B . Q . P . F . M .

Milkweed

2006-06-24T01:53:00.000-07:00

Milkweed.

I should have read a little Harry Potter in between Nectar in a Sieve and this. Unfortunately, I went strait from one devastating heartbreaker to another. Both were beautiful and powerful. I'm glad I read them both. I just wish I hadn't read them back to back. I was finishing Milkweed as I rode on the bus to Manti, and found myself crying. This was a restraint, as my heart was sobbing. Anybody seen Grave of the Fireflies and Nobody Knows? How about Schindler's List and Passion of the Christ? Yeah. It's like watching two of them back to back. I'm drained, to say the least.

Anyway, the book was well done. It took place in Warsaw, during WWII - the Nazi occupation of Poland. The narrator is an orphan gypsy kid who calls himself "Stopthief" until another street urchin christens him "Misha." He's a clever little thief who gets caught up with the Jewish people and is moved to the ghettos. He becomes a smuggler, breaking through the ghetto's brick wall at night to steal food from the other side of the city, which he calls, "heaven." He's got a tender heart, causing him to take other people under his wing, bringing them food, and an innocence which causes him to admire the Nazi's and want to grow up to be one, because of their shiny black boots. The story begins with him as a child, and follows him through to old age.

Milkweed was written by Jerry Spinelli, who also wrote Maniac Magee and Stargirl, both of which I enjoyed a great deal - though I recommend Maniac Magee strongly, and Stargirl with reservations. Both, however, were what I'd call young adult fiction. I was expecting the same here, and I guess if you're going to tell young adults about the horrors of the ghetto life in Warsaw during WWII, then you might do it this way - but it was far more heart-wrenching, depressing, and disturbing than I'd expected from a young adult book.

Surprising in its violence. Not only by way of the Nazi soldiers to the people in the Ghetto, but also between Misha and his peers. There was a violence to their life that they accepted as natural, though it felt so unnatural for children. I was reminded a little bit of Ender's Game and also Lord of the Flies. Where children become unnaturally world-wise and violent. And yet, we realize that we have set the example, and they are simply adapting, as all children do.

The combined effect of both books, however, was to make me feel horror at the atrocities in the world, which still exist, and to feel like I have to do more than I'm currently doing. I keep thinking about the fact that starvation and desperation are real, and they are the constant companion far too often for people in this world. It's sometimes hard to remember that - not just as an abstract concept - but as concretely as if you were facing it yourself.

I am haunted by the memory of all the people I haven't done more for. I know that I can't help everyone. I know that. And yet, I remember holding this baby in Panama. A baby who should have been walking by now, but who couldn't walk or crawl, due to malnutrition. I held her listless, frail body to my chest and I could feel her ragged breathing both in my hand which covered her tiny back, and echoing through my own chest, pressed to hers. I should have taken her to a doctor right then. I could have paid the bills. I'm sure that I could have afforded them. Why didn't I? I have no answer to that.

I know there's a God. And it isn't his failing that causes these tragedies...it's ours. Nevertheless, I ache at the unfairness of it all.

Intro to Nectar in a Sieve

2006-06-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

It's about time I posted again here! I really have been reading, plus I still have lots of previously read books I want to write comments on that are piled up in my room. I just haven't taken the time, I guess. Other things have been more important, so I don't have regrets, really - but I'll try and get back here more frequently.

So, new book: I just finished a book about a woman's life in southeast India. Although I probably related because of spending a bit of time in those parts, I really think anyone will be able to feel with the character: the book is written with such humanity, through the eyes of a narrator so honest, and so compassionate, that she reaches into the very soul of what makes us human. I felt as though I struggled with her through joy and loss of innocence, disappointment and anger, poverty, starvation, love, triumph, and heartbreak. She is not a heroine in the sense of being something higher than human -- and her frankness about her own human frailty allows the reader to acknowledge his/her own. However, she things she endures! I found myself crying frequently and feeling such a rush of emotion. It was powerful, cathartic, healing, and also painful. It was a reminder that we really do have a responsibility to one another. I found myself remembering the times that I've failed to help someone when I could have. To me, living in health and relative wealth, it is difficult (even when I'm among the poor) to remember that for some, life really is that desperate. I forget that.

