That library isn't going to wait forever. In recognition of that fact, I kicked out the jams and finished Andrew George's translation of The Epic of Gilgamesh.
There is little I can say about this work in typical book review fashion, for two reasons. First, it isn't really a novel. It's an epic. A mythological epic, no less. These stories reside in a genre of their own, somewhere between fiction and nonfiction. They employ characters who may perhaps have been real, placed in fantastic settings, set against supernatural enemies, to make a point about humanity. (This is very similar to what I'm trying to do with my own novel series, in fact; but that's not important right now.)
It's difficult to critique epics as such. Things like characterization, realism, and other craft-related concerns go flying out the window. The audience already knows, basically, who the characters were; there's no need to develop or even introduce them. Realism, as I've pointed out, is rendered moot by the mythical antagonists.
One key element remains: plot.
So let's talk about Gilgamesh. In reality, he may have been an actual person. There's a good chance that he was one of the first Sumerian kings, ruling the empire from the city of Uruk (lying between present-day Baghdad and Basra) in the 26th century B.C.
Yes, that's right. TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE YEAR ZERO. You and I are closer to Jesus than Gilgamesh was, chronologically speaking.
This was a long time ago, folks. Nearly five thousand years. That means there might very well have been woolly mammoths clomping around North America when Gilgamesh was king in Uruk. Don't that beat all?
Okay, sorry for the digression. At some point, the Sumerians deified Gilgamesh. The legend goes that he was two parts god, one part man. He was neither an ideal king nor an ideal god, though. He was actually kind of a jerk. He didn't do mass purges or play his fiddle while the city burned, or anything. He just threw crazy parties, whooped it up all over town, and was into droit de seigneur, if you know what I mean. The good people of Uruk finally got fed up with it, and complained to the gods. The gods figured Gilgamesh just needed something to occupy himself with, so they created a wild man in the forests of Sumer, Enkidu. He ran with the wolves and was suckled by the donkeys, or something. A trapper spotted him, and decided to lure him to Uruk and see if he couldn't get Gilgamesh to calm down.
I like this trapper guy. He's smart. He uses steel and nets and snares to trap animals. What does he use to trap a wild man?
A prostitute.
The trapper fetches a courtesan, Shamhat, from Uruk. They wait in the bushes and then, when the time is right, spring out at Enkidu. Of course he's smitten with with Shamhat, and agrees to accompany her and the trapper back to civilization (after Shamhat—ahem—persuades him). Enkidu and Gilgamesh fight, and a rapprochement is reached: Enkidu acknowledges Gilgamesh's rightful kingship, and the two become buddies. They do all sorts of good deeds, like slaying the vicious demon Humbaba in the Forest of Cedar.
Enkidu eventually dies, and Gilgamesh, lonely and now afraid of death, travels the world to seek immortality. His quest leads him over the Sea of Death, into a battle with its ferryman and his stone henchmen, and to the door of the great sage Uta-napishti. The lone survivor of the great Deluge, Uta-napishti directs Gilgamesh to dive to the sea floor and retrieve a special plant that grants eternal life. Gilgamesh does so, but on the way home he leaves the plant unattended and a snake steals it. Heartbroken, Gilgamesh returns to Uruk.
And so, what began like a comedy about an inept, randy king turns into a morality tale about the inevitability of death. Even Gilgamesh, two-thirds god, who built the mighty walls of Uruk with his own hands, is not powerful enough to escape the last great adventure. Throughout the epic, we observe Gilgamesh struggle, fight, toil, performing many acts of courage and valor. But in the end, it does him no good...apart from a safe empire and a host of worthwhile memories.
One can only imagine the bald-headed Sumerian preceptor attempting to teach The Epic of Gilgamesh to a classroom full of fractious kids. I don't envy the guy.
I'm still progressing through Little Women; I'm almost to the end of Part I. Aunt March, it seems, is going to blow the roof off Meg and Mr. Brooke's little secret, even though Jo already knows (and therefore, Laurie). And we're going to have us a wedding. My feelings on this are mixed. I hardly know John Brooke—hell, he wasn't even introduced until the eighth chapter or something. And I had no idea Meg had feelings for him until a few chapters after that. This engagement thing came out of nowhere. Se la vi. Now that we're over the triple threat of Amy's fall through the ice, Father's sickness, and Beth's fever, I think we can all relax and get on with it. I can't wait to see what happens to the rest of the girls in the remaining two-thirds of the novel. I'll keep you posted.
