Dickens, Pt II

Shocked by the disparaging comments heaped by some readers upon Mr Charles Dickens, I now resolve to attempt, if such a thing be possible, to persuade my loyal readership that Dickens is a writer whose reputation is well-deserved, that his books are worth the time and effort they take to read, that he has relevance to contemporary life, and, at a minimum, that he is funny.  The passage below is from The Pickwick Papers.  It will tie in to another passage, which I plan to post tomorrow, on a similar subject.

CHAPTER XIII

Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of Parties therein; and of the Election of a Member to serve in Parliament for that ancient, loyal, and patriotic Borough

We will frankly acknowledge that, up to the period of our being first immersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eatanswill; we will with equal candour admit that we have in vain searched for proof of the actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick’s, and not presuming to set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we could possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B, without meeting with that of Eatanswill; we have minutely examined every corner of the pocket county maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers, and the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation, for the real name of the place in which his observations were made. We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view, not undeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick’s note–book, we can just trace an entry of the fact, that the places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich coach; but this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough is situated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at once proceed with this history, content with the materials which its characters have provided for us.

It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town—the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues; and the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting, town–hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market–place, the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff inns—there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle in the very church itself.

Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town—the Eatanswill Gazette and the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such leading articles, and such spirited attacks!—‘Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette’—‘That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent’—‘That false and scurrilous print, theIndependent’—‘That vile and slanderous calumniator, the Gazette;’ these, and other spirit–stirring denunciations, were strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the townspeople.

Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world, were upon them; and the Independent imperatively demanded to know, whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the town before.

Day 34

I'll tell you one thing, my two friends doing this post-a-day thing are certainly posting more interesting stuff than I am.  John's just put up a really incisive mini-essay on Ayn Rand and Dez has some fascinating reflections upon animals in space.  Whereas I, this morning, plan to write about a TV show in which men hunt alligators.

It's called Swamp People.  My wife got into it last season.  I think it reminds her of certain folks she knows in Texas (even though it's set in Louisiana).  The show's heroes are professional alligator trappers. They're local boys from small towns who've spent most of their lives in and around the immense swamps that cover most of southern Louisiana.  Some of them have accents so strong it's hard to understand what they're saying.  Many of them are missing prominent teeth.  They have names like Willie and Junior.  And  one month a year (during the 'season') they spend every day out in the swamps looking for 'gators.

The job, as you would imagine, is not exactly safe.   Alligators are not especially happy animals, and they really aren't happy when they have a hook caught in their mouth.  The hunters' goal is to get close enough to the animal to put a bullet through a small, quarter-sized area in the head called the 'kill spot.'  If they miss the kill spot by a few inches, the bullet can ricochet off their skull.  If they miss it by more than a few inches, they can damage the alligator's hide, and lose out on the money they get from selling the animal to people who want it for its skin.  In its essence, the 'hunt' consists of tugging these angry animals high enough out of the water that someone in their boat can get a clean shot at its head.  All the while the alligator is trying to either attack the people in the boat, or pull the person holding the line into the water where, presumably, they will be eaten.

The whole thing is really something to see.  I'm still not totally sure how I feel about it, but it's definitely a spectacle.

And I haven't even talked about the alligator 'relocator' who catches them alive, WITH HIS BARE HANDS, and moves them from one part of the swamp to another.

I think it's on Animal Planet?  Or Nat Geo, I don't know.  Some cable channel.  Worth checking out.

Addendum: Podsnappery

I don't know why, but the following passage just came into my mind.  When I looked it up I was happy to find it was even funnier than I remember it.  It's from Charles Dickens' Our Mutual Friend.

Mr Podsnap was well to do, and stood very high in Mr Podsnap's opinion. Beginning with a good inheritance, he had married a good inheritance, and had thriven exceedingly in the Marine Insurance way, and was quite satisfied. He never could make out why everybody was not quite satisfied, and he felt conscious that he set a brilliant social example in being particularly well satisfied with most things, and, above all other things, with himself.

