“Maltaverne,” by François Mauriac

I was surprised to discover, upon reading this book, how much it affected me, or how much it spoke to me; I mean, in comparison with previous books I’ve read from Mauriac. It also was not what I expected it to be – it was not a dark and brooding, as if "framed" portrait of a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century bourgeois household. I am making reference here to the vague memories I have of Thérèse Desqueyroux or The Knot of Vipers. Then again, each book might have a corresponding “age” or state, when we connect the best, or the most, with it, and when it makes most sense to us. Which does not exclude perennial “matches” between book and reader – in terms of subject, theme, tone etc. In any case, this book came seemingly at a good time, and it also exhibited an overall tone that - as said - was a bit unexpected.

[Amazon]

Perhaps the part of the novel that spoke to me the most was the beginning, with its description of the hopeful and clear-eyed adolescent, Alain (who is the main character of the novel, and in whose voice we hear the narration, retrospectively) - namely, of a certain character and age which I can identify all too well, and which also hearkens to other favorite readings of mine. Alain is the young intellectual and person of faith, who thinks and who sees the world perhaps more wisely than the adults (and, partially, that is true; and, partially, life will teach him later how much he does not know, in fact). And this is also the young man who sees the whole world, and his future, through those intellectual-spiritual prisms, with much hope, and with many plans (which will also change, partially - but not essentially, as he himself  - and we ourselves - can not change, essentially). 

After this initial stage, the novel moves on to a darker territory, more familiar to readers of Mauriac. Let’s not forget, Mauriac’s vocation as a writer was (as he seemingly acknowledged) to examine and to reveal the truth of the darker recesses of the human heart, and of the human existence. The world of sin – but not the glittery, commercially-sold sin, the glamorized one – but of everyday sin, of our daily failings - and also of the much, much darker undergrounds of what at the surface is common existence – in brief, of the human being’s capacity for evil. In many ways, what he talks about in his works is the “bourgeois sin" – which is no less dark, no less terrible, than the most glamorous and public ones, as no economic or social class is excepted and excluded from carrying both the darkest and the brightest dimensions of the spiritual condition of man. Envy, lack of love, misunderstanding – these are the true dark elements of our daily lives, these are the areas of shade in our everyday existence - and not the strident and glittery “bad things,” “bad words” and “bad thoughts” bandied about in the public discourse, or in the noise of the media, social or otherwise.

Because the initial part of the novel reached me on a personal level, I was already invested personally in the main character, Alain, by the time we moved on to the next stage of the story. This is why I found it somewhat irritating and unpleasant to have to bear the weight of the Mother figure throughout most of the book – as I could not relate to it (unlike with the initial part of the book), and as I found it suffocating.

The final turn(s) of events of the novel, however, changed yet again the tone and meaning of the events and of the book, and changed the impact and meaning of the Mother figure as well – for the better. It also clarified and, perhaps, humanized the figures populating the book, and the dynamic between her and Alain. The events affecting Jeanette Séris (the “Louse”) added yet another layer of meaning that, yes, further humanized the characters (including that of the Louse) - while also fleshing out the interstices of human existence in a very realistic and truthful way.

And this, this truthfulness, the accuracy with which life is reflected and described, might be one of the strengths of the novel, and why it stayed with me – because Mauriac is a real writer, a writer pur sang, who can but write, and whose writing is in the service of presenting the truth of life, in all its ugliness, and also with its shining edges. This everydayness of existence that actually constitutes our existence, but which – surprisingly – is scarcely talked about, at least in the public discourse, or in the cultural products consumed and distributed en masse - or, why not, in what passes for our everyday conversations.

The writer as a worker in the service of the real, of existence as it presents itself, morning, noon, and later toward the end of the day.

But it is hard to write this way, because we are so quick (and keen) to slide into commonplaces, clichés, into superficial exaggerations and haughty shortcuts, into “ideas” and “principles” - instead of “life as it is.” Because it is easier that way.

Since the writer, while writing, is churning out in fact his own existence and being, real writing, Mauriac’s sort of writing, is a painful process - of facing one’s own mortality and frailty and cowardice and dark shades, and all that one and one's existence actually is. 

(Yet this, this is the reality that is, or is not redeemed. More often than not, and perhaps even most of the time, we try to redeem reality by covering it with a sheen or veil of interpretations, phantasms, omissions, forgetting, or wishful thinking. But it is the everyday that is redeemed, and it is there that we need to seek and to find the redemption, and the Redemptor – there, or nowhere.)

Because there is redemption in this novel, and at the end of the story – and there is also hope, and there are also plans for a future. Which might be another reason why it appealed to me.

"Happy Xmas", by Eric Clapton (album)

(2018, Surfdog / Polydor)

This is Eric Clapton’s first and only Christmas-themed studio album; the question then emerges, why this album, and why now? But let’s discuss that later. For now, let’s take a look at the album.

Produced by long-standing partner Simon Climie, together with Clapton himself, the album features a number of “usual players” – i.e. musicians with whom EC has worked and toured many times, and for many years now; these include Doyle Bramhall Jr. on guitar, Nathan East on bass etc. The album also features (on some of the tracks) a choir (backing vocals - by Metro Voices) and a string orchestra (I am not sure whom they contracted for that). Furthermore, it seems that Eric Clapton’s two young daughters also contributed their voices on some of the tracks (maybe on Jingle Bells?).

Since we talked about the presence of a string orchestra, and about Simon Climie, I would note that, at least at times, the album does hearken back (for me at least) to (one of my favorite albums) Pilgrim (1998). But since we are on the topic of style, let’s talk a bit about the overall style of the album at hand. From what I understand, Clapton’s main goal was to take certain songs - standards, i.e. Christmas, jazz, or blues standards - and to inject them with a bluesy inflection (if they did not possess that already, that is); in other words, a bluesy take on more-or-less standards, which is aimed overall (one would assume) at the general public. Indeed, that is - in general – what happens on this album.

As a whole, the album is a pleasant and enjoyable listen. At the same time, what stands out most for me is how it reflects both the wide and open horizons of Clapton’s musical interests and tastes, as well as his overall musical versatility.

Let’s look then at the particular styles "represented" on this album, remembering nonetheless that as a whole the album is indeed unified by that bluesy inflection we mentioned, and that it is (most probably) aimed for general consumption.

