The Book as Sacred Object, and Recollections of the Paris Codex

So, this morning I received a nice, big box of very old books on Spanish and Mexican history that I had purchased on the cheap at auction several months back.  I already have a fairly large collection of books on the Maya of Guatemala and the Yucatan, and my hope was that I would find a couple of useful--or at least intriguing--volumes in what I otherwise understood to be a grab bag of dusty, old history books.  I was not disappointed. 

But even more than the useful or intriguing knowledge that may be contained within their pages, I found myself relishing the look and feel and musty old smell of each and every volume that I pulled from among the styrofoam packing material and unwrapped from its tissue paper.  And I realized once again that, despite all the support for ebooks and audiobooks that can be found in these posts, there is nothing quite like a good old book to fire my imagination.  For me, as for most of you I would suspect, books are sacred objects, and I find myself caring more about them than I do about even my most important and useful possessions.  Every time that I stumble on a worthwhile old tome, I want to take it in like a stray kitten and nurse it back to health or at least put it to the use for which it was intended.  I know that I'm not alone in this appreciation.

The whole experience got me thinking about the most significant book that I've ever held in my own two hands--the Paris Codex.  For the uninitiated--and I'm perfectly willing to admit that the field is obscure--the Paris Codex is one of four surviving manuscripts written by the Maya at the time of the Spanish Conquest.  That there are only four may be blamed as much on Spanish zealotry as the ravages of time--they famously burned thousands of such manuscripts in their less than subtle efforts at conversion.  And only one, known as the Grolier Codex, remains in the Americas today.  The rest are scattered about Europe in Madrid, Dresden, and Paris, where they are known less than creatively as the Madrid, Dresden, and Paris Codices.

Each provides an example of the well-developed written language of the Maya, the only such writing system that originated in the Americas and, arguably, one of only three written languages that developed organically  (i.e. was not borrowed or adapted from some other civilization) throughout the entire world.  The written language of the Maya died out in the generations following the Spanish Conquest, though amazing strides have been made in the last several decades with respect to the understanding and preservation of the language, which can still be found not only in the codices, but on stelae and temples throughout Central America and Mexico.

The Paris Codex is kept in a sealed box at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, and is not generally accessible to the public.  I was able to handle it only after a lengthy formal request process during which I explained repeatedly that I was working on a book in which the Paris Codex figured prominently.  By sheer persistence, I wore them down.  And I was even able to sneak my wife in as well as my "translator" on the day of our viewing.

To hold a five hundred year-old book from a "lost" civilization that is written in a language that no longer exists is absolutely indescribable.  I remember carefully paging through the codex from beginning to end over the course of several hours, its pages still bright and beautiful, though delicate and fading in spots.  And I couldn't help but think of the author, seated cross-legged, paintbrush in hand, half a century behind me, and born of a civilization that owed nothing to my own.  I might as well have been reading the marks of an alien world light years away.  But one thing I knew that I shared with him was an appreciation of the written word and a love of the books that contain it.  In many ways, I think it is the written language that allows us to finally transcend time and place and to sympathize with those around us--and isn't that the very thing that makes us human?

I've gone on far too long--I get wrapped up in books, what can I say?  But what about the rest of you?  Do you consider any books sacred?  Do you remember a particular experience with a particular book above all others?  And what do you think it is about the written word that transfixes and binds us?   

       

     

TLM's First Reading Challenge: The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian

It's been more than a month since our last post here at TLM. The cause is obvious, as is the cure. I'm addicted. I'm not afraid to admit it. And I feel compelled to share my addiction by embarking upon the very first TLM Reading/Listening Challenge.

The challenge is this: one complete tour through the 21 novels that comprise Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin Series before year's end. If you've never picked up the Aubrey/Maturin Series, it treats the adventures of British naval officer Jack Aubrey and his Irish/Catalan naval surgeon Stephen Maturin throughout the years during and immediately following the Napoleonic Wars. Though fiction, the novels are renowned for their historical accuracy, and each provides enough swashbuckling adventure, political intrigue, and romance to fill a ship-of-the-line. Richard Snow of the New York Times called the Aubrey/Maturin Series "the best historical novels ever written."

