How a book is loved

You can tell a book is loved, when it has been

highlighted
underlined
annotated
scribbled all over.

The spine is a bit worn, the pages well-thumbed.


That is how you know a book is much loved, and its words are much valued.

Reflections on "Preaching the Whole Bible as Christian Scripture" by Graeme Goldsworthy

TL:DR version - read last 3 paragraphs.

Goldsworthy starts his book with an anecdote. In Sunday school, a child was asked what is gray and furry and lives in eucalyptus trees. Puzzled, the student replied “I know the answer is Jesus, but it sounds like a koala!”

Though amusing, the anecdote does raise a good question - what does it mean when Christians say “Jesus is always the answer”?

While the pithy slogan sounds a little silly, there is profound truth undergirding it. The person of Jesus is absolutely central to the message and meaning of Christianity. Although we know that in our heads, we need only examine the habits of our instinctively narcissistic selves to see that we don’t always act that way – even in our “Christian” practices.

This attitude pours over into the way we read our Bible as well. Do we read it only to find “inspiration” for ourselves? Or do we read it to understand God more? The way we read and draw out meaning from Scripture points to how we view our relationship with God.

Goldsworthy is at pains to illustrate how reading ourselves into the Bible is an unhelpful enterprise. Even if we read in it “instructions” to be a good Christian, we very often are inclined to put ourselves as the centre and cut Jesus out of the picture. As Goldsworthy writes:

“It is clear from the New Testament that the ethical example of Christ is secondary to and dependent upon the primary and unique work of Christ for us. Yet this does not seem to be clear to many when it comes to the Old Testament. The message of the Old Testament is too easily reduced to the imitation of godly example and the avoidance of the ungodly example.”

As an antidote, it is crucial to see the gospel (i.e. Jesus’ death and resurrection for our salvation) as the essence of the Bible, even in the Old Testament. Goldsworthy continues:

“At the heart of this saving work is not the ethical teachings of Jesus, but his obedient life and death, his glorious resurrection and his ascension to the right hand of God on high.”

For Goldsworthy, if we are to take the Bible seriously, there are basic principles on how the Bible should be viewed and read, and he addresses them in the chapters of the first part of his book:

1. The Centrality of the Gospel
2. What is the Bible?
3. What is Biblical Theology?
4. What is preaching?
5. Was Jesus a Biblical Theologian?
6. What kind of unity does the Bible have?
7.  How does the Gospel Function in the Bible?
8. What is the structure of Biblical Revelation
9. Can I preach a Christian sermon without mentioning Jesus?

Goldsworthy proposes that everyone is an interpreter of the Bible, which, even in a postmodern world, is a claim that no one would refute. But despite what postmodernism asserts (haha), there is correct interpretation and there is wrong interpretation. For someone to be a good interpreter of the Bible, he / she should be a Biblical theologian.

Biblical Theology, is a very loaded term, and the chapter on it, given Goldsworthy relatively academic style, can be bewildering for a layperson. Basically however, according to Goldsworthy, Biblical Theology upholds that all Scripture should be read as one unity, rather than seen as separate chunks that do not interrelate. It is seeing each narrative / passage in the Bible as contributing to one greater narrative – that of the redemption history that God achieves through Christ alone.

Even if we are convinced that all Scripture is the one story about Christ, resolving to know nothing but Christ crucified is ironically quite a tricky undertaking. Goldsworthy shows that there are themes that develop consistently across Scripture, and there are certain motifs that are specific only to that time and context. Therefore, it is important to take into account the rich variety of literary genres, the historical development across the books, and the progressive revelation of the redemption story. It is important to develop a sensitivity in distinguishing between elements of continuity and discontinuity.

Thus, there is a tension in the way we interpret Scripture: to see the Bible narrative as one unity, but to also recognise the variety of its different books. But Goldsworthy doesn’t leave us without guidance on how to handle this tension. He divides the Bible into three very broad epochs:

• Type (Historical epoch: creation to Israel’s decline)
• Type confirmed (Prophetic eschatology: prophecies of kingdom to come)
• Antitype (New Testament fulfilment: Jesus Christ and the church)

These are broad divisions, but it gives some structure in the way we can navigate the timeline of the Bible. He then dedicates the second half of the book to illustrating how different genres link to Christ: 

• Historical narrative texts
• Old Testament Laws
• Old Testament Prophets
• Wisdom literature
• Psalms
• Apocalyptic texts
• Gospels
• Acts and Epistles

Pulling out specific passages for each genre, he works out both the unique themes of that passage and how it would appropriately find its fulfilment in Christ.

Personally, although the book can be academic in its tone, there is much to gain from reading it, even for the layperson. The gist of it is that we cannot put ourselves in the shoes of the original readers without first seeing how the text finds its significance in Jesus’ death and resurrection. My biggest takeaway is understanding that even in the epistles, which are closest to our contemporary context, there still needs to be care in the way we relate the apostles’ writings to our current situation. Certain adjustments still need to be made.

Goldsworthy belabours the necessity of reading Scripture in a Christ-centred way, but not because of pedanticism. It’s because the centrality of the gospel is essential for us to know God through Christ. It’s because it does spell out different implications in the way we live our lives as Christians than if we had merely lifted the passage out of its context.

Some may balk at the idea of having to make the connection to Jesus every time they read a Bible passage. Certainly I was more than a little annoyed when I was told this too. “It is too tedious!”, “Repetition would bore people!”, “There is no need!” may be some of the objections. But tediousness is no excuse for laziness, nor is repetition for complacency. And maybe we could say that there is no need to link the text to Jesus – if it weren’t for the fact that Jesus himself said that all Scripture points to him (Luke 24: 44-45).