Thus happily acquainted with his own merit and importance, Mr Podsnap settled that whatever he put behind him he put out of existence. There was a dignified conclusiveness--not to add a grand convenience--in this way of getting rid of disagreeables which had done much towards establishing Mr Podsnap in his lofty place in Mr Podsnap's satisfaction. 'I don't want to know about it; I don't choose to discuss it; I don't admit it!' Mr Podsnap had even acquired a peculiar flourish of his right arm in often clearing the world of its most difficult problems, by sweeping them behind him (and consequently sheer away) with those words and a flushed face. For they affronted him.

Mr Podsnap's world was not a very large world, morally; no, nor even geographically: seeing that although his business was sustained upon commerce with other countries, he considered other countries, with that important reservation, a mistake, and of their manners and customs would conclusively observe, 'Not English!' when, PRESTO! with a flourish of the arm, and a flush of the face, they were swept away. Elsewhere, the world got up at eight, shaved close at a quarter-past, breakfasted at nine, went to the City at ten, came home at half-past five, and dined at seven. Mr Podsnap's notions of the Arts in their integrity might have been stated thus. Literature; large print, respectfully descriptive of getting up at eight, shaving close at a quarter past, breakfasting at nine, going to the City at ten, coming home at half-past five, and dining at seven. Painting and Sculpture; models and portraits representing Professors of getting up at eight, shaving close at a quarter past, breakfasting at nine, going to the City at ten, coming home at half-past five, and dining at seven. Music; a respectable performance (without variations) on stringed and wind instruments, sedately expressive of getting up at eight, shaving close at a quarter past, breakfasting at nine, going to the City at ten, coming home at half-past five, and dining at seven. Nothing else to be permitted to those same vagrants the Arts, on pain of excommunication. Nothing else To Be--anywhere!

As a so eminently respectable man, Mr Podsnap was sensible of its being required of him to take Providence under his protection. Consequently he always knew exactly what Providence meant. Inferior and less respectable men might fall short of that mark, but Mr Podsnap was always up to it. And it was very remarkable (and must have been very comfortable) that what Providence meant, was invariably what Mr Podsnap meant.

These may be said to have been the articles of a faith and school which the present chapter takes the liberty of calling, after its representative man, Podsnappery. They were confined within close bounds, as Mr Podsnap's own head was confined by his shirt- collar; and they were enunciated with a sounding pomp that smacked of the creaking of Mr Podsnap's own boots.

Day 33

Well of course last night I lost all my recent deposit to online poker.  Got dealt rolled up threes in stud hi/lo and jammed all the way.  A guy made a flush on 6th street, and I didn't improve.  But I also played badly, tilted, impatient, and deserved to go broke.  All day my mind was scattered by thoughts of poker and yet again I'm glad to be done with it.

Anyone even vaguely interested in fitness or health should read this article immediately.  Eye opening, intriguing, very well written.  I was in a gym for the first few years I was out here, and giving up in the fall hasn't seemed like such a bad decision.  I do push ups and sit ups still and I jog.  These are activities that are free, and so I like them.  This article though has made me consider maybe buying some weights.  And getting back into sports of some kind--something where you use all the muscles together.

Need to go back to reading.  I started Billy Budd yesterday or the day before, and that looks promising.  I have dozens of things to read lying around.  So why do I want to buy some new books?  Happiness is always just out of hand....

Day 32

First of all, a shout out to my peeps.  Both ASOWBA, and GNBB (aka John and Dez, two old friends from the wars) have decided to also post in their blogs every day over the next thirty days.  I'm looking forward to reading their posts and, ultimately, to hearing what they have to say about the experience of posting every day.  For me, at this point, it's part of the routine.  I'm programmed to come in here after breakfast and write a few hundred words, and so I do.  It's time to make the doughnuts, as it were.

Rolling Stone has a list of their top ten bassists of all time up right now.  It's reader-determined, and for the most part I agree with their selections.  Number one (Entwistle) is a no-brainer, and none of the rest are very controversial.  Except...there's no Chris Squire.  That rankles me.  (Listen to the bassline on "Leave It".  Or anything he did in the 70s, really.  "Close to The Edge."  Come on!  The man's amazing.)  The blurb about Geddy Lee talks about his ability to play bass and keyboard at the same time, and how that alone qualifies him to be up there, but to me, that's again to confuse craft with art.  Yes, Lee is a virtuoso.  No question.  But is the music of Rush any good?  It is not.  Or, it's good in the way of craft.  Well made, technically impeccable, but emotionally and intellectually barren.   It's like arguing that Yngwie Malmsteen is a better guitarist than Eric Clapton.  Or, even Neil Young.  Who would you rather hear play guitar?  I'll choose Young every time.

