Wikipeida & Plum

Demonstrating once again that she is a fickle mate, ever wont to change her ways, Wikipedia has gone and pulled the rug from under my feet. I stole into her depths (hrm, that doesn't sound right), probing (still not right) a fact about a P.G. Wodehouse that I had once found there. The fact in question had disappeared, but a number of other troubling facts had since emerged, not least among them, Wodehouse's German internment.

Although Wodehouse and his novels are considered quintessentially English, from 1924 on he lived largely in France and the United States. He was also profoundly uninterested in politics and world affairs. When World War II broke out in 1939 he remained at his seaside home in Le Touquet, France, instead of returning to England, apparently failing to recognize the seriousness of the conflict. He was subsequently taken prisoner by the Germans in 1940 and interned by them for a year, first in Belgium, then at Tost in Upper Silesia (now in Poland). (He is recorded as saying "If this is Upper Silesia, one must wonder what Lower Silesia must be like...".)

While at Tost, he entertained his fellow prisoners with witty dialogues, which, after being released from internment a few months short of his 60th birthday, he used as the basis for a series of radio broadcasts aimed at America (but not England) he was persuaded by the Germans to make from Berlin. Wartime England was in no mood for light-hearted banter, however, and the broadcasts led to many accusations of collaboration with the Nazis and even treason. Some libraries banned his books. Foremost among his critics was A. A. Milne, author of the "Winnie the Pooh" books; Wodehouse got some revenge by creating a ridiculous character named "Timothy Bobbin," who starred in parodies of some of Milne's children's poetry. Among Wodehouse's defenders were Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell.

It's too late for me to defend P.G., so I'll save that for a later date. For now, check out Orwell's defense. G'nite.

Primo, Writer

I overlooked this interesting bit of news earlier this month. I guess it got lost in the avalanche that is the web. The New Yorker recently published some short stories by Primo Levi, translated from Italian for the first time. Part of a broader effort to expose readers to the writer's work outside his Holocaust literature, among the interesting pieces is "A Tranquil Star." It caught my eye by being described as Kafka-esque. I couldn't resist seeing if the animus I share for the inestimable Kafka would extend to Levi's newly translated stories. The verdict? Well, here's a passage.

Once upon a time, somewhere in the universe very far from here, lived a peaceful star, which moved peacefully in the immensity of the sky, surrounded by a crowd of peaceful planets about which we have not a thing to report. This star was very big and very hot, and its weight was enormous: and here a reporter’s difficulties begin. We have written “very far,” “big,” “hot,” “enormous”: Australia is very far, an elephant is big and a house is bigger, this morning I had a hot bath, Everest is enormous. It’s clear that something in our lexicon isn’t working.

But it's not clear that something in the story isn't working. I just haven't yet decided how I feel about the story. So, I guess you'll have to read it as well. So there.

Larger Than Life: Sir William Napier

For a class, I've been reading some selections of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. Right at the beginning of "The Soldier's Faith" (remarks delivered on Memorial Day, May 30, 1895 at "a Meeting Called by the Graduating Class of Harvard University"), he makes the point that of all characteristics, wealth is most greatly admired in a man.

I once heard a man say, "Where Vanderbilt sits, there is the head of the table. I teach my son to be rich." He sad what many think. For although the generation born about 1840, and now governing the world, has fought two at least of the greatest wars in history...war is out of fashion, and the man who commands the attention of his fellows is the man of wealth.

...

Most of my hearers would rather that their daughters or their sisters should marry a son of one of the great rich families than a regular army officer, were he as beautiful, brace, and gifted as Sir William Napier.

This name brought me to a halt. It sounded familiar, but beyond that it was foreign.

As it turns out, Sir William Napier is a fascinating character. My immediate resource, not surprisingly, was that omniwebpresent anthology of knowledge, Wikipedia, but I'm intrigued and will be pursuing a further investigation as time permits. Napier had, depending on how you look at it, a charmed or cursed life.

Sir William Francis Patrick Napier (December 7, 1785 - February 12, 1860), British soldier and military historian, third son of Colonel George Napier (1751-1804) was born at Celbridge, near Dublin.

