Tsunamic Climax in Korean Novel

Chatting at a well at night. Painting by Hyewon, circa 1805 (late Joseon period). Photo: [Public Domain] via Wikimedia.

No One Writes Back by Eun-Jin Jang

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This novel was recommended to me by a friend (who is of Korean descent), after discussing my enjoyment of Han Kang's The Vegetarian. The Library of Korean Literature brings modern Korean novels to an English-reading audience (much like the Japan Library). This novel was translated by Jung Yewon.

The protagonist reminds me of the main character in The Rosie Project, but this is a more serious work. The paragraphs are numbered, and I found the structure to be unusual.

I recall in high school English how we would map the trajectory of a novel's plot, from the build up to the climax and the anti-climax. This novel builds up slowly, and I recall thinking it wasn't very good. The basic story line is a seemingly autistic man in his thirties who has broken up with his girlfriend, quit his job as a postman, and travels randomly from town to town with his late grandfather's seeing-eye dog who is old and blind. 

As he meets people on his journey, the protagonist asks them for their address, he then assigns them a number (he is much better at numbers than names), and sends them a letter during his journey. He meets a woman he wishes to be rid of but he helps her sell her novels on the various subways and they stay in motels as they both travel around. He will end his journey when one of his travelling numbers writes back.

After a while, this becomes a bit tedious, but interesting in that one has to know where it is going. The lead-up to the climax is long and drawn out and in the last few pages, the climax brings a tsunami of emotion that still haunts me. I was stricken with sadness, grief, bliss (in the religious sense), and wonder.

Had I given up on the novel, I would have missed out on a wonderful story, the likes of which I have never read in Anglo literature.

I am pleased that organisations such as Japan Library and the Korean Library of Literature are bringing contemporary works from these countries to English readers. There is a long list of other contemporary Korean novels that I am sure are worth a look.

It is not so much that there is much difference in the lives of Korean towns (indeed, I often thought of similar experiences in places like Hong Kong), but the way the story unfolds. It edges towards suggestive at times, but is never lewd, it is close to grunge but not in a dark, Bukowskian (or even Carverian) way, it touches on poverty, but you never feel the characters lack anything.

The more I think about it, the lead up to the climax is all middle ground. There are no real humps or bumps, it just flows along like a three-year long journey. But when something brings the journey to an end, all is revealed in a matter of pages. 

It is like being lulled into a false sense of security that is suddenly pulled out from under you. Like a flash flood or an unexpected tsunami. This is a powerful story, and the second contemporary Korean novel I have read. There is much to be gained from reading outside of the Anglo-European tradition, and from what I have read so far, Korean literature is fast becoming a new favourite genre for me.

Raymond Carver's Grunge Iceberg

Raymond Carver. Photo by Anthony Easton [CC BY 2.0] via Flickr.

Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? by Raymond Carver

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Reading this collection of short stories had me thinking of two other authors: Hemingway, for his iceberg principle; and Bukowski, for his grunginess. Not like Kerouac, for there is a definite late 1960s/early 1970s feel to the characters and situations, and not quite as grungy as Bukowski, but certainly Hemingway-esque in the way the story doesn't leave you for some time after reading. I think, too, that Carver's work does to the imagination what Hemingway's iceberg principle does, but on steroids.

Hemingway left enough for the imagination, and at times I would read commentary on his work and discover something I had missed. But with Carver, I have read commentaries that envision his stories as they are written. In many, I found my imagination unresolved, wondering what happened next, what was meant, but delightfully bewildered all the same.

I knew little about Carver and chose the book because I like the Vintage Classics series. After reading, I went to The Paris Review and the Poetry Foundation to see what else I could learn about Carver. From his late interviews, he appears rather Stoic (as opposed to stoic) in his philosophy, and humble in that he worked for most of his life and only achieved fame much later.

I was also impressed by his gratitude towards his partner, fellow poet Tess Gallagher, who would read and provide feedback on Carver's work after the fourth draft. Gallagher is now in her mid-70s and has a book of poetry to be released in 2019.

I recall Scott Fitzgerald commenting that nobody wanted to read about poor people, but Carver writes about lower-middle class people who end up realising that they won't ever really get ahead. I could feel the grunge from my 1970s childhood in his stories, even though geographically I was on the other side of the world and so young.

What I like about Carver's work is that it takes me back to a time that is somewhat familiar, and much harder to glorify. Conversely, Hemingway's era was so long ago that it is all new. Carver's era has a touch of sentimentality (for me), but his subjects are such that there is less nostalgia, more "things are different now yet somehow the same".

