I finally waded through the last few nebulous chapters of the Zen-heavy Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War by Yagyū Munenori. Miyamoto Musashi's Book of Five Rings was thickly pocked enough with Shinto and Zen Buddhism; there were times when I could barely understand it. With Munenori, I felt like I understood practically zilch.
That's unsurprising, seeing as how Munenori wrote that "Those who have not studied Zen will find this difficult to understand" about five pages before the end of the book.
Thanks, Yagyū. I'd pretty much figured that out already.
I won't summarize the book here, nor opine about it. I did that the last time. However, I do wish to amend my previous views on Munenori himself. I said before that I found him to be a shadowy reflection of Musashi, a spoiled, privileged drone of the shogunate. I take it back. Munenori earned his wings in combat, and was no less deserving of them than Musashi. It just took me a while to figure that out from the somewhat stilted way Munenori wrote.
For those who are unfamiliar with the topic of discussion, I've been reading a couple of books by medieval Japanese sword masters. These two works, The Book of Five Rings and The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War, are both heralded by competent authorities as quintessential works on the subject of Japanese swordsmanship. They blend practical advice and spiritual guidance seamlessly, in true Japanese style. Furthermore, the advice given is so straightforward and sensible that many today view these works as manuals on how to succeed in life and business, not merely martial arts. They are still read and reread all over the world, hundreds of years after they were written.
To put it bluntly, anyone wishing to learn more about Japanese culture, martial arts, or spiritual beliefs should read these books. With a little imagination, you can take what's presented in them and construe it as some no-nonsense counsel on how to live. Do as you will.
I've also finished Black Elk Speaks. Remember? It's an account of the multifaceted life of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux tribe, written by John G. Neihardt in 1932.
I just used the word "of" three times in one sentence. I rock.
I wrote before that this man, Black Elk, who grew up right in the middle of the Indian Wars, saw and did some amazing stuff. I was whistlin' Dixie. He fought in the Battle of the Little Bighorn as a teenager. (He and his tribe refer to it as "the rubbing-out of Long Hair," Long Hair being the Indian nickname for George Custer.) He resisted the attacks and lies of the white men and the U.S. Army until the very end, even after Sitting Bull had fled to Canada and Crazy Horse had given himself up. All the while, he was discovering his spiritual powers.
Black Elk claims that he was visited with a vision when he was a very small boy, during which he fell into a twelve-day coma. (Worried his family sick, it did.) In this vision, he saw the Six Grandfathers which rule over the world, and all the animals and birds and people of the Indian nations. In him was placed messianic power: the Six Grandfathers told Black Elk that he would save his nation and lead them to peace and prosperity, free of white control.
It was only several years later, after he finally vouchsafed this vision to others (he kept it under wraps for a long time, worrying that people would think he was crazy if he revealed what he saw) that he became a shaman. He claims to have cured hundreds of sickness and injury, and to have been visited with many more visions, which he and the village elders acted out in ghost dances to transfer the power of the visions to the Sioux nation.
But, of course, you and I both know what happened. Despite Black Elk's appointment as the Messiah, despite the prophecy that was made, the Sioux nation was herded onto reservations and left to live in little square huts for the duration of their lives. When Neihardt found Black Elk, he was a withered, saddened, broken old man, living on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Black Elk had failed in his duties as a savior, and what's more, he knew it.
Yet as he relates his life story (the book is written in first person, as translated by Black Elk's son and transcribed by Neihardt), Black Elk does not come across as misguided, pretentious, arrogant, flaky, or otherwise untrustworthy. He narrates simply and straightforwardly (rather like Miyamoto Musashi, only not so starkly forceful). He tells you what he saw, and what he believes it was. He makes no claims as to its truth or falsity. He does not try to convert the reader to his religion, nor convince him or her that his visions took place, and the power he was granted was real. He simply describes it.
The book is tough to read. As time goes on, and it becomes less and less apparent that Black Elk will fulfill his destiny and bring victory and prosperity to a vanishing Indian nation, things just get sadder and sadder. Black Elk takes up arms again and fights during the massacre at Wounded Knee, but the memory of a frozen ditch lying full of the bodies of fleeing women and children scars him deeply.
He eventually joins Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, travels to England, meets the Queen, and befriends a little French girl, who takes him home to show her family.
That's quite some list of accomplishments for one old Indian. A titanic vision, shamanistic powers, journeys across the Western United States, Little Bighorn, Wounded Knee, England, the Queen...incredible. And a bit depressing, too. Though his time with Buffalo Bill abroad wasn't in itself unpleasant for Black Elk, watching this once-great shaman being reduced to an exhibit in a traveling circus was painful for me.
