Having just finished reading Gerald Clarke's biography of Truman Capote, one cheers his determined rise to successful writer, his individuality, and depth in re-creating characters and atmosphere. And one sympathizes with the lonely
neglected child whose parents left him with eccentric relatives and denigrated him. Luckily he had a loving aunt, a supportive step-father, an inspired English teacher, and others who encouraged his career.
After his tour de force, "In Cold Blood" he flew high in international social circles, which he valued, and no wonder, considering his impoverished background.
The second half of the biography degenerates into a gossip column recounting the changing partners of those in high society and literary circles, including Capote's own homosexual partners. Writing takes second place to social adventuring and Capote is affected by the aimless society in which he circulates. He becomes a victim of alcoholism and drug addiction, his judgement wanes, and reason loses out to sexual passion. His choice of unworthy partners leads to his humiliation and degradation, as his addictions lead to his death. He reminds one of the hero of Maugham's "Of Human Bondage" who falls for an unpleasant, uncultured and unworthy woman, and allows himself to suffer for this misdirected passion. For someone with such taste and sensitivity as Truman Capote to wallow among the crude and brutal seems incredible - as if he had been given the love potion which made Titania fall in love with an ass in Midsummer Night's Dream.
Capote's life is like fiction - only a fictional account would provide more weighty reasons for a hero to have such a fall. In life, Capote's character seems never to have fully developed. [But then, look at Clinton, look at Mayor Ford, look even at FDR and JFK - what flaws were theirs!]
Monday, June 2, 2014
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Oh, To Be Free! Concert of Quanda Johnson
The concert last night was an incredible, uplifting, awesome experience.
The range of melodies and texts included fear, love, loss, oppression, happiness, defiance, and longing for freedom.
Quanda Johnson, soprano, based in New York City, has researched the stories of the fugitive African-American slaves who came through the Underground Railroad to Canada and freedom. From the deep sadness of "Lord, How Come Me Here" in which the woman cries, "They treat me so mean, they stole my children away, I wish I was never born," to the defiance of "My soul's been anchored in de Lawd; I'm gwinter pray and never stop, Until I reach de mountain top, My soul's been anchored in de Lawd." Quanda's range was so great, and her voice so powerful, that it seemed as if, should she sing in San Francisco, people would hear her in New York.
The singer is from a middle-class well-educated African American Philadelphian family, trained and experienced in Philadelphia and New York, but surely not immune from the racism which is still pervasive. She has taken on the mission of expressing the experience of the African diaspora, and the survival of African music and thought, in spite of barriers and oppression. The triumph of the songs in rising above heart-breaking and tragic experiences lifts the hearts of the listeners. In spite of all, the African-Americans have made their way to the top of the mountain, and this inspires us all -- to do better at working against oppression, and to be more steadfast in overcoming whatever problems we ourselves face.
The concert showed clearly how important religion was and is to the African Americans. The experience of having no one to turn to, no authority on their side, left them no help but God - Jesus - the Lord.
Even if no help came on this earth, there was assurance that judgement would be meted out - that where bosses, police, the courts and judges failed them, the Eternal Judge's all-seeing eye would provide a just judgement in the final times.
Religion for the oppressed was not just something nice to do on Sundays, not a pat on the back for good deeds, but a last appeal for moral support, recognition of wrongs, and affirmation of value, by a people who had been put down, denigrated, and enslaved by material power, unjust laws, and hostile governments. Higher than local law, higher than the master, and the law which had acquiesced with slavery, was a spiritual power which could judge the oppressed as worthy, and injustice as wrong.
As in Julia Ward Howe's text, when justice catches up with the oppressor, it can be a fearful and terrible judgement:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on."
The range of melodies and texts included fear, love, loss, oppression, happiness, defiance, and longing for freedom.
Quanda Johnson, soprano, based in New York City, has researched the stories of the fugitive African-American slaves who came through the Underground Railroad to Canada and freedom. From the deep sadness of "Lord, How Come Me Here" in which the woman cries, "They treat me so mean, they stole my children away, I wish I was never born," to the defiance of "My soul's been anchored in de Lawd; I'm gwinter pray and never stop, Until I reach de mountain top, My soul's been anchored in de Lawd." Quanda's range was so great, and her voice so powerful, that it seemed as if, should she sing in San Francisco, people would hear her in New York.
