A well-phrased dig

From Grant Gilmore’s 1974 Storrs lectures at Yale, in reference to a 19th-century dean of Harvard Law School: “Langdell seems to have been an essentially stupid man who, early in his life, hit on one great idea to which, thereafter, he clung with all the tenacity of genius.”

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What Woolf’s ‘The Waves’ Says About Anders Behring Breivik

Brian–

Your mention of the Norway attacks reminds me of something I’d meant to post a while ago. I finished Virginia Woolf’s The Waves just a few days before I was called over to Oslo. I was very much taken with it. It’s one of those rare books where the formal experimentation seems essential to the work, placing it on par with Ulysses and Lowry’s Under the Volcano. It’s written as a series of interwoven, cycling (in the manner of waves) soliloquies spoken by six characters whom we follow from childhood to apparent late-middle or old age. In between the spoken sections are brief one- to two-page descriptions of a beach, with each section moving us through the changing nature of the waves over the course of a day, with occasional departures to other geographies. I’d read most of it while on Cape Cod at the start of July. But I’d wanted to save the last section, when all save one character—Bernard, the story-teller always searching for phrases to use in the stories he will never write, leaving him a failed story-teller in his mind though surely a successful story-teller in the mind of the reader—fall silent. The section is long and uninterrupted as Bernard alone, like Molly Bloom at the end of Ulysses, recounts the latter years of the other five and the sixth, Percival, who never speaks yet whose shadow falls across the entirety of the novel.

I’d meant to post something about The Waves after I finished it, but the trip to Oslo got in the way. While over there, I had to read something distinctly less enjoyable—the 1,500 or so pages of the manifesto the Norway killer or terrorist or whatever you want to call him, Anders Behring Breivik, e-mailed to hundreds of people shortly before embarking on his rampage or terrorist attack (It was both of course, though incredibly but not surprisingly the preferred phrasing in the news media turned from terrorism to mass murder almost as soon as the killer’s identity and, I suspect, ethnicity/political leanings became known.) Reading the manifesto and thinking about the man who wrote most of it, detached and in a kind of self-imposed exile from the rest of humanity, left me thinking Woolf’s experiment, interweaving the soliloquies of six friends to tell their collective and individual stories, truly was a success in articulating a theory of self and, more precisely, a theory of the development of self. An identity, after all, can be thought of as a kind of running monologue, spoken inwardly and sometimes outwardly and—this is the important part—often interrupted, called into question or affirmed, by encounters with other people, with the stories the people we care about tell, even if we only ever hear snatches of those stories. We revisit our own soliloquies constantly because of them, and we revise what we’ve said. That process can be thought of, helpfully, as wave-like. If the story of the self is a wave, its constantly circulating. Breivik’s secrecy and total inward turn left the story he told himself about himself without interruptions. He talked to friends and family in the years he spent plotting his attack. But read his manifesto, and you’ll see he’d stopped hearing what they said.  His wave, all ebb and no flow, built to a tsunami. Nobody noticed the drawback till it was too late.

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A thought on the Norway killings

If there is one thing that the Norway mass-murder catastrophe made me aware of, it is this: evildoers don’t think of themselves as evildoers. They think of themselves as idealists.

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Godard in 1967 presages the House Republicans

From Weekend (1967):

I said to myself, what is the good of talking to them? If they buy knowledge, it’s only to resell it. They want knowledge to sell at a profit. They want nothing which would stand in the way of their victory. They don’t want to be oppressed; they want to oppress. They don’t want progress, they want to be first. They’ll submit to anyone who promises they can make the laws. I wondered what I could say of them. I decided it was that.

 

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Ian in Norway covering shooting aftermath

Just a quick word to readers to say that, although Ian left the AP staff a month ago, he flew to Oslo on Friday (where he was once the AP’s Norway reporter) to help cover the aftermath of the shootings.  In my opinion, the AP reporting seems to be leading the pack on this story, and Ian is presumably a big part of the reason for that.

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Naphtha beguiles

In his poem “Naphtha,” Frank O’Hara catalogs the 20th century from the perspective of the mid-century. (I’m not sure exactly when the poem was written; O’Hara died in 1966, so sometime in the 1950s or 1960s.) It’s a century of chemicals in which naphtha is due a poem. It’s a century that “can be” “wonderful,” evidence for which O’Hara finds in imagining Jean Dubuffet—the art brut painter—stationed with the French military atop the Eiffel Tower in 1922. It’s a century “invented” by the Iroquois who built the skyscrapers and other, presumably Western tribes “with their horses/and their fragile backs/which are dark” that the U.S. government finally brought to their knees to get the 20th century underway. It’s a century that “we”—the deep-feeling poets and painters with which O’Hara surrounded himself, surely, but also any number of other classes of “we” that O’Hara could fit himself into—waited “to become part of” at least partly at the Paris (presumably) Métro, where “we” were alone and abandoned by “the one who didn’t show up there.” Finally, it’s a century O’Hara, who’s never far from the “I” in his poems, is “ashamed of/for being so entertaining.” “But,” the poem concludes, “I have to smile.”