And so onto the new volume into which I have now delved: Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. I've heard a lot of good things about Vonnegut from friends. Always meant to pick him up and read him someday. As I understand, he's the closest thing to Douglas Adams: an eminently satirical, gut-bustingly funny dude, a phenomenal and lyrical writer.
So, of course, when I open up the book to the first chapter (Vonnegut's preamble) and learn that the book, in fact, concerns the fire-bombing of Dresden during the Second World War...I'm a bit thrown off.
I enjoyed the introduction nonetheless. Vonnegut self-deprecates a little, but what impressed me the most is how unapologetically opinionated he is. He is anti-war, but not in the insufferable way that most hippies and beatniks are. He's against war because he's actually been in one. In the introduction, he recalls going to a friend's house, a war buddy, with a bottle of Irish whiskey. They plan to reminisce and take notes for the book Vonnegut is attempting to write. The friend's wife's irritation is thinly veiled. She eventually comes out with it: "You were just babies then! Babies!"
Vonnegut admits this is so.
"But you won't write it that way, will you," she huffs.
The friend's wife's fear is that Vonnegut will present himself and his buddies as heroes, and that a new national interest in war will rise up, and another war will ensue, and more babies will be killed.
Vonnegut assures the woman that he intends no such thing to happen.
"I tell you what," he says, "I'll call it [the book] The Children's Crusade."
And indeed, under the title of Slaughterhouse-Five on the first leaf, the words "or the Children's Crusade: a Duty-Dance with Death" are inscribed.
This might be an entirely different book than I thought.
And now, before I let you go, I simply must tell you about this:
Yep, I won an award. Again. This one's the Sunshine Award, given to "celebrate the positivity and creativity of our fellow bloggers."
Wow.
I have a host of friends. I'm incredibly honored and humbled by these accolades. This one's from Entrepreneur Chick, an eminently classy, brazen lady, whose business-savvy and kindness and street-smarts know no bounds. Check out her blog if you're the slightest bit interested in entrepreneurship, successful business practice, wise tips for living and finance, or dancing. (Wink wink, EC.)
The rules for this award are kind of a trade-off: you don't have to write ten facts about yourself (whew, I'm running low). But you have to nominate twelve fellow bloggers for it. Twelve. Yikes, do I even follow that many blogs?
Okay, here goes:
Congratulations everyone! You're creative as all get-out, and just plain fun to read. Pat yourselves on the back.
That is all. Tune in next time for one of my few-and-far-between movie reviews.
Hadn't realized it, but I've gotten into a pattern here with these literature posts. I talk about one book that I've finished, another book that I'm in the middle of, and a third that I'm just beginning. This strikes me as a brilliant way of doing things. Not only do I get to stick three book reviews in one post, but after three posts I'll have deftly reviewed a single book in its entirety. I am the man.
I wish I could say I'd planned to do things that way. I am the (accidental) man.
Anyway, straight into it:
I finished The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov.
You remember how I said this guy was supposedly a genius? Forget the "supposedly" part. I've never read a book like this. It was beyond excellent, beyond mind-blowing, a masterwork of social commentary, intricate plot-weaving, and jaw-dropping speculative science fiction.
Gosh, where do I begin? I know, we'll start with the title. It's a quote from a dramatic play by German playwright and poet Friedrich Schiller, The Maid of Orleans: "Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain."
One of the major themes of The Gods Themselves is stupidity, the selfish stubbornness of people who enjoy the status quo and would rather go on living their comfortable lives than face up to reality.
What reality is that, you ask?
A few years after our time, science made an accidental discovery. Some old cobalt shavings that had been left moldering in a test tube suddenly and mysteriously transformed themselves into tungsten. There was no logical reason why cobalt (in a sealed test tube) should transform into tungsten. Moreover, it was an isotope of tungsten that could not possibly exist in our universe: it had an unstable number of electrons that should have forced the tungsten atoms to explode in mere nanoseconds.
But it didn't.
This strange happenstance led humankind to a startling revelation: beings in a universe adjacent to our own, a para-universe, had somehow perfected a technique whereby the electrons from one universe could be transferred into another, and vice-versa. Not only that, but the scientific laws which govern the behavior of matter in the para-universe may also be transferred, and vice-versa. This not only allowed our cobalt to be turned into their (the para-men's) tungsten, but for that tungsten to remain viable in our universe instead of exploding.
Thus the Electron Pump was born: a source of limitless free energy, whereby electrons were shuttled back and forth between universes, freeing humanity of fossil fuels and deprivation forever. The man on whose desk those old cobalt shavings had once sat (named Hallam) was elevated to godlike status, and the Pump enabled humans to drop their petty concerns about food and energy and instead focus on higher pursuits.
