Bhagavad Gita / Gandhi'ye Göre kitap serbest oDF biçim

2creativo 2creativo 2creativo — Breakfast with Dolores There were half a dozen benches on the rise overlooking the pond near where some of the Wrecking Crew were still sleeping after a party last night. The police hadn't done their rounds yet. On one seat was an elegantly-dressed man somewhere in his mid to late 40's. He was reading the morning paper intently. I didn't sit there. Two seats away was an attractive girl, early to mid-20's, I'd say. She, too, was dressed well. I sat a few spaces away from her on the same bench. After a couple of minutes, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a cigarette. Before she put it to her lips, she asked me if I had a light. I knew straight away she was a whore, a high class one, definitely, maybe an escort who had just finished a night's work in one of the nearby hotels or apartment buildings. I'd heard there was some big society ball last night. I lit her cigarette, and returned my lighter to my coat pocket. "What's your name?" I asked. "It's actually Dolores," she responded, "but most people call me Lolita." "If they've read the book," I volunteered. She laughed, "Hardly anyone knows my real name any more." "My name's Bill." "Hi, Bill," she said, still friendly. "Have you eaten breakfast yet?" "No." "Would you like to join me? I'd like to talk to you." "I'm sorry, Bill, it will cost you, you know." "That's OK. I've budgeted for it." "Budgeted?" She didn't get my drift. "I'm a writer. I'm working on a book." "I thought you might be that guy. Marisa told me about you." "Ah, Marisa. She's sweet. I like her." "She likes you, too." "Is your pimp around?" I didn't even know whether she had a pimp, but I thought I would ask anyway. She nodded. "He's over there," nodding at the other bench. Just then, he looked over at us. "Humbert," she said, "Bill here would like to give you $200. We're going to have breakfast." I opened my wallet and gave Humbert everything I had but $20. "We might have to make that coffee. It's a while since I've done this." Dolores grinned at Humbert, "Can you spot me a hundred? It's my shout. Bill's famous now!" http://www.salon.com/2000/08/28/vollm... Absolutely Sweet Marisa This was my third Vollmann, and the best so far, even though it was only his second book (published in 1989). If there's one thing about Vollmann, it's that he knows how to write. Or, to paraphrase, he writes what he wants to write and he writes it well. I suspect that much criticism of his style is motivated by sensitivities about his subject matter, in the same way that many readers object to "Lolita" on the basis of their moral objection to Humbert Humbert. Vollmann's characters (although almost all of them were real life people at the time, only with their names changed) live on the fringe of "normal" society, where conventional rules don't apply. In "Absolutely Sweet Marie", Dylan sings, "To live outside the law you must be honest". However, you quickly realise that not even that rule applies here. The book abounds with theft, dishonesty, abuse, violence and murder (by the ingestion of blue Drano crystals), much of it sexually based. Why Write? Some readers might ask, why write about this? To them, I would respond only, why not? Others complain that he should write less or be better edited. To them, I would respond, why not write more? How much is enough? How much is too much? And why? I say this only to warn some readers that the book might not suit their taste. The rest of us will still need to suspend moral judgment, if we are to enjoy its literary and other merits. For me, neither style nor subject matter is a concern. I'm more interested in what the book reveals about Vollmann's authorial stance and worldview. What is a Life Worth? To start with, what Vollmann seems to value most is the diversity of human life on earth, in terms of both individuals' nature and their life style. His characters are "Skinheads, X-ray patients, whores, lovers, fetishists and other lost souls." In his eyes, but not his words, they are "all God's chillun". They all have a worth, simply by virtue of their existence. Their value doesn't depend on whether they pass some arbitrary or subjective test. He argues that "perhaps a kind word would not be out of order." By and large, his characters live in abject poverty. Their only hope is to survive until the next day, in which quest not all of them succeed. Very little separates life and death, literally or materially. To quote Dylan again: "If you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose." When they die, they leave little behind but an autopsy report. Life Mosaics Still, no matter what conditions people live in, they construct their own material and social world around them as best they can. It's not for us to judge them. Vollmann writes about these people, because he seeks the truth. Late in the book, he interposes: "I myself wish that I could go through every trash can in the world, for the life mosaics which can be puzzled together from them are TRUE, even if irrelevant to my life; what could be truer? How many people deceive their trash cans?" He doesn't go as far as to say that these characters are trash, but he does continue, "They live in my trash; they are my Zombies, my Wrecking Crew." I'm not sure whether we're supposed to infer any sense of ownership from these words. However, it does raise the issue of Vollmann's relationship