Should we be surprised that political matters entered the discussion so trenchantly when we came to discuss E. L. Doctorow’s famous novel Ragtime? It certainly was not what I expected but perhaps I am naive. We did spend much of the evening talking about the literary aspects of the book, the striking style, the pleasure of meeting famous figures from history fictionally presented: JP Morgan, Freud, Houdini, Roosevelt, Ford. Even Evelyn Nesbit, Harry Thaw, and Stanford White, we learned, were historical characters.

We did indeed reread aloud several favorite passages and marveled at how Doctorow could leave behind the terse, journalistic style to pour on the brilliant prose.

And we enjoyed hearing the little-known backstory behind the naming and history of the character of Coalhouse Walker—the character lifted from a 19th century German tale that bore striking resemblances to Doctorow’s character, a feature that raised eyebrows at first until we agreed that the practice is not uncommon in literature.

Still, it was surprising to me to learn that Doctorow’s own progressivist politics were behind so much of the plot. Even more surprising was to hear the charge that “there was nothing historical about the book,” a statement that seemed to the rest of the table as exaggerated in the least.

Evelyn Nesbit, the first sex symbol

But it was more or less agreed upon by the conclusion of the night that the figure of Father symbolized the old world of imperialism, flags and patriotism, and white male privilege. He died emaciated and empty. Mother’s Younger Brother, maker of weapons and bombs, was the 20th century. But Mother and Tateh, the Jewish immigrant she eventually married, represent the new progressive world of rising multiculturalism, feminism, overcoming traditional limitations of class, and of westward movement. Tateh becomes rich by getting in at the beginning of the era of moving pictures and took the new family to California. It becomes apparent that the book is substantially about the transition from the 1800’s to the time of the First World War.

Many other features were observed, too many to annotate here. But one that cannot be overlooked is the significance of the little boy. He sees what no one else sees. He collects cast off things and retrieves them from the trash. He told Houdini to warn Archduke Ferdinand when he saw him. Is he Doctorow himself? Growing up in the early 1900’s, living in Doctorow’s own house in New Rochelle? Almost certainly.

All of this, and the many more lines I could compose about this book, reveal a work of almost unimaginable research formed into a masterful work of genius, with numerous symbols, numerous connections. It is a deeply intricate tapestry.

Doctorow died last July, which is what prompted his appearance at our table. In Ragtime and other novels some of us read, we have found him to be a writer of great skill and imagination.

For next month, we are reading a noir twofer: The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep. And don’t forget the Christmas book exchange.

Educating the majority of the populace about the real experiences of minorities is an issue that is gaining currency in our time in view of the numerous nauseating high-profile cases of police brutality against unarmed blacks, black church burnings throughout the south, racist attitudes on the lips of viable presidential candidates, and also, on the positive side, the rise of writers such as Marlon James, winner of the 2015 Man Booker Award, and Ta-Nahisi Coates, journalist, writer, and activist.

I personally need such education and have been seeking to know and understand the everyday lives of those who do not experience the privilege I have simply because of skin color.

But as they say, be careful what you ask for, or at least be prepared for the story to be more devastating than you expected.

Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man opens with what may be one of the most harrowing and memorable sequences ever put to paper: our nameless hero, beaming with pride and purpose, is to give the commencement speech at his school. But before the “ceremony” he is rounded up with other black men and forced to participate in a Battle Royal for the enjoyment of the white administrators. Summary here cannot do it justice. The abuse and mockery and degradation of the black men in the scene was unlike anything I’ve ever read.

The book goes on to describe his eye-opening experiences at college, his unjust expulsion from the institution, and the months immediately following, again, all scenes that leave the reader gasping for breath unable to put the book down.

The remainder of the book describes his residence in Harlem, his appropriation by the Communist Party, and many subsequent encounters and upheavals.

It was pointed out early, immediately following Jordan’s opening essay, that a major theme of the book was identity: we never know the protagonist’s name, he is mistaken for Reinhart, he is “invisible”. The brotherhood even gives him a new identity.

Noah very helpfully pointed out that southern racism, at least within the 1952 context of the book but certainly ongoing today, is very apparent and obvious. It is seen in language, in laws of segregation, prejudice, inability to get justice or protection from the magistrate, in the poverty and marginalization of black people in general. Northern racism, on the other hand, as portrayed in this book, is more insidious—denying race, denying identity, and suppressing awareness of the centuries-long oppressive black experience which is largely invisible and not understood by whites.

But I cannot finish this entry without hailing the exquisite style and sheer writing brilliance of Ellison that comes out in this book. A fan of symbolism, I personally enjoyed how rich and ubiquitous were his use of clues, cyphers, and symbols. The flow of his narrative was all his own, extremely creative and strikingly original in many sections. What a shot in the arm this book was!