Broadly speaking (and categorizing), one groups of songs is represented by what could be called Christmas standards with that bluesy tinge. This group includes actual seasonal standards, such as Away in a Manger, White Christmas, or Silent Night, as well as a song by William Bell and Booker T. Jones, Everyday Will Be Like a Holiday. The latter is also one of the most sing-able songs on the album, with a very catchy refrain.

On the other hand, Silent Night is for me the least satisfying song on the album (maybe together with Jingle Bells, discussed below) –  mostly because in my view this song requires, by its very nature, a light-yet-solemn, dulcet and meditative, dare I say pious approach - and most often a choir, to achieve that. Instead, we have here a steadily-paced version, with a band and backing vocals, over which Clapton ad-libs “Silent night... etc.”. It is still light, and sweet in its own way, but overall it sounds too common, and much less interesting than it could have been (and, as mentioned, less true to the nature of the tune, as I see it).

The second category of songs could be called perhaps mainstream blues-pop. This group includes For Love on Christmas Day, composed by Clapton (with Climie and Dennis Morgan); the feel and lyrics of this song (“dying a little more each day / dying for love on Christmas day”) send us back to the melancholy-blue love songs of the album Pilgrim. A lovely piece, which is also the only original, Clapton-authored song on this particular album.  

I would include in this same group two tracks that are both covers of songs written, published and sung originally by Anthony Hamilton (and that appeared on Hamilton’s 2014 Christmas album) – namely, Home for the Holidays, and It’s Christmas. Interesting choice to remake songs that have been published so recently – but another indicator of how attuned and attentive Clapton is to contemporary music and musicianship, and to younger artists. And these are well-written songs which, one must say, are better produced and sound better on EC's album, than on the original. The style of these songs is closer to contemporary R&B and soul, and reminds me of Clapton’s collaborations with Babyface in the 90s (pointing out, again, at his openness toward this genre of music - soul - as well). Home for the Holidays is also one of the catchiest songs of the album - and the one that will imprint immediately, from the first listen.

The third group of songs leans more toward a pure, raw blues feel. This includes Christmas Tears (by Sonny Thompson and R.C. Wilson), which reminds me a bit of Clapton’s mid-to-late 80s discography – especially of his live albums. It is an enjoyable electric blues piece, which I would happily listen to at a bar. Merry Christmas Baby is, of course, a classic rhythm and blues song (by Lou Baxter and Johnny Moore) - a standard within its genre, which gets here a very bluesy approach, with a distort guitar etc. But perhaps the most “bluesy” song on the album is Lonesome Christmas (from Lloyd Glenn and Lowell Fulson, exponents of the West Coast blues), which is also the most “acoustic”-sounding piece on the album. Another thing that stands out about this song is its piano-intensive instrumentation, (which I greatly enjoyed); this might be explained by the fact that it was arranged by, and features at the piano, well-known Tulsa blues pianist, Walt Richmond (now aged 72).

Another category of songs, which I’d call EDM (yes, electronic dance music!), contains only one entry, namely Jingle Bells. Jingle Bells is probably one of the most challenging songs for a musician - namely, in terms of how it can be made “new and interesting” again. This is why an EDM approach could be just what the doctor ordered; I mean – go wild, if anything! Unfortunately, this dance version is much too tame, and somewhat blandly repetitive. Yes, EDM songs are repetitive in themselves, as genre - being made of programmed beats and chords, and their repetition (broadly speaking); however, this is exactly why all EDM songs are also spiced up by certain rhythm accelerations and drum swells that create a sort of "musical peaks", and that provide them with that exciting "plus factor".

What this version does have as a special feature is the presence (sampled? actual contributors? producers?) of African artists Salif Keita and Mafila Kante. But don’t be fooled – it is not as exciting as it sounds; it’s just that they provide certain African inflections and hooks. Another interesting aspect of the track - although not related to its musical features - is that the song is dedicated to the EDM artist Avicii, who died in 2018.

Overall, and nonetheless, this song does witness to what I was discussing earlier – namely, Clapton’s wide-open interests and wildly diverse (in the best sense) musical endeavors. (I have to mention here the entire album (!) of EDM (or electronic) music that Clapton seemingly published, under a pseudonym (and I guess working again with Climie), sometimes in the 90s or early 2000s; album that I could never find, or find more about, but which I would very much like to have and to hear.)

Another group of songs could be called jazz standards – not in the sense that all these songs are themselves so well known, as to be called "standards;" but because of their “style” - of “standard classical jazz”. Both songs (as well as one included in the “bonus tracks” category below) remind me especially of the Folks Who Live on the Hill track from the Old Sock album. (Unsurprisingly, because that song - "Folks..." - is in fact a jazz standard from Oscar Hammerstein II.) Again an indicator of the EC’s wide range of interests, musically.

This choice of genre also confirms for me a certain image of Clapton, today; that of the country (rural) gentleman, living out his life, at a settled pace, in Surrey, UK. I find this image (which I think is accurate) very comforting and reassuring.

From this album, I would include in this "jazz standards" group the not very Christmas-oriented, but overall holiday-fitting love song, Sentimental Moments (yes, that famous song, by film composer Friedrich Holländer). The other song in this category would be Christmas In My Hometown, which is a cover of a song by classic country artist Sonny James; but which, with the steady, settled pace of the version on this album, fits this “Jack and Jill, the folks who live on a hill” category.

A category perhaps closely related to the above-discussed jazz standards, and including only one song from this album, could be called orchestral pop, represented here by an arrangement of the standard Have Yourself aMerry Little Christmas. In fact, in this arrangement I could easily see it on a movie's soundtrack, perhaps over the final credits of a romantic comedy.

Finally there are – or there aren’t – two bonus tracks. There aren’t, because the US version of the album does not contain them, but they can be found on the European version, and also online. As usually with bonus (unlisted) tracks, less resources were spent on producing them, which means that they are less studio-polished, which – however - can confer them a certain directness and “realness” that is attractive. The first one, ALittle Bit of Christmas Love, is a “Christmas adaptation,” lyrics-wise, of a very upbeat and enjoyable hit by Roscoe Gordon. The second song would be a good fit (as mentioned above) in the "jazz standards" category (if I wouldn’t have included it in this “bonus tracks” category). I am talking about You Always Hurt the One You Love, which is a most enjoyable and pleasant song, originally from Allan Roberts and Doris Fischer.

