A colleague at the University of Colorado, Arnab Chakladar, has started an Indian-oriented, mostly non-academic chat room called Another Subcontinent.
Through it I came across this conversation between Amitav Ghosh and Homi Bhabha. It goes well with my review of the novel The Hungry Tide.
(But what is pretty boy/actor/rugby star Rahul Bose doing there? He should be here in the U.S., promoting Everyone Says I'm Fine!)
Notes on Parataxis (Moretti on Joyce's Ulysses)
Franco Moretti's chapter on Joyce's Ulysses in The Modern Epic: The World System from Goethe to Garcia Marquez is not arranged as a singular argument so much as a series of provocative buzzwords: advertising as flirtation rather than adultery; passivity (consumption) rather than activity (production); parataxis rather than linear narration; absent-mindedness as a modernist aesthetic (“Bloom is perhaps the most absentminded character in world literature); accumulation of thoughts rather than epiphany-transcendence; the novel as an “epic of socialization.”
Moretti identifies a rough homology between the constant stimulation of modern urban life and the logic of advertising – expressed through metaphors and stylistic elements. The first (and perhaps most memorable) metaphor is the turn from modern life as seduction (in Flaubert's Madame Bovary, a nineteenth century novel) to flirtation (in Ulysses). What is unique about bourgeois urban life is the emphasis on the things one desires (imagines), but doesn't touch. Moretti thinks of this as flirtation (we could also call it window-shopping). If advertising and commodity culture produce a measure of intoxication and disorientation, it is a newly mild form – not a strong neurosis. The experience of shopping in the big plazas of Paris or London at the beginning of the twentieth century was novel, but not in the sense that it led to neurasthenia (the way working on an assembly line sometimes did) or hysteria. Moretti questions a study by Dubuisson that seemed to suggest that an overload of consumer-oriented stimuli is leads women to become kleptomaniacs:
Moretti frequently refers to a literary device known as “parataxis” (placing ideas side by side with no grammatical connection), and poses it as a way of describing of Joyce's method in Ulysses – a term that is more precise than “stream of consciousness.” Parataxis is for Moretti the chief stylistic innovation of the novel, and it is designed as an structurally 'weak' response to the flood of language produced by modern advertising:
Throughout, Moretti's analysis borrows terms from the early sociologist Georg Simmel, whose “The Metropolis and Mental Life” (1903) is a classic of urban sociology. But he argues that Bloom demonstrates a response to the challenges of urban life that is quite different from what Simmel envisioned:
Bloom picks up stimuli, but rarely (or never) acts on them. If this is an “epic,” it is an epic where the hero does virtually nothing but walk around all day. But this passivity can also be characterized more positively:
Moretti argues that the fact that Joyce continued to add content to his book in revision after revision is a function of the use of parataxis. What Joyce added (one can compare the early Little Review versions of the chapters with the final, Gabler edition) didn't extend the action of the book so much as create new eddies of thought within the extant episodes. The additions are effectively involutions, and they could go on forever:
More links on Moretti and Parataxis:
The Complete Review, on The Atlas of the European Novel.
An article by Moretti in New Left Review, "Conjectures on World Literature" (2000).
There was for awhile a journal called Parataxis, which focused on Modernist literature. I've never read it, but it seems pretty serious.
And here is a reviewer in the Guardian using "parataxis" in describing Don DeLillo's style in his novel Underworld.
Moretti identifies a rough homology between the constant stimulation of modern urban life and the logic of advertising – expressed through metaphors and stylistic elements. The first (and perhaps most memorable) metaphor is the turn from modern life as seduction (in Flaubert's Madame Bovary, a nineteenth century novel) to flirtation (in Ulysses). What is unique about bourgeois urban life is the emphasis on the things one desires (imagines), but doesn't touch. Moretti thinks of this as flirtation (we could also call it window-shopping). If advertising and commodity culture produce a measure of intoxication and disorientation, it is a newly mild form – not a strong neurosis. The experience of shopping in the big plazas of Paris or London at the beginning of the twentieth century was novel, but not in the sense that it led to neurasthenia (the way working on an assembly line sometimes did) or hysteria. Moretti questions a study by Dubuisson that seemed to suggest that an overload of consumer-oriented stimuli is leads women to become kleptomaniacs:
It is like moving from the world of adultery . . . to that of flirtation. Because advertising does, to be sure, conquer the customer, but it does not dishonour her. It weakens the resistance of the super-ego, and the reality principle; but it does not produce that army of 'real mental cases' described by Dubuisson.
Moretti frequently refers to a literary device known as “parataxis” (placing ideas side by side with no grammatical connection), and poses it as a way of describing of Joyce's method in Ulysses – a term that is more precise than “stream of consciousness.” Parataxis is for Moretti the chief stylistic innovation of the novel, and it is designed as an structurally 'weak' response to the flood of language produced by modern advertising:
Words words words words. It is a bombardment that no one expects, and that nineteenth-century grammar is incapable of withstanding. Attention, clarity, concentration: the old virtues are worse than useless. Instead of harmonizing with advertising, they perceive it as an irritating noise. A different style is required, in order to find one's way in the city of words; a weaker grammar than that of consciousness; an edgy, discontinuous syntax: a cubism of language, as it were. And the stream of consciousness offers precisely that: simple, fragmented sentences, where the subject withdraws to make room for the invasion of things; paratactical paragraphs, with the doors flung wide, and always enough room for one more sentence, and one more stimulus. (134-135)
Throughout, Moretti's analysis borrows terms from the early sociologist Georg Simmel, whose “The Metropolis and Mental Life” (1903) is a classic of urban sociology. But he argues that Bloom demonstrates a response to the challenges of urban life that is quite different from what Simmel envisioned:
Bloom notices everything, but focuses on nothing; a glance, then on again. It is the metropolitan way: the way to avoid being overwhelmed by the big world that is concentrated in the bit city. But what has it made possible?
The brain, Simmel answers: the life of the intellect. Joyce, however, suggests the opposite: not an 'increased awareness' but instead an increased absentmindedness (Bloom is perhaps the most absentminded character in world literature), but has also changed its function. Instead of being a lack, an absence, it has become an active tool: a kind of switchboard, simultaneously activating a plurality of mental circuits, and allowing Boom to pick up as many stimuli as possible. (137-138)
Bloom picks up stimuli, but rarely (or never) acts on them. If this is an “epic,” it is an epic where the hero does virtually nothing but walk around all day. But this passivity can also be characterized more positively:
But in a dramatic change of function [from the paralysis of Dubliners], Joyce places Bloom under the microscope, and discovers that in his passivity there is not just in-activity and lack of action. There are also positive quantities: receptivity, variety, openness to the world. In Bloom, as we have seen, absentmindedness itself is a mobile, active force: even if it does not 'produce' anything in the strict sense, it nevertheless enables him to find his bearings in a very complex situation, and to organize it. (143)
Moretti argues that the fact that Joyce continued to add content to his book in revision after revision is a function of the use of parataxis. What Joyce added (one can compare the early Little Review versions of the chapters with the final, Gabler edition) didn't extend the action of the book so much as create new eddies of thought within the extant episodes. The additions are effectively involutions, and they could go on forever:
Great is Joyce's delight, we might repeat with Spitzer, in multiplying dependent clauses – except that those clauses are clearly not dependent. Even where a degree of subordination can be glimpsed . . ., Joyce's parataxis functions to the opposite effect: it constructs separate, independent sentences. Nothing is 'in its appropriate place,' here: or rather, the appropriate place for things and thoughts is no longer, as in Proust, a matter of 'precedence or subordination,' but always equal and independent. (151)
More links on Moretti and Parataxis:
The Complete Review, on The Atlas of the European Novel.
An article by Moretti in New Left Review, "Conjectures on World Literature" (2000).
There was for awhile a journal called Parataxis, which focused on Modernist literature. I've never read it, but it seems pretty serious.
And here is a reviewer in the Guardian using "parataxis" in describing Don DeLillo's style in his novel Underworld.
Karen Armstrong's Crisis of Faith (and Tennyson and T.S. Eliot)
I recently read Karen Armstrong's The Spiral Staircase, a memoir published earlier in 2004. I normally don't read much in the "spiritual autobiography" genre, partly because it's rare that such texts pay close attention to language, ambiguity, or ambivalence. I decided to give this one a try because I've been trying to find more literary narratives by British women writers that deal with the crisis of faith (the 20th century British writers who have dealt with the issue are overwhelmingly male). I saw this by chance in a bookstore, and was immediately hooked.