By the way, that same Rolling Stone has excerpts from Sammy Hagar's upcoming autobiography that are well worth reading, especially if you're interested in Eddie Van Halen at all.  Kind of shocking what a raging alcoholic tool he was.

Back to work today.  The new recipe I tried last night (spicy grilled shrimp) turned out incredibly.  If more of the recipes from that site go as well I'll post a link.  April 15th looms.  At this point it's likely my wife will get her money, but it's not a done deal.  We'll see.

By the way, thanks to my friend Bryan for recommending I check out the show "Top Gear."  From the clips I'd seen, I'd thought the show was just wonky car stuff for people who care about high end Ferraris.  And it is that, sort of.  But what I didn't know is that it's incredibly funny.  It's British and it's witty, and it's smart, to the point where it actually has made me kind of interested in high-end sports cars--a subject I have never cared about at all.  Anyway, I highly recommend it, especially for fans of British humor.

Day 31

A late post today, what with the errands and radical change in schedule...

Dentist was fine; my old annoying guy has been replaced by a younger couple.  The woman was intense but in a good way; she obviously takes teeth very seriously.  First time I've ever been to a dentist where, after they XRay you, the XRays appear on a monitor right in front of you.  All new digital technology, she exclaimed, as proud as if she had invented it herself.  Discussing my slight bone loss (due to grinding, she believes) she said that none of it was "tragic."  Meaning, I guess, it was mostly all okay.  I have some chips which will require slight filling type work for which I go back in a week.

Then my tutoring didn't show, which leaves me the option to bill them or not.  It's a long time student who I like and who's never done this before, so I probably won't bill her.  But it's aggravating.  I left the dentist early to be there; if I hadn't, I could have gotten it all done in one day.  Grumble grumble.

My day off from writing I spent playing relaxed low stakes poker.  I didn't really care about winning, and so of course I won.  I've self excluded myself from the site to make sure I don't go back, and waste my life playing cards.  You don't want to waste your life, as Adam Duritz sings.  No, you're right, Adam.  I don't.

That was such a great album.

In the dentist's office, I got to hear the radio.  I never ever listen to the radio.  Result is that songs that most mortals are tired to death of now seem newish and available again.  "In Your Eyes," e.g.  There's a song no one ever wants to hear played again, even though we all loved it when it came out.  Well, today, it was almost like it had just come out again.  I luxuriated in Peter Gabriel's voice, as an angry weasel teeth cleaning device was jabbed in and out of my mouth.

I found a new recipe site online (Amanda Hesser's...I'll find a link another time) which has yielded some exciting new options.  Trying one out tonight.  It requires me first to find a live porcupine.  That may take some time.  Then I have to brine it (the only way to really extract the flavor from a porcupine, as all true gourmands know).  Then, the cumin.

Should be good!

Day 30

Last day of the first 30.  Yesterday I was as mentally burned out as I've been in a while.  Was lucky to be able to work for an hour.  Tomorrow I take the day off, for the dentist and then tutoring.  That should be thrilling.

The basketball game last night (UConn/Butler) was as unenjoyable to watch as any I can recall.  To be expected when one team shoots 18% for the game.  I cannot stand Jim Calhoun and would have loved to see him lose.  Oh well.  Watching and caring about college basketball at all is pretty much the moral equivalent of, say, going to an R Kelly concert.  You can tell yourself it's just about the music, but the fact is that you're putting money in the pocket of very sketchy person.  Even in the world of bigtime college sports, basketball stands out for its shadiness.  I tend to think Div I players should be paid, or at least allowed to keep some percentage of their school's revenues.  The face saving lie that they're there for an education is one no one believes any more.

Well that's a huge overstatement, but that's okay.  I'm grouchy this morning!

