Sunday, July 30, 2006

The Mutability Of Literature

The Mutability Of Literature

I will confess to reading far more than I write and I daresay I read about writing far more than I write. Still the pen is for me as a brush is to an artist. I study the great works mainly with an eye for technique. If I become enlightened or educated as a result it is purely an unintended consequence and inconsequential in the long run. Eventually the pen must be employed to greater or lesser effect, it really doesn’t matter. I read mainly to have something to write about. That I have nothing immortal to say should not surprise anyone, least of all me.

I have found, to my great chagrin, that I am not unique. Indeed every lament I have in my life as a writer has been echoed throughout the ages of recorded literature. That the ancients left no such lament is a great testimony to quality of their editorial boards.

I read indiscriminately. This morning, bored with the newspaper, I pulled a volume down from the walls of my library, a volume scarcely opened since I stole the book out from under the noses of a book buyer who had bought my grandfathers library by the linear yard 40 years ago, one book in 400 yards of books missing. It was “The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon” by Washington Irving. After reading it I pulled the text off the Internet to share with you.

Something in me loves irony. If, dear reader and fellow writers, you read on here are the delicious facts:

  1. Washington Irving has been dead for almost 150 years.

  2. My wife is planning our first (and perhaps last) grand tour of Europe for this fall and our first stop will be Westminster Abby and my first stop within the Abby will be the library.

(from “The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon” by Washington Irving)

I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In time's great periods shall return to nought.
I know that all the muses' heavenly rays,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought
-- That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.


THERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection, when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster school, playing at football, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered the library.

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the Church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers echoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall.

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion.

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head! how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters, shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of Nature; and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection! And all for what? To occupy an inch of dusty shelf--to have the titles of their works read now and then in a future age by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself, and in another age to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment, lingering transiently in echo, and then passing away, like a thing that was not!

While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating, these unprofitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep, then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it, and having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what, in the present day, would be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance.

It began with railings about the neglect of the world, about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries--that the dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their shelves. "What a plague do they mean?" said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric--"what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or, if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing."

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your generation. By being stored away in this ancient library you are like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels, while the remains of their contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of Nature, have long since returned to dust."

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, "I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces."

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years: very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence, and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious establishments for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation. Where do we meet with their works?. What do we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name: but, alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics that he might shut himself up and write for posterity; but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment; the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury--of Simeon of Durham--of Benedict of Peterborough--of John Hanvill of St. Albans--of----"

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, "how old do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant English."

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.)

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it matters little. almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness, and De Worde's publications are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.+ Even now many talk of Spenser's `well of pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day and held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk or one of those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. "I declare," added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep, like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in existence."
"In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as w ave in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe."--CHAUCER'S Testament of Love. Holinsh d,i his Chronicle, observes, "Afterwards, also, by diligent vell f Geffry Chaucer and John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same to their great praise and mortal commendation."
"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is: these in modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the `unparalleled John Lyly.'"

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious.

"Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirits of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellence in print."-Harvey Pierce's Supererogation.

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity--that the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent--augmented into a river-expanded into a sea. A few centuries since five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and the press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the Muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information at the present day reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking catalogue."

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakespeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion."

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and then who seem proof against the mutability of language because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and perhaps worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them."

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that had wellnigh choked him by reason of his excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer! by a man without learning! by a poet! forsooth--a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point.

"Yes," resumed I positively, "a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose features are always the same and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth of the language--its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies! What bogs of theological speculations! What dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age."

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed: and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those old day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been able to discover.

Thorow earth and waters deepe, The pen by skill doth passe:
featly nyps the worldes abuse, And shoes us in a glasse,
vertu and the vice
Of every wight alyve;
honey comb that bee doth make Is not so sweet in hyve,
As are the golden leves
That drops from poet's head! Which doth surmount our common talke As farre as dross
doth lead. Churchyard.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

The New Renaissance

The New Renaissance, Number 37, Fall 2006

I shouldn’t do it of course. I shouldn’t read a magazine like a novel but I do; I find hidden meaning, hidden connections between disparate works of art or literature that were never intended to be read together much less strung together in a readers mind like chapters in a mystery novel. Perhaps it’s the editor in me that tries to make a theme from anthology. Most magazines are constrained by time not theme so it is unfair of me to judge a magazine by a theme that was never intended but I will anyway. It’s my prerogative, its any reader’s prerogative.

I don’t go out of my way to be politically correct or incorrect but I do try to remain sensitive to people’s private and public hurts. Smoking is bad; I know I used to be a smoker. Racism is bad, I once knew a woman of my parent’s generation, long gone, who would not eat food touch by skin darker than her own. I also know that since 9-11 most of America sees not black and white but us and them. Political correctness has not caught up to the man on the street. The bad guys of the near east want a religious war and there is just enough folk memory left in the west to remember the Nazi holocausts and be frightened. Black and White becomes a defense against the infidels, a defense of Vienna, a rally around the flag boys; they are coming over the hill to murder your wife and sister.  If Bin Laden had come a generation later … who knows we might have forgotten.

