Martine and the Bible

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Martine at Descanso Gardens

Martine and I are very different persons, yet we seem to get along well in our relationship. For instance, after I broke my collarbone in the beginning of June, she took good care of me, helping me to dress and clean myself and driving me around even though she hates driving in L.A. traffic. One doesn’t forget things like that.

Although I read incessantly, around 150-175 books a year, Martine only reads one book: The Bible. And within the Bible, she reads (and re-reads) mainly one book, the Psalms.

For years, Martine preferred the Good News Bible, a clear and simple translation first published by the American Bible Society in 1976. After a few years, she literally read my hardbound copy to pieces. When I suggested she read the King James Version, she demurred. There was something about all those “thees” and “thous” that she couldn’t tolerate.

Recently she tried the Revised Standard Version, but it still had too many “thees” and “thous.” Recently, during one of her walks, she found a paperback New International Version that she liked and is now reading.

I’ve never read the Psalms. One psalm I read in public was Psalm 23, at my mother’s funeral. Her cousin Baksa Sandor, the Hungarian Reformed bishop of London, Ontario, was to give the graveside service, but he was a no-show. So, with tears in my eyes, I read Psalm 23 from my mother’s bible to the people attending the funeral.

One of these days, I will read the Book of Psalms in their entirety. It seems to help Martine quite a bit; maybe it will help me, too.

DTLA in the Heat

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Los Angeles in the Year’s First Major Heat Wave

Today, for the first time in six weeks, I took the MetroRail E Train downtown to attend the Mindful Meditation session at the Central Library. The reason for my absence? In early June, I broke my collarbone; and it is only now that I feel well enough to attend.

And the weather for my first day back was a lulu. It was 90º Fahrenheit (32º Celsius), with the humidity making it feel even more sweltering. As I have no pituitary gland to control my adrenaline, I took extra hydrocortisone at breakfast and lunch and drank plenty of liquids, including a bill bowl of Vietnamese phó with filet mignon and noodles for lunch.

Usually, I check out three or four books from the library. Today, I didn’t check any books out, not wanting to carry a book bag with my recuperating right arm Instead, I looked at several travel guides to Cambodia and Laos before the guided meditation session began. (I’ve been reading a lot about neighboring Thailand lately.)

After I ate at the 505 Spring Street food court (in air-conditioned comfort), I trudged the three blocks south to the 7th Street Metro Center station at 7th and Flower Streets. As the elevator was out of service (again), I laboriously took the stairs down to the tracks and waited two minutes for the train to Santa Monica.

All in all, it was a positive experience. This first time back, I wanted to err on the side of caution; and I’m glad I did.

“The Pleasures of Fantastic Kind”

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As I am currently reading Lord Dunsany’s The Charwoman’s Shadow, I thought I would give you a poem by H. P. Lovecraft, who admired Dunsany’s fiction:

Fact and Fancy

How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet’s mood!
Young Zeno, practis’d in the Stoic’s art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th’ effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th’ embellish’d page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning’s woes,
Th’ ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!

Romans Durs

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Author Georges Simenon (1903-1989)

He wrote hundreds of novels during the fifty years while he was active. There were 75 novels featuring Inspector Jules Maigret of the Paris Police Judiciaire, plus 28 short stories. According to Wikipedia, he also wrote some 117 romans durs, literally “hard novels,” usually grittier than his Maigret works.

I have just finished reading Le destin des Malou (The Fate of the Malous, 1948) about the young heir of a bankrupt developer who must make his way in the world after realizing that most of his family are completely unsympathetic. In the end, his hero Alain reminds me of Honoré de Balzac’s Eugène de Rastignac from Père Goriot as he resolves to conquer Paris as he stands on the heights of Père Lachaise cemetery overlooking the city. It is nothing short of a masterpiece.

I’ve read approximately half of Simenon’s work—at least half of what he published in his own name. I couldn’t find a bibliography of what he published under various pseudonyms. Although much of his work could be classified as genre fiction, I am beginning to think that perhaps, in our time, the best fiction falls into that category.

In a letter to the author, André Gide compared his roman dur La veuve Couderc (Ticket of Leave, 1942) to The Stranger by Albert Camus, “In my opinion, your book goes much further, and without seeming to—which is the height of Art.” Maybe that’s why Simenon is sadly underrated as an author of mysteries and police procedurals. I like that expression “goes much further, and without seeming to.”