Carver's subjects are not rags to riches or riches to rags stories; they are people striving to be more than they are and then becoming bankrupt or divorced or alcoholic or just downright strange as they do what they do. There is no real political statement in his work, rather a social commentary, stemming from his own upbringing.

These are wonderful stories and I enjoyed the way Carver makes my imagination work, even to the point of frustration. I also like that there is no way to find out what he really meant - he meant for the reader to reach their own conclusion.

This work would have made my day in high school English. Whenever we were asked what the author meant in a particular work, I would become frustrated with the teacher telling us and say something like "How are we supposed to know that. Did you ask them?" I've heard this same rot from my students! 

But there appears to be an absence of hidden meaning and morality in Carver's work. In his own words, literature is "superior amusement", and maybe with a hint of spirituality. I found the grunginess of the stories frighteningly familiar, as if all of my embarrassing failures in life had been recorded and put into a collection of short stories.

That, I believe is what Carver does best. He captures the lives of ordinary battlers and uses his experiences and the stories he has heard from others as the baseline for a work of fiction, fiction that is true enough to be real but fictional enough not to be true.

If ever there was a genre that combined Hemingway's and Bukowski's styles, then this is it. Apparently, Carver didn't like his style being referred to as "minimalist". I wonder how he would feel about "grunge iceberg"?

Alexander's Afghan Campaign: Learning History from Fiction

The marriage of Alexander the Great with Roxana of Bactria (in 327BCE), painting circa 1670-1733 by Gerard Hoet (1648-1733). Photo: [CC0] via Wikimedia.

The Afghan Campaign by Steven Pressfield

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Steven Pressfield is one of my most favourite contemporary authors of fiction. I have read Gates of Fire and Tides of War and learnt much about history as a consequence.

The Afghan Campaign is a gripping read and it doesn't end how one might want it to. I respect the ending more so than if it had been Disneyfied (even though I secretly hoped it would). 

Pressfield does not offer a political commentary on the Afghan campaign, but, as in his other works of historical fiction, places a fictional individual in the midst of history's great people (in this case, Alexander III of Macedon). The format works well and gives enough creative licence to enable a ripping story to emerge from a background of recorded history.

Pressfield's historical research is admirable. I read Gates of Fire before I began writing personal notes about every book I read. But before reading Tides of War, I finished Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War. This meant that  I was able to be reminded of key events covered by Thucydides in Pressfield's account of Athens' Sicilian Campaign.

While I have not done so yet, I intend to read Robin Lane Fox's Alexander the Great soon to see how this novel stacks up. But I don't think it matters.

Pressfield is certainly brilliant, and I must admit to liking the way he has worked hard to overcome his own demons. He gives me hope that I can do the same.

I also like that Pressfield is a bit of an underdog. His work is brilliant - I enjoy his work more than Wilbur Smith's (who has also written the odd historical novel or two). But there is something more philosophical about Pressfield that grabs my attention. On his website, he has this to say:

We can’t control the level of talent we’ve been given. We have no control over the nature of our gift. What we can control is our self-motivation, our self-discipline, our self-validation, and our self-reinforcement.

In 2012, Pressfield started his own publishing house, Black Irish Books, with his agent, Shawn Coyne. I have been critical of literary entrepreneurs in the past, but Pressfield is no "spring chicken", and claims to have written for 27 years before anything he wrote was published. This counters Einstein's view that:

A person who has not made his great contribution to science before the age of 30 will never do so.

Anything that goes against Einstein's view  is a winner for me. Although some suggest Einstein didn't quite mean it this way, I have heard so many others use Einstein's words (without acknowledging him) and even judgements about people based on their age, that Pressfield's example gives me some comfort. (Some studies suggest that the age peak is now much older because one couldn't even catch up with the existing literature by age 30, let alone discover new knowledge.)

So this book has it all: a gripping story from an author with a back story that defies the odds. And it is based on historical research that provides an increase in historical knowledge as a side effect. What more could one want in a novel?

Logocentrism and Deconstruction: What's the Différance?

Jacques Derrida, painted portrait. Photo: thierry ehrmann [CC BY 2.0] via Flickr.

Introducing Derrida by Jeff Collins

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I have a copy of Jacques Derrida's Writing and Difference sitting on my bookshelf waiting for me to get to it. I also had this introductory text laying around. I am glad I went for the easy option first, as this text saved me from learning the hard way. I am not ready for Derrida - I have to start with Hegel and work my way through to Heidegger first.

I am not averse to reading introductory texts, but this one is a little different, in that it is more like a comic book. Or, indeed, it is very similar to the style Alain de Botton has adopted for The School of Life (but this book predates the YouTube series).