This is actually Karen Armstrong's third memoir. The first, Through the Narrow Gate, was written shortly after she left both her convent and Catholicism as a whole, and focused on that experience. The second, Beginning the World, was about her attempts to enter into secular life in England in the 1970s and 80s. Somewhere along the line she felt dissatisfied with both, partly because they didn't leave enough room for the serious crisis Armstrong experienced long after she left her nun's Habit behind. That crisis is partly the despair of a person who comes to realize that, in a way she will always be a nun, and partly her long struggle with a mental illness that finally becomes manifest (after 10 years of failed psycho-therapy) as epilepsy.
For me, the most interesting parts in the book are the accounts of her evolving relationship with English literature, particularly 19th century poetry, as well as T.S. Eliot. It's Eliot's Ash Wednesday -- written while Eliot himself was undergoing a crisis of faith (but in reverse) -- that gives Armstrong the title of her book and many of her best insights.
I was surprised to discover that, not only did she major in English at Oxford, Armstrong wrote a Ph.D. (or D.Phil.) dissertation on the subject of Tennyson's poetry. Oxford failed to grant her a doctorate, and the ejection from academia that followed led her down what turned out to be a very profitable track. Armstrong first taught in a private high school for a few years, then started writing books and television series on religious issues. Over a period of years, she got over her anger with the Catholic Church (especially for its treatment of women, and for the failures of the Convent system she experienced first-hand), and developed a fresh curiosity and moderated respect for the Abrahamic religions, whose study would become her life's work. (In recent years, Armstrong has become one of the foremost western interpreters of Islam; see her books Islam, or A History of God)
I'll share a couple of passages relating to literature; the passages expressing her growing awareness of the nature of religion are also fascinating, but too numerous to quote:
Armstrong relates to Tennyson quite personally, in two ways. He's a guidepost to her in her exit from the segregated life and into the modern, material world, but she also derives some kind of solace from his characters' experience of radical isolation. (In her own case, that isolation had a good deal to do with her struggle with mental illness.)
Armstrong has a similar, deeply personal connection to T.S. Eliot's Ash Wednesday, and movingly interprets passages like the following:
These are actually not Eliot's most elegant lines, in my view. But Armstrong responds to their extreme directness and unmediated qualities, which are actually quite rare in Eliot's work (where one typically finds a great deal of dramatic tension and narratorial restraint). Eliot becomes a kind of secular Guru to Armstrong, particularly after she hears a lecture from Dame Helen Gardner at Oxford:
It's interesting to see the way she finds space to hope in one of T.S. Eliot's bleakest poems. It's also remarkable that she interprets it the way she does: a life without God can be rendered coherent and whole through the "unremitting effort" of introspection. But most interesting of all is the almost ritual function of T.S. Eliot in this book (and in Armstrong's life) -- he is a focus for her ritual energy, while paradoxically serving as a figure of the fall from faith. The further paradox is that he later reversed, and defined himself as a believer, while Armstrong has never turned back.
This is actually Karen Armstrong's third memoir. The first, Through the Narrow Gate, was written shortly after she left both her convent and Catholicism as a whole, and focused on that experience. The second, Beginning the World, was about her attempts to enter into secular life in England in the 1970s and 80s. Somewhere along the line she felt dissatisfied with both, partly because they didn't leave enough room for the serious crisis Armstrong experienced long after she left her nun's Habit behind. That crisis is partly the despair of a person who comes to realize that, in a way she will always be a nun, and partly her long struggle with a mental illness that finally becomes manifest (after 10 years of failed psycho-therapy) as epilepsy.
For me, the most interesting parts in the book are the accounts of her evolving relationship with English literature, particularly 19th century poetry, as well as T.S. Eliot. It's Eliot's Ash Wednesday -- written while Eliot himself was undergoing a crisis of faith (but in reverse) -- that gives Armstrong the title of her book and many of her best insights.
I was surprised to discover that, not only did she major in English at Oxford, Armstrong wrote a Ph.D. (or D.Phil.) dissertation on the subject of Tennyson's poetry. Oxford failed to grant her a doctorate, and the ejection from academia that followed led her down what turned out to be a very profitable track. Armstrong first taught in a private high school for a few years, then started writing books and television series on religious issues. Over a period of years, she got over her anger with the Catholic Church (especially for its treatment of women, and for the failures of the Convent system she experienced first-hand), and developed a fresh curiosity and moderated respect for the Abrahamic religions, whose study would become her life's work. (In recent years, Armstrong has become one of the foremost western interpreters of Islam; see her books Islam, or A History of God)
I'll share a couple of passages relating to literature; the passages expressing her growing awareness of the nature of religion are also fascinating, but too numerous to quote:
Writing years before Darwin had published his Origin of Species, Tennyson had been one of the first people to realize the impace that modern biology and geology would have on religion, and his great poem In Memoriam plangently explored the ambiguities of doubt and faith in a way that reflected my own perplexities.
But at a deeper level, there was a mood in Tennyson's poetry that I immediately recognized. So many of his characters seemed walled up in an invincible but menacing solitude, as I was. They too seemed to see the world at one remove, as if from a great distance. Mariana was trapped in her lonely moated grange, where old faces glimmered at the windows and mice shrieked in the wainscot. The Lady of Shalott was imprisoned in a tower, confined there by some unexplained curse, because she could not confront external, objective reality. When she finally did fall in love and ventured into the outside world, it killed her immediately. All this resonated with the hallucinatory visitations that kept me imprisoned in my own inner world. Like so many of Tennyson's people, I too longed to join in the vibrant life that was going on all around me, but found myself compelled to withdraw by forces that I did not understand. Like me, Tennyson seemed sucked into a horror of his own.
Armstrong relates to Tennyson quite personally, in two ways. He's a guidepost to her in her exit from the segregated life and into the modern, material world, but she also derives some kind of solace from his characters' experience of radical isolation. (In her own case, that isolation had a good deal to do with her struggle with mental illness.)
Armstrong has a similar, deeply personal connection to T.S. Eliot's Ash Wednesday, and movingly interprets passages like the following:
Becaue I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
These are actually not Eliot's most elegant lines, in my view. But Armstrong responds to their extreme directness and unmediated qualities, which are actually quite rare in Eliot's work (where one typically finds a great deal of dramatic tension and narratorial restraint). Eliot becomes a kind of secular Guru to Armstrong, particularly after she hears a lecture from Dame Helen Gardner at Oxford:
In some of the poems of Ash Wednesday, the Dame pointed out that February morning, the experience of spiritual progress and illumination was represented by the symbol of a spiral staircase. This was, perhaps, reminiscent of Dante's Purgatorio, where the souls who are climbing to the beatific vision of God toil around the twisting cornices of Mount Purgatory, each of which constitutes a further stage in their purification. In the very first poem of the sequence [quoted above] . . .the verse constantly turns upon itself in repetitions of word, image, and sound. Repeatedly the poet tells us, "I do not hope to turn again," and yet throughout the poem, he is doing just that, slowly ascending to one new insight after another. And even though he insists that he has abandoned hope, I felt paradoxically encouraged.
. . . But what thrills me most about Eliot's poem were the words "because" and "consequently." There was nothing depressing about this deliberate acceptance of reduced possibilities. It was precisely "because" the poet had learned the limitations of the "actual" that he could say: "I rejoice that things are as they are." [Armstrong then quotes the passage I cited above] The sudden clumsiness of the syntax and language showed that this was no easy solution. It was not something that came naturally. The new joy demanded effort. . . . It would be a lifelong task, requiring alert attention to the smallest detail, dedication, and unremitting effort; but as I listened to Dame Helen that day, I knew that it could be done.
It's interesting to see the way she finds space to hope in one of T.S. Eliot's bleakest poems. It's also remarkable that she interprets it the way she does: a life without God can be rendered coherent and whole through the "unremitting effort" of introspection. But most interesting of all is the almost ritual function of T.S. Eliot in this book (and in Armstrong's life) -- he is a focus for her ritual energy, while paradoxically serving as a figure of the fall from faith. The further paradox is that he later reversed, and defined himself as a believer, while Armstrong has never turned back.
Isaac Hayes live vs. The O'Jays live (also: Angie Stone, Biggie Smalls)
I'm starting to get slightly better at these concert shots from 50 yards away. Still, my man is more blurry than I would like him to be. If this is going to keep happening I either need to find a way to get closer, or get a telephoto lens.
In case you're wondering, he's 62, and he can still sing. I was very happy to have a chance to get to see him. Or not: I have to admit that, as much as the "Theme to Shaft" is a timeless masterpiece, a Double Classic with Cheese on Top, Isaac Hayes isn't really all that exciting. The rest of the songs are too slow, and the melodies too spread out to quite hold together. And no disco-kitsch; for a big free show where the person who is introducing you is the mayor of New Haven, Connecticut, you probably aren't doing Blaxploitation numbers like "Shaft," "Run Fay Run," or (the recent comedic classic from South Park) "Chocolate Salty Balls."