That’s why I am now considering Georges Simenon the equal of other great 20th Century authors. I love reading his works, sometimes even multiple times. I’ve been reading his work for half a century now, and I am deeply grateful that he was so prolific.

The Conversation

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Koi at Descanso Gardens, February 2007

Whenever I see a pond that has been stocked with koi, it seems as if I am looking at the gods’ own handwriting. Each fish is like a separate letter of the alphabet as it moves around in the water with its fellows.

The same goes for clouds. Or groups of birds, or even insects.

What is the point of perceiving things in this way? I believe that, even if we don’t know what these formations or creatures are signifying, we humans are perhaps part of an ongoing conversation—one which we might never understand in full or in part. That realization is good for us.

It’s when we don’t realize that we are part of the conversation that we are most unhappy.

Today at Chace Park in the Marina, it was a cloudy and very humid day (thanks to the monsoonal moisture from Mexico), but the crows and squirrels very very much in motion, as were visitors to the park.

With Pitsa and Akrevoe

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Pitsa Captain and Akrevoe Emmanouilides at South Bay Greek Festival (2008)

This afternoon, Martine and I drove down to Redondo Beach to visit the South Bay Greek Festival at St. Katherine Greek Orthodox Church. Although it was incredibly crowded, we got there before the crowds did; so we had a tasty Greek meal and enjoyed the church tool with Father Michael Courey, a lecture on Greek Orthodox icons, and a concert of Byzantine church music.

What we missed were the cooking classes in the church demonstration kitchen formerly given by Pitsa Captain and Akrevoe Emmanouilides. Akrevoe was the author of an excellent 2002 cookbook published by the St. Katherine Greek Orthodox Church Philoptochos Society entitled A Greek Kitchen.

Unfortunately, Akrevoe passed away in 2018. For several years, however, Martine and I enjoyed the lectures of the duo—and their cooking—at both St. Katherine and Saint Sophia Greek Orthodox Cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. They were funny, helpful, and their cooking was stellar.

Here, from a handout from their 2008 appearance at Saint Sophia, is their recipe for Imam Bayildi:

EGGPLANT – IMAM BAYILDI

Legend says that when the stingy Imam tasted this, he fainted either because it was so delicious or because his wife had used so much oil!

6 to 9 med. Japanese eggplants
1 large onion, chopped
1 can diced tomatoes or 3-4 chopped fresh tomatoes
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. pepper
1 tsp. sugar
¼ c. fresh parsley, chopped
1 tsp. oregano
1 c. olive oil

Remove stems of eggplants and cut lengthwise. If using globe eggplants, slice into wedges, slashing skin at 3 or 4 spots.

In a bowl, mix all other ingredients. Then lightly oil a glass baking dish. Place eggplant pieces close to one another. Cover with the tomato mixture. Cover with aluminum foil. Bake at 400º for 40 to 50 minutes.

Check to see if eggplant is tender. If necessary, bake a bit longer.

This dish can be served hot or at room temperature.

Why We Fight

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How the Axis Powers Planned to Divide the Spoils

In my senior year in college, the frontal headaches from my pituitary tumor (which I didn’t know I had) typically lasted twelve hours, usually noon to midnight. It was at midnight that I would begin to do my homework assignments. Naturally, as an upperclassman I stayed away from classes that began before noon.

The headaches didn’t come every day, usually every other day on the average.So, half the time, I took my classes with the tumor pressing on my optic nerve. I had complained about it at the student infirmary several times, but my real pain was pooh-poohed by the doctors and nurses—which left me thinking I was a terrible wuss.

Around that time, I hung around at Fairbanks Hall, headquarters of Dartmouth Films, which acted as an audio-visual service for the college, and which ran the Dartmouth Film Society, of which I was second in command. In the evenings, I would check out what 16mm film prints had been ordered for various classes and, if the titles interested me, I would screen them for myself.

This is how I watched the “Why We Fight” series of U.S. World War 2 propaganda films, which were produced under the supervision of the man who directed It’s a Wonderful Life, namely Frank Capra, who served as a Major in the Army Signal Corps. Capra served directly under General George C. Marshall in directing or supervising these films. They consisted of:

  • “Prelude to War” (1942)
  • “The Nazis Strike” (1943)
  • “Divide and Conquer” (1943)
  • “The Battle of Britain” (1943)
  • “The Battle of Russia” (1943)
  • “The Battle of China” (1944)
  • “War Comes to America” (1944)

Not part of the series, but viewed by me around the same time, was “Know Your Enemy: Japan” (1945), which was embarrassingly racist.

