Home » Articles posted by Tarnmoor (Page 395)

Author Archives: Tarnmoor

Spirit Voices

Gobi Desert

Gobi Desert

When a man is riding through this desert by night and for some reason—falling asleep or anything else—he gets separated from his companions and wants to rejoin them, he hears spirit voices talking to him as if they were his companions, sometimes even calling him by name. Often these voices lure him away from the path and he never finds it again, and many travelers have got lost and died because of this…. Even by daylight men hear these spirit voices, and often you fancy you are listening to the strains of many instruments, especially drums, and the clash of arms. For this reason bands of travelers make a point of keeping very close together. Before they go to sleep they set up a sign pointing in the direction in which they have to travel, and round the necks of all their beasts they fasten little bells, so that by listening to the sound they may prevent them from straying off the path.—Marco Polo, Travels

 

The Man from Stalingrad

Posted on by | 1 Comment
Vasily Grossman (1905-1964)

Vasily Grossman (1905-1964)

Over the last year, I have been participating in a European History Meetup Group that, for a while anyway, turned into a Russian history group. We did readings and discussions on Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, the Russian Revolution and Civil War, Stalin’s purges beginning in 1937, and two sessions on the Russian contribution to the Second World War.

Vasily Grossman was a loyal supporter of Stalin and, as such, served as a war correspondent for Krasnaya Zvezda, the official Red Army newspaper. He was in Moscow, Stalingrad, Kursk, and Berlin during the battles for those cities; and he provided eyewitness accounts of the liberation of the Nazi extermination camp at Treblinka.

Only toward the end of Stalin’s rule, when the dictator began to persecute the Russian Jews, did Grossman begin to rue his former attachment to the State. His great 900-page novel, Life and Fate, shows the actual change of mind taking place.

His extended Jewish family of Shaposhnikov women and their in-laws both suffer and are rewarded for their contributions to the State. Mostly, though, they suffer. Even the heroic tank commander, Nikolov, who leads the first Soviet armored units into the Ukraine, ends the book with an order to report to the stavka (General Staff) in Moscow. His scientist/academician, Viktor Shtrum, receives a congratulatory call from Stalin just when he thinks he is about to be arrested and interrogated—but then he is pressured into signing a statement that two physicians he respects were responsible for murdering the writer Maxim Gorky.

Stalin gives with one hand and takes away with the other. At the end of the Siege of Stalingrad, Grandma Shaposhnikov walks through the ruins and ponders:

And here she was, an old woman now, living and hoping, keeping faith, afraid of evil, full of anxiety for the living and an equal concern for the dead; here she was, looking at the ruins of her home, admiring the spring sky without knowing that she was admiring it, wondering why the future of those she loved was so obscure and the past so full of mistakes, not realizing that this very obscurity and unhappiness concealed a strange hope and clarity, not realizing that in the depths of her soul she already knew the meaning of both her own life and the lives of her nearest and dearest, not realizing that even though neither she herself nor any of them could tell what was in store, even though they all knew only too well that fate alone has the power to pardon and to chastise, to raise up to glory and to plunge into need, to reduce a man to labour-camp dust, nevertheless neither fate, nor history, nor the anger of the State, nor the glory and infamy of battle has any power to affect those who call themselves human beings. No, whatever life holds in store—hard-won glory, poverty and despair, or death in a labour camp—they will live as human beings and die as human beings, the same as those who have already perished; and in this alone lies man’s eternal and bitter victory over all the grandiose and inhuman forces that ever have been or will be …

Life and Fate is one of the great novels of twentieth century Russia, on a par with (and perhaps even a little bit better than) Anatoli Rybakov’s Arbat trilogy (Children of the Arbat, Fear, and Ashes and Dust).

As I wrote in my review of the book for Goodreads.Com:

I rather doubt that most readers will have the sitzfleisch to attack either Grossman or Rybakov. Unless one is somewhat familiar with the history and with Russian character names and patronymics, one is not likely to stray too far from the tried and true and excessively familiar. But, know this, there are rewards for those who do.

For an interesting perspective on Grossman, check out this site from the Jewish Daily Forward.