This free Isaac Hayes show was different from the free O'Jays show a few weeks ago. Isaac Hayes drew about 10,000 people, who brought lawn chairs, pizza, and beer. They behaved (last night) like an audience, sitting contentedly, chatting, occasionally applauding. The O'Jays had similar numbers, but people were live; they were standing up and dancing all over the place. The O'Jays crowd came in right before the show, kept circulating the whole time and then dispersed quickly; they behaved like a crowd (in the Elias Canetti sense).
The difference in the crowd's attitude probably has more than a little to do with the music, especially since Isaac Hayes and the O'Jays appeal to roughly the same demographic. If Isaac Hayes's staple is sleepy elegies like "Walk on by," the O'Jays, old as they are, still have a lot of danceable tunes ("Back Stabbers," "I"m a Girl Watcher," "Love Rollercoaster," and of course "Love Train").
(Side note: The O'Jays deserve an apology from Angie Stone for the way she ruined "Back Stabbers" with her song "Wish I Didn't Miss You"; I love you, Angie, but the beat to "Back Stabbers" is sacred. Same goes for Biggie Smalls' misuse of the Isley Brothers' "Between the Sheets." Everyone goes on and on about Biggie, but without the Isley Brothers behind "I love it when they call me Big Poppa," I don't think he would be standing where he is.)
But all of the above speculation on the danceable and the un- might be immaterial. I missed the end of the show; maybe Isaac Hayes did "Shaft" after all. And maybe everybody got on their feet and danced -- to the end of the 70s, to the end of youth, and to the end of the summer of 2004. I don't know; the local papers don't report such things.
Final thought: The sedateness of the "audience" at Isaac Hayes last night didn't stop people from doing crazy things and getting arrested -- after all, it is New Haven. I saw a bunch of guys getting dragged to the Paddy-wagon, and I saw a large group of teenage girls get into a pretty heavy fight at the corner of Chapel St. and Church St. There is a familiar misogynist gag about women fighting ("cat fight"), but when you actually see people fight like they mean it, there's no prurient interest. It's sad, and it's scary.
Four more India blogs
First, I should point to my friend Rajeev Muralidhar, who is a software engineer now working in Bangalore. But don't let the occupation fool you -- he's read more English lit than a lot of grad students I know. He has a helpful recent post on Edward Said's The Politics of Dispossession.
Then also Locana, who has written an interesting response to Amit Chaudhuri's piece in Outlook -- more on the Sanjay Subrahmaniam, Kuldip Nayer, Ashis Nandy debate on Indian secularism I have discussed earlier. (Reading this debate reminds me that sometimes you really do need social/political theory -- if only to find ways to move past the kinds of debates one can have about a complex issue in the newspaper. Nothing against Locana, but it seems the public debate is going in circles, especially over the issue of what is 'indigenous' to India, and what is imported/adapted).
Then Debonair, a DJ and grad student, I'm not sure exactly where. Melbourne? (I googled "Republika, Smith Street," and that seemed to be the most promising result.
Then, in case you've been hoping (as I have) that SACW would adopt the blog format, there is Communalism Watch. Then again, even Communalism Watch doesn't seem especially bloggy right now, as "Khaki Shorts" is simply pasting entire articles without commenting or interpreting them.
Then also Locana, who has written an interesting response to Amit Chaudhuri's piece in Outlook -- more on the Sanjay Subrahmaniam, Kuldip Nayer, Ashis Nandy debate on Indian secularism I have discussed earlier. (Reading this debate reminds me that sometimes you really do need social/political theory -- if only to find ways to move past the kinds of debates one can have about a complex issue in the newspaper. Nothing against Locana, but it seems the public debate is going in circles, especially over the issue of what is 'indigenous' to India, and what is imported/adapted).
Then Debonair, a DJ and grad student, I'm not sure exactly where. Melbourne? (I googled "Republika, Smith Street," and that seemed to be the most promising result.
Then, in case you've been hoping (as I have) that SACW would adopt the blog format, there is Communalism Watch. Then again, even Communalism Watch doesn't seem especially bloggy right now, as "Khaki Shorts" is simply pasting entire articles without commenting or interpreting them.
First week of teaching; course blogs
So my research leave has come to an end, and I'm back at Lehigh teaching this fall. The first week of classes is a doozy, as many other aca-bloggers will attest, and it's difficult to find time and energy to blog.
I am trying out course blogs for my two courses this fall. "Working With Texts" is a required, introduction to the major type course, geared at Lehigh sophomores. (I'm happy to see that a student has already posted something on Tennyson!)
And "The Spirits of Modernity" is a grad seminar on British modernism, which looks at questions of faith and doubt, religion and secularization in British modernism as well as in a little postcolonial literature (mainly The Satanic Verses). Authors include James Joyce (Ulysses), H.D., T.S. Eliot, E.M. Forster, James Wood, and Rushdie. We might also look at a bit of Karen Armstrong's The Spiral Staircase, a memoir about Armstrong's struggle with belief and doubt in a convent (yes, this is the same Karen Armstrong who has written a number of bestselling books on Islam).
Right now the idea is that I as well as my students will mainly post links to resources on the authors and concepts we're working on. It's experimental, so it will be a relatively small part of the grade of both classes (I'm curious to see if course blogging can result in some 'value-added' to the learning experience). I'm leaving it somewhat open right now to see if other uses for these blogs might emerge; I might become more directive as the term progresses.
Are others experimenting with course blogs? The main example I'm looking at is Chuck Tryon's "Rhetoric and Democracy" course blog, which is for a Freshman composition class focusing on the Presidential elections at Georgia Tech. But it is easier to define the use of a blog for a course about the elections than it is for courses that are primarily on reading literature; it's not like there's a new bit on CNN on Hilda Doolittle everyday.
I am trying out course blogs for my two courses this fall. "Working With Texts" is a required, introduction to the major type course, geared at Lehigh sophomores. (I'm happy to see that a student has already posted something on Tennyson!)
And "The Spirits of Modernity" is a grad seminar on British modernism, which looks at questions of faith and doubt, religion and secularization in British modernism as well as in a little postcolonial literature (mainly The Satanic Verses). Authors include James Joyce (Ulysses), H.D., T.S. Eliot, E.M. Forster, James Wood, and Rushdie. We might also look at a bit of Karen Armstrong's The Spiral Staircase, a memoir about Armstrong's struggle with belief and doubt in a convent (yes, this is the same Karen Armstrong who has written a number of bestselling books on Islam).
Right now the idea is that I as well as my students will mainly post links to resources on the authors and concepts we're working on. It's experimental, so it will be a relatively small part of the grade of both classes (I'm curious to see if course blogging can result in some 'value-added' to the learning experience). I'm leaving it somewhat open right now to see if other uses for these blogs might emerge; I might become more directive as the term progresses.
Are others experimenting with course blogs? The main example I'm looking at is Chuck Tryon's "Rhetoric and Democracy" course blog, which is for a Freshman composition class focusing on the Presidential elections at Georgia Tech. But it is easier to define the use of a blog for a course about the elections than it is for courses that are primarily on reading literature; it's not like there's a new bit on CNN on Hilda Doolittle everyday.
Short review of Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide
The Hungry Tide is the work of a novelist at the peak of his powers. It’s similar in style and tone to Ghosh’s overlooked masterpiece, The Glass Palace. But despite the similarities, its smaller scope and more limited range of characters makes it feel somewhat more accessible than the earlier book. Ghosh has managed to turn The Hungry Tide into a veritable page-turner -- beautifully controlled and plotted -- while sacrificing none his trademark historical sweep.
The Glass Palace (to review, or in case you missed it) is virtually an epic of southeast Asia – it simultaneously tells the story of: 1) the Indian National Army (i.e., Netaji, Subhas Chandra Bose) during the second world war; 2) the advent of modernity in Burma, including especially the role of the rubber and teak trades in British colonialism; and 3) the plight of Indian migrant workers in places such as Malaysia at a time of widespread displacement and general chaos. Each of these parallel sub-plots is essential to the novel's major conceptual plot, and the presence of each is the product of considerable research on the part of the novelist. Through juxtaposition, Ghosh suggests a number of compelling ties between Bengal and the rest of Southeast Asia. Through the novel, he makes a major claim for unifying modern Southeast Asian history -- a profoundly integrated Indian Ocean Basin. This broad scope, careful research, and attention to detail is unparalleled amongst Ghosh’s 'Indo-Anglian' peers. [Indo-Anglian meaning, Indian authors writing in English] Certainly, writers like Rushdie, Mistry, or Seth (though they each have considerable strengths), have never attempted to do quite what Ghosh does.
