Dostoyevsky's "The Brother's Karamazov"

Originally published on this blog in 2013

What a cute little Russian mystery novel this is, and as one of my absolute favorite books, it is imperative I have quote from it.
As per usual with Russian lit. this is a cheery lighthearted novel in which some people die, go insane, and overall endure the wonderful Russian life providence bestowed upon them (to borrow a line from Tocqueville).

So this particular quote I memorized for a time because I thought it would be good to recite at parties, but I've forgotten it since, probably because I never found an appropriate party. This is a quote from the Elder Priest, Father Zosima of the monastery where Alosha is becoming a monk. He is speaking to Alosha's father Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov who owns several taverns in the village and stays drunk quite a bit.

"And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And above all, don't lie."
"You mean about Diderot?"
"No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and others. And having  no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself he gives way to coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended that anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, and lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught a word and make a mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, an so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing..."

So there it is. Lying to oneself leads to bestiality.

Coming soon: A quote from someone other than old dead white guys. I don't know who it will be yet, as I pretty much stick to dead white guys because it is they societies throughout history have set aside enough leisure time to write philosophy and novels. I'm kind of getting into sonnets and different sorts of stanza's, so that may be next.

Re-Selecting the Poems of Mary Oliver . (Originally published on this blog in 2013)

Today I stood in the Poetry section of Boulder Bookstore, closed my eyes, and randomly selected a book from which I randomly selected a page. The book was The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver and the poems were magnificent. She seems to be still alive.
I bought the book; it was even used! I've had good luck with selecting poetry books this way, I've tried a more orderly approach (i.e. only select female poets, or only Ann Sexton,  or whichever title is the catchest; but I am always disappointed).
 The poem I read first was "Two Kinds of Deliverance." The title alone piqued my interest, the poem was appropriately about Spring:

1

Last night the geese came back,

slanting fast

from the blossom of the rising moon down

to the black pond. A muskrat

swimming in the twilight saw them and hurried

to the secret lodges to tell everyone

spring had come.

And so it had.

By morning when I went out

the last of the ice had disappeared, blackbirds

sang on the shores. Every year

the geese, returning,

do this, I don’t

know how.

2

The curtains opened and there was

an old man in a headdress of feathers,

leather leggings and a vest made

from the skin of some animal. He danced

in a kind of surly rapture, and the trees

in the fields far away

began to mutter and suck up their long roots.

Slowly they advanced until they stood

pressed to the schoolhouse windows.

3

I don’t know

lots of things but I know this: next year

when spring

flows over the starting point I’ll think I’m going to

drown in the shimmering miles of it and then

one or two birds will fly me over

the threshold.

As for the pain

of others, of course it tries to be

abstract, but then

there flares up out of a vanished wilderness, like fire,

still blistering: the wrinkled face

of an old Chippewa

smiling, hating us,

dancing for his life.

There is another poem titled "When Death Comes." I suppose it is everyone else's favorite as well, since it wasn't hard to find in full here.

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

I LOVE this poem. I am, however, not particularly curious about death. I don't really think anything unexpected will happen, aside from awestricken-ness of the eternal silence in that "cottage of darkness." I love how she thinks about time and eternality; I have written similar things, but much less eloquently.

Just for good measure, I will include another new favorite from Oliver, "Lightening":

The oaks shone

gaunt gold

on the lip

of the storm before

the wind rose,

the shapeless mouth

opened and began

its five-hour howl;

the lights

went out fast, branches

sidled over

the pitch of the roof, bounced

into the year

that grew black

within minutes, except

for the lightening - the landscape

bulging forth like a quick

lesson in creating, then

thudding away. Inside,

as always,

it was hard to tell

fear from excitement:

how sensual

the lightning’s

poured stroke! and still,

what a fire and a risk!

As always the body

wants to hide,

wants to flow toward it - strives

to balance while

fear shouts,

excitement shouts, back

and forth - each

bolt a burning river

tearing like escape through the dark

field of the other. 

