Maybe it's Time

To whom it m may concern:

After months of on-again-off-again reading, I've finally finished Henry Fielding's The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. To begin, let me mention why it took so long. Besides the normal drama life throws at us all, I relocated very long distance, not once, but twice during my tenure in this massive tome. 

Published in 1749, like its predecessor, Don Quixote by Cervantes, it is a mammoth book, nearly 800 pages. The similarities don't stop at mere length though. Like Cervantes's work, this book is chocked full of chapters. No, correct that, this work is full of books like Homer or Virgil. However, there are 18 books in all which are then subdivided into short chapters, usually between 10 and 18 per book. So it doesn't take a rocket scientist or math whiz to see the magnitude of verbiage awaiting the reader. 

For those who have mercifully forgotten, or who wish to re-read my semi-review of Don Quixote, you will find it embedded in a much longer post here. However, in case it's not clear, the similarities to Cervantes is primarily restricted to age and length. Otherwise, Fielding's "history", as he's fond of calling it, bears little resemblance to the idiotic foolery of Cervantes's deluded, and most times, down right dangerous, Clouseauesque knight. 

However, for all his improvements on Cervantes, he manages to create some annoying features of his own. Namely, at the beginning of each book, he introduces them with a first chapter "preface" as he will later call them. Naturally, and might I add, ironically, he eventually writes one of these introductions, late in the book, sadly, explaining that they are worthless, have nothing to do with the topic, slams those who write them for plays, and claims one could mix and match the ones written for plays without any ill effects to the reader, the topic at hand, or the work thereto appended. Many are interesting in their own right, but most are simply side bar reading material, typically unrelated to the topic at hand, dragging out his already too long narrative far beyond reasonable expectations. In any event, one can easily do the mental arithmetic and determine that there are 18 "filler" chapters (and one horrid, dedicatory epistle to his patron at the beginning of the book) which, by the author's own admission, are worthless and have nothing to add to the story. 

Now, my point is this, I'm one who has vowed never to read an abridged book on the first reading. I don't want some, often anonymous editor behind the curtain somewhere deciding to what I should or should not be exposed, denying me the privilege he no doubt once had while earning the credentials necessary to edit such works. I want the full experience of what the author intended, at least the first time. On subsequent journeys through a work, I might cull some material, known to be boring or insignificant, on my own, but never on my first time through. 

However, maybe it's time I do. Honestly, I'm not getting any younger. The faster time slips past me, the more I rue wasting it reading non-essential drivel. Now that I try to restrict my reading material to the "great" books, I'm finding that there are often time killers in them at times. Truth be told, I did not finish the dedicatory epistle, and realized, by the second introductory essay, as he also calls them, that they were irrelevant to the topic up coming or past. I easily could have played the odds and missed nothing, saving myself the time of reading at least 15 or 16 chapter length, and often the longest ones, time wasters. In the end, I stuck to my guns and read every word. I really need to revisit my tenacious resistance to abridgment. 

Regardless of my proclivities and his editorial style, his story is coherent and the characters are sympathetic and repeatedly thrown into difficulties which, at every turn, threaten to undo what each is trying desperately to accomplish. It's a classic tale, a boy chasing girl, with two protagonists, and no real antagonists.

Fielding's writing is lively, fresh, mostly light, and very funny. He is good with puns and turns of phrase. Like Cervantes before him, he engages in a delightful blend of meta-fictional elements, regularly, as narrator, speaking directly to his reading audience, rather than through some agent in the story. Like Cervantes, Fielding is truly a character in his own story.

One linguistic caveat: keep Google handy if you are rusty, like I am, on your Latin. There are lots of untranslated, albeit, short Latin phrases. Most are meant to mock the pseudo intellectualism of one of Tom Jones's travelling companions, who either misquotes, or worse, misapplies them to the conversation. Maybe that's what the author intends to communicate by not translating them (longer Latin quotes he does translate, btw). I'll let you decide. 

Caveat number two: there are seemingly endless conversations that, for all practical purposes, serve only to elongate the work. You know: filler, fluff, blurb. Apparently Fielding was being paid by the word *smirks*. One could easily eliminate a few books by cutting, or sharply truncating said adjunct conversations.

Lastly, as is so often the case today, one fancies that Fielding probably ran up hard against his publication date as he attempts to connect his ridiculously complex plot in book 18 alone. Thus, he is forced to render his concluding narrative in 13 chapters when previously he would have taken at least 60 chapters (often dispersed throughout 5 full books) to cover the same material. Needless to say, what began as a leisurely meander through the complications of class conscious, young love, ends more than a bit rushed. 

Nevertheless, all in all, it's a good read. Just plan on taking your time. 