The Hungry Tide, in contrast, is geographically quite narrow -– it is limited to the Sunderban islands in the Bay of Bengal, and perhaps by extension Bengal. And it is also a bit conceptually more limited as well. Aside from the various intertwining character plots, it has only two conceptual plots. First, it explores the plight of displaced peoples (a familiar Ghosh theme), here specifically a group of refugees from Bangladesh who found themselves in a confrontation with the Indian state in 1979. The other conceptual question is how humans share a complex and dangerous ecosystem with animals (here, dolphins and tigers).
The dolphins are being studied by Piyali Roy, a marine biologist of Bengali descent who discovers some strange behavioral quirks amongst Irawaddy Dolphins in a tide pool while visiting the islands on a grant. And the Bay of Bengal is one of the only habitats where Bengal Tigers continue to live in the wild. They are zealously protected by various international environmental groups (who apply economic pressure on the Indian and Bangladeshi governments to maintain the tiger habitats by military force). But in the name of tiger preservation (or "reservation," we might say), human lives are threatened: the tigers routinely maul and often kill islanders. Though there are the obvious modern devices that might be used to protect the islanders, the state allows the deaths to continue. In the Sunderbans, Ghosh argues, human lives are valued somewhat lower than those of Tigers.
Sunderbans. Ghosh has an anthropologist’s fascination for the stories people tell -– the local mythologies that subvert the official religious and national versions of history. In several of his books there is a perspicacious investigation into the 'local reality', and with it, critiques of the official version of history. Here the local reality is that of the Sundarbans, a densely populated archipelago in the Bay of Bengal, which straddles Indian west Bengal and Bangladesh. The tide country people have an epic narrative of origins that they pass on orally. They have a kind of local religion – they worship a Goddess called Bon Bibi – but the epic of Bon Bibi is strongly inflected by Islamic influences. This kind of syncretism too will be familiar to Ghosh readers -- it is one of the central points of his In An Antique Land, a book that is a landmark in cross-cultural creative non-fiction.
The tide country is perhaps a relatively remote corner of Bengal. But it is also possible to see it as a separate region. The protagonist Kanai, a professional translator, is entrusted the notebooks of his deceased uncle, and comes across the following explicative passage:
One of Ghosh’s most persistent themes is of the ephemerality of concepts of national and ethnic identity. The multiplicity of names for the Sundarbans is a metaphor for that ephemerality. Another metaphor for ephemerality, albeit one which has a great deal of material heft behind it, is the fact that the land itself is inconstant –- subject to sometimes radical alterations as a result of late summer storms. Whole islands are washed away by the cyclones that sweep in with huge tidal surges. Thousands of human beings and animals routinely die in these storms.
Alongside these natural catastrophes are the man-made ones –- the storms of history, if you will. In Ghosh’s historically-engaged fiction, the two are effectively metaphors for each other. The beauty of the metaphor is the way it allows Ghosh to give shape and texture to (often forgotten) historical events that otherwise might seem inexplicable. But there is a danger in it too: the specific political actors and discourses that lead to events such as the massacre at Morichjhapi are downplayed. Ghosh’s view of history makes it impossible to render such atrocities as events that might have been avoided, or for which some historical responsibility might be assigned to particular actors.
BTW, the Outlook India review of The Hungry Tide (review by Alok Rai) is here. I have to admit, I find the review a little incomprehensible.
The Glass Palace (to review, or in case you missed it) is virtually an epic of southeast Asia – it simultaneously tells the story of: 1) the Indian National Army (i.e., Netaji, Subhas Chandra Bose) during the second world war; 2) the advent of modernity in Burma, including especially the role of the rubber and teak trades in British colonialism; and 3) the plight of Indian migrant workers in places such as Malaysia at a time of widespread displacement and general chaos. Each of these parallel sub-plots is essential to the novel's major conceptual plot, and the presence of each is the product of considerable research on the part of the novelist. Through juxtaposition, Ghosh suggests a number of compelling ties between Bengal and the rest of Southeast Asia. Through the novel, he makes a major claim for unifying modern Southeast Asian history -- a profoundly integrated Indian Ocean Basin. This broad scope, careful research, and attention to detail is unparalleled amongst Ghosh’s 'Indo-Anglian' peers. [Indo-Anglian meaning, Indian authors writing in English] Certainly, writers like Rushdie, Mistry, or Seth (though they each have considerable strengths), have never attempted to do quite what Ghosh does.
The Hungry Tide, in contrast, is geographically quite narrow -– it is limited to the Sunderban islands in the Bay of Bengal, and perhaps by extension Bengal. And it is also a bit conceptually more limited as well. Aside from the various intertwining character plots, it has only two conceptual plots. First, it explores the plight of displaced peoples (a familiar Ghosh theme), here specifically a group of refugees from Bangladesh who found themselves in a confrontation with the Indian state in 1979. The other conceptual question is how humans share a complex and dangerous ecosystem with animals (here, dolphins and tigers).
The dolphins are being studied by Piyali Roy, a marine biologist of Bengali descent who discovers some strange behavioral quirks amongst Irawaddy Dolphins in a tide pool while visiting the islands on a grant. And the Bay of Bengal is one of the only habitats where Bengal Tigers continue to live in the wild. They are zealously protected by various international environmental groups (who apply economic pressure on the Indian and Bangladeshi governments to maintain the tiger habitats by military force). But in the name of tiger preservation (or "reservation," we might say), human lives are threatened: the tigers routinely maul and often kill islanders. Though there are the obvious modern devices that might be used to protect the islanders, the state allows the deaths to continue. In the Sunderbans, Ghosh argues, human lives are valued somewhat lower than those of Tigers.
Sunderbans. Ghosh has an anthropologist’s fascination for the stories people tell -– the local mythologies that subvert the official religious and national versions of history. In several of his books there is a perspicacious investigation into the 'local reality', and with it, critiques of the official version of history. Here the local reality is that of the Sundarbans, a densely populated archipelago in the Bay of Bengal, which straddles Indian west Bengal and Bangladesh. The tide country people have an epic narrative of origins that they pass on orally. They have a kind of local religion – they worship a Goddess called Bon Bibi – but the epic of Bon Bibi is strongly inflected by Islamic influences. This kind of syncretism too will be familiar to Ghosh readers -- it is one of the central points of his In An Antique Land, a book that is a landmark in cross-cultural creative non-fiction.
The tide country is perhaps a relatively remote corner of Bengal. But it is also possible to see it as a separate region. The protagonist Kanai, a professional translator, is entrusted the notebooks of his deceased uncle, and comes across the following explicative passage:
There is no prettiness here to invite the stranger in: yet, to the world at large this archipelago is known as the Sundarban, which means, 'the beautiful forest.' There are some who believe the word to be derived from the name of a common species of mangrove—-the sundari tree, Heriteria minor. But the word’s origin is no easier to account for than is its presence prevalence, for in the record books of the Mughal emperors this region is named not in reference to a tree but to a tide –- bhati. And to the inhabitants of the islands this land is known as bhatir desh –- the tide country -– except that bhati is not just the "tide" but one tide in particular, the ebb-tide: it is only in falling that the water gives birth to the forest. To look upon this strange parturition, midwived by the moon, is to know why the name "tide country" is not just right but necessary.
One of Ghosh’s most persistent themes is of the ephemerality of concepts of national and ethnic identity. The multiplicity of names for the Sundarbans is a metaphor for that ephemerality. Another metaphor for ephemerality, albeit one which has a great deal of material heft behind it, is the fact that the land itself is inconstant –- subject to sometimes radical alterations as a result of late summer storms. Whole islands are washed away by the cyclones that sweep in with huge tidal surges. Thousands of human beings and animals routinely die in these storms.
Alongside these natural catastrophes are the man-made ones –- the storms of history, if you will. In Ghosh’s historically-engaged fiction, the two are effectively metaphors for each other. The beauty of the metaphor is the way it allows Ghosh to give shape and texture to (often forgotten) historical events that otherwise might seem inexplicable. But there is a danger in it too: the specific political actors and discourses that lead to events such as the massacre at Morichjhapi are downplayed. Ghosh’s view of history makes it impossible to render such atrocities as events that might have been avoided, or for which some historical responsibility might be assigned to particular actors.
BTW, the Outlook India review of The Hungry Tide (review by Alok Rai) is here. I have to admit, I find the review a little incomprehensible.
A couple of Ladakh photos; Bombay at night
A couple of photos from my Ladakh trip. The first one is from the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar rivers -- a spot called the "Sangam" (meeting):
And here is a shot from Pangong Lake, in eastern Ladakh. This area is only about 30 km (20 miles) from the border with China:
The lake is clear and blue; it's a remarkable sight in the midst of the barrenness of Ladakh. At about 15,000 feet above sea level, it's also quite cold. The army guys said the temperature is -2 degrees C -- possible because of the water's high salinity level.
