Finally, he could accept everything. In his deepest soul. Tsukuru Tazaki finally understood. One heart and another are not bound by harmony alone. They are, also linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence that does not contain a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. This is what lies at the root of true harmony.
--Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, Haruki Murakami
Reading Murakami always inspires rumination in me--most especially, for some reason, with his novel Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki. There is something that touches me on a personal, deeply experiential level--on an emotional plane, I mean. Not an identification with the specific events of the novel, but with the underlying thrust of dissonance, bewilderment, pain, grief, and resolution. Harmony, in a sense, is nothing more than the subjugation of dissonance. It is present from the beginning, but must be groomed and sought after. The deepest, most soul-satisfying harmonies must be discovered. They do not come with the understanding only of one's own repertoire of notes, but with the inclusion, the discernment of the tones outside oneself. Harmony is a work of love, a willingness to bear pain, a stubborn insistence on unravelling the dissonance string by string. It is for the wounded, the fragile; not for the proud or impassive.
Verily, verily I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.
Visits
Monday, February 4, 2019
Sunday, February 3, 2019
Holden
"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be."
--Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
It suddenly occurred to me this night to wonder whether my son has ever suffered from my choice of a name for him. Holden, after Holden Caulfield, the troubled young protagonist in J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. Who knew in 1977, when he was born, that several nutcases would later choose out the novel as some sort of instructional manual on killing another person?
I was reading the novel in late 1976 and I simply liked the sound of the name. To me, it sounded dignified somehow, and of course different. I didn't want a Jim or a Bill or a Tommy. Nor did his mother. As I recall, she had chosen as a possibility the name Bayard, after a character in a Faulkner novel, Flags in the Dust, I think. Quentin was another of her suggestions. I didn't like that either, and so the name Holden won out.
Then someone with a fixation on Catcher in the Rye, as well as a fantastic inability to rightly read a novel or understand what he has read, went out and killed John Lennon. Subsequently, there have been several more wackos, carrying Catcher in their back pocket and a gun in their front.
Curiously, no one is murdered in Catcher in the Rye. No one even talks about murdering anyone, although I do seem to vaguely remember a scene wherein Holden imagines himself being shot while talking in a phone booth--a sort of dramatic, teen sort of imagination. What struck me about Catcher in the Rye was the central question posed: Where does the trouble really lie, with Caulfield, or with the world itself? It's the same question asked, really, in Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Is it the individual man who is disturbed, or is he disturbed because of the disturbing priorities of the society he lives in?
What's wrong with trying to keep children safe in a field of rye?
In my mind, I was reading about an earnest, introspective young man, a boy with a special fondness for innocence and purity even as he had begun to experience the complex tugging of a tantalizing yet often corrupt world--a world largely peopled by unfortunate children that had fallen from the field of rye.
"The mark of the immature man," Salinger writes, "is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one."
That's what I liked about Holden. The desire, despite destructive influences, despite the human hunger for worthless things, despite all the harsh, so-called adult realities, to live humbly for a cause.
It is, again, unfortunate that a few have attached their own mental illness to this book and thrown shade on a great work of fiction, as well as on its reclusive author, who must, I think, be very hurt indeed by these events. Sadly, the more time that passes, and the more generally illiterate people become, the more readily the title becomes associated with psychotic killers rather than with the meaningful narrative that Salinger gave us.
And so Holden, if you're out there reading, I apologize if the name I chose has ever caused you any discomfort or trouble. Maybe you would have been better off as Bayard or Quentin (though I doubt it). I made the choice with the best of intentions, and, as I have said, before the name was associated with anything other than its own sound. I'll not have the opportunity to have a second son; but if I did have, I think I'd play it safe and just call him Bob!
--Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
It suddenly occurred to me this night to wonder whether my son has ever suffered from my choice of a name for him. Holden, after Holden Caulfield, the troubled young protagonist in J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. Who knew in 1977, when he was born, that several nutcases would later choose out the novel as some sort of instructional manual on killing another person?
I was reading the novel in late 1976 and I simply liked the sound of the name. To me, it sounded dignified somehow, and of course different. I didn't want a Jim or a Bill or a Tommy. Nor did his mother. As I recall, she had chosen as a possibility the name Bayard, after a character in a Faulkner novel, Flags in the Dust, I think. Quentin was another of her suggestions. I didn't like that either, and so the name Holden won out.
Then someone with a fixation on Catcher in the Rye, as well as a fantastic inability to rightly read a novel or understand what he has read, went out and killed John Lennon. Subsequently, there have been several more wackos, carrying Catcher in their back pocket and a gun in their front.
Curiously, no one is murdered in Catcher in the Rye. No one even talks about murdering anyone, although I do seem to vaguely remember a scene wherein Holden imagines himself being shot while talking in a phone booth--a sort of dramatic, teen sort of imagination. What struck me about Catcher in the Rye was the central question posed: Where does the trouble really lie, with Caulfield, or with the world itself? It's the same question asked, really, in Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Is it the individual man who is disturbed, or is he disturbed because of the disturbing priorities of the society he lives in?
