I’m guessing it’s difficult to bring up North Korea without making it seem like a political statement is being made, and certainly, in the case of this book, it’s hard to not divine the politics at stake. And yet, it is a character driven book that enables the reader to enter that alien, nightmare world through the resources of fiction rather than polemic.
It’s about Asia, which always attracts me.
And from Matthew Henry’s Commentary on James 1:3:
We should not pray so much for the removal of affliction, as for wisdom to make a right use of it. And who does not want wisdom to guide him under trials, both in regulating his own spirit, and in managing his affairs? Here is something in answer to every discouraging turn of the mind, when we go to God under a sense of our own weakness and folly. If, after all, any should say, This may be the case with some, but I fear I shall not succeed, the promise is, To any that asketh, it shall be given. A mind that has single and prevailing regard to its spiritual and eternal interest, and that keeps steady in its purposes for God, will grow wise by afflictions, will continue fervent in devotion, and rise above trials and oppositions. When our faith and spirits rise and fall with second causes, there will be unsteadiness in our words and actions. This may not always expose men to contempt in the world, but such ways cannot please God. No condition of life is such as to hinder rejoicing in God. Those of low degree may rejoice, if they are exalted to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom of God; and the rich may rejoice in humbling providences, that lead to a humble and lowly disposition of mind.
I appreciate the bluntness of age and experience (http://sippicancottage.blogspot.com/2016/02/interestingly-malfunction-of-unknown.html):
Safety glasses are the clown shoes of fear. I have seen all the shelter shows -- once -- and I have observed a noticeably pregnant woman put on safety glasses in order to undertake the demolition of perfectly good tile in her tract home bathroom. It's not unwise to wear safety glasses if you're determined to strike ceramic tile with a sledgehammer. It's just really dumb to think that striking ceramic tile with a sledgehammer is how demolition is accomplished. The pregnant woman was wearing flip flops in order to display her painted toenails to the public. People who understand risk and respect the process they've undertaken do not perform demolition in open-toed shoes while pregnant. Believing that wearing safety glasses under those circumstances bestows safety is magical, cargo cult thinking. Magical thinking doesn't result in safety, ever. It results in paranoia with recklessness ladled all over it.
Magical thinking is in evidence all over the place these days, and it never does anyone any good.
and smilingly declares himself the winner, he can still be defeated by the manner in which we accept the consequences of our action.
—Hammarskjold, Markings, p. 65
This makes me want to throw my hands in the air and despair utterly for the world we inhabit. It’s not like I don’t have other reasons for pessimism, but this—this—is breathtaking. In an Orwellian sense, because the control of language is the precursor to the control of thought. Always, always.
The first of what I’m sure is an ongoing concern...
I have noticed it in conversations with students, but of course with students you make certain allowances.
But here it is in an open letter from Apple Computer, for Pete’s sake (for what it’s worth, I applaud the decision of the company). They “feel" that they must speak up. Not just “we must speak up,” but the feeling must be put in there in a redundant construction.
Why say “feels”? And upon reading it, why do I care?
My students substitute “to feel” for “to think,” “to reason,” “to maintain,” “to assert,” “to argue,” and any other verb that might represent cogitation and the use of intellect.
to feel is not the same thing is to think…it’s a different mode of epistemology altogether, if one can even call it that. But though I can discount some of the uses of the term in casual conversation, I begin to notice the wholesale replacement of the more vague, subjective term for the more specific & objective ones. Minds are being reshaped through the changes in the language they have available to them, and we have yet to see what they are being reshaped for.
Our third boy, our surprise child, the one who decided to poke a hole in his swimming pool two weeks early, the one who’s left-handed and sucks his thumb and has a little bit of a stutter, the one who always wakes up at full speed and talks non-stop if you get him alone. The child who could be a twin of our eldest, which makes Little Red look that much more remarkable in comparison. The reason I got my plumbing fixed. The reason we now drive a Honda Odyssey.
