George Floyd never signed up.
George didn’t want to serve
For county or college tuition
He wanted to live his life
Like those kids who lost their lives
Cut down in their prime
Like George Floyd
Maybe they cried for their mothers
Like George Floyd
But Big George didn’t sign on the dotted line
There were no benefits, no VA
George was born into a warzone
Born in America, covered in Black Skin
The Revenge of the Real: Politics for a Post-Pandemic World
Benjamin Bratton
I really like the Verso Book Club, which is where I got this
from. They send out books every month and it forces me to read more than I
normally would and outside of my normal interests.
This book was an interesting short little thing, arguing in
my reading for a large conception of the social – against the atomized person
and thinking of us all as part of a system. I think it works but my main
critique is that it exits in a weird middle ground. Part of me wanted to see it
expanded. Then there’s another part that wanted it tightened up. For example,
there’s a whole chapter against Giorgio Agamben. When I was reading it, I was
like “Why is there a whole chapter about this guy I’ve never heard about?”. And
it seems like the whole issue was on me, since reading this book I have seen at
least a dozen references to Agamben. Again, thanks to the Verso Book club for
expanding my theoretical horizons.
East of Eden
John Steinbeck
I’ve been on a bit of a Steinbeck kick since the pandemic
started. I reread Grapes of Wrath at the beginning because I was worried about
the economy crashing. In that reading I found a much better book than what I remembered
from being forced to read it as a high school student.
Grapes of Wrath may be his most famous book, if because it
is the bigger book of his that gets pushed by those high school students. I
think that is an oversight, as East of Eden is the better book, I think. I
guess that it doesn’t get taught because a good part of it centers on a house of
ill repute.
But also – it does take a while to get going. Steinbeck here
is writing a broad and epic sweep and must build the setting and the characters
and then put them together. He does it so well though. There are places where he
creates a character with such depth and complexity, and he does it in just a
paragraph or two. It’s something that you can see and point out how well he
does it but impossible to really saw just why it works. It’s just genius at
work.
He also, in these pages, creates one of the most hate-able
female characters ever put to the page. He just captures this psychopathy so
well you must wonder who in Steinbeck’s biography he modeled from to create this
character. Who hurt you, John?
So, this book just builds, grows, and has an incredible
momentum right up until the end, an end that just gob smacks you. In my opinion
it is one of the top dozen or so novels I have read. It’s amazing and you
should read it.
Independence Day:
I say to myself periodically I should read more from the
past, to get a better sense of the literary world’s shifts and ebbs. Since I
went to school 20 years ago now the 90s were in the recent past. There wasn’t a
lot of classes that hit on anything really later than the 80s except for the
couple of classes I took that were deliberately focused on more contemporary
lit.
That is to say I didn’t read Richard Ford, ever. The cover I
have notes that this book won a Pulitzer. The blurb on the back calls the main
character “one of the most unforgettable characters in American fiction”.
The problem is that it is not a good book. I was reading
this, thinking of the parties that people had feting Ford and the people with
professional jealousies looking at him and thinking that their work was just as
good. Ford must have lapped up the praise!
Here’s my critique as an angry high school reader: Nothing
Happens.
I kept waiting for something to happen. And then a minor
thing does like on page 400 of a 450-page book. But its low stakes. I had to force
myself to read the last 30 pages just for my own mental checklists.
A book doesn’t have to have things happen to be interesting.
The other problem is that Frank Bascombe is boring. We spend the whole book in
his head, and I have no idea how there are three other books with this
character at the center. I’ll never read them to find out. And none of the other
characters are interesting either. He’s a real estate agent dealing with uninteresting
clients. The love interest is a cypher. The ex-wife maybe has some depth, but
we don’t see much of her. The only character with a real spark is his son,
Paul. Center the book around him and make it half the length and maybe it
works.
But as is, it doesn’t work.
However, here’s the paradoxical thing, the book feels
technically well written. It’s like a model for an MFA class for structure and sentence-level
elegance! Even with that, it’s not a good book. You don’t need to read this one.
