Jeffrey Keeten sent along this amazing link. Gary Wyatt had shared it with him. It will definitely make you smile
6/20/13 - I discovered that one of the images I used had vanished into the ether, so I substituted another
9/4/2019 - I just came across a really wonderful piece about Hemingway, this book in particular, by Joe Fassler, in The Atlantic - The Hemingway Scene That Shows How Humanity Works, in which he interviews novelist Téa Obreht about the unexpected lions in this book - Great stuff. Check it out....more
THIS STUB WAS POSTED IN ERROR, UNDER THE WRONG EDITION OF THE BOOK. I PUT UP MY ACTUAL REVIEW OF THE LATEST EDITION OF STEVENSON'S CLASPLEASE GO HERE.
THIS STUB WAS POSTED IN ERROR, UNDER THE WRONG EDITION OF THE BOOK. I PUT UP MY ACTUAL REVIEW OF THE LATEST EDITION OF STEVENSON'S CLASSIC, BY GRAVELIGHT PRESS, WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JEFFREY D. KEETEN, ON FRIDAY, JULY 7. You can find that one here.