The singer is from a middle-class well-educated African American Philadelphian family, trained and experienced in Philadelphia and New York, but surely not immune from the racism which is still pervasive. She has taken on the mission of expressing the experience of the African diaspora, and the survival of African music and thought, in spite of barriers and oppression. The triumph of the songs in rising above heart-breaking and tragic experiences lifts the hearts of the listeners. In spite of all, the African-Americans have made their way to the top of the mountain, and this inspires us all -- to do better at working against oppression, and to be more steadfast in overcoming whatever problems we ourselves face.
The concert showed clearly how important religion was and is to the African Americans. The experience of having no one to turn to, no authority on their side, left them no help but God - Jesus - the Lord.
Even if no help came on this earth, there was assurance that judgement would be meted out - that where bosses, police, the courts and judges failed them, the Eternal Judge's all-seeing eye would provide a just judgement in the final times.
Religion for the oppressed was not just something nice to do on Sundays, not a pat on the back for good deeds, but a last appeal for moral support, recognition of wrongs, and affirmation of value, by a people who had been put down, denigrated, and enslaved by material power, unjust laws, and hostile governments. Higher than local law, higher than the master, and the law which had acquiesced with slavery, was a spiritual power which could judge the oppressed as worthy, and injustice as wrong.
As in Julia Ward Howe's text, when justice catches up with the oppressor, it can be a fearful and terrible judgement:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on."
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
The Boston Marathon
The Boston Marathon – April 21, 2014-04-22
The 2014 Boston Marathon was run under sunny skies and with mild temperatures. An African-American man won the men’s marathon, and a Kenyan woman won the women’s marathon. Four waves of entries, totalling over 36,000 people competed. Large numbers of police, service personnel, and volunteers made the day a safe one, unlike the 2013 Marathon when two Chechen youths with hate for the United States, (although the US had sheltered and educated them when they fled Chechnia,) secretly planted explosives which killed 3 people and injured scores. Quick police work plus citizen cooperation led to finding the two terrorists within days, one being killed in a shoot-out with police (and also being run over by his fleeing brother) and the other caught like a rat in a trap and currently in prison awaiting trial.
This year we celebrated the winning men’s runner, Med Keflezighi – a refugee from Eritrea, who became an American citizen and is the first American in decades to win Boston. And we celebrated Tatyana McFadden, a double amputee, who won the women’s wheelchair marathon. Tatyana as an infant had no legs, and walked on her hands. She was adopted as a baby from a Russian orphanage, and brought up in the U.S. Both winners exemplify how new citizens to the U.S. can thrive and go on to contribute to America. We need to do more to help all refugees and new immigrants to achieve their best as these two winners did.
The 2014 Boston Marathon was run under sunny skies and with mild temperatures. An African-American man won the men’s marathon, and a Kenyan woman won the women’s marathon. Four waves of entries, totalling over 36,000 people competed. Large numbers of police, service personnel, and volunteers made the day a safe one, unlike the 2013 Marathon when two Chechen youths with hate for the United States, (although the US had sheltered and educated them when they fled Chechnia,) secretly planted explosives which killed 3 people and injured scores. Quick police work plus citizen cooperation led to finding the two terrorists within days, one being killed in a shoot-out with police (and also being run over by his fleeing brother) and the other caught like a rat in a trap and currently in prison awaiting trial.
This year we celebrated the winning men’s runner, Med Keflezighi – a refugee from Eritrea, who became an American citizen and is the first American in decades to win Boston. And we celebrated Tatyana McFadden, a double amputee, who won the women’s wheelchair marathon. Tatyana as an infant had no legs, and walked on her hands. She was adopted as a baby from a Russian orphanage, and brought up in the U.S. Both winners exemplify how new citizens to the U.S. can thrive and go on to contribute to America. We need to do more to help all refugees and new immigrants to achieve their best as these two winners did.
