I mentioned in my recent post I should us this space to explain -- mainly for my own sake -- why I'm an atheist. It's no simple, single thing. I want to write on each and examine each in turn. Doing that will take a few posts, at least. And, each post will take some time and thought to complete.
Before I do, I want to write on something simpler. One of the more common concerns atheists hear is that they (we) are smug. That we're know-it-alls, rude, and son on. Lots of people have written on this, and there's little I could hope to add to any larger conversation in my small corner here.
I don't aim to be a smug know-it-all. I don't know it all. My thinking that there is no god isn't a matter of certainty, but one of skepticism. For a bunch of reasons, I'm not convinced supernatural things exist, nor do we have need for them.
I have no bone to pick with religious people. I'm surrounded by them, many in my own family and friends. I spent my adult life until now largely hiding I'm an atheist so that I wouldn't hurt those people. That really was the main reason.
Recently, I felt the stress of hiding my own thoughts wasn't worth it. I still care what those people in my life think about this. I don't want them to feel insulted, nor do I want them to worry about me. I want them included, not excluded. I'd be happy to discuss things with them, but I dread any arguments or passive aggression.
In that abstract -- that is, looking beyond myself and people I know personally -- it may be that atheists can't overcome this critique about smugness. What I detect out of critiques that atheists are hard-hearted and smug is a sense of incredulity rooted in faith. How could any person question the great vastness of god and the universe? Just who do atheists think they are? How dare they?
In other words, from their perspective, the smugness is all about -- for them -- the given that there is a higher power. To question it is to assault heaven in some way, and good folks shouldn't do that.
It's at points like these that atheists and theists clash head on. It's a point where there is no even ground. Either one believes there is some kind of higher power, and therefore questioning that is hubristic and smug. Or, one thinks there is no such power, and discussing it with others is no affront, no big deal. For these points, I have no easy answer. I know what I think about it. I know what I would talk about. But, I see no way that conversation works out short of a conversion of one kind or another!
So, I don't aim for smug. I aim for starting out thoughtfully, and hoping my counterparts would credit me enough to have a conversation rather than a clash.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Junior choir in hell
To steal a line from my favorite college professor, I'm a retired Methodist. It's a good line. I've used it before. Prior to that, I was a pressed-gang Methodist, which included a steady dose of sunday school, church and the one thing I dreaded most, "junior choir."
Junior choir was a weekly exercise in singing saccharine songs about Jesus without really thinking about it. I have no idea what we sang, really. All kinds of traditional and then-modern catchy tunes about Noah and the first Christmas and give God the glory, glory. (Oh, man, do I ever hate that song.)
We had choir practice every wednesday after school right across the stret at the Methodist church. One of my best pals was Casey, and Casey's mom, Marilyn, was choir director, which made it tolerable. She ran my home town's equivalent of the Brady Bunch, and, man, did she ever know how to keep a few dozen kids in line. She's a miraculous woman. She ran a tight ship, and she genuinely cared about a bunch of kids who mostly wanted to be somewhere else. We liked her for it. I liked her plenty, even if she did yell my full name and kick me out of practice once or twice for talking too much. Getting kicked out one time meant my own mother got so pissed she whipped my thighs with the wire end of a fly swatter. Not exactly a recipe for loving the lord. (Don't worry -- she's a great mom. Kids are nutty.)
I don't know what all the grown ups thought about us in junior choir. Mostly, I think all the moms liked to hear their kids sing anything. Now that I'm a parent, I'm suspect part of it was also getting kids out of the moms' houses for a while.
What were we supposed to think about choir? I don't know. This is the stuff I thought about:
1. I can't wait until sixth grade is over so I don't have to be in junior choir anymore. What? They thought up youth choir for junior high and high school kids? Damn it!
2. When is practice over so I can get a couple of old Brach's candies from Marilyn's candy basket that she keeps in the room behind the organ? The Neopolitan coconut ones are pretty good. Who knew? Plus, maybe I can go home with Casey and Marilyn and we can ride the 4-wheeler around the farm!
3. Why does my mom force me to miss the Wednesday episode of the G.I. Joe cartoon miniseries EVERY TIME? I still haven't seen what happens in the underwater battle with the giant tube worm things or when Snake Eyes gets lost in the northern wilderness. This is bullshit!