Here are the 21 Aubrey/Maturin novels in order:

Master and Commander(1970)

Post Captain (1972)

HMS Surprise (1973)

The Mauritius Command (1977)

Desolation Island (1978)

The Fortune of War (1979)

The Surgeon's Mate (1980)
The Ionian Mission (1981)
Treason's Harbour (1983)
The Far Side of the World (1984)
The Reverse of the Medal (1986)
The Letter of Marque (1988)
The Thirteen Gun Salute (1989)
The Nutmeg of Consolation (1991)
Clarissa Oakes/The Truelove (1992)
The Wine-Dark Sea (1993)
The Commodore (1995)
The Yellow Admiral (1996)
The Hundred Days (1998)
Blue at the Mizzen (1999)
The Final Unfinished Voyage of Jack Aubrey/21 (2004)

So who's in? I have a bit of a head start. I'm through the first five novels, and I'm on to number six, The Fortune of War. Thus far, The Mauritius Command and Desolation Island are my particular favorites, though all have been enjoyable reads. I will be posting on them in sets of five, with the first post, covering Master and Commander through Desolation Island, to come over the next several days.

If you are up for the challenge, I invite your participation--please let me know that you're in by posting below. I am also soliciting ideas for some sort of prize or at least acknowledgment of accomplishment for those who see the series through. Please do share your thoughts.

Literary Blog Hop (Hey, I Just Posted on Moby Dick--I Can Hardly Let This Pass)

The fabulous ladies over at The Blue Bookcase are hosting The Literary Blog Hop once again.  It's a great opportunity to get to know some of your fellow lovers of great literature and pick up a recommendation or two.  If you have a moment, take a look around and leave a comment here and there to let everyone know what valuable service they are providing to all of us.  And, if you're here from the Literary Blog Hop, please feel free to settle in and take a look around.  If you're looking for highlights, try our reviews of Ulysses, The Ginger Man, and Sometimes a Great Notion (our all-time favorite).     

After all that, I almost forgot to answer this week's question: How did you find your way to reading literary fiction and nonfiction?

My love of literature, like many of you, I owe to my parents and grandparents. As a young child, my grandmother would read I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew, a Dr. Suess story very vaguely in the line of Homer's Odyssey, which I eventually came read myself. Between that first book and my first real taste of literature it's all a blur of Stephen King and Scott O'Dell (and even a little V.C. Andrews, I'm almost ashamed to admit). But Steinbeck's The Pearl at 12 was a real turning point, as I remember. I suddenly recognized real literary genius and the incredible connection between author and reader that can come out of it. After that, I basically put away the pop fiction (okay, I still read the occassional Clive Cussler) and became a devotee of literary fiction.

I re-read The Pearl on a lazy afternoon a couple of years ago and fell in love with it all over again.

Moby Dick, and Thoughts on Standing the Test of Time

So here's the story in brief (as if you needed it): one big angry white whale, one one-legged monomaniacal captain, and a mess of willing and unwilling seamen caught up in a suicide mission.  The book is largely symbolic, of course, treating numerous dark themes, including man versus god, man versus nature, and man versus his own creeping obsessions and internal demons. But in terms of plot, that's basically it--and, perhaps because of its simplicity, the tale has lived in the American consciousness for 150 years.   

In fact, the broad outlines of Moby Dick seem to have become as much a part of American culture as baseball and apple pie, and it is a testament to its utility for selling completely unrelated products longevity that it is used even today to promote, among other products, the Blackberry Torch.  Moby Dick and Melville also appear to be at least partially responsible for the popularity of Melville's great-great-great grand-nephew, techno-artist Richard Melville Hall (a/k/a Moby), who is not shy about repeatedly publicly stating the extremely tenuous family connection.  All of which is to say that Moby Dick remains relevant to the modern age as a cheap marketing tool, if not as the textbook on cetology and commercial whaling that Melville hoped it would become.       

[Cue video of a dusty but copiously-bearded Melville slowly spinning in his grave.]       

