We Have Met the Enemy: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

"The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much."

Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is (unfortunately) best recognized in popular culture for providing the backstory for Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 movie, Apocalypse Now, which is a classic in its own right.  The novel is based, not in Cambodia, but in a part of the African Congo that was a private colony of King Leopold II of Belgium in the latter part of the nineteenth century.     

While waiting for the tide to turn at the mouth of the Thames, the protagonist, Charlie Marlow, notes to his fellow travelers that London and the Britons were once dark and untamed in the period just prior to Roman domination of the island.  Marlow proceeds to recount his experiences as a steamship captain in darkest colonial Africa and, specifically, the recovery of Kurtz, an ivory trader, journalist, and poet-philosopher, who is lost to the darkness of the jungle and his own mind.  The sometimes brutal treatment of the African natives plays a central role in the story, as does the chaos and lawlessness that results from unrestrained domination of one culture by another.  Themes of darkness and light are interwoven in both story and character to show that each of us and each of our enterprises, at some level, are infected by that tendency toward evil that is witnessed by Kurtz in the moments before he utters his final words: "The horror!  The horror!" 

Given the theme of European colonialism, the novel is broader than Apocalypse Now in the scope of its treatment.  And because it focused more specifically on the inherent duality within each human soul, the novel is also more terrifying.  Conrad is a master of prolonged tension and in the subtle treatment of difficult and controversial themes--including colonialism--and both the topic and the prose gradually work their way under the reader's skin until he's strung as tight as a bow.  But there's never a release, at least not one that completely diffuses the tension, and the reader is left with a feeling of unsettling anxiety long after the work is read.

Truth be told, Heart of Darkness is one of those few works that keep us up at night, not simply because of the story or its basis in colonial reality, but because of its undeniable application to human existence.  Does anyone share this reaction to the work?  What other works, if any, keep you up at night?   

Happy Bloomsday, Everyone.

It's been a good, long while since I've posted a word here at The Literate Man.  My thanks to Aaron for picking up the slack.  The break wasn't intentional, but evolved out of (1) my misguided First Reading Challenge: The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian (I'm currently on book 13 of 21 and can read nothing else), and (2) final edits to on my own novel, The Last Will and Testament of Lemuel Higgins, which is in the final stages of editing and design prior to publication.

But I couldn't let Bloomsday pass without recycling TLM's reviews of Ulysses from late last year.  There were two: one relating reflections at the halfway point and one presenting a final review.  June 16, 1904, was the date that Joyce chose for Ulysses' protagonist, Leopold Bloom, to go rambling about Dublin and provide us with some of the most colorful scenes in all of English literature.  It also happens to be the day that James Joyce had his first date with his eventual wife, Nora Barnacle.  In any case, the date is celebrated worldwide (and particularly in Dublin) as Bloomsday in honor and recognition of Joyce's epic work and enduring genius. 

So raise a pint to Ulysses, number seven on TLM's Top Eight Novels for Men, and to James Joyce, one of the most honored (and divisive) authors in literary history.      

BURR: Gore Vidal’s Portrait of History’s Forgotten Man

Gore Vidal is the godfather of historical fiction. While he may not have invented the genre, he’s the man that has done more to elevate its status than any other writer and added more quality content to the canon than arguably anyone else.

Everyone seems to have their favorite Vidal novel and here at The Literate Man (TLM) we’re Burr diehards. And how could you not be intrigued by Aaron Burr’s story or at least Vidal’s interpretation and telling of it?

General in the Revolutionary Army, would-be conqueror of Quebec, president of the United States of America and Emperor of Mexico? If things would have turned out just a little bit differently this is the résumé Aaron Burr could have had. Instead, his epitaph reads: US senator, US Vice-president, treasonous exile, alleged practitioner of incest and a mostly forgotten founding father. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

But that’s the magic of Vidal’s vision. In the writing of Burr he’s taken an historic footnote –Burr- and turned him into a man that was a whisker away from becoming quite possibly the most important figure of the 19^th century. If only things could have worked out differently.

Most people today simply know Burr as the man who shot and killed Alexander Hamilton in an 1804 duel. Which is true. But commonly accepted history has made Hamilton a martyr and Burr little more than a strange curiosity. In Burr, Vidal has given the man an historical defense.

Vidal has taken certain liberties in writing this account, including the creation of the refreshing young narrator, Charles Schuyler, a clerk in Burr’s office, who is approached by political enemies of future president Martin Van Buren to prove he’s the bastard son of Burr. That’s a strange sentence, but an interesting one. And the book is full just those sort of shocking and interesting revelations.

The author was meticulous in his researching of the material and even some of the themes that seem to employ a great deal of creative license (such as his assertion that Hamilton alleged incest between Burr and his daughter, thus triggering the fatal duel) are based in fact. But more than just an impressive compilation of facts, Vidal has told this story in a compelling and humanistic tone that most revisionist historical accounts fail to achieve.