Here are things I never once thought:
1. You know, this is a really great lesson that I should probably respect my mother and father more.
2. Singing these goofy songs about Jesus is really great. I can't wait to sing on Sunday!
3. You know, these orange choir robe pull-over ponchos make us look like safety cones, but I at least they're pretty much one size fits all!
On Sundays, we had to put on those horrendous orange ponchos and sit as a group in the front three pews. We routinely made all kinds of aerodynamic innovations folding up our church bulletins into paper airplanes and throwing stars. I had a flat-wing design I stole out of a book at school that looked like a prototype stealth bomber. But, any test flights of same were sorely frowned upon.
Those bulletins were a life saver. Not only did they act as an painfully slow checklist reminder for when we could get out of there, we also used them to play hangman and that little game where you each draw one line on a grid to make squares and then put your initial in the squares you complete.
We choir brats sat through about half of church, got up and sang some songs, and then scattered among the congregation to sit with friends or family. Some of us poor schmucks got roped into handing out the offering plate or lighting and snuffing out the candles.
If the intent was to get some of those songs and sermons to stick, it didn't take with me.
The thing that gets me now is how in the world I thought church was somehow insincere back then? I mean, I didn't know much. It'd be easy to chalk it up to being a dumb, selfish kid. Ok, I probably was that. But, it all felt so phony to me, and it still does.
There's sincerity neslted in there, too. Mainly it comes from people in towns becoming friends with church as a mixing tank. But, the minute anyone starts talking about the second coming or sin or forgiveness, I'm headed for the exit for somewhere that has better music.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
My life as a godless heathen!
I'm an atheist. That isn't too hard to write. For a long time, it wasn't too hard to be one, either. I did it quietly. Very quietly. But, then again, no one asked much, either. In fact, they still don't.
But, the other day, my wife came home from a "girls night" with her aunts and cousins. They're a chatty bunch, and somehow the conversation came round to just that question -- what do you believe? I think with some egging on from her sassy older sister, my wife had no fear sharing with the other ladies that she, too, is an atheist.
Her mother was slightly aghast. A couple of her aunts just seemed amazed and ask some basic, earnest questions like "So what do you think happens when you die?" My wife replied, "Nothing. That's it." My impression? They either never had "met" someone like that, or never considered the idea much at all.
Somewhere along the line of questioning, my wife earned a wink and a nudge from another one of the ladies. The biggest shock of the situation seemed to be the ladies' realization that our two children aren't baptized, but there wasn't any fight. Just a little tut-tutting, maybe.
And that was that. I'm sure it's still bothering my mother-in-law some. For one, I hear she was much relieved to know that the sassy sister-in-law is "just" an agnostic, and might still believe in something.
All told, it was a low-drama coming out event. Considering the cast, no strangers to family dramas, that's a pretty good outcome.
Then there's my side of the family. It's a great family. Nothing to complain about. We get along. Pretty typical Midwest, middle class stuff. If they knew I was an atheist (some probably realize already), my hunch is that wouldn't change much. If anything, it'd make them act weird about it -- say, worrying about what I think at Christmas (we celebrate it pretty normally), or praying at a Sunday dinner at mom's.
My brother-in-law became a Methodist minister a few years ago, and my sister is very active in the church, along with their kids. He baptized many of my nieces and nephews. I've known them forever. Me and the brother-in-law, along with my brothers and dad, still joke around with jokes that'd make most ministers blush. My sister's very caring. It's all very pleasant.
Of course, it also means the level of religious observances ratchets up, doesn't it? Every summer, my sister tries to recruit my kids for a church camp she's been active with for years (in fact, that's where she met the minister brother-in-law). It's about the only awkward moment of prosetylization my wife and I deal with, aside from the occasional Bible school invites our children get from well-meaning friends (which is to say friends' moms, of course). My line these days is a polite decline, maybe an excuse that my daughter has plans for another camp, which is true. What I'm afraid to say is "That's not the right thing for our kids, and I don't think the preaching that goes on at those events is right for such young minds."