But the book is not too basic. Even after reading this introductory text, I am little the wiser.

I see Derrida's idea of "deconstruction" as an attempt to critique logo-centrism, where Western philosophy tends to privilege one thing over another in a binary either/or paradigm. For example, speech tends to be privileged over writing; philosophy over literature, men over women (traditionally), and so on.

Deconstruction is helpfully explained using the example of a zombie. Zombies are neither dead nor alive - their status is "undecidable" (see also the pharmakon, p. 73):

To embrace the curious logic of this writing, we have to be willing to sign up to it, to subscribe to it the task it takes on: the creation of destabilizing movements in metaphysical thinking.

Had I set out to read Writing and Difference, I would have been lost in Derrida's writing, which this text suggests can be "puzzling, infuriating, and exasperating"(p. 73). It would be better to tackle his three major works on "structuralism and phenomenology" in order: Speech and Phenomena, Writing and Difference, then Of Grammatology.

However, the reading list at the end of the text sets out a reading plan to ease into Derrida's work gradually, beginning with Peggy Kamuf's Derrida Reader: Between the Lines. Sound advice.

It would seem that I must also go right back to Plato for a closer reading of his work so I can engage with Derrida's Plato's Pharmacy.

What all this means is that I am completely out of my depth! Whereas with Albert Camus and even Nietzsche I was able to struggle through, with Derrida I will have to tackle post-modernism (Derrida didn't necessarily think of his work as "post-modern"). I suppose it is time.

This text was a good place to start. I also found the School of Life's video (below) useful. I must admit to being pleased to find an area of my knowledge that is so completely lacking as to require considerable thought - especially in approaching Derrida. At the same time, the task is quite daunting and it may have to wait until some time later next year if I am to do it any justice.

Learning About Values from a Potty Mouth

Echo and Narcissus, 1903, by John William Waterhouse (1849–1917) [Public Domain] via Wikimedia.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life by Mark Manson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

As the end of the year approaches and I am on track to achieve my reading goals, I have been reading some pop psychology books. I do like Mark Manson's work, even though its crassness makes it somewhat less scholarly than most of the books I have read thus far.

Manson writes how I sometimes speak, so I am not taking the moral high ground here, but it does mean that I tend to take his content less seriously. As I approach 50 I can reflect on my own experiences from my twenties and early thirties, and I must say I am impressed by the depth of reading of the likes of Mark Manson, Ryan Holiday, and Paul Colaianni and their ability to explain how they think about values, virtues, and finding the logic to guide their daily practice and actions.

But I have some concerns about what I call "literary entrepreneurship", and whether my time would be better spent on the classics.

I have recently been thinking about the idea of "endlessness". During my long service leave last year, I experienced a sense of endlessness where there were no deadlines (at least until the next semester of teaching began) and I could do whatever I wanted each day. I chose to journal, read, and blog, and this enabled me to establish a daily routine which I maintain to this day. I started with Homer, and I have been slowly working through the great books and works by the likes of Camus, Calvino,  and Nietzsche. I often get nervous about wasting time on contemporary books when I have so much to learn from the past.

Because of my own reading program, Manson's examples from literature were all familiar, including Bukowski, Buddha, Tina Gilbertson's idea of "constructive wallowing", the Milgram experiment, and so on. But I wonder whether these pop psychology books (for want of a better term) have sufficient depth?

Many of the self-improvement books I have read refer to historical and personal examples, and there is much to learn from how others think about the same problems I face. For example, Manson's approach to determining one's values fits well with what I gained from my reading of Paul Colaianni and Tina Gilbertson.

But I also see how these books are commercial products with a particular aim in mind. I often get the feeling that the authors are reading as a form of "mining" for information, much like the approach I might take when writing an academic paper (sans the referencing). 

From my own experience, a complete, cover-to-cover, slow reading of each work brings to light much which is lost through simply mining the content. So I wonder how much value I gain from reading Manson, compared to, say, reading Benjamin Franklin? (Of course, Franklin had his own financial reasons for lecturing and writing.) But when I read Franklin, for example, there was much that escaped me in the detail, and further reading revealed much of what I could not gain from the original text.

When I reflect on my reading of the likes of Manson, I often wonder how much I can gain from such literary entrepreneurs. Not that I don't like the book, but I wonder if I gain as much from this book as I might if I had prioritised my reading of Plato's The Laws, for example. 

So when I sum up the lessons learnt from Manson, much of these are in the reiteration of things I already know: if in doubt, act (p. 157); achieving meaning in one's life requires the rejection of alternatives (p. 165); excess is not good for me (p. 165); but establishing boundaries is good for me (p. 174).

