Halfway through The Painted Veil

A blog that is never updated - isn’t that a silly idea? Who ever would think of such a thing? Though I am hesitant to say it for fear that it will curse me, I am going to try to update more often (but who’s reading this anyway, right? Am I right?). Many updates will likely concern books I am reading or have read, and wouldn’t you know it!, I am about to be concerned about a book.

I’m part way through W. Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil. Now a digression: from what I understand, Of Human Bondage is his “big one” (or at least it’s the one that appears on book lists and the one they always have ten copies of at the used book store when all I’m looking for is The Painted Veil). Generally when trying out a new author, I like to read their “big one” because more than likely it truly is their best book - I’m about to read Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy and I think this will be true here, based on the opinions of others. If I find I like the book, then I see what else the author has to offer. Judging from my reading history, it’s very rare that, by choice, I will set my sights on an author’s lesser, or at least lesser known, works. I was interested in reading The Painted Veil solely because of the 2006 movie version I saw before I knew it was a book.

I’d like to talk about the book mainly, but a short word about the movie is in order: great. Only five letters long, fairly short I would say. Now that my comedian act is over… I really enjoyed the movie. The Painted Veil, for me, was one of those films wherein all aspects add up to a single, beautiful sum. It stars Naomi Watts as the female lead, with Edward Norton opposite and Liev Schreiber supporting. Watts has to be in my top five for actresses, and Norton is certainly up there among living actors, and both deliver captivating performances. Visually, the film is stunning - it is a well done period piece, the costumes and the setting are perfect. Alexandre Desplat composed a beautiful score and the “River Waltz” is one of my favourite pieces of modern movie music. If my brief, vague recap of the movie’s better qualities failed to convince you, perhaps the fact that I hunted this book down for a year because the film was so good will.

A brief summary of what I’ve read thus far, about half the book - SPOILER ALERT!

Kitty is a shallow Englishwoman who, due to vanity, missed her chance to marry in her prime, and in order to stay ahead of her younger, more beautiful sister, marries Walter Fane. This marriage is one of convenience - she will be supported by a doting and loving, if somewhat shy and reserved, bacteriologist husband for whom she cares little. They move to China where Walter is on assignment, and Kitty promptly begins an affair with the colonial hotshot Charlie Townsend, an equally shallow yet popular and successful government agent. Walter finds out about the affair and issues an ultimatum - he will divorce Kitty and leave her be… provided that she can persuade Charlie to leave his wife for her and marry her within a week. If not, Kitty must move to the interior of the country afflicted with a cholera epidemic where Walter plans to provide aid. Confident that her love is really love, she accepts, only to find out that to Charlie, she was merely recreation. Devastated, she follows Walter into cholera territory, certain she will die…

I’m only part way through the book right now, so there is only so much I can say. First impressions, however, are favourable. The first sixty pages or so read very much like a cheap pulp novel full of scandal and adulterous intrigue rather than a great work of literature, but I make this point not in derision but in praise - the book is fun! Full of “I know you’re having an affair, I have all the proof I need” and “Well I NEVER LOVED YOU ANYWAY”. In fact, I once found a cheap pulp copy of the novel, though I never bought it because of its extremely poor condition. Luckily, I was able to fine a scan of the cover. All good fun! Cheap and pulpy and delicious, like discount Tropicana.

She started up in terror. Someone had tried the door.

Hilarious. 

Please - judge a book by its cover. The book reads exactly how you would think, for the first bit at least.

The structuring of the novel really struck me because this scandalous mode isn’t merely entertaining, it is integral to the plot. The novel opens with the scene of Kitty’s adultery, and so the focus of the reader is on this very betrayal. The story’s development is then paused while Maugham takes the reader briefly into Kitty’s past and explains the context of her affair. Here, the author reveals Kitty’s shallow nature and removes any sympathy the reader might have for her. Then, in a perfect Dantean contrepasso, Kitty must suffer her ironically suiting punishment for her crime (fitting, as Maugham claims an episode from Dante’s Purgatorio as his inspiration for the book). Escaping her loveless marriage in vain adultery and refusing to acknowledge the man her husband is, she is now removed to the Chinese countryside where her freedom is limited. Rather than liberally engaging in an extramarital affair, Kitty is forced to acknowledge her husband and her marital commitment to him, forced to recognize Walter’s true quality.