But a dark shadow looms over this newborn utopia, a terrible truth: the strange natural laws seeping from the para-universe into our own will cause our sun to explode. What's worse, only three people have realized it: an outcast Earth scientist, an emotional alien on a dying planet, and a Moon-born intuitionist.
And honestly, who is going to believe them? Who will be willing to set aside the benefits and bonuses of the Electron Pump and listen to their seemingly harebrained theorems? How will these three misfits ever overcome the complacent stupidity of the people around them?
The trials, tribulations, and terrors of these three individuals as each tries to save Earth are worth reading about. This is an amazing book, as I've said before. Asimov was intimately familiar with the science of which he wrote, and he writes it with authority and straightforwardness, without over-simplification. What's more, he was a brilliant writer, able to interweave three delightfully unique and complex plots into one cohesive story. His writing is perhaps best, however, because it smacks so heavily of the truth: people really can be this stupid. People can and routinely do shut their eyes to unpleasant truths and insist on plowing straight ahead, even while the ship sinks beneath them.
(There's a further bit of cleverness manifested in the way Asimov orders his book's chapters, but I won't mention that here. You'll just have to read and see.)
The Gods Themselves has cemented my love of Isaac Asimov, and pushed me even further down the dark road to Golden Age science fiction. Even if you're not the biggest sci-fi fan, read this book. You won't soon regret it. It's a damn good read.
Speaking of plowing straight ahead, I am continuing my slog through Little Women. I say "slog" not because it's an unpleasant read—far from it—but rather because the book itself is longer than any I've read in a while. It's taking me a long time to get through it, especially when I have things like The Gods Themselves lying around (sue me).
I've progressed through four little vignettes, each concerning one of the March girls. I read with delight about Beth's battle with her fear of old Mr. Laurence, and her joy in playing the big piano in his conservatory, and the touching friendship that developed between the two. I read about poor little Amy's humiliating school day, regarding some contraband pickled limes and a stuffy schoolmaster. Heart pounding, I read about Jo's mean-spirited treatment of Amy, her immediate remorse when Amy fell through the ice (yikes!) and Mrs. March's tender and magnanimous bedtime advice. I read about Meg's trip to see friends, and the airs she put on, and the lessons she took from being a poor girl with a good family.
I also read, chuckling, about the Pickwick Club and the joint March-Laurence post office.
This book has ensnared me, mind and soul. It's enchanting, not only for the funny stories, the emotional warmth to the characters, their loving relationships with each other, and the age-old trials of adolescence...but also for its sheer simplicity. That's one of the greatest things about Alcott's writing, in fact. It's just so dang simple. She just tells the story. Her diction might be a bit erudite for children these days (which isn't a bad thing), but that's not important. The simple joke that Jo and Laurie play on the Pickwick Club (Laurie hiding in the closet, listening to the Club debate about his own membership); the description of the Moffets' dance (girls fluttering about like butterflies, boys making fools of themselves), the schoolmaster Mr. Davis "suppressing a private post-office" (stopping the students from passing notes)...all of it is so funny, so real, so true, so heartwarming, so familiar...and yet so simply described. It's a joy to read.
I really can't wait to see where this goes. It's enrapturing already. And I imagine it's only going to get better. Just wait until that post office in between the Laurence and the March houses starts carrying love letters...
So, we have science fiction, historical fiction...what's a good way to top that off?
Well, how about some more historical fiction?
I've begun reading The Epic of Gilgamesh.
Not quite what you were expecting, right?
I'm reading it for research purposes (my novel has a great deal to do with ancient Sumer and Akkad; it's historical science fiction, after all). But I'm also reading it for fun. I know next to nothing about Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, and the roots from which these first civilizations sprang. And I love mythology. So it seemed like the oldest mythological piece in recorded history (and one of the oldest surviving writings of any kind at 4,000 years old) seemed a good place to begin.
First, some background. There's some debate about who this Gilgamesh dude really was. Some say he was a real historical figure, a Sumerian king. Others say he was a god. The Epic of Gilgamesh says (c) both. It claims Gilgamesh was two-thirds god, one third-man, and ruled over the Sumerian people with an almighty fist. But he wasn't an ideal king. In fact, he had some rather glaring personality flaws. He liked to sleep around, even with newlywed brides. He got so promiscuous that the Sumerians prayed to the gods for help. So the gods created a wild-man, Gilgamesh's equal in strength, named Enkidu. They set him to run with the wolves in the forests and share his life with beasts. One of Gilgamesh's distraught subjects, on advice from the gods, takes the prostitute Shamhat and brings her to Enkidu. She and Enkidu get it on, and then (lo and behold) Enkidu suddenly is civilized. He can talk, think, and reason. Shamhat brings him to a caravan and has the shepherds train him in the ways of men: how to wear clothes and work for a living. Then she, the townsman, and Enkidu travel back to Gilgamesh's capital, Uruk.