One part I enjoyed is where Manson discusses the idea of endless values (p. 151) and mentions the "honest expression" of Pablo Picasso. The idea of honest expression is to provide a metric (p. 74), or a way to measure the implementation of one's values, in a way that does not "end'. For example, if one wanted to achieve "freedom" through work, once a job that provided such "freedom" had been achieved, then there is a sense that the value is "accomplished" and there is no sense of motivation. An "endless" value such as honest expression  is something that can be achieved repeatedly - it never ends.

However, as I know for a fact that I don't know everything, I did learn some key lessons about defining personal values and better ways to measure (metrics) these values; the paradox of choice (and how this promises the good life, but leads to inconsistency and confusion); and a better relationship with the idea of death (Quoting Mark Twain, p. 202):

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.

I also have a better understanding of "unconscious resistance", which often gets in the way of me doing things I believe I actually want to do.

My "struggle" (see "suffering" p. 208) with my reading is best summed up by Harold Bloom (How to Read and Why, p. 21):

It matters, if individuals are to retain any capacity to form their own judgments and opinions, that they continue to read for themselves. How they read, well or badly, and what they read, cannot depend wholly upon themselves, but why they read must be for and in their own interest... but eventually you will read against the clock... One of the uses of reading is to prepare ourselves for change, and the final change is universal.

When I read the work of the present generation of literary entrepreneurs, I really feel that clock ticking. But after reading Manson, and despite my "unconscious resistance",  I think there is some value in reading about how others think about philosophy, and then applying that approach to my own thinking. Even if it is an exercise in thinking, rather than a definite plan for action.

Fear of Death is Overrated

Kunstmuseum Basel - The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel the Elder - detail. Photo by Carnival.com Studios [CC BY 2.0] via Flickr

The Overwhelmed Brain: Personal Growth for Critical Thinkers by Paul Colaianni

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I received this book as a birthday gift from my sister earlier this year. It is by the host of the podcast The Overwhelmed Brain. It is not a book I would have picked, but I found it immensely useful. 

In the first section, Colaianni outlines a way to work out one's values. This is something I have visited time and again but have not had much success with over the years. Not so much that I don't know what I value, but how to think about what I value and then how to use these values as decision points.

Sure, I have done this strategically for military and business operations, but when it comes to myself, there is so much mental chatter and confusing and (apparently) conflicting values that it is difficult to develop little more than ideas about values, rather than specific tools for making decisions.

Colaianni's work begins with the general career-oriented approach but then "drills down" into relationships.

Time and again I find I am task-focused, and although an extrovert and annoyingly talkative at times, I am finding it increasingly difficult to establish meaningful relationships. I often get so caught up in my own stuff that I lose focus on important relationships.

Although there are some parts I found a bit "hokey", the fact that Colaianni uses the word "hokey" made me take note. For example, when I teach leadership classes, I often tell my students that some of the things they are learning tend to be a bit "hokey", but they are worth trying as a means of self-analysis and self-examination.

The book has a number of exercises to complete. These are mostly self-reflection activities, but I found these useful. An interesting theme that emerges is that being vulnerable and exposing one's vulnerability is a good thing. It is interesting that the other book I received from my sister was Mark Manson's The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, and Manson begins with a similar theme, though less hokey and more in your face.

The other lesson I take away from Colaianni is that all fear can be reduced to a fear of death. To over-simplify, death is inevitable, so fearing death is pretty silly. If all other fears can be reduced to a fear of death, then these fears are therefore silly, too!

I took my time reading the first part of this book and waited until I was in the right mood to attempt the values exercise. This is one of the most useful I have tried, and I learnt much about myself. I only used it to look at values in my work, and the next step will be to undertake the exercise in other areas of my life.

Colaianni is honest and exposes his vulnerability in the way he outlines his life experiences and how he has come to terms with his nature. Much like Mahatma Gandhi's maxim (apparently derived rather than spoken word for word as per the bumper sticker), Colaianni argues that, rather than trying to heal others, one should heal oneself. The many gems in this book are worth the hokeyness.

Lessons from the Dalai Lama: Practise the Logic

Potala Palace, Lhasa, Tibet. Photo: Antoine Taveneaux [CC BY-SA 3.0] via Wikimedia.

How To Practise: The Way to a Meaningful Life by Dalai Lama XIV

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It was with some trepidation that I thought I might adapt some of the Dalai Lama's ideas about "practice" to my own daily routine. I find the Dalai Lama to be more than charismatic; there is something about him that permeates the television. I was rather pleased when I read (p. 223):

Though my own knowledge is limited and my experience is also very poor, I have tried my best to help you understand the full breadth of the Buddha's teaching. Please implement whatever in these pages appears to be helpful. If you follow another religion, please adopt whatever might assist you. If you do not think it would be helpful, just leave it alone.