As Goldsworthy writes,

“It would not appear that Paul’s determination to know nothing among his hearers but Christ and him crucified led him into the trap of predictability. Of course, if by predictability we mean that people will come to expect every sermon to expound something of the glories of Christ, then let us by all means be predictable! Since there are inexhaustible riches in Christ, and the implication of these for our Christian experience are endless, I doubt very much that there is any need for a preacher to be boring and repetitive.”

Book Review: "For Whom the Bell Tolls"

Contrary to the John Donne sonnet from which its title was taken, the novel For Whom the Bell Tolls reflects not the common adage for which the poem was famous - “No man is an island” - but it instead speaks of the total isolation that man faces in the midst of war.

The poem that Hemingway references aligns with the novel’s themes in that it echoes the universal tragedy that occurs after a loss of a life. There is a common sadness, a common grief that is to be shared when even one individual suffers death and pain. But interestingly, instead of badgering the readers with platitudes about the horrors of war, Hemingway also pulls at the tension between the tragedy of war and its necessity. His tone remains one of neutrality: it is horrible, it wounds and hurts men, bringing out the worst in them; yet it is necessary for them to fight.

There is a kind of putting away of self in taking up a cause, a forgetting of one’s own interests for the sake and advancement of that cause. “[War] gave you a part in something that you could believe in wholly and completely and in which you felt an absolute brotherhood with the others who were engaged in it. It was something that you had never known before but that you had experienced now and you gave such importance to it and the reasons for it that your own death seemed of complete unimportance only a thin to be avoided because it would interfere with the performance of your duty.” As much as crises bring out the worst in men, it gave them reason and opportunity to rally behind something, to throw their entire energies into that purpose.

But it would be wise to remember that this line is part of Robert Jordan’s thought processes, one of his many veering thoughts that attempt to rationalise and make sense of the circumstances he’s in. The notion that crises brings about an “absolute brotherhood” is uncomfortably questioned. Jordan is the only American in the small band of guerrillas that has been tasked to bomb the bridge. While he seems to make connections with the group, at the end as it was at the beginning, he is alone. The refrain “His mind was very good company” which occurs throughout the book points to his solitude.

The book’s blurb according to my edition (Arrow Books, 1994) advertises the story as a romance, highlighting the relationship between Jordan and Maria. But after reading it, I was not much compelled by Robert Jordan and Maria’s relationship. It was beautiful in some sense, but it did not have the emotional weight I expected it to have based on the blurb.

Jordan’s soliloquys in trying to drown out his self-interest and trying to concoct some semblance of rationality in the war were I think the thrust of the book. And it culminates in the actual execution of the bomb operation. It was duly suspenseful and thrilling, which makes slugging through the first 200 pages worthwhile. But what was interesting was how although the operation itself needed to be orchestrated harmoniously by a few key players, the mission played out in silos. There were many instances of the aloneness of the individuals in war: the lone messenger delivering the message to the General, the guerrilla member Pablo betraying and sabotaging the operation, Robert Jordan having to coldly calculate and dissect each person’s loyalties and capabilities.

Even when they are supposedly on the same side, people are still moving in their own orbits instead of really moving towards one common direction. Thus ironically, for a book whose opening poem was a bold declaration that “no man is an island”, the novel also rings aloud with the isolation in which men insulate themselves during times of crises. 

The Fault in our Characters

Characters were usually what makes a book interesting for me. I can appreciate stories with deeply intricate plotlines and thought-provoking ideas, but the stories that I love -  the stories that I keep close to my heart, that stirs my spirit and leaves me feeling melancholic when I turn that last page - are often stories with compelling characters I can sympathise with. Jem from To Kill a Mockingbird, Rudy from The Book Thief, Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities, just to name a few.

But there is a danger of liking the book solely for its characters. We get so attached to them, that we are blinded to the bigger picture.  Like in real life, when you are too taken with someone, there is a tendency to overlook their flaws. And flaws are important, because they point to some of the important themes the author is working hard to flesh out.

One of my biggest pet peeves, literary interpretation-wise, is when Romeo and Juliet is said to be the synonym of an epic romance. I do think that Shakespeare is trying to showcase the beauty and ecstasy of falling in love, and the tragedy of when it all falls apart. But he was also depicting the impulsiveness of love, how rash and unthinking and foolish we are when we are infatuated. Is it any coincidence that Juliet's young age was specifically mentioned? Or that Romeo was mooning over Rosalind just before he fell for Juliet?

[Side note: I think Franco Zeffirelli produced the most faithful R&J film; the actors were young and they portrayed characters that were impetuous in proceeding with their newfound love. Yet, there was something endearing about it, something that reminds the viewers of the rush and sting of one's first love].

There is King Lear too. Yes the audience is meant to sympathise with him. Who can watch Lear grieving over Cordelia without shedding tears of commiseration? But Lear was by no means a guilt-free character. He was the one who banished Cordelia in a petulant tantrum, despite having it carefully arranged that she was to (rightly) inherit the best portion of his land. More than that, while people are outraged at Goneril and Regan's cruelty, can anyone say the fault is entirely theirs when Lear refused to relinquish control even though he had already handed over his kingdom to his daughters? [An excellent essay of this was written by George Orwell]

The story that I personally feel is the most misinterpreted is Wuthering Heights. All of the films focus on Cathy and Heathcliff, with most of them ending the story after Cathy senior dies. But the romance of Hareton and Cathy is of equal importance, I feel, as a foil to Heathcliff and Cathy's love. Heathcliff and Cathy's love is fascinating and intriguing, but one watches it with a mixture of repulsion and morbid curiosity: it was not to be admired or emulated. In fact, Nellie, the central narrator of the tale, was repulsed by the amount of self-centredness, loathing, and obsessiveness that govern the relationship. And in the end, their toxic relationship exploded, bringing misery and pain to everyone around them. But Cathy and Hareton were an example of how loving someone means encouraging one another, and forgiving past wrongs. It was tamer, and I suppose, less dramatic than Heathcliff and Cathy's tumultuous relationship, but it was significant enough to be dedicated a half-book worth of writing by Bronte.