Capote in Kansas:
When I pulled this off the shelf, I figured it was tied in
with one of the movies about Capote that came out a while back. But it’s not. It
is an independent graphic novel take on Truman Capote writing “In Cold Blood”.
What’s interesting is that the book has one of the victims of the crime as a
character who Capote talks to as he’s trying to figure out how to tell the story
of the Clutter family, who was killed. There’s also some speculation about
Capote and his feelings towards one of the killers that makes the book push the
edge of nonfiction.
Overall, it works even with the supernatural element (though
I must admit that I thought the character was alive for most of the time she was
in scenes and then once I realized what was going on I had to reevaluate
things). It does make me wonder in the bigger picture we are fascinated with
the story of Capote’s writing of the book. Is there any other text that gets similar
treatment in the culture? I can’t think of one offhand. I should also note that
I did like the art, a strong use of the black and white to aid in the storytelling.
The Grande Odalisque:
I liked this book. It was sexy and fun and read like the storyboard
for an action movie that I totally would watch if it was on Netflix or Amazon
Prime. Who doesn’t like female French art thieves?
Tomorrow sex will be good again by Angel
I’m a member of the Verso book club where the publisher
sends you a book every month. It’s cool and I like supporting independent
publishers.
I have enjoyed most of the texts that I’ve chosen from the
list.
This one didn’t really do it for me. It’s a thin hardback I
read over a couple of days and then the next day I really couldn’t articulate
what I read – It wasn’t bad so I’m not mad that I read it, but it also wasn’t
good, so I have warm memories of it. At best it was forgettable, and I feel bad
since I might not be the direct audience, but I do consider myself a feminist
ally. So, this is just my incredibly subjective opinion, and your mileage may
differ.
Money: A Suicide Note by Amis
I had this book on my shelf for years and I recently picked
it up because I was looking for something different. The first book I read from
Amis was Time’s Arrow, and I loved it so much I went and bought a handful of
this other books, but it seemed like Time’s Arrow was just a one off and I didn’t
seem to like the other things I tried to read.
I did finish this one though. And I have to say I think it
is the worst book I ever finished that I read on my own. I usually don’t have a
problem putting books down if I don’t like them, but I kept chugging on this one and I don’t
know why exactly. Amis does some stylistic things here that I would normally
like- the main character is the narrator, and he breaks the fourth wall, there
is a secondary character who is a writer named “Martin Amis”.
The problem is that the main character is one of the
unredeemable creatures. I think Amis was going for a Catcher in the Rye /
Confederacy of Dunces thing, but it doesn’t hit. John Self, the main character
is an 80s guy doing horrible 80s things in New York and London, and for me it
isn’t interesting. He’s horrible but I don’t care about him in that I don’t
want him to succeed or fail. That’s not great when the book is so character
driven.
Years of Rice and Salt by Robinson
This is an interesting book. Before I read it, the only
thing I knew was the premise – that it was an alternate history positing what
would happen if the black death had been more fatal. Perfect pandemic reading.
Thoughts: I was expecting it to be more focused on the empty
European continent that it was. Shows how Eurocentric I am.
The individual stories are impressive. Robinson had to do
this larger world building, but then get more specific about not only the
culture but how they might have changed as there was greater divergence in the
world as it is and the world as he dreamed it. This does make it a bit hard to
read, as you get used to one set of characters and the situation and then it
moves on.
There is in the world he builds a parallel to the actual
world, so there are equivalents to Newton and Einstein and Columbus, but they
have different names and native tongues. Were I drafting a paper on this book,
that might be the thing I focus on. Is Robinson positing some sort of teleology
in technological development?
Ultimately as a novel it doesn’t really work because it’s
not building to anything narratively, it just cycles and fades. But it’s hard
to complain because that’s really history, right? One dang thing after another.
There is one story that centers around a kid who is captured
and made into a eunuch and that was very troubling and hard to read part. But
it did make me do more research on eunuchs, a thing I was not expecting
happening from reading this text.