Here he is (at about 4 months) sitting with the dearly departed Honey. Little Red in the background . . . when he was actually little.
Today I have had an interview with a student who is writing a feature on the big Shakespeare 400th anniversary. She wanted to know things about why Shakespeare is important for higher education, and what I wish for my students in the class. A couple of highlights:
I do in fact think Shakespeare is important as a touchstone for higher education and for the study of English generally because his plays are uniquely rigorous and accessible at the same time—and as such are important as core texts around which to build the ideal of a liberal arts education. Are there other texts that are as important? yes. Are there other writers who are more rigorous or profound? probably. But given what we are trying to do when providing the average English major with a relevant yet grounded education, Shakespeare occupies ground that no other writer can match.
What I want for my students in the class I teach every fall: To recognize that the Shakespeare they encountered in HS was a pale shadow of the true Bard; to gain a healthy respect for the range of topics, plots, and tones that he uses; and to remember that he gets better and better with age, never growing old or stale.
Being a partial account of conversations with students this day, the third of Lent:
One student, having graduated last spring, now wishes to go to law school. I say, certainly, go to law school! It is hardly surprising that your entry level job isn’t 100% fulfilling. If you think law school will bring you what you’re looking for, you have nothing to lose and potentially lots to gain.
Another young man, very earnest, wishes to know about how he should handle relationships with his girlfriend’s family, especially individuals that are hard to deal with. I say, remember that what the woman in your life wants to know is that she can count on you. What she especially does not want is for you to jump in there and make her choose between you and family members in some conflict of wills (no matter how noble your intentions).
A third student, an older transfer from another state institution, wishes to know how my work with the literary magazine here on campus can help him with honing his craft and maybe help him in his desire to be a literature professor after he goes to graduate school. I avoid any mention of graduate school, but encourage his desire to work with the magazine, hoping that he will see fit to join as that rarest of creatures: a male editorial staff member.
My first year students: didn’t do their reading for today’s class.
My upper level students: are a good bunch. They are skeptical about moving on to lyric poetry, though.
Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.
From David Warren today (http://www.davidwarrenonline.com/2016/02/10/on-leaving-town/):
“Judgement is of the Lord, and not of the children in the playground,” as my father once patiently explained, after I had made a fool of myself, in the yard of Saint Anthony’s. He was quoting my grandfather, as I came to understand. (Grandpa had been quoting some older authorities.) “Take yer lumps,” would be a paraphrase. I have not yet mastered this advice myself, but can see that it is wise. So much of the power of “political correctness” comes from this wincing action, to which human beings are inclined: to explain what doesn’t need explaining. Let one’s statement stand, without explication, so long as it was heartfelt and true. Let the critic worm resume his furrow.
...
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: this is a side of Christ’s teaching that seems particularly lost on many who claim to hear Him today. He was not a “nice” Saviour. He did not forgive those who did not ask forgiveness. He showed no mercy to those who wanted none. He was not the prophet of the sucks.
We owe our explanations to Him; and likewise our penitence. Not to the mob.
A weekend in which Number One Son had to learn some hard lessons about competition and being on the losing end of it.
First there was the basketball game in a town just north of here; my son’s little team ran into a buzzsaw. The other boys were better organized, more aggressive, and bigger . . . and took our boys out of the game early. At halftime it was 15-2. Needless to say the end result didn’t go our way. Number One Son loves basketball, but he has some size and skill to develop, and he shares his father’s intuitive athleticism (i.e., not much of it). So. We had a long talk on the way home about responding when a team is eating your lunch, how sometimes it just happens that you run into a group that is better than you.
Then there was the outcome of the Big Sporting Event last night, in which the favored team got its nose bloodied and in which the reigning league MVP kinda got exposed especially in the character portion of the contest. Early on, when the game was close, Number One Son was having a good time (he was cheering for the Carolina Panthers) and doing a lot of whooping and carrying on at all the plays. It was good fun, and he and The Triathlete did a lot of teasing each other (we were happy for Carolina to win, but wanted Manning’s last game as a pro to be this victory). As the second half wore on, Number One did a lot less whooping, and by the end of the game he was really disheartened. It’s the first time I’ve seen him really invested in an athletic contest, and the first time he’s had to deal with that kind of disappointment.
