Thoreau longs for drone surveillance if only to greater appreciate the Lord’s broad strokes. This isn’t about the peripatetic but rather serial dualitThoreau longs for drone surveillance if only to greater appreciate the Lord’s broad strokes. This isn’t about the peripatetic but rather serial dualities. You know, worlds Old and New. Farmers and Poets, testaments to all things green, at least greenish. ...more
One must follow the role of an uninvited visitor—an intruder—rather than that of an aggressive hunter, and one should go unarmed to insure this attituOne must follow the role of an uninvited visitor—an intruder—rather than that of an aggressive hunter, and one should go unarmed to insure this attitude.
We were in Newfoundland a year ago, a lovely holiday and upon the world's most uncomfortable couch I found reruns of Northern Exposure. I loved the show back in its heyday. It appeared apt, especially the episode where on Thanksgiving the First nation people through tomatoes at the white people. A few months after that, we returned from Serbia to discover that Amazon Prime now had all of Northern Exposure in its content vault. I then viewed every episode. Thus, I was intrigued by McPhee's description of the eccentrics who leave the "Lower 48" and venture north. There are three sections, the first dealing with a canoe and kayak trip rife with conversation about conservation and bear attacks. The second details urban Alaska and political tensions; this crystallized in ballot measure to move the state capitol. The final section is a series of portraits which in juxtaposition create an Alaskan mesh, forever in disunion.
Was I ever disappointed! Perhaps the blame should rest with me, if only partially. I just recoiled from the arrogance, intentional or not. I enjoyed the sections detailing bush pilots but disliked nearly everything else....more
Perhaps it was only the platitude that man is small, and that life is precarious.
An academic from New England spends a year in the deserts of New MexPerhaps it was only the platitude that man is small, and that life is precarious.
An academic from New England spends a year in the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona. His sabbatical is a poetic one. He orients himself to scarcity of the region, noting how the fauna and flora adapt to the arid conditions. He extrapolates. We are reminded that he wrote this in 1952, and we muse now from a biosphere in flames, how quaint.
Perhaps closer to 3 stars as this reader began to sigh after subsequent references to Milton and Wordworth. Such filigree appeared disruptive. There's a comparison offered between desert and jungle in terms of effusive opportunity and Krutch laments that humanity went with the jungle model. Poets and Naturalists prefer the other course.
The author at one point becomes fascinated that there are frogs in the region, become noisily evident after a rain shower. He discovers tadpoles in a puddle. He takes a few before they would succumb to the fate of their haven evaporating. He nurtures them and then releases all but one of the young toads. There's a clumsy earnestness to this. Krutch nods to Thoreau constantly and my own thoughts drifted to a summer course on Walden a lifetime ago. I was grateful
I grabbed this at a recent book sale, and I am not sure which one. Such is the delight of those bazaars, thinking that might be interesting and spending a dollar. My god, we are so fortunate....more
Our author and his genre vice, he can’t shake it. He fiends. Ellroy, oh boy.
I was pleased he avoided excessive hocus pocus here, well, outside of J EdOur author and his genre vice, he can’t shake it. He fiends. Ellroy, oh boy.
I was pleased he avoided excessive hocus pocus here, well, outside of J Edgar Hoover pulling a ridiculous number of strings. Yeah the plot device of the female friends being daughters of the featured protagonists has long disappeared. The libidinal images of spouses and GFs asserts itself here instead.
The idea here that Dealey Plaza launched a wave of operations which shifted the course of history, replete with transcripts from Hoover advising the unwitting. There’s torture and narcotics, more slurs and epithets than one might want to. It just grew tired. There’s no need to connect events within a narrative arc by such threadbare characterization.
It went from Dallas to Vegas to Vietnam ringing in Sonny Liston, Jack Ruby and other assorted murderers and martyrs. Despite the last of those I don’t consider us witnesses. Perhaps just paroled from the slog by the turning of the final page....more
Enough should be a human right, a floor below which no one can fall; also a ceiling above which no one can rise. Enough is as good as a feast—or bett Enough should be a human right, a floor below which no one can fall; also a ceiling above which no one can rise. Enough is as good as a feast—or better.
How Scandanavian, as Bjork once opined (in an unrelated context). This book oozes optimism which by definition isn't bad but reading it only gives us an escape, not even a set of dreams, perhaps a hatful of dreams would suffice, let's ask Willy W. Or Wily Brandt as he knelt. It isn't an urge to be glib but a recognition which fuels this post. I suffer from biosphere grief, a sense of loss and impending collapse. KSR gives us a hopeful yarn. Another reviewer said this is a counterpart to his The Years of Rice and Salt . I really liked that exploration in alternate history. I didn't care near as much for this, a literary effort to forestall defeatism? The opening of the novel is harrowing, and I wasn't familiar with wet bulb conditions, but I could feel such through the prose, which is an endorsement for sure. It is the subsequent happy turns (although many of them are the result of sweeping acts of terror which somehow receive a pass, authorial or otherwise) and the surfeit of questionable science. I understand this is speculative fiction, but some leaps are ridiculous, but then I'm just an aged cynical progressive, still searching for an embraceable metanarrative....more
I am a philosopher of sandwiches, he decided. Things good on the inside.
Probably 4.5 stars as I sensed a lag towards the end, coinciding with the glo I am a philosopher of sandwiches, he decided. Things good on the inside.
Probably 4.5 stars as I sensed a lag towards the end, coinciding with the gloom of Lima. Who hasn’t felt such, been lost to such sullen conclusions?
I love Carson, all her omissions, the muttered half-truth in the sight lines of the Infinite. This work stirs myth, finds the lyrical in abuse, the frantic footfalls of childhood and the subsequent confusion commonly understood as “life”. I liked the universal experience of sitting in a cafe in a strange city and imagining everyone loathing you whereas you are barely a presence. Here’s to citing Heidegger on postcards back to the provinces. Indifference is the chief export of aging if not maturity. The existence of the letters is subject to debate, especially in learned journals. I tend to side with those that regard nostalgia as a toxic byproduct of capacity. Alas we can ponder the impact of volcanic activity as a metaphor for cognitive rehabituation. ...more
So many are children who from the day of their birth are growing up to be their parents. Look at the voting records, inherited like flat feet.
Was nearSo many are children who from the day of their birth are growing up to be their parents. Look at the voting records, inherited like flat feet.
Was nearly late to work as I became lost in the prose, wanting to finish it but hoping it would last a little longer. Ms. Hardwick gave us a fictional distortion, a wayward look into the mirror while browsing a date book, yes, Maine was exceptional that summer but the poor wash lady--now she was a character. So it goes, haunting and yet delightful. There are glosses on Billie Holiday and wet summers in the Netherlands. There are sidelong views of a childhood Lexington and the flickers of menace and molestation.
Lowell is an unnamed imp occupying blind corners, his absence a lyric to Proteus, an advisor to domestic maters being inchoate. This is a lovely experiment, one which beckons even after the last page is turned....more
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