####
Wrote up the above and posted it after a walk. Watching more movies and being sad when people post in sympathy. Looked over to his bed a couple times, the subconscious checking on him that I've gotten used to over the years. So worn out. Such great grief because of all the joy he brought.
Going through the nightly routine without him broke me. No letting him out or giving him treats. No pushing the table back so he could get up in the couch. I'm not sure if he was on the couch last night though. Went to give him his morning belly rubs and he was on his bed. So I moved Mort so I could sit next to him and he let me pet him for a while before moving back to the door. One of the harder things as he aged was that he snuggled less. I think it was part of his declining eyesight and hearing. Or the loss of padding as he became more skin and bone.
Can’t sleep. Tired but the minute I try to fall asleep I start with this wave of grief.
##3/26/2021
Today is the first morning without any belly rubs.
I would love to have things to do as a distraction but the pandemic makes that next to impossible.
Even though I know he won't be there, I keep looking at his favorite spots just to check on him. Turning my head only to remember.
Here's the screenshot of the last walk I took with him and then the walk on Monday where I knew it was time. Poor guy, he loved his walks.
I started this trying to savor every minute I was left. But now that he's gone there is just grief. Grief feels le ss momentous or notable. I'm sad and it's hard to say exactly why I'm sad. I can think of memories just like the very first time I brought him home I drove home from Uncle John's house in Kansas City and I had them in the back of the truck but he kept trying to smell outside cuz I had the window down a bit and he would get right up behind me and make it hard to drive.
I was trying to find his breeder to just ride a thank you now until how much I love them. But all I can remember is that they were an Airedale breeder near or outside Sedalia Missouri. And I googled it and I can't be sure if the people that looks like it might be or actually them. I can't find any stuff in any of my email either my Gmail account or my old Yahoo stuff. I don't know if Dad called me about it and we talked but you definitely didn't email.
I keep doing this thing where I walk into the living room and I subconsciously look at the couch or his bed to check on him like I always do, and then there's a split second before I remember and catch what I'm doing consciously and it breaks my heart every f****** time.
I did pick up his collar and smell it pretty deeply It still smells like him has his oils. That made me sad too.
If anything breaks me, it is these acts of remembering. Looking at the time and seeing it's 9:13 and thinking I should let him out. And then thinking about this and mindlessly filling up the cat food bowl and looking over at the dog bowl to see if he needs anything. And then that brief moment before remembering.
##3/27/2021
Thinking about grief last night. When I was a little kid I had a hobby horse and something happened to it that the head got ruined. I don't remember the horse or the act of destruction, but I remember the sorrow I had over the loss. My mom tried to make it better. She made me a new hobby horse, this time with a blue head. It wasn't the same. I eventually got another "brown headed horsie" as I called it as I cried and wailed. In how people experience an perform grief I have always been vocal. Now I try to hold it back, not out of masculine ideals but consideration for the person sitting next to me.
Grief never ends. I still cry for those I lost a half a lifetime ago or more. It just becomes less surprising and more familiar.
Fewer random breakdowns today. Picked up the last few pellets of food from his last meal he didn't eat. Doing chores. Normal things I'd relate with him. Still looking for him, but more knowing he's gone. Anita picked up his ashes and brought him home. It's nice to have him here. But hard.
Keeping busy helps, but at the between times when not doing things hurts. Lets the mind drift.
#3/28/2021
I was really hoping to get to sleep last night without crying myself to sleep. Maybe tonight it will happen.
I have these posts on facebook and it's nice but everytime I get a notification because someone has left kind words it makes me sad again.
Fewer breakdowns today. Washing dishes, cooking eggs, doing the nightly chores. Normal things that we would have done together. Anita cleaned the house and picked up some of his things - his food and water bowl, the yoga mats we had for padding his walk. Told her I wasn't ready to move the beds yet. Will do some sort of ceremony in the near future but not ready to think about that. Trying to keep busy and the mind occupied.