Characters that fascinate us, that we sympathise with, that we even identify with, are not necessarily characters to be emulated. When we get so caught up with a character's story, we overlook the big message the author is trying to tell us.



We sometimes do that with the Bible as well. We get shocked when so-called "godly" people marry multiple wives, when they commit murder, when they get drunk and appear naked in front of their children. But while the Bible shows how God used these men for His greater purposes, their flaws and faults and shortcomings are important because it ultimately points to the fact that humans are sinners, and we have such a huge, huge need for grace.

It is tempting to read the Bible and say "Clearly, God wanted me to be more like these people, so what can I do to follow their example?" When we do that, we lose the plot of the bigger picture. We lose the plot that there's someone bigger, more perfect, more important to look out for. When we are hung up with Heathcliff and Cathy, we forget Hareton and Cathy Jr who are infinitely better and nobler than Heathcliff.

So with the Bible. If we focus our attention on wanting to be like Jonah, or Abraham, or XYZ, we forget Christ who became man to deal with our sins by dying on the tree, and who defeated death by being raised to life.

Go Set a Watchman

SPOILERS ahead. 

Sequels are usually not good. Sometimes it’s because it’s merely a lazy rehashing of the original. At other times, it tries to do something new and creative that fails to meld perfectly with the original plot. Most often than not, though, sequels are doomed from the very start because the audience expects – even demands – for the movie to possess all the elements of the first story, and wants these elements to surprise and astonish them anew.

When it was announced that Go Set a Watchman would be published as the sequel to Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, I was wary more than I was excited. It had been decades since Lee published her writing and she had said before that she would not be releasing any more novels after Mockingbird 

There had been huge controversy over the novel. Prior to this, Lee had not made known any plans to publish he novels. Many critics had noted that the announcement came a mere two months after the death of Lee sister and caretaker, Alice. The circumstances seem to point to Lee having been taken advantage of by lawyers, literary agents, and publishers.

Yet, putting aside the questionable publication of the novel, the novel sold like hotcakes. People were excited by the prospect of reading the sequel to a beloved classic.

Some, if not most, came out feeling disappointed.

I’ve read some of the reviews and opinions of the book, and having read the summary, I knew to expect the revelation of “another side” of Atticus Finch. A Wide Sargasso Sea-esque twist that tramples upon the reader’s original opinion of his character.

I was dreading it. I was dreading it not so much at having to witness dirt being thrown at a much adored character, but more so because I was worried that it would not be handled delicately. That it would be exaggerated. Sensationalised. And quite frankly, lame. I’ve not been impressed with Dumbledore’s “dark past”, just because the way he talked, the way he acted – his motives, his actions, really jar with what we know of him throughout the books. And I think it was even worse when he was explaining his backstory. It’s fine if he’s done a complete U-turn in his life, but Dumbledore just acted so strangely after the big reveal.

So I was readying myself for a “transformation” or a “retelling” of Atticus a la Dumbledore.

But as I read the novel, (admittedly I bought the book despite the controversy), I was pleasantly surprised. Maybe I had low expectations of the book in the first place, but I’m glad to say that the book was gripping and had me devouring its narrative quickly.

There are flaws in the novel, however. No doubt about that. For one, the cast of sparkling, diverse characters in the original is not there. We  have a few interesting characters by way of Uncle Jack and Henry Clinton, but even they were not explored in-depth for us to have insight into their inner lives. Jem, my favourite character from the original, is announced to have been dead on page 13. It was hard for me to accept.

The writing, crisp and smooth in the original, is uneven here. There are passages that are downright clever. But there was a lack of clear structuring, a lack of pruning. There were times when Lee used more Modernist techniques like stream-of-consciousness, or even pastiche by weaving in little ditties or hymns. But these seem really out of place with the rest of the novel.

There can be a lack of subtlety in the language as well. Everything seems to be right on the surface. While in the original – poignancy was overlaid with a host of other emotions, this novel can at certain points seem like a hysterical rant.

Yet despite its technical failings, the novel could have potentially been a great artistic masterpiece simply because the ideas and complicated tensions it raises are in truth much richer than that of the original. Writer Ursula Le Guin notes that Lee explores a lot of questions the original evades. In TKAM, right was right and wrong was wrong. Atticus was the hero that every reader was rooting for, and it was easy for us to pledge our allegiance to him.

But what I love about this novel is not that we are given new “horrifying insight” into Atticus. Jean Louis had her perception of Atticus crumble, as do ours. But I thought Lee handled this shift brilliantly. Atticus did not pull a 180-degree turn, he didn’t have a dark history that we stumble upon, he wasn’t secretly racist all this while.

Atticus wasn’t a Dumbledore. He didn’t suddenly act strangely after the big reveal. He was still him, everything he says or does is in keeping with the character we know.