So, I have decided to adopt some things, and to leave others alone.

Things to keep:

I am impressed by the extent that Stoicism mirrors Buddhism in terms of logic and practice. I wonder to what extent Zeno of Cition (the founder of Stoicism) was influenced by Buddhist thought? Buddhism had reached the Seleucid Empire, and Zeno was apparently of Phoenician decent, so it is quite possible. 

According to Leesa Davis and Matthew Sharpe of Deakin University, it is not uncommon to see parallels between Stoicism and Buddhism, but there is not much in Western academic literature about it. I suspect this is because the boastfulness of "Western" thought would crumble once facts overcome pride. But I digress.

First, the "practice"of Buddhism is about changing ourselves (p. 9):

Individually we have to work to change the basic perspectives on which our feelings depend. We can only do so through training, by engaging in practice with the aim of gradually reorienting the way we perceive ourselves and others.

For the Stoics, this is based on the logic of what we can and cannot control (see Epictetus' Enchiridion), and then managing our impressions (or how we judge external events). Marcus Aurelius, often referred to as a "cosmopolitan", extended this to how we treat and respond to other people, reflected by the Dalai Lama, thus (p. 10):

The essential objective of daily practice is to cultivate an attitude of compassion and calm - a state of mind particularly crucial in human society today for its power to yield true harmony among nations, races, and people from diverse religious, political, and economic systems.

Second, the Dalai Lama confirms my approach to daily reflection, echoing Benjamin Franklin's Book of Virtues (p. 40):

Examine your motivation as often as you can. Even before getting out of bed in the morning, establish a nonviolent, nonabusive outlook for your day. At night examine what you did during the day.

The idea of examining my motivations is new to me, in that I rarely do this deliberately and certainly not every day.  Yet the idea of reinforcing the logic of the philosophy/religion is key. In my practice of Stoic philosophy over the past two years, I have found that if I do not constantly return to the logic, I act unconsciously, thus the maxim on my desk reads "avoid unconscious reaction, find the logic, create good habits".

The Dalai Lama says something similar, echoing Socrates (p. 38):

It is important to diminish undisciplined states of mind, but it is even more important to  meet adversity with a positive attitude.

I find here some divergence from Stoic practice. Arguably, this highlights some of the weaknesses of the Stoic idea of the "common good". The Dalai Lama is more utilitarian in his outlook (p. 39):

...ingesting [others'] negatives is not much of a problem for me, but it lessens their problems. I do this with such strong feeling that if later in the day in my office I hear of their atrocities, although one part of my mind is a little irritated and angry, the main part is still under the influence of the morning practice; the intensity of the hatred is reduced to where it is groundless.

Moreover, he sees hope as important, whereas the Stoics would see hope and fear as want and worry; things to be abandoned as beyond our control and therefore not worth pursuing. But for the Dalai Lama (p. 39):

Under no circumstances should you lose hope. Hopelessness is a real cause of failure. Be calm, even when the external environment is confused or complicated; it will have little effect if your mind is at peace.

Both Buddhism and Stoicism agree that anger is useless. This quote from the Dalai Lama could equally apply to the Stoics (p. 41):

Analyze your life closely. If you do, you will eventually find it difficult to misuse your life by becoming an automaton or by seeking money as the path to happiness.

Third, the idea of choosing how we react to external events lends some credence to the idea that, with practice, we can control how we react to our emotions, and not encourage emotions that are not useful (or at least prevent useless emotions based on our misjudged perceptions) (p. 42):

Regularly evaluate the possible negative and positive effects of feelings such as lust, anger, jealousy, and hatred. When it becomes obvious that their effects are very harmful, continue your analysis. Gradually your conviction will strengthen. Repeated reflection on the disadvantages of anger, for example, will cause you to realize that anger is senseless. This decision will cause your anger to diminish gradually.

Here is confirmation of the idea of finding the logic, and for me, it necessitates what religious and philosophical practice has preached for centuries. 

The key point is that once we have found the logic, when we can believe that the logic is true, there is no switch that enables a rational re-alignment of our behaviours from then on. The belief in the logic has to be reinforced, over and over again, through daily practice, so that we achieve what Paul Colaianni in The Overwhelmed Brain says is "congruence" (p. 29):

...aligning your intentions with your behavior (congruence).

