A Review of The Server, a novel by Tim Parks

I was glad to read on Tim Parks’ website that he considers this novel a companion work to his Teach Us to Sit Still (my review). In Teach Us to Sit Still Parks recounted his troublesome prostate and how, after rejecting the cut and hope option offered by physicians, happened upon a suggested remedy that involved, of all things, sitting. This sitting led him into the foreign world of vipassana meditation (the Buddhist meditation practice from Southeast Asia associated with the Theravadan tradition). In The Server, Parks explores the stark contract between the austerity of a Buddhist meditation retreat center and our egoistic, narratives selves prominent in the in many contemporary lives. 

The first-person narrative is a running monologue in the mind of Beth Marriot. Beth is a vivacious but troubled young woman who comes to the center and stays to serve new participants by working in the kitchen. Her mind, when unleashed, recounts and rehashes issues with parents, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, an older lover, and a brush with death, among other things. After months at the meditation center, having apparently calmed her mind to some extent, it’s turned back on by discovering a diary of a participant who recounts his own narrative of woe, despite the ban on writing while participating in the retreat. After this discovery, Beth careens through thoughts and actions quite contrary to the austere and ascetic practice of the retreat. This clash of Buddhist austerity with the contemporary, narrative self drives the story. 

The story provides an excellent vehicle for pondering how this Buddhist world-view, what one may call a non-narrative approach to life, comports with our contemporary notions of self in the land of novels, Freud, and self-expression. (I suspect that these issues exist in the “East”, too; they wouldn’t have the antidote if they didn’t suffer the disease, would they?). Parks doesn’t attempt to answer how these two attitudes might be reconciled or whether one must ultimately prevail. One suspects that the two views, which have probably competed for the length of human history, will continue to lead an uneasy, but perhaps fruitful co-existence. 

The story makes for a roller-coaster ride—this young woman has lots of karma and vivacity (are they linked?) —and sometimes you want to tell her “whoa, slow down”, but she can’t, and that makes a trip through a meditation retreat a bit of a roller-coaster ride.

A Review of The Second Circle by Patsy Rodenburg

While reading Mark Bowden’s Winning Body Language, he mentioned Patsy Rodenburg, whom I heard of somehow before. She’s an acting coach. 

Why read a book by an acting coach? Because we’re all actors, aren’t we? After all, we all act and inter-act, don’t we? By saying this, I’m not suggesting that we’re all somehow false and manipulative, although I suppose all of us are at some time or another. Most significantly, we’re all a part of a cast in a performance, or rather, many performances: with our family, in our workplace, and with our friends. Perhaps no one says it better than Shakespeare: 

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
 And one man in his time plays many parts

Rodenburg explores her acting ideas in the context of daily life in this book. She divides our world into three parts: the inward-looking world of the First Circle, the I-Thou world (my description) of the Second Circle, and the over-powering self of the Third Circle. She urges us to spend most of our lives in the Second Circle. She is, to my mind, teaching the process and value of living in an I-Thou world. Fortunately, her teaching is shorn of the complex language and notions of I-Thou’s great teacher, the German-Jewish philosopher Martin Buber. (I haven’t read I-Thou, although I have a copy and have started it. Even a good translation of some German prose (mine by Walter Kaufman) is too daunting. For a fun and worthwhile introduction and discussion of Buber, go the Buber discussion at The Partially Examined Life.) 

Rodenburg’s ideas and suggestions about how to live in the Second Circle make a lot of sense. She provides exercises and images to help locate yourself in this inter-active arena, pulling you out of yourself (First Circle) or containing yourself (Third Circle). On the other hand, I thought the book went on too long after having established the main idea and exercises. Also, it’s something that one might learn more about by watching a DVD or webcast (which you can find on line). 

Rodenburg, like Bowden (and unlike too many philosophers), doesn’t ever forget that we’re embodied creatures, and anyone who teaches us to more fully and meaningful inhabit and communicate in the corporeal world has done us all a great service.

Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics: Putting an End to the Nonsense About Hot Hands

From the first time I read this claim and every time since, I said to myself, "Bull shit!"

"Nerdy number-crunchers who wouldn't know the feel of the hardwoods if it bit 'em in the ass",  I mutter, even if one of them was the late Amos Tversky, research partner of Nobel winner Daniel Kahneman and with whom Kahneman surely would have shared his Nobel had Tversky lived long enough. Credentials be damned.

Anyone who's played or watched basketball knows that hot-hands exist. Oh, they are mysterious and elusive; they can appear and disappear in a whim, but they are real. Ask Michael Jordan, who, for instance, rained threes on the hapless Trailblazers one finals game. Or ask me, when I shot 7/8 from the field one night in a varsity game. (Yes, it's good enough to remember for over four decades.) A rare event? Yes, but real.

What is perhaps most annoying is that the stat guys ignore all of the subjective reality based on their naive supposition that the numbers don't lie. Maybe the numbers don't lie, but those who read these electronic tea-leaves delude themselves. Read the biography of a sports figure, or just ask an experienced player: on some nights the basket has a lid on it and on other nights it's 10-foot across. Of course, this doesn't predict the outcome of any one shot, but at the end of the night, it's real. And you'll remember the feeling, if you've done or it even if you've only seen it. It's a "wow!" experience.

Another of the annoying aspects of the stat boys is their failure to consider that games are strategic. (They must have skipped the game theory classes to do additional regressions.) Our ability to develop a hot hand varies according to our biology and psychology in the moment, as well as that of our team mates and opponents. Some nights we have our legs; others not. Against some opponents we have immense confidence; against others we quake. (Seeing a 5'10" opposing player dunk off of two feet during warm-up was very intimidating. I think that it hurt our team confidence. We lost.) Make a shot or two, and the next time out, the other coach is going to say something like Bobby Knight's "Who the hell has Hansen?" and then be told in no uncertain terms to shut him down. Or perhaps it's time to move from a zone to a man defense. One way or another, a successful shooting streak will elicit counter-measures. On the shooter's side, she'll be willing to take greater risks because of improved confidence. Alas, making a couple of lay-ups doesn't mean that you'll now be hitting your previously non-existent three-pointer.

Consider also baselines of indvidual players. If Shaquille O'Neill (or Wilt Chamberlain for you mature fans) goes to the free throw line, how likely is it that he will show a hot hand? Now take Larry Bird: think he'll have a hot hand at the free throw line? He shot over 90% for his career I believe, and he may hold or comes close the NBA record for consecutive made free-throws. If Shaq or Wilt makes a free throw you can tell me that he was "lucky"; tell me that about Bird and I'll laugh in your face.

Here's the article that says that stat guys are starting to rethink themselves and that has goaded me to set the record straight. It strikes me that they're wasting their time. Really, such nonsense from adults.

Man, I was hot.

A Review of A Delicate Truth by John le Carre

One of the perks of living in India is early release: some movies and books are released here before they are in the U.S. In our recent pass through the Delhi Airport, I spied John le Carre’s latest in paper for Rs 499 ($9.20). Sold! And I was underway as soon as we plopped down in the plane, having run late with browsing and grazing.

After completing the book, I read two reviews in the NYT. One by resident reviewer Michiko Kakutani, which was critical, and the other in the Sunday Book Review by fellow author Olen Steinhauer, which was much kinder. In a sense, I agreed with both. Le Carre, especially since the GWOT (Global War on Terror), has been almost obsessed with American heavy-handedness, blundering, and worse. As an American reader, I say to myself, “Really, we're not that dumb and brutish—are we?” Even recalling the worst of the Bush years—really? In short, Americans (acting under explicit or implicit government authority) are cast as bad guys. One must admire le Carre’s righteousness and his willingness to confront what he perceives to be the malign powers that should be wearing the  white hats: the U.S. and U.K. Such plot attributes will keep Hollywood light years away from producing a film version. Ditto BBC? But there is also an artistic price: I agree with Kakutani that Le Carre creates too Manichean a world for him to reach the heights that he did in the Smiley books that arose out of the Cold War.