In the novel, Jean Louise becomes disillusioned when she discovers her father, who had defended a black man who was falsely accused of rape, is fighting against a Supreme Court’s decision to declare state laws establishing segregation as unconstitutional.

Yet the “moral case” here is less straightforward. I don’t personally agree with Uncle Jack’s assertion that “every man’s watchman” is his own conscience or that there is no such thing as a “collective conscious”. In short, I don’t think that ethics and values are relative or subjective. But I think that Lee was fleshing out the implications of imposing moral values upon people who live by a different ethical coda.

There are those who are utterly sickened by the thought that Atticus would oppose the Supreme Court’s decision, or the efforts of the NAACP, the organisation that serves to advance the education and rights of African-Americans. Yet Atticus challenges the normative views by raising interesting questions. Can what the Supreme Court decrees be imposed upon counties in the South – whose sociological fabric is much different from that of its northern neighbours? Does the NAACP care about how to systematically bring about education and welfare of the blacks in the South, or are they merely concerned with giving unlimited democratic power to a group who may or may not be ready to govern themselves?

I think what was interesting too is how Jean Louise goes from railing against the racism of her family, to realising her own bigotry. As much as Jean Louise is disillusioned about her father’s moral judgment, it was a great moment when she had realised her quickness in shunning the opinions of others. Her inability to give elbow room for the opinions of others ironically exposed her fragile faith in her own convictions. If one were to truly hold strong to one’s belief, accepting and understanding (though not necessarily conforming to) other views becomes okay.

I think I was especially enraptured by the novel, given the current political climate in the US. I see some parallels in the way members from both parties dismiss the views of the other. And the way some label those from the South as uneducated and ignorant; and how those from the North are labelled as being uppity and “elitist” to an extent. Instead of coming into a dialogue with them, they have shut them off.

These were interesting issues that have huge relevance in our time as much as in Lee’s. Had it been crafted more lovingly, it would have been a  perfect standalone book.

The thing is, however, this “sequel” was actually the first draft for To Kill a Mockingbird, lending greater credence to the assertion that Lee had been coerced into publishing it. I detest sensationalism, and how sequels have typically been marketed to offer a “retelling” that most often than not should have remained untold.

But I think keeping in mind how Lee used this draft as a means to shape her ideas for TKAM, the novel doesn’t disappoint. In fact, some of the complex questions it raises adds to the novel rather than detracts from it. It is a message of seeing things through the eyes of another, which is drawn out in the original, but explored in a more layered, nuanced way in this draft-sequel. 

Peninsula: A Story of Malaysia

People move about fluidly nowadays, so much so that mobility is seen as a gateway to happiness and fulfilment, and is even regarded as a right. Never has the adage “the world is your oyster” been more real than in this century, in an increasingly cosmopolitan society stirred up to seek fortunes, security, and adventures the globe over. To settle down in one place seems too confining, too suffocating, too constraining.

Yet this book reminds us that no matter how far our travails take us, a piece of our heart is still attached to that place we call our homeland. Rehman Rashid takes us on a journey through Malaysia:  literally, through reporting the tangible scenes, facts, histories of different places in Malaysia; and literarily, through blending his keen insight of Malaysia’s socio-political climate with the compilation of anecdotes and stories that he’s gleaned from the land.

The book doesn’t just sit in the memoir category. The author’s skills as a journalist are drawn out by the extensive research he’s done, and the rational, astute observations he makes on the beauty and ugliness of Malaysia. Yet, the tapestry of loaded details, references, and allusions that he’s woven into this memoir resists prosaicism. There is such emotion, such poignancy dripping from the words that it truly feels like you are sitting with the author, listening to him as he tells his story. In this book, the author makes a sweeping exploration of the land, conducted both temporally and geographically. The result of that twofold exploration is the story of Malaysia, carefully lifted out from the dusty forgotten annals of history, and breathed out in all its heartbreaking splendour. 

Mere Christianity

Mere Christianity is one of those books that has become such a huge Christian classic, that it is not unusual to find its numerous quotable quotes inserted into sermons, shared on Facebook, or discussed among Christian friends. Its words are almost ubiquitous amongst Christian circles. Knowing our own proclivity to dull ourselves to what we think we already know, it is important to (re)read this gem with fresh eyes and an open mind.

C. S. Lewis challenges those who dismiss Christianity as merely another religion or those who are apathetic towards it, while clarifying the basics of the Christian faith for the believer. What is so wonderful about this book is Lewis’ commitment to keep his language simple, using everyday metaphors to illustrate a point. Yet the message of which he is speaking is profound, and his treatment of the subject matter is rational, incisive, careful. He organizes his thoughts in such a clear, precise manner – bringing us from the notion of sin, to pointing out the solution found in Christ, to declaring the gospel-centred life Christians can live. Despite the meticulous way he structures his broadcasts and essays, this book never lacks heart. Whatever he writes, he writes with the greatest sincerity.

The word “mere” in the title might fool one into thinking that this is a straightforward and easy explanation of the Christian faith. But what we have is a grand tour de force of the Christian belief. It is a book that is not easy to read, for it deals with things close to the heart, and is thus are hard to swallow. Yet, its one key message is simple and plain: God, in the person of Jesus, came to save us, sinners, by dying on the cross and being raised to life. 

"I'll have my bond": The Concept of Justice in The Merchant of Venice

The Merchant of Venice is so often seen as a commentary of anti-Semitism that it's hard to see the message of the play as anything but. The play's most famous line "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" seems to affirm Shakespeare's sympathies towards Jews.