And yet, I felt strangely disconnected from the tale during this, my second, reading.  First, the entire backdrop of the story is an industry that no longer exists (except, I suppose, in Japan where it survives under the rubric of "scientific research").  Second, while I'm not a member of PETA or even a fan of Whale Wars, Moby Dick fairly rejoices in a systematic violence that is committed on what is essentially a peaceful creature of the deep.  That Moby Dick gets his revenge on all but Ishmael seems little recompense.  In many ways, it reminded me of reading Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon, a treatise on Spanish bullfighting, which likewise left me more concerned about human nature than inspired or entertained.  And third, Melville's long (often chapter-length) passages on the proper classification of whales and the science of whaling are both out of date and seem to unnecessarily interrupt the little action that there is.  I understand that Melville hoped that the novel would be considered a treatise on whales and whaling, but I say pick a genre and stick with it if you want to maintain the reader's interest.

I'd really like your input on this.  Have you ever read or re-read a classic and felt disappointingly disconnected from the characters within?  In this case, I did--I felt quite outside the story of Moby Dick in a way that I do not with other Melville works (Typee, White Jacket, Billy Budd, etc.) or with Nathaniel Hawthorne, James Fenimore Cooper, or even Jane Austen.  So what is it about those classic authors that continues to connect, while others, like Moby Dick for me, seem to fade in their significance over time?  Just wondering ...
  

Reflections on the Year Gone By, and a Question for You, Dear Reader: How Can We Be Better?

With the coming of 2011, it is inevitable (and healthy, I would argue) that we all reflect for a time on the year gone by.  I began TLM in March with my very first blog post on The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald and, with the help of Aaron and Greg, we proceeded to genarate another 50 posts (including this one) in the following 9 months.  I have my personal favorites, of course:  our Declaration of War on All Things Twilight is a poor (but honest) man's literary manifesto; Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West, which continues both to haunt me and to climb the ranks of my top ten novels of all time (it's currently number seven); and Ulysses, which represents a hard-won personal battle over the forces of literary intimidation and general laziness.    

Objectively speaking, I think that we've been modestly successful in 2010.  This past November, we received more than a thousand page views in a single month, which I consider a real achievement.  And, in December, we briefly achieved 100 followers before someone dropped off the face of Google Earth and reduced us to 99 once again.  Of course, many, many book blogs carry several hundred or even several thousand followers as a matter of course (and we applaud them for it).  But our focus is a little different--we've tried to stay true to our mission: promoting the reading of literary fiction (and the occassional work of non-fiction) among male readers, an endangered species if ever there was one. 

Which leads me to the point of this reflective post--we here at TLM appreciate the support of each and every one of you, and we recognize the strides that we have made in 2010--but we want to refocus and redouble our efforts on promoting the reading of fiction among men in 2011, and for that we need your help. 

Based upon the comments that we received in 2010, there are a few promises that we are making to you in 2011:

1.  Keep the post titles and tone light and playful--it seems clear that a playful sense of humor or at least a dry wit generates interest, drives readership, and creates loyalty.  Relatedly, I vow not to use the first-person plural unless I am actually talking about "us" as a group; 

2.  Bring insight to bear and focus on unique aspects of each work that we review--there are literally thousands upon thousands of dry, uninteresting, and very opinionated book reviews out there (I'm looking at you, Amazon).  But we strive to create discussion, which requires a novel approach, or at least an interesting topic.  

3.  Be more specific about how each work is of specific interest to men--we've never been nor will we ever be a He-Man Woman-Hater's Club (that's a Little Rascals reference for you youngsters out there), but the point here is to make reading relevant to the lives of our male readers (which we hope may also be of interest to our female readers); and

4.  (Related to number three above) Incorporate more references to our favorite alcoholic beverages--we've received almost as much comment on our passing references to microbrews, scotches, and rums as we've received on the books themselves.  And they seem to go hand in hand--a good book and a nice warm tumbler of single-malt scotch.  It's always after five o'clock somewhere.

And now it's your turn.  What else would you have us do?  What do you love about your favorite book blogs?  What do you hate?  How can we improve the quality of our posts here at TLM?  How can we generate/maintain more interest among our target demographic--men and the women that love them will push them to read again?  Please do comment, and do so with brutal honesty, for we are committed to improvements in 2011.

Happy New Year to all!     

