The Histories by Herodotus

Gentle readers, after a long hiatus between books, I finished reading The Histories today. Viewed simply as an adventure in reading, this book is a magnificent excursion among various peoples, cities and places, along with "marvels" and battles.

That said, except for the last couple of chapters - Books Eight and Nine - I found Herodotus slightly disappointing from the point of view of coherence and pleasure in the act of reading. For me, the dramatic themes of his work (such as Greek freedom and Persian slavery) were haphazard and unclear, at least on a first reading. Coupled with that, his digressions were often far too lengthy and unconnected with the main body of his work.

On reflection, my complaints strike me as the frustrations of a reader very much spoilt by modern writers of history and fantasy. These later writers adumbrate, even spell out, their dramatic themes, clearly and coherently. Herodotus, in contrast, is regarded as the father of history. If defects exist in his work, they can surely be excused, in the circumstances!

I believe that Herodotus will reward more richly on a second reading. Knowing in advance the difficulties and frustrations, the extent and nature of his digressions and narrative, I will be more able to focus on the delights to be found in his work, which is, after all, to be admired, whatever else may be said about it.

Relatedly, my favourite travel agency, Academy Travel, offers a tour in October 2009 of Classical Greece here. Some of the sites in the itinerary appear to score a mention in Herodotus: Delphi, Plataea, Thermopylae, Athens, and so on. Reading Herodotus has awakened in me a desire to see the ancient world as it survives today. Maybe some time in the future, I will go on a trip and see the world Herodotus travelled through or traversed in his writings! For now, I will continue to dream.

Pascal

I'm at the 521 page mark, one chapter before the famous chapter "Snow".

I would like to note that yesterday I returned to the programming language, Pascal, and wrote a program called "The Joy of Reading". It performs the functions of a database: books I've read, their authors, and how many pages they total. I will fill it in as I go.

Of course, it is fitting to point out that Blaise Pascal is among the geniuses whose works are recommended by Van Doren. Pensees (Thoughts) is the title. Looking forward to it too!

For Christmas, my thoughtful parents gave me The History by Herodotus and Metamorphoses by Ovid. Both titles were recommended by Van Doren.

The Magic Mountain (continued)

At the 300-page mark. By now, it is clear that young Hans Castorp has contracted tubercolosis and become intoxicated - infatuated - with Claudia Chauchat. Castorp has also somewhat disturbingly declared war on Ludovico Settembrini, the most entertaining, eloquent character in the book so far.

Precisely because of its want in my life, I find I am enjoying Mann's description of the tensions and release of tensions that fill the days of the patients in the rareified altitude of the Berghof.

But it seems that distinctions between acceptable love and deplorable stalking, infiltration, and staring seem immaterial to Castorp. To my mind, the purple-cheeked Director would, in today's society, have long since had a stern word with Castorp, at the insistence of Chauchat herself...

"The Magic Mountain" (begun)

As fate would have it, last Sunday, The Joy of Reading fell open at the entry for Thomas Mann. Van Doren's recommendation was not Death in Venice, but rather The Magic Mountain.

I was impressed with the first pages' narrative of Hans Castorp's ascent to the International Sanatorium Berghof.

At the 100-page mark, I am pleased to report that the book is as pleasing as a fine piece of furniture. It has a beautiful high-altitude setting, populated by dotty, foreign inhabitants, and notable for intriguing details.

I once visited a friend who was staying at a Richmond hospital for mentally infirm. Then, I was struck by the unfortunate condition of those who seem healthy in every respect but are confined to quarters for months on the mere opinion of another human being. (This impression may have originated from a viewing of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.)

In the Berghof of The Magic Mountain, most of the patients seem perfectly healthy, save for an occasional cough. I wish they would be set free.

'The triform porter stands amazed'

Boethius' The Consolation of Philosophy is one of those books that is worth revisiting later in life. It contains much that is useful to know and remember, even though it was written for and about late Roman audiences and times - particularly criminal emperors with fantastic wealth, Theodoric!