My wife is braver about these things than me. I think she's had fewer odd ball religious encounters than me, too, but she's still braver and more honest. I know it bothers her. Not the atheism -- not much chance she'll change there, I think. I mean the fear bothers her. She probably doesn't think of it in those terms -- that it's fear keeping us from making friends like our church-going neighbors do. We talk about it -- that our beliefs and values contribute to a shallower pool of social contacts. We're conscious of this, and she watches acquaintances share strong relationships largely because they met at church and participate in events together. We know our children will have less social activity and cultural know-how than I did growing up going to church on Sundays and taking part in youth group events.
The other day, she decided to do something about that. She went to an introductory meeting with the local free-thinkers and atheists group. And, I ranted like an idiot about how that didn't seem like the right solution, and that defining oneself by lack of belief in something seemed an odd thing to do.
But, I'm glad she went. I'm glad even if she never goes again. Like I said, she's braver than I am, and I'm happy about that. In less than a month, my wife did more than I've done in a lifetime in regards to our shared values.
So, it got me thinking. And, I realized a few things.
For one, I've never really done a good job explaining -- even to myself -- just why it is I'm an atheist. I really need to do that. This is a good space to do it in.
Second, there really is danger out there for openly atheist people. Families disintegrate over this stuff. People get harassed or threatened. But that's far from my front door, or even my family's. Why am I hiding? For safety's sake? For shame? These are terrible reasons.
And, finally, I might actually find some friends out there in the wide world. Maybe they're even nearby.
So, I don't believe in any god. I don't believe morality comes from god or the Bible or supernatural sources, but it does come from the good behaviors and minds of human beings. There is no life after death, and this is nothing to fear. Prayer doesn't work, but good thoughts certainly are nice. I have no supernatural soul. I am not born tarnished and in need of redemption. All things don't happen for a reason. I'll never see loved ones who've died before me again. I have memories of them, though, and I love that. I may lose those memories someday, and that's just ok, too. Sometimes life is improbably sublime, sometimes it's not.
Right now, thinking about a new year ahead, life's pretty good.
But, the other day, my wife came home from a "girls night" with her aunts and cousins. They're a chatty bunch, and somehow the conversation came round to just that question -- what do you believe? I think with some egging on from her sassy older sister, my wife had no fear sharing with the other ladies that she, too, is an atheist.
Her mother was slightly aghast. A couple of her aunts just seemed amazed and ask some basic, earnest questions like "So what do you think happens when you die?" My wife replied, "Nothing. That's it." My impression? They either never had "met" someone like that, or never considered the idea much at all.
Somewhere along the line of questioning, my wife earned a wink and a nudge from another one of the ladies. The biggest shock of the situation seemed to be the ladies' realization that our two children aren't baptized, but there wasn't any fight. Just a little tut-tutting, maybe.
And that was that. I'm sure it's still bothering my mother-in-law some. For one, I hear she was much relieved to know that the sassy sister-in-law is "just" an agnostic, and might still believe in something.
All told, it was a low-drama coming out event. Considering the cast, no strangers to family dramas, that's a pretty good outcome.
Then there's my side of the family. It's a great family. Nothing to complain about. We get along. Pretty typical Midwest, middle class stuff. If they knew I was an atheist (some probably realize already), my hunch is that wouldn't change much. If anything, it'd make them act weird about it -- say, worrying about what I think at Christmas (we celebrate it pretty normally), or praying at a Sunday dinner at mom's.
My brother-in-law became a Methodist minister a few years ago, and my sister is very active in the church, along with their kids. He baptized many of my nieces and nephews. I've known them forever. Me and the brother-in-law, along with my brothers and dad, still joke around with jokes that'd make most ministers blush. My sister's very caring. It's all very pleasant.
Of course, it also means the level of religious observances ratchets up, doesn't it? Every summer, my sister tries to recruit my kids for a church camp she's been active with for years (in fact, that's where she met the minister brother-in-law). It's about the only awkward moment of prosetylization my wife and I deal with, aside from the occasional Bible school invites our children get from well-meaning friends (which is to say friends' moms, of course). My line these days is a polite decline, maybe an excuse that my daughter has plans for another camp, which is true. What I'm afraid to say is "That's not the right thing for our kids, and I don't think the preaching that goes on at those events is right for such young minds."