But alas, the meaning of a play does not hinge upon the popularity of one line (or, more accurately, a few lines, as in Shylock's speech). No doubt Shakespeare shows that he disdains prejudices or anti-Semitism through these famous words; but I would argue that he writes these words not because he is trying to paint a favourable picture of Shylock. Apart from this scene, Shylock is not meant to be likable; and in fact, throughout the play, he is depicted as the antagonist.

This isn't to say that Shakespeare himself was anti-Semitic. In fact, these lines do clearly show the awareness that Shakespeare has towards the individuality and humanity of Jews. But I read these lines as a sort of disclaimer to say that he is not prejudiced against Jewish people, before he finally moves on to address the meaning of the play.

It is interesting that Shylock's speech, starting out as a plea of for sympathy, for some human connection, dissolves into this angry diatribe about revenge. And I think why Shylock's speech ended the way it did was because, although Shakespeare is not insulting Jews per se (as we remember from his "disclaimer"), he is trying to show the skewed concept of justice that we as humans have.

The play as a whole teases out the tension between the supposed dichotomy of justice and grace. It seems as if they are both opposing ends of a spectrum, and are generally irreconcilable. And the danger is when people fall into either extremes. On one end, there is the exacting, self-righteous, sanctimonious Shylock, who wants justice and disdains mercy, without realising that he himself is in need of grace too. As Portia (disguised as Balthazar) tells Shylock,

"Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy."

But Shylock is unable to see this. He is unable to understand the concept of grace. So when Portia finally turns the law against him, he sees how much he falls short of it, and how he too cannot be perfect under the cold, hard law.

But this does not in any sense mean that Shakespeare is endorsing lawlessness, or that the law should be ignored. That would be veering to the other extreme: to think that the law could be bent, flouted, ignored, or twisted to how we want it to be is equally dangerous. There is this part which I found really significant,

Bassanio:     [...] And, I beseech you, / Wrest once the law to your authority. /  To do a great right, do a little wrong, / And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Portia:           It must not be. There is no power in Venice / Can alter a decree established. / 'Twill be recorded for a precedent, / And many an error by the same example / Will rush into the state. / It cannot be.

Very adamantly, Portia says that the law cannot be wrested, as Bassanio advises her to do. The law cannot simply be done away with.

What Shakespeare is basically getting at here is that "mercy seasons justice", that the notions of grace and justice are not antithetical... at least not in a Christian context. Grace does not supplant the law. Without understanding the law, without understanding how far we all have fallen short of adhering to it, we would not be able to understand our need for grace.

Measure for Measure deals with a lot of the same themes as well, and it's interesting that Shakespeare draws his title from Matthew 7:2, hinting at the hypocrisy of humans who demand justice, when we too are found wanting. In this play, there is more explicitly the depiction of grace as being something given, something granted by the offended person. It's interesting that the spotlight is on the Duke in this trial, which points to the importance of a judge, of a person who is able to interpret the law correctly, who doesn't make a calculated decision that is literally by-the-law, but instead judges based on the character of the guilty as well. What does means is that grace is given to those who are repentant (Angelo), and that justice is dealt to those who aren't (Luccio). The Law alone is not a sufficient judge of who is in the wrong or in the right - because a person's intentions, attitudes, motivations factor into a crime. It takes a judge to be able to weigh up all these factors and decree the appropriate sentence. That is the original principle of "measure for measure", "eye for an eye" statement in the Old Testament that many people distorted. It wasn't advocating retribution or revenge, it was in fact showing how the punishment should befit the crime. Thus, the play ends with the Duke, the allegory of God, who metes out justice and grace accordingly, by his perfect and impartial judgment.

The Economics of The Iron Heel

The Iron Heel is not one of those books that a person reads for leisure; a huge chunk of the book is devoted to intellectual / philosophical discussions about socialism, and at times it reads more like a socialist tract than an actual novel. But despite the dry, academic tone in certain chapters, The Iron Heel does posit solid, logical arguments for socialism, and it helps that some of the supporting evidence for socialism - and even its objections - are dramatized through dialogue. It’s certainly livelier reading the arguments and counter-arguments through the lenses of different characters, than if I were to read an economics textbook, for instance.

One chapter I found fascinating was “The Mathematics of a Dream”, because it explained in such simple terms the unsustainability and shortcomings of a purely capitalist system. The basic premise is that because capital begets capital (i.e. retained earnings, profits), this leads to it being reinvested in other ventures –  by bonds, shares, etc. Eventually the amount of capital accumulates, and other industries and markets have to be searched out in order to dispose of the excess capital. But what happens when all the industries in your country are thriving? When you hit saturation point? You would then have to go on investing in “developing” countries, and so on and so forth. But these countries would go on to become developed themselves, and soon would be searching out other countries in which to invest. Ultimately, everyone would run out of space and countries to dump their excess capital. And eventually an economic slump is created.  

I don’t presume to be an expert in economics. But in my own simple understanding, I think that as much as Jack London manages to point out many flaws in the capitalist system (the wastefulness, the misallocation of resources, the pitting of labour against capital), I’m not entirely convinced that socialism is the be-all, end-all solution to the problem.

One of the things that London foresees is the rise of labour castes. He narrates that there will be skilled labourers who abandon the socialist cause in exchange for higher pay, higher job security, benefits like housing, etc. In today’s terms, they would be the white-collar workers. London portrays them as traitors, and that there will be very strong altercations between them and the proletariat, or the blue-collar worker. But what London didn’t anticipate is the growth in literacy rates and school attendance rates. And he certainly didn’t expect the emergence of a knowledge-economy. The demand for white-collar jobs grew, and the supply grew along with it (or vice versa). So his vision of the “proletariats” rising up in a sort of brotherhood against the skilled labourers remained only a vision. In reality, people were more concerned about becoming white-collar labourers themselves, to move upwards in the “caste” system. They didn’t want to rally against them, they wanted to join them.