While that smile’s not exactly as enigmatic as Mona Lisa’s, it’s meaning is mysterious, or at least manifold. What’s he smiling about anyway? As he surveys the 20th century, he’s smiling about a lot of things, I think it’s safe to say. There’s sadness, pleasure, loss, gain, bemusement, and amusement, at an almost endless flow of new things, like art brut. And for each reaction, for each new thing, there’s a reason to smile—sadly, happily, and so forth. Because O’Hara gives us no adverb, we’re left to assume every applicable adverb.

One thing O’Hara ought to be  smiling about has nothing to do with the century per se and everything to do with the verb to beguile. At the end of the second stanza, where the poem is poised to segue from a survey of the 20th century to the personal and intimate, resulting in shame and a smile, O’Hara writes “it is our tribe’s custom/to beguile.” Like the smile, we’re not sure exactly what O’Hara means here. Does he mean “it is our tribe’s custom” to deceive by cunning? (The Iroquois might argue for this one.) To use its charm and wily ways to get something desired? To create pleasant diversions to make the time—the inexorable and precise clockwork time of the 20th century, with its wristwatches—pass more happily than it would otherwise? The word “beguile” leaves who’s in “our tribe” about as unclear as is the “we” who waited to become part of the century.

And that’s as it should be. The poem succeeds, to a significant extent, because it makes the social or sociological personal. Any reader, practically, can be part of “our tribe,” part of “we.” Or at least any reader can wonder whether he or she is included. In the end, it doesn’t matter—the poem, in the third and final stanza, will address the reader all the same:

how are you feeling in ancient September
I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway
how can you
you were made in the image of god
I was not
I was made in the image of a sissy truck-driver
and Jean Dubuffet painting his cows
“with a likeness burst in the memory”

Without a clear interlocutor, the reader becomes O’Hara’s “you.” Here you are, thinking about the 20th century with him. And that’s why the last lines—some of the best in poetry, I think—have the effect they do. The reader’s complicit in the 20th century. Even now, in the 21st century, a reader, at least an American reader, can feel that O’Hara’s poem has something to tell him or her. In most of the important ways, things haven’t changed much, after all. And so

apart from love (don’t say it)
I am ashamed of my century
for being so entertaining
but I have to smile

“Naphtha” in full, for reference:

Naphtha

Ah Jean Dubuffet
when you think of him
doing his military service in the Eiffel Tower
as a meteorologist
in 1922
you know how wonderful the 20th Century
can be
and the gaited Iroquois on the girders
fierce and unflinching-footed
nude as they should be
slightly empty
like a Sonia Delaunay
there is a parable of speed
somewhere behind the Indians’ eyes
they invented the century with their horses
and their fragile backs
which are dark

we owe a debt to the Iroquois
and to Duke Ellington
for playing in the buildings when they are built
we don’t do much ourselves
but fuck and think
of the haunting Métro
and the one who didn’t show up there
while we were waiting to become part of our century
just as you can’t make a hat out of steel
and still wear it
who wears hats anyway
it is our tribe’s custom
to beguile

how are you feeling in ancient September
I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway
how can you
you were made in the image of god
I was not
I was made in the image of a sissy truck-driver
and Jean Dubuffet painting his cows
“with a likeness burst in the memory”
apart from love (don’t say it)
I am ashamed of my century
for being so entertaining
but I have to smile

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Shamus, shammes, Seamus

By my silence lately, dear reader, if you exist, you might have concluded that I’d run afoul of some Providence mobster, that I’d been whacked, rubbed out, offed. And where would that have left us? I think it was Aristotle who said a dead blog is not a blog. I’d hate to leave Brian to shoulder alone not merely the writing but also the existential burden of this blog. Contrary to your summary conclusions, O reader, no evil fate has befallen me, I’m happy to report. Instead of sleeping the big sleep, I’ve been reading “The Big Sleep.” That’s Raymond Chandler’s 1939 novel, which introduced the underworld to Philip Marlowe. Wise-cracking, smooth-operating Marlowe—played by Humphrey Bogart, in full swagger, in the excellent 1946 film adaptation—is a California PI, a private eye, a sleuth, a gumshoe, a dick, a shamus. And rather than the novel, which is worth a read, it’s that last synonym, shamus—Chandler deploys at least twice in “The Big Sleep”—that I want to examine here.

