The docket I have sticky-taped to the inside of my Penguin Classic says I bought my copy in June 1996. Eight years later I have read Anna Karenin again. I remember very much enjoying it the first time I read it. It really is a good read, not like War and Peace, which I found hard work and frankly boring in parts. I don’t think I’ll even attempt it again. (Henry James famously called it a loose and baggy monster.)
Why is Anna Karenin such a good read? I dare say because so much of it reads like a soap opera. It’s 850 pages of sex and infidelity. Of course there’s plenty of other stuff in there as well – history, religion, Russian politics, the position of women is society – yet the over riding preoccupations of the novel are about finding sexual happiness, and how people try to find that outside of marriage. Reading about these aristocrats and their love affairs reminded me very much of Woody Allen’s middle class professionals, unhappy in existing marriages, misunderstood by their partners, seeking sex, fulfillment and appreciation outside of marriage.
When I got to the novel’s end I felt like I had been reading a Greek tragedy, with Tolstoy’s characters the tragic gods and goddesses. Everyone knows the story of Anna Karenin, and how she flings herself in front of a train once her adulterous affair with Vronsky turns to ennui and self-disgust. Ostracised from society, knowing that her lover is bored with her and most likely looking at other women, unable to get a divorce from her finicky husband, Karenin, she decides to kill herself. Not only that, she does so in the hope of also in some way destroying Vronsky.
The last we see of Vronsky, he is like Oedipus, aimlessly wandering on a moving train, no longer a ‘man’, only a killing machine, a volunteer in the Serbian war.
Tolstoy became impossibly moralistic in the years after he wrote Anna Karenin. His marriage ended up like something out of Christina Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children – husband impossibly idealistic, wife carrying the burdens of day to day life. He tried to live a pure Christian life, and drove everyone around him almost mad in the process. If ever there was an example of why pure ideological doctrine cannot be grafted onto life, then Tolstoy’s life provides it.
One of the things Tolstoy was to renounce in his moralistic phase was sex. Sex was bad. Thus it is interesting to note that he takes such an amoral, or non-judgmental attitude towards the sex lives of his characters in Anna Karenin. Strangely, two of the key adulterers in the novel are brother and sister, the happy-go-lucky Oblonsky and the ill starred Anna Karenin. For some reason, Anna suffers absolute trauma, whereas her brother, Oblonsky, goes from woman to woman with a spring in his step.
Stranger still, the one character in the novel, Levin, who is a bridge to Tolstoy’s moralistic future persona, actually admires Oblonskly, knowing he is an adulterer. He enjoys his open, free and friendly manner.
The character of Levin is clearly autobiographical. Before Tolstoy married, he gave his wife to be his personal diary, replete with his sexual dalliances. She read it, was utterly shocked and disappointed, yet married Tolstoy just the same. Levin does the same thing to Kitty in Anna Karenin. One could suggest that this is done to try and purge himself (Tolstoy/Levin) of his sexual history.
Well, I just find it strange that Levin should be such an admirer of Oblonsky, when Levin is clearly such an advocate of orthodox marriage. Indeed, Levin is such an odd man out in this novel, with all of his ruminations on moral questions, on the nature of god etc., that he seems almost like an Old Testament prophet. The last 20 or so pages of the novel finishes with him musing about god, having left behind the Greek tragedy of Anna Karenin.
For someone so keen on confessing everything, he has a funny last few lines. After meditating on god and religion, he ponders if he should tell Kitty, his wife, what he has been thinking about, then thinks better of it:
‘No, I had better not speak of it,’ he thought, as she passed before him. ‘It is a secret for me alone, of vital importance for me, and not to be put into words.’
Poor Anna Karenin. Half way through the novel I thought I might be seeing parallels to Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, a pro-feminist novel of sorts. That novel throws up plenty of questions on the treatment of women, and the need for a review of the laws that govern women.
No. Anna Karenin’s problem is her desires overwhelming reality. Her imagination made too many demands on life. The choice before her was to stay with a dull, unsympathetic husband and live a life half-lived, or experience sharp, ecstatic moments, to be followed inevitably by sharp disappointments, or in this case, death.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Burmese Days, by George Orwell
Burmese Days is George Orwell's first novel, published in 1934 when the author was about 31 years old. George Orwell, or Eric Blair, worked as a police officer in Burma during his twenties. Obviously much of the material from Burmese Days is drawn from his own experiences of imperial rule.