Also, as Kakutani remarked, this le Carre book, similar to some of his more recent efforts, takes an almost Hitchcock-like focus on rather ordinary folk pulled into waters far over their heads. Or, as Steinhauer describes it in his review, the focus has gone from spymasters to whistle-blowers. In this case, the protagonists are two U.K. Foreign Service officers, neither of especially high rank. They have been, they both learn, played and marginalized, and they seek to set things straight. In this way, le Carre pulls us into their stories, and here is where le Carre still shines: in setting, character, and dialogue The little things that can make his world of spies so much larger than that of others writing with in the genre occurs because it contains wives, daughters, lovers, mentors, Cornwall, London, among other things, all finely sketched. Of course, it also contains plenty of conversations that record the machinations of politicians and bureaucrats. 

In the end, I must say that the Official Secrets Act and le Carre’s description of new star-chamber proceedings (which they hold the copyright to) doesn’t allow for any sense of British superiority over the gung-ho Americans. Steinhauer, by the way, appropriately defends le Carre against charges of anti-Americanism. It is the failure of American leaders to stand up for important values that he deplores, not the people as a whole. Many of us can say “Amen” to opposing many U.S. government actions in the last . . . . well, going back a long time. 

In the end, as usual with le Carre, we aren’t awarded a happy ending, but we receive lots of ambiguity. How do these characters continue their lives? In what I must warn as a potential spoiler alert, the story as a whole and the ending especially reminded me of the 1970s Robert Redford-Faye Dunaway flick, “The Days of the Condor”, which C and I had watched not long before we left for India, and which I rate very highly within the genre. 

Faces & Figures from Jaipur, Rajathan

Iowa Guru in her most recent blog gives a narrative of our walking tour last Saturday. I want to share some of the faces and figures that we saw on her tour (and a couple of a few of these are redundant of her post).

Starting at one gate into the Pink City with a few faces in the crowd

A typical Jaipur "school bus". The one on the left has had enough!

For those needing a munchie along the way

It wouldn't be India without the cow. By the way, is this cow face pose, yogis?

Making yogurt

Talkative school girls who hailed Iowa Guru with their English & ended up getting quizzed in an mini English class!

Making bowls, really.

Pounding out pans. Yes, that's a hammer!

Our brief fling as rock stars. Great smiling faces, even with Saturday school

Typical statuary.

Another big shot, although I don't recall whom.

A full-figured look

Gautama Sakyamuni, a/k/a Buddha

How'd he get in here?

I'm still working on this one.

Ah, this one, too.

A few of the faces and figures of India. All photos by the lovely Iowa Guru.

Reviews of "To Show and To Tell" by Phillip Lopate, "The Made-Up Self" by Carl Klaus, and "A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolf

As challenging as it often is, being a writer (not a Writer) is a rewarding and challenging calling. Professionally, much of a lawyer’s work consists of writing,  the mountains of god-awful legal prose notwithstanding, and it can be done better—much better. Demand letters and briefs are especially fun challenges, and I enjoyed refining my skills as a legal writer. In addition, from my days as a Young Republican essayist (we’re talking junior high, folks, gimme a break!) writing about the value of the two-party system (good for second place among three contenders), I've felt compelled to say things on paper. After years of journals (C: “Why do you keep these? What are you going to do with them?” A: “Don’t know, except keep them”) and letters to congressional representatives and newspaper editors, I came upon blogging. 

I wish that I could say something profound and insightful about why I blog, but the plain truth is I sincerely believe that everyone should experience the value and pleasure of knowing my opinions about this or that. It’s just another form of narcissism, I fear, but to keep my head from getting too big, I occasionally look at the number of persons who read my posts and then rest my worry that the circle of those who know of my ranting hasn’t much expanded beyond those on whom I would have inflicted it anyway. 