Finally, a couple of photos of Bombay at night. This is a view of Chowpatty beach from Malabar Hill:
And one more. This is the Marine Drive "necklace":
In the distance you can see the Air India building and the Oberoi/Hilton Towers.
I have high resolution versions of all these photos that I can't post. If you'd like me to send one to you, let me know.
And here is a shot from Pangong Lake, in eastern Ladakh. This area is only about 30 km (20 miles) from the border with China:
The lake is clear and blue; it's a remarkable sight in the midst of the barrenness of Ladakh. At about 15,000 feet above sea level, it's also quite cold. The army guys said the temperature is -2 degrees C -- possible because of the water's high salinity level.
Finally, a couple of photos of Bombay at night. This is a view of Chowpatty beach from Malabar Hill:
And one more. This is the Marine Drive "necklace":
In the distance you can see the Air India building and the Oberoi/Hilton Towers.
I have high resolution versions of all these photos that I can't post. If you'd like me to send one to you, let me know.
Three more blogs.
I discovered these blogs in my Sitemeter. They link to me and have interesting blogs, so I thought I would return the favor:
Clemens, from Austria. He found my old review of Spirited Away -- not sure how, since it is low on the Google list.
Jeet Fisk Doh. I gather the blogger's name is Jeet, his/her purpose is to Fisk. D'oh.
Also, Kumar Pennathur has a blog which comments on some things I've written -- indeed, those are his very first posts. Maybe this is one of those "If this joker [Amardeep Singh] has a blog, I should have one too" types of deals:
Dork In Chief
If so, I am proud to have contributed in some small way to the birth of another great Desi fisker.
Clemens, from Austria. He found my old review of Spirited Away -- not sure how, since it is low on the Google list.
Jeet Fisk Doh. I gather the blogger's name is Jeet, his/her purpose is to Fisk. D'oh.
Also, Kumar Pennathur has a blog which comments on some things I've written -- indeed, those are his very first posts. Maybe this is one of those "If this joker [Amardeep Singh] has a blog, I should have one too" types of deals:
Dork In Chief
If so, I am proud to have contributed in some small way to the birth of another great Desi fisker.
New in India: 'Anytime' Blessings by ATM
The Hindustan Times reports that you can now leave 'anytime' blessings via ATM:
This is ICICI Bank, folks, one of the biggest in India.
My FIRST thought was, where is the Sikh version? I demand the secularization of Anytime Blessings technology!
My SECOND thought was, hmmm, this could work in the U.S. as well. Jews, Christians, and Tibetan Buddhists could also use it! Just think: automated Church collections, and you don't even have to leave your car. There could even be special "Godly" banks, where instead of charging the standard $1.50 per withdrawal fee, the Faithful are automatically Tithed! I am sure the Faithful would be able to sacrifice $5 or $6 everytime they withdrew. And the convenience would be unparalleled.
Unfortunately, Indian Americans would probably have to trek to Fremont, CA or Jackson Heights, New York, to give our automated 'props' to Lord Venkateshwara, the Golden Temple, Imam Ali, Aga Khan, Ahura Mazda, etc. Well, nothing more than we're used to.
My THIRD thought was, maybe people could also do marriages and divorces at ATMs. Why not? It would reduce the overhead of religious organizations if they could automate this key ritual. Critics might say, ATM marriages might make it easier members of the same sex to marry -- and we wouldn't want that to happen -- as a security camera can be fooled through a combination of wardrobe, make-up, and androgynous bone structure. But this is a non-issue if both parties are required to insert a major credit card prior to union, as they will surely be required to do. The camera may not know, but Visa knows!
Others might feel an ATM marriage is a rather cheap way to exchange sacred vows love and trust in perpetuity. After all, who wants to get married at a convenience store? Maybe this could be solved by placing special, decorative ATMs on or near the altars of select religious institutions. The need for live clergy is still reduced (cheaper Indian clergy could oversee and bless the proceedings remotely), and the happy couple feels it is getting its money's worth, as it were, in the ceremony.
Many banks now offer the 'anytime' customer the choice of getting divine blessings 'anytime' just by the click of a few buttons. So you can make an offering to Lord Venkateshwara at Tirupati, Lord Jagannath at Puri, Mata Vaishnodevi or any of the big temples in the country through conventional ATMs.
The Anytime Blessings (ATB) service comes in a customer friendly package which you can access from the options menu of your friendly neighborhood ATM.
You can select the temple of your choice from there and thereafter click the option indicating the service you want to perform. Then click to send in your remittances.
"You do not have to wait till you visit the shrine to make an offering. You can send money anytime to any of the big temples in the country for conducting sevas or as a fulfillment of your prayers and secure your favourite deity's blessings," said an ICICI Bank official.
"Not many are aware that they can donate to temples and even book their darshan tickets in advance through ATMs. While it will take some time for people get to know about it, it's already picking up with tech-savvy devotees and people using Internet banking," the official added.
This is ICICI Bank, folks, one of the biggest in India.
My FIRST thought was, where is the Sikh version? I demand the secularization of Anytime Blessings technology!
My SECOND thought was, hmmm, this could work in the U.S. as well. Jews, Christians, and Tibetan Buddhists could also use it! Just think: automated Church collections, and you don't even have to leave your car. There could even be special "Godly" banks, where instead of charging the standard $1.50 per withdrawal fee, the Faithful are automatically Tithed! I am sure the Faithful would be able to sacrifice $5 or $6 everytime they withdrew. And the convenience would be unparalleled.
Unfortunately, Indian Americans would probably have to trek to Fremont, CA or Jackson Heights, New York, to give our automated 'props' to Lord Venkateshwara, the Golden Temple, Imam Ali, Aga Khan, Ahura Mazda, etc. Well, nothing more than we're used to.
My THIRD thought was, maybe people could also do marriages and divorces at ATMs. Why not? It would reduce the overhead of religious organizations if they could automate this key ritual. Critics might say, ATM marriages might make it easier members of the same sex to marry -- and we wouldn't want that to happen -- as a security camera can be fooled through a combination of wardrobe, make-up, and androgynous bone structure. But this is a non-issue if both parties are required to insert a major credit card prior to union, as they will surely be required to do. The camera may not know, but Visa knows!
Others might feel an ATM marriage is a rather cheap way to exchange sacred vows love and trust in perpetuity. After all, who wants to get married at a convenience store? Maybe this could be solved by placing special, decorative ATMs on or near the altars of select religious institutions. The need for live clergy is still reduced (cheaper Indian clergy could oversee and bless the proceedings remotely), and the happy couple feels it is getting its money's worth, as it were, in the ceremony.
I would still give it a 'C'
I read this Suzy Hansen piece in the New York Times on sites that sell papers. Hansen went to a bunch of sites and ordered papers, including several on The Great Gatsby.
My first thought was, dang, I keep forgetting to use Turnitin.com. My second thought was, I would still give papers like the following (a pre-written paper purchased cheaply) a pretty low grade:
That is 'C' work at best in a Freshman classroom. It's true, however, that I would probably not suspect it of plagiarism (unless it got flagged on Turnitin), but then anyone who turned such a thing in would probably know better than to try it again after the paper came back.
What really worries me are the *custom* papers. They are likely to be rare, considering that a same-day, 5 page paper on Gatsby costs $250. But the sample she cites is pretty good:
Unless the contrast to the student's other work was really obvious, I probably wouldn't suspect this of plagiarism. The optimist in me would want to believe that the student had nailed the moral conundrum at the heart of Fitzgerald's novel, and had written about it in beautifully crisp, figurative language.
The most insightful line in the article is this one:
True. But I'm not shedding any tears for the plagiarizing students out there. Fie!
Incidentally, a great way to ward off all but the most pernicious "custom" paper is to come up with assignments that are very unusual. Or, if the assignment needs to be something straightforward for pedagogical reasons (like "do a close reading of a poem") one can eschew old chestnuts such as Keats's "Grecian Urn," in favor of something a little more obscure, like Randall Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner."
My first thought was, dang, I keep forgetting to use Turnitin.com. My second thought was, I would still give papers like the following (a pre-written paper purchased cheaply) a pretty low grade:
''Moreover, the fortune that Gatsby did amount was gained through criminal activities as he had experienced the finer things in life and wished to have a better social position, again he knew that this could only be gained through the status of wealth, in this way Gatsby sought to win the heart of the woman he had fallen in love with, Daisy.'' Faux-elegant words like ''whilst'' butt up against the jarringly conversational: ''Then Nick the narrator discovers who he is bang goes his secret.'' Bang! The paper becomes increasingly sloppy, mimicking the writing patterns of a tired and confused freshman.