The book was written by a woman (Kamala Markandaya) from India during the 50's. Her writing is unassuming, frank, sympathetic, poetic, nostalgic, and at times, almost brutal - but through it runs a deep sense of compassion, quiet endurance, and hope. Replete with sensual imagery (meaning pertaining to the senses...not the sexual connotation) without being overly wordy or unnecessarily clever. There's a raw quality combined with a richness that reminds me of India --

I don't have the words to describe it, but I picture a vine with exotic flowers that are strangely delicate, with vibrant oranges and violent pinks. And the vine seems delicate until you try to remove its tiny fingers from their strongholds within the rocks, trees, and cement that it has cut through and find within its body a sinewy, leathery impossible strength that can't be torn. The flowers can easily be plucked and crushed, but they grow back rapidly, and the vine remains, inexplicably.

It captures the feeling of India. A land of stark contrasts where delicate sensual, beautiful, rich fabrics wrap around bodies with dusty feet that march through garbage, human filth, and monsoon rains, performing hard labor side by side with their lean, dark, half-naked male counterparts. I saw people with a hard life who endure with a patience beyond my Western comprehension, and who continue to love, dance, laugh, and decorate their harsh lives with vibrant color.

Quotes from Nectar in a Sieve

2006-06-22T17:31:00.000-07:00

Anyway, here's a sample: (it doesn't do it justice, being taken out of context of the story).

"What do I remember? Every word, every detail. I remember walking along the wet deserted street by the wall of the temple; I remember looking up for the flare that had ever burnt on the top of the temple, and it was quenched; and the black demons of fear came shrieking at my ear and would not be silenced, for all that I repeated like a madwoman, 'Fire cannot burn in water.' I saw the faces of men who were not there and of children from whom the life had been filched, and yet it was black night, blacker than black since the stars were hidden."

And here's another:

"A dozen or more children were playing there, dodging in and out of the traffic with a skill and indifference which I could not help admiring. For all their play they looked as if they had never eaten a full meal in all their lives, with their ribs thrust out and bellies full-blown like drums with wind and emptiness; and they were also extremely dirty with the dust of the roadside and the filth deposited upon it; and the running sores many of them had upon their bodies were clogged with mud where blood or pus had exuded. But they themsleves were forgetful of their pains - or patient with them...and played naked and merry in the sun. Merry, that is, until a crust of bread fell on the road...when, all childishness lost, all play forgotten, they fought ferociously in the dust for the food...teeth bared, nails clawing, ready, predatory like animals. But when a man of wealth passed they were as tender and pitiful as fledglings, beseeching with soft open mouths and limpid eyes, their begging bowls meekly held before them and altogether changed...and however much they played and were children, still their faces were scored with the knowledge and cares that children should not have, their eyes were knowing and guileful beyond their years."

And last:

"His words pierced me, hardened though I was, realist as I wished to be.

'Do not say these things,' I said. 'I cannot bear to hear them.'

'They are true.'

'Whether they are true or not,' I cried, 'I will not have you saying them.'

'I would not distress you,' Nathan said quietly, 'yet must we not face the truth so that we can make our decisions? Have I told you anything you do not know yourself?'

No, I thought desolately, but I could not say it. Could not. I closed my eyes and felt his hands on my temples where the pulses beat, gently stroking, soothing me in the only way he could. He suffered for me, not so much for himself, and I likewise, so that although together there was more strength there was also more suffering, and if each had been alone the way might not have seemed so hard; yet I knew neither could have borne it alone. Thus confused, my mind turned this way and that, like a paper kite dipping to every current of air, unsure of its own meanings."