I didn't quite know what to expect reading Orwell's first novel, but was very pleasantly surprised. His keen interest in politics, or the very worst of politics, is evident in every page. In fact, I can't think of a more relevant novel to read today, considering all that is going on.
Essentially, Burmese Days is an expose of the racist attitudes the English had to those they ruled during their 'great' days of empire. I've never read anything like it. There are descriptions of Burmese servants getting kicked for simply bring out a drink without ice. The British overlords think nothing of this; indeed, it is their due as the superior culture. What's scary about these scenes is you get the impression that Orwell is describing events he must have witnessed time and time again. It's pretty ugly stuff.
The novel describes Flory, a 35 year old British timber merchant, who must endure all these racist, imperial Englishmen and women. Worse, to demur from these racist opinions, which are aired so freely, is to put yourself immediately under suspicion and even incur the derision of your 'fellows' - if you can put it like that. And these people are racist in the coarsest manner, to the point of being completely stupid.
Orwell describes brilliantly the corrupting influence that the British have on the local population and its polity. The corrupt local chiefs and their lackeys get ahead by gaining favour with their British overlords, who think they are inferior being anyway because of their skin colour. It shows how an occupying power can very much work against the interests of the local population. They can be completely ignorant of the negative seeds they sow, all the time bitching about how 'backward' the natives are, how dirty and filthy. Sadly, sometimes even the natives will see the 'white' man as superior to themselves, and strive to be more European.
I thought it particularly relevant to today, with the US occupation of Iraq. Who can forget the US giving so much money to Mr Chalabi, the Iraqi exile, essentially because he kept telling them so much that they wanted to hear. As soon as he became quite evidently a fraud, they junked him. No one is saying it, but I presume the US soldiers harbor certain degrees of racism towards the Iraqis they occupy.
Burmese Days is light-years ahead of its time. To read how crass and undeserving the privileged can be, this is an excellent novel. To learn lessons for the future about the perils of occupation, I can't think of a better place to start.
I didn't quite know what to expect reading Orwell's first novel, but was very pleasantly surprised. His keen interest in politics, or the very worst of politics, is evident in every page. In fact, I can't think of a more relevant novel to read today, considering all that is going on.
Essentially, Burmese Days is an expose of the racist attitudes the English had to those they ruled during their 'great' days of empire. I've never read anything like it. There are descriptions of Burmese servants getting kicked for simply bring out a drink without ice. The British overlords think nothing of this; indeed, it is their due as the superior culture. What's scary about these scenes is you get the impression that Orwell is describing events he must have witnessed time and time again. It's pretty ugly stuff.
The novel describes Flory, a 35 year old British timber merchant, who must endure all these racist, imperial Englishmen and women. Worse, to demur from these racist opinions, which are aired so freely, is to put yourself immediately under suspicion and even incur the derision of your 'fellows' - if you can put it like that. And these people are racist in the coarsest manner, to the point of being completely stupid.
Orwell describes brilliantly the corrupting influence that the British have on the local population and its polity. The corrupt local chiefs and their lackeys get ahead by gaining favour with their British overlords, who think they are inferior being anyway because of their skin colour. It shows how an occupying power can very much work against the interests of the local population. They can be completely ignorant of the negative seeds they sow, all the time bitching about how 'backward' the natives are, how dirty and filthy. Sadly, sometimes even the natives will see the 'white' man as superior to themselves, and strive to be more European.
I thought it particularly relevant to today, with the US occupation of Iraq. Who can forget the US giving so much money to Mr Chalabi, the Iraqi exile, essentially because he kept telling them so much that they wanted to hear. As soon as he became quite evidently a fraud, they junked him. No one is saying it, but I presume the US soldiers harbor certain degrees of racism towards the Iraqis they occupy.
Burmese Days is light-years ahead of its time. To read how crass and undeserving the privileged can be, this is an excellent novel. To learn lessons for the future about the perils of occupation, I can't think of a better place to start.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Everything That Rises Must Converge, by Flannery O'Connor
A quick look through the introduction says that this collection of short stories was her last completed work. Nine stories, and not a bad or mediocre one in the whole lot.
The black humour that permeated her first novel, Wise Blood, is here in spades. It's almost a guilty pleasure, as Flannery O'Connor frequently handles material like racism and some of the other worst characteristics of human nature.
For example, in the last story, Judgement Day, there's an old man who has moved in with his daughter. When he meets a black man who lives in the same block of flats, he insists on continuing to call him a preacher. The black man angrily keeps on telling him that he's not a preacher, but an actor.
