On a Photographer

Check out this incredible photography. I have been working my way through his photos for a few days and there is some incredible stuff in there, and I really just feel like sharing it.

Someday, I really ought to get an account on some sort of photo sharing network. I need a repository and a vessel for some of my steadily accumulating photography.

On Summer Reading: The Historian

I cannot really say that I was disappointed in Elizabeth Kostava's The Historian, but neither can I say that it surpassed my expectations. The fact of the matter is that I knew nothing about the book prior to opening it and had no expectations for the experience, and consequently I read a book I would not have otherwise even considered picking up. The book was a gift from a friend, and what she didn't tell me when she gave it was that it was, in fact, a vampire novel. I could have inferred this from the summary on the jacket had I only known that Vlad the Impaler was actually the origin of the Dracula myth.

Let me go on a side note here to express my aversion for vampire stories. It is rooted in my general avoidance of fads. Some trends in culture are extremely illusory, and I don't see much point in getting crazed over something as temporal as a fad just because other people like it. Admittedly, there is something contagious about human passion that cannot always be fought. That is, after all, how fads happen, and it is perfectly normal. However, that is also how mobs form, so I don't think that it is a compelling enough reason in and of itself to go along with something. Perhaps it is because I am somewhat of a loner that I have never gotten to invested in fads. Perhaps I have a bit of an independent streak that I do not always readily acknowledge. Perhaps I have a wee bit of the indie/hipster bug. Who knows? Regardless of the origin of those feelings, the fact of the matter is that vampires are a fad right now, and something of a silly one. I apologize to all of the Twilight fans out there, but that series is the ultimate corruption of the vampire myth, and it is a prime example of how overuse can cheapen something once rich and potent. I have an even greater aversion to Twilight because it is a teen fad, but that is a whole different issue. I think my biggest beef with the series is the significant amount vampire themed media that has flooded the market since it was released, all of it pretty cheap and formulaic. Fortunately, this is one fad that finally looks to be passing. Now if only something could be done about Auto-Tune . . .

All that said, I was rather pleased to see a book like this using the popularity of vampire's to create a smart book. That is not to say that the story in this book is particularly original, that the narrative is complex, or that its themes are revolutionary. It is none of those things. Rather it is a book by a smart woman about smart people doing intellectual things. The story resembles some sort of cross of the narrative form of Wuthering Heights or The Woman in White crossed with the fact heavy and fast paced plot style that is the trademark of Dan Brown.

The central narrator of the story is a young girl who incidentally discovers that her father has a long, dark secret: a tale of mystery and intrigue and vampires, and one that he begins to tell her in broken fragmentary stories and, later, in letters. At times, he himself uses other people's letters and stories as well. These multiple levels of narration allow for the story to jump time and place, lending variety to keep the respective time lines interesting, especially as they are all drawn together.

However, as is often the case with young first-person narrators, this young narrator (who is never even named) is soon lost in the fabric of more interesting and better developed characters. So, when the past events have finally caught up with the novel's present, the reader has almost forgotten that she exists. This also makes the supposed climax a bit lack-lustre and rushed. It is almost as if Kostava forgot halfway through which character's story she had begun writing, and finished by writing a different character's.

Thus, the narrator is far from the heroine of the story. Rather, like Dickens' David Copperfield, she is more of an observer or reporter of other people's stories than her own. In this way, she could be considered the titular historian. However, both her father and mother, through her father's stories, are revealed to be quite adept historians themselves, and the central drama involves a pan-European search for another historian who has gone missing. Furthermore, the title could refer to Dracula himself, Vlad Tepes, a historical figure who is portrayed by Kostava as a great lover of books and of history.

In a lot of ways, this book's trappings appealed to me (once I got over the realization that it was about vampires). It is set mostly in Europe and the characters are academics, researchers, and they spend a lot of time in libraries. I began reading The Historian following the most rigourous academic semester of my life at the University of Oxford, so I could definitely relate to that aspect of the characters and of the story. I am also beginning to understand how much I like history (I mean, I may be applying for a doctorate program in history and culture; that's pretty new).