I'm reading Andrew George's translation of the standard Akkadian version, which is made up of twelve tablets. The original Sumerian version and the later Akkadian version differ in few respects, one of which is the way they refer to Gilgamesh himself. The original begins with the words "Surpassing all other kings..." whereas later versions refer to Gilgamesh as "He who saw the deep."
Now, isn't that something you'd like carved on your tombstone?
I'm about one tablet in, just starting on the second. The book itself is in the library right now, because I had to return it, but I'll run down and get it later today.
Later, Enkidu and Gilgamesh will have a big fight, and become friends, and go on all sorts of hair-raising quests and whatnot. Enkidu will teach Gilgamesh some worldly lessons, and both will become better men for it. Ultimately, Gilgamesh will stare death in the face, and the question of humans and immortality will be decided.
I can't wait. I'm ever so glad I have the time now to read for pleasure. It's gotten me back in touch with my literary side, my wordsmith side, my inner bibliophile whose version of Heaven is a never-ending library. And it seems like everything I pick out to read these days is worth reading. I don't know if it's because I know what I like, or because I'm easy to please, or what. But whatever the reason, I'll take it. I'll read anything if I think I can learn from it. The Gods Themselves not only proposed that stupidly clinging to the status quo is bad, but it also imparted some good lessons about truth and reality in science fiction writing. It reassured me that, with the proper application of knowledge and literary skill, science fiction is a credible literary genre. Little Women has taught me so many good life-lessons that it'd be impossible to reprint them all here. On a larger scale, the work gently informed me that writing doesn't have to be grandiose, sublime, or complex in order to be good. And The Epic of Gilgamesh is teaching me that all fables are parables, and human myths tell us something about ourselves...even if we do not last forever, the wisdom we garner in a lifetime does. It also showed me that, right from the very start, people valued literary artistry and integrity (and sex).
Judge for yourself whether that constitutes a "worthwhile" read.
That library isn't going to wait forever. In recognition of that fact, I kicked out the jams and finished Andrew George's translation of The Epic of Gilgamesh.
There is little I can say about this work in typical book review fashion, for two reasons. First, it isn't really a novel. It's an epic. A mythological epic, no less. These stories reside in a genre of their own, somewhere between fiction and nonfiction. They employ characters who may perhaps have been real, placed in fantastic settings, set against supernatural enemies, to make a point about humanity. (This is very similar to what I'm trying to do with my own novel series, in fact; but that's not important right now.)
It's difficult to critique epics as such. Things like characterization, realism, and other craft-related concerns go flying out the window. The audience already knows, basically, who the characters were; there's no need to develop or even introduce them. Realism, as I've pointed out, is rendered moot by the mythical antagonists.
One key element remains: plot.
So let's talk about Gilgamesh. In reality, he may have been an actual person. There's a good chance that he was one of the first Sumerian kings, ruling the empire from the city of Uruk (lying between present-day Baghdad and Basra) in the 26th century B.C.
Yes, that's right. TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE YEAR ZERO. You and I are closer to Jesus than Gilgamesh was, chronologically speaking.
This was a long time ago, folks. Nearly five thousand years. That means there might very well have been woolly mammoths clomping around North America when Gilgamesh was king in Uruk. Don't that beat all?
Okay, sorry for the digression. At some point, the Sumerians deified Gilgamesh. The legend goes that he was two parts god, one part man. He was neither an ideal king nor an ideal god, though. He was actually kind of a jerk. He didn't do mass purges or play his fiddle while the city burned, or anything. He just threw crazy parties, whooped it up all over town, and was into droit de seigneur, if you know what I mean. The good people of Uruk finally got fed up with it, and complained to the gods. The gods figured Gilgamesh just needed something to occupy himself with, so they created a wild man in the forests of Sumer, Enkidu. He ran with the wolves and was suckled by the donkeys, or something. A trapper spotted him, and decided to lure him to Uruk and see if he couldn't get Gilgamesh to calm down.
I like this trapper guy. He's smart. He uses steel and nets and snares to trap animals. What does he use to trap a wild man?
A prostitute.