What's most amazing about Flannery O'Connor's stories is the way she shows the worst aspects of deep south racism, but you don't hold these people in contempt. You hear white characters continually use the N-word in the most derogatory manner, but you don't judge them. You laugh along, amazingly.
In another story, Revelation, a vain, proud white woman asks herself the question, If she had the choice, would she prefer Jesus had made her white trash or black? After some thinking the matter over she finally gulps and says, she'd want to be black, but very respectable.
My favourite story is Everything That Rises Must Converge. A racist mother goes out for the day with her more progressive, educated son. The son despises the mother for her simplemindedness and finds her completely embarrassing. Worse, he really wants to punish her. When they ride together on a bus he secretly hopes that a black woman who has just got on will sit next to her, because his mother would just hate it so. Strangely enough, you warm more to the racist mother, who is quite funny in her way, while the 'I-know-better' son is totally cringeworthy. Intellectually you agree with him, but you feel more for the mother.
I guess this is one of the paradoxes at the centre of Flannery O'Connor's work. She goes right to the dark heart of the human condition.
Once again, it is ironic that so much of the American story - its positive spiel of independence and an enterprise culture - is totally absent from its best fiction. And so many of these writers are darkly humourous. Like John Kennedy Toole's Confederacy of Dunces, with its cast of freaks and outcasts, set against a capitalist system that has not delivered for these people.
The black humour that permeated her first novel, Wise Blood, is here in spades. It's almost a guilty pleasure, as Flannery O'Connor frequently handles material like racism and some of the other worst characteristics of human nature.
For example, in the last story, Judgement Day, there's an old man who has moved in with his daughter. When he meets a black man who lives in the same block of flats, he insists on continuing to call him a preacher. The black man angrily keeps on telling him that he's not a preacher, but an actor.
What's most amazing about Flannery O'Connor's stories is the way she shows the worst aspects of deep south racism, but you don't hold these people in contempt. You hear white characters continually use the N-word in the most derogatory manner, but you don't judge them. You laugh along, amazingly.
In another story, Revelation, a vain, proud white woman asks herself the question, If she had the choice, would she prefer Jesus had made her white trash or black? After some thinking the matter over she finally gulps and says, she'd want to be black, but very respectable.
My favourite story is Everything That Rises Must Converge. A racist mother goes out for the day with her more progressive, educated son. The son despises the mother for her simplemindedness and finds her completely embarrassing. Worse, he really wants to punish her. When they ride together on a bus he secretly hopes that a black woman who has just got on will sit next to her, because his mother would just hate it so. Strangely enough, you warm more to the racist mother, who is quite funny in her way, while the 'I-know-better' son is totally cringeworthy. Intellectually you agree with him, but you feel more for the mother.
I guess this is one of the paradoxes at the centre of Flannery O'Connor's work. She goes right to the dark heart of the human condition.
Once again, it is ironic that so much of the American story - its positive spiel of independence and an enterprise culture - is totally absent from its best fiction. And so many of these writers are darkly humourous. Like John Kennedy Toole's Confederacy of Dunces, with its cast of freaks and outcasts, set against a capitalist system that has not delivered for these people.
Monday, October 11, 2004
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
To Kill a Mockingbird is probably the first book I ever read. I think I had to study it in year 8, so I must have been about 12 or 13. What I recall of it was its brilliant sense of humour, or more to the point, that of the narrator, 'Scout' Finch, the young tomboy of the novel.
Now that I've read it again some 23 years later, the standout of the novel is still the narrative voice. No wonder I found the film version so disappointing - the humourous, humanistic joy of the novel has been ripped out. In contrast, the film seems totally wooden. Not to say the film is crap, it's just different.
As I was reading the early part of the novel I thought, I bet the writers of the Simpsons are very familiar with To Kill a Mockingbird. It has that humanistic pulse running the whole way through. Then near the end of the novel I came across something that happens in the Simpsons. The children in the novel go to a fair that is held at the local school. One of the features is a darkened room which is like a 'horror room'. In the dark a plate is passed around with two grapes on it - the kids are told it's two eyes. Then a plate of spaghetti. Everyone is told it's someone's innards. And so on. Marge Simpson does the same thing in one of the Simpsons episodes.
It's amazing to think that Harper Lee never wrote another novel. She comes across as a born natural. To Kill a Mockingbird was written in her mid thirties. At first it was more a series of loosely connected stories, but a publisher told her to go back and make it more cohesive. She spent a couple of years with an editor whipping it into shape.