So why did I just read two books on the essay and Virginia Wolf’s classic essay “A Room of One’s Own”? Well, with more time on my hands than in the past, with a new position that involves teaching how to write well, and with thoughts of future ventures, refining my writing seems the thing to do as a practical matter. Then, too, there is this pretension that maybe some blog post might prove worthy of the shadow of those who made the essay an intriguing and vital part of our literature. 

Phillip Lopate and Carl Klaus are two of the best-known scholars of the essay, and both practice the art that they teach, which makes reading their works a double-treat. Lopate’s book, To Show and To Tell: The Craft of Literary Nonfiction, which I read first, had me with the title. Well, I love to tell people things: how else will they receive the benefit of my knowledge and wisdom? Further, just “showing” can hide the forest for the trees. But the book does more than puncture a hole in the current wisdom. Instead, Lopate reviews the art of the essay from the time of its founding Aeneas, Montaigne, to the best of those writing today, including himself and this very book. In writing about the various issues that essayists have addressed from the time of Montaigne to the present, Lopate—in essay chapters—discusses the many variations and challenges that have been raised and addressed by the essay and “literary nonfiction” in general. 

Klaus’s book, The Made-Up Self: Impersonation in the Personal Essay addresses one of the ongoing challenges presented by the essay from Montaigne down to his own efforts. Quoting Virginia Woolf’s aphorism: “Never to be yourself, and yet always”, Klaus, starting from the fountainhead (Montaigne, of course), explores the different ways that the self is presented and sometimes hidden by the essayist. By concentrating on the personal essay, one that drags you in because it’s written in the first-person and because you have a sense of the someone who’s written this—of someone  having lived this—you have the challenges of wondering what has been left in and what left out. It’s an opportunity to look into the life and experiences and observations of another, and when well written, it proves delightful, or at least intriguing. 

In fact, while I greatly appreciated Klaus’s knowledgeable and insightful consideration of Montaigne, Lamb, Woolf, E.B. White, and Orwell, among others, it’s his own personal reflections in the final chapter that provided me with the most pleasure and insight. Klaus reports that in the mid-1990s he decided to write an entry each day for the weather, about 500 words. And a very important fact: he lives in Iowa City, where he taught at the University since the 1960s. * Now, such an idea might fall flat here in Rajasthan (typical entries: hot and dry, very hot and dry, extremely hot and dry), but in Iowa, he has subject-matter that changes, sometimes violently. He set out to describe “what it looked like and felt like each day on my hillside lot in Iowa City—a place where I'd spent twenty-five years witnessing the flow (and sometimes the clash) of arctic- and gulf-born weather systems.” This seemingly mundane task (discouraged by some colleagues)  becomes a larger meditation on change and life, as concerns for the health of his wife and his pets, among other things, impinge upon a simple weather report. He finds himself, like Iowa weather, changing at times unexpectedly and uncertainly. So with the self and its concerns. 

Finally, between these two works, I read Virginia Wolf’s “A Room of One’s Own”, and I greatly enjoyed my time with it. In addressing women and fiction as a given theme, Wolf meanders through the centuries to address the topic, weaving her way through history as if providing a leisurely pointed tour of the past, and in particular, the burdens and challenges that women who wanted to write endured. Careful phrasing, an authoritative but friendly voice, and a careful choice of topics made this a very enjoyable read. A tract of feminism, and a fine one, yes; but its pleasure proves much greater than that of a political tract or polemic. It’s a tour, and one to savor, as if in the company of a gifted docent.

* I don’t believe that I’ve ever met Mr. Klaus. I know that I didn’t take a class from him (if only I knew), but he gives a shout out to Jackie Blank, our friend and realtor at the beginning of the book, so that provided some extra fun in reading this.