My wife is braver about these things than me. I think she's had fewer odd ball religious encounters than me, too, but she's still braver and more honest. I know it bothers her. Not the atheism -- not much chance she'll change there, I think. I mean the fear bothers her. She probably doesn't think of it in those terms -- that it's fear keeping us from making friends like our church-going neighbors do. We talk about it -- that our beliefs and values contribute to a shallower pool of social contacts. We're conscious of this, and she watches acquaintances share strong relationships largely because they met at church and participate in events together. We know our children will have less social activity and cultural know-how than I did growing up going to church on Sundays and taking part in youth group events.
The other day, she decided to do something about that. She went to an introductory meeting with the local free-thinkers and atheists group. And, I ranted like an idiot about how that didn't seem like the right solution, and that defining oneself by lack of belief in something seemed an odd thing to do.
But, I'm glad she went. I'm glad even if she never goes again. Like I said, she's braver than I am, and I'm happy about that. In less than a month, my wife did more than I've done in a lifetime in regards to our shared values.
So, it got me thinking. And, I realized a few things.
For one, I've never really done a good job explaining -- even to myself -- just why it is I'm an atheist. I really need to do that. This is a good space to do it in.
Second, there really is danger out there for openly atheist people. Families disintegrate over this stuff. People get harassed or threatened. But that's far from my front door, or even my family's. Why am I hiding? For safety's sake? For shame? These are terrible reasons.
And, finally, I might actually find some friends out there in the wide world. Maybe they're even nearby.
So, I don't believe in any god. I don't believe morality comes from god or the Bible or supernatural sources, but it does come from the good behaviors and minds of human beings. There is no life after death, and this is nothing to fear. Prayer doesn't work, but good thoughts certainly are nice. I have no supernatural soul. I am not born tarnished and in need of redemption. All things don't happen for a reason. I'll never see loved ones who've died before me again. I have memories of them, though, and I love that. I may lose those memories someday, and that's just ok, too. Sometimes life is improbably sublime, sometimes it's not.
Right now, thinking about a new year ahead, life's pretty good.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Book Review: The King's Gold by Arturo Perez Reverte
This summer, I studied in Italy for two-weeks. On the weekend, a classmate and I visited the Cinque Terre by train. It's a wondrous place that even great pictures can't do justice:
The northernmost town of the Cinque Terre is Monterosso al Mare, a Mediterranean resort town. While we wandered the ristorantes and hotels, I searched for something to read on the long train ride back to Asolo. I checked one news shop, then another. In a last-ditch effort, I scanned a beach-front store with a small shelf of English language books. Tucked in the far corner I discovered The King's Gold by Arturo Perez Reverte, the fourth novel in the Captain Alatriste series, which I adore.
So, I had a bizarrely continental experience reading an English translation of a Spanish adventure novel while travelling by train in Italy. It was a comfort on a lonely train ride back through the Italian countryside and industry towns.
The book reads rapidly. It's a scoundrel's adventure where Captain Alatriste works a secret mission for the king to intercept a treasure galleon. His youthful sidekick narrator, Inigo, grows up a bit on the adventure as he watches and learns from a cadre of criminals Alatriste enlists to complete the job. They fight, and some die, in the climactic assault on the beached ship. There's the flamboyant bon vivant, the brute, the ultimately cowardly swindler. And yet, once again, Perez Reverte creates a fleeting sense of sympathy for the underside of Spanish society, doomed to ugly fates by the corrupt and powerful.
Nestled among the rogue's heist are Inigo's blindly brave love for Angélica de Alquézar, the beautiful and devious daughter of one of Alatriste's key enemies. She teases and entraps Inigo, who senses her dangerous intentions, but dives in smitten anyway. In a key scene, he dares to face his killers alone at her behest, accepting it as a noble death. Of course, Alatriste intervenes and even Angélica is impressed by Inigo's bravery.
These moments of poetic nobility by the commoners, thugs and hopeless romantics are the series in a nutshell. Perez Reverte keeps up the swashbuckling goodness and slighly melodramatic flair for a constantly amusing string of adventure yarns. The King's Gold is a blunter force in the series, but entertaining nonetheless.
