u/willardTheMighty

Dylan’s Apollonian, annus mirabilis 1965 trio of albums were written to be listened to after nuclear apocalypse. At the height of the Cold War, he was documenting what civilization looked and felt like, for the benefit of wasteland generations to come.

All the imagery in those songs herald destruction. Those lines were written to be in the mouths of survivors so they could have a connection to what came before and make sense of where they were to stand. He was decidedly not writing for Billboard or for TIME Magazine, which is why he was invariably dismissive of the media. He was writing about the eschaton, the true Geist of the early ’60s. It’s insane that we are listening to those lines on Spotify instead of from vinyls found in the rubble.

Dylan is like the anti-Trump. Two octogenarians*, each having played a character for so long that it's unclear what lies below. Both of them are so opaque one day then so transparent the next. One is our nation's most important poet, the other is our nation's most important politician. When I watch Dylan sing like in the video linked above, I see the same crooner kind of performativity that I also see in Trump. Both openly confess that they are giving performances, and they both put their full hearts in it.

*Both born in the 1940s, shaped by the same culture and society and politics, one from the working class Midwest and one from the billionaire class of New York City. And both called New York City home from 1961-1966, which were some of the most influential years of 20th century culture and politics.

If you think he has, get off your high horse.
Empire Burlesque bangs.

Am I correct in understanding that African history has been dominated by tribal cultures more than it has by national ones, and so the arts are a bit more balkanized there? What classics are available that record the experience of millions of people down there in and below the Sahara? I was reading the Zhuangzi (a book from Ancient China), and realized that I don't know the titles of any works from ancient Africa. I was specifically thinking of precolonial literature. We may also discuss what great responses to colonialism exist in African literature. Someone recommended Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart to me. I also enjoyed the African-American story Roots by Alex Haley.

Zhuangzi writes, “When we walk we should not know where we are going. When we stop to take our rest, we should not know what we will do to entertain ourselves. When we eat, we should not know what our food tastes like.” When I heard this in my audiobook, it immediately struck a chord. Before I knew what I was doing, I had reached out and paused the book. I repeated the words in my mind, and soon came to the conclusion that Mr. Zhuang was describing the very best life indeed. 

I watched Ryan Fox's final-round highlights in the British Open Golf Tournament, which was played today, and witnessed the crucial strokes of his winning performance. He finished ten strokes under par and secured the Claret Jug. The highlight video closed with footage of Mr. Fox being announced the winner, emerging from the crowd, and strolling along a barricade toward the open space where he was to be given his trophy. Perpendicular to the barricade stood two lines of men clapping for the champion, presumably his competitors or perhaps organizers of the tournament. He reached the point along his route which, upon turning ninety degrees to his left, delivered him down the mouth of this cheering gauntlet, straight down to the podium. I noticed that there was one woman in this thin, applauding crowd. She seemed to be playing the role of usher or guide; she stood with her back to the waist-high barricade, leaning against it, in line with the second row of men, and when Fox approached, he found her directly in his path. I believe they shared a smile and nod as this woman extended her right arm out toward the open space between the rows of men, inviting Fox to walk down the aisle and enjoy the distinction he had earned by winning the Open. Fox obliged. He did not break his stride as he executed this radiused turn; the expression on his face did not change from the warm and humble smile of a gracious winner. The usher or guide woman watched him go, clapped her hands for a moment, then leaned back against them on the waist-high barricade after her job was done.

It occurred to me that Fox likely did not need to be ushered down the aisle. Ryan Fox has played in the British Open nine times, and has surely witnessed this ceremony before. The aisle led directly toward the man down the slope who had just spoken his name to the crowd, and the two rows of clapping men were the only feature of the path along the barricade that Fox was going to meet. That is to say, anyone with the smallest modicum of situational awareness would be unable to pass by the aisle, even if no usher or guide was stationed in his path to extend her arm down the aisle and indicate his way. However, it struck me as right that the Open should have this guide here. I thought of Zhuangzi's ideal man, who would ideally find himself walking along the barricade with no clue of where he was going.