He became an ensign in the Royal Irish Artillery in 1800, but at once exchanged into the 62nd, and was put on half-pay in 1802. He was afterwards made a cornet in the Blues by the influence of his uncle the duke of Richmond, and for the first time did actual military duty in this regiment, but he soon fell in with Sir John Moore's suggestion that he should exchange into the 52nd, which was about to be trained in the famous camp of Shorncliffe. Through Sir John Moore he soon obtained a company in the 43rd, joined that regiment at Shorncliffe and became a great favourite with Moore.

He served in Denmark, and was present at the engagement of Kioge, and, his regiment being shortly afterwards sent to Spain, he bore himself nobly through the retreat to Corunna, the hardships of which permanently impaired his health. In 1809 he became aide-de-camp to the duke of Richmond, lord lieutenant of Ireland, but joined the 43rd when that regiment was ordered again to Spain. With the light brigade (the 43rd, 52nd, and 95th), under the command of General Craufurd, he marched to Talavera in the famous forced march which he has described in his History, and had a violent attack of pleurisy on the way.

He, however, refused to leave Spain, was wounded on the Coa, and shot near the spine at Cazal Nova. His conduct was so conspicuous during the pursuit of Masséna after he left the lines of Torres Vedras that he as well as his brother George was recommended for a brevet majority. He became brigade major, was present at Fuentes d'Onor, but had so bad an attack of ague that he was obliged to return to England. In England he married Caroline Amelia Fox, daughter of General Henry Fox and niece of the statesman Fox.

If you're beginning to notice a pattern, I congratulate you. Napier seemed to be a magnet for non-mortal wounds and crippling, but not lethal, diseases.

His resilience, of course, is not why Holmes employed as the paragon of martial spirit. Over his long active military career, he seemed to have a near-fanatical devotion to his troops (perhaps the reason he suffered so often and so grievously in battle). Further, though he was a fighting man, and largely illiterate at the time of his retirement from active service, he schooled himself in literature and became a highly popular and well-regarded historian. His major work recounted that campaign that he played a significant role in, The History of the Peninsula War, and, with the publication of each successive volume, was quite a hit (though sales weren't so torrid right out the gate).

Napier's life merits much further examination, and I regret that I may never have the time to do his life justice. I'll close by noting he came from one helluva a fighting family. Consider his brothers:

• Brother Sir Charles James Napier (1782--1853) Commander-in-Chief in India. The city of Napier, New Zealand is named after him.
• Brother Sir George Thomas Napier (1784--1855), Commander-in-Chief of the Army in the Cape Colony

Not a bad record at all. Righto, back to work, back to work.

Afar In Navarre

The Doughty Traveler now has a digital sister. The Navigator's hermana is overseas and chronicling events in blog format at Afar in Navarre. She'll have the dirt on Pamplona over the coming semester, so take a look when you're so inclined.

Not So Happy

Unlike me, Bluejake is not thrilled with life.

The Day Scalia Came to Class

Whoof, what a week.

Justice Scalia came to class, I played drunken air guitar at a party with a parent of a notorious criminal, and the Colts won the Super Bowl, which I attended.

Guess which one is false?

The answer is none, since I think of the Super Bowl as an international event that transcends the typical definitions of place and space. Or at least my post-modern self believes that.

But of the three, the only one that merits real explanation is Justice Scalia's visit. He did, in fact, come to class. As it turns out, he and my professor were buddies "in the trenches" of the Ford administration. Judging from their descriptions of how miserable being in the Ford admin was, I'd say "in the shark feeding tank" might be a better descriptor. Regardless, the bond they forged remains strong and before the Justice addressed the Claremont McKenna community at large, he popped in for a little over an hour. My thoughts:

• Justice Scalia is a warm, jovial figure who would make an evil uncle, benevolent granddad, and very shrewd paterfamilias.
• He's got a knack for catchy turns of phrase. I'm almost thirty two percent positive his improptu lecture cum Q&A was off the record, so I'll stick to generalities...except for this choice quote. Referring to judicial activism (of both political persuasions), he managed to describe the federal judiciary as the "black-robed mad mullahs of the West." We all laughed.
• I really should have typed my notes instead of writing them. I can't read most.
• He really doesn't like independent counsels. And after hearing him talk, I don't either.
• Another funny anecdote, this one repeated in his later talk, so I'm happy to describe it here. In the recent flag-burning case, Scalia agreed with the majority ruling that declared the ban on flag-burning unconstitutional. His logic was sound: you can have a ban on burning in a specific place, but if so it must be a ban on burning "bags, rags and flags," a ban on any type of burning, not exclusively on flags. As a result, an explicit ordinance against the combustion of the Stars and Stripes (or the Stars and Bars for that matter) violates the First Amendment. Even though he would have loved to throw that "bearded, sandal-wearing, reprobate" (I'm not sure about that last one) in prison, he can't. Unfortunately, people don't like burning flags, which is why they often don't mind judicial activism, in this case and many others. The best illustration of how people feel viscerally had to be his wife, who, on the morning after the judgment, whistled "It's a Grand Old Flag" as she prepared breakfast.
• And, finally, ol' Scales should really hit the treadmill.

That last point should be qualified. Anty is packing some major pounds, but I will say he looked about twenty years younger than he is. It wasn't until much later that I discovered he is approaching 71...after seeing him in person, I would have guessed mid-fifties. Perhaps that's just because his hair isn't graying (though thinning) and he smokes (ergo, he is hip which means he must have been a twenty-something in the seventies, wriggling into leather pants...whoops, just went too far in the bizarro imagery department there).

So, maybe there's something to his rolls that is keeping him fresh and spritely. If so, Justice Scalia, let me be the first to point you to the truffle tray (unless, of course, the gout is acting up). May you judge many years yet. More stories on Scalia to come as I recall the wild after-party that followed (somehow, I managed to give every penny of my own and a ten of a friend of mine to the bartenders...even though it was a free bar...and they refused my tips...hrm).

CMsCalia

Okay, silly title. But Antonin Scalia is going to be speaking at CMC on Wednesday. And thanks to a last minute class change, I'll be able to attend the rager (er, reception) to follow. Coo, coo.

2007 Pacesetters Fellow

A Matter of Constitutional Intrepretation

ANTONIN SCALIA

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31, 2007

The Honorable Antonin Scalia, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, graduated summa cum laude from Georgetown University where he was class valedictorian. He graduated magna cum laude from Harvard Law School where he served as note editor for the Harvard Law Review. In 1960, he was the Sheldon Fellow at Harvard University, allowing him to spend a year traveling in Europe.

Justice Scalia began his legal career with a nationally-prominent law firm in Cleveland where he practiced corporate finance, labor, and antitrust law. In 1967, he became a professor of law at the University of Virginia Law School. During the 1970s, Presidents Nixon and Ford appointed him to a number of administrative posts, including that of assistant attorney general in charge of the Justice Department’s Office of Legal Counsel. He subsequently joined the faculty at the University of Chicago School of Law.

In 1982, President Reagan appointed Antonin Scalia to the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, where he honed his reputation for meticulous jurisprudence. In June 1986, President Reagan nominated him as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court to fill the vacancy created by William Rehnquist’s elevation to Chief Justice. On September 26, 1986, he took the oath of office.

Justice Scalia was born in Trenton, New Jersey. He married Maureen McCarthy in 1960.

Pickwick and Plato

Somehow, when revising my Plato paper, I found myself wading through a page of G.K. Chesterton reviewing Dickens. Don't ask me how I got there; how does the ladybug happen to land on your finger or the butterfly wend its way into the heart of a city? What errant turn sends the swallow to the coast instead of Capistrano, the goose to California rather than Canada? On one of those invisible paths, I lost my way, but it was to my great fortune and your own:

Now laughter is a thing that can be let go; laughter has in it a quality of liberty. But sorrow has in it by its very nature a quality of confinement; pathos by its very nature fights with itself. Humour is expansive; it bursts outwards; the fact is attested by the common expression, "holding one's sides."

