The Irony of American History by Reinhold Niebuhr

I have heard that this was/is the most significant contemporary book on American foreign policy. To some extent, it shaped our cold war policies, and perhaps it needs to shape American policies toward a u/dystopian Islamic movement, as it did toward Soviet communism.

The Road

I will occasionally allow myself to revisit a valued novel, play or other piece of written word. There are usually a few stipulations that I require for such an engagement. After all, there are a lot of books out there to read and it seems silly to just trivially read something over (and over) when the new is waiting.

Such stipulations include:

a) a commitment to do so quickly, very quickly
b) a need to get something out of it, a reason
c) a desire to look to add to my previous experiences, search the headphones for sounds once missed
d) a creative need to clear the palette with .... well ..... perhaps not exactly clear, but at least sate the palette
e) a creative need to remind myself how well something can be done, a vicarious roll in the creative dirt

I have read my favorite play Art no less than 30 times. In it I am usually seeking a re-education in simplicity, effective translation of worlds (French to English holds up) and the child-like nature of adult human relationships.

After reading White Tiger I had an uncontrollable urge to revisit The Road. I know, I know .... but I think it's amazing. Of all the forms of art I claim to appreciate, I consider it to be an instantiation of perfection.

In my mind, in my experience The Road is more of an enormous life-sized painting than a novel. I say that with a complete inability to really understand or see the painted form as most experts can. I think it's a color thing.

Standing far, far back you see the purpose, the big picture of The Road. Sure, it's about obvious and well-trodden themes: apocalypse, savagery, survival, a race against odds and time. It's about a father, sure. It's about a son, sure. It's about the crystalline fragility of this tottering empire we call society. Sure. Whatever.

As you begin to walk closer and closer to the enormous canvas, however, the big picture becomes less distinct. The parts even begin to lose focus. You see more and more of the paint strokes themselves. The original texture of the suspended and hued mass as it was slavered across its native substrate. In those details, in those cracks the real purpose begins to emerge. It's about questions. Are there uncrossable lines that separate who we might consider man to be from a matching organism without a unique internal fire? What are the consequences of straying across those lines? Forever? In a world that tells you, that demands it of you, are you a fool for holding to the side of light? Just how easy is it for anger, fear, or disgust to catalyze us over and beyond? Do we gain something in the fight against it or remain the same with a bit lost in each battle - a little less capable of fighting the next time we are challenged or required to do so? So many questions - so little time, frequently tested. Then and now. Always then, always now.


Hold your hand in front of the flame.
Don't let it go out.
He rose and took the pistol from his belt.
This door looks like the other door, he said.
But it's not.
I know you're scared. That's okay.
I think there may be things in there.
And we have to take a look.
There's no place else to go.
This is it.
If you want to help me.
If you don't want to hold the lamp.
You'll have to take the pistol.

I'll hold the lamp.

Okay, this is what good guys do.
They keep trying.
They don't give up.
Okay.


It is this subtlety of purpose that disappointed me most about White Tiger. I cannot believe this book is beloved by so many much less considered worthy of such an award, any award. The setup was adolescent in structure and tone. I machete-chopped my way through the first 30 pages on sheer will alone hoping to God the author would stop the self-aggrandized tone of the faux-conversation. Good luck with that. What then emerged was a character and story without purpose. This was not a unique man, this was not a good man - this was an opportunist not unlike anything he saw or smelled around him. No questions were asked of lines crossed, no investigation into the damage points possibly taken on by choices and actions. This was a man and story no different from any modern tale - any modern day. There are those that have and there are those that wish to have ... and given the opportunity the wishers will say and do anything to join the other club. Thanks for that 300 page insight there, Mr. Award Winner.

Werds about The White Tiger

This book moves very quickly, the rich/poor disparity does not get into too much detail, only to support the narrator's indomitable desire to leave his "coop" and become a survivalist, which in India means get a real job where you're not someone's bitch. My initial thoughts before reading were very high, I thought it would be this intricate novel evincing the complexities and hidden travails of India. What it does is tell a story about someone coming out of this Darkness that is Bangalore, but doesn't really give him an encompassing life, just just a mere existence predicated on menial success, He is agonizingly free at the end, yes, but the path was very linear and terse. It worked in the vein of the narration because it was an intense story, which I liked. I saw Balram really trying to figure out the Light in Delhi, and I became frustrated when he was the scapegoat for his driver's wife. But this guy's supposed to be a pretentious dick, this character, and the author attempts to create this love/hate personality. Unfortunately, at the end, you're just saying, "good job, buddy. Now what's next to read."