More irony aids in Kitty’s development from shallow housewife. Once out in the country, Kitty meets Waddington, the overseer of the territory. Waddington is a long time acquaintance of Kitty’s ex-lover Charlie Townsend, and though he is quick to list off Charlie’s positive attributes, they are few and unredeeming in light of his oafish, shallow nature. Kitty, listening to her new friend in Waddington, recognizes that Charlie is a lout, and that she is similarly loutish for having fallen for him. Waddington, unaware of Kitty’s connection to Charlie, is also unaware of how much his words affect young Kitty; however, though she recognizes the error of her ways, she still dreams of Charlie. She is still very much the shallow English housewife she was at the beginning of the novel, but she has begun to move in a new direction in her life. Her revelation is not an immediate drawing back of the curtain of her vanity, but a process consisting of many steps.

Well, that’s about all I’ve got to say for now - I’m excited to finish the book! Stay tuned…

Art with a Social Agenda - Boyz N the Hood

Anytime the purpose or point of art is discussed, it is inevitable that there will be mention of a possible social or didactic purpose of art. Sadly, it also seems inevitable that these claims are ridiculed and cast off in favor of a more ambiguous aim or a more intellectually satisfying view that art should exist solely for art's sake. I've never been one to come down firmly on one side of any issue and I'm rarely satisfied with any single answer when the question is challenging and unquantifiable; this issue is no exception for me. I've always loved art, but I cannot give myself over to an answer that states art exists solely for pleasure, nor can I believe that art is the sole purpose of art. What's more, I will not believe that art can be reduced to a mere educational tool or an agent of social change. Truly, art is multifarious in its abilities, purposes, and aims (of course, if it can be said to have any).  While the idea of art as an agent of social change might seemingly be inapplicable in some cases...

a nude by Francois Boucher

This nude challenges existing social paradigms

and presents our culture from a new perspective.

(No, that is not correct.)

... in others it's not so ridiculous an idea.

a policeman by renowned graffiti artist Banksy

This policeman challenges existing social paradigms

and presents our culture from a new perspective.

(Not so funny here, huh?)

I'm writing all of this because 20 minutes ago I saw, for the first time, director John Singleton's Boyz N the Hood. You might expect any movie that opens with statistics about violence and murder rates to be unbearably affected, overly moralizing, lacking subtlety, and generally like what might be any other work of art with an obvious social agenda. Absolutely not the case here. The film was engaging, entertaining, and enlightening. The moral of the movie was visibly present throughout, but at no point did it ever seem like there was a giant billboard preaching "BLACK ON BLACK VIOLENCE IS BAD; LOOK AT THIS SITUATION - IT HAS TO BE CHANGED", even in the scene with the Laurence Fishburne's lecture in front of the billboard. It is a real testament to the artistry of the writer and director, Mr. Singleton, and to the craft of the actors that the moral is conveyed so effectively. It is also a testament to the ability of art to have a social agenda. I think that the key point here is that moralizing art, art with a social purpose, must be done artfully. I know exactly how ambiguous that sounds and how useless it is to say, but unfortunately, that is often symptomatic of any discussion of art. I suppose what I'm trying to say that if moralizing art isn't done artfully, than it isn't art - it is tedious and banal and any hope of edification goes out the window. Boyz N the Hood was powerful as a film and I bawled my eyes out at the critical moment. The films point was made clearly, and  Singleton was able to produce an effective work of art that is perfect evidence for the argument for art having, at least in some respects, a socially beneficial purpose.

The Nutcracka! (Because it is the whitest thing ever.)

Of course I can't sleep on Christmas Eve. Sleeping on Christmas Eve, for me, is like Tom Selleck without a mustache - unimaginable. 

Pretend he didn't have it. I dare you.

So here I am in my bed, wide awake. I am going to write up a new post. 

On Wednesday my lovely GF and I went down to Toronto to the National Ballet's Nutcracker at the Four Seasons Centre. The tickets were her gift to me and I had blast (I am capable of having a blast at a ballet). Talk about shattering 50's gender stereotypes. I am breaking the mold. Anyway, I had a wonderful time and I was very appreciative of the gift. 

