Ambition. It sounds like a good quality. It's the drive we have to try to better our current situation. That's good; that's desirable--in most cases even admirable. But sometimes, usually in retrospect, we realize that in order to better ourselves, there was something sacrificed in the process.
When Pizarro went to conquer a new land in the Americas, he was the archetype of ambition. He came from humble beginnings, and in Spain at that time, it was almost impossible to overcome the station one was born into. Unless. Unless one was willing to strike out in the newly discovered Americas and conquer lands for and in behalf of Spain.
Pizarro gambled everything he had and all the respect he had gained so far in order to acquire the Peruvian lands the Incas claimed. The gamble paid off: he became wealthy, received titles and fame, and became the de facto ruler of Peru--everything an illegitimate child from the poor region of Spain could have ever hoped for. In the process, he annihilated thousands of Incas, including 3 of their chiefs, and stripped the land of all the gold and silver he could find. In the end, Pizarro himself would be killed by ambitious men looking to gain honor and glory themselves.
Perhaps that is too strong a case. Most people would say, "Sure, I want to get ahead, but I certainly wouldn't kill anybody. Or steal their stuff. I have my limits." But what about the guy who works long hours to get ahead, and leaves their families to eat dinners alone without him? Or what about the athlete who taunts his opponent and then, sometimes literally, crushes him? If getting a good deal on a house means taking advantage of someone who has to sell in a market that has suddenly tanked, well, that's just life, isn't it? And if you have to crawl into bed with people with low morals to get elected, well, it wouldn't be the first time.
Still, what is the alternative? Accepting the way your life is, without pining for more, can also be a good and desirable trait. Admirable, even. These are the people in a perpetual state of calm where trials and tribulations are peacefully accepted as part of life. Instead of yearning for things they cannot have, they make the best with what they have. And yet these are also the people who get stepped on, abused, and forgotten.
The Incas were by no means calm and peaceable people. They had conquered most of what is now Peru and parts of Chile and Ecuador only three generations before the Spaniards appeared. However, they didn't react when the Spaniards showed up, and instead did everything the Spaniards asked. They gave them gold and silver, women and food, thinking that if they just endured these hairy men from a strange land, they would eventually go away. It wasn't until it was too late that they started to rebel and revolt against these foreigners who were unilaterally cruel and untrustworthy.
Again, we might say, "Well, I would never stand for someone to take advantage of me time and again like that, without putting up a fight." But what about the guy who stays at a job that asks for all of his time and effort without paying enough to feed his family? Or the athlete who throws in the towel and gives up before the contest is over? If we get laid off of a job, do we try to make it by just on unemployment, hoping the economy will just turn around? And is it right to sit back and let others shoulder the responsibility for the PTA, the work committee, the local co-op, when we reap all the benefits?
I'm not sure what the answer is, where the fine line is drawn between the two and which virtue is better. Although they are mutually exclusive states, perhaps it is all about the timing. Learning when to fight, and when to stop. As they say, "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper LeeMy review
rating: 5 of 5 stars
I read this in one sitting on the way home from my grandmothers funeral. I'd read it in high school but honestly couldn't remember anything about it. It's the quintessential growing up in the South, coming of age book narrated by a young girl. It's what The Secret Life of Bees and countless others try to be.
In the first scene, Scout describes her Southern town as moving slowly in the hot summer heat. That is how Lee's novel seems to unfold, slowly and carefully, not rushing along, or preaching too much. Characters don't come from nowhere, or dissappear. The lessons learned in the book come about organically, naturally, yet leaves you with hope that we have actually learned something from them.
Atticus Finch was recently listed as one of the all-time best heros--and indeed, for his courage and his wisdom, he is one of my favorite literary figures.
View all my reviews.
The Last Days of the Incas by Kim MacQuarrieMy review
rating: 3 of 5 stars
The book jacket introduces Kim MacQuarrie as a filmmaker who lived among Peruvian Indians for 5 years. Both experiences color his writing, but mostly for the benefit of the reader. The history he relates of the interaction between the first Spanish conquistadors and the Incas reads like a Hollywood film. I can almost picture the marquee: Tom Cruise in the Last of the Incas....But history is almost always at least as exciting as fiction and this is certainly entertaining reading. The Spanish conquistors come across as being selfish, bigoted, and cruel--which they most certainly were. However, while MacQuarrie takes pains to justify the Incas' retaliation, he gives no quarter to the Spainards. Which may be justified--but--the Incas themselves were conquerors--how did the native peoples feel about being subjugated by the Incas? The point being, perhaps it wasn't the most objective book about the subject.
