Thursday, July 17, 2025

In memoriam …

Connie Francis "Where The Boys Are" on The Ed Sullivan Show

Mihail Sebastian

 


It's an interesting experience to read a novel seemingly at random. This was the case recently when taking up Mihail Sebastian's For Two Thousand Years. Published in 1934 in Romania, this is a book far from my usual tastes and interests. 

Strangely, I'd read another of Sebastian's novels -- Women -- a few years ago, and I'd enjoyed it. But this novel -- Two Thousand Years -- is far darker, far more foreboding. This is a book, in effect, which charts the emergence of a more virulent form of anti-Semitism in Romanian culture. The novel does not makes its way to the Second World War, but the themes which are uncovered anticipate what was to come. Except, of course, that what came was far worse. 

Two Thousand Years is more, though, than a historical novel: it is one profoundly focused on identity, and on Sebastian's conflicting, almost tortured, sense for his own Judaism. There are parts of this novel which are very difficult to read -- in part because Sebastian has allowed that anti-Semitism to encroach on his moral judgments. Much more can -- and has, I'm sure -- be written about this troubling dynamic: as I say, I found it to be quite upsetting, not least because Sebastian seems at moments to negate Jewish contributions to the European past. 

In the end, Two Thousand Years is a novel in search of Romania: of its workers, its ethos, its history and culture. That does seem, truly, to be Sebastian's objective: to describe this place through its people and their conflicts, and their intractable march toward something far more sinister. Sebastian has an aphoristic way of writing which provides rewards to the patient reader. Here is one of the most memorable: 

"Aren't you traveling light for a man who's making history?"
"No. It's all I need. I'm leaving the rest behind." 

The waythese things happen …

An Organized Retail Theft Story

A poem for this morning …

Anne Sexton — The Poet of Ignorance

Sunday, July 13, 2025

The finish line …

Poet Mary Jo Bang reaches the end of her 20-year journey through Dante's 'Divine Comedy' (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

More about Updike

The Complicated Brilliance of John Updike: A Conversation with Biljana Dojčinović (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

One a believer, the other not …

Reading Two Thomases (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Surely worth reading …

New Yorker previews upcoming John Updike Selected Letters volume (Hat tip, Dave Lull)

Something to ponder at Harper’s Pond

Thinking about the end…

One can only hope …

Can Americans Love Poetry Again? ( Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

A tale worth reading …

My Crime Fiction: 'Mouth'

A poem for this morning …

Morgan Parker — The High Priestess of Soul’s Sunday Morning Visit to the Wall of Respect

Sunday, July 06, 2025

Appraisal …

Toni Morrison, Editor (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

In case you wondered …

Why did the Romans consider butter a "barbaric" food. (Hat tip, Felix Giordano)

Testimony …

H. L. Mencken On Hot Dogs

Our faithful grounding …

Nature and the God of the Declaration of Independence (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Preview …

from “Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs,” by John Berryman (Hat tip, dave Lull.)

William Carlos Williams at Harper’s Pond …

Between Walls

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

A poem for this morning …

William Carlos Williams — About a little girl

Wednesday, July 02, 2025

RIP …

David Rytman Slavitt Obituary (Hat tip, Dave Lull)

Something to think on …

Quotes To Inspire You

Just so you know …

Male Novel Readers Are Not Fiction (Hat tip, Dave lull.) Liberal politics have destroyed the space for male readers. The women who “dominate the publishing industry” are the same kind of women that dominate Hollywoke — man-bashing, woman-mutating feminists. They’re the reason my four novels thus far aren’t published by major presses like Hachette, Harper Collins, and Random House but by boutique publishers (very discriminating ones).

In visions of the dark night …

I have dreamed of joy departed—

A poem for this morning …

Tom Clark — Where I Live