The reason “shamus” caught my eye dates back to at least 1998. I recall my befuddlement when, in the Coen brothers film “The Big Lebowski,” a detective played by Jon Polito tells Jeff Bridges’s The Dude that he’s a “brother shamus,” mistaking The Dude’s flailing attempt to secure a kidnapped trophy wife for slick detective work. I had never heard the word before, and I was unable to find any reference to it in books around the house. (This was a time before my parents’ house had Internet access.) I got the reference, but I never did figure out where this novel (to me) slang came from.

Now, thirteen years later, prompted this time by the slightly—though only by virtue of lapsed time—higher-brow Chandler rather than the Coens, I rekindled my search. As it happens, somebody got to this search before me. From a 1965 piece in The Atlantic:

When [Chandler contemporary Dashiell] Hammett started writing, there was a dictionary of the underworld which used the word “shamus” as a tag for a private detective. Hammett picked that word up, and it ran through all his stories. Every time one of his detectives would enter on the scene, someone would sneeringly refer to him as shamus. Since Hammett’s time, a whole school of realistic writers have had their characters refer to a private detective as a shamus.

Just where did that word come from? I have made it a point to try and find out and I am completely baffled. The late Raymond Schindler, one of the world-famous private detectives, told me he had never heard the word. At my request, he had asked private detectives whom he employed, and they had never heard it used. I asked the wardens of various pentitentiaries, and they told me they had never encountered the word except in fiction. During the past eighteen years, I have had quite a few contacts with inmates of penitentiaries. I have asked them about “shamus” and whether they had ever heard it applied to a private detective. Not one of them ever had.

Then one day I happened to be discussing the matter with a man who had worked for a Jewish haberdasher, and he told me had had heard the word used; it applied not to a private detective but to some kind of phony. No matter; thanks to Dashiell, the Dictionary of American Underworld Lingo lists “shamus” as a Jewish-American word meaning a policeman or prison guard, and the American Thesaurus of Slang lists it as applying to a policeman, an informer, or a stool pigeon.

It has been many years since Dashiell Hammett first put the word into circulation. Today the general reading public considers “shamus” a slang term customarily used by the underworld describing the private detective. It assumes that the writer who uses it knows his way around.

In fact, according to various dictionaries, it seems the answer is not exactly as straightforward as this. There’s some debate about whether shamus is a play on the Yiddish word “shammes,” which means a sexton in a synagogue. I guess the joke hinges on the comparison of a house dick to the caretaker of sacred ground. It’s not clear to me exactly what the punch line would be—were this etymology to prove correct—but surely there’s one buried in there somewhere. Alternatively, some dictionaries suggest the word might be a play on the Irish name Seamus. At the time of the apparent coinage of “shamus,” or at least its appearance in the common parlance of detective fiction, thanks to Hammett, cops and cop-types were often Irish or Irish-American. The joke, in this case, is less sophisticated than the Yiddish version—or maybe it just makes more sense—and also more offensive. Shamus, after all, is not a kind word to call a detective at the time Chandler was writing, and given the Irish etymology, “shamus” implies that buffoons who mail-order private eye licenses and suddenly think they’re crack sleuths are, basically, Irish.

Regardless of origin, there’s general agreement that the word entered the English language in 1925 through a feature in the now-defunct Flynn’s Magazine called “Dictionary of the Underworld.” The introduction to the dictionary suggests one way of looking at the etymological confusion surrounding “shamus,” given the environment from which it emerged:

There are dives in New York’s underworld where a language is spoken that the ordinary citizen, listening in, would find impossible to understand. It isn’t English, French, German, or Yiddish; it is a language by itself. In various hobo “jungles” throughout the country the same tongue, with minor variations is being spoken.

And so the need for an underworld dictionary. Chandler came into his own a little after Hammett, to whom he is often compared, fairly or not. Did Marlowe pick the word up from Hammett’s Sam Spade? Or was Chandler independently privy to the “Dictionary of the Underworld” or, simply, the diction of the underworld? I don’t know. Having wended my way here, let me finish with something one of today’s best crime fiction writers, James Ellroy, said about Chandler and Hammett in his Paris Review interview a couple years ago. I haven’t read enough of either to know whether to agree or disagree, but maybe you, dear reader, have. Asked why he considered Hammett “tremendously great” and Chandler “egregiously overrated,” Ellroy answered:

Chandler wrote the kind of guy that he wanted to be, Hammett wrote the kind of guy that he was afraid he was. Chandler’s books are incoherent. Hammett’s are coherent. Chandler is all about the wisecracks, the similes, the constant satire, the construction of the knight. Hammett writes about the all-male world of mendacity and greed.

