Chekhov is not that Russian Dude on Star Trek...
I've begun "How to Read and Why" by Harold Bloom and I'll admit it's fascinating. I do feel that he makes some quantitative statements that sound like fact but are really opinion. On the other hand, his treatise seems focused on the reader's mortality and the idea of pursuing quality with one's limited time.
The book is broken into 5 sections: Short Stories, Poems, Novels, Plays, and Novels II. In each he surveys selected works of particular authors and displays the quality he perceives therein in the hopes of giving the reader the ability to discern quality in their reading.
My process has been to read the author's works selected prior to reading Bloom's essay in order to be able to directly relate to his interpretation, and also to be able to form my own ideas and contrast them to Bloom's before my perception becomes filtered by his input.
One of the little joys I experienced this weekend was finally cracking that book of Chekhov short stories that's been languishing on my shelf for nearly a year. Just like Boyle and Theroux, I've been meaning to get to it. Heck, it's even edited by one of my favorites, Richard Ford. Just lazy, I guess.
So to keep up with Bloom, I read "The Kiss" and "The Lady with the Dog."
These stories (confirmed by Bloom) seem tragic and hopeless, in a sense that the emotional, momentary decisions of human frailty ultimately turn the soul from pathway to pathway, rather than the idealism and morality that rules the outer person on display to others. Ryabovitch has learned to hope in himself for a short while, that he could find a pleasing woman, seemingly unaware that this hope is based on a fantasy created from an accident. It isn't truth, he's taken a temporal accident and has imbued it with his repressed wishes and found hope. When he returns, he touches the wet hanging sheet and encounters his fear that he will discover the truth about his fantasy. He decides it is easier to repress his hopes and desires inside, while they are still formless and internal rather than face his fear and risk having them dashed in reality, proving that what little hope he had didn't exist in the first place. In his fear he gets to hold on to the tiny hope to which he was accustomed.
And Gurov, well, I haven't completely decided whether he was actually in love with Anna or if his affair with her was different due to his epiphany regarding his mortality. I need to ruminate further. I will say that his relationship with Anna was more about his changing view of himself than it was about her. He was selfish throughout, even in going out of his way to restore their contact, it had little to do with her. That he was willing to face the difficulty that he recognized was just beginning is a glimmer of hope, and yet even it is misplaced as he seeks a normality denied to him by an unhappy marriage and impossible in a relationship based on subterfuge. More on this later, perhaps.
There is great pleasure in these pages. I will have to spend more time there soon.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
AFL Grand Final 2003
Well, Waltzing Matilda was still ringing through the MCG when the game started shaping up. Brisbane killing Collingwood in the ruck and Keating taking all the bounces, despite courageous work by Fraser. The Maggies were finished early and I spent the entire second half in a deep maroon funk.
Gawd, I hate the Lions!
When I had arrived home from work, ready to get dinner out of the way and watch the GF live, I came home to a yard full of Magpies. Wow, I thought, a great omen, no?
No.
What is it about Lynch, Black, Pike, Voss, and, of course, Akermanis, that makes them come out the way they do when the whole shebang's on the line? Why do the 'Pies suddenly close up and run scared when they've been smothering and hammering opponents all season long, including these selfsame Lions only 3 weeks earlier.
Did Rocca make the difference? Did his vagrant elbow on Lade in the Prelim cost the 'Pies the Grand Final? Conceivable. With Rocca in at Half-Forward the 'Pies have size and a huge boot from 60. He isn't afraid to manhandle and get into the ruck and he is no respecter of persons.
Walker was ineffective in replacement, Buckley couldn't do it all on his own, and Fraser was outmatched. Didak booted three majors and played some hard footy. Tarrant took some good marks, but miffed two important ones, and missed two critical goals. Hell, all of their attempts were critical. Opening the fourth quarter, they took 4 straight behinds, two on inaccurate kicks and two on balls that were handed through by Lions defenders. Had they been made, the margin would have been only 3 goals with nearly 20 minutes left in the game. They didn't get back into their forward 50 until junk time.
In the end, the Lions had their eye on the ball, while the 'Pies had their eye on the Lions. The Maggies were mauled, and mercilessly so. Much as I hate to say it, and I do, the Lions were the best team out there, and can rightly lay claim to being the greatest team of the modern era with their Premiership hat trick.
Word is that Joffa is hanging up the golden coat for good. I wish he'd been able to bring it out one last time. Guess it's time I do like the Aussies, put that jumbuck in my tucker-bag and go a-Waltzing Matilda until next year.
Posted by Looney @ 11:10 AM