Other films I remember from this period are two French musicals directed by René Clair (Sous les toits de Paris and Le million, made in 1930 and 1931 respectively). Then there was a French documentary directed by Nelly Kaplan entitled Abel Gance, hier et demain (1963). Once I got to Los Angeles, I made every effort to see as many of Gance’s films as I could. His silent biopic Napoléon (1927) is one of the greatest films ever made.

When I wasn’t screening films for myself, I would chat with my friend Peter Jensen, who was using Dartmouth Films’ Movieola to edit a film he had made based on a Chekhov short story.

Dartmouth Films had a major impact on my life.

Spices and Seasonings

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When I first started cooking in the late 1960s, I didn’t know much about spices and seasonings. If I wanted my dish to be spicy, I sprinkled some powdered cayenne pepper in it. Garlic was such a pain in the butt that I frequently went with powdered garlic or garlic salt. Parsley? I used the dried stuff and wondered why it didn’t have any flavor.

I am a bit more sophisticated now. In my freezer, I have bags of frozen fire-roasted Hatch chiles. Now I take my time with garlic, slicing each clove thinly with a single-edged razor blade. On my counter are all the spices I need to make curry, including black mustard seeds, coriander seeds (jeera), turmeric, ground cumin and coriander, and fenugreek seeds, to name just a few.

When I look around me to see what most of the people I know eat, I am appalled by how few spices and seasonings are used. Unfortunately, most people can’t tolerate strong flavors. Martine, for instance, complains that most of what I cook for myself makes her mouth burn, even when I don’t use many chiles.

The older I get, the more I realize that good cooking requires time and care. That becomes more of an issue when I am cooking for myself. Martine rarely cooks anything for herself except maybe scrambled eggs or Quaker oatmeal.

So I am resigned to alternating one dish for the both of us and, next time, something for myself alone. When I am making one of my chile-infused meals, Martine frequently finds it necessary to open doors and windows. Fortunately, that seems to work out well for both of us. I suspect that what I cook is more nutritious, but Martine manages to thrive on her bland dishes.

“We Aren’t Serious When We’re Seventeen”

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French Poet Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)

He looks so young. But, even as a teen, Arthur Rimbaud was something of a devil. After a torrid relationship with fellow poet Paul Verlaine, Rimbaud gave up poetry at the age of twenty and set up in East Africa as a trader. There, he dealt in coffee, guns, and whatever else could turn a profit. At the age of thirty-seven, he died of cancer.

His poetry still resonates, particularly in France, where it is no crime to be transgressive. Here is one of his simpler, less surrealistic poems. (If you want to read more by him, try his long poems “A Season in Hell” or “Illuminations.”)

Novel

I

We aren’t serious when we’re seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park


The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn’t far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer . . .

II

—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white . . .


Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head . . .
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect . . .

III

Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father’s terrible collar . . .

And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way . . .
—Then cavatinas die on your lips . . .

IV

You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you . . . !

—That evening, . . . —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade . . .
—We’re not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.

By the Skin of Our Teeth

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Political Cartoon about the South Carolina Nullification Crisis

As I read more about Andrew Jackson’s presidency, I begin to realize that what the United States is experiencing now with Donald Trump is not atypical in a democracy. Although the Southern states remain restive over a hundred fifty years after their defeat in the Civil War, and there is talk by a few morons about a new Civil War, it does not seem as threatening as what Jackson faced with the threat of South Carolina to secede in 1832.

At that time, muskets were being collected in South Carolina under instructions from the secession-oriented governor of the state. Fortunately, Jackson, himself a Southerner, was ready to counter the secessionists by appointing a Unionist Southerner to command the U.S. armed forces in the state.

I tended to think of American history (at least up to the firing on Fort Sumter in 1861—in South Carolina, no less) as a well-ordered pageant. It wasn’t. Powdered wigs and all, the early days of my country were pretty ragged. And, of course, they still are.

Although I avoid discussions about politics, I firmly believe in exercising my right to vote. It’s just that in politics, as with religion, everyone has his own views. Although I am fairly liberal in my views, I have friends on the Democratic side who are within an ace of believing that our next president should be a black transsexual.