Hey! I'm back!

And I have nothing to say.

For what little I wrote while my computer was down, visit bathtubadventurer.blogspot.com.

3:18:04 PM     comment []

So I got this belated christmas gift from my housemate and his boyfriend: an 'adaptation' Dante's Inferno, all done up in in modern prose. Here's a taste:

About halfway though the course of my pathetic life,

I woke up and found myself in a stupor in some dark place.

I'm not sure how I ended up there; I guess I had taken a few wrong turns.

 

I can't rally describe what that place was like.

It was dark and strange, just thinking

about it now gives me the chills. It was so bleak

and depressing. I remember thinking I'd rather be

dead than stuck there. But before I go too of track,

I should tell you about the other stuff that happened,

because, in the end, evertything turned out alright.

- (Sanders/Birk Canto I, 1 -10)

 

So far, I'm enjoying it, but not in a Dante sort of way. There's so much meat to Dante's poetry - allusions and, I dunno, worlds within the words that this translation doesn't capture. On the other hand, the prose is readable - it flows along in that kind of addictive-but-I-shouldn't  kind of way that modern writing gets sometimes; it's almost like listening in on a confession. And Dante was written in the vernacular, right?

That's just it, though. Dante wrote the Comedy in Italian, deliberatly shrugging off the Latin that all educated people were expected to read and write in, if they were reading and writing anything of worth. But he wrote with such poetry - and such deliberate, precise, and perfect word choice. His description of the afterworld is so detailed and precise - no word is wasted, no phrase thrown in for show.

This Inferno reads well, I'll give it that. And the Dante I'm reading here feels more human, in a guy-you-might-meet-on-the-bus kind of way than any Dante I've encountered in the other translations I've read. Maybe that's a good thing; I'm feeling Dante the Pilgrim here more than I ever have before. But I'm kinda missing Dante the Poet.

For example, one of my favorite bits from the Inferno, at the end of book V, wher Franscesca relates to Dante how she and her lover, Paolo, ended up in the second circle of hell, among the lustful (this is from the Pinsky translation):

. . "One day, for pleasure,

  We read of Lancelot, by love constrained:

  Alone, suspecting nothing, at our leisure.

Sometimes as we read our glances joined,

   Looking from each to the other's eyes,

   And then the color in our faces drained.

But one particular moment alone it was

   Defeated us: the longed-for smile, it said,

   Was kissed by that most noble lover: at this,

This one, who now will never leave my side.

   Kissed my mouth, trembling. A Galeotto, that book!

   And so it was he who wrote it; that day we read

No further." All the while the one shade spoke,

   The other at her side was weeping; my pity

Overwhelmed me and I felt myself go slack:

   Swooning as in death, I fell like a dying body.

And now, the Birk & Sanders adaptation:

One afternoon, the two of us were just sitting there reading about

Sir Lancelot and Guinevere from the King Arthur stories. We were

happy and all and forgot we should be careful about being seen

together. That books pretty good, way better than the movie, and it

was a warm day and we were all relaxed and cozy and it was nice. But

some parts of the book - I don't know if you've read it and remember

it or anything - but some parts of the book are pretty racy, and I

guess we both got into it because soon we ended up making out.

Well, that led to other things, and it was right then that

somebody walked in on us while we were doing it. To this day,

I haven't picked up that book. Ever. The thing is," she paused, somewhat

embarrased. "you see, I'm married to this asshole named Gianciotto. And this,"

she said, pointing at her twisted mate, "is Paolo, Gianciotto's younger brother."

 

As she was tewlling me the whole story, I could see the guy

was crying, too, but quietly, and I felt sad for them both.

It seemed so unfair. I felt a huge wave of sadness, and I guess

I hadn't eaten much that day, because I fainted. Out cold.

This just isn't as compelling to me in the Birk/Sanders version. Perhaps it's too modern - everythings too flippant, nothing matters quite as much. The romance, the buildup between Paolo and Francesca is just 'getting carried away,' like two drunk teenagers at a frat party. But what this deosn't seem to capture is that, even to two drunk teenagers at a party, actions matter - and while our postmodern detatchment, even from our own actions and their consequences, might lead us to speak casually about such matters, the feelings themselves, the underlying passions are the same. And the damned should know that better than anone.

Dante's fainting at the end of the scene is also robbed a bit of its power. Not only is the fainting itself couched in excuses, but the reasons behind it are obscured by the looseness of the adaptation. In the Pinsky translation, we get the passage:

But one particular moment alone it was

   Defeated us: the longed-for smile, it said,

   Was kissed by that most noble lover: at this,

This one, who now will never leave my side.