The trapper fetches a courtesan, Shamhat, from Uruk. They wait in the bushes and then, when the time is right, spring out at Enkidu. Of course he's smitten with with Shamhat, and agrees to accompany her and the trapper back to civilization (after Shamhat—ahem—persuades him). Enkidu and Gilgamesh fight, and a rapprochement is reached: Enkidu acknowledges Gilgamesh's rightful kingship, and the two become buddies. They do all sorts of good deeds, like slaying the vicious demon Humbaba in the Forest of Cedar.
Enkidu eventually dies, and Gilgamesh, lonely and now afraid of death, travels the world to seek immortality. His quest leads him over the Sea of Death, into a battle with its ferryman and his stone henchmen, and to the door of the great sage Uta-napishti. The lone survivor of the great Deluge, Uta-napishti directs Gilgamesh to dive to the sea floor and retrieve a special plant that grants eternal life. Gilgamesh does so, but on the way home he leaves the plant unattended and a snake steals it. Heartbroken, Gilgamesh returns to Uruk.
And so, what began like a comedy about an inept, randy king turns into a morality tale about the inevitability of death. Even Gilgamesh, two-thirds god, who built the mighty walls of Uruk with his own hands, is not powerful enough to escape the last great adventure. Throughout the epic, we observe Gilgamesh struggle, fight, toil, performing many acts of courage and valor. But in the end, it does him no good...apart from a safe empire and a host of worthwhile memories.
One can only imagine the bald-headed Sumerian preceptor attempting to teach The Epic of Gilgamesh to a classroom full of fractious kids. I don't envy the guy.
I'm still progressing through Little Women; I'm almost to the end of Part I. Aunt March, it seems, is going to blow the roof off Meg and Mr. Brooke's little secret, even though Jo already knows (and therefore, Laurie). And we're going to have us a wedding. My feelings on this are mixed. I hardly know John Brooke—hell, he wasn't even introduced until the eighth chapter or something. And I had no idea Meg had feelings for him until a few chapters after that. This engagement thing came out of nowhere. Se la vi. Now that we're over the triple threat of Amy's fall through the ice, Father's sickness, and Beth's fever, I think we can all relax and get on with it. I can't wait to see what happens to the rest of the girls in the remaining two-thirds of the novel. I'll keep you posted.
And so onto the new volume into which I have now delved: Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. I've heard a lot of good things about Vonnegut from friends. Always meant to pick him up and read him someday. As I understand, he's the closest thing to Douglas Adams: an eminently satirical, gut-bustingly funny dude, a phenomenal and lyrical writer.
So, of course, when I open up the book to the first chapter (Vonnegut's preamble) and learn that the book, in fact, concerns the fire-bombing of Dresden during the Second World War...I'm a bit thrown off.
I enjoyed the introduction nonetheless. Vonnegut self-deprecates a little, but what impressed me the most is how unapologetically opinionated he is. He is anti-war, but not in the insufferable way that most hippies and beatniks are. He's against war because he's actually been in one. In the introduction, he recalls going to a friend's house, a war buddy, with a bottle of Irish whiskey. They plan to reminisce and take notes for the book Vonnegut is attempting to write. The friend's wife's irritation is thinly veiled. She eventually comes out with it: "You were just babies then! Babies!"
Vonnegut admits this is so.
"But you won't write it that way, will you," she huffs.
The friend's wife's fear is that Vonnegut will present himself and his buddies as heroes, and that a new national interest in war will rise up, and another war will ensue, and more babies will be killed.
Vonnegut assures the woman that he intends no such thing to happen.
"I tell you what," he says, "I'll call it [the book] The Children's Crusade."
And indeed, under the title of Slaughterhouse-Five on the first leaf, the words "or the Children's Crusade: a Duty-Dance with Death" are inscribed.
This might be an entirely different book than I thought.
And now, before I let you go, I simply must tell you about this:
Yep, I won an award. Again. This one's the Sunshine Award, given to "celebrate the positivity and creativity of our fellow bloggers."
Wow.
I have a host of friends. I'm incredibly honored and humbled by these accolades. This one's from Entrepreneur Chick, an eminently classy, brazen lady, whose business-savvy and kindness and street-smarts know no bounds. Check out her blog if you're the slightest bit interested in entrepreneurship, successful business practice, wise tips for living and finance, or dancing. (Wink wink, EC.)
The rules for this award are kind of a trade-off: you don't have to write ten facts about yourself (whew, I'm running low). But you have to nominate twelve fellow bloggers for it. Twelve. Yikes, do I even follow that many blogs?
Okay, here goes:
