THE SIGNAL by David Katznelson
“Art is the Mirror of our betrayed ideals.”― Doris Lessing
It was 57 years ago today that Jean-Paul Sartre declined the Nobel Prize for Literature stating that "a writer should not allow himself to be turned into an institution." And if you follow his thoughts and philosophies that wind through his writing, it is possible to see his Nobel actions coming a longs ways off. A truly controversial figure his entire career…accused of hypocrisy, of an outlook of meaninglessness, of contradicting himself and not being a reliable philosophizer…Sartre was definitely not a foot loose and fancy free person who would gleefully accept something like an institutional award.
The truth is, the Noble Prize has not had a perfect existence, starting from its beginnings where it overlooked some of the great authors of its day (Twain, Tolstoy, Ibsen) and instead gave it to authors like Sully Prudhomme (who?). The Atlantic used a recent off-year for the award (taken when the #metoo era hit the selection committee) to publish an article digging into all the great authors missed by the committee and some of the awardees who just might have not been deserving. And then there is the Bob Dylan factor and the flurry of classes, dissertations, blogposts dedicated to questioning the decision to bestow the honor upon him (my High School English teacher Flossy Lewis leans towards thinking it was a bad move).
The truth is, award by committee is always flawed. Giving one award a year to an international group of incredible individuals DOES LEAVE PEOPLE OUT and does let the wrong people in. And yet, there are good sides to it as well. Poets…writers unknown in the US…when given an internationally known award brings them an opportunity to reach new audiences. My friend Brent and I have a bookclub (of two, the best kind of book club) where we read one book a year, one from the canon of the most recent Nobel Prize recipient. And over the past decade, we have enjoyed the reading! Poet Tomas Tranströmer: his win in 2011 not only introduced many to his life’s work, but in my opinion helped spark the recent swell in appreciation for poetry in general (Andreas Brown of the late Gotham Book Mart predicted his win years before…as he would often do with other future winners).
Interestingly, Sartre’s turning the prize down ended up being a moment that is remembered forever…written in Nobel’s Wiki entry, in almost all articles written about Sartre’s life. His actions in declining are still amplified, far more than those of the winners who time has forgotten….
The Impact of Abdulrazak Gurnah’s Nobel Prize
Once again, the Nobel Prize for literature goes to someone…who I do not know anything about. Maybe it is because some of his paperbacks go for over $900 on amazon. That being said, I am sure given the nature of post-Nobel reality, it will be fairly easy to find a novel of his and dig in. A friend and I have a book club where once a year we read a book from a person who won the Nobel. And while I have JUST started reading Don Quixote, Gurnah will be next…
Happy Birthday Timothy Leary! He has been gone for 25 years this year, and yet his legacy is still so rich and alive. His opening monolog to this film is perfect Leary: trippy, lulling, lucid. The film reminds me of how I would have loved to have been around to experience this e 60s…
Never sold a painting in his life – but died worth $100m’: the incredible story of Boris Lurie
“The difficult, devastating work of the Holocaust survivor turned painter is being celebrated at a new exhibition at New York’s Museum of Jewish Heritage…Not once during his career did he sell “a substantial” piece of art, and he even dissuaded buyers when a deal would come close to closing.”
Renowned Dutch conductor Bernard Haitink has died, aged 92
“Bernard Haitink, an unaffected maestro who led Amsterdam’s Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra for 27 years and was known for presenting powerful readings of the symphonies of Mahler, Bruckner and Beethoven conducting orchestras on both sides of the Atlantic, died on Thursday at his home in London. He was 92. Mr. Haitink let the music emerge from the orchestra, often transcendently, without imposing a heavy-handed interpretation that a star conductor might.”
This is an interesting look at one of my favorite towns in America, Oxford Mississippi…using the framing of how it has grown due to specific moments prompted by writers and literature…and it even features my late dear friend Ron Shapiro. I need to get back to Oxford…
There Was A Trippier Book Version of Metropolis
There is a lot to unpack here. Beyond the fact that Fritz Lang’s wife at the time, Thea Von Harbou, who wrote Metropolis, stayed behind in Germany when Lang went to America, and became a member of the Nazi party…it turns out that the book she wrote concurrently with the movie script has a lot more craziness within its pages than what made it onto the screen (and unfortunately, some old-fashioned racism as well)…
WEEKEND LISTEN: Last Session (Blind Willie McTell)
I got sucked into a pretty solid Blind Willie McTell documentary, with commentary from many of the folks who recorded him providing great color commentary to some of my favorite of his records. Arguably one of his finest recordings was his last one, released initially by Bluesville as The Last Session. The Last Session finds McTell playing with grit and precision, his voice clear, his picking spot-on, and his ramblings about his songs completely enticing. Despite a hard drinking life that would soon take its mortal toll, his regular street performances kept him fresh, and this final recording just soars (there is NOTHING like the featured version of The Dyin’ Crapshooter’s Blues). And the story behind the recording as laid out in the documentary is worth a watch.
The Rhythm
By: Robert Creeley
It is all a rhythm,
from the shutting
door, to the window
opening,
the seasons, the sun's
light, the moon,
the oceans, the
growing of things,
the mind in men
personal, recurring
in them again,
thinking the end
is not the end, the
time returning,
themselves dead but
someone else coming.
If in death I am dead,
then in life also
dying, dying...
And the women cry and die.
The little children
grown only to old men.
The grass dries,
the force goes.
But is met by another
returning, oh not mine,
not mine, and
in turn dies.
The rhythm which projects
from itself continuity
bending all to its force
from window to door,
from ceiling to floor,
light at the opening,
dark at the closing.