UHH
  I won't say what it reminds me of, but I will say it's great she wrote this and that I have read it, so now I will not attempt to write some dribble trying to express the same sentiments.
There's one more of course, I like it for the personification of Lilies and their relationship to hummingbirds. Particularly "if I were a Lily/ I think I would wait all day / for the green face/ of the hummingbird/ to touch me."

Romanic, I guess.
Hmmmm.

Actually instead of quoting that one (you can read it here), There is Another.

Sunrise

You can

die for it --

an idea,

or the world. People

have done so,

brilliantly,

letting

their small bodies be bound

to the stake,

creating

an unforgettable

fury of light. But

this morning,

climbing the familiar hills

in the familiar

fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,

and India

and Europe, and I thought

how the sun

blazes

for everyone just

so joyfully

as it rises

under the lashes

of my own eyes, and I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?

What is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter

fire.

I could just quote the entire book.

"Democracy in America," by Alexis de Tocqueville

This is a fairly famous book, but I only just discovered it while looking in the American History section for Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" which I did find, and was subsequently disappointed by. (I can just listen to Democracy Now! if I want to dwell in the depth's of negativity about American History).

This was written by a French dude in the 1830's after he traveled around in America. I found the full text of the preface here.

The Author's intro to this book might very well be the best part, since I am well into the third chapter now and have been less frequently impressed:

In running over the pages of our history, we shall scarcely find a single great event of the last seven hundred years that has not promoted equality of condition.
The Crusades and the English wars decimated the nobles and divided their possessions: the municipal corporations introduced democratic liberty into the bosom of feudal monarchy; the invention of firearms equalized the vassel and the noble on the field of battle; the art of printing opened the same resources to the minds of all classes; the post brought knowledge a like to the door of the cottage and to the gate of the palace; and Protestantism proclaimed that all men are equally able to find Heaven. The discovery of America opened a thousand new paths to fortune and led obscure adventurers to wealth and power. (Page 6).

Naturally I was shocked by his take on the Crusades and firearms. Today this reads like some great Christian propaganda, but I think back then, this just shows how certain parts of history were explained to the curious Christian, which there were very few of. I suppose I don't have to point out that serfs could scarcely have land to grow food, much less obtain the latest in weapon technology to overthrow their lords.

Another interesting part of the preface, here he is sort of picturing an outcome of democracy, and it really reminds me of Partfit's 'z' population outcome in which everyone only has potatoes and muzak, but the overall utility is highest. I will include the preceding paragraph though, because it is probably one of the more famous parts of this book (or seems like it should be, hell if I know).

I can conceive of a society in which all men would feel an equal love and respect for the laws of which they consider themselves the authors; in which the authority of the government would be respected as necessary, and not divine; and in which the loyalty of the subject to the chief magistrate would not be a passion, but a quiet and rational persuasion. With every individual in the possession of rights which he is sure to retain, a kind of manly confidence and reciprocal courtesy would arise between all classes, removed alike from pride and servility. The people, well acquainted with their own true interests, would understand that, in order to profit from the advantages of the state, it is necessary to satisfy its requirements. The voluntary association of the citizens might then take the place of the individual authority of the nobles, and the community would be protected from tyranny and license.
I admit that, in a democratic state thus constituted, society would not be stationary. But the impulses of the social body might there be regulated and made progressive. If there were less splendor than in an aristocracy, misery would also be less prevalent; the pleasures of enjoyment might be less excessive, but those of comfort would be more general; the sciences might be less perfectly cultivated, but ignorance would be less common; the ardor of the feelings would be constrained, and the habits of the nation softened; there would be more vices and fewer crimes.
In the absence of enthusiasm and ardent faith, great sacrifices may be obtained from the members of a commonwealth by an appeal to their understanding and their experience; each individual will feel the same necessity of union with his fellows to protect his own weakness; and as he knows that he can obtain their help only on condition of helping them, he will readily perceive that his personal interest is identified with the interests of the whole community. The nation, taken as a whole, will be less brilliant, less glorious, and perhaps less strong; but the majority of the citizens will enjoy a greater degree of prosperity, and the people will remain peaceable, not because they despair of a change for the better, but because they are conscious that they are well off already
If all the consequences of this state of things were not good or useful, society would at least have appropriated all such as were useful and good; and having once and forever renounced the social advantages of aristocracy, mankind would enter into possession of all the benefits that democracy can offer.