Until  next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, read good, even long books, and remember to breathe.

Castaways

To whom it may concern:

Every author has an audience. Well, at least that's the assumption he makes when he sits down to write. Otherwise, what's the point? This blog writer is no different. Besides, unlike some who craft words and mold ideas in other ways, I get direct feed back, either via comments or stats Blogger feeds me daily. I don't have many readers, but I see you there each time I post. The numbers creep slowly upward. And you know what they say, the numbers never lie.

I read a blog recently where the writer described her mental audience as a conversation with her readers around her kitchen table. Sounds warm and cozy. Who wouldn't like that? Naturally, it made me think of how I see myself in relation to my readers. Oddly, no image at all came immediately to mind.  

Obviously, I don't visualize my audience anything like the way she did. I didn't feel as close and cozy with my readers as she does with hers. However, I didn't take that to be a bad thing, just a different way of seeing one's role. 

What shocks me as I write this now is, that as a writer, I had no clear vision of my audience. Yes, I knew the type audience related to the topics and tone, but I'd never given any thought to a mental perception of them. 

After a few days, this deficiency began to haunt me. Why couldn't I come up with a simple analogy? Just how did I see myself interacting with those who take the time to read what I scribble here? So I set to work trying to create, no, discover my image. 

Last last night, and early this morning an idea crystallized into clarity. For what it's worth, I feel like a castaway on some deserted island who has discovered that his radio still works. He knows that if he broadcasts on a known frequency, someone, and he doesn't quite know who, but someone will hear him. He also knows that that same someone will respond - eventually. It's just a matter of time or maybe a matter of method. So, not to push the analogy too far, I feel that way: solitary, singular, but in no way stranded or lonely, writing to you, plural - a you somewhere else, maybe far away, maybe near, maybe a follower, maybe a casual reader, maybe a first timer - an only timer. Yet, I know you are out there reading. Eventually, I'll say something which will strike a nerve just right and you'll pick up the mic and respond. 

Please don't take this as a plea for any attention. I merely mean that I see myself as here alone at my keyboard spilling my heart and mind to you who are "out there somewhere". I'm not lonely. I'm not digging for comments. I just needed to tell you how I see myself in this capacity. 

I enjoy very much writing here. My mind needs a way to empty itself without burdening those with whom I live with the minutiae of things they might not understand or care about. Blogging gives an active mind an outlet it desperately needs to vent or sometimes flush itself and reset. That's the important function you serve as my readers. Like the fisherman, I can't see the fish who is biting on my line, but I can feel your tug on the other end and I feel the connection. I thank you for your participation.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Interests

To whom it may concern:

Pardon the pun, but "interests" is an interesting word. While I suppose one could parse it down until it's no fun any more, but I'll resist a former temptation because I'm here to inform, rather than debate. So, I'm going to treat the term as synonymous with "things I enjoy": or "these are a few of my favorite things" if you will pardon my tongue being firmly planted in my cheek. 

Seriously tho, typically I place reading at the top of any list of interests. I live for books. To me they are the life of the mind, and certainly the mind of my life. Similarly, given the amount of time I've spent commuting in my life, music also plays a huge role, thanks to the invention of various players for automobiles. And nothing helps me wind down after a long week like relaxing and watching a good movie. However, since Blogger asked about books, music, and movies separately, I'll discuss them separately as well in future posts. Conspicuous by it's absence is Art. Wonder why. I'll likely post on it too, eventually, altho for me, art is a much more difficult topic to pin down or comment on. We'll see how that goes. For this post, tho, I'll limit myself to the interests I have which fall outside these three (4 if you count Art). Thus, for now, let me describe my favorite things in the physical, intellectual, and what I can only describe as the spiritual realms.

When it comes to living in the physical world, I do, or have enjoyed a long run on a brisk winter morning, falling into rhythm with my feet and breathing, keeping mental cadence as I rap to myself about issues in my mind. The spring reminds me that I'm in step, no pun intended, with nature as I run thru the budding foliage. Summer pushes me to the limits as I finish exhausted and soaked, not a dry nano-meter on my body, but feeling rewarded for a job well done. Autumn simply helps me recover and enjoy the slowing down of life. In many ways, running was my life. There are and were so many analogies which naturally flow from the experiences of long distant running. I hope to take it back up soon.

When not running, there's nothing as exhilarating or rewarding as a 50+ mile bike ride where I can almost put it on auto-pilot while cruising with the wind in my face and nothing but the sound of nature all around. Throw in some challenging climbs and the accompanying descents, decent so fast that the tears roll out of my eyes uncontrollably, and I'm a happy man.  