Unfortunately, some of those factors that made the story appeal to me also became detrimental. For, at one point in the story, the characters actually visit Oxford. I was excited at the prospect of reading about this (I am STILL very nostalgic for Oxford, after all, and it was even worse then), but I soon noticed some details that weren't quite right. The true disappointment, however, came when they entered the Radcliffe Camera, my favourite reading room at Oxford, and one in which I spent hours upon hours. I knew reading those passages that there is no way Elizabeth Kostava has ever entered the RadCam. The biggest give away was when she described the buzz of tourists in the lower level of the Camera. If she had ever been there, she would know that they do not let anyone but students of Oxford into the Camera. I promptly checked the "About the Author" information found that Kostava is actually a Yale graduate. Just as I expected. On reflection, I realized that most of the description of the city were very vague, more like something you would know from reading a travel guide than from actually visiting. I tried not to let these inaccuracies bother me for the duration of the cast's stay in Oxford, but it still managed to cast doubt on later details of the story. I mean, the entire story deals with historical details, and if Kostava can't even get a few basic points about Oxford right, why should I trust her information regarding obscure manuscripts? But perhaps I am being too hard on her. Why, after all, should I expect perfect realism from a vampire story?

All in all, though I would not say that Elizabeth Kostava's The Historian is in a must read, I enjoyed it. It helps that it was a return to the original Dracula, not just to Brom Stoker's character, but to the historical figure of the Impaler who inspired Stoker. Any academically-minded reader will appreciate the story's heavy emphasis on research and the frequency with which librarians turn out to be vampire's. However, one need not be an intellectual to appreciate the story. The plot has good pacing and is very engaging, and the basic themes are among the relevant as well as the timeless: things like the conflict between dark and light or the strife between Islam and Christianity. This is most definitely a treatment the Dracula myth deserves and I applaud Kostava's attempt to exploit a fad.

On Summer Reading: An Introduction

I am taking my friend Hannah's suggestion that I write book reviews of my summer reading. If I had thought of this earlier, I would already have several posts by now. But alas, I am not accustomed to sharing my opinion, so this idea had not struck me on my own. Now, I must admit that a great deal of my summer reading is plays rather than books, I'll write reviews of those as well.

Forthcoming posts will review such works as The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, The Mercy Seat by Neil Labute, All the Shah's Men by Stephen Kinzer, In a Dark Dark House also by Neil LaBute, Sartre's No Exit and The Flies, and a number of unknown readings yet to come.

On Experimenting with Form

When he awoke, he saw the dark.

It comforted him.

Down we go

Down we go

The stars go out

The clouds part

We do not know

We do not know

Like those of his race, he could not see in the dark, and though this often frightens them, he was different. In the dark, his world was smaller.

Simpler.

Safe

I'm safe

Yes?

Yes

What is

Is it

Safe

I'm safe

No?

No

There is

Is nothing

Nothing was coming.

Nothing was going.

Not that he could see anyway.

Some would say this led to a greater need for concern.

But not he.

If he couldn't see it.

It didn't exist.

At some point, he started walking. He could usually see the ground, but not always.

My shadow walks beside me

below me

my shadow walks

and I walk beside my shadow

He sets his foot on mine

and I walk not on the ground

I walk on my shadow

Foot

followed

foot.

He had discovered long ago that walking was nothing more than an exercise in controlled falling. So when there was no more ground, he kept moving his feet. He was neither aware, nor did he care.

He walked.

And then he was moving forward again.

A voice

somewhere

said

he's crazy

whisper

sounds

like whisper

the sounds of whispers

whisper

sounds

the whisper of sounds

They didn't understand.

Neither did he, but

they tried.

He hummed,

and it was haunting,

and the voices murmured

slowly

louder

On Fathers

For being labelled as patriarchal, the West certainly doesn't seem to value fathers all that much.

I first started thinking about this while visiting museums in Europe. One thing I noticed was how frequently mothers were portrayed in art, particularly with their children. Not many fathers though. I even did a google image search to see if this was a legitimate observation, or just a figment of my imagination. Searching for "mothers in art" turned up 20,300,000 results. The same search for "fathers in art" turned up only 6,780,000 results as well as Google's prodding: Did you mean: mothers in art, though no such option had existed on the page for mothers.

Granted, a popular image in Renaissance art, particularly in Italy, its birthplace, was the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus (these were all over in the Italian wing of the Louvre and in the Musei Vaticani, and most of them were rather unoriginal). Recently, I was in the Church of St. Joseph in Mishawaka where there is a stained glass window showing the holy family. Both Mary and the child Jesus have halos, while Joseph, the namesake of the church, had none. Now, another window does show him with a halo, but it was still an interesting contradiction. It is not the only time I have seen such a portrayal either. But what was fascinating was that even in a church proclaiming that father's sainthood, he was regarded as less significant than his wife even though an angel appeared to him as well and some scholars believe that he, like his son after him, may have been a rabbi. However, those images aside, there is still a large imbalance in the portrayal of mothers verses fathers.