London keeps forgetting the very first premise with which he himself started: that the average man is selfish. When faced with the choice, most people would opt to work within the system for the sake of his family or his own livelihood, rather than have to work against or revolutionise the system. Sounds bleak, but this was the proposition that London himself recognized, and verbalized through his main character.

This oversight, I would say, is the major flaw in his argument for socialism. In the chapter “The Machine-Breakers”, London shows what he perceives to be the foolishness of small capitalists and manufacturers. He says that they are pushing against the stream of social evolution, because although these smalltime capitalists recognize that oligarchs and big corporations are more efficient at producing goods, they are bullheaded in demanding from the government a more competitive market. It’s true that there are many laws that are in place to promote competition, and there are so many regulation bodies and watchdogs to make sure that a competitive market stays that way. But London’s idea that there is simply no place for smalltime capitalists in the economy is faulty. There are many niches in which smaller businesses and entrepreneurs can thrive, and we only have to take a look at the many small businesses and start-ups that have sprung up over the past decade to see that people don’t necessarily go for the big corporations.

I would argue, though, that the biggest flaw in London’s own argument is that socialism is the alternative to capitalism, when eerily, capitalism and socialism have similar modes of operation. If the flaw of capitalism is that power is concentrated in the hands of the rich, the flaw of socialism is that power is concentrated by those actually in charge of making decisions. Theoretically, socialism is a system in which everyone, every person, gets a say on how resources gets allocated. Practically speaking, there will only ever be a select group of people who would be involved in the actual process of distributing resources. We can take a look at Animal Farm. It starts off well enough, but to be sure, we can’t have everyone making decisions. So the decision-making power goes to the pigs. But power corrupts, and boy, does it corrupt absolutely.

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EDIT (01/02/2016) - This is an interesting quote from Herbert Spencer, a biologist-philosopher that London himself greatly admired:

Every one is from time to time surprised by others' behavior, and even by the deeds of relatives who are best known to him. Seeing, then, how uncertainly any· one can foresee the actions of an individual, how can he with any certainty foresee the operation of a social structure? He proceeds on the assumption that all concerned will judge rightly and act fairly; will think as they ought to think, and act as they ought to act; and he assumes this regardless of the daily experiences which show him that men do neither the one nor the other [...] - The Man versus the State

 

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If man is selfish, therefore, what makes the centralisation of power in the socialist system any better than the centralisation of power in the capitalist system? Can we really trust that the people in charge of making decisions in a socialist system are nobler than the ones decision-makers in a capitalist system? Ultimately, what I’m saying is that both economic systems have flaws. It may be a cop-out statement, but I think it’s essential that these two systems stop being seen as polar opposites, when both are clearly flawed, and both are clearly imperfect. 

Penguin Books

Someone should make a movie about how Penguin Books came into existence. It is too good a story to be ignored.


... And if that story does get Hollywood-ised, I should hope that I get credit for the idea, haha.

Literary Theory is Deconstructing my Brain.

So at Durham University we have this course called The Theory and Practice of Literary Criticism, in which we have to study famous theoretical movements such as Marxism, Feminism, Dialogism, etc.

Don't get me wrong, I quite like the course, and I find the theories fascinating.

But as I'm slogging through Deconstruction as part of my revision, I'm increasingly convinced that I'm able to cook up some groundbreaking theory by throwing into the "make-a-theory mould" a few abstract, fluffy ideas coupled with superfluous, complex vocabulary.


This post is written in jest, and out of extreme frustration. Maybe my brain is just too tiny to ardently appreciate these theories.

Marxism - and my poor head.

Reading up on Marxism, and after many many gruelling hours, I have some idea of the different theories. The overall picture is still blurry, and I don't entirely grasp the nuances, but I believe I have some gist of it.

One thing that I found extremely contradictory is that even though Marx and Engels' model of the economic base and the superstructure is deterministic, they still proclaim that the proletarians and the working class would one day be able to instigate a rebellion against the bourgeoisie. Marx and Engels noted that the economic conditions of the proletarians are oppressive. As ideology (part of the superstructure) is determined by economic conditions - the infrastructure, or also known as the base -  would this not mean that the proletarians' ideology is skewed to one of blind submission and deference to the ruling classes? How does one even work up the idea to start a rebellion?

Seeking to modify this model, Althusser proposed that the infrastructure - superstructure relationship is less deterministic and more interactive. He postulates, then, that there is a mutual process by which ideology and economic conditions both feed into each other. However, he goes on to talk about Ideological State Apparatuses, which the State uses to basically keep people in line.

I don't know how to put forward my argument in a less crude manner, but I will proceed anyway. What I find baffling then, to my still inelastic undergraduate mind, is if Ideological State Apparatuses does selectively constrain the various practices (or, in my opinion, dissension) of the people, how then can there be existence of revolutions and rebellion in the past? It could be that the ISAs failed in restraining oppositional voices, that certain practices slip past their "defences". Yet,  how did that happen? If, in the first place, any form of spontaneous ideology on the proletarians' part has been systematically suppressed,  how do these rebels come up with the idea of rebellion?



Forgive my lack of referencing. Am supposed to be working on an essay on Chaucer right now, and somehow came here to write up this blog post.