But sorrow is not expansive; and it was afterwards the mistake of Dickens that he tried to make it expansive. It is the one great weakness of Dickens as a great writer, that he did try to make that sudden sadness, that abrupt pity, which we call pathos, a thing quite obvious, infectious, public, as if it were journalism or the measles. It is pleasant to think that in this supreme masterpiece, done in the dawn of his career, there is not even this faint fleck upon the sun of his just splendour.

Pickwick will always be remembered as the great example of everything that made Dickens great; of the solemn conviviality of great friendships, of the erratic adventures of old English roads, of the hospitality of old English inns, of the great fundamental kindliness and honour of old English manners. First of all, however, it will always be remembered for its laughter, or, if you will, for its folly. A good joke is the one ultimate and sacred thing which cannot be criticised. Our relations with a good joke are direct and even divine relations. We speak of "seeing" a joke just as we speak of "seeing" a ghost or a vision. If we have seen it, it is futile to argue with us; and we have seen the vision of Pickwick. Pickwick may be the top of Dickens's humour; I think upon the whole it is. But the broad humour of Pickwick he broadened over many wonderful kingdoms; the narrow pathos of Pickwick he never found again.

Of all Dickens' works, I must say I found the most of life in The Pickwick Papers. And I think, Chesterton nails the greatness of Dickens without diminishing his other works. I was so affected by Mr. Murdstone I once dreamt he was the anti-Christ, who was storming about town, literally ripping people apart. But every time I reread David Copperfield, it is Mr. Micawber who lures me back (to whom credit goes for the quote: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.") Similarly, though Pip does make the heart ache on occasion, aided largely by that venomous vixen Estella, it was not his torments that draw me back to Great Expectations, but Wemmick and "The Aged."

Insofar as that corresponds to what Chesterton is arguing, I agree wholeheartedly. I will now proceed to reread every book Dickens wrote before I continue my papers.

Federalist Friendliness

Often when slogging through a paper or completing another assignment, I've found myself wondering why I read so little. I pledge that the moment I can be done with this task for school, I'll throw myself into the real reading I ought to be doing.

At some point, I finally figured out that the real reading was precisely that which I ought to have been doing for school all along. Of course, I tend to still forget that point.

Today has been one of those days. I just received a brand-new copy of The Constitution of Liberty and have been glancing at it longingly. The paper du jour, something for a class on national security, seemed like the obstacle to happiness, until I found myself reading through the Federalist Papers, searching for a quote. Coming across the passage below, I reminded myself of the happy fact that the days of "school" being synonymous with "eating a sack lunch and listening to a peg-legged woman try to teach you algebra" are long gone.

So numerous indeed and so powerful are the causes which serve to give a false bias to the judgment, that we, upon many occasions, see wise and good men on the wrong as well as on the right side of questions of the first magnitude to society. This circumstance, if duly attended to, would furnish a lesson of moderation to those who are ever so much persuaded of their being in the right in any controversy. And a further reason for caution, in this respect, might be drawn from the reflection that we are not always sure that those who advocate the truth are influenced by purer principles than their antagonists. Ambition, avarice, personal animosity, party opposition, and many other motives not more laudable than these, are apt to operate as well upon those who support as those who oppose the right side of a question. Were there not even these inducements to moderation, nothing could be more ill-judged than that intolerant spirit which has, at all times, characterized political parties. For in politics, as in religion, it is equally absurd to aim at making proselytes by fire and sword. Heresies in either can rarely be cured by persecution.

Of course, Barry Goldwater would "remind you that extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice!" I would remind Barry Goldwater of Plato's depiction of democracy (and the more extreme sentiments of some modern libertarians) demonstrate quite the opposite.

Somewhat related is the drunken quote of a friend of mine (in the midst of a late night discussion of Iraq). Said friend expressed his frustration with the country's fledgling democracy with the cry, "Democratize, dammit!"

I guess that's the exact opposite of Hamilton's warning against "making proselytes by fire and sword" when it comes to politics.