For November the book is Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow.

For December, the winners of the vote were noir two-fer of The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett and The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler.

Nobel Laureate Sinclair Lewis was the author of September’s book, Elmer Gantry, the biting satire of one 1920’s Baptist/Methodist preacher whose overweening ambition for total self-glorification and disregard for the people whose lives he must crush under his heel to rise to stardom is told in a very humorous, and in many ways very accurate and perceptive tale.

It is quite telling however, as someone pointed out at the meeting, that we talked less about Elmer Gantry than about the many other characters in the book. Gantry himself was such a cartoon character, that his bombastic and crass ways became a sideshow while many of the other characters were more three-dimensional and interesting to consider.

We were hard pressed to name one character who was positive, although most at least found Sharon Falconer to be a favorite even if she was a nutcase herself. Frank Shallard, plagued with doubts, at least was not a hypocrite like so many of the other clergy in the book; he was just weak. AND, he got the shit beat out of him, which was actually a very gripping, dramatic scene.

Discussion hovered for a while over whether Father Pengilly, in view of his discourse with Shallard, was not the most authentic Christian in the book. He made some very strong faith statements that were completely free of cynicism and personal ambition, declaring boldly that Jesus Christ is different and the real deal. However, some felt that his message was compromised by over-influence from the social gospel movement popular at the time of the writing.

I feel constrained to record my own observation that the so-called Christianity portrayed in the book was unrecognizable to any Christian at the table, in that it was rank moralism, which is actually the antithesis of Christianity. It is a valid question whether Lewis, in writing a satire, was obliged to give any credence to the actual Christian message, Christian people, or authentically Christian institutions. But for those at the table who enjoyed the book while feeling constantly unsettled by it, I think this is the locus of our discomfort: our institution may be flawed and full of idiots, but it seems disingenuous to criticize by portraying one’s opponent in terms that the opponent would not recognize.

Finally, there was the obligatory discussion about whether this book can be considered “great literature,” a discussion which seemed not to go anywhere, except to say, it’s not Dostoyevsky. Joe asked if the book “rises about the level of taking shots at the silos of Christianity in this country.” And it is agreed that there is a generally low opinion of Christians in the book.

But, having read Wendell Berry some months ago, I guess everybody gets their turn.

The book for November was my proposal, Ragtime, by the late E. L. Doctorow.

Since it has been a busy summer and I’ve gotten behind, this blog entry will have to cover the last two books we have read at Athenaeum.

David Copperfield was the book for May (June 13th meeting). Noted to be Dickens’s own favorite novel of his canon, this book was lengthy and it is easy to imagine how an author can become enamored with characters that he spends so much time thinking and writing about.

The group opinion was somewhat predictably divided along party lines. Some (I can’t remember who else besides Tony) were not pleased with the book, feeling that it was longer than necessary and kept us in Dickens’s sentimental and peculiar world for too long. In short, it was too Dickensian—the all-too-convenient resolutions to hard problems, chance encounters between key characters as if London only had a population of about 150, elaborate Victorian prose, etc.

Most agreed, however, that if these idiosyncrasies can be overlooked and the book read from the perspective of a 19th century reader, then the story itself was heart-warming, it contained many wise and memorable phrases, the characters were usually delightful, and it touched on many important societal themes. And it is left to the tastes of each reader whether they enjoyed the elaborate English narrative prose.

The book for July’s meeting was The Radicalism of the American Revolution. This book generally enjoyed favor with the group, although the opinion prevailed that the last third of the book was the most interesting.

Some of the topics discussed include:

• Did Wood prove his point?
• What were some differences between the American and French revolutions?
• Too little about slavery
• Washington’s concern for his own reputation
• How the American Revolution and the years surrounding it are a classical example of the law of unintended consequences.

Most attendees where thankful to have read the book and felt they learned a great deal.

The next book (for this coming Saturday’s meeting) is The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius, followed in September by Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis.

The book is Midnight’s Children, by Salman Rushdie.

I should have written this post when the book was fresher in my mind. Though it probably wouldn’t have made much difference. The book was lengthy, and so densely packed in every sentence with outlandish imagery, with so many characters, and stretching over three generations to boot, that I can never do it justice in a summary blog post like this one.

I shan’t even try to describe it here except to say that it was one of the most universally enjoyed and praised books that the Austin Athenaeum has ever read. The book rightly received the awards it received, and launched Rushdie into literary stardom in 1981.