Olivier's Henry V and Branagh's Henry V - A Comparison

Disclaimer: This essay / commentary is bred from entirely my own thoughts, opinion, and interpretation. It is not to be regarded as authoritative.

     Laurence Olivier's Henry V  opens with a flyer advertising the play hovering around the skyline of 1590-1600s London. The movie's opening sequence shows wonderful shots of the Globe, of the boisterous groundlings, the aristocrats taking their places in a dignified manner, of fruit-sellers taking advantage of the hustle and bustle to sell their produce. What was really interesting was that, from the onset, it was already made clear that what the audience - the ones at the Globe and the ones watching their TV sets - is seeing is a staged play.

     Thus, modern audience would have an inkling of what a Shakespearean play would have look like back in the 17th century. A layer of richness is sewn into the film as the modern audience not only watched the play, but witnessed the whole process of its production - how the actors are dressing up and getting ready, what the actors would've done when rain starts to fall on the open air Globe Theatre. There is also a comical and lighthearted tone injected into the film as well, with the Archbishop of Canterbury botching up his lines, and the Bishop of Ely leaving his hat offstage.

     In stark contrast, Kenneth Branagh's Henry V is treated almost like a gritty, realistic historical drama. This King, compared to Olivier's Henry, is less sure of himself, is more intense and brooding of his responsibility as King. The king is all fury and righteous anger in one moment, and in the next he is racked with guilt, broodingly carrying the burden of the throne on his shoulder. He speaks softly and dangerously at some points, and the next he is mad with rage, knocking his bedfellow Lord Scroop down onto the table, anguished with the latter's betrayal.

     Branagh deliberately takes pains to dial up the emotions, feelings, fears, insecurities of the characters. Even to the point, admittedly, of being a little melodramatic and hammy. Each character is lovingly given a backstory, with flashbacks in order for the audience to truly empathise and connect with them. Henry, though obviously the protagonist in the play, is portrayed in an ambivalent light. He is tortured by his two selves - Harry whose roots he has not forgotten, and the King of England, who needs to be the model and example of the army and indeed, of the nation.

     The agony of being king, whilst present also in Olivier's Henry during his soliloquy and prayer, is rather fleeting as opposed to Branagh's Henry. Perhaps part of the reason why it was harder for the audience to establish a deeper emotional connection to Olivier's Henry is because we know that it is a theatrical play. Hence it put forward an additional layer which creates an emotional distance between the audience and the characters (whom we know are play-actors).

     Olivier's version, produced in 1944, has a political factor influencing its treatment. Produced just after the Second World War, it is a movie that sought to boost patriotism and national morale. (Davies, The Shakespeare films of Laurence Olivier)  Hence, we could see that the movie was leaning more towards the potential and possibilities of a new start. When the Duke of Burgundy gives his speech about the cost of war, we see the desolation of the French lands, but it soon pans up to a regal, beautiful castle. The possibilities and prosperity the marriage of the two kingdoms yielded are emphasised. On the other hand, Branagh's Henry focused on the consequences and heartache of war that are borne by both parties. The audience is stirred up as they see the bodies of young boys laying strewn across the muddy plain. But there is also the feeling of empathy for the enemy, as the French also gathers up their dead, and as the Frenchwoman attempts to assault King Henry for the loss of her loved one.

     All in all, a very interesting contrast seen between the two films. Olivier's Henry is self-assured and more kinglike in his mien, and we gain a certain insight to the historical context of staging a Shakespearean play. While on the other hand, Branagh seeks to be authentic in that he wishes to unveil the complexities, tragedy of war, and of being King.

     

      

Disclaimer: This essay / commentary is bred from entirely my own thoughts, opinion, and interpretation. It is not to be regarded as authoritative.

     

A Complaint - William Wordsworth 

There is a change—and I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor long ago,

A fountain at my fond heart's door,

Whose only business was to flow;

And flow it did; not taking heed

Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!

Blest was I then all bliss above!

Now, for that consecrated fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—

I trust it is,—and never dry:

What matter? if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity.

—Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

(source: www.poetryfoundation.org)

        In this poem, there is a general sense that the persona is feeling unhappy and discontent with his relationship with his beloved. It could be read that he is lamenting his beloved's lack of interest, concern, and affection for him.

      But I find it goes deeper than that. As I was reading it, I find that it is also lamenting the transmogrification that a romantic relationship inevitably undergoes. I use the word 'transmogrification' because I believe that was what the persona would have seen the process as - a radiant, glowing, sparkling feeling that has since died down and dulled into something plain and mundane. Note the first noun that appears in the poem - it is the word "change". And change is rightfully used to signify not so much the loss of love, but rather the change in its form and  appearance.

        The persona brings up two rather different - yet paradoxically similar - images to describe love. In the first half of the poem, he nostalgically remembers the beauty of a new relationship, the excitement, the thrill, the soaring heights towards which it lifts people up. The image of a fountain is used, one that spurts out a "murmuring, sparkling, living love". The alliterative words sprinkled in the first stanza - "fountain", "fond", "flow" - with its soft "f" sounds reinforces the sensation of flight and elation.

        But there is soon a change in tone in the second stanza, as the ecstasy of new love ebbs away and transmutes into something more inconspicuous and reticent. The first two statements show the rapture of the persona as he exultantly exclaims the happy moments he and his beloved shared. Then, with a voltaic "Now", the persona makes it known that there is a slow but sure shift in their love. He begins to have doubts, insecurities, fears, as he puts forward questions to which he realises that their love has simmered into something quite unremarkable and unextraordinary.