Read Herodotus for a while last night, who's pretty fun, in the end.  Then, totally mind dead, I re-entered the dark world of online poker, something I've sworn not to do until I finish the play.  I only played for two hours, (stud hi/lo) and won a couple of hundred dollars.  If I can just play once a week, as a means of relaxation, it should be okay.  (The first one is always free...)

All right, I'll try to regain some imaginative powers in the next day or two.  The blog entries are definitely getting worse....

Day 29

One more day till 30.  I've now committed to 60 days, however, since my friend John has offered to match me, for the next 30 days.  Dez?  Might you consider joining in?  I for one would be fascinated to learn what the day to day life of a high school history teacher is like.  Really.  Consider it.

* * *

Twice a month we have a woman come to clean our house.  When she does, I take the Bink to a kennel to be boarded.  (He does not do well with strangers in the house).  Usually the drive to the kennel (the Bink contained inside a quivering black duffel bag) is one of whimpering and self-pity.  Today, however, he was  quiet.  He doesn't seem to dread being boarded any more, which is a minor triumph.  Unfortunately, I also learned today that our kennel might have to close in May.  The landlord wants to raise the rent.  That would not be good.  It's taken us three years to accustom him to this place.  God only knows how arduous the process of finding a new place will be.  And, we're planning a 10 day vacation in June.  Argh.

Two new nicknames for the Bink: Wigwam and Oingo Boingo.

* * *

I usually take a break from writing one day out of every seven.  The last two weeks, though, I've gone straight through, without a single break, and right now my mind is tired.  I don't think what I'm reading right now helps.  I'm not putting anything good inside my brain, and so nothing good's coming out.  (Another art v. craft distinction: the former generates new ideas.  The latter does not.)  So, abandoning Ballard and Wolfe for a while, I'm going back over some old favorites.  This morning I read a few stories by Chekhov.  One that particularly stood out was "At Home."  It's about a lawyer who comes home to learn his seven-year old son has been caught smoking.  Nothing much happens; he tries to explain to him why smoking is 'wrong' and then, feeling that that's failed, tells him a strongly moralistic fairy tale about a king whose only son began smoking and consequently died of consumption.  The boy finally registers that he shouldn't smoke, and the father stays up, after the son goes to sleep, regretting that he's told such a sermonizing story, and pondering the nature of familial love.  It's quiet and unadorned and strangely powerful.

Day 28

Woke from dream in which a forceful and humorless blonde woman was testing something about my brain at a high school.  A series of questions followed by forcing me to hook up and then play a video game.  The game involved shooting large futuristic tanks.  Then a day later the woman came back and made me do it all again.  (Two of the questions were 1. what is the name for a group of cougars?  2. what is the name for a group of koi.  I now need to look and see if those animals even have group names).  Finally, during 2nd test, I snapped.  It was when she asked me to hook up the game console again.  There were dozens of grey wires and I was wearing some kind of goggles over my glasses that kept causing them to dig into my brow.  I told her I wouldn't take the test, I wanted to know where she was from, and why I hadn't I gotten the results from my first test.  Then I told her I was smarter than she was.  Then I asked to see her naked.

Then I woke up.  Conrad says there is nothing less interesting than hearing other people's dreams.  Well, everyone says that.  But they sort of infect your day, and since I just woke up that's what's in my head.

It's like smoke from some building that you stayed in at night; the rest of the day that smoke smell is in your hair and shirt and clothes.

She also defined a 'koi' for me when she asked me the koi question.  That made me very angry.  I told her that I wasn't a moron; I knew what a koi was.  Although in high school I wonder if I did.

I wonder if this relates to the large amount of spicy salsa I ate last night?

* * *

A new show on a new channel (Current is the channel): Hooked on Danger.  It's about tuna fisherman in Australia and is actually pretty entertaining.  My lecture series on the canon is making me increasingly grouchy.  But I did make a dentist appointment, despite my intense desire not to.  The poison spore and all that.  Going out to dinner tonight with wife.  We probably both need some time to decompress.