##3/29/2021
Mostly successful in not crying myself to sleep last night. The grief is still there but I'm learning to wear it. Just resting on my shoulders. It's this shirt that everyone wears, a sadness that accumulates through every loss and we're defined in part by how we wear it. I saw someone posting on twitter saying that the tradition of mourning clothes makes sense in that you are newly wearing new grief but you don't want to explain it to people. I think I could talk about Barney for about 30 seconds right now without breaking down.
The whole thing just reopened newer wounds from Dad's death.
Not sure what kind of ceremony to do. There's a sense of finality there I'm not ready for yet. I walked down the steps looking for him at the bottom of the steps and on the couch and on the bed. Hoping he'd somehow be there.
Did notice that Anita tossed those three pellets I set aside. Makes sense, since I didn't say anything. But felt more loss. Wasn't sure what I would do with them but that they were still there symbolized a bridge to when he was alive.
Took a picture of the bag the other day, and it's just sitting there.
Very tasteful, and they use the same empty collar imagining that I used earlier.
Remembering the other day when I broke down about Cheetoes, since he loved the puffs. They were pretty much the last human food he got, since we pulled back on all other human food when he started having digestion issues a couple of years ago. We also still gave him eggs, but only if they weren’t cooked in bacon grease or over seasoned.
How do people without dogs pick up the food they drop? It’s literally something I haven’t thought of for a long time. Those crumbs maybe were the last human food he got that was varied.
Mom and Dad always kept more than one dog at a time. I can see the benefit because I want another pupper to hug right now. The cats aren’t cutting it. It was the same thing when Casey died, just alone in the basement.
Pet death is something you know is going to happen the day you get them. And with Barney it was something I started facing two years ago when he was having issues with both his ears and the coughing. We cleared that up, but I came to terms with the idea that we might not. And it was something that became real last September when he had the episode at the groomer. I really thought I was going to lose him then. Luckily we had another six months where I got to pet him and tell him I loved him and snuggle with him. But it doesn’t really make it any easier.
I am still sad.Going to get a clicker to count how many times I cried. Going to get a curio cabinet to keep all the mementoes of the dead as they accumulate.
Just a huge part of me doesn’t want to be alone upstairs. His ghost is here in the basement too, where he used to move between the couch and his bed and the closet, but it has been a while since I found him in the closet. Maybe the floor was too hard for him or the concrete too cold. Did turn and look for him on the couch. But it already seems to be happening a bit less.
I’m really glad that I get to see Bear, the neighbor’s dog. He’s a friendly and playful boy who also likes belly rubs, but it’s not the same.
Received a couple of sympathy cards today. It was incredibly thoughtful, and way more than I would do. Of course it did made me sad again.
As long as I keep my mind busy, I'm good. Apparently I can't do the pet chores without crying though.
##3/30/3021
Still sad. Crying less. Managed not to cry myself to sleep last night. Keeping busy is the key. Just wish things were open so we could have gone somewhere.
Glad I had those days off!
Those idle moments of reflection are what break me.
Called Bear “Barney” when I was over there today. That made me sad.
##3/31/2021
Woke up to go pee and started thinking about him. Wasn’t able to fall back asleep.
I miss my stinky buddy, my smelly teddy bear.
The difference between sadness and depression is that sadness is active. It takes a lot of energy to be sad.
I haven't had any dreams about him. On one hand this is good since it means I haven't woken up sad. But in the other hand it means I haven't seen him again, even in dreamland.
I feel a responsibility to mourn. His passing will be noted by so few. My tears are a vindication that his life on this earth mattered.
I really need to stop mindlessly looking at the couch when I enter the living room.
I had thought that I was somewhat mentally prepared for all of this. I think there’s some sorts of things that you can imagine and get yourself ready for, like the decision to put him down and the moment in the vet’s office, but what I was not ready for was the absence. You can’t prep for that.
Thinking about my mom. There’s been several things in the last year or two that would have sucked without the pandemic. My grandma died in august of 2019 and my dad died in February of 2020. My mom lost her mom and her life companion, love of her life, father of her children in the span of half a year. And then the pandemic hit. Still working through all that.