   Kissed my mouth, trembling. A Galeotto, that book!

   And so it was he who wrote it; that day we read

No further."

Now Galeotto may seem like an obscure reference to an obscure romance that bored Florentine housewives might have read once upon a time. And it may seem that, to the modern reader, a reference this obscure could be dropped, and no real meaning would be lost.

But the name hides a wealth of meaning. The name is the Italianized version of Gallehault, a go-between who encouraged Lancelot and Guinevere to kiss in the a Famous French Romance (whos name eludes me). A romance in which, interestingly, it was not Lancelot initiated the kiss with Guievere, but the other way around. In addition,  the italianized version of the name, Galeotto, can also mean ferry-man (like the ferryman accross the river Styx, for example). So, here we have a name that

1.) Illustrates the idea that Francesca, at least, sees the book itself was a go-between encouraging the two lovers: "and so it was he who wrote it"

2.) Shows that Francesca might be misrepresenting (to herself as well as to Dante, for the damned were ordered not to lie to him) who, of she and Paolo initiated the kiss that brought about their damnation (she recalls the verse wrong  and has Lancelot kissing Guinevere - and has Paolo follow suit - perhaps reflecting her own misapprehension of how things played out in her life).

3.) Makes a pretty allusion to the book - and their falling under it's sway - ferrying Paolo and Francesca accross the styx and into Hell.

And it is after this passage that Dante faints. A poet, a man for whom the written word - from the Bible on out through the pagan authors of Rome and the Romantic Poets of Midevil Europe - was central to all thought faints with sympathy for lovers overcome by passion, and mislead by a poor reading of a text.

I much prefer that to the Jerry Springer version.

Ach. It's late and I'm getting snarky. And I'm climbing Castle Rock tomorrow. Off to bed.

12:34:02 AM     comment []

Surreal day - I spent the entire day writing grad school reccomendations (or behalf of my boss) for a co-worker of mine. Felt kinda nice to be paid for writing, for once. 

10:16:10 PM     comment []

You are William Blake! Wow. I'm impressed. Not
only are you a self-made artist and poet, but
you've suddenly become a very trendy guy to
like. It's not that we doubt that you have all
your marbles, it's just that we're not quite
sure what you did with them to come up with
those terrifying theological visions. The
people of your time were nowhere near as
forgiving as that, and all your neighbors
thought you were a grade-A nut job. But we
love you, so rest happy.

Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla

8:59:20 PM     comment []

The hermit was musing the other day on the nature of online popularity: who gets linked, who gets read, whose posts get commented-upon. It's a funny thing, blogging. I'm writing here for me - at least that's what I tell myself. But I want to get read, and I want people to like what they read.

I'm going to go on a bit of a selfish rant here, because, well. . . because it's my blog and I want to, damnit.

A bit of a backstory, first. My housemate and I have been friends for fifteen years now. We met in detention in the sixth grade (very proto-Breakfast Club, I know). What started with some shared goat cheese and grape sandwiches (I'd say I was going through a phase, but the phase never really ended - lets just say I was a budding gourmand and leave it at that) has weathered unrequited crushes, long petty arguments, forays into the mental health system, long periods of sporadic contact and, now that we live together, overdue phone bills and sinks full of dirty dishes. In short, we're pretty tight, and have been for quite some time.

That said, there are times I want to squish the bugger.

Now, I don't believe in luck - it's my general feeling that life is what you make of it, and if you just keeep your wits about you, 'luck' will present itself fairly often. That said, I've always felt particularly blessed by these nonexistant gods of fortune. I've got good health, have a good relationship with my family, have a great boyfriend, and well, generally, the world seems like a pretty nice place.

But being around said housemate, lately, has me feeling like I must be doing something wrong. Its not that he's making six figures while I'm barely scraping by on less than two thousand dollars a month (it sounds like a lot, until you move to San Francisco). And its not that he manages to land said six-figure salary without ever going to college (or ever accruing student loan debt, for that matter). Ok, that's probably a lot of it.

But tonight really stings. He comes home, and tells me, as an afterthought, "Oh, yeah, the funnies thing happened today."

"Yeah? What?"

"I've been posting on this discussion board on [well-known website/company], and they've asked me to write for them in a professional capacity."

"Really! What sort of writing?"

"Oh, you know, my take of world events. A full time position - I could telecommute from here."