This being the musical content of the Happy Xmas album (and what a British title!), the question arises, again – why this album? and why now? Was it released because Clapton had something specific to say? or was it because he is bound by contract to release a certain number of albums within a certain number of years (as it often happens); or is it because he wants to release albums periodically, just as such? or was it just a tool to make money? Or is it perhaps a combination of all these reasons and factors? After all, Christmas albums are in general a surefire way to sell albums!

The thing is, I am not really interested in the answer to this question. Moreover, I find frowning over work that an artist produces “in order to live” terribly hypocritical – raising expectations from artists that we ourselves do not meet, in our own professional lives and choices. 

Why would the artist have to starve (I am not talking about EC here - but in general), especially given today’s starvation-prone artistic climate? I am talking here about the overall situation in which real musicians find themselves nowadays, with so few venues and outlets, and so little exposure available. (This, of course, is not applicable to the handful of mass-produced and industrially-promoted pop superstars. No, I am talking about real artists - blues, jazz, classical musicians.) 

Such a dismissive attitude also betrays a deep lack of understanding of the condition in which artists have always found themselves, in fact throughout history (and I am not referring only to musicians). Underlying an artist’s creative peaks and extraordinary achievements (if any) is and was the daily struggle to make a living – to find clients interested in paying for the (always expensive) artistic endeavor, and to obtain a daily source of income. This was true for Michelangelo (and the arduous fight and trials related to obtaining and maintaining the costly commissions, that had to support him for decades, and that allowed for the production of one or two of the masterpieces that we know today), as well as for Haydn (Count Esterhazy’s court musician!): for Mozart, as well as for all those musicians that you hear playing night after night at the Memphis or Nashville bars (some of the few fora actually available nowadays for earning that daily bread). There is a certain romantic view of artists as starving bohemians on the banks of the Seine – which might have been true of the Impressionists, but is not a status that any of us aims for personally – well, not for the duration. In short, the “journeyman” quality of the life of the artist is also part of that specific artistic condition (Journeyman is, by the way, an Clapton album from the 80s). This is why - to make a long story short – I am not tremendously interested, right now, in the question of “why” he made this album.

Although it does remain true... that we inherently expect from music and from art to be “true”; yes, I do expect that, as well. And music that has something to say, through which the artist intends to communicate something personal and genuine, will always occupy an elevated place, and will remain with the listener, long after the album was played - and for years to come. This closeness of art, as a means of human expression, to truth – our desire for that – remain. But, at the same time, to ignore – as said – the “journeyman” dimension of the life of the artist, comes across as both ignorant and arrogant. So let us leave it at that.

What interests me here, in this case, of Clapton’s Happy Xmas album, is (1) that this is an enjoyable album; that (2), if not filled with memorable pieces, it has a few that one listens to, over and over, with pleasure (e.g. Home for the Holidays etc.); and (3), how it reflects Clapton’s musical versatility and multifariousness (which is an aspect of him that I greatly enjoy).

Finally - and as an afterthought, almost - I do appreciate that this album contains both purely "secular" songs (i.e. holiday- and love-themed), and songs that do express and make reference to the “Christ” dimension of Christmas. This aspect is also reflective of a certain wisdom, earthly and spiritual, which I think Clapton has accumulated - and is now living on, in his settled, calm family life, in Surrey. And I like that, as it is not often that one finds (even earthly) wisdom in the realms of stardom (to the contrary, more often than not what one finds behind the glittering doors of fame is misery and tragedy). So it is somehow comforting to find – as I think it is the case – someone who has survived the turmoil and tragedies of the life in the limelight (and EC’s life has had its significant share of these), and was able to settle in a wiser, better life, while remaining an artist.

With such (perhaps) comforting thoughts, a Happy Xmas to all!

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (2)

Continuing thus with our overview of the greatest hits of the famous 80s-and-early-90s band, Happy Mondays (not),

here is Dylan Moran, who for me is the foremost “stand-up comedian” of today. “Stand-up” sounds cheap, and it often is; but Moran (who is Irish) stands out, because he accomplishes this role in a way that is very close to what humor – and humorists - should, in fact, be.

On the one hand, the humorist (or the jester) is the observer that points out that the world is, actually, topsy-turvy. For that, however, he (or she) needs to have the acuity and the courage of perceiving the truth, and of pointing out that what we take for everydayness, for the generally acquiesced normalcy (the king and his clothes) is actually in an absurd and paradoxical conflict with the truth of existence (the king has no clothes). It is this conflict between the reality that we all perceive, of which we are all aware, deep down – and the quotidian compromise and going-along, or downright lie, of the generally accepted, that creates the absurd or the paradox that gives rise to laughter. This ability to see underneath, to look at the deeper layer, is what sets a true humorist apart.

Oh, but how few comedians or humorists are able to do this, and to be this! It takes a certain acuity and existential honesty that, well, not everyone has, or dares to possess.

On the other hand, Moran is also a wordsmith, a literate person, and a literary mind - a writer, in other words. His words, stories, his construction of the “jokes” can be savored as a text that is rich, multifaceted, inventive, witty; this is smart and intellectually enjoyable writing. This is why the term humorist fits him as much as that of (stand-up) comedian; only that he tells these mini-texts in front of an audience.

Here are therefore three excerpts: two from a stand-up routine (or album – Monster), and the other an ultra-short film on (how appropriately) a bitter moment from the life of a writer (regarding the latter, see also Moran's brilliant TV series, Black Books).

"The End of the Affair," by Graham Greene

[audiobook, narrated by Colin Firth]

I found this version of the (audio)book while searching on YouTube for free audiobooks, and stumbling upon audiobook “trailers” (a new genre of videos, for me) to an “award-winning” narration of Graham Greene’s book, The End of the Affair, featuring British actor Colin Firth. I have read the book before, certainly, but this perked up my attention. I was not disappointed; Firth’s reading has depth - his words and the world that he portrays have depth, they “have been lived in”. I would also say that Firth is now at just the right age to read aloud such a text that expresses a certain tiredness with existence, of having hurt and having been hurt – which is what the main character of the book exhibits and does.

It also helps that I have not read the book in a good while, and that I’ve also seen the not-so-good movie adaptation (featuring Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore); all of this contributed to blurring out the details of the plot, and to making me forget the tone of the book. Although I wonder if I’ve really perceived this tone before, when I read the book before - or if I did so fully. If not, that might have to do both with age – my age when I read the book vs. my age now, and also with how this tone is conveyed by Colin Firth’s reading.