Monday, April 7, 2014
A sunny day invited me to go to Bisset Lake Park and walk the bridge trail across Bissett Brook. Recent rains had flooded the low areas on the stream bank.
At first I thought the beaver lodge was flooded as only the top third was above water. Then a movement under the trees showed a brown furry animal motoring through the water, leaving a V shaped wake behind him. When he came to a land barrier he climbed up on the tussock and became a somewhat awkward doughnut shaped animal before taking to the water again. In water, like a well-designed boat his progress was smooth. At his lodge he dove, disappearing in the doorway. So the lodge has not been flooded out.
Met the local councillor on the bridge, the one who pushed for the making of the bridge and continuing the trail. She tells me the beavers have been cutting down trees and making dams upstream and flooding people's yards! Territorial conflict!
A walker tells me that otters have moved in to the beaver lodge, and the two species live together in the duplex! I wonder how they assign space! I don't suppose they share food, as otters like fishie things and frogs, while beavers seem to be vegetarians.
A lonely mallard drake came cruising along, swimming among the trees where in summer would be dry land. His repeated quacks were not answered. For a long time I saw his iridescent green neck flashing as he went his way in the flooded woodland.
At first I thought the beaver lodge was flooded as only the top third was above water. Then a movement under the trees showed a brown furry animal motoring through the water, leaving a V shaped wake behind him. When he came to a land barrier he climbed up on the tussock and became a somewhat awkward doughnut shaped animal before taking to the water again. In water, like a well-designed boat his progress was smooth. At his lodge he dove, disappearing in the doorway. So the lodge has not been flooded out.
Met the local councillor on the bridge, the one who pushed for the making of the bridge and continuing the trail. She tells me the beavers have been cutting down trees and making dams upstream and flooding people's yards! Territorial conflict!
A walker tells me that otters have moved in to the beaver lodge, and the two species live together in the duplex! I wonder how they assign space! I don't suppose they share food, as otters like fishie things and frogs, while beavers seem to be vegetarians.
A lonely mallard drake came cruising along, swimming among the trees where in summer would be dry land. His repeated quacks were not answered. For a long time I saw his iridescent green neck flashing as he went his way in the flooded woodland.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Quaker Poetry Group
Recently I joined an on-line Quaker Poetry Group, to share our poems with eachother and make (constructive) comments. Below is my first submission stimulated by joining the group.
Worcester, Massachusetts, November 22, 1963
That sunny afternoon, as I monitored an exam,
I looked forward to your coming.
Our first date -- dinner that evening.
Your tweed jacket,
The pipe you hadn't learned to smoke,
Your spectacled face -
Just what I wanted.
Through the classroom windows, the sirens screamed.
The students stopped writing.
Why were the police cars tearing up and down
Worcester's main street? A loudspeaker blared
Undecipherable words.
Then: "The President's been shot."
It couldn't be. False rumours?
The world watched, shocked,
Glued to TV screens.
"...taken to the hospital...two priests are with him..."
"The President died at 2 p.m. Eastern Standard Time."
Evening. You came. A private warmth surrounded us.
In the restaurant we were the only customers.
Safe in our personal bubble,
We spoke of the world coming to an end
While we were just beginning.
April 5, 2014
Worcester, Massachusetts, November 22, 1963
That sunny afternoon, as I monitored an exam,
I looked forward to your coming.
Our first date -- dinner that evening.
Your tweed jacket,
The pipe you hadn't learned to smoke,
Your spectacled face -
Just what I wanted.
Through the classroom windows, the sirens screamed.
The students stopped writing.
Why were the police cars tearing up and down
Worcester's main street? A loudspeaker blared
Undecipherable words.
Then: "The President's been shot."
It couldn't be. False rumours?
The world watched, shocked,
Glued to TV screens.
"...taken to the hospital...two priests are with him..."
"The President died at 2 p.m. Eastern Standard Time."
Evening. You came. A private warmth surrounded us.
In the restaurant we were the only customers.
Safe in our personal bubble,
We spoke of the world coming to an end
While we were just beginning.
April 5, 2014
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