Now, you probably can't tell from the half-thought-out ramblings I usually end up posting here, but I like to write. And I've been hoping that some day, in some sort of humble capacity, that I might be able to do it full time, for a living. Maybe even freelancing from home. I even tried for a bit when we first moved out here, but with Brian (my boyfriend) already freelancing, there really wasn't room in the ol' budget for more sporradic paydays and unpredictable dryspells. Or maybe that's what I tell myself so that I can get away with being chicken, and living on safe path. Regardless, I work as a secretary, for not much money, and am still trying to finish my BA eight years after I started it. Not exactly living the dream, am I?

So what do I want? Sure, I want his job. I want to be discovered. 

But, really, all I want is to be read. I want someone to freaking care. Not to say, 'oh, it's hard sometimes, isn't it,' or 'that  sucks, man - do something, why don't you.' That's not enough. I want someone to look at me and then actually think about me when they're not looking anymore. I want someone to look at me and say something other than, 'did you send out that spreadsheet,' or 'could you clean out the conference room?' I want to live a life that somebody might care about, a life that I can enjoy waking up to.

This is more than about wanting just to be read, or liked. . Its about waiting to be attention-worthy, and getting pretty damn tired of waiting.

</rant> 

8:51:06 PM     comment []

So the strangest thing just happened. I was sittining here, trying to blog while my boyfriend, Brian watched TV (channel-surfed might be a little more accurate).Anyway, he was flipping around when he landed on Ghost Ship, a horrible B-movie horror that came out, I don't know, three or four years ago. Whatever - I'm stalling here.

I was just sort of half-aware of what Brian was doing. Our apartment is small, so I was in the same room as him and the TV, but I was pretty much off in my own little world. Anyway, at the beginning of the movie, there's this horrific scene where a crowd of people (dancing on Ghost Boat's deck) are sliced in half (I won't go into the details, sorry).  It's really graphic - with all the melodrama and gore that you'd expect from this sort of low-grade horror film. It's one of those things where the horror is so ingenius, so inventive, that you almost forget what your watching. 

But this time, for whatever reason (and don't ask me, 'cause I'm flummoxed), I just couldn't take it. I watched, mesmerized, as the scene unfolded. And then I just started bawling.

Now, I'm a fairly normal 26-year-old girl. I've seen my fair share of scarey movies, and faced my fair share of traumatic events. I generally feel like I'm an even-keeled sort. But I didn't stop crying for a good five minutes.

So this got me thinking (and it happened maybe fifteen minutes ago, so I haven't had much time to think): what's wierd about this situation: my reaction? Or the movie that inspired it?  Should I be this affected every time I see violence, real or imagined?

9:24:24 PM     comment []

Still struggling with my self-assigned Xmas reading. Right now I'm slogging through Garret Hardin's article "The Tragedy of the Commons" and the related articles that appeared in the December 2003 issue of Science magazine. Heady reading when you've got a headcold: its the best cure (after tea and bedrest). Anyway, my dad passed these articles along to me after reading my thesis statement (some of which I've excerpted below):

I came to New College already interested in the central question for my senior thesis: how can we learn to live with one another? And can we create a just and sustainable society, or at least live as if we were part of one?

When I first came to New College, I was interested in pursuing this question through Dante’s Divine Comedy, using the Comedy as a tool for exploring my thesis. In my experience, the power of literature - great literature that is - lies in its ability to encapsulate human experience, to show us ‘fear in a handful of dust.’ Literature closely examines and then looks through the minutiae of life in order to discern the greater whole. While the universe at large may or may not make sense, or at least make sense in the ways in which we expect it to, literature gives us a loom upon which to weave our questions, a pathway to tread in our quest for understanding.

Literature is also, in its most basic form, a guide, marking the paths of those who have gone before. It connects us to others with whom we would otherwise have no connection, and in such a way that, for a moment, their thoughts become our own and their experience mingles into our memories.

I once read an essay by an evolutionary psychologist who argued that dreams are a survival mechanism. They work through our daytime experiences while we sleep, forging the mental pathways that will enable us to tackle problems quickly and efficiently in the waking world. In a way, the stories we tell ourselves and each other are like this sort of dreaming. They approach a problem obliquely, allowing us to relax into a question, rather than coming at it head on. Literature has crystallized these stories, preserving them like a fly in amber so that the stories and dreams of others can serve as a guide for our ideas and work in dialogue with our thoughts and dreams.