And it is this specific tone that most stands out from (listening to) this book. Firth conveys it masterfully: it is weary, most of all; cynical (but not in a cheap way); spiritually bitter and angry; somewhere deep down, at the deepest levels of the self, perhaps almost crying. Of course, this is all “underneath” the text; what we hear and understand at the beginning is only (or mostly) the world-weariness, and the expressed anger of the main character and narrator of the story, Bendrix (what a good choice for his name!). After finishing the story, however, we understand what's been underneath all along, from the beginning; as the story is told in retrospective, by the person who actually lived through it, already in the tone of the beginning of the narration there are the echoes of the end - “of the affair.”

So listening to this narration brought it (the story, the book) to life in a way that I sincerely did not expect. I have been using audiobooks, for the past few years, to fill some of my long drives, and especially when coming back from hiking; yet most of the audiobooks that I have thus consumed have been on the lighter side, because I did not want to “waste” a good (or “real”) book, by listening to it (which I found, and in a way still find, to be a more superficial engagement with the text), before I actually read the text. However, listening to a book that you’ve already read works, works very well. I am referring here, of course, to real books, to real literature; e.g. one should actually "read" Dostoevsky, before “listening” to a rendition of it. (There is something about the encounter with the text, versus that with the sound of it. There are some exceptions, which I will talk about later.) Having thus listened to mostly easier fare, beforehand, (of the John Grisham kind, let’s say), the juxtaposition of that kind of writing with - well, real writing - was, although by no means surprising, still quite revelatory and informative. Yet again, it illustrated the difference between real literature (and superior actor’s craft), on the one hand – and, broadly speaking, tosh or commercial fare, on the other. The difference? - one could call it of existential depth, namely of how close the thing is to life – as lived, in its polysemantic complexity, depth and breadth, and eventual inexpressibility. 

And, speaking of “tone,” I remember that I was somewhat surprised by the tone and “position“ on which the book actually ended; I did not remember him choosing, so to speak, the bleak nothingness, the dull non-committal, the temporal limbo... at the end.

Here is a montage with short interviews and excerpts from reading sessions - to Colin Firth’s audiobook of Graham Greene's The End of the Affair:

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (1)

Of course, the Happy Mondays is the prominent UK indie band of the 80s, early 90s; you might know them from hits such as Step On:

But this post is not about this band - nor will the subsequent posts be about them. Instead, Monday is probably the most appropriate day to share some great hits of comedy, or humor, or satire (these terms not being synonymous) - because, why not? If not now, then when? If not us, then who? If not here, then whence?

***
So, for today, here is a bit from a British panel show. British panel shows, as a genre, are a special beast, and a very Brit-specific one, as well. Whatever the theme, or the gimmick - commenting on the week's news, pop music, or being a simulacrum of a quiz show - they are in fact platforms for comedians, music, film, or TV stars, political figures, and other public persona, to appear in front of the public, on a constant basis, and within a - usually humorous - context. As such, they are an excellent bread-giver to the rich British stand-up scene, whose members would scarcely be able to have such constant national (and international) exposure .

One of the best such panel shows is Would I Lie To You, which is helped both by a strong permanent cast (moderator and "team captains" - Rob Brydon, David Mitchell, and Lee Mack), and by (usually) inspired selections of "team members". Over the years, some of these guests received "legendary" status, whether through specific interventions, or through a consistent high quality participation in the show - which simply means that their contributions are consistently hilarious, refreshing, and surprising (which is important, given the theme of the show).

The gimmick of the show is that there are two teams, and the members of the teams take turns to read out a story about themselves (something that happened to them), while the other team, through questioning, need to figure out whether they are telling a lie, or telling the truth. Of course, the stories (whether true or false) are designed to be outrageous, scarcely credible, or of a dubious nature.

This is one of those legendary interventions, featuring Scottish comedian Kevin Bridges - and is also probably one of the funniest things I've ever seen on TV. Enjoy! and Happy Mondays (the band)!

R. Jelinek Slivovitz (5-year old)

Rudolf Jelinek's plum brandy (aged 5 years) is one of the best plum brandys I've had the pleasure to taste, after what I consider to be the standard for this type of drink - the home-made pálinka from Transylvania (e.g. around Cluj, Satu-Mare etc.)

But what is a "plum brandy"? It is the basic variety of the fruit brandys known under various names in Central and Eastern Europe - as pálinka / palincă in the areas with Hungarian cultural influence, as țuică in some of the Romanian regions, as slivovitz (in various spellings) among the Southern Slavs (countries of former Yugoslavia), and, seemingly, among the Northern Slavs as well (Jelinek is made in Czechia).

Its closest relatives are the various wassers produced within the German cultural sphere (Kirschwasser, Zwetchgenwasser, and so on), and the French eau de vie. Also related - in terms of its taste world - are the Italian grappa, or the South American pisco, although those are made from grapes, while the brandy from Central-Eastern Europe is made from fruits: the traditional plum, but also pear, apricot, cherry etc.

Palinka (let's just use this as a generic name for these fruit brandys) is a clear, transparent drink made from fermented fruit, while the resulting liquid being double distilled. The best palinka is about 70-80 % alcohol (140-160 proof), and tastes and smells like a pure essence of fruit.

the plum variety ("Damson") from which brandy is made

And that is what sets this drink apart from what I would consider to be brutish drinks like vodka or avkavit. The best (or real) palinka is actually a fairly subtle drink, that can be enjoyed both from an olfactive and from a gustatory point of view. Its purpose is not to "get you drunk fast"; it is to be savored for its taste, and not swallowed in quick "shots" for the purpose of abrupt inebriation. At its best, it truly tastes like essence of sublimated plum - it is quite a delight! The best palinka should not be heavy, but should taste rather on the light side; it should not be weak, but should exhibit decisive strength, a punch of true essence. Palinka is best had as an aperitif or a digestive, but it can be had during meals as well - and anytime, with measure, with friends.

This is why I consider Jelinek's 5-year old plum slivovitz to be the closest to the gold standard of the drink. In both smell and taste it gets quite close to the best of them. Its aroma is clear and light plum, very pleasant, with a touch of sweetness, and perhaps just some harshness toward the end. The taste nuances are similar - mostly with sweet notes, a round taste, easily drinkable; but, again, with some harshness or heaviness after ingestion. It is this small after-touch of harshness, or roughness, that makes me rank this Jelinek slivovitz only second to the best of them. Overall, however, it is very pleasant, friendly and easy to drink, and, although with "only" 50% alcohol, it has all the strength and punch needed by the best palinka. Ah! and let us not forget, this Jelinek slivovitz is triple distilled!