Winner of the Man Booker Award, and then the “Booker of Bookers,” Midnight’s Children is the story of the Sinai family during The Partition of India in 1947, beginning with the narrator’s grandfather and telling a story full of magical realism which is highly complex although apparently masterfully planned in every detail as dozens of references continually reappear from beginning to end.

None of us could remember coming to the table with as much enthusiasm for a book in a long time.

We met in Randy’s company warehouse and brought in about 8 pizzas, and several coolers of beer. We enjoyed the peacefulness, the freedom to drink whiskey we’d brought if we wanted without waiters giving us shit about it. And it was only a little warmer than would be ideal. Comments in emails sent in the following days however expressed wistfully the loss of being out in the community, chance conversations, the buzz of a venue. We will continue to consider where we will settle.

The vote for July’s book was Gordon Wood’s The Radicalism of the American Revolution, a Pulitzer winner, and a copy of which Randy bequeathed to everyone present at the December meeting as a gift.

[Many thanks to Eli, who graciously offered to compose this write-up of the April meeting in my absence. Tony’s opening essay is available in the left margin of this page as usual. -Jeffrey]

The men of Athenaeum met once again at Radio Coffee & Beer to discuss the merits of Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta. The first and unavoidable observation made by most is that Marlowe is no Shakespeare. The point was made over and over, to the annoyance of some, and the defenders of Marlowe are right in their assertion that The Jew of Malta is not without it’s own merit. But no matter how talented a writer may be, to write plays in the Elizabethan era in London is to write in a shadow.

Much was said of Barabbas’ commitment to selfishness and evil. Many noted that Machiavelli opened the action of the play, and Barabbas picked up his baton and carried it with calculated and brutal effect until his own end in a boiling vat of pitch. The government of Malta committed the original perfidy when they confiscated all of Barabbas’ wealth to pay tribute to the Turks. Barabbas then turns all of his energies to reclaiming this wealth, and revenging their misdeed. Murders abound in the story, including a convent full of nuns and Barabbas’ own daughter. As the play carries forward it seems everyone who comes in contact with Barabbas ends up dead with a single line and turn of the page (the clumsiness of the “flow” of the narrative was oft pointed out.) Other characters like the slave Ithamore, the prostitute Bellamira and her pimp/thug Pilia-Borza, and Calymath the Turk seem to be clawing their way through the plot trying to one-up the other, only to succumb to Barabbas’ vengeance. Even the friars lack decency. It’s a free for all, where the most sinister man wins.

The table also fell into a discussion of whether Marlowe was anti-Semitic. And the general consensus is that The Jew of Malta is certainly anti-Semitic. But one outstanding point was made, that at the time Marlowe published in the 1580s Judaism had been outlawed in England for at least 200 years, and that Marlowe had probably never met a Jew. So it surprised none that the stereotype of the money-grubbing and sinister Jew would be laid so thick upon Barabbas, and that probably did not discount The Jew of Malta as a legitimate work of literature in its time. Marlowe was simply playing to his audience, all of whom were in the same fog of ignorance as the author. This doesn’t make it right, but if we trim off every work of literature throughout history that looks awkward when viewed through the lens of 21st century sensibilities, our reading list would be quite small.

As always the discussion was lively, the weather was perfect, the brews and ‘baccy delicious, but most important was the fellowship around the table. If there was a downside to the evening it was the intolerably loud music, and so when we next meet to discuss Midnight’s Children it will be at a different place.

At the evening’s close the winning vote was cast for Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield.

Adeiu~

[UPDATE: Randy has volunteered his business facility to host the next meeting. Bring a six-pack or a bottle of hooch, and get some to-go cuisine, and we’ll have a great and PEACEFUL meeting. I wont post the address here for security reasons. Members should have it in an email.]

Willa Cather’s lovely book titled Death Comes for the Archbishop was universally appreciated by the group for its vivid details and even-keeled style, which we were told was the effect attempted by Cather in her desire to write in the mode of the American legend.

The story follows the life of Father Jean Marie Latour, newly appointed bishop of the New Mexico territory circa 1850, and his vicar Joseph Vaillant as they emigrate from France and set up their ministry in the wild desert region.

The book reads like a story reaching for the broadest audience of mostly readers to the east who have heard with fascination the tales of Kit Carson, the American Indians, and the frontier. The pacing is steady, and each episode of their adventures is largely encapsulated chapter by chapter.

One cannot help being charmed and inspired by Latour and his vicar by the end of the book, and his passing at the end is the closing of a warm and eventful life visited by perils, challenges, and occasionally the miraculous.

I will only add, since I write this blog, that I found the book best suited to readers of a milder constitution as the perils were quickly resolved and the reader is not taken very far afield either emotionally or in the literary terms of structure, vocabulary, or plot. Her intention of writing in the legend-style was effective, but undemanding.