I saw the same production of the Nutcracker a few years ago and I was quite unimpressed, but this time around I enjoyed it immensely. I suppose in the period between my viewings my appreciation for ballet has increased, but I can't say if there was any definite thing that made the difference between my viewings of the performances. 

First of all, I was impressed with the visuals. The sets were lavish and ornate where they needed to be and were similarly sparse at the appropriate moments. Far more impressive than the sets and costumes, however, were the dancers. I had previously read up on basic ballet technique before a recent trip to New York where I attended the ballet there, and I truly gained an appreciation for the dancers. Every single movement seems absolutely effortless, but realistically these ballerinas and ballerinos are performing superhuman feats on stage, EVERY NIGHT. The principal dancers were incredible - all the solo numbers and duets were absolutely beautiful - but the numbers with the full chorus of dancers were wonderful too. I really enjoy seeing the mass of movement in the synchronized dancers. Also, stereotypical ballerina costumes are the best and I love them.

See? Beautiful.

But enough about the visuals, let us speak now of the music. Really, there is no ballet music more beautiful than Tchaikovsky's. Disagree? Shut up. Obviously he is the most prominent ballet composer, but he is so for a reason. People always want to avoid conforming to widely accepted views in music, art, &c., but sometimes these widely accepted views exist for very, very good reasons. Case in point : TCHAIKOVSKY IS THE F******* BEST AT BALLET. He only wrote three, and all of them at once epitomize ballet composition, in my opinion. Naturally, I was in rapture. I cherished all of the music, but certain moments in particular were quite affecting.

The Dance of the Snowflakes was gorgeous - the setting was a forest of birches covered in snow, and the dancers were costumed as fragile snowflakes. Though visually stunning, it was the music here that I really took in. My favourite ever (in this particular scene) is when the voices come in and sing their little melody. Overall the scene was delightful indeed. Here is a Youtube clip of a different production to check it out.



For a second selection, I have chosen the pas de deux from Act II. This scene was quite profound - the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Prince, both portrayed by accomplished dancers, perform an incredible dance atop Tchaikovsky's pensive, wistful score. I especially love the descending scale over the harp line. Here:



Wednesday was an absolutely enjoyable cultural evening and I hope to enjoy a similar evening in the near future (not going to happen).

In Defense of the Arts

Dang. It is hard to be an English major.
     I was speaking to a friend recently about an issue I feel very strongly about. More and more, it seems, the arts are being devalued. Anyone with an English degree, a philosophy degree, or any degree in the arts, should they be daring enough to pursue such a degree, is ridiculed and forced into the position of having to defend their choice. This is something that both my friend and I have experienced, and doubtless many others have too. I chose to study literature not only because I love it passionately, but because I passionately believe in its the importance and power, and in the importance and power of all the arts.
     I could write at length about my feelings about this, but I'm going to cut myself short here and turn it over to Mr. William Faulkner. This is Faulkner's acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature. This speech offers at least one argument for the importance of the arts, and it is one that I find especially convincing and entirely relevant to our times. Enjoy. Believe.

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

Speech originally posted @ www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/faulkner/faulkner.html

Third time is a charm?

This is my third shot at a blog - hopefully this one will stick. Don't have a real post now though, I have to go to bed. I have to get up bright and early to write my last exam for the semester.
What am I doing this for right now anyway?

Okay I feel weird not doing a real post for the first one. I want to start out properly so that this blog might actually be something. So... here is a picture of Mark Twain in Nikola Tesla's lab.

Apparently they were good friends. I read a Tesla biography one time, and it was pretty cool I guess. Mark Twain was always hanging around with Tesla. Tesla was pretty much the greatest electrician/inventor ever and he was always coming up with cool new stuff. Apparently at the time of his death he had plans for an ultra-death-ray. I don't know if that is true, but one time he made a super-vibrator-platform (I don't know, it probably had some electrical function but there was a platform to stand on and it vibrated) and he said it could be good for giving the body a good old shake-up massage, and Mark Twain stood on it and almost pooped his pants.