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Another guest post by Jean Cocteau

At the age when Christ began with death Alexander died of a surfeit of glory. I imagine him, in despair, wondering sadly what he could still possess. One would like to reply: America, an aeroplane, a watch, a gramophone, the radio.

The embalmers stuff him with honey. He even had little bits of luck. His urine smelt of violets. One wonders if he is not a legend invented as an antidote to human disappointments. All that remains of his success is a profile on a coin that Barrès gave me. The other side bears a wise man, seated. Everyone knows that the two sides of a coin have little chance of ever meeting.

(p. 100, Cocteau, Opium: the Diary of His Cure; Peter Owen Publishers; trans. Margaret Crosland)

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Thoughts on The Tempest: For several reasons have I liked several women

Consider the plight of Prospero.  He has magic at his disposal. He has a small army of spirits under his command, led by the great Ariel.  He can will weather disturbances into being.  On his island he is master of the realm.  Apparently so too in the sea nearby.  His power over his realm far exceeds the boundaries of that which an ordinary king might control.  I mention all this because The Tempest, to me, is more about the limits of his power.  Not only the past limits of his power – as years ago when he was gulled by his treacherous brother Antonio – but the present limits of his power, the limits that exist when he is at the height of his own powers.  (This doesn’t have to do with Milan: to me, the Milan and Naples of the play might as well be a MacGuffin.)  When it comes to his most cherished goals, he remains dependent upon the next generation.  That is his greatest limit.  In other words, even for someone with magic at his disposal, there still are rules of the game.  For a man of great power and talent and resourcefulness, when it comes to planning the long-term future he is in no better position than Kate Middleton’s parents.  According to Shakespeare, efforts spent scheming over the romantic exploits of the younger generation typically are not efforts wasted.

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Measuring MEASURE FOR MEASURE

I have been thinking about Measure for Measure a great deal in the last month. It is a nettlesome drama to blog about because its themes are well suited to a 2k-5k word essay, but are less well suited to a brief post.   The aspects of the play that seem to me particularly worthy of long-form critical examination are: its relationship to Old Testament notions of justice; its relationship to the Gospels; the variety of styles of argumentation employed by the two characters with the most nuanced sense of justice, i.e. Isabella and Vincentio (the oft-absent and ill-replaced Duke); and finally, and perhaps most importantly, the “mock justice” applied in the everyday speech of the “fool” characters – Elbow, Froth, Pompey, and debatably Lucio – and the relationship between the arguments employed by that mock justice and the arguments employed by the everyday justice of Angelo’s Vienna, and even by the everyday justice of Vincentio’s Vienna.

In general, I believe that Measure for Measure is an underrated Shakespeare play, and its ultimate theme seems to be that any form of justice by law is inherently a form of justice by men, and any form of justice by men is a flawed justice.   If I were a lawyer, I would study this play endlessly.

I am going to quit, so as to avoid beginning a disquisition.  I will leave you with two quoted passages.

In 1.2 we witness the newfound wisdom of Claudio, who has been the victim of selective justice – he is facing a death sentence for getting his fiancée pregnant.

 

Claudio: Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to th’ world? / Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

Provost: I do it not in evil disposition, / But from Lord Angelo, by special charge.

Claudio: Thus can the demigod Authority / Make us pay down for our offense by weight. / The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will, / On whom it will not, so. Yet still tis just.

Lucio: Why, how now, Claudio! Whence comes this restraint?

Claudio: From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty. / As surfeit is the father of much fast, / So every scope by the immoderate use/ Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, / Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, / A thirsty evil, and when we drink, we die.

 

And finally, in 4.2 ll. 42-48 we have the executioner Abhorson speaking in prose (not poetry) and, in a passage whose meaning is disputed, I believe he is offering up his pop opinion of the arbitrariness of justice – and the controversial nature of justice. He has previously described his “craft” as a hangman as one of “mystery,” and he does not want to have to hang a mere bawd for fear that he may “discredit our mystery” (ll. 28-29).   Pompey asks Abhorson how hanging can be a mystery, to which Abhorson offers a discussion of the differences of opinion that one will find between an ordinary man and a thief as to how much clothing (or, presumably, how much rope in a noose) is too much or too little:

“Every true man’s apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough: so every true man’s apparel fits your thief.”

The conclusion, in my reading, merely means: because there is no proper fit, everything fits.

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