A Holiday Interlude: Immoveable Feast, A Paris Christmas by John Baxter

Cookies, anyone?  They're fresh out of the oven.  How about some egg nog?  We're flavoring it with Ron Zacapa, which our wife assures us is the finest rum in the world.  When you're settled in, please pull a chair up to the fire.  All set?  Good.  

We bring you a bit of a holiday treat today, that being our brief review of Immoveable Feast, A Paris Christmas by John Baxter.  Now, we here at TLM love Christmas--and we love Paris--and we would love to spend Christmas in Paris.  But to say that we love Immoveable Feast is probably going a bit too far.  Not that it's an unenjoyable work--in fact, we quite enjoyed it--but we found it difficult to find substance in a series of essays about yet another foreigner bumbling his way through the field of French haute cuisine after reading Joyce and Melville for the last two months.  And now we can't believe that we just wrote that--seriously, have you ever read a more pretentious statement?  And at Christmas too.  Shame on us.  If anyone deserves coal this Christmas, it's us.  Maybe we should stop writing in the third person ...  

Let's start this again.  Immoveable Feast is the year-long story of Australian author John Baxter as he scours the French countryside to prove his culinary self-worth to his French wife's traditional family by cooking them a traditional French Christmas feast.  I enjoyed the book at a very superficial level, which is where it deserves to be examined.  Like my grandmother's sprinkled, tree-shaped Christmas cookies, Immoveable Feast is light and sugary and completely devoid of nutritious substance.  And just like a nice round Christmas fruit cake, Immoveable Feast is the type of book that, if you don't pick it up during the holiday season, is destined to sit--increasingly brick-like and forgotten--in the back of your cupboards until it sparks to life and consumes you you get around to throwing it out. 

But if you do pick up Immoveable Feast during the holidays, like that cute family that makes the rounds singing Christmas carols every year, you will very likely enjoy it for at least an hour or two before it begins to grate on you.  Seriously, though, the prose is light and easy, the humor plentiful, and the book is strewn with illustrations that give it an added Christmas appeal.  And the descriptions of the touch, taste, and smell of traditional French Christmas dishes, as well as their ingredients, are genuinely mouth-watering.  All kidding aside, I did enjoy it and I do recommend it.

So, what are your Christmas (or holiday) favorites?  An extra cookie for anyone that comments without mentioning Dickens.  

The Literary Blog Hop, Wherein I Sing the Song of Myself

It's Thursday again, and our friends over at The Blue Bookcase are once again hosting the Literary Blog Hop--a capital idea if ever there was one.  This week, I must admit, they've unsettled me.  This week's discussion topic (from the very well-read and articulate Parrish Lantern) is "Who is your favorite poet and why?"  And like a boot to the head, I suddenly came to the realization that The Literate Man has entirely ignored the topic of poetry for nearly nine months now.  That said, there is plenty of poetry (or at least dirty limerick) in Ulysses, and it is based on Homer's Odyssey, and Joyce's prose is nothing if not poetic, so I give myself a half point for our two reviews of that book (here and here).  But that does little to ameliorate this deplorable situation, which really deserves some serious attention.  

So, there's no time like the present.

My favorite poet, hands down, is Walt Whitman.  The why of my choice has everything to do with Whitman's poem, Song of Myself, included in Leaves of Grass.  I grew up in a very small, one stop light town in Western New York, where I had a vague notion that the world somewhere out there was large and busy and exciting, with limiteless possibilities for those that were willing to dive into it, but it wasn't until I read Song of Myself that I knew it for a certainty.  Song is nothing short of a celebration of the great variety of human existence and endeavor, admittedly focused on a post-frontier America, but also universally applicable.  In Song and elsewhere, Whitman captures the harsh reality of human existence--the blood and sweat and decay--and places it in the larger context of the wonder of physical existence and the endless cycles of birth and death that bring us all together, both physically and emotionally.  If I'm honest with myself, I think that Whitman still provides at least one of the pillars of my own individual world view. 

And so, we owe a debt of gratitude to Parrish Lantern and The Blue Bookcase for bringing this glaring omission to our attention.  It shall be rectified.  In the meantime, what do you think of Whitman?  Is there a particular poet that reaches your heart or tickles your fancy more directly?  And to whom do you owe your own particular world view?