That is 'C' work at best in a Freshman classroom. It's true, however, that I would probably not suspect it of plagiarism (unless it got flagged on Turnitin), but then anyone who turned such a thing in would probably know better than to try it again after the paper came back.
What really worries me are the *custom* papers. They are likely to be rare, considering that a same-day, 5 page paper on Gatsby costs $250. But the sample she cites is pretty good:
''Those who go from rags to riches don't find nirvana or some special land where they are immediately happy, content and removed from earthly worries. They, like Gatsby, find that the reality is that the world is still ugly . . . and that money and power just allow one to ignore those dichotomies a little bit easier.''
Unless the contrast to the student's other work was really obvious, I probably wouldn't suspect this of plagiarism. The optimist in me would want to believe that the student had nailed the moral conundrum at the heart of Fitzgerald's novel, and had written about it in beautifully crisp, figurative language.
The most insightful line in the article is this one:
So if you're a cheap cheat, your paper will be shoddy, but believable. If you're willing to dig deep for the custom-written papers, you might raise eyebrows. What a bind.
True. But I'm not shedding any tears for the plagiarizing students out there. Fie!
Incidentally, a great way to ward off all but the most pernicious "custom" paper is to come up with assignments that are very unusual. Or, if the assignment needs to be something straightforward for pedagogical reasons (like "do a close reading of a poem") one can eschew old chestnuts such as Keats's "Grecian Urn," in favor of something a little more obscure, like Randall Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner."
A Review of Hari Kunzru's Transmission
The Viral Qualities of Hindi Cinema: A Review of Hari Kunzru's Transmission
This novel is not quite satire -- satire implies a clear object an author wishes to mock or demystify. And while there are some satirical objects in some of Transmission’s subplots, especially relating to multinational corporations and Hindi cinema, the same cannot be said for the novel's protagonist, an alienated software programmer named Arjun K. Mehta. Mehta’s basic story is a familiar one: he finds his way from a second-rate technical university in India to an exploitative ‘bodyshop’ working arrangement in the Bay Area (one of Kunzru’s other characters calls it a “slave visa”), and then later in Washington State.
Nothing to laugh about. Kunzru isn’t quite sure what to do with Mehta. On the one hand, he is questioning what is in many ways a false promise to which a great many Indian engineers remain susceptible -– the dream of working in Silicon Valley. The pay isn’t all that great after you consider rent, car payments, cell phone bills, as well as periodic plane fare to and from India. Also, dealing with the Department of Homeland Security to try and keep one’s visa straight is a dehumanizing, time-consuming, and expensive process. [A friend of mine -– a successful engineer working on the west coast –- is in the process of moving to Canada to avoid the American immigration process.] And worst of all, most of the legendary west coast IT companies have been, since 2001, hanging onto their positions by a thread. It’s quite possible that a job that seems almost like a gift might quickly evaporate, as more than 100,000 have done since the boom days of the IT revolution. Only some of those jobs have "gone to India"; many are just gone. Not much material for comedy there.
When in doubt, make fun of corrupt corporate stooges. When you’re not sure what to do with your protagonist, what do you do? Kill him off or make him go crazy, and shift the burden of narration to someone else. Kunzru opts for the latter. As a result, the Mehta plot begins to dry up, and the novelist is forced to shift his attention to Guy Swift, a fast-talking British executive, whose marketing company is on the rocks. Here Kunzru’s target is easier, and he readily satirizes the rich (and ripe) world of Corporate-speak through Guy, who is very concerned about his bank account, as well as Guy’s girlfriend Gabriella Caro, who appears not to be concerned with much at all. The corporate-speak parody in particular is quite good -- worthy of being quoted at some length. Guy Swift’s marketing agency is called Tomorrow*, and Kunzru cleverly barnstorms through a discourse that is part New Age psychobabble and part entrepreneurial self-promotion:
Note to any new age entrepreneurs who may be reading this: "making work fun and fun work" is a sure recipe for a quick fall into bankruptcy.
Kunzru also scores a hit when, much later in the novel, he has Guy Swift do a pitch with European Border Authority officials in Belgium. The merger of Brand-speak with the discourse of citizenship leads to some priceless zingers – beneath which is (and Kunzru is aware of this) the specter of a new fascism, to which information technology is by no means immune.
And even better, a few pages later:
The idea of “rebranding” Europe an “upscale” continent is funny. But in a way (judging by some propaganda I was recently exposed to in the airport at Zurich) it’s true. Velvet ropes, ID at the door, obscenely long lines, punishing bouncers, expensive drinks -- the thought of modeling national identity on the image of a posh nightclub is a truly terrifying image. (Perhaps Kunzru might do more with it.)
Hindi cinema. Let me also offer a great comic passage that explains Arjun’s fascination with Hindi cinema. Here Kunzru is at his sharpest, and he manages to pack quite a bit into a single paragraph, both in terms of content and tone:
Kunzru is onto something here. The obsession with “love” is a strange aspect of Indian popular culture, explicable through the prevalence of propagandistic media (popular music and film) as well as anthropological particularities (alluded to in Kunzru’s comments about family structure and late capitalism). And yet love (Prem, Pyaar, Dil, Mohabbat, Ishq, Aashiqana, and a vast array of related film-song concepts) is of course always something more than any mere ideology, anatomy, or ethnography can ever describe. It is, truly, a conundrum from which there is perhaps no escape -– and perhaps none wanted, except for by truly bitter curmudgeons amongst us. It may be correct to say, in a scientific temper, that love is a lie. But it is essentially a victimless lie. Kunzru is in my view absolutely right that when Marxists talk about unsentimentally about love, no one listens. (Everyone is too busy humming along to "pyaar kiya to darna kya?")
At his best, Kunzru’s facility with language -– especially the internal jargon of various professional subcultures –- gives him ample material for satire. As I hope the examples above illustrate, there are some great stand-alone comic moments. But such transcendent passages are unfortunately yoked to a rather predictable plot. The second half of Transmission is only a workaday high-tech thriller, albeit one that falls a bit short on thrills. Either one approaches the novel as a fishing expedition, where the goal is to find the good bits –- a depressing exercise akin to sampling a store-bought CD for the playable tracks –- or one asks Kunzru to simply filter and edit it all down to say, three short stories for The New Yorker. Neither is quite satisfying.
This novel is not quite satire -- satire implies a clear object an author wishes to mock or demystify. And while there are some satirical objects in some of Transmission’s subplots, especially relating to multinational corporations and Hindi cinema, the same cannot be said for the novel's protagonist, an alienated software programmer named Arjun K. Mehta. Mehta’s basic story is a familiar one: he finds his way from a second-rate technical university in India to an exploitative ‘bodyshop’ working arrangement in the Bay Area (one of Kunzru’s other characters calls it a “slave visa”), and then later in Washington State.
Nothing to laugh about. Kunzru isn’t quite sure what to do with Mehta. On the one hand, he is questioning what is in many ways a false promise to which a great many Indian engineers remain susceptible -– the dream of working in Silicon Valley. The pay isn’t all that great after you consider rent, car payments, cell phone bills, as well as periodic plane fare to and from India. Also, dealing with the Department of Homeland Security to try and keep one’s visa straight is a dehumanizing, time-consuming, and expensive process. [A friend of mine -– a successful engineer working on the west coast –- is in the process of moving to Canada to avoid the American immigration process.] And worst of all, most of the legendary west coast IT companies have been, since 2001, hanging onto their positions by a thread. It’s quite possible that a job that seems almost like a gift might quickly evaporate, as more than 100,000 have done since the boom days of the IT revolution. Only some of those jobs have "gone to India"; many are just gone. Not much material for comedy there.
When in doubt, make fun of corrupt corporate stooges. When you’re not sure what to do with your protagonist, what do you do? Kill him off or make him go crazy, and shift the burden of narration to someone else. Kunzru opts for the latter. As a result, the Mehta plot begins to dry up, and the novelist is forced to shift his attention to Guy Swift, a fast-talking British executive, whose marketing company is on the rocks. Here Kunzru’s target is easier, and he readily satirizes the rich (and ripe) world of Corporate-speak through Guy, who is very concerned about his bank account, as well as Guy’s girlfriend Gabriella Caro, who appears not to be concerned with much at all. The corporate-speak parody in particular is quite good -- worthy of being quoted at some length. Guy Swift’s marketing agency is called Tomorrow*, and Kunzru cleverly barnstorms through a discourse that is part New Age psychobabble and part entrepreneurial self-promotion:
Tomorrow*, as Guy liked to remind visitors, was not so much an agency as an experiment in life-work balance. Guy’s stated commitment to his staff was to provide an environment that fostered creativity and innovation, while spurring them on to excellence—an environment that made work fun and fun work. . . . In return for Guy’s commitment to them, around eighty people were at that very momen balancing life and work by researching, auditing, analyzing, conceptualizing, quanfitying and qualifying, visualizing, editing, mixing and montaging, arranging, presenting, discussing, and all the other activities that Guy liked to group under the general heading getting one’s hands dirty at the brandface, by which he meant convincing people to channel their emotions, relationships and sense of self through the purchase of products and services.