What's wrong with trying to keep children safe in a field of rye?
In my mind, I was reading about an earnest, introspective young man, a boy with a special fondness for innocence and purity even as he had begun to experience the complex tugging of a tantalizing yet often corrupt world--a world largely peopled by unfortunate children that had fallen from the field of rye.
"The mark of the immature man," Salinger writes, "is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one."
That's what I liked about Holden. The desire, despite destructive influences, despite the human hunger for worthless things, despite all the harsh, so-called adult realities, to live humbly for a cause.
It is, again, unfortunate that a few have attached their own mental illness to this book and thrown shade on a great work of fiction, as well as on its reclusive author, who must, I think, be very hurt indeed by these events. Sadly, the more time that passes, and the more generally illiterate people become, the more readily the title becomes associated with psychotic killers rather than with the meaningful narrative that Salinger gave us.
And so Holden, if you're out there reading, I apologize if the name I chose has ever caused you any discomfort or trouble. Maybe you would have been better off as Bayard or Quentin (though I doubt it). I made the choice with the best of intentions, and, as I have said, before the name was associated with anything other than its own sound. I'll not have the opportunity to have a second son; but if I did have, I think I'd play it safe and just call him Bob!
Sleepy
Man, I wish I weren't so tired all the time. As usual, I get up at about 6:30, and by 8:30 I want to sleep again. I lie down, thinking that I will just rest for a few moments, and this profound weariness seems to press my entire body. I drop off to sleep like rolling off a cliff. "Falling asleep". That's an apt description of it. My grip slips loose and a fall, and sleep like the dead. I do not sleep long, but I sleep deeply, and getting up again is like climbing out of a pit. I think, I've got to get up, I've got to get moving. I think that this is absurd to be sleeping now when I just got done sleeping all night.
And so I force myself up and out for coffee, and I write about being sleepy. Lol.
And so I force myself up and out for coffee, and I write about being sleepy. Lol.
Saturday, February 2, 2019
The Mule
The other night, I watched a less than satisfactory version of Clint Eastwood's new film, The Mule. By 'less than satisfactory', I mean to say that I watched it in "cam" version--you know, that slightly sideways, garbley product you get when someone has taken a small camera into the theater and clandestinely filmed the film while snacking on popcorn and clearing his throat every five minutes or so.
Aside from the sideways garblyness, the film struck me as unusually slow and placid for an Eastwood movie--which in itself is a bit of an accomplishment, given the subject matter is concerned with drug running for a murderous cartel. One automatically anticipates a large dose of bloody murder. There is some violence in the movie, but very little, really--and quite negligible compared to the usual drug running fare.
And it struck me, as I pondered the thing over the next couple days, that this was because this wasn't a drug running movie at all. That part was just incidental. For the Eastwood character, it was just another job. He was an old man who had spent his whole life doing his job, and while doing his job, as he comes to understand, he had missed his whole life. It is about the tender trap of love, the pleasant prison of family, the ironic, though deceptive freedom of work, of occupation. There are those who spend the better part of their lives escaping what they truly long for.
Eastwood's character finally sees this pearl without price (better late than never), and finds a way to come home at last.
The more I thought about it, the more I appreciated this story, as well as the way in which it was accomplished. When I find myself pondering a film days after the watching, connecting the pieces, having the "Oh, yes, now I see!" moment--that's when I know I've seen a good film.
Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind seeing the non-sideways, non-garbled version when it becomes available.
Aside from the sideways garblyness, the film struck me as unusually slow and placid for an Eastwood movie--which in itself is a bit of an accomplishment, given the subject matter is concerned with drug running for a murderous cartel. One automatically anticipates a large dose of bloody murder. There is some violence in the movie, but very little, really--and quite negligible compared to the usual drug running fare.
And it struck me, as I pondered the thing over the next couple days, that this was because this wasn't a drug running movie at all. That part was just incidental. For the Eastwood character, it was just another job. He was an old man who had spent his whole life doing his job, and while doing his job, as he comes to understand, he had missed his whole life. It is about the tender trap of love, the pleasant prison of family, the ironic, though deceptive freedom of work, of occupation. There are those who spend the better part of their lives escaping what they truly long for.
Eastwood's character finally sees this pearl without price (better late than never), and finds a way to come home at last.
The more I thought about it, the more I appreciated this story, as well as the way in which it was accomplished. When I find myself pondering a film days after the watching, connecting the pieces, having the "Oh, yes, now I see!" moment--that's when I know I've seen a good film.
Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind seeing the non-sideways, non-garbled version when it becomes available.
Ruminations on a Quote from Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki
Stand by for English.
