midnight, reading in bed

I am immersed, with total abandon, awe, and delight in Moby-Dick. A splendid tale, full of breath-stopping action, tempered with contemplation of nature; Melville bows before the majestic beast, but does not flinch in describing the brutality of its capture, its great bulk reduced to an essence which, no doubt, he used to light the very lamp by which his masterwork was composed. Along the way, he discourses on matters of philosophy, metaphysics, social customs, science, religion, law and much else - all of it compelling and much of it infused with humor.

This is a book which ranks with War and Peace for breadth of scope, mastery of language, and sheer depth of understanding the full range of what humanity is and is not. Read it.

In 1803, Beethoven dedicated his Sonata No. 9 (now known as the Kreutzer), to his new friend George Bridgetower, son of a white woman and an “African prince.” Bridgetower, a violin virtuoso of prodigious talent, angered his mentor by flirting with a barmaid the maestro had his eye on, causing Beethoven to tear up the dedication and, in effect, banish the younger man to the back pages of history. Rita Dove’s  verse telling of the story is vivid, nuanced and powerful; its evocative language lingers long after the last page. An exquisite work, which deserves much wider recognition than it has so far received.

How can I stop reading books on Russian subjects when the topic is inexhaustible? Solomon Volkov’s Magical Chorus is like taking a graduate course in that country’s incomparable culture. He makes the connections between art, literature, music, ballet, philosophy, politics and Russia’s complicated relationship to the rest of the world. The text is serious but eminently readable, studded with nuggets of gossipy anecdotes and personal recollections.

I understand Volkov has a new book, too. Add that to the nightstand…

“The ludicrous nature of our feelings does nothing to reduce their authenticity.” Milan Kundera, Encounter. I hope I remembered the quote correctly; I know the gist of it is right. Another thoughtful, urbane book of essays by one of our most incisive living philosophers. This one focuses largely on music, or the intersection of music and literature and life. Worth reading slowly.

Guess it’s no coincidence that this name came up in both Ian Frazier’s Travels in Siberia and in John Vaillant’s Tiger - two books steeped in the history and living conditions of Russia’s far north. I know it as a very fine film, with stunning Akira Kurasawa cinematography; I did not know it was also a book, very well known by anyone who was educated in Russia. I rank the film among my lifetime top three, along with To Kill a Mockingbird and (don’t laugh) Stanley and Livingstone.

My apologies to Ian Frazier and his excellent book, Travels in Siberia! The Russians sold Alaska years ago!

I have the intense pleasure of being deeply engrossed in two exceptional books: Ian Frazier’s Travels In Alaska is my current bedtime reading, keeping me up much later than I intend with his keen observations of Russia’s far north, enriched with history, geography, politics (then and now), and spiced with engaging, humorous anecdotes. My favorite so far - having their camp trashed by a herd of rampaging cows.

In the car, I’m listening to Hans Fallada’s Every Man Dies Alone, set in Hitler’s Germany, and focusing on the lives of the occupants of a modest apartment building. It is an illuminating glimpse at the way monumental events affect daily lives, and a sobering assessment of the vagaries of human nature.

A chilling portrait of this magnificent, terrifying beast, whose existence is seriously compromised by our relentless invasion into its territory. Reads like a horror story, with a wounded animal in vengeful pursuit of the trappers who fired their guns at him. But also an urgent call for conservation, for protecting the habitat of the few remaining tigers in the wild. Good reading.

“She set her eyes on him as she might set a carving fork in a roast.” I.love.Wallace.Stegner.

“Novelists are oxymorons. They are sensitive and insensitive. Full of heart and heartless. You have to be full of heart to feel what other people are feeling. On the other hand, if you start thinking of all the damage you are going to do, you can’t write the book - not if you’re reasonably decent….Either you produce a book that doesn’t approach what really interests you or, if you go to the root with all you’ve got, there is no way you won’t injure family, friends, and innocent bystanders.” Norman Mailer in The New Yorker, Dec 2002