And what a treasure trove to draw from. Burr seems to be personally involved in all the most important historical events of his lifetime. Vidal takes us from his days as a colonel in the Revolutionary War, the founding of what would become JP Morgan Chase, his electoral tie with Thomas Jefferson in the 1800 presidential contest, allegations that he and Andrew Jackson hatched a scheme to conquer Mexico and appoint himself emperor, and ultimately the killing of his former best friend, Hamilton, in a gun fight in New Jersey.

You simply couldn’t make this stuff up. And whether or not Vidal’s interpretations would hold up under absolute historical scrutiny, we’ll probably never know. But if you’re looking for an enthralling read Burr hits the mark by any measure of examination.

The Dog Of The South: Not Your Typical School Bus Ride Through Mexico

Here at The Literate Man our primary mission (aside from stopping plate tectonics and fomenting small revolutions) is to share the gift of literature with our fellow man, woman and child. We are book nerds, to be sure. And we like to share the books and writers we like; books and names that don’t often appear at airport bookstores or in Oprah’s Book Club, but have nonetheless brought us a great deal of delight and hope they might do the same for you.

Charles Portis is one of our favorites and if it wasn’t for sloth and fantasy football we would have shared our thoughts on this great man of letters long ago.

Almost every red-blooded American is familiar with Portis’ most famous work: True Grit. Whether it’s the John Wayne original or the Cohen Brothers remake, Portis’ terrifically-titled novel has carved out a place in the English lexicon.

But it’s The Dog of the South that is Portis’ real masterpiece. This is the kind of work that makes us cavalier in heaping praise like “genius,” “hilarious,” and “even funnier than Lethal Weapon II.”

The plot is thin. The narrator is unreliable. The story lacks resolution. And it’s absolutely perfect.

From the simple opening sentence of this book (“My wife Norma had run off with Guy Dupree and I was waiting around for the credit card billings to come in so I could see where they had gone.”) a wild adventure featuring a cast of Southern wierdos is hatched.

The protagonist and narrator through this ill-conceived odyssey from Arkansas to British Honduras (present-day Belize) is Raymond E. Midge, an aspiring algebra teacher and military enthusiast looking to reclaim his stolen wife and car -not necessarily in that order. In a turn of fair play Midge steal’s Dupree’s Buick (“a rusty little piece of basic transportation” with a hole in the driver’s side floor board) and the chase is on.

Halfway through Mexico he stops to help an elderly man in a broken-down school bus (with the moniker ‘Dog of the South’ painted on its side) and becomes entangled with the indefatigable Dr Reo Symes. Symes is a typical Portis eccentric who’s on his way to Belize, where his mother runs a church, to talk her out some property in the US (he envisions opening up a theme park devoted to Jefferson Davis). These two characters come to depend on one another as they follow the trail of the elusive “lovebirds” and battle with tropical storms, hippies, “dopers”, car troubles and each other’s own idiosyncrasies.

Portis unravels this disastrous jaunt through Mesoamerica at a brisk pace that makes the 256 pages fly by. Throughout the many comical exchanges he displays his gifts for writing dialogue, creating unforgettable characters and reveals a world much broader than the two ridiculous men that carry the story.

It’s regrettable that this book, and Portis himself, have not received a wider audience. Perhaps this shameless plug (and maybe that Oscar thing, too) will lead a few more people to discover his gifts.

If you like reading and you like laughing you’ll like this book. And if you do like it, please share it with someone else who might appreciate it as well.

The Literary Blog Hop Asks: Are You Predisposed to Like the Classics? Yes. Next Question.

I'm beginning to look forward to every other Thursday and the Literary Blog Hop hosted by the lovely ladies over at The Blue Bookcase.  Not only have they introduced me to some wonderful literary book blogs, which have turned me on to some great books, but they always ask the most interesting questions.  This week's question is as follows:

Do you find yourself predisposed to like (or dislike) books that are generally accepted as great books and have been incorporated into the literary canon?

Yes (like).  Next question.

Discuss the effect you believe a book’s “status” has on your opinion of it.

Aha!  I thought we were getting off easy this week.  Ok.  Well, I'd like to say that I remain objective in my reviews, regardless of the reputation of the author or work under consideration, but that's simply not true.  In fact, I would argue that it's not human.  We're all subject to social pressures and preconceived opinions, though some do a better job than others of maintaining a relative objectivity.  For myself, I think that a book's status or reputation creates a kind of synergistic effect on my own appreciation of it.  If it enjoys a reputation as a classic, I am predisposed to like it, and I tend to be more effusive in my praise of it.  On the other hand, if I do not like it, my dislike tends to be exaggerated as well.