Day 27

Wife has had a long and brutal work week.  Now that it's over, and Saturday's here, she's going to unwind.  Right now she's sitting on the couch watching Law and Order SVU, a show centering around rape, murder, and abduction.  Where is the relaxation factor?   I guess it has to do in part with the characters of the detectives.  And then, on a larger level, justice is usually done.  Order is maintained.  That's profoundly comforting, to watch the bad guys repeatedly caught through the dogged and intelligent detective work of the police.  We all want to believe that that is the world we live in.

The end of the 30 days is approaching and I am considering whether to keep going or to stop.  Posting every day has a lot of rewards (for me, don't know about the readers).  What is hard about writing is writing badly.  (This is not my idea; I got it from Dean Young).  If every time we sat down we produced A-level prose, came up with wondrous ideas, understood our characters deeply, there'd be nothing unpleasant about it.  Most of the time this doesn't happen.  You produce dross.  It's junk, and you know it's junk as you write it, but you have to keep going because that's the only way to get beyond the junk, to hope to turn it into not-junk.  (THAT is the hardest part about writing.  Faith.  Faith that you'll get from junk to not-junk.)

The thing this journal project seems to have done is to given me more of a sense of permission to write junk.  I deliberately write these quickly; I don't edit and I don't revise.  I'm not working towards producing high level prose, or even interesting prose.  I'm just trying to get in the habit of giving myself permission to think in words.  The fact that this is a semi-public setting is relevant only in that it forces me to keep doing it; it holds me to my promise (writing in a private journal is something that's too easy to stop doing).  Because it is being read by others, I omit certain aspects of my life (my frequent sex trips to Thailand, the cocaine binges, the illicit llamass) but otherwise, it's just what it's in my head.

And I think that--though I can't be sure--overall it's been useful.  The last month of 'real' writing, on my play, seems to have been going slightly better than normal.  I can't be sure if that is because of this daily journal routine, but it might be.  (I also have a self-imposed deadline for a draft of the play, of April 15th.  If I don't get it done by then I have to give my wife a shopping spree of stuff I can't use.  Not that that's such an onerous punishment, but still.  That's money I could spend on llamas!)  And given that, I think it's something I should continue.

Though I am kind of running out of things to say.  Well, I guess I can just go back to talking about movies. (Dazed and Confused was on TV last night.  What a masterpiece!)

* * *

Something not as satisfying about reading a book of short stories, as opposed to a novel.  It's so abrupt; you start, you stop, that's it.  You don't sink into a world.  And the Wolfe and Ballard stories are even more abrupt than the usual naturalistic fiction you read in magazines.  Maybe I'll get some novels to go with them.  No, no.  Can't buy more books.  I have too much unfinished already.

Basketball today!  And takeout.  Semi-relaxation.  Though I'm working till 4, I vow.

Day 26

Marco work on large scale structural elements continued.  The bridge between the end and beginning is almost done, save one gap near the end of Act III.  How much to let the micro dictate the macro and how much to let the macro dictate the micro?  I don't know.

Watched Port Of Shadows last night, a french film by Marcel Carne.  Nowhere close to as good as Children of Paradise, of course, but the acting of Jean Gabin, as the shadowy, tormented deserter was a highlight.  Something interesting: both this movie and the last French film I watched (Le Trou) featured scenes in which somebody beat the living hell out of someone else.  By which I mean they administered a beating and afterwards, the person they'd beat acted mentally and physically broken.  (In Shadows, the character who's been beaten starts to cry as soon as it's over and is so upset he can't talk).   But in both films the 'beating' administered is nothing more than a few sharp slaps to the face!  (The slaps are the kind that go front of hand/back of hand/front of hand--like something you'd see in a cartoon.)  And what I wonder is if the actors at the time (and directors) knew how laughably unthreatening these supposed 'thrashings' appeared on screen?  Did they seem ferocious at the time or did they always seem ridiculous?  Because they definitely look ridiculous now.  And they're made even funnier when the people receiving them act (as they do in both films) like they're being worked on by professional torturers.

Muffin mix arrived in the mail (I can't find it around here) so I'm off to buy blueberries.

Wow that was an unmacho sentence.

Started struggling with Marianne Moore yesterday.  A poet I've never gotten much out of.  I've decided it's time to try again.  So far, one or two poems have gotten through to me.  We'll see.