Paper Letters to a Wife

2006-04-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

A professional genealogist said the other night: “We are becoming a lost generation.” She was speaking of the fact that much of our correspondence is in email form, often deleted. We have much less tangible correspondence, and much less of it is kept in a form that future generations will find it. (Dan, I know you “archive” everything – but will anyone else ever see it unless it is printed out?)

This is a letter from John Jay (President of the Continental Congress, first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, first Minister of Foreign Affairs, Governor of New York) to his wife, Sally. I was amused by what seemed to be a rather intellectual/formal letter to his wife, but underneath the formality, there seems to be great tenderness. I was also impressed that it seems to me that he does not look down upon his wife, but treats her as an equal (there is a slight degree of condescension – but not in the way we usually think of it. It is the gentle condescension of one who sees the little girl in his wife, but respects the woman). I like the way he treats her. The relationship (as it appears in the letter) seems to have equal portions intellectual, emotional, and spiritual things, respect, honesty with gentleness in expressing correction and censure. Maybe I'm a little too romantic about this particular letter -- it is, after all, only one letter, but it sounds like what I hope for in marriage.

“I…with concern observe that certain circumstances make an impression on your mind, which appears to me too strong. I would detail my reasons for thinking so, but am induced by prudential considerations not to be more particular until we meet…I shall not be absent from you an instant longer than necessity may constrain me, being as anxious to be with you as you can be for my return. The hints you give me are perfectly proper, and I shall not be inattentive to them. I hope in the course of a few days to acquaint you with the result of my reflections concerning the subjects of them. Mutual information and mutual consultations lead to good counsels, and proper measures. Difficulties always demand self-possession, and presence of mind, for apprehension unless well-regulated, prevent reason from affording us the succours which she would otherwise offer…”

“By all means…dismiss from your mind all useless apprehensions as well as all vain hopes. Let us calmly do our duty, and refer events to Providence. They who expect a gentle course of tranquility and happiness in this world, do not know the world. They expect what they will never find. Our business here is to do our duty, to be grateful for benefits, to be patient under adversity, to be resigned to the will of heaven and to console and comfort ourselves with the prospect of being placed after a few more years in a situation from which every kind of evil is excluded. Let us forever be mindful that God governs the world, that all events are under His control, and that nothing comes to pass but by His permission or appointment. These are unquestionable truths and facts, and not philosophical reveries. Be composed therefore. Take the air, take exercise, be cheerful, strengthen your nerves, and be prepared for whatever may occur…”

The Great Divorce

2006-04-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

by C.S. Lewis

"'Do you really think people are penalized for their honest opinions? Even assuming, for the sake of argument, that those opinions were mistaken.'

'Do you really think there are no sins of intellect?'

'There are indeed[...]there is[...]prejudice, and intellectual dishonesty, and timidity, and stagnation. But honest opinions fearlessly followed -- they are not sins.'

'I know we used to talk that way. I did too until the end of my life[...]I know now. Let us be frank[...]When, in our whole lives, did we honestly face, in solitude, the one question on which it all turned: whether after all the Supernatural might not in fact occur? When did we put up one moment's real resistance to the loss of our faith?[...]We didn't want [it] to be true. We were afraid of crude Salvationism, afraid of a breach with the spirit of the age, afraid of ridicule, afraid (above all) of real spiritual fears and hopes.'

'[...]it's not a question of how the opinions are formed. The point is that they were my honest opinions, sincerely expressed.'

'Of course. Having allowed oneself to drift, unresisting, unpraying, accepting every half-conscious solicitation from our desires, we reached a point where we no longer believed the Faith. Just in the same way, a jealous man, drifting and unresisting, reaches a point at which he believes lies about his best friend[...]The beliefs are sincere[...]but errors which are sincere in that sense are not innocent.'[...]

'Well, this is extremely interesting[...]it's a point of view. Certainly, it's a point of view. In the meantime...'