“Fun With Substance”

David Foster Wallace

David Foster Wallace

At first, you have:

“fun with substance, then very gradually less fun, then significantly less fun because of like blackouts you suddenly come out of on the highway going 145 kph with companions you do not know, nights you awake from in unfamiliar bedding next to somebody who doesn’t even resemble any known sort of mammal, three-day blackouts you come out of and have to buy a newspaper to even know what town you’re in; yes, gradually less and less actual fun but with some physical need for the Substance, now, instead of the former voluntary fun; then at some point suddenly just very little fun at all, combined with terrible daily hand-trembling need, then dread, anxiety, irrational phobias, dim siren-like memories of fun, trouble with assorted authorities, knee-buckling headaches, mild seizures, and the litany of what Boston AA calls Losses … then more Losses, with the Substance seeming like the only consolation against the pain of mounting Losses, and of course you’re in Denial about it being the Substance that’s causing the very Losses it’s consoling you about—”—David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

A Sense of Loss

Posted on by | 2 Comments
Huell Howser (1945-2013)

Huell Howser (1945-2013)

Every evening after dinner, I usually get on the computer and enter my income and expenditures on QuickBooks. During that time, about twelve feet from me, Martine watches one of Huell Howser’s TV shows on KCET, usually California’s Gold, California’s Green, or Visiting. What all three shows have in common is the amiable host paying homage to some locale or event or person connected with California.

People have made fun of Huell’s Tennessee drawl and his seeming naiveté in doing his interviews. There’s even a drinking game in which the participants have to take a swig every time Huell says “Wwwwwooooowwww!” or or “Gooooolllllllyyyyyy!” or “That’s amazing” or “historic” or any number of other of his habitual expressions.

Many were the times I would walk away from my computer and sit next to Martine because I found myself getting interested in one of his interviews. Over the years, Huell and I have visited many of the same places—because Huell got me hooked.

But now we no longer have Huell Howser, because he died yesterday in Palm Springs at the age of sixty-seven. He had retired in September from his show, sparking rumors that he was being forced out. Despite his approachability, however, the Tennessean was a private person who was fighting a long illness which was getting the upper hand.

Both Martine and I feel a sense of loss. In a city where there are not many really likeable public figures, everybody loved Huell. And he loved California and delighted in introducing interesting sidelights of his adopted state to anyone who would listen. And listen we did. For KCET, insofar as I’m concerned, he was the whole station’s raison d’être. When some people leave us, they leave behind a gaping hole. Who can replace someone so amiable, so knowledgeable, so adventurous, and withal such a character as Huell?

I know that his shows will continue to be watched in reruns. He will continue to influence our road trips through the State of California, especially in our Southern California neck of the woods. A neck of the woods that somehow has gotten more lonely without Huell to appreciate them.

To get a flavor of his shows, watch this video on YouTube (about a dog that eats avocados). And read this tribute that appeared in today’s Los Angeles Times.

A Chinless Villain

Posted on by | 2 Comments
Do Chins Matter in Assessing Villainy?

A Cladistic Apomorphy?

We don’t tend to know much about chins, except that we are the only hominid which seems to have one. (Elephants have chins, but it is by no means clear why.)

Chins are classified as a cladistic apomorphy, according to Wikipedia, “partially defining anatomically modern humans as distinct from archaic forms.”

Now there are several myths extant about chins which result in our being prejudiced against males who are deficient in the size or shape of their chins. We tend to emphasize a strong chin with overall strength and decisiveness.

Which brings us to the subject of this blog, the embattled President of Syria—for the time being anyway—who is responsible for the deaths of some 60,000 of his people in an attempt to hang on to his power. Every time I see a picture of him, such as the one above (which makes him look somewhat like an ostrich), I keep saying to myself, “There’s something wrong here: The man has no chin whatsoever.”

We tend to hold many superstitious beliefs about people based on their superficial appearance. Because of the size of her Adam’s apple and her hands, I would naturally infer, for example, that Ann Coulter is actually a guy in drag. If so, that would explain a lot of things; but I am not absolutely sure that I’m right. Another example: American corporations like to choose as CEOs men who are taller than the average, perhaps because their size makes them look stronger and more decisive. But then, many of the CEOs who have been vilified for their role in fomenting the current recession fit this profile.

Maybe being tall doesn’t really make you stronger. Take Napoleon Bonaparte, Adolph Hitler, and Josef Stalin for example. The tallest of the three was Hitler at 5 feet 8 inches.

It would be interesting to make a study bringing together all these superficial observations and our myth making based on our perception of them. None of us are immune, particularly when it comes to choosing a mate. But then that’s an entirely different kettle of fish.

 

Fighting for Their Rats

Posted on by | 2 Comments
Are We Still Fighting the Civil War?

Are We Still Fighting the Civil War?

I cannot help but think that, in a way, the surrender of Lee to Grant at Appomattox Court House never really happened. The South has decided, instead of surrendering, to fight to the death for a set of beliefs that are irreconcilable to those of most Americans. And they are becoming increasingly more irreconcilable. Now, although “irreconcilable differences” is frequently used as grounds for divorce, in this case I think something else will happen in this course of time.