In the end, as Black Elk says, the nation's sacred hoop lies irreparably broken. The people are scattered, decimated, hopeless. Black Elk himself is nothing but a feeble old man in a log cabin a few miles from a post office, telling his tale to a white man, who will preserve it with paper and ink.
That's about all the man's life amounted to.
But at least that's something.
Black Elk was a good man. He never did a thing wrong in his life. Didn't have a mean bone in his body, either. If he killed our boys in the Indian Wars, it was only because he was trying to defend his people, his way of life, his home. He never wanted to kill the white men anyway, not until it became apparent that they couldn't be stopped otherwise. He just wanted his tribe to live like it always had, free, happy and unencumbered. I feel sorry for the guy. He told interesting stories, took his duty to nation and manhood seriously, and wasn't frivolous or stupid or greedy.
Anyway, onto cheerier matters. I've read about five chapters of Little Women, and things are getting interesting. Jo has met and chummed up with the "Laurence Boy," for one thing. I can't wait to see where that goes. The Christmas holiday has ended and the two older girls have gone back to work, and in the process we've learned a little more about their characters, and their load. I say "load," because all four of the little women (Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy), and their mother, Mrs. March, all have a heavy load to carry. The man of the house is off at war, so the mother and older sisters have had to find employment. The two younger girls must focus on their studies and assist with housework or other duties. All of them are hard-pressed not to think about how nice things were before Mr. March lost his fortune, and they had nice things, and never wanted anything, and didn't have to decide which of their dresses was the least shabby.
I feel for the poor dears. That's about all I can say at the moment. I'm only a little ways in.
I haven't bought any new books lately because my funds are becoming tight. Bartender's school, Christmas shopping and three flying lessons per week will do that to you. However, I did the stupid thing once again and picked up a seven-dollar paperback from Barnes & Noble.
It's The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov.
Don't know who that is? Shame on you. Isaac Asimov is one of the greatest science-fiction writers of all time, if not the greatest. He is renowned for his speculative works on artificial intelligence and automation. Robots, I mean. You know that awful Will Smith movie I, Robot that came out a while ago? Asimov wrote the book. The movie butchered the book, of course. Always happens. But the "Three Laws" mentioned in the film—the three cardinal rules that govern robot behavior absolutely—are Asimov's invention.
My first soul-watering taste of Asimov's genius originated from an excellent science-fiction anthology called The World Turned Upside Down. Asimov's short story, The Last Question, is contained within it. That piece is also a mind-boggling, life-changing glimpse into the potential evolution of artificial intelligence. It's incredibly, sinfully good. It's as warped as 2001: A Space Odyssey, but worth the pondering headache. Read it. It'll completely blow your mind.
That being said, however, The Last Question also made me realize that I am woefully behind on my Asimov. So I began to scout around for a convenient volume to obtain and digest. But I didn't know where to start. Asimov was a prolific writer. He wrote or edited hundreds of books, literally hundreds. Even Barnes & Noble, whose sci-fi selection is deplorable, has half a shelf devoted to his works. Given that Asimov wrote his stuff decades ago, that's saying something.
My buddy John and I were walking through B & N the other day and, of course, our first stop was the sci-fi section. John was scoping out a book by Orson Scott Card (another well-known and prolific writer). I mentioned my Asimov dilemma to him. John took a look at the shelves, and then said emphatically, "You know, I've heard that The Gods Themselves is an incredible book."
John has it on good authority. His father, an English teacher, has a massive book collection, which includes virtually every original printing of every novel by all of the great Golden Age science fiction writers: Heinlein, van Vogt, Campbell, and of course, Asimov.
So there you go. I plucked the book off the shelf, bought it, and brought it home, where it is now sitting pertly and seductively on my nightstand.
Here is what the synopsis on the back cover says:
In the twenty-second century Earth obtains limitless, free energy from a source science little understands: an exchange between Earth and a parallel universe, using a process devised by the aliens. But even free energy has a price. The transference process itself will eventually lead to the destruction of Earth's sun—and of Earth itself.
Try and resist that build-up, I dare you. Stay tuned...Only a few know the terrifying truth—an outcast Earth scientist, a rebellious alien inhabitant of a dying planet, a lunar-born human intuitionist who senses the imminent annihilation of the Sun. They know the truth—but who will listen? They have foreseen the cost of abundant energy—but who will believe? These few beings, human and alien, hold the key to the Earth's survival.