Overall, highly recommended.

Ursonate

Listen to Kurt Schwitters performing his Ursonate. This is from the CD lunapark 0,10, which contains several recordings of (mostly avantgarde, or modernist) writers reading from their own works (mostly poems, fortunately). I purchased this CD a few years ago, with the occasion of that exquisitely curated DADA exhibition at the National Gallery in Washington, DC. Some of the artists featured on this CD: Apollinaire, Maiakovski, Joyce, Gertrude Stein (very pleasant surprise), Tzara, Duchamp etc.

The reason I selected Kurt Schwitters' reading is that it gives us a key to the sound poems which, if only read and not heard, are hard to "register". Fortunately, his language is German, thus phonetic, which does make a reading possible - but it still does not transmit the musical element. It is this musical element, and the "sonata" dimension, that are not readily perceptible, if one has not attended any of the readings (in Zurich, in the 1930s). Furthermore, I like how visible the "Ur" dimension becomes, as he performs it; "Ur" means "arch-", as in: primitive, of the origins, ancestral etc.

But, listen:




Here is the sound poem, in written form:

http://www.merzmail.net/ursonatepdf.pdf

Bric-à-brac for November '12

1. 500 Years from the Unveiling of the Sistine Chapel's Ceiling

The Delphic Sibyl (Cappella Sistina, Vatican)

On October 31st, the Eve of All Saints, the world celebrated 500 years from the finishing & first public showing of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It is as much a work of art as one of theology, a worthy emblem of the Renaissance but also a deep immersion in the history of salvation, a Biblical trip into history. The rest of the chapel is itself a celebration of beauty and faith, with walls covered in paintings by Perugino, Botticelli,  Ghirlandaio; when one visits it, the beauty of it all becomes apparent, even if it is the ceiling, and especially the creation scene there, as well the Last Judgment on the western wall, that are known by most.

You are invited therefore to make a virtual visit and delight in a panoramic view of the chapel (use the + and - buttons on the bottom left for the zoom function). To learn more about the paintings and the Sistine Chapel, you can visit this attractively slick multimedia guide, or go even more in depth with a dedicated page on the Web Gallery of Art (one of our favorite resources). And I should not forget to recommend the wonderfully balanced and realistic movie, The Agony and the Ecstasy (based on Irving Stone's homonymous book), which deals quite admirably with the relationship between art, history and faith.

2. Metropolitan Museum Catalogs  - Available for Free Download

Wonderful news from the Met, as they are offering their excellent art catalogs for online viewing or free download (in .pdf format). If you have been collecting them at second-hand shops or by rummaging through book sales, or if you have been purchasing new ones online, here is now a wonderful tool, which intends to gradually cover all their out of print materials. Browse and choose to your liking, from the MetPublications website. [notified by I Require Art]







3. Hibaku no Maria

One of the lesser-known facts about the bombing of Nagasaki is that it managed to destroy, in one coup, the largest Christian community - 22,000 strong - of Japan. What centuries of persecution and, in fact, of extermination policies did not manage to accomplish, the Allies did, in one strike. A powerful memento of this is the Hibaku no Maria (the "bombed" Mary), which is the remaining, scarred head of a sculpture of the Madonna from the destroyed Nagasaki cathedral. Learn more about the story of the statue, the history of Catholics in Nagasaki and in Japan, or just look at some additional images of the Hibaku no Maria, which has since become a powerful symbol of the senselessness of war and a message/messenger of peace (as the current Archbishop of Nagasaki explains in this video). [signaled by St. Peter's List]

Image: St. Peter's List

4. Dresch Quartet

Dresch Mihály, the saxophone- (and assorted reed instruments-) player & his quartet, with one of their typical, Eastern European folk- infused jazz pieces. Green and red lines on a canvas with folk motives.  

[BRIEF] Orhan Pamuk, the Writer

Art is not politics. It might deal with political issues, as they are part of life, and art deals with life; but art - or literature, in this case - is life, not politics. The natural-born writer (of literature), the one who has to write, whether or not anyone will ever read upon his works, for whom writing is his way of existing, is almost naturally attuned to this, with a sensitivity to the complexities of existence that would make it unbearable for him to limit his mind to the narrow furrows of politics. But I am sure that there are many amputee writers as well - self-amputated, sadly - who cut off their writing bones, or wings, to fit some ideology, imposed or impressed on them, in school or in society. But the true writer needs to talk, and to talk about everything, as it is. But more on this some other time.

Source: www.orhanpamuk.net

Right now, an interview with Orhan Pamuk on The Diane Rehm Show. Orhan Pamuk is a true writer, there is not much he can do about it. Some of this tension between the intricacy of existence (which is the life and blood of the writer's work) and the amputated versions of it, characteristic (today) of the "news media" and, certainly, of politics, becomes apparent at various times in this interview, although it does not reach a clashing point  (which I would have expected). Take, for example, Pamuk's mention of his depiction of extremists in some of his early novels, and then the necessary addition from the moderator, "...but fundamentalists in the Middle East..."; two different approaches, two different understandings. One simply talks about a society, as it is, messy - with everyday people, hungry, unshaven, chain-smoking; confused every morning about what they have to do and why they do it; all sorts of deformities in their minds, in their ideas; just like the limps and diseases in their bodies, which they carry daily, so it is in their minds; and yet they are the people, they are you and me. This is the material of the writer - reality, human reality, the all-too-human reality. On the other hand you have whichever ideology or approximation of it, as reflected in the public sphere, in politics, by the media; reality simplified, curated, pickled and packaged; fragments of news that become strong ideas with no correspondence to the everydayness of human life.

However, the interview discussion is good, pleasant, and Pamuk is full of solicitude and sincerely glad to communicate, and Diane Rehm and her show are, as usual, one of the the more valuable things on the radio today (in the U.S.).

Here is the interview - listen:
Orhan Pamuk on the Diane Rehm Show

Something else. When I read it, Orhan Pamuk's Snow strongly reminded me of Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It is interesting, both main characters - and, I dare say, both authors - exhibit the same weakness of being that is characteristic to the postmodern condition; indecision as the late-modern way of living out the (inherently) contemplative nature of the intellectual; indecision and philosophical (-anthropological)  rootlessness.

