Did I say one-man band? Actually, he was a one-man symphony orchestra. Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was not only a poet, writer, translator, and philosopher. He was eighty poets, writers, translators, and philosophers. Born (and died) in Lisbon, Portugal, Pessoa wrote under approximately eighty heteronyms.
These heteronyms were like pseudonyms, except that each wrote in a different style. In a way, Pessoa constituted an entire literary movement. The work for which he is best known, The Book of Disquiet, is a collection of fragments in no particular order—and probably one of the greatest works of the Twentieth Century.
There are several editions of The Book of Disquiet. I have read the Penguin edition translated by Richard Zenith.
Today, while eating lunch at the Mitsuwa Marketplace in Mar Vista, I was reading an old New York Review of Books and came across this passage in a new translation by Margaret Jull Costa:
To say things! To know how to say things! To know how to exist through the written voice and the intellectual image! That’s what life is about: the rest is just men and women, imagined loves and fictitious vanities, excuses born of poor digestion and forgetting, people squirming beneath the great abstract boulder of a meaningless blue sky, the way insects do when you lift a stone.
I first learned about Pessoa when IO read José Saramago’s The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis (1984). It turns out that Ricardo Reis was a poet and prose writer, author of Odes and texts on the work of Alberto Caeiro. Interestingly, Reis and Caeiro were merely two heteronyms of Fernando Pessoa.
The man constituted an entire literary movement in his person!
Obviously, I had to get to know more about Pessoa. I plan to read more of his work if I had world enough and time.
I am thinking of two incredible blind warriors. One is from the Japanese cinema circa 1970s; and the other is from the literature of Edwardian England, around the time of the First World War.
During the 1970s I was a big fan of Daiei Studio’s Zatoichi films. At the time, Daiei owned two movie theaters in Los Angeles: the Sho Tokyo in Downtown L.A.’s Little Tokyo and the Kokusai on Crenshaw just south of Adams. Both theaters are long since gone.
Zatoichi was a blind masseur and gambler who also was a samurai-grade swordsman who could slice his opponents to ribbons due to his superior hearing ability. Between 1962 and 1989, Daiei produced some 26 Zatoichi films starring Shintaro Katsu. At the time, Daiei had some excellent action directors such as Kazuo Ikehiro, Issei Mori, Tokuzo Tanaka, and Kenji Misumi. Probably my favorite title was Zatoichi’s Fire Festival (1970).
Skipping to the other blind warrior, we have Private Investigator Max Carrados created by Ernest Bramah, a London tea merchant, who was also responsible for the Kai Lung stories, which can be described as fantasy Chinoiserie.
Max Carrados may not have been a swordsman, but his skills were no less incredible.In “The Coin of Dionysius,” a man named Carlyle investigates a Sicilian tetradrachm, taking it to the blind detective:
For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a self-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with his tongue.
“Well?” demanded the other.
“Of course I have not much to go on, and if I were more fully in your confidence I might come to another conclusion—”
“Yes, yes,” interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.
“Then I would advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun, communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of the career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see what further depredations have been made in his cabinet.”
Both the Zatoichi films and the Max Carrados stories are highly entertaining, even if a bit fanciful.
It is strange to be suddenly confronted by truth in places that one had not thought to look for it. Such was the case this evening when I encountered it in a little-known mystery novel set in Bangkok. The Sonchai Jitgpleecheep novels of John Burdett have been a recent preoccupation of mine during this hot and seemingly endless summer in Southern California. Then, like a Buddhist burst of contemplation, there it was a fifth of the way through Bangkok Asset, the sixth novel in the series:
Man has made astonishing strides recently in all things inessential. The price we’ve paid is enormous. Stuck with an infantile description of reality that cannot come to terms with death or even lesser challenges, the eternal infant must torture himself for lifetime after lifetime, probably without end.
This is what happens when one is a serious bookworm. The truth is out there, even in seemingly unusual places, like genre series novels.
Sometime this month, I’m going to tackle the Collected Stories of William Faulkner. For some reason, I’ve always liked to read Faulkner during the hottest month of the year. I might suddenly find some pearl of wisdom that stands out, or I might not. On the other hand, I might read some arrant piece of trash an find myself at the edge of a cliff that stretches to the horizon.
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!
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 durLa 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.
On the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I decided to return to reading books on American history. The fact that I refrained for so long was due to my contempt for Donald Trump and the voters who elected him to office in 2024.