with his characters and/or the people upon whom they were based. His Master's Voice Vollmann tells stories, their stories. There would be no stories to tell without them. At times, particularly with the whores, he even tells us what the opportunity to learn about them cost him financially. Over the course of the book, Vollmann refers to himself variously as a "Recording Angel" and the "Holy Ghost". The narrator is tantamount to divine (even if he might be just a little tongue-in-cheek). He observes and describes, but does not judge (his) creation. He is tolerant and forgiving. However, to the extent that the omniscient narrator is a God, he is a non-interventionist God. He does not intervene to improve anybody's circumstances. He simply houses them under the curve of a giant rainbow and leaves them to their own devices. Conversely, these people reflect the colours of the rainbow. The cover of the book I read hints that some seven-clawed beast (whether God or Beelzebub or something else) has gouged the earth, and from the incisions or wounds has grown the rainbow-coloured beauty of humanity. That said, just about every character suffers, far more than an average white middle class person might in a contemporary western economy. Tenderloin Rainbow 2010-style Just Because Just as Vollmann doesn't set out to judge, he doesn't set out to explain or to blame. He doesn't purport to be interested in causation, why people and their circumstances are as they are. He describes the present, not the past or the future. He doesn't seem to be motivated by middle class guilt or embarrassment. Vollmann paints a picture of the world as it is. He observes and reports like a journalist, at least one who doesn't frequent the opinion pages. There is no endeavour to complain about or remedy or minimise immorality or evil or oppression or abuse or violence. What is, is right, for the very reason that it is. It is implied that there is no moral or political purpose in trying to change things, people, life, reality. Unlike Jonathan Franzen, there is no moralistic desire to "correct" the world as he sees it, perhaps because that would derive him of subject matter as an author? The world is as it is, so Vollmann can/will continue to write about it. As a result, there doesn't seem to be any sense of, or sense in, collective political action. Moral Calculus My concern is that, if your greatest aspiration is survival, you rely on and facilitate the continuation of the current order, with all the violence that implies. Whatever forces of structuralism and determinism might be at play will continue to work their way, generation after generation. The Skinz live out the conservative belief that "Politics is the exercise of power. Power is the ability to inflct pain." Vollmann says of two I.R.A. activists, Seamus and Oliver, "...they both have red hands and they both acted for what one might as well call structural reasons." In words that paraphrase Lenin, Vollmann sloganises that "Left-Wing Utopianism [is] an Infantile Disorder." For somebody who is as interested in the condition of these people and who writes so authoritatively about it, it confounds me why Vollmann maintains a position of neutrality, why he refrains from developing a moral calculus as he would later attempt in relation to violence per se (in "Rising Up and Rising Down"). In the Preface, he mentions that "my attempts to do good [have] been disasters thus far." Hence, he resolves to be a mere Recording Angel instead. As a blonde in "The Visible Spectrum" laughingly exclaims, "Oh, shit! How passive!" I don't expect Vollmann to feel middle class guilt. However, I would like to get a better understanding of the reasons for his silence. Is he prepared to sit back and let Ayn Randian Social Darwinism work its way through society ad infinitum? After all, he does so much more than other authors to make sure that what happens on the street is made known through fiction. Why does he stop at mere reportage? Inside the Nihilist Cocoon Vollmann writes for, or is read by, primarily an audience of (mainly male) white college graduates who are well versed in literary theory and continental philosophy. He ventures onto the street on our behalf, so we can remain seated in front of and behind our computer screens. He perpetuates our belief that we are street-wise and hip. However, equally, he allows us to sit back and belittle the liberal left who, for good or bad reasons, think of these issues as problems and try to do something constructive about them. Vollmann's fiction runs perilously close to being easily-digested fodder for solipsism that ironically denies the reality outside the digital cocoon of the 21st century middle class. Inside the cocoon, solipsism becomes nihilism, and nihilism becomes nothingness. Stations of Whose Cross? Fellow novelist Madison Smartt Bell argues that, "If [Vollmann] is the god of his own texts, he offers himself up for crucifixion every time.” I'm not sure whether that's the case, or if it is, whether it is deliberate. Vollmann portrays himself as an Angel or the Holy Ghost, not Jesus Christ (who after all was the one who was crucified). Besides, the wounds that he shows us are those of his characters, not his own. His rationale, the motto for this collection: "The prettiest thing is the darkest darkness." It's possible that Vollmann has more adequately addressed his neutral stance in later works and interviews. If so, I