View from Cihangir (Pamuk's neighborhood)

Another wonderful trait (and a very relatable one, for me) of Orhan Pamuk is his interest in the everyday life  of other societies, but especially his "other" society, namely the past. Thus he established The Museum of Innocence, which is a true physical building, a true museum, yet also a companion piece to his eponymous book, which presents everyday life in the period 1950-2000 (corresponding to Orhan's life-span). It is a museum of everyday life, the way it was; in a way, the museum of our childhood - the porcelain bibelots (knickknacks), the radio dad listened to, the yearly brought out Christmas ornaments, the wrappers and brands, the cars... "Read all about it!" - here.

He also wrote Istanbul: Memories and the City, an "evocation" of a lived place, one that he has lived in and through (and his attraction to cities is also very germane to me). And another novel, My Name Is Red, about life and art in the Ottoman Empire of (very) old - an issue that still continues to interest him, as he says in the interview: how was life, real life, then?

Oh, and, of course, one has to - just has to! -  mention that he won the Noble Prize for literature a few years ago... no, that is truly not that important. But I invite you to listen to the interview, you will enjoy it.

The Ages of Man

I always felt that every age has its own atmosphere, its own "air." Correspondingly, there are ages that feel akin, and others that repulse me.

I have no definite sense of Greek antiquity. Mostly, it leaves me cold. It seems mostly cold. Dead, even - in the way the eyes of its sculptures look dead, with the original paint peeled of. Their problems, dilemmas, drives, reasons, values and orientations - it all seems alien. The city-state and its arrangements, the physicality / muscularity of its culture, its images of the "other world" (Hades, the world of shadows, Charon crossing with the boat)... It is not crepuscular, but it is a world of twilight and savagery.

The Roman period inclines even more towards worldly "virtues" - honor and debauchery, war and commerce, and what looks like a boring, bourgeois everyday life.

Skipping abruptly to the end of Renaissance and then to the Enlightenment. Here the centuries start acquiring their own distinct identity (to my affective memory). The 1500s might be a turning point, as after 1600 it all becomes - slowly, surely, unidirectionally - tired and emptied of truth.

The seventeenth century has too many elegant clothes. The English routines of tea and church start being only about tea; a slow, gradual transformation, which achieves its culmination in our day (just visit an Anglican place). The philosophers of the 17th are already too far removed from the essence of things, to be able to say anything worth dusting off. Plastic arts - painting, sculpture - move strongly towards academism; the freshness of the discoveries of the preceding centuries is gone; we have acquired the techniques, we improve on them, but we immerse ourselves only in touches and dabs of paint, here, and there, and here again. The Dutch lose all opening to the cosmos and to the skies, and succumb into domesticity. Interiors, only interiors - little light, not much air, too much furniture.

The eighteenth century goes on in the same manner, just more so. The flame becomes almost extinguished.  We spend our time in this-worldliness, a sophisticated yet utterly vain pastime (all is vanity). And yet this is supposed to be the Enlightenment, but what I see are dimming lights. Or, rather, homes lit by candles, and there is nobody on the streets; everybody is inside, slightly afraid of living out existence. An oppressive existence.

Jan Davidsz De Heem: A Table of Desserts (1640)

The least appealing century, the nineteenth. There is almost nothing to which I can relate, except for the last twenty to twenty-five years - and just because they lead to something else. Everything seems so empty; it passes with a bang, and bangs are gone as fast as all sounds are, even the loud ones. Sounds are not remembered, either - not in the collective memory.

The turn of the century brings again exciting, burning times; for me, Vienna, symbolist poetry; it all becomes modern, but in a conflicted, adult way. Sentences become shorter, paint on the canvas braver, yet differently than before. It starts becoming my/our time.

But before going into the twentieth, let us make that short excursion to the middle ages. Glowing with embers, simple huts of men, really living and really dying. It is as if the following centuries (17th-19th) have accumulated so much civilizational ballast, so much commentary, that lives were lived afterward in what we ourselves made up, and not in the dust and water (and passion) of reality. (Hobbes and Locke and Rousseau and their states of nature, and their inferences from it - what a cosmic-sized yawn!)

Civilization is commentary on existence; given our imaginative capacities, it can walk a close line along reality, or get farther and farther removed from it. Our openness to the truth of what there is (out there and in us) is reflected in how we live our daily life. Do we draw the curtains, do we live inside, or do we step outside, fearful and hopeful at the same time - fears as visceral as the hope for the beatific vision is strong.

The Middle Ages were real, mud as well as stone; Romanesque architecture expresses it best: simple, ascetic, yet more alive than any other style. Of course, early Middle Ages were less exciting - too much darkness, too much awakening, before we dared to grab a hold of the hand that builds, of the thinking mind, before we dared to confront the world and to integrate it into our this-world/ that-world complex.

Renaissance is like a heightened Middle Ages; all those early tendencies, discoveries of the Middle Ages, like young, strong plants, giving their first buds and daring flowers during the Renaissance; still fresh, still alive, still hopeful, not yet fallen into the stuffy domesticity of garden bushes.

Back to the beginning of the twentieth century.. what a century of horror to follow! And yet, very much alive; if not on the surface, then immediately beneath; not in the governing forces, but in the resistance. True life did not happen at the surface; the surface was terrible. Example of touches and swaths of living fire: in France, from Claudel to Bernanos, from Maritain to Frossard; or the underground currents suddenly coming back to the surface as fresh, new sources, in Britain - from Chesterton to Tolkien to Waugh. Also, civilization pure and simple - for example, an urban culture that has shed the sooth and grime of early Industrialization. Jazz!

The short century. It started in 1918, which signaled the end of classical civilization (as embodied in classical Europe) with a grand war of nations and nationalisms, of strong monarchs and personal alliances. Post-1918 we wake up to find that the world has been disenchanted - which, however, does not stop us from making up our own realities as we go (fantasy wars & al.). We continue to lose in the plastic arts and in the world of sounds; by now, there seems to be little left to say, and equally little to de-compose, destruct, smash through; but the middle of the century is just in the middle of it, so still alive with it. A horrific century of oppressive rules that tried to change human nature - in a natural follow-up to the 17th and 18th and their making up of reality as we go, and of the 19th with the freeing of man to become the abject subject of other men and of their ideas. The twentieth century, which started in 1918, ends in 1989, by which time cold wars of many types lose their grounds of existence. Idle men will try to come up with new reasons for new wars, hot or languid.