Still, it was an exciting read. You root for the Incas and feel vindication when they are able to win a battle or two. The ensuing tale of the search for ruins of the lost city of the Incas is not as exciting, but still fairly interesting.
View all my reviews.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Oscar love.
I don't know why I like the Oscars so much. Actually, I love the Golden Globes even more, TV and movies in the same night--yay! Anyway, the Oscars were fantastic this year. The set was gorgeous, Hugh Jackman was funny and entertaining. The opening number was really entertaining. The jokes and bantar was actually pretty funny. I loved how they had 5 representatives for each category as presenters--it was almost as exciting to see who was going to be presenting as it was to see who was going to win. Especially since the critics had the winners all right this year and there were no surprises. Then each presenter individually honored each nominee. I swear the actors were as touched by the salutes as by winning.
The "story" of the night was actually a really entertaining way to watch the evening. The presenters for the most part were hilarious especially Steve Martin and Tina Fey. That woman can do no wrong. The video year book was entertaining too. Honestly for someone who has watched NONE of the nominated movies--not even Wall-E--this was the most entertaining Oscars by far. Did anyone else notice the prevalence of Cold Play music?
As for the dresses this year, I think most of them were gorgeous. If there was any group that bombed it would be the under 20 crowd--Miley, Vanessa, Amanda Seigfried even Zac Efron with his slicked back hair.
The "story" of the night was actually a really entertaining way to watch the evening. The presenters for the most part were hilarious especially Steve Martin and Tina Fey. That woman can do no wrong. The video year book was entertaining too. Honestly for someone who has watched NONE of the nominated movies--not even Wall-E--this was the most entertaining Oscars by far. Did anyone else notice the prevalence of Cold Play music?
As for the dresses this year, I think most of them were gorgeous. If there was any group that bombed it would be the under 20 crowd--Miley, Vanessa, Amanda Seigfried even Zac Efron with his slicked back hair.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Why I Run
I run because there is a monster in my brain.
It resides in the corner of my brain where I keep a list of all the things I have to do.
Most days, as I go about my business, I feel it rustle and bump around, but it is only a minor annoyance. Other days, it roars to life with a vegence. Through it's eyes I see the pile of magazines on the hearth that need to be filed or recycled, the dishes in the sink that need to be washed. There is paint peeling in the hallway that needs to be scraped and repainted. The kids need to learn to clean their rooms better. I should make a chore chart. Their clothes need to be gone through and expunged, that would make it easier. I need to shop for dinner. I need to organize the storage room. Really, someone should take that pile of giveaways to the curb. Why can't I remember to bring the recycling bags with me into the store? Then I wouldn't have to deal with these plastic bags everywhere. I need to get a dr. appointment for my son. Does he need a hearing test? We need to work on multiplication facts. I should read to them at night. Do I have a 3 month supply of food in case of a pandemic? I should organize this better so I know what I have. I should call that lady about whether she needs help while her husband is away...
And so it goes. With each added item, the monster grows longer and fatter. It's a giant grub with green tentacles that reach into each lobe of my brain, squeezing out all thought and function until I have to consciously tell myself to breathe.
That is when I try not to think and pull out lycra instead. I squeeze into it, lace up my running shoes, and shove in my earphones. I run and run and run until the only thing I can concentrate on is the rythm of my feet, in time with the music. I run until I don't have to concentrate on breathing anymore, it wheezes out of me in a desperate reflex to keep me alive.
The pounding seems to lull the monster to sleep, and when I'm done--soaking and heaving, my brain seems hollow and quiet.
Taking a shower, a tiny tentacle tentatively searches. The monster is not dead, but the tentacle in manageable: The most important priority somehow sifted to the top.
I'll methodically lop off the tentacles as they appear, until the monster multiplies unchecked again. Then I will lace up my shoes, and run again.
It resides in the corner of my brain where I keep a list of all the things I have to do.