Consequently I am halfway through a biography of Andrew Jackson (Jon Meacham’s American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House). Recently, I thought of “Old Hickory” as a precursor of the Trump madness. Now I begin to think that, although Jackson was highly conflicted, a slaveholder, and responsible for gross injustices toward the American Indian population of the Southern states, he was by and large an honorable man of his time and place.
For one thing, he was an excellent general, responsible for inflicting a humiliating defeat on the English during the Battle of New Orleans. He served two terms as President of the United States, and did not attempt to loot the country for his personal benefit.
He was probably one of the unhappiest of our nation’s leaders. His beloved wife Rachel died before he was sworn in as president. He had a close relationship with his Andrew and Emily Donelson, who served as his personal assistants. But then a vicious petticoat war between the Donelsons and the wife of his Secretary of War, who was a personal friend, poisoned much of his first term.
Somehow he maintained his popularity among the voters. That was because he firmly believed in following the will of the majority, even if meant stepping on the toes of men like John C. Calhoun, his vice president, or Henry Clay—both of whom craved the presidency for themselves.
I am only halfway through the biography, but have decided to continue reading one or two American histories or biographies a month for the foreseeable future. Since I am rapidly on the road to recovery after my broken shoulder, I shall look for a copy of Bernard DeVoto’s 1846: The Year of Decision for my next read in this series.
Now that I am (1) retired and (2) living on a fixed income, my fantasies of travel become ever more vivid. Some months ago, I found a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Thailand in one of those take a book/leave a book stands. Ever since then, my mind has traveled to Bangkok, Chang Mai, Pattaya, and Ko Samui and points in between.
I know that if the money for travel should drop into my lap, most of my fantasy travel destinations would involve my going by myself. Martine wants no part of the Third World, let alone closer destinations like Yucatán or the Alaska Panhandle.
No matter: Even armchair travel can be a rewarding experience. I am currently reading Alex Garland’s The Beach about a visit to a strange island near Ko Samui. And I continue to pore over my Lonely Planet Guide, even if it is a year or two out of date. And I will look for more of those Bangkok crime novels featuring Sonchai Jitpleecheep written by John Burdett. It should make for a fun summer.
Of course, if I went to Thailand, I probably would not spend much time on the beach. To be sure, I would visit museums and Buddhist temples and spend hours at various Thai “Walking Streets” and night markets. The food would be fantastic. And, being the type of person I am, I would get a ton of reading done. Not for me the full moon parties on the beach and the girlie bars of Soi Cowboy and Patpong.
And when I have read my fill of Thailand, there are other places that I could explore from my armchair.
As for real, non-armchair travel, I am looking forward to going with Martine to Arizona sometime in the not too distant future.
Although I live two miles from Santa Monica Beach, I don’t go there to read: It’s too hard to concentrate when sand is getting into your shorts. But since today is the first day of summer, I thought I would give you some idea of what I tend to read during the hot months of the year.
For the most part, my summer reading tends to be on the light side. On the other hand, that’s also when I tend to tackle William Faulkner and other difficult 20th century writers.
Below are six categories with samples of my summer reading during the last three years (1923-1925).
India
I just recvently finished Heinrich Zimmer’s Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization. Some other titles include Somadeva’s Tales from the Kathāsaritsāgara and Anita Desai’s Diamond Dust and Other Stories. I’ve always thought Desai’s fiction was underrated.
Latin America
These include Fernanda Melchor’s Hurricane Season (Mexico) and Cesar Aira’s Fulgentius (Argentina). See also under Mystery,
Mystery
I enjoyed the Brazilian writer Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza’s Pursuit and Icelandic writer Arnaldur Indriðason’s The Darkness Knows. Indriðason is one of my favorite mystery writers, and I’ve read everything of his that’s been translated into English.
Noir
Summer is a great time to read books by writers like Jim Thompson, David Goodis, Raymond Chandler, and Cornell Woolrich. Recently, I read Woolrich’s The Bride Wore Black and Waltz Into Darkness and John Fante’s Dreams from Bunker Hill.
Sci-Fi
Recent reads were William Gibson’s The Peripheral and the Russian Sergei Lukyanenko’s Twilight Watch.
Travel Classics
This is one of my favorite summer categories, including such titles as Charles M. Doughty’s Travels in Arabia Deserta; Allen Ginsberg’s South American Journals January-July 1960; and Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Writing Across the Landscape: Travel Journals 1960-2010.
The Goddess Slaying the Monster Buffalo (Māmallapuram)
I have just finished reading Heinrich Zimmer’s Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization (Washington DC: Bollingen Foundation, 1946), edited by Joseph Campbell and with contributions from Ananda K. Coomaraswamy. It was fairly heavy going for most of its length. Curiously, the most interesting chapters were the first (The Parable of the Ants) and the last (a Hassidic tale). Even if the rest of the book proves way too erudite for you, and if you just aren’t geared up to read Sanskrit, I suggest you check out these two chapters.
Hinduism with its armies of gods, demons, demigods, semigods, and hemigods has always fascinated me, though I always found myself slogging through too much detail. Tales from the Indian scriptures always fascinated me, but I could rarely remember what I read a mere few hours later.
Nonetheless, I will try to read more of this material, including, perhaps, an abridged edition of India’s great epic, TheMahābhārata, which consists of some 200,000 couplets. Wish me luck!
Argentinian Poet and Writer Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)
I am certain that French literary scholars are raising their hackles because of my interpretation of the term explication de texte. The type of close reading that the term implies includes style and is rarely used with literature that is translated from another language.
Jorge Luis Borges wrote in Spanish, but I have been reading his work in English translation for over half a century. I thought it would be fun to take a paragraph from one of Borges’s stories and, by my own idea of a close reading, give you an idea why the Argentinian is one of my favorite writers.
The story I have chosen is “Three Versions of Judas” as printed in Andrew Kerrigan’s translation of the American edition of Ficciones. Here is the story’s opening paragraph:
In Asia Minor or in Alexandria, in the second century of our faith (when Basilides was announcing that the cosmos was a rash and malevolent improvisation engineered by defective angels), Nils Runeberg might have directed, with a singular intellectual passion, one of the Gnostic conventicles. Dante would have destined him, perhaps, for a fiery sepulchre; his name might have augmented the catalogues of heresiarchs, between Satornibus and Carpocrates; some fragment of his preaching, embellished with invective, might have been preserved in the apocryphal Liber adversus omnes haereses or might have perished when the firing of a monastic library consumed the last example of the Syntagma. Instead, God assigned him to the twentieth century, and to the university city of Lund. There, in 1904, he published the first edition of Kristus och Judas; there, in 1909, his masterpiece Dem hemlige Fraharen appeared. (Of this last mentioned work there exists a German version, called Der hemliche Heiland, executed in 1912 by Emil Schering.)
Whew! The following notes rely heavily on Evelyn Fishburn and Psiche Hughes’s A Dictionary of Borges [ADOB] (London: Gerald Duckworth & Co Ltd, 1990) and my searches on the Internet.
Basilides: “An early Gnostic from Alexandria who integrated Pythagorean and Cabbalistic traditions with the Christian faith.” ADOB
Nils Runeberg: Fictional character.
conventicles: secret or unauthorized religious assemblies.
fiery sepulchre: Refers to the sixth circle of Dante’s Inferno, where heretics were punished by eternal flames.
heresiarchs: Borges loves this word and uses it frequently. It refers to the originators of heretical beliefs.
Satornibus:Could refer to Saturninus of Antioch, “who held that the angels, archangels, powers and dominations were created by the Supreme Unknown, the Father, but that the world and everything in it, including man, was created by seven of the lowest angels.” ADOB
Carpocrates: “A second-century Neoplatonist from Alexandria, the founder of a heretical sect which believed in the dualism of good and evil, denied the divinity of Christ and held that the soul is imprisoned in the body from which it strives to be free.” ADOB
Liber adversus omnes haereses: Translated as A Book Against All Heresies. As Nilos Runeberg is a fictional characters, all his works are nonexistent.
Syntagma: “The earliest collection of heretical doctrines by Justin Martyr. Another text of the same title, also directed against heresy, was written at the beginning of the third century by Hippolytus of Rome….” ADOB
Lund: Lund University in Sweden was founded in 1666.
Swedish and German titles: Runeberg was a fiction, as are his books. As is translator Emil Schering.
Note also the use of subjunctive verb forms: might have directed … would have destined him … might have augmented … might have been preserved … might have perished.
And I have barely begun analyzing this paragraph, which was designed to flummox lazy readers and excite explorers of strange literary byways like me.
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