A case in point is our recent review of The Man Who Loved Children.  Though not widely known, the book enjoys a reputation as a modern classic and, in fact, is included in Time Magazine's list of the Top 100 Novels in the English language from 1923 to the present.  I was predisposed to like it.  I did like it.  And I was probably more effusive in my praise because the book (twice) met and even exceeded my expectations.

What about you?  Do you love to love the classics or do you love to hate them?   

The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead (TLM's New Number Eight)

I've always found it unpredictable to re-read a work that I loved once upon a time.  At different points, I've come away both more certain than ever of my respect (Sometimes A Great Notion) and questioning what I could have so appreciated on the first reading (Moby Dick).  But when Jonathan Franzen wrote a piece in the New York Times championing The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead, I decided that this was one favorite worth revisiting.  

I first read The Man Who Loved Children in college some twenty years ago as part of a course on Australian Literature.  That course, by the way, revealed to me some of the best work that I had read to that point (including The Man Who Loved Children), and I took away from it an abiding appreciation of Australian Literature thta survives to this day.  Upon my first reading, I was convinced that The Man Who Loved Children was among the three greatest works of literature that I had read to that point.  Twenty years later, I had only vague recollections of the Pollit family in a constant state of agitation with themselves and one another, along with a healthy respect for Christina Stead's powers of both characterization and creativity based on the relationship between Sam Pollit and his daughter, Louisa. 

My more recent second reading has convinced me that The Man Who Loved Children is one of the greatest tragedies ever written and it deserves a place among TLM's top novels for men.  Not that it is a book for or about men in particular, despite its title.  Rather, The Man Who Loved Children is a book for and about anyone that has ever felt manipulated, repressed, limited, or emotionally dominated by those individuals that are closest to them.  In other words, it is a book for and about everyone.  It reportedly draws heavily from Christina Stead's own life and her relationship with her father, which is undoubtedly part of its genius.

As for the plot, the blind and dysfunctional Sam is the patriarch of the Pollit family, which resides outside of Washington, DC.  At once a dictator and a narcissist, Sam has so alienated his wife, Henny, that they are no longer on speaking terms, communicating only through their children or in written form.  This, of course, leads to constant emotional hostage taking in a house comprised of six (and eventually seven) children.  Toward those children, Sam believes himself a god, demanding their awe and respect for his various projects and achievements, while also digging so deeply into their lives and their brains as to crowd out any notion of privacy or individuality.  Stead does a masterful job of showing each child's reaction to this dominating treatment, as they each struggle to support one another.  And it is largely this sense of mutual support in the face of overwhelming and sinister domination (and I am not being melodramatic here) that gives the book's conclusion its tragic force. 

Christina Stead creates a world--set wholly within the confines of the Pollit home--that is so emotionally deep and complex that the reader has the distinct feeling of having lived among its characters as a passive (though alternately incredulous and furious) observer throughout the time period covered by the book.  I suspect that it is that same gut wrenching emotional journey that has kept The Man Who Loved Children from obtaining the popular acceptance and acclaim that it most certainly deserves.  In any case, I have no problem whatsoever making The Man Who Loved Children TLM's new number eight.

Has anyone out there read The Man Who Loved Children?  More importantly, is there anyone out there that read it and did not absolutely marvel at Stead's skill at characterization?       

Aaarrrgghh ... Is Piracy Really a Problem for the Publishing Industry?



As a general matter, I like to keep my work life separate from my blog life, and I find that there is rarely any substantial overlap between the two.  That said, as I've mentioned in passing on a couple of occassions, by day I'm an intellectual property attorney dealing primarily in issues of copyright and trademark law.  Recently, our firm's publicist asked me to give an opinion on the scope of the problem of e-book piracy in the publishing industry.

My reaction to this question has always been skeptical.  I just don't see e-book piracy as a significant potential problem given the fact that people don't consume books in the same way that they consume music and film.  First, though e-book sales are increasing rapidly (as recently reported in a study by the Association of American Publishers), hardcover and paperback book sales still constitute a majority of the market.  Second, book purchases tend to be carefully considered decisions in my experience, as opposed to impulse purchases of music and movies.  Third, and perhaps most important, e-book distributors are ahead of the curve in terms of distribution (and far, far ahead of both the music and film industries when piracy first became a serious problem for them).  Simply stated, it is easier to pay $10 for an electronic copy of The Lost Symbol from the Kindle Store, the iBooks Store, the Sony eReader Store, etc., than is it so find a quality copy through Bit Torrent, download it, and upload it onto your particular device.

But not everyone agrees, as evidenced by a recent article by David Carnoy over at CNET entitled, "Kindle e-book piracy accelarates."  Evidently, there is a group of e-book enthusiasts that like to shop in bulk (as in 2500 books at a time).

So, what do you think?  Is this really as much of a problem for the publishing industry as it has been for the music and film industries?  Have you ever looked for a pirated copy of a particular book or known anyone that has?  Thanks for any (anonymous) insight that you may be able to provide.