I must admit, it does show. Boo Radley, spook of Jem and Scout's young imaginations, goes missing half way through the novel. The trial of Tom Robinson then takes over. Suddenly at the end Boo Radley appears again, saving the children from attempted murder. A moral is then made: what may spook you may one day save your life. I bet Harper Lee's editor suggested the novel be wrapped up in this way. It's just too suspicious that Boo Radley is dropped half way through the novel.
Nevertheless, it all works marvelously. I just loved the chapters about the horrible town grump Mrs Dubois, who sits on her porch with a loaded gun under her shawl, hollering abuse at all passers by. Plus the school teacher with new fangled ideas on education.
The novel also reminded me of how many similar novels have been written about Americans living in dire poverty. It's the opposite of the American dream, as outlined by the likes of Ayn Rand. Funny that there are all these American classics that are about decent poor people being crushed under adversity (the best example I guess is the Grapes of Wrath, probably a sacred text to many Americans).
A genuine American folk classic.
Now that I've read it again some 23 years later, the standout of the novel is still the narrative voice. No wonder I found the film version so disappointing - the humourous, humanistic joy of the novel has been ripped out. In contrast, the film seems totally wooden. Not to say the film is crap, it's just different.
As I was reading the early part of the novel I thought, I bet the writers of the Simpsons are very familiar with To Kill a Mockingbird. It has that humanistic pulse running the whole way through. Then near the end of the novel I came across something that happens in the Simpsons. The children in the novel go to a fair that is held at the local school. One of the features is a darkened room which is like a 'horror room'. In the dark a plate is passed around with two grapes on it - the kids are told it's two eyes. Then a plate of spaghetti. Everyone is told it's someone's innards. And so on. Marge Simpson does the same thing in one of the Simpsons episodes.
It's amazing to think that Harper Lee never wrote another novel. She comes across as a born natural. To Kill a Mockingbird was written in her mid thirties. At first it was more a series of loosely connected stories, but a publisher told her to go back and make it more cohesive. She spent a couple of years with an editor whipping it into shape.
I must admit, it does show. Boo Radley, spook of Jem and Scout's young imaginations, goes missing half way through the novel. The trial of Tom Robinson then takes over. Suddenly at the end Boo Radley appears again, saving the children from attempted murder. A moral is then made: what may spook you may one day save your life. I bet Harper Lee's editor suggested the novel be wrapped up in this way. It's just too suspicious that Boo Radley is dropped half way through the novel.
Nevertheless, it all works marvelously. I just loved the chapters about the horrible town grump Mrs Dubois, who sits on her porch with a loaded gun under her shawl, hollering abuse at all passers by. Plus the school teacher with new fangled ideas on education.
The novel also reminded me of how many similar novels have been written about Americans living in dire poverty. It's the opposite of the American dream, as outlined by the likes of Ayn Rand. Funny that there are all these American classics that are about decent poor people being crushed under adversity (the best example I guess is the Grapes of Wrath, probably a sacred text to many Americans).
A genuine American folk classic.
Saturday, October 9, 2004
The President of Good and Evil, by Peter Singer
Yes, I know, the title of this one almost seems an oxymoron. Peter Singer in the introduction describes his friends and colleagues telling him he was wasting his time writing a book on the ethics of George W. Bush. I picked the book up after seeing a doco on Mr Singer. I'd read his book on the Greens, written with Bob Brown, about ten years ago, which I liked. Thought I may as well give this one ago.
I have to admit, I really enjoyed it. It's so nice to read something written in a prose style that is so crystal clear and simple. I found myself turning page after page, even after I had told myself I would stop.
The aim of the President of Good and Evil is to take seriously the moral pronouncements of George Bush. It doesn't take much thinking to figure out how Singer is going to judge Bush. 'Bush's ethic is woefully inadequate,' are the books last five words. Nor is Singer the type of person who the Christian coalition who supports Bush would take a shine to. I'm sure his book they'd like to burn (if they read it, which you have to doubt), and as for Singer himself, burning at the stake wouldn't be good enough for him. He's everything they're against.
It's not a complete hatchet job though. Singer gives praise where he sees it's due. For example, Bush's pledge of money for Africa to help combat the AIDS epidemic. The rest of the book, though, shows Bush as a man that makes absolutely no moral sense.
Singer ends the book with a conspiracy theory that he feels has some plausibility, based on the writings of a German philosopher Leo Strauss, who fled Nazi Germany. Strauss claimed there were two kinds of truth, one for the masses, and one for philosophers, that is, people in the know. Strauss believed that great philosophers wrote in a kind of code that could only be deciphered by the elite, while the masses would read these texts at a different level. (Those in the know would read a more radical interpretation than the masses.)