'There is no meantime...All that is over. We are not playing now[...]You have seen Hell: you are in sight of Heaven. Will you, even now, repent and believe?'

'I'm not sure that I've got the exact point you are trying to make,' said the Ghost.

'I am not trying to make any point,' said the Spirit. 'I am telling you to repent and believe.'

'But...I believe already. We may not be perfectly agreed, but you have completely misjudged me if you do not realize that my religion is very real and a very precious thing to me.'

Very well,' said the other, as if changing his plan. 'Will you believe in me?'

'In what sense?'

'Will you come with me to the mountains? It will hurt at first, until your feet are hardened; reality is harsh to the feet of shadows. But will you come?'

'Well, that is a plan. I am perfectly ready to consider it. Of course I should require some assurances...I should want a guarantee that you are taking me to a place where I shall find a wider sphere of usefulness -- and scope for the talents that God has given me -- and an atmosphere of free inquiry[...]'

'No,' said the other. 'I can promise you none of these things. No sphere of usefulness: you are not needed there at all. No scope for your talents: only forgiveness for having perverted them. No atmosphere of inquiry, for I will bring you to the land not of questions but of answers, and you shall see the face of God[...]

Once you were a child. Once you knew what inquiry was for. There was a time when you asked questions because you wanted answers, and were glad when you had found them. Become that child again[...]"

Tuesdays with Morrie (Trust)

2006-03-13T19:16:00.000-08:00

By Mitch Albom

"'You see,' he says to the girl, 'you closed your eyes. That was the difference. Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too -- even when you're in the dark. Even when you're falling.'"

The Last Chapter

2006-03-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

By: Elizabeth Livingston
Reader’s Digest, Feb 2006

“My parents married on September 14, 1940 after a brief courtship…the romance didn’t last long. Seeds of difference sprouted almost immediately. She liked to travel; he hated the thought. He loved golf; she did not. He was a Republican, she an ardent Democrat. They fought at the bridge table, at the dinner table, over money, over the perceived failings of their respective in-laws…It was a miserable duet…Soon after [their 60th wedding anniversary], things began to change…it began when their memories started to fade. Added to the frequent house-wide hunts for glasses and car keys were the groceries left behind on the counter, notices of bills left unpaid. Soon my parents couldn’t remember names of friends, then their grandchildren. Finally they didn’t remember that they had grandchildren.
These crises would have at one time set them at each other’s throats, but now they acted as a team, helping each other with searches, consoling each other with “Everyone does that” or “It’s nothing, you’re just tired.”
You could say my parent’s lives had been whittled away, that they could no longer engage in the business of living. But at the same time, something that had been buried deep was coming up and taking shape. I saw it when my father came home after a brief hospital stay.
We’d tried to explain my father’s absence to my mother, but because of her memory, she could not keep it in her head why he had disappeared. She asked again and again where he was, and again and again we told her. And each day her anxiety grew.
When I finally brought him home, we opened the front door to see my mother sitting on the sofa. As he stepped in the room, she rose with a cry…her hands fluttered over his face. “Oh, there you are,” she said. “There you are.”
I don’t doubt that if my mother and father magically regained their old vigor, they’d be back fighting. But I now see that something came of all those years of shared days – days of sitting at the same table, waking to the same sun, working and raising children together…[it all] was a brick in this unseen creation, a structure that reveals itself increasingly as the world around them falls apart.”

The Jogger on Riverside Drive, 5:00 A.M.

2006-03-13T18:08:00.001-08:00

By: Agha Shahid Ali

The dark scissors of his legs
cut the moon's

raw silk, highways of wind
torn into lanes, his feet

pushing down the shadow
whose patterns he becomes

while trucks, one by one,
pass him by,

headlights pouring
from his pace, his eyes

cracked as the Hudson
wraps street lamps

in its rippled blue shells,
the summer's thin, thin veins

bursting with dawn
he, now suddenly free,

from the air, from himself,
his heart beating far, far

behind him.