The King's Gold by Arturo Perez Reverte: B
The northernmost town of the Cinque Terre is Monterosso al Mare, a Mediterranean resort town. While we wandered the ristorantes and hotels, I searched for something to read on the long train ride back to Asolo. I checked one news shop, then another. In a last-ditch effort, I scanned a beach-front store with a small shelf of English language books. Tucked in the far corner I discovered The King's Gold by Arturo Perez Reverte, the fourth novel in the Captain Alatriste series, which I adore.
So, I had a bizarrely continental experience reading an English translation of a Spanish adventure novel while travelling by train in Italy. It was a comfort on a lonely train ride back through the Italian countryside and industry towns.
The book reads rapidly. It's a scoundrel's adventure where Captain Alatriste works a secret mission for the king to intercept a treasure galleon. His youthful sidekick narrator, Inigo, grows up a bit on the adventure as he watches and learns from a cadre of criminals Alatriste enlists to complete the job. They fight, and some die, in the climactic assault on the beached ship. There's the flamboyant bon vivant, the brute, the ultimately cowardly swindler. And yet, once again, Perez Reverte creates a fleeting sense of sympathy for the underside of Spanish society, doomed to ugly fates by the corrupt and powerful.
Nestled among the rogue's heist are Inigo's blindly brave love for Angélica de Alquézar, the beautiful and devious daughter of one of Alatriste's key enemies. She teases and entraps Inigo, who senses her dangerous intentions, but dives in smitten anyway. In a key scene, he dares to face his killers alone at her behest, accepting it as a noble death. Of course, Alatriste intervenes and even Angélica is impressed by Inigo's bravery.
These moments of poetic nobility by the commoners, thugs and hopeless romantics are the series in a nutshell. Perez Reverte keeps up the swashbuckling goodness and slighly melodramatic flair for a constantly amusing string of adventure yarns. The King's Gold is a blunter force in the series, but entertaining nonetheless.
The King's Gold by Arturo Perez Reverte: B
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Book Review: The Earthsea Trilogy by Ursula LeGuin
I've had worn, paperback copies of the Earthsea trilogy on my shelf for some time now. I picked them up used, happy to discover the trio of yellowing books. They seem even now emblematic of a fantasy trilogy much loved by some, overlooked by many.
The trilogy begins with A Wizard of Earthsea, the coming-of-age tale of Ged, a natural-born wizard who somewhat predictably suffers for his own pride. LeGuin lays the groundwork for her fabulous fables here. Ged learns along with the reader the nature of magic and the power of true names. In Earthsea, language is power, and wizards speak it by knowing the names of all things. Showing off, Ged delves deeper into Earthsea's underworld and wrestles literally with a shadow thing, setting off his own wandering odyssey, first fleeing then hunting the thing.
Book two in the trilogy is The Tombs of Atuan. LeGuin shifts perspective to a young priestess named Arha in Earthseas more severe cultures in the east. She's taken from her family as a chosen one to tend a desolate conclave guarded by the cult. The conclave sits atop a labyrinthine tomb, locked by tradition in literal darkness.
Finally, Ged's journey comes full circle in The Farthest Shore. The narrative takes a familiar shape -- LeGuin shifts perspective again to Lebannen, a prince from the north islands with a knack for speaking and bravery, but no wizardry. He brings to Ged, who now serves as the head wizard of the isles, rumors of magic failing across the lands.
So, I made them my summer read this year, snuck in between my jaunt to Europe, sneaking away with my wife for our anniversary, and tagging along with our family vacation to Tennessee.
In my effort to catch up here on my blog, I'll review them in brief, collectively. It's an endearing trilogy, presented simply but with deeper resonance, as few writers like LeGuin can do.
LeGuin's Earthsea is a wonderful setting. It's a vast archipelago of isles, peopled with the simple and varied cultures that LeGuin's so skilled at portraying in just a few trinkets or one or two characters. She has a knack for painting the fantastic in plain, poetic terms without seeming to stereotype. The magic is sometimes wondrous, sometimes too-plain, but the dragons are fabulous and frightening enough.