With regards to democracy, these Straussians don't believe it exists, while they assert that it is a useful belief for keeping the masses in check.
Straussians are, apparently, cultish and network to find jobs in Washington. One of the Straussian codewords is 'gentleman'. This refers to someone who lacks the intellect required for philosophy, but is morally admirable.
In 1985, Miles Burnyeat, a scholar of classical philosophy published an essay on Strauss. It contained this interesting passage, which Singer quotes:
'The leading characters in Strauss's writing are 'the gentlemen' and the 'philosopher'. The 'gentlemen' come, preferably, from patrician urban backgrounds and have money without having to work too hard for it��Such 'gentlemen' are idealistic, devoted to virtuous ends, and sympathetic to philosophy. They are thus ready to be taken in hand by 'the philosopher', who will teach them the great lesson they need to learn before they join the governing elite.'
Singer asks, is Bush the dupe of the infamous neo-cons Wolfowitz, Perle and Shulsky, key players in the push for war in Iraq? I can't help but think of how Chalmers Johnson described Bush as the boy emperor. It seems to ring true. Bush often comes across as naieve and child like. Could he have cooked up a war in Iraq on his own? Who knows. It's a compelling image nonetheless, a boy king with his aggressive advisors.
I have to admit, I really enjoyed it. It's so nice to read something written in a prose style that is so crystal clear and simple. I found myself turning page after page, even after I had told myself I would stop.
The aim of the President of Good and Evil is to take seriously the moral pronouncements of George Bush. It doesn't take much thinking to figure out how Singer is going to judge Bush. 'Bush's ethic is woefully inadequate,' are the books last five words. Nor is Singer the type of person who the Christian coalition who supports Bush would take a shine to. I'm sure his book they'd like to burn (if they read it, which you have to doubt), and as for Singer himself, burning at the stake wouldn't be good enough for him. He's everything they're against.
It's not a complete hatchet job though. Singer gives praise where he sees it's due. For example, Bush's pledge of money for Africa to help combat the AIDS epidemic. The rest of the book, though, shows Bush as a man that makes absolutely no moral sense.
Singer ends the book with a conspiracy theory that he feels has some plausibility, based on the writings of a German philosopher Leo Strauss, who fled Nazi Germany. Strauss claimed there were two kinds of truth, one for the masses, and one for philosophers, that is, people in the know. Strauss believed that great philosophers wrote in a kind of code that could only be deciphered by the elite, while the masses would read these texts at a different level. (Those in the know would read a more radical interpretation than the masses.)
With regards to democracy, these Straussians don't believe it exists, while they assert that it is a useful belief for keeping the masses in check.
Straussians are, apparently, cultish and network to find jobs in Washington. One of the Straussian codewords is 'gentleman'. This refers to someone who lacks the intellect required for philosophy, but is morally admirable.
In 1985, Miles Burnyeat, a scholar of classical philosophy published an essay on Strauss. It contained this interesting passage, which Singer quotes:
'The leading characters in Strauss's writing are 'the gentlemen' and the 'philosopher'. The 'gentlemen' come, preferably, from patrician urban backgrounds and have money without having to work too hard for it��Such 'gentlemen' are idealistic, devoted to virtuous ends, and sympathetic to philosophy. They are thus ready to be taken in hand by 'the philosopher', who will teach them the great lesson they need to learn before they join the governing elite.'
Singer asks, is Bush the dupe of the infamous neo-cons Wolfowitz, Perle and Shulsky, key players in the push for war in Iraq? I can't help but think of how Chalmers Johnson described Bush as the boy emperor. It seems to ring true. Bush often comes across as naieve and child like. Could he have cooked up a war in Iraq on his own? Who knows. It's a compelling image nonetheless, a boy king with his aggressive advisors.
Monday, October 4, 2004
House of Bush, House of Saud, by Craig Unger
If you want to read a good, short book on how the business interests of Saudi Arabia - or the House of Saud, the royal family than runs the country - intermingles with that of George W. Bush, his family and political contacts, then this is an excellent book. According to author Craig Unger, the House of Saud has transferred some $1.5 billion dollars to entities and individuals tied to the house of Bush. There is even a special appendix devoted to the subject.
We all know loosely the material that Michael Moore has marshaled for his anti-Bush film Farenheit 911. House of Bush, House of Saud goes into the details, meticulously researched. You leave the book thinking: what the hell is the US doing dealing with a regime like this? Saudi Arabia is not exactly a haven of openness and responsible government. It's the opposite, highly secretive and utterly medieval. Public beheadings are the order of the day. The state religion is an extreme form of Islam, Wahhabi. What could Bush have in common with this? Oil, of course.