So I think it is evident, the ideal he writes of is one of a great moderation. Through my travels to northern Europe I have seen this kind of moderation. There is class, there is some income inequality, but does not separate people from one another the way it might in the US.

Another one of my fav's from this part:

"The poor man retains the prejudices of his forefathers without their faith, and their ignorance without their virtues; he has adopted the doctrine of self-interest as the rule of his actions without understanding the science that puts it to use; and his selfishness is no less blind than was formerly his devotion to others."

I like this definition of "poor." It descibes to me the essence of what it might be to truly be poor, apart from one's income or relationship with material possessions.

Okay, and then there is my actual favorite part, especially that last paragraph.

There are virtuous and peaceful individuals whose pure morality, quiet habits, opulence, and talents fit them to be the leaders of their fellow men. Their love of country is sincere, and they are ready to make the greatest sacrifices for its welfare. But civilization often finds them among its opponents; they confound its abuses with its benefits, and the idea of evil is inseparable in their minds from that of novelty. . Near these I find others whose object is to materialize mankind, to hit upon what is expedient without heeding what is just, to acquire knowledge without faith, and prosperity apart from virtue; claiming to be the champions of modern civilization, they place themselves arrogantly at its head, usurping a place which is abandoned to them, and of which they are wholly unworthy.
Where are we, then?
The religionists are the enemies of liberty, and the friends of liberty attack religion; the high-minded and the noble advocate bondage, and the meanest and most servile preach independence; honest and enlightened citizens are opposed to all progress, while men without patriotism and without principle put themselves forward as the apostles of civilization and intelligence.

This seems to be utterly true of our current America. So could one be a spiritual proponent of liberty that adopts the enlightened parts of all religions; agree with the compassion of socialism and the pragmatism of libertarianism; maintain that honesty is constantly reaccepting the fluidity of all things; and that there is a form of modest patriotism in which a country may be merely celebrating their own unity?

"How to Grow Roses" Horace McFarland and Robert Pyle

I found this gem of a book in Denver Botanical Gardens' library sale shelf (that's right, they have a library). It was on sale for $2 and it's cute little red hardback book from 1937. I truely am interested in growing roses, so I was reading along and came across this part in the section about obtaining adequate soil:

It pays to go to some trouble to secure cow-manure in any form. Some enthusiastic rosarians have started dairies for that very purpose. But the small rosarian will have to rely upon what he can buy, beg, or borrow, or steal. The family milkman, if he is a human farmer and not merely a minion of a soulless corporation, may sometimes be prevailed upon for a bushel or two of the real stuff; and a scouting trip in the family flivver by day, and a raid by night upon sundry fields, may provide much precious loot. The need for cow-manure transcends ethics, and such predatory adventures may prove more thrilling than mere aimless drives along hot dusty roads, or vernal assaults upon innocent unoffending wild flowers.

Wow. Predatory adventures? Those rosarians in the 30's were some serious mofos about their soil. Also "flivver" is "a cheap car or aircraft, esp. one in bad condition" but you knew that. Who would fly around in a flivver aircraft, that sounds crazy.
The authors were both presidents of the American Rose Society, and this book was actually an 18th edition, which means the first one must been written in the 1800's. The book includes very nice color illustrations and black & white photographs of famous rosarians, it was a fancy book, which why someone is selling it Etsy.