I had known that Barney’s end was coming. I was in denial but we had talked through it. Knowing that a decision would be made eventually. But someone had to make it. It was when we were walking that Monday that I knew. I got home and sat down on the couch and was waiting for anita as she worked late. I asked for a hug and she asked what was wrong and I nodded towards Barney and she asked what’s wrong and I said “I think it’s time”. That was all I needed to say but it was the first time I vocalized it. I knew that I would have to be the one that made the decision finally but saying it broke my heart. And I have no doubt that it was the kind and compassionate thing to do (especially as it seemed that last week was even harder than normal for him as he was panting more and having more trouble getting up and down) but good damn that was hard. And it’s something you know is coming the minute you bring a puppy home. This pain is worth all the joy he brought for over fourteen years. But it’s a lot of pain right now.
##4/1/2021
It doesn’t stop hurting, you just get more used to it. I was thinking I was ok since I didn’t cry myself to sleep last night nor did I wake up crying so I was a bit steady. Then I realized that right now about a quarter to eleven would be around the time we put him to sleep a week ago. Still sad.
Ok, I was not ready to go back and re-read some of the things I had written yet.
How has it already been a week? It feels like limbo. I moved his beds into the closet that we call Lynn’s Room. He used to like to go in there to lay down. I think it was quiet and dark and the ground helped him cool down. I think the ground got too hard for him since it had been a while since he went back there. I wanted to have them stop reminding me of him and making me cry every time I glanced over automatically but didn’t want to throw them out just yet. Trying to defamiliarize the place a bit. But now where there was some life there’s just the empty space.
Going to bed tonight as anita was brushing her teeth downstairs, I was thinking to myself it hadn't been a bad day, only broke down crying like four or five times. And that set me off, so now we're at five or six. It just comes over me but doesn't usually linger as long. Anita comes to pet me to make me feel better.
##4/2/2021
Like four good cries? It's about relearning life with fewer footsteps in the house. Actually watching food I drop. Not singling out a slice of ham as a treat. And so much silence, the unprepared and impossible silence. Keeping busy so my mind doesn't wander.
##4/3/2021
Still can’t really sit alone in the living room. Want to rearrange the furniture a bit so the spot where his bed was isn’t such a blank empty space that makes me sad every time I look at it.
Still doing the thing where I subconsciously work around like he’s still alive. In two minutes after showering I walked out and popped my head in the living room only to make myself mad and then on the way down the stairs thought to myself I should check on him before I go to the basement. Just bums me out, man.
I just miss my doggy.
##4/4/2021
Was doing so good. But near the end of the day, taking out the kitty litter looking at the big yard and thinking about what a big yard we have and no one to run around in it. And then getting ready for bed. Tears come from the habits I associate with him. And that is it from now on. When those memories come like with Dad and Marc and Tamra and Allison, living through our memories. Even the happy memories tinged with sadness.
##4/6/2021
Every day is a little bit better. I’m getting used to the new normal, but still sad when I think about things. Pets are just so much a part of your life from the first belly rub in the morning to the last little pet on the head at night. It sucks when that part is wrenched out of you.
##4/7/2021
The tears still come but they’re less overwhelming. It’s just this absence that has descended over the house and in my soul. Not much more original to say.
##4/11/2021
Still crying a bit every day. The other day I decided it was time to try to donate his food and just the thought of it made me sad and I asked Anita to do it instead. Glad not to have that visual reminder in the house and hopeful some other dog and their family will benefit.
Thought about the resistance his collar gave as I pulled the loop and clipped in his leash as we got ready to go out the door for a walk. Dreamed about the jingle of his tags. Or was I awake?
It is these transitions, the times when I would normally check on him where he is and how he is doing that still happen, leaving the room or coming in or going to bed. I know he’s gone but the habits are still learning.
##
I’ve been thinking about this photo a lot recently. Every time I go outside I see our big yard.