But the twentieth century is too close for me to be able to form any precise impression of its nature, of its air; it is very much alive, since I was living it.

No clear color, besides confusion, to the still very young twenty-first century.

Willem de Kooning  - Easter Monday (1955–56)

[Brief] J.R.R. Tolkien's Voice & The Hobbit

The charming world of the shire and the dangerous outside world - why does this juxtaposition attract us so?

...

This entire little post is motivated by stumbling upon an audio material from the BBC, which talks about the origins of The Hobbit and about J.R.R. Tolkien, and contains fragments from interviews with Tolkien himself and with a few other relevant characters. I find this audio material as warm as an evening spent in the shire, drinking beer and chatting by the fire.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/player/p00y24d0

A few more correlated pieces of information:

Here is how Tolkien imagined (and drew) the picture of Bilbo Baggins' home.

Source: The Guardian

By the way, the website of The Tolkien Society has a good amount of information on Tolkien and on his writings (and you can find further information about The Inklings here).

Finally, the trailer for the upcoming movie based on the book, from the same Peter Jackson who made the superlative The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy.

"The Hippopotamus," from T.S. Eliot (1920)

The broad-backed hippopotamus

Rests on his belly in the mud;

Although he seems so firm to us

He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,

Susceptible to nervous shock;

While the True Church can never fail

For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err

In compassing material ends,

While the True Church need never stir

To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach

The mango on the mango-tree;

But fruits of pomegranate and peach

Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice

Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,

But every week we hear rejoice

The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day

Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;

God works in a mysterious way--

The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing

Ascending from the damp savannas,

And quiring angels round him sing

The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean

And him shall heavenly arms enfold,

Among the saints he shall be seen

Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,

By all the martyr'd virgins kist,

While the True Church remains below

Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

The Hippopotamus,
by T.S. Eliot (1920)

...

Source: www.enchantedlearning.com

This is from a volume of Eliot verse that I have been carrying with me for weeks, now: The Waste Land, Prufrock and Other Poems (Dover Thrift Editions). With this, I have returned to an old, old habit, of always having a small book of poems in my briefcase - just in case. Which also brings to mind a friend's book of memoirs (as yet unpublished), in which he mentions his father's admonition, that he should always carry a book with him; that way, no minute will go to waste, whether waiting in the doctor's office or travelling on the metro. Wise advice.

The Family Is Where Culture Lives

Below are a few videos from a short series featuring families of folk dancers. They illustrate how tradition is perpetuated in and through the family. Indeed, it is the family that perpetuates culture; it is the place where culture is alive, where its fire burns its everyday, slow flame.

The daily habits of cleaning and washing,...

Mother
by József Attila

Source: Hagyomány Háló

For a week now, again and again,
Thoughts of my mother have racked my brain.
Gripping a basket of washing fast,
On, and up to the attic she passed.

And I was frank and released my feeling
In stamps and yells to bring down the ceiling.
Let someone else have the bulging jackets,
Let her take me with her up to the attic.

She just, giving me no look or thrashing,
Went on, and in silence spread out the washing,
And the kneaded clothes, rustling brightly,
Were twisting and billowing up lightly.

I should not have cried but it's too late for this.
Now I can see what a giant she is.
Across the sky her grey hair flickers through;
In the sky's waters she is dissolving blue.

(1934) Translated by Vernon Watkins

... and the Sunday dinner with its courses, its mainstays and desserts; the rhythm of the days, which shapes the child's world. Saturday is Saturday, Sunday is Sunday. Cleaning happens when? The songs we hear, the ones we sing; the prayers we say; the vacations we take; the values we value. The world has an order, time has a structure, the up is up, the down is down - and this order is beauty.

30th National DanceHouse Festival & Fair (April 2011, Budapest)

Father and daughter, dancing.

Mother, father, and their two small boys.

Mother, father and daughter.

Three generations.

[BRIEF] I Hear Voices: Operalia 2011

Operalia is the voice competition founded in 1993 by Placido Domingo, which is organized every year in a different city. The 2011 competition was held in Moscow. In a public space in which singing competitions have become very popular, in almost all the countries of the world with a functioning TV market, from Albania to the US, it is refreshing to watch a competition where voice does indeed matter most. Most, but not completely - we are human beings, and Domingo's or Juan Diego Florez' or  Rolando Villazon's relative good looks certainly contributed to their star status - and we have not even begun talking about the many "divas" of the world of opera. However, it is a relief to see - or, rather, hear - a competition where the sheer quality of the voice and of technique matter most.    

What is it about singing competitions that catches our attention? One of the things is the music: we want to hear good music, to be entertained. Second, it is the competition as such - just like in sports, once you start getting acquainted with an athlete or a team, usually by virtue of the fact that they represent your local or national colors, you also become invested in the competition. From this point of view, the pop music competitions take the cake: they are superb at creating mini-background stories, which are truly barebones and aim the lowest common denominator (underdog stories, hardship stories), but also give a certain depth to the profile of the contestant, creating a person with whom we can associate emotionally, and for whom we can start rooting. This is why the initial selection phase is so crucial in these shows: besides being entertaining, through the sprinkling in of auditions disasters and of weird characters, this part of the show also establishes that essential initial relationship between viewer and competitor(s). This happens in shows such as X-Factor, Idol, or The Voice - shows created in specific countries (Netherlands, UK), but that have spread around the world. It also happens in the yearly Eurovision contests, but there the mechanism is that of national allegiance, since each competitor represents a country, and the public of each country gets to know them during the national phase of the selection.

In the video below one can see how the initial story and the initial emotional bond are created, during the auditions stage (of the X-Factor):

Of the contests listed above, The Voice gets closest - as the name indicates - to a focus on vocal quality as such, while American Idol is mostly a popularity contest, especially towards the later stages of the competition (and frustratingly so). In fact, The Voice (US version) is also refreshing because the very atmosphere of the show is much more amicable, and thus much more appealing, than the often abrasive Idol or X-Factor.