What is the meaning of all of these bits and pieces? That I should get back to work. Later.

Posh-Noshin

It's not bleeding edge news, but...

Beckham: "I have decided to join the LA Galaxy."

His arrival in Los Angeles "leads to this race to become the first MLS super club," the Galaxy GM said to BBC Sport.

ESPN reports Beckham will be paid more than $250 million.

Whoa, whoa, whoa...$250 million for an aging star? Am I the only one who thinks that's a little...insane? And Beckham, seriously man, if you come to L.A., you're admitting your career is toast. Oh...maybe that's what you're doing. Hrm.

Well then, laugh all the way to the bank, dude.

Roundup: 1.11

A roundup of news emanating from the 90089:

Thornton professor, cellist dies at 81:

Schoenfeld was born in Maribor, Slovenia, to a concertmaster father. The family moved to Berlin while she was young, and she began ballet classes with the Berlin State Opera at age 6. Her older sister was training in the violin at the time, and Schoenfeld soon followed suit, switching to cello at age 11.

Schoenfeld later earned her artist's diploma at Hochschule fr Musik in Berlin and remained studying until the family immigrated to Los Angeles in 1952.

Schoenfeld joined the faculty at the Arts Academy in Idyllwild, Calif., where she gained attention from the dean of Thornton, who later asked her and her sister to join the USC faculty.

"She was one of those living legends in the cello and music world," said Biryukov. "(That) world is going to be changed now, especially in Los Angeles."

I'm sorry to say I never took advantage of the chances I had to hear her live. The Schoenfeld sisters were living legends, the Yo-Yo Ma's of their age. They also were amazingly sweet. I remember attending a performance at Thornton and Elenore walked by. Something about her was so arresting, I spent the intermission scrutinizing every picture on the wall until I found one with a caption explaining who she was. Charismatic personality and cellist extraordinaire.

Globetrotting for a degree:

These guys are living what I often dreamed about sophomore year...

The typical graduate student usually does not find himself in need of AK-47-bearing guards to complete his homework.

But R.L. Hooker, a second-year master's candidate in production at the USC School of Cinematic Arts, is not the typical graduate student.

Last summer, Hooker and Gregg Helvey, also a second-year master's candidate in production, spent three months in dangerous and unfamiliar Kenyan territory shooting Hooker's thesis film.

Hooker's interest in the impoverished African country sparked when he visited Kenya for a wedding in summer 2005. Soon after his return, he began a Google search for Kenyan short stories.

"I read 12. Eleven weren't very good. One was amazing," Hooker said.

That story, "The Knife Grinder's Tale," by award-winning Kenyan author Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor, is about a father's journey from his village to the city of Kibera to understand why his son had been murdered.

No, I didn't dream about filming a movie in Kenya...mine was Uganda. I became fascinated with the idea of doing an independent research project, once I realized there were a number of resources on campus that aimed to facilitate that with money. I spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to find a way to get involved in a project that would produce an "undergraduate research grant," but I must have been working with the efficiency of a Rube Goldberg machine, because it all came to naught. I must say, I still look back on my inability to get involved in some way as one my bigger regrets from college.

But hell, enough about me, the real story here is this guy. He's in Kenya, filming his Master's thesis. The man had a dream, he pursued and he's had the time of his life. Message to everyone: start dreaming and then get on your horse...and ride it to Kenya.

Student is off to races as announcer:This would be totally sweet.

At the age of 14, USC senior Jonathan Horowitz made his first trip to the Los Alamitos Race Course, not knowing that he would make hundreds more. He would go on to become the youngest announcer in the world.

The full story is concise, but faskinatin'. It's amazing the things that people accomplish.

MacBirth

Overshadowed by the introduction of the iPhone, Andy Hertzfeld shared some yarns (well, truthful yarns, that is) yesterday about the birth of another revolutionary Apple product, the Macintosh. Uncharacteristically, I actually want to read the book that was the real subject of his talk. At least, I do if it has more nuggets like these:

He recalled that Raskin had not been particularly pleased by an anecdote in the book about how fellow Mac team member Burrell Smith, whom Hertzfeld said had a talent for imitations, used to mimic Raskin.