This is no easy task and it requires reflection (morning and night at a minimum), judgement (of ourselves, not others),  and practice (the doing). But unless we can recall the logic (memorise it) and believe in the logic (in effect, remembering the logic and remembering to believe in it), then congruence readily remains aloof.

Things to consider:

The idea of "the middle way" was interesting, and echoes to some extent Aristotle's idea of the "golden mean" of virtue. But that is a rather flaky comparison. For example, the Dalai Lama writes of three categories of non-virtues (physical, verbal, and mental), and that virtues are the opposite of non-virtues. The non-virtues are:

• Physical: Killing, stealing, and sexual misconduct.
• Verbal: Lying, divisive talk, harsh speech, and senseless chatter.
• Mental: Covetousness, harmful intent, and wrong views.

But the idea of the "middle way" is more about a sense of logic. This is difficult to achieve and explain, but it is basically a process of being (p. 169): 

...pulled from one side to the other... [between] how phenomena arise in dependence on causes and conditions... [and how] persons and things appear to be so solidly existent, to exist in their own right, to exist inherently... the true middle way takes time to find.

Things to leave alone:

Of course, I have my own religious beliefs, so the religious practices of Sutra and Tantra are not for me. Not that it wasn't useful learning about Buddhist religious practice, and the Dalai Lama did this with such humour, at one point I burst out laughing (p. 124):

A yogi's meditation transforms [sex, delicious meat and drink, even human excrement and urine] into real ambrosia. For people like us, however, this is beyond our reach. As long as you cannot transform piss and shit, these other things should not be done!

Generally, the Dalai Lama suggests that a Buddha has no use for alcohol, drugs, or sexual intercourse (p. 195). There are many parallels between various religions, and the Dalai Lama does not shy away from speaking at or to other religions.

Reflections:

One thing I found interesting counters a critique by a Salvation Army preacher I once heard. He said that the Buddhist idea of meditating on nothing was dangerous, as the emptiness enabled the devil to enter. But the Dalai Lama says that a Christian could focus on Jesus. The idea of nothingness and emptiness are not the same, and that preacher knew enough to be dangerous.

The Dalai Lama speaks of ignorance thus (p. 44):

...ignorance is not just lack of knowledge but a consciousness that imagines the exact opposite of the truth; it misapprehends what is actually so. There are many levels of misperception, as in failing to understand what to adopt in practice and what to discard in daily behavior.

The biggest lesson for me is the importance of daily practice, especially as a way to cement a belief.  Religions and religious practice make sense in this regard. I don't mean that one should adopt a belief and force it upon oneself (or, indeed, others!). Rather, if there is a logic that one agrees with, then one must believe that logic.

The point is that unless we can turn to our logic in assessing events which we cannot control (in the Stoic sense), then how can we expect to behave rationally? If I have learnt anything from this journey into Buddhist theology and practice, logic and rational thinking rely on belief. But this is an examined belief, not one given to us, and it must be practised.

What I like most about the Dalai Lama is that he invited me to do so with this book and I am all the richer for it. And wouldn't it be wonderful if Stoicism has a direct link to Buddhism? The East-West divide perpetuated by ignoramuses would come crashing down in an instant!

Exploring Cultural References in "Mad Men"

Mad Men: Pete Campbell, Don Draper, and Roger Sterling. Photo: MCC Current [CC BY-SA 2.0] via Flickr.

The Ultimate Guide to Mad Men: The Guardian Companion to the Slickest Show on Television by Will Dean

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Recent period-drama television series closely resemble soap operas but with a twist: there is much to learn from deliberate literary, cultural, and historical references. 

I first became aware of Mad Men while reading a post on The Art of Manliness about Don Draper's haircut. Much has been written about the series on respected media websites, including the Wall Street Journal, The Conversation, and The Guardian. (Another of my favourite period-dramas, Downton Abbey, has a similar following in terms of literary, cultural and historical references.) 

I purchased this book to delve deeper into some of the cultural references appearing in the series. I have been pleasantly surprised by some of the more obvious references, such as Frank O'Hara's Meditations in an Emergency, Palisades Amusement Park, the story of Park Avenue Armory, Penn Station, and other historical sites. The New York Public Library has also compiled a Mad Men reading list and a series of 1960's fashion illustrations. 

What I didn't know was that most of this book is available on The Guardian's website. The book itself is formulaic, and only covers the first three seasons. Aside from some interesting essays on the various sociological aspects of the show, the general format is a description of each episode, commentary on the social and cultural references, and comments by a number of the participants on the original blog. 

It wasn't riveting stuff, and at times I felt that almost anyone with the right institutional backing could produce such an easy (lazy?) book. Having said that, I discovered much that I had missed on my several viewings of the series. 