        That is when the second image of love is brought forth. The persona is despaired at the thought that he is left with only a "comfortless and hidden well". He reluctantly admits in a dash-laden third stanza that it is no doubt a "well of love", functional, useful, necessary to sustain life. It never is "dry", and it runs "deep". But it is less glamorous than the previous form of love.

        The persona seems to debate with himself for a while which of the two types of love he would rather have. But alas, he prefers the aesthetically beautiful but impractical fountain as opposed to the beneficial but uninteresting well. The heavy "d" words lend a rather sober, dampened sense, as opposed to the previous use of the "f" sounds, which gives the sense that the persona would rather revert back to the soaring, high-flying feelings of love rather than the deep-rooted, quiet love that he has now. Almost nonchalantly, he dismisses the well's steadfastness and loyalty, opining that deep, hidden love that sleeps in "silence and obscurity" is no love at all, putting all further indecisiveness to rest with a strong full stop at the end of line 16.

        The persona brings us back full circle, as he again bewails the change in love, and how this has cost him dearly and left him poor.

    

Twelfth Night

     I found myself actually being really entertained as I was reading this play. As in, even laughing out loud at certain parts. For me, it was hilarious because I can totally envision the characters and the comedic timing and the dialogue,  just - everything. The plot worked out so nicely, with Sebastian and Viola being mistaken for the other. And at first, I was a bit annoyed at the subplot of Malvolio, but the whole bit with his cross garters and yellow stockings really got me laughing hard (Come on, it was pretty funny!). Plus who could forget the clown & co. just locking Malvolio up and playing mind games with him.

     And of course, it has many elements that comedic films have stolen of late. Cases of mistaken identity, for instance. Someone disguises himself / herself as someone else, and humorous misunderstandings ensue. O goodness, and of course playing pranks on an unlikable character always goes a long way towards being comedic gold.

     Haven't really unpacked all of the little intricacies of the play yet, but other things I liked was the fact that the female characters of the play were really strong, independent ladies. Viola and Olivia were great, smart ladies, able to stand on their own. Plus, I love that despite the clown being - well - a clown, he was the one dispensing little nuggets of wisdom from time to time.

     Loved reading this comedy, and quite looking forward to reading the others!

   

Words, words, words.

"Stammering is the native eloquence for us fog people."

- Eugene O'Neill, Long Day's Journey into Night, Act 4.

    Perhaps one of the most thought-provoking and mind-blowing ideas that I have encountered in an English Literature degree is the notion that no one can ever "master" language. I think that people - even I, before I started my course - believe that those who are good at English, who are proficient at reading, writing, analysing texts, are in some way have a "powerful" command of the language. And the idea that this may not be true is something that has really changed my mind and the way that I viewed language as a whole.

    I suppose we cannot - and should never be lured into thinking that we can - think that we can ever "master" language, in the sense that we can ever truly bend words, phrases, sentences to what we truly feel, to what we truly intend to express. All the abstract emotions, feelings, thoughts, ideas that run through our heads, they're just squeezed and contained and put down as tangible symbols and signs like letters and punctuation. But do they really convey what we feel? Do they really truly pass the message on as it was originally formed - in its unadulterated, undiluted, purest form?

    I speak and write things that can never seem to fully encapsulate all the complexities, textures, and layers of just what I want to say. They seem to be a poor shadow of what the things that are running through my mind, things that are flowing inside my heart. Even as I am writing this, I feel a thousand strands of thoughts tugging at me, nudging me to unfurl them, but I feel that my words can never wholly contain them, can never fully deliver what I want them to deliver.

   Words are so elusive. When you think you have a good hold of the ideas and thoughts and reflections inside your brain, you reach out and try to grab words, you tell them you want these ideas to be conveyed in such and such a manner. But you find that these words, they can never fully explain everything. That there's always a limit to how much they can do. These words, they're an inadequate medium of saying what you want to voice out.

    Of course this may be me. This may be because I have thousands of ideas flying around, and I'm not doing a good enough job at capturing all of them and penning them down. But that's just the thing, there're a million ideas to write down, and just so many ways of exploring them, so many threads to pull at. Maybe I'm not diligent enough in revising and editing what I say. I'm not hardworking enough or passionate enough to delve into my thoughts and piece together all the fragments of ideas I have. For after all, the world's greatest works are all not done in a day, and they require constant correction and revision and improvement. But that's just the thing, these works can be constantly revised and updated, and there would still always be areas of improvement. Perhaps it's a question of eloquence and ingenuousness, and I can't express things the way they are formed in my head. But that's just the thing, why can't I?

   Sometimes I feel I have all these things just in my brain, welling up inside of me. But when I try to get it out, it falls flat; it never seems to be expressed in the way that I want to be expressed. I choke, and the idea dies out somehow.

    I like this quote:

" [Language] always remind us that it, and no one else, is speaking, that whenever we believe we rule over our words, we are in grip of an unavoidable but nevertheless delusive illusion"

 (Jean-Jacques Lecercle, 1990)

   I think it does indicate what I feel sometimes. That words are so elusive, and can never really be made to mean what we want them to mean. But does this mean that we should abandon the study of language? Should we stop caring about how we use language?

    The answer is a straightforward no. In a paradoxical way, the only way we can truly understand language, is by being aware of the fact that there are many nuances, and shades of meanings of different words and phrases. A little tweak here, a little tweak there, and the whole sentence - the whole idea behind the sentence - changes. If anything, the elusive quality of words and language should all the more encourage us to strive to hold on to what little control we have over them. It's the acknowledgement that language is just so slippery that pushes us to want to solidify the way in which we use it - and the way in which others use it.