As Ged wanders the isles in his enchanted boat, he learns his lesson, and with it his power. His confrontation with the shadow thing is predictable, turning the novel into more of a fable than anything. Still, it's a beautifully written fable, and LeGuin's prose is pitch perfect.
A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula LeGuin: A-
The perspective shift is effective. Arha (the "eaten one") begins to question her faith's purpose from the inside while it's clear to readers the cult is severe amid a despotic regime. LeGuin successfully explores Earthsea, and she's able to tell a very different story here. The traditions are strange and limiting. The questions raised relevant to any reader who's pondered the role of religion.
Of course, Ged shows up to cause trouble in seeking a lost treasure in the labyrinth. At first Arha's captive, Ged befriends her and the two conspire against the traditions of the old gods.
Still, it's Arha's tale throughout, and her liberation's bittersweet. While LeGuin pulls of a new tale in the same world, the telling's dark, and more than a little forced. The effect is a much darker, but also colder tale.
The Tombs of Athuan by Ursula LeGuin: C+
So, the two set out alone to discover the hole in the world that's destroying the power of magic. Once again, LeGuin lays on thick the fable qualities of the novels. They hop from one people to the next of devolved settlements struck dumb by the lack of helpful wizardry. And, with it, obsessions about immortal life.
Ged observes much, and bonds with Lebannen, who predicably -- again too predictably -- becomes the brave hero at Ged's side. They drift with people who live entirely on the sea, skulk in cities laid low with greed, and ally with the eldest dragons to confront the expanding "nothing" destroying magic in wizards' minds.
Despite that predictable quality, the bond between characters is genuine. And, Ged's greatest moments suitably noble as he confronts a villainous wizard with understanding rather than power. LeGuin complete's Ged's saga well. Throughout, she makes the most of her superbly tidy prose and wonderful world.
The Farthest Shore by Ursula LeGuin: B+
Friday, October 5, 2012
Back to basics
I just got back from a work trip. Three hours of driving is plenty for my mind to wander.
So, I decided it's high time I post something, anything here.
I recently got my graduate degree. I started a new job. And, a new hobby. Almost three months later, I'm busy as hell with work and family life. I need to get back to basics with my leisure time, and that includes this blog. Lots of my old activities and hobbies feel like a slog.
I think that's because I don't do a good job getting involved with others. You need allies. People who are enthused about the things you're enthused about, who multiply your enthusiasm. My frustrations subtract instead.
I plan on spending this weekend clearing my metaphorical slate. From there, it's appreciating that things I'm interested in doing take many steps, lots of effort, and patience.
So, I decided it's high time I post something, anything here.
I recently got my graduate degree. I started a new job. And, a new hobby. Almost three months later, I'm busy as hell with work and family life. I need to get back to basics with my leisure time, and that includes this blog. Lots of my old activities and hobbies feel like a slog.
I think that's because I don't do a good job getting involved with others. You need allies. People who are enthused about the things you're enthused about, who multiply your enthusiasm. My frustrations subtract instead.
I plan on spending this weekend clearing my metaphorical slate. From there, it's appreciating that things I'm interested in doing take many steps, lots of effort, and patience.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Why, yes, I'm ready
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Great weekend, bit by bit
This weekend I worked out, fired my new rifle, watched my Hawkeyes eke out a win while Mom & Dad watched the Clones do the same on the upstairs TV at our house, took some steroids and felt a lot better, watched The Hunger Games and liked it, relaxed with my wife, saw lots of family, ate pretty great pizza, hung out with my best friend, put together a new bedside table for all my junk and books, and got a fancy-schmancy new pillow that resulted in the first back-pain-free night of sleep I've had in a long while.
Today, when someone asked me how the holiday weekend was, I said "Oh, it was pretty good." Old habits should die hard.
It was a great weekend, and it's too easy for us to dive back into routines and forget it.
Today, when someone asked me how the holiday weekend was, I said "Oh, it was pretty good." Old habits should die hard.
It was a great weekend, and it's too easy for us to dive back into routines and forget it.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Wind from the east
There's an eastern breeze, an odd event spilling over from hurricane Isaac. It's as good an omen as any to get started in a new blog.