I still remember looking for places eight and a half years ago. We didn’t have a lot of money so a lot of the places all had something wrong, since most were short sales or foreclosures. The moment we walked out the back door I looked over and saw the garage and based on what we had seen at other houses I immediately assumed that it was the garage for the neighbor and I asked our relator and he said it was part of the property. In my mind that was when I decided that this was the best place we’d seen. The inside was a little run down but you can fix that up, you can’t make more land. And it was that nice big yard so Barney could have a place to run around. Even though he was always a more indoors dog, he had the chance to go out and chase the bunnies until they got too fast him. He’d go out in the year and when he was ready to come back in he’d walk not in a direct line to the door but would find the closest sidewalk so he wouldn’t have to walk on the grass too much.
Losing him has been hard but it has been made easier by all the kind words from friends and family - cards and letters and donations! Everyone is just too kind.. Barney was a part of my life for so long It’s hard to unlearn those patterns that were ingrained in our way of being. One day we’ll have another furry friend to run around in that yard, but he’ll always be my buddy.
Today - I mourn. I lost my best friend. It was his end, but he lived a long life full of love. Anita and I loved him as deeply and strongly as we could, and he loved us. This isn’t the first time I have lost a pet I adore, and it won’t be the last. Knowing his suffering is gone makes it a little easier, but it’s not easy. Loving a pet is an intensely personal act. That bond created becomes a silent dance as you grow into each other’s habits, know where to scratch and they know the sound of your steps as you come to the door. Barney had many friends and if you ever met him you were one of them. As I mourn, I also want to celebrate that love shared between people and their furry friends. Give your friend a pet or a squeeze and tell them you love them. And then give them an extra from us.
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| Barnabe Riche in Brighter Days |
#3/23/2021
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| Couch Terrier |
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| One last Treat |
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| Photoshoot |
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| To everything a season |
Also, the Byrds, Turn Turn Turn.
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| 9/15/2006 - 3/25/2021 |
I don’t believe in reincarnation
But if anything is a vote in its favor
It is the feeling that when I met you
We had know each other before
A love so instant and deep
Had to have echoes from past lives
A cycle infinite, going back
To the Dawn of time.
If there’s any consolation
Of the certainty of death
It is the small chance of this truth
Being real, and knowing
That in some future life we
Will be able to find each other,
Our souls seeking across the firmament
Each step grinding the earth
Creating the geography of the land
And meeting, able to fall in love
One more time, again and again
Lower Ed - Tressie McMillan Cottom
Lower Ed is a Powerhouse of a
book. Professor Tressie McMillan Cottom does an excellent job looking at the
privatized education system in America.
It reminds me of my own time
working as a student trying to get a certificate. I ran into people who had
both been students and as professors and there's a certain type of student I
really feel as if they're the ones being preyed upon by the system.
She covers it as well but there
is a subset of ambitious African American women from backgrounds that aren't
tied into the traditional education system that see these kinds of schools as
the way up and out. It's a little distressing both of my own experience and in
the reading to see those ambitions as realized only to see them as coming to
fruition with degrees that don't have a lot of worth in the wider society
either on the job market or the academic market. I can’t imagine spending the
time and money investing in a degree that was worthless. Oh, wait, too late.
It's a formal accusation about the schools and about the opportunities that you
get on the other side of Education. It's a terrific book but it's heartbreaking.
I first came across Cement because I was looking
to read something that was representative of socialist realism. And this book
was held up as perhaps the best exemplar of that genre.
It is the story of a man who comes back to his
hometown after the Russian Revolution fighting in the Army and he finds that
everything has changed. The social structure has changed. His wife has changed.
And he and the rest of the village must come together and get a cement factory
back up and running. They must fight not just local reactionaries but also the
bureaucracy of the Soviet system.
As story in the translation, it's not that bad, but
it is more of interest as a historical text than it is just a fun book you're
going to sit and read. The other thing of note is that it makes me think of the
contemporaries of this text. It was written in the twenties and at the
same time Mikhail Bulgakov was writing
Master and Margarita and Heart of a Dog -- much more interesting modernism
influenced text than this is. So at least that time artistically you were able
to have a very separate threads representative in Soviet literature. Overall, I
would say it is worth a read but again as the representative text of the genre.