The book is chock-block full of paradoxes. For instance, George W. Bush, in order to get the American Muslim vote, started lobbying Muslim groups, without doing proper checks on the backgrounds of the people he was dealing with. Bush takes on board one Sami Al-Arian, a man under suspicion for having links to terrorist groups (he was arrested in 2003 on dozens of terrorist charges). From the book:
'Astonishingly enough, the fact that dangerous militant Islamists like Al-Arian were campaigning for Bush went almost entirely unnoticed. Noting the absence of criticism from the Democrats, Bush speechwriter David Frum later wrote, "There is one way that we Republicans are very lucky - we face political opponents too crippled by political correctness to make an issue of these kinds of security lapses."'
Ironically, many believe that the large slab of Muslim votes that Bush received got him across the line. And he had people like this campaigning for him. The mind boggles.
There is also much detail about the extent to which the House of Saud has been sponsoring terrorism. One of the top Al-Qaeda bosses they captured, Abu Zubadyah, claimed that the House of Saud made a deal that it would aid the Taliban as long as Al-Qaeda stayed out of Saudi Arabia. He also claimed that there were members of the House of Saud, living in the US, who knew that some type of attack was going to happen soon.
Mysteriously, large groups of the Saudi nationals, including some 14 members of the bin Laden family were flown quickly out the US following the September 11 attacks. Clearance came from the White House. Not only that, when the Congressional report was handed down on September 11, the 28 pages that dealt with Saudi Arabia's involvement were excised.
What's the take away from the book? Well, that if you play with fire you're going to get burnt. As I said, Saudi Arabia is the very opposite of an open democracy. It is based on an extreme strain of Islam. They can barely keep a lid on things, with regards to groups like Al Qaeda.
For Bush to be receiving money and support from such questionable people beggars belief. Yet it is so. The money and contacts just flows back and forth, back and forth.
I agree with Craig Unger's conclusion on Iraq. Bush's father, with Reagan, thought they had such a great success by recruiting Islamic extremists to fight the Soviet Union in Afghanistan. Not one drop of American blood was spilt, and they saw off the 'evil empire'. But in the process they created, by default, Al-Qaeda. Remember, the CIA were recruiting Islamic nut cases from all over the world, arming them, putting them in the one war together, thus creating a 'brotherhood'.
Having helped to create this terrorist monster to fight the Soviet Union, they are now having to fight the same people in Iraq. Osama bin Laden, like Che Guevera, learnt that a well fought guerilla war, with utterly devoted soldiers, could win a war against an Imperial power. Afghanistan was that lesson, in part funded by the US.
Now they can take their fight to another Imperial power, the US. No wonder terrorists are flooding into Iraq.
Imagine if bin Laden's dream was to come true. He knocks over the House of Saud, which he sees as decadent and corrupt to the bone. He eventually prevails in Iraq, and establishes a Taliban like government there. Think how much of the world's oil he would control! He could literally be pulling the levers of the world's economy. And we know how much glee he gets from crunching the numbers.
I don't think it's as far fetched a scenario as it sounds.
We all know loosely the material that Michael Moore has marshaled for his anti-Bush film Farenheit 911. House of Bush, House of Saud goes into the details, meticulously researched. You leave the book thinking: what the hell is the US doing dealing with a regime like this? Saudi Arabia is not exactly a haven of openness and responsible government. It's the opposite, highly secretive and utterly medieval. Public beheadings are the order of the day. The state religion is an extreme form of Islam, Wahhabi. What could Bush have in common with this? Oil, of course.
The book is chock-block full of paradoxes. For instance, George W. Bush, in order to get the American Muslim vote, started lobbying Muslim groups, without doing proper checks on the backgrounds of the people he was dealing with. Bush takes on board one Sami Al-Arian, a man under suspicion for having links to terrorist groups (he was arrested in 2003 on dozens of terrorist charges). From the book:
'Astonishingly enough, the fact that dangerous militant Islamists like Al-Arian were campaigning for Bush went almost entirely unnoticed. Noting the absence of criticism from the Democrats, Bush speechwriter David Frum later wrote, "There is one way that we Republicans are very lucky - we face political opponents too crippled by political correctness to make an issue of these kinds of security lapses."'
Ironically, many believe that the large slab of Muslim votes that Bush received got him across the line. And he had people like this campaigning for him. The mind boggles.