Like Downton Abbey, so much of the background research that went into writing the drama is far from self-evident, and there is much to be gained from lifting the lid on the research. Even the anachronisms and historical errors (usually stemming from poetic licence) are sources of fascinating knowledge. 

Matthew Weiner's work is first-class, and I must admit to a tinge of envy that someone could know so much and write for the screen. Of course, this is no ordinary person, but it was interesting that one of the blog commentators noticed in the credits that a mental health expert had been employed in the making of one episode. I took some solace in the fact that such big productions are the work of many people. (Until I discovered that Matthew Weiner has written a novella, too. Now I will have to read it - and that's how my reading process works!) 

I have often struggled with the idea of not finishing books that I do not like, but then I often end up discovering something interesting in even the worst of books. Not that this book is so bad, but when the formula for the final episode of the book ends, so does the book. It is followed by a list of the music featured in each episode. (Check out Spotify's Mad Men playlist - the soundtrack is great!) 

I often get a bit snobbish about the value of a television series in comparison to literature. But the same could be said of my favourite computer game, Sid Meier's Civilization, which has been referred to as a form of "edutainment". 

In many ways, I find television series, particularly period-dramas, a useful form of Netflix bingeing with a mild excuse of having some educational value. For example, after finishing both Mad Men and Downton Abbey, I looked for the "best" television series to start on next. Consistently, Breaking Bad rated as the best television series of all time. But after a few episodes, I found the show rather empty and I abandoned it soon after. 

Recently, Grimm had me hooked, and it has sent me off to learn all about the Black Forest and the Grimm brothers. I daresay learning from Breaking Bad would not lead to the type of education I am seeking! But I digress. 

I learnt much from this book, but it is obviously dated, and I am in no rush to read up more about Mad Men any time soon. But I will continue to delve into the many literary, cultural, and historical references from the series (and this book), but I really must be a little more critical with my reading choices and not rely on a brand name (no pun intended) when going off the beaten track.

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Literary Japan: Kōji's Introduction to Japanese Classics

"Great Wave Off Kanagawa" (circa 1826) by Katsushika Hokusai [Public domain] via Wikimedia.

Words to Live by: Japanese Classics for Our Times by NAKANO Koji

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

At the International Political Science Association's World Congress 2018 in Brisbane this July, I stumbled upon the market stand for Japan Library, a Japanese publisher focused on translating great Japanese books into English. 

Not knowing what to expect, I bought two hardcover books priced at $25 each. I have read a few translations of various novels and I am rarely disappointed, but this book seems more along the lines of Harold Bloom's and Italo Calvino's works on classic literature, with a focus on Japanese poetry written by Buddhists monks in medieval and pre-industrial Japan. 

The physical book is beautifully presented with a hardcover, dust jacket, ribbon book marker, and paper that is of obvious high quality. The readability of the translation by Juliet Winters Carpenter is superb, and although there may be some things lost in translation, to an amateur like me, you couldn't pick it. 

What I enjoyed most about the work is that Kōji is humble yet powerful in awakening me to classic Japanese literature. Recently, I have had a similar experience with classic Japanese art and music, and I now enjoy the art of Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849) and listening to the koto music of Yatsuhashi Kengyo (1614–1685). 

I discovered these two from Sid Meier's Civilization VI, of all places. But that is not unusual - I discovered my most favourite composer, John Adams, as part of the soundtrack of Civilization III. (It is the only computer game I ever play. If anyone is willing to let me work on the cultural/historical aspects of future releases of the Civilization game series, do let me know! I first played Civilization in 1994 and have occasionally played it ever since. I have learnt more about art, music, architecture, science, warfare, and history from that game than almost any other source. If only I could incorporate the game into my teaching, I could find an excuse to play it more often.) 

I hoped this work would give me a similar experience; and it did. 

The text flows in straight-forward prose, outlining the work of six Japanese literary greats, interrupted by poetry from each of the authors, with commentary by Kōji that never "got on my goat". If anything, Kōji's explanations and personal observations enrich what is already a very rich literary experience. (Kōji was 77 years old at the time this was published. An interesting aside - I know someone who gives their age as the year they are living, rather than the most recently past year. Apparently, it was Japanese custom to give the age of a child as 1 year old in their first year, so I have been forced to accept that this person, who went to primary school in Japan, is not incorrect!) 

There is so much conveyed in this work, it is difficult to give a summary without writing a series of maxims that would rival La Rochefoucauld's. Suffice it to say, my favourite poet from the collection is Saigyō. 