As his dad, and as a man who has sometimes taken my team’s losses hard (read: every time the North Carolina Tar Heels dropped a basketball game in the period 1997-2013), I am responsible to help him see that losing is not the end of the world, that it happens to everyone, that championships are special because they’re so rare, and that what matters is your character in victory and defeat. And I also have to let him be sad and tell him I know just how it feels to be let down. I’d spare him the pain of it, but then he wouldn’t learn what he needs to learn if he’s going to grow up.
I just finished reading a book that, had it been published in 2003 or 2004, would have transformed my doctoral thesis so completely that I am absolutely gobsmacked to think of it. McLuhan is famous for other kinds of work, but this (his hitherto unpublished Cambridge dissertation) is a testament to the rigor of his intelligence.
I mourn the fact that I haven’t read it until now.
On the other hand, I am gratified that, although we approached the topic from different directions and with different levels of erudition, we arrived at the same conclusions regarding Mr Nashe.
Lileks captures my experience of watching the X-Files mini-reboot:
I've seen one new "X-Files" episode, and it was okay. I heard the third is better, and funnier. But that's not what I want. Anyone hear they were doing more X-Files, and think "hope it's a comedy"? There were comedic moments, but the show relied on dread, paranoia, cold logic vs. incomprehensible events, and of course a baffling, complex, indefensible mythos that brought the whole mess crashing down into cultural irrelevancy. At some point we realized, with a sick and angry feeling, that there was no master plot. They were making it up as they went along, introducing new wrinkles not to reveal the grand plan, but to compensate for their own inability to bring it all together. I can't think of another show I loved so much only to drift away. Oh, the VCR didn't record? Whatever.
Well, the Simpsons.
I tweeted out the other night something about the show being wrong for the times - the idea of an all-powerful super-competent government with plots within plots, capable of devilish secret schemes died somewhere around late 2001, if only because most of us realized it wasn't capable of such things, and the delicious shiver of 90s-era paranoia now seemed like a juvenile indulgence. (The people who believed, who Wanted to Believe in Mulderspeak, doubled down on Trutherism.) Time has left these characters behind, and in the episode I saw they seemed vaguely embarrassed they had to do this. Anderson looked as if she was still doing "The Fall," a show in which she plays a remote and clinical version of Scully without any of the smoldering warmth or softness, and Duchovney just rasped out his lines in rote flat tones as if he'd boned up on the character by watching parody videos. It was a bit disconcerting to see it all so pristine and clear, too - the old shows now look as if they were shot in a smoky room through a lens covered with hair spray, and that look defines not only the show but 90s TV. Looking back at the shows now, I think: those were happier times.
This was all we had to worry about, and it was a fairy tale. We knew it, of course, but once a week, it was fun; we all wanted to believe.
It was a simpler time. We didn’t realize how good we had it.
In the weeks and months since my mother in law passed away, and even more intimately since the great cancer scare with The Triathlete, I’ve become more and more invested in parts of my life that I had allowed to become rather cobwebby and dusty. I neglected so much.
I wasted so much time. It eats at me.
I didn’t mean to. I thought all along that I was following the best and highest path I could; I thought that my priorities were in order and, furthermore, the right ones. I would have said that though I was not as righteous as I would like to be, I was at least making an effort. I was deceived in myself and in my choices. And like waking up in an unknown place, I found myself several months ago having inadvertently landed in a dark wood with beasts and monsters all around.
I am working hard to make it right. I am climbing out of that dark wood, with the help of a guide or two, and the way is arduous. I am ashamed of having gotten there to begin with, and progress is slow. It is small comfort that my intentions were (mostly) honest.