There is also much detail about the extent to which the House of Saud has been sponsoring terrorism. One of the top Al-Qaeda bosses they captured, Abu Zubadyah, claimed that the House of Saud made a deal that it would aid the Taliban as long as Al-Qaeda stayed out of Saudi Arabia. He also claimed that there were members of the House of Saud, living in the US, who knew that some type of attack was going to happen soon.
Mysteriously, large groups of the Saudi nationals, including some 14 members of the bin Laden family were flown quickly out the US following the September 11 attacks. Clearance came from the White House. Not only that, when the Congressional report was handed down on September 11, the 28 pages that dealt with Saudi Arabia's involvement were excised.
What's the take away from the book? Well, that if you play with fire you're going to get burnt. As I said, Saudi Arabia is the very opposite of an open democracy. It is based on an extreme strain of Islam. They can barely keep a lid on things, with regards to groups like Al Qaeda.
For Bush to be receiving money and support from such questionable people beggars belief. Yet it is so. The money and contacts just flows back and forth, back and forth.
I agree with Craig Unger's conclusion on Iraq. Bush's father, with Reagan, thought they had such a great success by recruiting Islamic extremists to fight the Soviet Union in Afghanistan. Not one drop of American blood was spilt, and they saw off the 'evil empire'. But in the process they created, by default, Al-Qaeda. Remember, the CIA were recruiting Islamic nut cases from all over the world, arming them, putting them in the one war together, thus creating a 'brotherhood'.
Having helped to create this terrorist monster to fight the Soviet Union, they are now having to fight the same people in Iraq. Osama bin Laden, like Che Guevera, learnt that a well fought guerilla war, with utterly devoted soldiers, could win a war against an Imperial power. Afghanistan was that lesson, in part funded by the US.
Now they can take their fight to another Imperial power, the US. No wonder terrorists are flooding into Iraq.
Imagine if bin Laden's dream was to come true. He knocks over the House of Saud, which he sees as decadent and corrupt to the bone. He eventually prevails in Iraq, and establishes a Taliban like government there. Think how much of the world's oil he would control! He could literally be pulling the levers of the world's economy. And we know how much glee he gets from crunching the numbers.
I don't think it's as far fetched a scenario as it sounds.
Friday, October 1, 2004
Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Connor
Flannery O'Connor was born in Savannah, Georgia, in 1925. She died in 1964, not even making it to forty. The publication date in the Faber edition I read says the novel first appeared in 1949, although the short bio says Wise Blood appeared in 1952. Either way, she must have been writing this novel in her early twenties, an extraordinary achievement for someone so young.
I've often enough heard the name Flannery O'Connor, but didn't know much about her writing. Chris Hubbard recommended I read this one, saying it was 'funny'. I'll say. It's more a grotesque kind of humour though, and peculiar to American writers of this time. I'm trying to think of other American writers who specialise in this coarse mix of simple religion, violence and sex, populated with misfits, goofballs, preachers and prostitutes. The novels of James Purdy, William March, Barry Gifford (not a writer of that period, I know) and Carson McCullers come to mind. Plus the plays of Tennessee Williams.
Wise Blood tells the story of Hazel Moates, recently released from the armed forces, who returns to the evangelical Deep South. He becomes a preacher of his own religion, 'the Church without Christ', which seems totally heretical, but is also very religious in its call for a new Jesus. Hazel meets quite a few characters on the way, giving way to many comic episodes.
My favourite line, and one that hopefully will sum up some of the best humour in the novel is when one of the characters, Enoch Emory, goes to see the famous gorilla Gonga! Giant Jungle Monarch, who shakes the hands of his patrons, mostly little old grannies and excited children. Enoch is a complete coward, and decides he will line up and abuse the Gorilla. This line I thought just brilliant:
'To his mind, an opportunity to insult a successful ape came from the hand of Providence.'
When Enoch finally gets to Gonga, he nervously goes into this long spiel that obviously bores the crap out of Gonga, who is just a man in a gorilla suit. Gonga replies, 'You go to hell.' Can life get anymore humiliating than this?
Then there is Hazel Moate's girlfriend, the creepy Sabbath Lily Hawkes, daughter of the 'blind' preacher (he's not blind at all, just a faker) Asa Hawkes. I just loved her so much. She's a plain girl who determines she's going to 'get' Hazel, and is all romantic and lovey-dovey, but it all seems so out of place. For example, when Hazel's crappy car is giving him grief she joyously announces, 'It's a grand auto,' and 'it runs just like honey'.