Note to any new age entrepreneurs who may be reading this: "making work fun and fun work" is a sure recipe for a quick fall into bankruptcy.
Kunzru also scores a hit when, much later in the novel, he has Guy Swift do a pitch with European Border Authority officials in Belgium. The merger of Brand-speak with the discourse of citizenship leads to some priceless zingers – beneath which is (and Kunzru is aware of this) the specter of a new fascism, to which information technology is by no means immune.
'What my team has come to realize is that in the twenty-first century, the border is not juset a line on the earth anymore. It’s so much more than that. It’s about status. It’s about opportunity. Sure, you’re either inside or outside, but you can be on the inside and still be outside, right? Or on the outside looking in. Anyway, like we say in one of our slides, ‘the border is everywhere. The border,’ and this is key, ‘is in your mind.’ Obviously from a marketing point of view a mental border is a plus, because a mental border is a value and a value is something we can promote. . . . Citizenship is about being one of the gang, or as we like to say at Tomorrow*, ‘in with the in crowd.'
And even better, a few pages later:
‘Well, we have to promote Europe as somewhere you want to go, but somewhere that’s not for everyone. A continent that wants people, but only the best. An exclusive continent. An upscale continent. And our big idea is to use the metaphorics of leisure to underscore that message. . . . Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome to Club Europa – the world’s VIP room.’
The idea of “rebranding” Europe an “upscale” continent is funny. But in a way (judging by some propaganda I was recently exposed to in the airport at Zurich) it’s true. Velvet ropes, ID at the door, obscenely long lines, punishing bouncers, expensive drinks -- the thought of modeling national identity on the image of a posh nightclub is a truly terrifying image. (Perhaps Kunzru might do more with it.)
Hindi cinema. Let me also offer a great comic passage that explains Arjun’s fascination with Hindi cinema. Here Kunzru is at his sharpest, and he manages to pack quite a bit into a single paragraph, both in terms of content and tone:
Pyaar. Pyaar. Pyaar. Throughout South Asia you can’t get away from it. Perhaps the rise of Love has something to do with cinema, or independence from the British or globalization or the furtive observation of backpacking couples by a generation of yuoung people who suddenly realized it was possible to grope one another without the sky falling on their heads. There are those who say Love is just immorality. There are those who believe it is encouraged by amplified disco music. There are even those who claim that the decline in arranged marriage and the cultural encouragement of its replacement by free-choice pair-bonding are connected with the obsolescence of the extended family in late capitalism, but since this is tantamount to saying that Love can be reduced to Money, no one listens. In India (the most disco nation on earth) Love is a glittery madness, and obsession, broadcast like the words of a dictator from every paan stall and rickshaw stand, every transistor radio and billboard and TV tower. While Arjun tried to concentrate on public key cryptography or Hungarian naming convention, it kept knocking on his bedroom door like an irritating kid sister.
Kunzru is onto something here. The obsession with “love” is a strange aspect of Indian popular culture, explicable through the prevalence of propagandistic media (popular music and film) as well as anthropological particularities (alluded to in Kunzru’s comments about family structure and late capitalism). And yet love (Prem, Pyaar, Dil, Mohabbat, Ishq, Aashiqana, and a vast array of related film-song concepts) is of course always something more than any mere ideology, anatomy, or ethnography can ever describe. It is, truly, a conundrum from which there is perhaps no escape -– and perhaps none wanted, except for by truly bitter curmudgeons amongst us. It may be correct to say, in a scientific temper, that love is a lie. But it is essentially a victimless lie. Kunzru is in my view absolutely right that when Marxists talk about unsentimentally about love, no one listens. (Everyone is too busy humming along to "pyaar kiya to darna kya?")
At his best, Kunzru’s facility with language -– especially the internal jargon of various professional subcultures –- gives him ample material for satire. As I hope the examples above illustrate, there are some great stand-alone comic moments. But such transcendent passages are unfortunately yoked to a rather predictable plot. The second half of Transmission is only a workaday high-tech thriller, albeit one that falls a bit short on thrills. Either one approaches the novel as a fishing expedition, where the goal is to find the good bits –- a depressing exercise akin to sampling a store-bought CD for the playable tracks –- or one asks Kunzru to simply filter and edit it all down to say, three short stories for The New Yorker. Neither is quite satisfying.
Lehigh Ranked #37: U.S. News
Lehigh continues to climb incrementally on the U.S. News rankings. This year Lehigh's ranking is 37 out of 250.
Lehigh benefits from a very good student-teacher ratio, has a good endowment, and SAT scores that have been inching up in recent years. SAT scores will likely come and go, but the student-teacher ratio is probably one of Lehigh's biggest long-term advantages. Lehigh is private and small -- in terms of size, it probably has more in common with Liberal Arts Colleges like Mt. Holyoke or Lafayette, than with the giants it is currently compared to, like Penn State, Rutgers, Indiana, and UIUC. Lehigh gets put on the main list with those big "Research I" universities because it offers a number of Ph.D. programs (including one in English). There's still a bit of a grey zone: I'm not sure why Lehigh is counted as a research university while schools like Bucknell or Colgate (both technically "universities") are counted as LACs.
Another question comes up. Are we really better than:
The answer is 'yes,' if you're looking for good student-teacher ratios, retention and graduation rates, and research money (mainly in the sciences and engineering). But, it might be arguable if you're looking for things that U.S. News isn't interested in, such as 1) the size of the library, 2) breadth of offerings, or 3) name-recognition. The one I pay most attention to is breadth of offerings, since that is the most easily remedied: you currently can't take Hindi at Lehigh, and Arabic is available -- at the beginner level only -- through a consortium program; the classics department is one person; there's no linguistics; and there's no dedicated art history major. All stuff that can be improved!
Lehigh benefits from a very good student-teacher ratio, has a good endowment, and SAT scores that have been inching up in recent years. SAT scores will likely come and go, but the student-teacher ratio is probably one of Lehigh's biggest long-term advantages. Lehigh is private and small -- in terms of size, it probably has more in common with Liberal Arts Colleges like Mt. Holyoke or Lafayette, than with the giants it is currently compared to, like Penn State, Rutgers, Indiana, and UIUC. Lehigh gets put on the main list with those big "Research I" universities because it offers a number of Ph.D. programs (including one in English). There's still a bit of a grey zone: I'm not sure why Lehigh is counted as a research university while schools like Bucknell or Colgate (both technically "universities") are counted as LACs.
Another question comes up. Are we really better than:
41. Georgia Institute of Technology *
42. University of California – Davis *
43. Tulane University (LA)
University of California – Irvine *
45. Univ. of California – Santa Barbara *
46. Rensselaer Polytechnic Inst. (NY)
University of Texas – Austin *
University of Washington *
Yeshiva University (NY)
50. Pennsylvania State U. – University Park *
University of Florida *
52. George Washington University (DC)
The answer is 'yes,' if you're looking for good student-teacher ratios, retention and graduation rates, and research money (mainly in the sciences and engineering). But, it might be arguable if you're looking for things that U.S. News isn't interested in, such as 1) the size of the library, 2) breadth of offerings, or 3) name-recognition. The one I pay most attention to is breadth of offerings, since that is the most easily remedied: you currently can't take Hindi at Lehigh, and Arabic is available -- at the beginner level only -- through a consortium program; the classics department is one person; there's no linguistics; and there's no dedicated art history major. All stuff that can be improved!
Free entertainment: Los Hombres Calientes and Richard III (Speech Act Theory)
Like most east coast towns, New Haven is pretty dead in August. One nice exception is that there is plenty of free outdoor entertainment happening.
Last week we were fortunate to catch the tail end (last 45 minutes) of Los Hombres Calientes on the New Haven Green (part of the New Haven Jazz Festival). I have known about the Hombres, a Latin Jazz band from New Orleans, since I first heard their CD New Congo Square when I was a DJ at WXDU. What surprised me live was how young the band members were; when one thinks of Latin Jazz, one thinks of people in their 60s and 70s. And while bandmembers Irvin Mayfield and Bill Summers are getting up there, the band as a whole seemed pretty young. The youth aspect pays off -- Los Hombres Calientes are lively, entertaining, and not at all parochial about what they're doing. My favorite song is "Foforo Fo Firi" from the New Congo Square. You can hear a sample of it on the Basin Street Records website linked above.