At first, I was not impressed by how the moon and cherry blossoms sent his heart off into the ether, only to return of its own will some time later. I thought this all a bit over the top, but then (p. 173):

Master Mongaku despised Saigyō... If he ever ran into him, he often said, he'd break his skull.

One day, Saigyō turned up at Master Mongaku's temple. His disciples worried what he would do to Saigyō, but the meeting went cordially. Afterwards, Mongaku's disciples asked why their master had gone back on his word:

"You idiots!"Mongaku scolded. "Was that the face of someone I could possibly beat up? It was the face of someone who could beat me to a pulp!"

I, too, was surprised that this ex-warrior, samurai turned Buddhist monk, could be such a poet. It just seemed to be the work that belonged to a sickly, weak yet beautiful man who couldn't hurt a fly. This is what makes Saigyō's literature more remarkable, and Kōji presents the work and the backstory in such a way that the book resonates long after the reading is over. 

I also learnt much about traditional Japanese poetry. The haiku is familiar to most people, but I knew nothing of the other traditional forms, many of which appear in this work, including the various haikai and waka forms. If I were to take a crash course in Japanese literature and Zen Buddhism, this book would be the place to start. Of particular interest is Tsurezuregusa or Essays in Idleness by Yoshida Kenkō. The ideas about happiness, solitude, life and death, and, most importantly, the Buddhist concept of the "here-now" were enlightening. 

What I like most is that Nakano Kōji learnt about his own culture late in life, after focusing on Western literature (particularly Kafka), and has an ability to make comparisons of Japanese thought and philosophy with the ideas I am more familiar with. This made it easy to appreciate the wisdom of the various Buddhist monks without needing a solid grounding in Buddhism to make sense of it. Indeed, the works are far from religious, but are certainly "spiritual" in a universal sense. 

I daresay I will be returning to Japan Library to discover more classic Japanese literature, and I am inspired to try a Japanese novel (translated into English, of course) soon. My next Japan Library work is Self-Respect and Independence of Mind: The Challenge of Fukuzawa Yukichi, a biographical work on the Meiji Restoration-era intellectual.

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If on a post-modern novel Italo Calvino

If on a winter's night a traveller marathon. Photo: @kellywritershouse [CC BY 2.0] via Flickr

If on a Winter's Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This would have to be one of the most unusually good books I have read. It is not quite a novel and not quite a collection of short stories, organised in an unusual way. It is partly written in the second person (Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City was my first second-person novel) and on several occasions, the author speaks directly to the reader (a literary technique known as "authorial intrusion"). 

The main story is structured using numbered chapters, interspersed with the beginnings of several books (with the relevant book names as chapter headings) that relate directly to the main story. It is rather complex in terms of its structure and I couldn't help thinking it is very much a "post-modern" novel. But it works. 

I am often surprised by the number of books that are about books and authors, a bit like 42nd Street - a musical within a musical. But this book is very clever. While at times I couldn't help thinking that Calvino had turned a number of "false starts" into a publication, it is too good to have been written so perfunctorily. 

Two stand-out parts work for me. First, Calvino addresses two types of writers (pp. 173-4):

One of the two is a productive writer, the other a tormented writer. The tormented writer watches the productive writer filling pages with uniform lines, the manuscript growing in a pile of neat pages. In a little while the book will be finished: certainly a best seller - the tormented writer thinks with a certain contempt but also with envy. He considers the productive writer no more than a clever craftsman, capable of turning out machine-made novels catering to the taste of the public; but he cannot repress a strong feeling of envy for that man who expresses himself with such methodological confidence... [The productive writer] feels [the tormented writer] is struggling with something obscure, a tangle, a road to be dug leading no one knows where... and he is overcome with admiration. Not only admiration, but also envy; because he feels how limited his work is, how superficial compared with what the tormented writer is seeking.

I certainly feel like each of these authors depending on the type of writing I am engaged in. That self-consciousness is part of the process is something that Calvino weaves into the plot perfectly. Second, Calvino picks up on how I read (p. 254):

Reading is a discontinuous and fragmentary operation.

What I find most interesting about this reflection is that Calvino's work, or at least the several of his works I have read so far, all seem to play to the discontinuous and fragmentary reader. The structure of this work, much like Invisible Cities and Mr Palomar, suits a style of reader who is unable to read in large chunks of time. 

While not being able to read long and uninterrupted is far from ideal, Calvino's work is presented in convenient and memorable chunks that suit the fragmentary and disrupted peace of the post-modern worker. 

There is still a little more of Calvino's work for me to read, but I have now covered his most famous works. And I am delighted to have "discovered" Marcovaldo in a Shanghai bookstore which introduced me to one of the greatest authors of the twentieth century only a few years ago.

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