Literature speaks for the time it lives in. Shakespeare’s incomprehensible “forsouths” and whatnot spoke loudly to a generation 500 years ago but only softly today. It took a reading of Stephen Greenblatt’s “Will in the World” for me to realize how much of The Bards work has been lost through the passing of history. In his day Shakespeare was as topical as any sitcom or high drama on television today. We loose that in reading him today. On the other hand the word “literature” somehow implies a timelessness that may or may not be real. Shakespeare was timely yet has become timeless. That speaks volumes for Shakespeare and says nothing about magazines that publish “Literature” as opposed to, say, Soap Opera Digest.

When, in the opening act of an opera, the first voice to be heard is shrill it is hard to withhold judgment on the rest of the performance. One shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and people on first impressions but we do. So when I read the “Editor’s Comments” in the latest edition of “the new renaissance” I had to stop myself from thinking “liberal pabulum” while I got mildly nauseous.

I am a liberal so don’t get me started but I can’t stand blind adherence to the current dogma of political correctness. Who decides these things anyway? The current liberal, “politically correct” dogma has cost the Democratic Party all three branches of Government in the United States. The “Editor’s Comments” consisted of a shrill (but probably correct) call to save the tropical rain forests. Along the way there was the obligatory warning about global warming.

That’s where I get off the train. Years ago, long before I ever heard of “global warming,” I met a PhD in Climatology, a very long-term weatherman.  His specialty was the last 15,000 years, give or take a millennium. At the time the climatological buzz was all about how we were due for another Ice Age. Statistically they happen with frightening frequency but my friend assured me that we were in a temperature upswing as predicted by some arcane things like water levels in the Great Salt Lake.

Most of what I learned I have subsequently forgotten but I do remember that there was something called the “climatic optimum” about 8,000 years ago where the earth was several degrees warmer than today. Then, the desert belt had moved north into Europe and the deserts of North Africa and Arabia were a tropical green. There was a little ice age following the collapse or, perhaps, causing the collapse of the Roman Empire. Among other things this sent the men of the north, the Vikings, in search of a warmer place to live. The Viking age ended abruptly when an exceptionally warm period melted the ice around Iceland and Greenland and colonists headed north once more.

In 1000 A.D. the Labrador straits and Eric’s Fiord in Greenland were free of ice in the summer and the land produced enough during the near 24 hours of sunlight for foraging animals to be sustained year round. Whatever global warming has taken place it has not yet cleared the Labrador straits and Eric’s Fiord of summer ice. Of course by 1300 we were in the middle of “the little Ice Age” that lasted well into the middle of the 19th century. So are we going into a warming period? Probably. Is it hotter than it’s ever been? No, it was hotter in the time of Eric the Red. Did man cause “global warming?” I don’t know but hubris dictates an affirmative answer.

Should the tropical rain forests be saved? Of course, managed perhaps, but until there is an economic incentive to do so we have to recognize that it’ll never happen. There is archeological evidence that most of the Amazon basin was once cultivated and that most of the rain forest as we know it today was gone. It could be that deforestation of the Amazon 1500 years ago gave rise to the global warming that lead to the discovery of North America by Leif Erickson? That’s a stretch but the truth is that we/I just don’t know. It’s good that we are asking the questions but how much do we really know or is it that we think we know more than we do. Time will tell and it won’t be for me to decide. In the mean time I’ve been enjoying the warmer winters.

There is something about modern American literature that is very dark. The call to preserve the rain forests was succeeded by two poems by Daniel Tobin. The first is called “Effifi Tumuli,” which begins, “Wasted mesa. Earth stripped to bleeding mounds.” Oie! Is there no light in the world? The next is “The Scream (after Edward Munch).” Is there a pattern here?

I will confess that there are lighter poems and short stories in this edition of TNR such as M. E. McMullen’s touching story titled “Louise Berchine,” a story of unrequainted love. Another bright spot in this anthology of darkness is Thomas Robert Barnes’ poem “Dogwoods.”

Still darkness prevails. Lynn Veach Sadler’s poem “Purple Irises,” about the shelling of Dubrovnik by the bad guys of the last Balkan war left a palpable pain in my heart. My mother was a world traveler whose two favorite places in the world were Dubrovnik and the island of Gozo in Malta. The world changes but it’s not supposed to be for the worse. Does literature merely chronicle life or does literature lead life. Does art merely imitate life?

We have another theme creeping into this story. After the unrequainted love of adolescence we make mistakes in our love life. We all think about the one that got away, the one that might have been if only …. Keneth Rapoza performs just such a dance with his story, “Greetings from Portugal,” the love of ones life given up for a passing flirtation. Even when we know we are making a mistake we cannot help ourselves. Bruce Douglas Reeves gives us a different view of romantic lament in his wartime story titled OBSESSION. One has to wonder if anyone who writes for the New Renaissance has ever been happy or lucky in love. Is it really true that happiness makes for lousy writing? I hope not. The Gods, they must be laughing at us.

There is quite a bit more in the fall 2006 issue of TNR, most of it pretty good even if a bit on the dark side. The one exception I must make are the gray on gray reproductions of what must be vibrantly colored works of art. Rendering large ink drawings or etchings as halftoned images does neither the magazine nor the artist justice. The devastation of the third world jungles are served all to well in black and white so I would have preferred to see the small color well that was devoted to color pictures of burning jungle and farmers markets devoted to reproducing art instead … but that’s just me. This volume is worth reading.