Of all the parts of the book, my interest was most piqued by the discussion early in Book IV about the nature of evil and evil acts. The principal claim is that the wicked do not exist: "anything which turns away from goodness ceases to exist ... That [the wicked] used to be human is shown by the human appearance of their body which still remains...[Anyone who is wicked] sinks to the level of an animal." Recently, a friend with high moral sense referred to those who frequent nightclubs as moths attracted by one of those insect zappers. Whether consciously or not, he was echoing Boethius's thoughts more than 1500 years ago!

Five Gothic Tales

After only reading five instalments, I have quickly to return Seven Gothic Tales by Isak Dinesen to the local library. What tales they were! Gloomy and grotesque, limpid and long-winded. My favourite tale of hers is "The Monkey", in which the best laid plans of a scheming Virgin Prioress of Closter Seven "gang aft agley", although she seems to secure a nominal triumph in the end.

Given my limited range of expression, I feel that the quality of the writing can only be expressed by direct quotation:

"'I suppose,' she then said, 'that even in your country you have parties, balls, and conversazioni?'

'Yes,' he said, 'we have those.'

'Then you will know,' she went on slowly, 'that the part of a guest is different from that of a host or hostess, and that people do not want or expect the same things in the two different capacities?'

'I think you are right,' said Augustus.

'Now God,' she said, 'when he created Adam and Eve, arranged it so that man takes, in these matters, the part of a guest, and woman that of a hostess. Therefore man takes love lightly, for the honour and dignity of his house is not involved therein. And you can also, surely, be a guest to many people to whom you would never want to be a host. Now, tell me, Count, what does a guest want?'

'I believe,' said Augustus when he had thought for a moment, 'that if we do, as I think we ought to here, leave out the crude guest, who comes to be regaled, takes what he can get and goes away, a guest wants first of all to be diverted, to get out of his daily monotony or worry. Secondly the decent guest wants to shine, to expan himself and impress his own personality upon his surroundings. And thirdly, perhaps, he wants to find some justification for his existence altogether. But since you put it so charmingly, Signora, please tell me now: What does a hostess want?'

'The hostess,' said the young lady, 'wants to be thanked.'

Here loud voices outside put an end to their conversation."

"I have always thought it unfair to woman that she has never been alone in the world. Adam had a time, whether long or short, when he could wander about on a fresh and peaceful earth, among the beasts, in full possession of his soul, and most men are born with a memory of that period. But poor Eve found him there, with all his claims upon her, the moment she looked into the world. That is a grudge that woman has always had against the Creator: she feels that she is entitled to have that epoch of paradise back for herself."

"Boris, in the meantime, had been looking at Athena, and had let a fantasy take hold of his mind. He thought that she must have a lovely, an exquisitely beautiful skeleton. She would lie in the ground like a piece of matchless lace, a work of art in ivory, and in a hundred years might be dug up and turn the heads of old archaeologists. Every bone was in place, as finely finished as a violin. Less frivolous than the traditional old libertine who in his thoughts undresses the women with whom he sups Boris liberated the maiden of her strong and fresh flesh together with her clothes, and imagined that he might be very happy with her, that he might even fall in love with her, could he have her in her beautiful bones alone. He fancied her thus, creating a sensation on horseback, or trailing her long dresses through the halls and galleries at Court, with the famous tiara of her family, now in Poland, upon her polished skull. Many human relations, he thought, would be infinitely easier if they could be carried out in the bones only."

"We must cultivate our garden"

I have finished reading Voltaire's Candide, the fast-paced chronicle of all the outrages that befall a simpleton and his beloved, friends and relatives in "the best of all possible worlds". The sad thing about the horrors that befall the characters, particularly the women, is that they still recur four centuries after the time this tale was written. One only has to look at the pages of the Economist, that sober and sensible journal. But even Dr Pangloss, who maintained that the world was the best of all possible worlds, no longer believed it by the end of the tale. In the end, they come to the conclusion that "we must cultivate our garden."