Zhuangzi's ideal man would be at risk of strolling right past the assembled cheerers, gazing perhaps to his right over the exuberant crowd, interested in what he sees there, or else straight ahead over the rolling green linksland, perhaps focused on some distant glimpse of the sea. If the Open felt that they should insist that Fox descend the knoll and accept the Claret Jug—that they should detain him instead of leaving him to his reverie—this would necessitate an awkward calling of his name by the men who were standing there clapping, and hurried conversations and inelegant points and waves down toward the podium, and probably a bit of wrestling to ensure that the champion return all the way to the mouth of the aisle and walk along its entire length, as was choreographed months before anyone knew it would be Fox walking down the aisle, and enjoy the full contrived experience of walking between these adulators.

It was well that the Open stationed a guide in his path. With a smile, a nod, and an elegant wave, she guarantees that even a man with no measure of situational awareness at all, as long as he has eyes to take her in and a nervous system which can process what he is seeing, will be unable to proceed along any course of action except to find her there as a friendly face; to follow with his eyes the direction indicated by her outstretched arm; to follow his eyes with his feet, as an animal always will, especially when what it sees is a wide, straight path which brooks no doubt about how to proceed, and especially when he is treated along both sides with the privilege of smiling attention from dozens of his peers, and especially when so clearly defined a goal as the commissioner's podium sits at the end of this course, complete with a shiny object whose flash in the sun appeals to the most basal element of the animal's mind, that element which is most fundamental to vision and which first learned to appreciate such iridescence as the flash of sunlight against the oily corpus of some antique proto-mite, the successful predation of which would spell the difference between life and death. The ceremony is transformed from a contrivance into a confluence when care is taken to account for one so dumb as Zhuangzi's ideal man. That is, in other words: Zhuangzi's ideal man is not capable of living in contrivance, but only within the confluence of his dao and its de. 

Last year I read Infinite Jest and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Since then, I've read The Pale King, Oblivion, Consider the Lobster, and some more short pieces here and there. I've come to love Mr. Wallace's style and scope. What are your thoughts on his work and legacy?

Pale as in dead

King as in best writer of his generation

I have nearly finished reading The Pale King. I read Infinite Jest six or seven months ago, and I enjoyed it so much. I'm glad I read IJ before TPK because the latter feels like Wallace's more mature novel (which is to be expected, considering he was a decade older writing it), and IJ gave a full and complete primer for how Wallace engages with novel-writing.

The Pale King feels like the beginning or one section of a story which involves some sinister happenings at the Midwest R.E.C. in 1985. All the characters are making their way there, and, like the journey to the Convexity with Don Gately and Hal and Joelle in Infinite Jest, the big events and plot points don't happen on-page. Wallace shows that you don't need to have them occur on the page. Wallace shows that plot is subordinate to theme. Unlike the plot, the themes of this book are introduced, developed, and completed. They follow a full and fulfilling arc, and now I am near the end and am grateful for the experience Wallace has led me on exploring these ideas.

The dozens of vignettes scattered throughout the novel come together to provide a multifaceted exploration of the same few memes. Wallace doesn't try to hide the themes: he puts them in the mouths (or internal monologues) of various characters and narrators.

1. Citizens in contemporary America have outsourced their morality to the government, and believe that following the law is the best way to be a good person.
2. You can achieve anything in contemporary America if you are capable of enduring boredom.

These are two major metaphysical objects that I think Wallace was exploring. The depth of the discussion surrounding the first point in the stuck-in-the-elevator chapter really struck me, and I saw Wallace being super sincere through the mouth of Glendenning. Is it explored other places through the novel? Well, consider "Irrelevant" Chris Fogle's father's career scrutinizing fine print of city liability contracts, work the type of which eventually renders his family unable to reasonably seek recompense for his wrongful death. Every litigant demonstrated how loopholes in the law free them from liability; everyone follows the law but no one does the right thing.

And then the second point of course is perhaps the central theme. I love how he explores this theme in "Backbone:" the kid believes he can do the impossible, and the "work" involved is sitting in one strained position for hours, days, weeks, months, years.

I'm just scratching the surface to try to show you how I am seeing these themes explored. I'd say there are more themes, given more glancing treatment. But they all serve the same tone, pacing, progress... and they all serve the large themes... I am very curious what the actual plot is involving the excitement at the REC. I will have to read the last few subsections and see what more detail I can glean.

He shows up on a job site and asks the foreman, a gruff old Irish fella, if they need an additional laborer. The foreman says, “You probably wouldn’t be much help. Do you even know the difference between a joist and a girder?”

The lad stops to think, then says, “Of course I do. One wrote Ulysses and the other wrote Faust.”