Another favourite was the prostitute, who's lost all her illusions and inhibitions about sex. She cuts out obscene pictures in Hazel's hat, just for fun.
There are just so many kooky portraits and incidents. The descriptions of the Landlady are brilliant, her hair described as bunches of grapes arranged on her head. She's sick of people who bludge off the government, seeing she's a tax payer. When she wants Sabbath Lily Hawkes out of the way, so she can get her hands on Hazel, she determines to have Sabbath sent to a 'detention home' for girls, noting she was 'eligible'.
Even the racism in the novel is so stupid it's funny. The characters judge the worth of a manufactured item to be good as long as it's not made by 'foreign n��' (I can't use the 'n' word, but today we'd call them African Americans).
This is not to say that Flannery O'Connor is mocking the people she's writing about. Quite the opposite. There's a very obvious sympathy for her characters.
As I said earlier, this type of novel is peculiar to American authors. Although I couldn't help but think of Thomas Hardy as I read Wise Blood, with his bizarre characters and grotesque humour. I'll certainly be looking for Flannery's other novels and a bio.
Anyone who could write Wise Blood, whatever the age, is someone touched by genius. The fact that she wrote it in her twenties - and had probably been brooding over creating this type of fiction in her teenage years - is all the more staggering.
I've often enough heard the name Flannery O'Connor, but didn't know much about her writing. Chris Hubbard recommended I read this one, saying it was 'funny'. I'll say. It's more a grotesque kind of humour though, and peculiar to American writers of this time. I'm trying to think of other American writers who specialise in this coarse mix of simple religion, violence and sex, populated with misfits, goofballs, preachers and prostitutes. The novels of James Purdy, William March, Barry Gifford (not a writer of that period, I know) and Carson McCullers come to mind. Plus the plays of Tennessee Williams.
Wise Blood tells the story of Hazel Moates, recently released from the armed forces, who returns to the evangelical Deep South. He becomes a preacher of his own religion, 'the Church without Christ', which seems totally heretical, but is also very religious in its call for a new Jesus. Hazel meets quite a few characters on the way, giving way to many comic episodes.
My favourite line, and one that hopefully will sum up some of the best humour in the novel is when one of the characters, Enoch Emory, goes to see the famous gorilla Gonga! Giant Jungle Monarch, who shakes the hands of his patrons, mostly little old grannies and excited children. Enoch is a complete coward, and decides he will line up and abuse the Gorilla. This line I thought just brilliant:
'To his mind, an opportunity to insult a successful ape came from the hand of Providence.'
When Enoch finally gets to Gonga, he nervously goes into this long spiel that obviously bores the crap out of Gonga, who is just a man in a gorilla suit. Gonga replies, 'You go to hell.' Can life get anymore humiliating than this?
Then there is Hazel Moate's girlfriend, the creepy Sabbath Lily Hawkes, daughter of the 'blind' preacher (he's not blind at all, just a faker) Asa Hawkes. I just loved her so much. She's a plain girl who determines she's going to 'get' Hazel, and is all romantic and lovey-dovey, but it all seems so out of place. For example, when Hazel's crappy car is giving him grief she joyously announces, 'It's a grand auto,' and 'it runs just like honey'.
Another favourite was the prostitute, who's lost all her illusions and inhibitions about sex. She cuts out obscene pictures in Hazel's hat, just for fun.
There are just so many kooky portraits and incidents. The descriptions of the Landlady are brilliant, her hair described as bunches of grapes arranged on her head. She's sick of people who bludge off the government, seeing she's a tax payer. When she wants Sabbath Lily Hawkes out of the way, so she can get her hands on Hazel, she determines to have Sabbath sent to a 'detention home' for girls, noting she was 'eligible'.
Even the racism in the novel is so stupid it's funny. The characters judge the worth of a manufactured item to be good as long as it's not made by 'foreign n��' (I can't use the 'n' word, but today we'd call them African Americans).
This is not to say that Flannery O'Connor is mocking the people she's writing about. Quite the opposite. There's a very obvious sympathy for her characters.
As I said earlier, this type of novel is peculiar to American authors. Although I couldn't help but think of Thomas Hardy as I read Wise Blood, with his bizarre characters and grotesque humour. I'll certainly be looking for Flannery's other novels and a bio.
Anyone who could write Wise Blood, whatever the age, is someone touched by genius. The fact that she wrote it in her twenties - and had probably been brooding over creating this type of fiction in her teenage years - is all the more staggering.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)