Most days, as I go about my business, I feel it rustle and bump around, but it is only a minor annoyance. Other days, it roars to life with a vegence. Through it's eyes I see the pile of magazines on the hearth that need to be filed or recycled, the dishes in the sink that need to be washed. There is paint peeling in the hallway that needs to be scraped and repainted. The kids need to learn to clean their rooms better. I should make a chore chart. Their clothes need to be gone through and expunged, that would make it easier. I need to shop for dinner. I need to organize the storage room. Really, someone should take that pile of giveaways to the curb. Why can't I remember to bring the recycling bags with me into the store? Then I wouldn't have to deal with these plastic bags everywhere. I need to get a dr. appointment for my son. Does he need a hearing test? We need to work on multiplication facts. I should read to them at night. Do I have a 3 month supply of food in case of a pandemic? I should organize this better so I know what I have. I should call that lady about whether she needs help while her husband is away...
And so it goes. With each added item, the monster grows longer and fatter. It's a giant grub with green tentacles that reach into each lobe of my brain, squeezing out all thought and function until I have to consciously tell myself to breathe.
That is when I try not to think and pull out lycra instead. I squeeze into it, lace up my running shoes, and shove in my earphones. I run and run and run until the only thing I can concentrate on is the rythm of my feet, in time with the music. I run until I don't have to concentrate on breathing anymore, it wheezes out of me in a desperate reflex to keep me alive.
The pounding seems to lull the monster to sleep, and when I'm done--soaking and heaving, my brain seems hollow and quiet.
Taking a shower, a tiny tentacle tentatively searches. The monster is not dead, but the tentacle in manageable: The most important priority somehow sifted to the top.
I'll methodically lop off the tentacles as they appear, until the monster multiplies unchecked again. Then I will lace up my shoes, and run again.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
"Beach" Reads
Picking books at random off of my list of 200+ books-to-read, I seem to have a predilection for picking books about whaling and the frozen seas at both ends of the pole. Either that, or there are a lot of books chasing Moby Dick.
Indeed, there is something about the whaling profession that made climbing into a ship and setting sail for the outer limits of the known world, hunting beasts larger than the largest of ancient dinosaurs more like space travel. A whole new world of icy poles, endless days, and monstrous bears was opened up. For a writer, is there a setting with more potential? These three books dwell on the survival of man in these extreme latitudes.
Georgiana Harding tells the story of Thomas Cave, a whaler who took a bet to spend the winter alone on an island off of Greenland. In a land of endless snow and ice, in never-ending night, the landscape becomes a blank slate where the panorama of the mind takes over. Cave's ghosts of his past visit him in his solitude, yet his inward struggle for acceptance, for peace, seem elusive. When the ship retrieves him at last they find a man aged and withdrawn. He seems to have acquired a gift for helping men dispel their "demons", yet his reluctance to intermingle with humankind betrays his inability to dispel his own phantoms. The kernel of wisdom Cave receives from this experience seems to be "there are some places that man should not be" and "the only evil that exists is the evil that man brings with him".
That lesson is better learned in The Terror by Dan Simmons. It is based on a real ship that set sail in 1845 looking for the Northwest passage and was locked in the ice for 3 years. There were no survivors, so Simmons imagines a rich and thrilling existence for the doomed men as they battle the elements and a horrifyingly intelligent white bear (sound familiar?). Yet what really dooms the men is the greediness of the company that provided the ships with defective canned goods and the lust for power and revenge among the men. Despite the gloomy material, Simmons lines his novel with hope. Unlike in Moby Dick, acceptance ultimitely becomes the antidote to revenge and leads to new life rather than death.
Perhaps the most intriguing of the three is the non-fiction book Island of the Lost by Joan Druett. It chronicles the tales of two ships that wreck on a small island near the South Pole. Through the industry and skill of the first mate of one ship, the entire crew of that ship were able to survive almost an entire year before they were rescued. Another ship wrecked on the opposite side of the island. However, as if to add credence to Simmons novel, this crew self-destructs with greed, lust, and slothfulness. Only one man survived. Its a thrilling contrast, all the more because it's true.
As the winter wears (seemingly interminably) on, I will continue to plow through my book list, but perhaps I'll read something sunnier next time. My reviews of these books are at goodreads.