The meeting was again at Radio Coffee Bar, and the vote to continue in that venue was overwhelming.

The book for April is Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta and the book for May after a 3-way runoff vote will be Midnight’s Children by Salmon Rushdie.

About 30% of the time, the members of Athenaeum gather on that much-anticipated 2nd Saturday night murmuring as they come to the table that they do not expect the book to sustain two and a half hours of discussion.

Sometimes the grumbling is worse: are we going to end up spending the entire time trashing the book? Surely the others did not enjoy the book either. What a shame. This meeting is going to send us away without that usual magic and thrill that comes when like-minded souls rejoice at each other’s brilliant observations, experience the undergirding power of hearty fellowship, savor the golden apples of well-placed words.

The meeting for The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin had just such a prelude.

This was odd considering that this book won the Nebula, Hugo, and Locus Awards, and “has achieved a degree of literary recognition unusual for science fiction”¹ for its engagement with serious and complex themes. However, Noah’s opening essay, which all of us would have done well to have read going into the book, whet our appetites for a good discussion and like the rising sun cleared away much of the fog.

And indeed, discussion was lively, though it did still center on the many criticisms leveled against the book: that there were few characters with whom the reader could sympathize (perhaps only the train conductor or Shevek’s servant Efor), that it contained several appalling misrepresentations of human nature, that the aspects of human parental/marital relationships on the planet Annares were fatuous, that the purpose of the pivotal sex scene seemed obscure (it was suggested that it showed the culture clash between Urrasti and Annarasti mores of sexuality), and finally that all the universe of characters were cardboard, one-dimensional.

Nevertheless, (and this is what makes Athenaeum such a delight to all), rousing conversation was easily sustained throughout the night. We debated the feasibility of her worlds, governments, and economies. We learned something about the Taoism that provides her own framework for writing. We discussed whether the forceful “out of the gate” criticisms were (in my own terms) a failure of the imagination to allow suspension of disbelief in the face of a foreign way of life which has none of the history and assumptions of our world.

Conclusion: while Le Guin deserves credit for creating worlds that were not over-simplified and idealized, while we appreciated her not offering a simple utopian vision of a personal agenda, the book received a generally luke warm reception due to its long passages of tiresome description, lack of pace, relational interactions that were hard to swallow, seeming contradictions, and other things.

John’s final contribution is worth recording: part of the weakness of science fiction stems from its complete removal from our own time and place. What makes great books great is the real world history and culture that a reader brings to a novel set in a real historical period. Novels set in the real world create infinite cognitive connections with our own knowledge and experience of the world, making a well-written novel deeply satisfying for striking many resonant chords already in our souls. Science fiction must create all the terrain, all the history and backstory, sometimes even the language, dress, morals, music etc. from scratch. And thus what it gains in the freedom to speculate and dream is matched by what is lost by the foreignness to the reader.

The next book is Willa Cather’s Death Comes For The Archbishop.

The book for April, after a runoff against Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, is Christopher Marlow’s 16th century play The Jew of Malta, proposed by Tony.

1. Wikipedia contributors, “The Dispossessed,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=The_Dispossessed&oldid=636214650 (accessed February 15, 2015).

I had heard of Don Delillo for some time as one of the top living American authors, but had not read anything of his until White Noise.

Though we are told that this book is not necessarily representative of his style, that he has other novels written in an entirely different voice and manner and mood, White Noise made Delillo fans of almost all the Athenaeum group.

White Noise reads a lot like Walker Percy with its quirky, dryly humorous style, and delightful wit. And in this style he weaves a story that touches on the subject of death on every page, lampooning simultaneously the inanities of modern life, our domination by commercialism, media, and marketing. We got the distinct impression that there was much in the book that would reward multiple readings, which is something of a benchmark of a good book by Athenaeum standards.

The story follows a year or so in the lives of Jack and Babette Gladney with their children Heinrich, Steffie, Denise and Wilder, with favorite characters Murray Jay Siskind, a fellow university professor, and Winnie Richards, the lanky, mysterious chemist. They are an ostensibly normal American family. Their town undergoes the “Airborne Toxic Event” and other death-dealing events, each of which has the effect of bringing characters out of their consumer-commercial malaise to suddenly appreciate things like sunsets with a new, blissful poignancy.

The February book is The Disposessed by Ursula K. Le Guin. I write this post on the Saturday of Athenaeum as a matter of fact, so we discuss LaGuin tonight at Radio Coffee & Beer.

The book for the March meeting is Willa Cather’s Death Comes For The Archbishop.