Give me a bit of technology and another crisp winter morning and nothing awakens me like boring a hole in a clear blue sky after having brushed the frost from the wings of a two place airplane. The thrill and freedom of riding the currents and whims of my heart as it mirrors the winds, makes life take on a different quality from the world below. At times like these, I feel like the luckiest man in the world to be able to fly. Maybe sailing does the same thing for the sailor, sans the cold winter air, but as I don't sail, so I'll leave it to you sailors out there to contemplate the comparison.

Or back on earth, pack my bags, fuel up my car, ease my loved one into the passenger seat, and drive all day brings an ease which is hard to duplicate for sheer ease and comfort. No where in particular, just go "that" way until we've both talked ourselves tired. Then stop for the night to sleep. Next morning, get up and do it again in a lazy meander across the country, stopping at interesting places with no particular agenda in mind. And no schedules! Again, freedom of the best kind. Maybe all my endeavors center around that theme.

Moving into the intellectual realm, I love board and card games with a near fanatical passion. My mother always said that Chess was my first love. Of course, she also said that about flying. Regardless, nothing beats a quiet, comfortable room, a worthy opponent, a few hours to kill, and one colossal clash of minds and wills. The stronger and better matched my opponent is the better I play, the more fiercely I concentrate, and the more deeply I enjoy the competition. And yes, a draw is typically more satisfying than a win, and carries none of the devastation of a loss.

I'll not elaborate much here, but I love, in much the same way as games, and for many of the same reasons, the challenge of Theology and Philosophy. While this might be confused with reading books by some, one actually "does" philosophy to hear the philosophers tell it. However, the main tools in the bag of the thinker are simply his brain, time, patience, and a few lucky breaks from books and experiences. Most of my serious opinions were forged over a drive home from work or on a long run. This is an activity which cannot be done merely by reading books. Altho, books can and do lend fuel and often clarity to the practice, at the end of it all, like learning anything, both fields must be "done" individually and internally. While both disciplines can be researched, and much time is saved in reading the great thinkers who've gone before, generally one contemplates the mysteries and struggles alone. Yes, it can be a bit lonely at times, but the rewards of self-discovery are astounding. Maybe these are my true first loves. I've done both for as long as I can recall.

Next comes music. It's a field which is difficult to assign. It's highly physical, acutely mental, and deeply spiritual. So it spans all the categories I'm using today. So I place it here for lack of a better place. And while not overly musical, I do play meditative music on Whistles of all sorts (including Recorders), the Shakuhachi, and the Indian Bansuri. While not terribly good at them, the breath control required helps me center and relax.

Lastly, the category I have no adequate name for. Maybe we can agree to call it spiritual so long as we don't push it too far into the realm of religion; altho, I've been there a lot and might go there again before all is said and done. It could simply be that all I do naturally and intuitively, innately even?, gravitates towards the spiritual. At least I'm seeing a pattern here. Nevertheless, I have no other word for what follows, so we'll lump the remaining items under the rubric of a generic spiritual consciousness since I do them for no other reason than that intangible something far superseding the acts themselves.

To begin, while I would not ever claim to have written anything good or wise, I do enjoy that side of the life of the mind called writing. Francis Bacon once said, and I'm hyper-paraphrasing here, something about writhing enabling one to focus and articulate what one thinks. Another has said that "writing allows us to talk to one another over distances and over time." If nothing else, it's helped me to do those things. I do love stringing words together. There are times when the cadence and or the sounds become more important to my ear than the meaning to my mind. Maybe there's a bit of poet in me. Maybe I just enjoy playing w/the sounds. Maybe I just enjoy typing and seeing what resembles a meaningful pattern emerge on the page. Maybe there's something I can't express in and about my writing. Maybe I enjoy being purposefully ambiguous? Many writers have been. I'll never tell. Whatever it is, I've been curious about, and interested in writing all my life.

A corollary I find necessary to writing, I love deep wonder and imagination. Flights of fancy capture me like nothing else. Give me fantasy, give me what if's, give me possibilities and I'll ponder them all day. Many will inspire and result in stories or articles. Give me anything of interest to chew on and I will turn it over until something spills out of either my mouth or my pen.

Which leads me to conversation. The Russians claim that it's not what one eats at the table, but the company with which one shares it which makes a good meal. I couldn't agree more. That's why I love long road trips, eating out, and generally conversing with articulate people. After a long day, come relax with me in a dimly lit room, drink a bit of wine to clear out the cob webs, start with something innocent for discussion, then let our minds sound and explore the depths of whatever flows from that subconscious stream. Then weave oral poetry with me until one of us falls asleep.

To me, that's a good time, and these are my primary interests. 

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.