When I read Moby Dick, I didn't understand why it was a classic. It seemed to be more of a field guide to whales, with a story of a personal vendetta against an anthropomorphized whale thrown in. Looking back now, especially after reading several books about the same subject, I realize that Melville captured the seas and the wonder and mystique of the giant leviathan better than any author yet.
Indeed, there is something about the whaling profession that made climbing into a ship and setting sail for the outer limits of the known world, hunting beasts larger than the largest of ancient dinosaurs more like space travel. A whole new world of icy poles, endless days, and monstrous bears was opened up. For a writer, is there a setting with more potential? These three books dwell on the survival of man in these extreme latitudes.
Georgiana Harding tells the story of Thomas Cave, a whaler who took a bet to spend the winter alone on an island off of Greenland. In a land of endless snow and ice, in never-ending night, the landscape becomes a blank slate where the panorama of the mind takes over. Cave's ghosts of his past visit him in his solitude, yet his inward struggle for acceptance, for peace, seem elusive. When the ship retrieves him at last they find a man aged and withdrawn. He seems to have acquired a gift for helping men dispel their "demons", yet his reluctance to intermingle with humankind betrays his inability to dispel his own phantoms. The kernel of wisdom Cave receives from this experience seems to be "there are some places that man should not be" and "the only evil that exists is the evil that man brings with him".
That lesson is better learned in The Terror by Dan Simmons. It is based on a real ship that set sail in 1845 looking for the Northwest passage and was locked in the ice for 3 years. There were no survivors, so Simmons imagines a rich and thrilling existence for the doomed men as they battle the elements and a horrifyingly intelligent white bear (sound familiar?). Yet what really dooms the men is the greediness of the company that provided the ships with defective canned goods and the lust for power and revenge among the men. Despite the gloomy material, Simmons lines his novel with hope. Unlike in Moby Dick, acceptance ultimitely becomes the antidote to revenge and leads to new life rather than death.
Perhaps the most intriguing of the three is the non-fiction book Island of the Lost by Joan Druett. It chronicles the tales of two ships that wreck on a small island near the South Pole. Through the industry and skill of the first mate of one ship, the entire crew of that ship were able to survive almost an entire year before they were rescued. Another ship wrecked on the opposite side of the island. However, as if to add credence to Simmons novel, this crew self-destructs with greed, lust, and slothfulness. Only one man survived. Its a thrilling contrast, all the more because it's true. As the winter wears (seemingly interminably) on, I will continue to plow through my book list, but perhaps I'll read something sunnier next time. My reviews of these books are at goodreads.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
An Open Letter to Stephanie Meyer...
rating: 2 of 5 starsO.K. Stephanie--I know you are a best-selling author and all, but really, I find your books as annoying as the Seeker in The Host. So I am going to give you my remedy, without your asking for it or wanting it, just like Melanie "fixed" the Seeker:
1. Edit, edit, EDIT! We don't really need to know every question the character asks in her head. (Seriously, if I'm ever laid up, bored out of my mind, I am going to count the question marks in this book.) We don't need to know the description of things that don't matter--like the precise placement of body parts when Melanie is squashed in the cave with the food--just say she was bent like a pretzel. And enough with the restating of the yearning, longing, alturistic crap--We get it already--Bella wants to be a vampire, Edward doesn't want to make her one; Wanderer will do anything for Jared and Jaimie, Ian will do anything for Wanderer,etc. etc.
2. Take a poetry class. You are very good at describing everything; but add some imagry and the words will stir the reader, more than merely informing them. "Our lids turned black, but not with death. Night had fallen, and this made us sad..." This made us sad? How about "the blackness seeped in under our eyelids and oozed through our body with a chill , knowing that even death would not come quick", something like that.
3. Grow some balls. I am as appreciative as anyone that someone out there can write a bestseller without sex, gross violence, or even the F-word, but seriously, how many raids do they go on, and nobody gets caught? The worst thing that happens is that somebody gets a self-inflicted wound? I think the story would take some interesting turns if bad things happened instead of everyone making it out o.k. What would happen if someone got captured? What if someone betrayed Melanie? What if someone (besides the old and/or fringe characters) actually died? Just saying, a good story could be great by adding some unpleasantness--opposition in all things, and all that.
Like I said, someone who has two books on the bestsellers list right now probably doesn't need any help. Your basic story ideas are fantastic, and you have a gift for writing about emotions. I just think you could be more than a pop writer...
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