Beyond just the history of art in the West, this seems to be an increasing trend. For the greeting card industry, Mother's Day has always been more lucrative than Father's Day. Is it because cards are sentimental and men aren't supposed to be? That could explain part of it, but it still seems kind of illegitimate. Perhaps it is because fathers are more generally associated with raising their sons while mothers nurture children of both sexes. Maybe that explains a bit more. More often, however, in this age of changing definitions of family, if there is a single parent, it is the mother rather than the father.

The absent father has become a very unfortunate stereotype in the West and particularly in the US. In the movie Fight Club, the character Tyler Durden refers to modern society as "a generation of men raised by women." Many men have grown up without a father or even a father figure. Unfortunately, almost as popular as the absent father stereotype is that of the bad father. This one takes a variety of forms but it becomes a monstrous shadow in the minds of too many sons, sometimes one that they come to embody themselves. Why then should sons value fathers? Do they even know how to be fathers? I tend to think this trend, along with generations of unreasonably extreme gender polarization are responsible for the current gender crisis (that is a huge issue in itself, but let it suffice to say that gender has become a far bigger issue--a far more penetrating question--than perhaps it ever should have been).

And though I write from the perspective of a son and have seen so many of my fellow males hurt by absent or bad fathers, I know that it hurts daughters as well. A daughter without a father is not really better off than a son without a father. There is a lot to learn from an opposite. And the feminine gender has also been wounded by having an unstable pair.

Nevertheless, I believe one of the more tragic consequences of the disintegration of the figure of the father, probably the most tragic, is what it has done to the image of God, so often called the Father. For many, this calls up countless negative connotations of their own fathers which are then projected onto God. Admittedly, this is not the only analogy God has given us to understand him (after all, no analogy can contain a boundless God), and no father can be a perfect representation of the paternal qualities of God, but the damage has been done. So many have been turned away by the frequent association of God as father. Now, I have no problem with those who are drawn to the idea of looking at the feminine qualities of God or God as mother. I think there are things to learn from that perspective, but I don't think it ultimately fixes the broken image of God.

I don't know what can.

Fortunately, God is a God of redemption, and he can take care of himself.

I have been lucky. I have a great father. He is not perfect, it's true, but who is? I still have tremendous respect for my father. And I measure his faults against the great love he has for his family.

For me.

My father and I are very different people. But there is so much of him in me as well. I have his broad shoulders and his long torso, his calves, some of his smile, but I also have his love of writing and the Cubs. Sometimes I see traces of his faults in me as well. But I hope with all of my heart that I have his compassion, his love of family, and his simple pride. My father has taught me what it is to be a man. And it has nothing to do with strength or power or knowledge or virility, but with holding my head high and loving others.

I love my dad. And I see God in his goodness.

On Sunny Sunday's

Delight

A cloud caught hold of the morning's light and walks

about proudly among his fellows: the child

who's caught the most fireflies fluttering within

his folded fingers; he carries them close to his chest.

The cloud came to me privately and asked

if I wanted to see his catch--his prize.

He opened slowly his closely clasped hands

And like a grin the golden dawn danced out.

On Shades

The words of this song have been trapped in my mind for the last few days. It's been a couple years since I first heard it, and it continues to remind me of what a limited perspective I have with which to see the world.

Our World Is Grey

by As Cities Burn

I'm sure if you wanted to stop love,
You could just untie your end and let it go.
But, my God, you don't.
Yeah, I think I love you for it.

You're still sending cells to their rightful places,
When forming more likely to escape.
Such a narrow way of life.
What's it look like from your side?
From here I can't see why it's worth
One more coming out cursed?

Say it, say it!
Say what this is all for!
Say it's redemption.

'Cause our world is grey, world is grey.
We're just swaying from side to side.
Our world is grey, world is grey.
We are thieves and saints alike.
But you don't let go, don't let go.
We keep swaying and swaying.
And you don't let go, don't.
Yeah, I think I love you for it.

He's shooting god up in his arm through a needle.
And she's putting cuts on her legs to bleed out the devil.
"Surely you will not die, eat and be like God."
What have we done?

Say it, say it!
Say that this is all for redemption.

'Cause our world is grey, world is grey.
We're just swaying from side to side.
Our world is grey, world is grey.
We are thieves and saints alike.
But you don't let go, don't let go.
We keep swaying from side to side.
We all just sway, we all just sway.
But you don't let go, you don't.
You don't.

On Downpours

I love thunderstorms. Few things affect me as powerfully. Those that compete are stars, moon, fire, and some music, but none of them are quite like storms.

I don't know exactly how to encapsulate the feeling. I don't know that I can. All I know is that lightning makes my blood dance, thunder shatters me, wind reconstructs me, and rain is the music of my soul. Storms are all around me right now, and it is wonderful.