I've mulled over what to do with myself after many recent changes. There was graduation and the new job. Getting older, and taking on a new hobby. And losing a little ground in my fight with Crohn's disease.
All motivations, in their ways, for a new start in writing and sharing. Had a hell of a time trying to figure out what to call it. I aimed at something clever, and ended up with something true.
Well, that and a slightly unusual spelling for Mathew. Yes, that's just one "t."
I've mulled over what to do with myself after many recent changes. There was graduation and the new job. Getting older, and taking on a new hobby. And losing a little ground in my fight with Crohn's disease.
All motivations, in their ways, for a new start in writing and sharing. Had a hell of a time trying to figure out what to call it. I aimed at something clever, and ended up with something true.
Well, that and a slightly unusual spelling for Mathew. Yes, that's just one "t."
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Book Review: Dark Star by Alan Furst
It's a dense and murky novel, a bit of an acquired taste like a fine Parisian coffee. In it, seasoned Soviet journalist André Szara evolves from reluctant party participant to full fledged spy master and ultimately romantic rogue. Like Furst's other protagonists I've read, he's an affable sort, a kind of European observer thrust into events he knows a far beyond his control.
Here, though, Furst's gloves are off. Szara stumbles his way dejectedly amid NKVD (Stalin's secret police, whose badges bear the titular star) machinations. His every move, he knows, is being watched. He faces death, quite directly it turns out, throughout his absurdly lucky run from a Belgian port to Prague, Moscow, Berlin, Paris, the Polish countryside, Vilnius, and Geneva. Szara's self-preservation is a matter of instinct, of a clever Russian fully aware of the paradoxes of his country who scrambles at the merest whiff of doubt or worry. And, he becomes the inside observer to the worst slaughters in history.
Szara is a Polish Jew, and Furst trickles in Szara's history with pogroms of eastern Europe. These, too, explain Szara's instinct for survival, and hint at his tragic penchant for romance, having lost a young wife in the echoes of the Revolution. But it is the grind between Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, and the increasingly obvious plight of fellow Jews, that Furst makes his bleakest portraits of pre-war Europe. Szara experiences Kristallnacht first-hand in one tense scene. Meanwhile, he's smitten by the Jewess of his espionage contact in Berlin, who reports on Germany's war machine. Later, Szara moonlights with a mysterious French aristocrat to secure British certificates allowing Jews to flee to Palestine. So woven are these events into Szara's instinctual European existence that Furst almost sneaks in any idea that Szara is any kind of hero for the Jewish plight. It's master stroke, in my view, because it reveals the plain humanity of Jews in these locales, and the insane mentality that they do not belong.
Blended with this commentary is Szara's role as NKVD handler at precisely the time Stalin purges the agency of its leaders. Furst haunts Szara with these distant events, leaving the journalist-spy alone, or with the odd comrade, to puzzle through disappearances and his own inexplicable survival. It is a byzantine dance Furst lets Szara -- and readers -- decipher. The effect is both that of thrilling urgency and dense puzzlement, even frustration. Who's pulling these strings, and why? Will Szara ever know?
The answer is a question of moral courage for Szara, and he refuses to be one of many who asks "Za chto?" -- "What for?" or "Why?" -- with a gun in his back. He decides to leverage his borrowed time with payback and a little redemption worthy of his romantic soul.
The novel is filled with Furst's trademark minor characters, European heroes and villains so elegantly conceived in mere paragraphs before their often tragic exits or quiet perseverance. Dark Star bursts with such lovable souls. And, of course, Furst reveals his other trademark -- a vibrant setting pulsing with life, color and sensation. He's at his best detailing Paris. Smoky cafés and night time rains, or sweltering arrondissements and fried potato smells. Berlin becomes a surreal landscape, and the Polish countryside almost beautiful amid the ruin of the blitzkrieg.
It's the gamut of Furst's best writing, but comes at a heavy price. The book is dense with characters and subtle plots, and the topic heavy and troubling. It's a book that pulls you insistently, not happily. A rich, acquired taste that delivers not refreshment, but rather bittersweet heartache.
Dark Star by Alan Furst: A-
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