haven't seen what he has to say. However, on the strength of this book alone, he leaves himself open to charges of literary voyeurism. The result of his effort is often more profane than divine. If Vollmann just wants to observe and report, there is a risk his work might never transcend journalism and, like yesterday's news, it might end up being ephemeral. If he addresses these concerns, I hope that future readers might regard his body of work as truly visionary. He has all the chops. I just don't know (yet, on the basis of my limited reading) whether he has the will. Peter De Smidt - "Recording Angel" http://www.peterdesmidt.com/index.htm http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Record... VERSE: Ode to Drano Course heavy crystals. Being and Dranothingness. Blue sky, blue heaven. SOUNDTRACK: "George Harrison & Friends - "Absolutely Sweet Marie" http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=I_-SewBG8dw I would have included Dylan's version as well, but his record company has limited what is available on YouTube. Nick Cave - "Into My Arms" http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=FG0-cncMpt8 REPRISE: The Mystery of Sixes I was sitting in a corner writing down notes on my last client, when I sensed a shadow move over me. I looked up at a guy, lean, muscular, taller than me, clothed in jeans, t-shirt and tats. "Are you the lawyer?" he shot at me. "Well, sort of." "Can you get me out of jail?" "It depends. What's the charge?" "Drink driving." "I can get you out today...but I can't guarantee you won't get back in." He laughed. "You mightn't be able to, but I can!" That was how I met Bez. I got him out on remand, and I was his new best friend. I didn't think I'd ever see him again. He was working on the gas fields. A month later I was glad to feel his shadow over me again. I'd bumped into a punk at the bar at a gig, and straight away he had me on my back on the floor. He was about to kick me in the head with his Docs. "Hey suit, is that you?" Bez pulled his mate, Banger, away and dragged me off the ground. "This is my attorney," he announced to all and sundry. As far as he was concerned, I had worked some kind of miracle to get him out of prison. We kept running into each other at gigs. I was actually on the door for the Iggy Pop concert and they were all there. When I got time off to watch the band, I found myself up the front, where Bez had broken a glass on a table and then dived, shirtless, onto the broken glass. There was blood everywhere. Even Iggy stopped to watch. Bez and Banger decided that they were going to start up a punk band. Bez was singer and Banger, needless to say, was the drummer. I saw them half a dozen times over three or four months. They were actually pretty good. A triumph of energy over skill. The Mystery of Sixes. One night after a gig, Banger came up to me and said that the police had been hassling him outside the club. Would I come out and help him? I stupidly agreed. As we walked through the door, he told me that one of them had stolen his pen. I shrugged my head in disbelief. "I don't give a shit about your pen." We went down the steps. I was going to introduce myself respectfully to the two cops, neither of whom looked familiar, sort something out, and go our separate ways. As we approached the road where they were standing, I asked Banger, "Which one was it?" He pointed ostentatiously at one of them, "That one, the fat cunt with the mo." It was a bit too loud for my comfort. That was the end of my suave act. They soon had me held down on the bonnet of their car, until I told them I was a lawyer. They let go of me, took my details, asked me where my car was (it was in the car park across the road, though I was going to leave it there overnight, because my girlfriend, Drea, and I had had a few drinks too many). Eventually they told both of us to fuck off. Banger asked about his pen. "Didn't you hear what I just said?" It was the fat cunt. The following morning, Drea and I caught a bus into the city to pick up my car. I'd had a few more drinks with Bez and Banger after the police incident, and I was still a bit nervous about whether I might be over the limit. About 100 meters down the road, we passed a stationary police car and stopped at the lights. Suddenly, the car pulled out from the curb, and its siren started. I was hoping they weren't after me, but they pulled up next to us, and waved me over. I got out of the car, suspecting they were going to breath test me or else it had something to do with the night before. "What have I done?" "It's not you, mate. It's your girlfriend. She poked her tongue at us when you drove past." I laughed, and they took me through the whole note taking routine again. They were both fat cunts, only different. The Mystery of Sixes put out a single and it got a lot of airplay for a couple of months on Triple Z. Then the word got around that they had stolen their equipment from another band. The station called a staff meeting to impose a ban on playing their music and letting them play at Triple Z gigs. I stuck up for them, Bez would have been proud. I said that until the police took some action, there was no proof, that it was up to the court to punish them, not us, and that it would be censorship if we banned them. The vote for the ban was carried 16-1. Within a year, three of the band were in jail, and the Mystery of Sixes were no more. Their first single sells for over $400 now.