Even better, last night we saw Elm Shakespeare's outdoor production of Shakespeare's Richard III at Edgerton Park. It completely exceeded my expectations of a free outdoor play, both in terms of the technical production (they've transported a huge set and sound/light gear to the park) and the acting. I think Richard and Queen Elizabeth, the two key roles, were played especially well -- Richard's darkness and Elizabeth's rage both came across loud and clear. (If any of my New Haven people are reading this, go see it.)
I've never sat down and read Richard III, and the last version of it I saw was the Ian McKellen film version from 1995. There the cutting was so dramatic that it resulted in continuity problems; the film looked nice, but there wasn't enough by way of context and backstory for it to hold together. All I walked away with was: Richard as Hitler! Richard as Hitler! Here the draumaturgist did a better job -- somehow they managed to keep the play at 2 hours, and yet keep many key soliloquys and side-plots.
One fascinating aspect in the text of the play is Margaret's curse of first Elizabeth and then Richard in Act I, Scene III:
One doesn't quite understand the depth of this venom until later in the play, when everything Margaret, the fallen Queen (from Henry VI, pt. 3), calls for comes to pass.
And then onto Richard:
Richard (identified here by his title as Gloucester) tries to disrupt Margaret's curse, and even plays a little rhetorical game: 'Is all this addressed to me?' Margaret seems momentarily confused ("I call thee not"), but then recovers, and demands the right to seal her curse. Richard and Elizabeth try to annul the venom by playing with the addresser and addressee ("Tis done by me and ends in 'Margaret.'").
But what they don't realize is that, again, Margaret's curse has the force of law. Diddling with it the way Richard does (he's trying to find its "infelicities," as J.L Austin would put it) doesn't lessen its actual illocutionary force. In effect, though she's addressing him as she curses, her curse is directed not at him but above him, at the audience (and at God -- this play is full of references to God). So while Richard has to be physically present for the curse to take effect, his acceptance of its terms is unimportant. Margaret is effectively signing a contract with the audience over Richard's fate. In short, Margaret is saying something to the effect of, "Fine, if that's what you want, I'm not cursing you. I'm telling God to curse you."
As the drift of these fragmentary musings suggests, it might be interesting to teach this play in the context of a unit on Speech Act Theory.
Last week we were fortunate to catch the tail end (last 45 minutes) of Los Hombres Calientes on the New Haven Green (part of the New Haven Jazz Festival). I have known about the Hombres, a Latin Jazz band from New Orleans, since I first heard their CD New Congo Square when I was a DJ at WXDU. What surprised me live was how young the band members were; when one thinks of Latin Jazz, one thinks of people in their 60s and 70s. And while bandmembers Irvin Mayfield and Bill Summers are getting up there, the band as a whole seemed pretty young. The youth aspect pays off -- Los Hombres Calientes are lively, entertaining, and not at all parochial about what they're doing. My favorite song is "Foforo Fo Firi" from the New Congo Square. You can hear a sample of it on the Basin Street Records website linked above.
Even better, last night we saw Elm Shakespeare's outdoor production of Shakespeare's Richard III at Edgerton Park. It completely exceeded my expectations of a free outdoor play, both in terms of the technical production (they've transported a huge set and sound/light gear to the park) and the acting. I think Richard and Queen Elizabeth, the two key roles, were played especially well -- Richard's darkness and Elizabeth's rage both came across loud and clear. (If any of my New Haven people are reading this, go see it.)
I've never sat down and read Richard III, and the last version of it I saw was the Ian McKellen film version from 1995. There the cutting was so dramatic that it resulted in continuity problems; the film looked nice, but there wasn't enough by way of context and backstory for it to hold together. All I walked away with was: Richard as Hitler! Richard as Hitler! Here the draumaturgist did a better job -- somehow they managed to keep the play at 2 hours, and yet keep many key soliloquys and side-plots.
One fascinating aspect in the text of the play is Margaret's curse of first Elizabeth and then Richard in Act I, Scene III:
Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?
Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!
If not by war, by surfeit die your king,
As ours by murder, to make him a king!
Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales,
For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales,
Die in his youth by like untimely violence!
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long mayst thou live to wail thy children's loss;
And see another, as I see thee now,
Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death;
And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!
Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by,
And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son
Was stabb'd with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,
That none of you may live your natural age,
But by some unlook'd accident cut off!
One doesn't quite understand the depth of this venom until later in the play, when everything Margaret, the fallen Queen (from Henry VI, pt. 3), calls for comes to pass.
And then onto Richard:
MARGARET: If heaven have any grievous plague in store
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity
The slave of nature and the son of hell!
Thou slander of thy mother's heavy womb!
Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!
Thou rag of honour! thou detested --
GLOUCESTER: Margaret.
QUEEN MARGARET: Richard!
GLOUCESTER: Ha!
QUEEN MARGARET: I call thee not.
GLOUCESTER: I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought
That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.
QUEEN MARGARET: Why, so I did; but look'd for no reply.
O, let me make the period to my curse!
GLOUCESTER: 'Tis done by me, and ends in 'Margaret.'
QUEEN ELIZABETH: Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.
Richard (identified here by his title as Gloucester) tries to disrupt Margaret's curse, and even plays a little rhetorical game: 'Is all this addressed to me?' Margaret seems momentarily confused ("I call thee not"), but then recovers, and demands the right to seal her curse. Richard and Elizabeth try to annul the venom by playing with the addresser and addressee ("Tis done by me and ends in 'Margaret.'").
But what they don't realize is that, again, Margaret's curse has the force of law. Diddling with it the way Richard does (he's trying to find its "infelicities," as J.L Austin would put it) doesn't lessen its actual illocutionary force. In effect, though she's addressing him as she curses, her curse is directed not at him but above him, at the audience (and at God -- this play is full of references to God). So while Richard has to be physically present for the curse to take effect, his acceptance of its terms is unimportant. Margaret is effectively signing a contract with the audience over Richard's fate. In short, Margaret is saying something to the effect of, "Fine, if that's what you want, I'm not cursing you. I'm telling God to curse you."
As the drift of these fragmentary musings suggests, it might be interesting to teach this play in the context of a unit on Speech Act Theory.
Kakutani takes down Mukherjee's "The Tree Bride"
I sincerely hope I never write a book that is reviewed this negatively by Michiko Kakutani. Still, can even this disdainful dis -- a piledriver from the third rope -- stop Bharati Mukherjee from writing more?
My enjoyment of this just goes to show, one should be careful moralizing about negative reviewing. When it's warranted, hostile reviewing makes for a very entertaining tamasha. The highlight is the following (a slow build-up):
Stilted! Strained! Swollen! Ungainly! Inconsistent! Her most maladroit yet! Completely preposterous! Well, it probably won't too long before we see this one in the 'remaindered' bin with the other eight Mukherjee novels.
By the way, books by Indian authors with references to: marriage, arranged marriages, brides, henna, masala, mangos, curry, and chutney in the title should be immediately and permanently banned. (References to Hindu Gods might be ok, but only if a hefty tax is imposed.)
My enjoyment of this just goes to show, one should be careful moralizing about negative reviewing. When it's warranted, hostile reviewing makes for a very entertaining tamasha. The highlight is the following (a slow build-up):
Where "Desirable Daughters" gracefully limned the hidden sympathies and dissonances within a family, "The Tree Bride" strains to draw tangential connections between Tara and an assortment of historical figures she never knew. There are long, stilted descriptions of life in India under the Raj, and even longer, more stilted descriptions of the imperial sins committed by the British.
The author's aim, presumably, is to show the ripple effect that history can have on individuals, to show the patterns of love and betrayal and redemption that are repeated generation to generation. The point Ms. Mukherjee wants to make reverses the points she's made in earlier novels. This time she suggests that the freedom to begin a new life, offered by America, will always be circumscribed by familial imperatives, by religious and cultural tropes and by more primeval, subterranean forces that her characters like to think of as fate.
None of these grand ambitions are fulfilled in this swollen, ungainly novel. Ms. Mukherjee's efforts to widen her canvas from the personal to the political, from the private to the historical, result in her most maladroit novel yet.
Plot has never been one of Ms. Mukherjee's stronger gifts, and the story line of this novel is particularly preposterous.
Stilted! Strained! Swollen! Ungainly! Inconsistent! Her most maladroit yet! Completely preposterous! Well, it probably won't too long before we see this one in the 'remaindered' bin with the other eight Mukherjee novels.
By the way, books by Indian authors with references to: marriage, arranged marriages, brides, henna, masala, mangos, curry, and chutney in the title should be immediately and permanently banned. (References to Hindu Gods might be ok, but only if a hefty tax is imposed.)
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