I first read The Plague about 2002 it was in my
French literature in translation class and it was the first time I'd read
Camus. There was something about his work that really attracted me, and I think
The Plague is really a representative sample of his work.
It's beautifully written but there is a sense of
isolation and loneliness even when the characters have a relationship with
people -- we're still isolated. And The Plague is set in this Algerian
city and the people are having to learn to fend for themselves as they’re
locked out from the outside society. I think when I read it 20 years ago
it was read as the metaphor for life under Nazi occupation. I returned to it early
in the most recent pandemic reading it in March of 2020. Reading it then felt
as if there weren't direct parallels because there was still some simple
life where you could go outside and be with people just a little bit.
But I keep going back to this text in my mind
because that sense of isolation that has become more real over time. And
the parallels to the world of the text and the current time have multiplied: we
see the people who try to break the quarantine those who've gotten rich despite
the lockdowns and we see people have gone about their lives and learn to live
with the plague as everybody suffers. As in real life in the book there is just
widespread trauma for all the characters. What I want to see is the parallel is
that in The Plague there is an ending where the gates open but even then, the
people of the city are still wary and that's where I think we're at right about
now. The gates may open soon but there won’t be the one day that we all get to
celebrate but must try to recreate normalcy even though there is no return to
normal, “the plague was bound to leave traces in people’s hearts” (280). Early
on in March it didn't feel as if it mapped onto our experience, but I keep
mentally going back to this book because of that sense of isolation that
he captured so well. It's a classic and Camus is a fantastic writer. I of
course recommend this book, but it is bit of a drag on the soul.
Okay today we're talking about EM Forster's A Passage to India. It is a classic of modernist era British literature, but I think it's something like a secondary or tertiary classic. I only say that because in undergraduate and then graduate school reading specifically in that period was never assigned as a text. I think there may be a couple reasons for this. The first is that it was released in 1924 and even though it was released two years after Ulysses it has a feeling it's a little bit more Edwardian or late Victorian. I can't really pinpoint exactly why I say that, but I think it lacks a bit of an interiority of the characters. It's more pulled back high levels you don't get them their inner life as much. I think the other reason it might not be a full canon material is that it takes place in India. There seems to be some sort of reluctance to include these texts that are part of the diaspora, the empire writ large if it's not overly critical of the Empire. I don't know if this is some post-colonial canonization lack.
The thing is it's a surprisingly delightful book. It's hard to
read but it's hard to read in the way that it is like Richard Wright's Native
Son is hard to read -- it's hard to read that there's great Injustice in
those Clash of civilizations. India is tricky to understand anyway because
right now it is one of the largest Muslim countries if you just take an
absolute count of all the people in the nation that are Muslim. I think it has
the second highest after Indonesia. But India itself is so big that they're
only 18 or 20% of the total population now. And prior to British colonization
there was a huge Clash because the minority Muslim Mughals had been in charge
for a while. And then you have a very rigid caste system in the Hindu side of
the Indian subcontinent that I'm not even well-versed enough to speak
about.
So, you have this entire mélange of the height of the British Raj,
you have Muslim Indian and Hindu Indians all together and the basic plot is one
of a big misunderstanding. You're reading and you get this dramatic irony that
hovers over the key plot event in the second half is kind of this unraveling.
Spoiler alert: there is an assault or an attempted rape it's not clear that an
English woman accuses an Indian of partaking. But the thing is we see the scene
from the accused’s perspective, and we know that the fact of the matter is that
she's making it up. And the entire middle of the book you're reading is this
character who I really like just is getting railroaded. I don't want to get too
deep into it but thankfully it's not too much Injustice just enough to know
that hey colonialism is bad.
The only thing that I really could talk against this book is that
there is an entire third section that seems a little superfluous after the
events and I'm sure there's criticism on it if you wanted to pull apart about
why it matters and why it's necessary to the text but as a reader my first real
Forester it just didn't really seem like it was necessary overall. I really
enjoyed it and I would recommend reading A Passage to India if you were a fan
of fiction about colonialism.