"Dalam hidup kita, kadang ada hal yang terlalu rumit di jelaskan dalam Bahasa apa pun," kata Olga.
Benar sekali, piker Tsukuru sambil menyesap anggur. Jangankan menjelaskan kepada orang lain. Menjelaskan kepada diri sendiri pun tetap terlalu rumit. Seandainya dipaksa menjelaskan, akan muncul kebohongan."
--from Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage.
This translates to something like this in English:
"In our lives, sometimes there are things that are too difficult to explain in any language," said Olga.
So true, thought Tsukuru while sipping his wine. Nevermind explaining them to someone else. They are too hard to explain even to oneself. And if pressed to explain, what comes out may well be lies.
Ain't that the truth, as Tsukuru says. There are some things in our lives that are fraught with doubt, or with regret, or with shame, or with mystery. These arise in the heart again and again, and we come up with various interpretations, each seeming roughly suitable at the moment and yet ultimately proving fragile, porous, or downright untrue.
There are those in the world who are good at fashioning suitable stories, or who are at least perfectly satisfied to do so. In fact, they could not bear the dissatisfaction of doubt and endless rumination. We are all this way, to some extent. All such narratives tend toward self-justification, and toward demonization of the other. There are those who repeat their narrative so often that they begin to recognize the elements of the invention above the actual events that led to the fashioning of the personal narrative. Thereby they acquit themselves and move on. The thing of most critical importance is not the truth--which is an unsettling, unsure, shape-shifting thing at best--but a reliable vehicle for moving forward, leaving the past safely and silently behind. No one succeeds in this completely. But there are those who do a pretty damn good job. And part of this job, necessarily, is putting others who were involved in the troubling events as far away as possible.
On the other hand, there are those of us who cannot help but see that lies, no matter how convenient and pleasant they may seem, do a certain sort of violence both to oneself and to others. Trouble unexamined is trouble made futile. In examining things closely, we find ourselves less and less absolved from guilt, and we find others less so too, for most human troubles arise from a cooperative effort. One sees one's own shortcomings most clearly, forgives the shortcomings of others most generously. But it is only compassion, mercy, and the willingness to fully understand that can lead to a mature and genuine peace.
In the novel by Haruki Murakami, the protagonist is deeply troubled, year after year, by a painful event that he cannot understand. He has lost a part of himself to the past and can either surrender the loss to captivity or restore the fullness of his person by taking captivity captive, so to speak. Tsukuru Tazaki, with the help of 'a better angel', is ultimately the sort of person who is pressed on to confrontation and resolution.
Friday, February 1, 2019
Ritual Reburial
I just read in the Jakarta Post about a strange Vietnamese ancient ritual, still widely practiced, wherein the dead are dug up and reburied after the passage of three years in order to assure a serene final resting place.
A long and elaborate ceremony is performed which involves sticky rice offerings, boiled chicken, a paper horse for the deceased to ride on, and fake US dollars. The bones are carefully removed from the coffin, making sure that every bone, including teeth, is accounted for (which can sometimes require dental records or the testimony of a family member). If anything is missing, the deceased will suffer in his new grave. If the bones are black an bare of flesh, they are carefully cleaned. If there is still flesh on the bones, it must be painstakingly scraped away. The bones are then placed in a small stone case and the case is reburied in a different spot. Finally, if all has gone well, the deceased is perfectly at rest in a peaceful new place.
These rituals occur mainly in the North of Vietnam, and are now beginning to give way to a preference for cremation, which is actually rewarded with a government rebate of $130 US dollars. Many, however, cling to the ritual, in the belief that cremation will caused their deceased beloved to burn through eternity.
A long and elaborate ceremony is performed which involves sticky rice offerings, boiled chicken, a paper horse for the deceased to ride on, and fake US dollars. The bones are carefully removed from the coffin, making sure that every bone, including teeth, is accounted for (which can sometimes require dental records or the testimony of a family member). If anything is missing, the deceased will suffer in his new grave. If the bones are black an bare of flesh, they are carefully cleaned. If there is still flesh on the bones, it must be painstakingly scraped away. The bones are then placed in a small stone case and the case is reburied in a different spot. Finally, if all has gone well, the deceased is perfectly at rest in a peaceful new place.
These rituals occur mainly in the North of Vietnam, and are now beginning to give way to a preference for cremation, which is actually rewarded with a government rebate of $130 US dollars. Many, however, cling to the ritual, in the belief that cremation will caused their deceased beloved to burn through eternity.
Dueling Sleepers
Given that I've been sleeping later into the morning these days, and given that the big fat brown dog usually showed up at the house at around 6 or 6:30, I've taken to simply leaving the front door unlocked so that she won't have to pound on it and wake me up. Lately, she is almost always accompanied by the little black dog. This is how I found them this morning when I came out of my bedroom.
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