The biggest enemy that Republican Conservatives from the South will face in the decades to come is demographic change. The Bible-thumping old white people will gradually die out, to be replaced by some fewer young people with the same values, but still more African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians. This is a trend that is happening in most parts of the country, but I expect that its results will be most strongly felt in the South.

I think Faux News pundit Bill O’Reilly had it right when he said: “Obama wins because it’s not a traditional America anymore. The white establishment is the minority.” He concluded by adding that “people want things.” Of course they do. We all do. And what Tea Party Southerners (“the white establishment”) want is very different from what the new emerging demographic majorities want.

There is something pathetic about these old Confederates still acting as if they were the only game in town, when in fact they are not. And they will grow even fewer, but not before fighting to the last man for their principles.

In Ted Turner’s film Gettysburg, there is a scene in which a Union officer interrogates three Southern prisoners captured during the early fighting skirmishes. The Yankee asks the prisoners why they are fighting. The answer comes back, “for their rights.” Except, the young officer mishears them because of their drawl and thinks they said, “for their rats.” Even when this misunderstanding is cleared up, it is clear that that was not the answer their captors expected. The North thought that the South was fighting for slavery, whereas the South was fighting for the right to do what they believed in, irrespective of what those beliefs were. If those beliefs included slavery, then so be it!

It is somewhat unnerving to think that issues we thought had been decided back in 1865 are still affecting the American political scene. They are, and will continue to do so until a whole lot more water has flown under the bridge.

 

 

Les Mis(sables)

Posted on by
The Good, the bad, and the Ugly

The Good, the bad, and the Ugly

To begin with, I never saw the Broadway musical upon which this movie is based, so my discussion of it is based solely on the movie, with some surviving memories of Victor Hugo’s novel.

The movie had some problems which detracted from my enjoyment. Most particularly, it is startling to have a film shot almost entirely in close-up. I know the scene is, for the most part, fairly gritty; but I am more familiar with the dermatological issues of some rather well-known cast members as Hugh Jackman (Jean Valjean), Russell Crowe (Javert), Anne Hathaway (Fantine), and Amanda Seyfried (the grown-up Cosette) than I ever wanted to be. Gad, I would hate to see my face plastered across eighty feet of screen at a cinema.

A second issue I had with Les Misérables was that it was 100% sung. Now I don’t mind that with a great opera, but with a musical—especially one that runs almost three hours—I would appreciate some plain spoken lines. Especially when most of the people in the cast would scarcely last more than thirty seconds in a grand opera audition.

Finally, most of the film consists of night scenes. There is something about a color film that demands more light: Otherwise everything begins to look brown after a while.

Some of the supporting roles were excellent, especially Sacha Baron Cohen (?!) and Helena Bonham Carter as the thieving Thénardiers. In the Revolution of 1832 scenes, there was a superb child actor, Daniel Huttlestone, playing the part of the urchin Gavroche. And the ending actually brought some tears to my eyes, as sentimental and overblown as it was.

All in all, Les Misérables is a mixed bag. You may enjoy it, or you can just as easily mis [sic] it.

“Life Is a Pure Flame”

Sir Thomas Browne

Sir Thomas Browne

There is nothing strictly immortal, but immortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may be confident of no end;—all others have a dependent being and within the reach of destruction;—which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself;—and the highest strain of omnipotency, to be so powerfully constituted as not to suffer even from the power of itself. But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after death, makes a folly of posthumous memory. God who can only destroy our souls, and hath assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath directly promised no duration. Wherein there is so much of chance, that the boldest expectants have found unhappy frustration; and to hold long subsistence, seems but a scape in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature.

Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us. A small fire sufficeth for life, great flames seemed too little after death, while men vainly affected precious pyres, and to burn like Sardanapalus; but the wisdom of funeral laws found the folly of prodigal blazes and reduced undoing fires unto the rule of sober obsequies, wherein few could be so mean as not to provide wood, pitch, a mourner, and an urn.

Five languages secured not the epitaph of Gordianus. The man of God lives longer without a tomb than any by one, invisibly interred by angels, and adjudged to obscurity, though not without some marks directing human discovery. Enoch and Elias, without either tomb or burial, in an anomalous state of being, are the great examples of perpetuity, in their long and living memory, in strict account being still on this side death, and having a late part yet to act upon this stage of earth. If in the decretory term of the world we shall not all die but be changed, according to received translation, the last day will make but few graves; at least quick resurrections will anticipate lasting sepultures. Some graves will be opened before they be quite closed, and Lazarus be no wonder. When many that feared to die, shall groan that they can die but once, the dismal state is the second and living death, when life puts despair on the damned; when men shall wish the coverings of mountains, not of monuments, and annihilations shall be courted.