Perhaps that’s why I’m most likely to turn to literature in the midst of grappling with life’s great questions: it simultaneously provides me with a place to thresh my thoughts and a space to see how others have dealt with the same questions. In this particular line of inquiry, I was drawn to Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Throughout the Comedy, Dante – as the pilgrim in the story - is moving both through the realms of the afterlife and towards a greater understanding of justice. Just as Dante himself is learning, the souls in Dante's Purgatory are actively moving towards salvation, learning how to - live isn't the right word - move together, towards an end, something the condemned souls of Inferno are too self-absorbed to even attempt. This is an important point. In our popular culture, Purgatory is often confused with Limbo - the static space on the edge of Hell where pagan souls (well, most of them) wait out eternity. Purgatory, in Dante's theology, is far from static: only the souls in Hell are so far from hope as to be frozen. Purgatory is real movement - souls are in constant motion towards Heaven. The thing is, the journey itself is not particularly transcendent. And it’s not a solitary undertaking, either – the souls in purgatory work together for their salvation, slowly learning the eternal harmonies of heaven.

In Dante, human action and interaction are not easily divided into good and evil. The emotions and instincts that plagued the damned in life could have led them to a state of divine grace – it was their improper use and understanding of these motives that led them into hell.

This past semester at New College has made me realize, that there are further resources, beyond literature and literary criticism, that I could use to explore my central line of questioning.

For example, I found a certain resonance with Dante’s cosmology in the works of Freud, especially Civilization and its Discontents. According to Freud, there are the two internal forces which drive us as we interact (or not) with the world: Thanatos, or the death, and Eros, or love.  As Freud has it, Love is that which sends us out into the world: that which drives us to interact with people, ideas, life. The Death instinct is that which disengages us from the world when the Love instinct is too painful to follow, or when we're simply tired and need rest. The Death instinct shuts us down, the Love instinct turns us on (no pun intended).

             For Freud, engagement with the baseness of human desire was necessary if one was to achieve psychological wholeness. Similarly, Dante's Inferno is a chronicle of a such a quest for wholeness. Like the philosopher of Plato's Republic, who must drag himself out of the cave to truly see the world, Dante is led through hell and made to observe humanity at its most base so that he may begin to know God.  Dante's journey, however, is very much the opposite of the one made by the philosopher in the Republic.  Rather than transcending the limitations of his humanness by climbing out of his baser human assumptions and emotions, Dante must confront humanity at its most base, sympathize with the sinner, and literally go through hell in order to reach God. 

            So, in Dante and in Freud we find the lesson that we must know ourselves – even the parts we would rather ignore – in order to surmount our more destructive instincts. Both Dante and Freud sought through their own quest for personal wholeness to intstitute a more overarching movement towards wholeness on the part of civilization. As Freud writes in Civilization and its Discontents,

Just as a planet revolves around a central body as well as rotating on its own axis, so the human individual takes part in the course of development of mankind at the same time as he pursues his own path in life" (Freud 88).

 

While Freud and Dante are very much a part of the Western Canon - the quintessential “dead white men,” little work, if any, has been done using both authors to pursue one line of inquiry – particularly not an inquiry into social ethics. In the spirit of interdisciplinary humanities, I would like to further explore the resonance I have found between Dante and Freud, and through both texts gain a better understanding of my central question. I understand that the questions that form my thesis are fairly ambitious in scope, and the question of how life should be lived is a question that it may take a lifetime to answer. My aim therefore will be to set out a mode of inquiry, a method through which I might ask these questions.

Not the most eloquent of thesis statements, but I'd put it off long enough that writing it, period was more important that writing it well. Such is life.

Anyway, on to the tragedy of the commons. This article (written in 1968) and the articles published in last December's Science, are getting at the same questions I'm trying to albeit scientifically. My quest for a mode of inquiryknows no limitations. My ability to read scientific journals, however, is another story.

Time to break out the ol' highlighter.  

9:52:25 PM     comment []

So. . .  climbed up Mt Tam with Brian and Seth yesterday. It was really kind of surreal - the day was so foggy on the way up; the stunning vistas promised by our guidebook were vague to nonexistant. We followed odd trails, up wooden stairs and through dense foliage, our breath and the sweat from our bodies forming a mist around us - like we were a herd of buffalo or something.

Anyway, after a two-hour, almost entirely silent climb, we made our way to the peak. It felt like the end of the world - the clouds completley obscured the view entirely, and the peak (a tourist meccca in the summer) was empty, save for our small party and a man in spandex walking his two dogs. And there was a hot dog stand.

Today I have the flu. Figures.

7:29:00 PM     comment []