There is no use debating the fact that all these shows deal in pop music, which means that the voices sought and presented are the ones appropriate for that specific genre of music. Furthermore, even The Voice, where the initial selection is through a blind audition (a nice twist!), so that the judges (who are themselves pop artists) do not get to see the singers until they actually choose them, based on hearing - even this competition, then, is not and can not be entirely about "the voice." Or, more accurately, the pop genre itself is not about "voice" - as in, "a cultivated, fully developed voice," but about character and expressiveness within the expectations, conventions and the sonorous universe of the specific subgenre. We are talking about natural differences between various genres of music.

Take, for example, the difference between Andrea Bocelli and a true opera singer. Bocelli has a very pleasant voice, especially for traditional popular Italian music (like the canzoni napoletani) or for certain arias; but he is not an opera singer, which becomes evident in live performances with peers from the world of opera. He could be considered a cross-over artist, along the lines of what Josh Groban does so well. (The very talented Josh Groban, who possesses a very pleasant voice that he has cultivated with attention and through hard work.) But yes, each genre requires a different type of voice, and nobody would expect the beautifully crafted voice of an opera singer to fit in a genre that requires the cracked, world-weary sound of a bluesman (although unfortunate experiments in this sense have been made at the Pavarotti & Friends concerts, to give one example). Usually none of the singers comes out well from such experiments, unless a cross-over (bridge) is found where they can both be accommodated.

Different voices, different genres - not all equal...

Let us look, for example, at the winner of The Voice, Javier Colon; he has a truly exquisite, masterfully controlled voice, which is clearly at the top of his genre. A pleasure to listen:

The second-placed contestant in The Voice 2011, Dia Frampton, did not stand out with her vocal abilities as such. Yet she is a (multilaterally) talented young woman: composer, arranger etc., and the possessor of a voice with plenty of individuality. Here is, as an example, her very creative and quite unexpected adaptation of an otherwise banal rap song:

The next video, featuring Groban and Domingo, is not an example of an unfortunate pairing. The genre is cross-over, and the voices are top quality, each in their own field. Yet one can certainly notice the difference between these voices - of quality, depth, amplitude, control etc.

But we started by talking about Operalia, a competition with and about exquisite voices, with and about singing brought to the very highest levels of quality. Of course, this all happens within a genre that demands that quality, and a certain type of voice. Here is a video featuring one of the most impressive singers from Operalia 2011, Jaesig Lee, in a performance filmed two years earlier. (Before any accusations of "cheating" are brought up, regarding the choice of an aria, let me just say that this is one of the very few videos of him available on the Internet... as yet.)

I warmly recommend watching the entire final (concert) of Operalia 2011, available (for free viewing) here at medici.tv. You will not regret this time spent in the company of beauty.  (One more note: Jaesig Lee's outstanding, emotion-filled performance is at 00:53:13.)

Good audition!

GK Chesterton

A good article by Jay Parini about Chesterton in... The Chronicle of Higher Education. This mainstream attention to GKC might be due to the publication of a new major biography, by Ian Ker, followed by featured articles in the Times Literary Supplement and, I suppose, other outlets of the literary world. This is all good news. Chesterton is a delight to read, especially when he is at his best, which I would consider to be in Heretics and in  Orthodoxy (both are available online, for free - if you follow these links). But it would be mightily unfair to reduce the mighty Chesterton to only these two gems, and not mention his brilliant book on Thomas Aquinas, about which the eminent Tomist scholar Etienne Gilson said decades later,

I consider it as being without possible comparison the best book ever written on St. Thomas. Nothing short of genius can account for such an achievement. Everybody will no doubt admit that it is a "clever" book, but the few readers who have spent twenty or thirty years in studying St. Thomas Aquinas, and who, perhaps, have themselves published two or three volumes on the subject, cannot fail to perceive that the so-called "wit" of Chesterton has put their scholarship to shame. [source]

A typical anecdote about GKC is that he never actually read the Summa from cover to cover, but only browsed through it; but that was enough, because he understood it, in the deeper meaning of the word; he understood it, because his mind worked like Aquinas' - it understood the whole of existence, and how all things fit within it.

And let us not ignore the superb detective stories featuring Father Brown - stories that are both entertaining and philosophical (a common-sense philosophy, accessible to any and all, by virtue of existing).  Or my favorite novel from him, The Flying Inn; or the famous and avant-la-lettre surrealist The Man Who Was Thursday.

Returning to the Chronicle piece, what is interesting about it is that it reveals, inadvertently, some of the academic biases of the moment; the author has to couch his praises in terms that we could consider, with a bit of effort and exaggeration, Marxist or postmodernist. Thus, he needs to underline that GKS stood up for the poor - against the rich, certainly; that he "questioned facts and reality" - how Postmodern! This, in order to assuage the readers' possible, automaton-like reactions to the perceived "conservatism" of Chesterton.

It is sad, sad indeed, that readers and writers can not think outside these ideological boxes dominating our times - and certainly the world of letters, and the academia. Terms that have little meaning, of course, and that fail to account for reality. Terms that are bound by space and time - the understanding of these terms in America is not the same as their meaning in Europe, let alone Africa or Asia; these terms are all part of a tiny little stretch of time in history, namely the post- industrial revolution age, and would make little sense outside of it (was Aristotle a conservative? a liberal? but how about Augustine? ... how silly).

The good news is that Chesterton is not reducible to these puny terms (of derision, I would say). Not even politically per se. As Parini mentions, even politically Chesterton stood for something else that the two twin embodiments of modern materialism, namely socialism and capitalism. He is, after all, one of the "founding fathers" of Distributism, which is a view of society and economy that is rooted in the recognition of the dignity and freedom of the individual, and of the intrinsic value of community and of localism. But by now I am starting (???) to sound dry and empty, so I will leave it at that, about politics.        

What is more important is that Chesterton is not the author of, but the expression of, something greater - a view of the universe and of the human being inhabiting it that is comprehensive, common-sense and, briefly put, true. A view that is realistic and idealistic at the same time - but a healthy idealism, the realistic idealism of fairy tales, not that of dreams and nightmares (as exemplified in Marxism, Fascism, and all the other ideologies). Fairy tales teach us essential truths about the human condition  (there is much death and suffering in them; the hero fights evil, in fairy tales), are optimistic, and, most of all, are filled with wonder - just like existence! Existence is filled with wonder, and this child-like (and not childish!) wonder is the deep root of Chesterton's optimistic, yet at the same time thoroughly realistic, view of human existence.

A joy to read, an even greater joy to discover GK Chesterton.

...

Finally, here is a good list of GKC works available on the web (yes, gratis).