While some have studied monuments, others have studiously declined them, and some have been so vainly boisterous, that they durst not acknowledge their graves; wherein Alaricus seems most subtle, who had a river turned to hide his bones at the bottom. Even Sylla, that thought himself safe in his urn, could not prevent revenging tongues, and stones thrown at his monument. Happy are they whom privacy makes innocent, who deal so with men in this world, that they are not afraid to meet them in the next; who, when they die, make no commotion among the dead, and are not touched with that poetical taunt of Isaiah.

Pyramids, arches, obelisks, were but the irregularities of vain-glory, and wild enormities of ancient magnanimity. But the most magnanimous resolution rests in the Christian religion, which trampleth upon pride and sits on the neck of ambition, humbly pursuing that infallible perpetuity, unto which all others must diminish their diameters, and be poorly seen in angles of contingency.

Pious spirits who passed their days in raptures of futurity, made little more of this world, than the world that was before it, while they lay obscure in the chaos of pre-ordination, and night of their fore-beings. And if any have been so happy as truly to understand Christian annihilation, ecstasies, exolution, liquefaction, transformation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and ingression into the divine shadow, they have already had an handsome anticipation of heaven; the glory of the world is surely over, and the earth in ashes unto them.

To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to exist in their names and predicament of chimeras, was large satisfaction unto old expectations, and made one part of their Elysiums. But all this is nothing in the metaphysicks of true belief. To live indeed, is to be again ourselves, which being not only an hope, but an evidence in noble believers, ’tis all one to lie in St Innocent’s church-yard as in the sands of Egypt.—Sir Thomas Browne, Hydriotaphia

Travel Ain’t What It Used To Be

Posted on by | 3 Comments
Cool & Luxurious—No More!

Cool & Luxurious—No More!

I was just looking at photographs of some old travel posters and thought how cool and luxurious all the posters seemed. Now one is more likely to see backpackers wearing camouflage shorts with cargo pockets and staying in hostels. What you don’t see is the pilferage that takes place in their youth hostel and the lost sleep resulting from drunken young partiers who stay up to the wee hours of the morning. Nor do you see the TSA groping your private parts to make sure you’re not carrying a Thompson submachine gun there.

Travel has become at one and the same time more proletarian (no problem with that) and more security-conscious (using procedures that are more annoying than efficacious).

Also, since the heyday of those old posters, the United States has become a whole lot less popular than it used to be. Border crossings are fraught with arcane rules and odd fees such as reciprocal entry, departure and airport taxes. When Martine and I went to Argentina in 2011, for instance, we each had to pay a reciprocal entry tax of U.S. $160.00 to match what we were charging Argentinians entering the U.S.

Of course, it is nowhere as bad as my visit to Czechoslovakia in 1977, when my parents were held at a police station in Presov-Solivar because their papers weren’t in order. (Mine were, but that’s only because I used a visa service that was up on all the regs.)

Still, there is nothing in the world like travel. Whether you plunk yourself down on some sandy beach or—like me—go all over the place taking in the sights, it is at the evry least a balm for the tired soul. At best, it is life at its most exciting, with every minute being a new opportunity for learning.

 

It’s a Wexler

Posted on by
Back Yard of Wexler House at 499 Farrell Street

Back Yard of Wexler House at 499 Farrell Street

Until I spent a few days with my brother in Palm Springs over the Christmas Holiday, I had no idea of the work of architect Donald Wexler. Apparently, he has had an outsized influence on the architecture of Palm Springs and the more posh Coachella Valley cities adjoining it. My brother rented a Wexler house at 499 Farrell Street at the corner of Alejo in Palm Springs’s “Movie Colony” neighborhood.

I tend to take a dim view of much modern domestic architecture, but I must admit that Wexler’s work looked good in its lower desert setting, with Mount San Jacinto looming in the background. Not that his houses are particularly comfortable: The house that my brother Dan rented had no windows per se, only massive sliding glass doors that tended to superheat in the afternoon sun, plus a few glass ceiling panels.

If I had to rate the Wexlers I saw, I would give them an A for looks, but only a C for comfort. The lower desert can be fiercely hot, especially in the summer months with temperatures soaring to 115-120 degrees in the afternoons. Many of these houses were built in the 1950s and 1960s, when energy costs were low. During the summer, I would expect that one’s electric bill would likewise soar. Perhaps that’s where the pool and patio (see above) come into play. December can be pretty cold in Palm Springs, so Martine and I didn’t bother to bring our swimsuits.

Apparently, Donald Wexler is still alive, though, in his eighties, I am sure his architectural career is a thing of the past. Still, it is interesting to view his work, which you can do by clicking here, here, and here.