"'Why, I, I, I, I invented the Macintosh,'" Hertzfeld said, quoting Smith imitating Raskin.

He also said Smith would then mimic a reporter responding to Raskin: "'Why, no, I thought Burrell invented the Macintosh.'"

And Smith would end the joke with one final Raskin imitation: "'Why, I, I, I, I invented Burrell.'"

Clearly fond of Raskin, Hertzfeld nevertheless poked a little bit of fun at him during his talk. Hertzfeld remembered his first week at Apple Computer and how Raskin sat next to him at one point and introduced himself.

"'I'm not only a mathematical genius, but a musical genius, as well,'" Hertzfeld said Raskin told him by way of greeting. "I thought, 'What do I say to that?' So I said, 'Good for you.'"

Sunset on Somerset

Ever feel deep pangs of overwhelming guilt when confronted with a literary or historical figure you feel you oughta know, but you just don't have a clue?

Well, I get those pangs' fangs all too often, and they just struck again. Let's face it: who the hell is Somerset Maugham?

William Somerset Maugham, CH (January 25, 1874 – December 16, 1965) was an English playwright, novelist, and short story writer. He was one of the most popular authors of the 1930s and reportedly the highest paid.

Thanks, Wikipedia. But seriously, what on earth was this guy doing? And why is it that I could give you a word or two on Chesterton, a quip about Belloc, something on G.B. Shaw, and even a small diatribe on Duranty's failure to cover the Ukrainian famine of '32...but Maugham sounds only vaguely familiar (and I think that's because I'm mistaking him for someone from the Blandings Castle series by Wodehouse).

Well, if you were to judge the man by whom he influenced, then my guilt is alleviated somewhat:

In 1947 Maugham instituted the Somerset Maugham Award, awarded to the best British writer or writers under the age of thirty-five of a work of fiction published in the past year. Notable past winners include V.S. Naipaul, Kingsley Amis, Martin Amis and Thom Gunn. On his death, he donated his copyrights to the Royal Literary Fund.

One of very few later writers to praise his influence was Anthony Burgess, who included a complex fictional portrait of Maugham in the novel Earthly Powers. George Orwell also stated that his writing style was influenced by Maugham. The American writer Paul Theroux, in his short story collection The Consul's File, updated Maugham's colonial world in an outstation of expatriates in modern Malaysia.

The 1995 film Se7en has a character played by Morgan Freeman, named Lt. Somerset. The film makes explicit reference to Of Human Bondage.

Okay, let's break this down:

• He actually named an award after himself while he was still alive? Whoever he was, Maug had brass balls (or an ego the size of Mt. Etna).
• Kingsley Amis won this award? It can't be half bad then, because Lucky Jim was a hoot.
• Martin Amis also won this award...wait a second, this smells of nepotism.
• Thom Gunn was a recipient of the award...who the hell was he? Ancestor of both Thom Yorke and Ben Gunn (of Treasure Island fame)? Strike two-ish...
• Ooo, George Orwell claims he was affected by Maug's fog...the execution gets a stay
• Paul Theroux lists SM as an influence...game over. Maugham gets the boot.

To add to the list, Somerset didn't hang his hat on moral judgments:

Maugham's homosexual leanings also shaped his fiction, in two ways. Since, in life, he tended to see attractive women as sexual rivals, he often gave the women of his fiction sexual needs and appetites, in a way quite unusual for distinguished authors of his time. "Liza of Lambeth," "Cakes and Ale" and "The Razor's Edge" all featured women determined to service their strong sexual appetites, heedless of the result.

Also, the fact that Maugham's own sexual appetites were highly disapproved of, or even criminal, in nearly all of the countries in which he traveled, made Maugham unusually tolerant of the vices of others. Readers and critics often complained that Maugham did not clearly enough condemn what was bad in the villains of his fiction and plays. Maugham replied in 1938: "It must be a fault in me that I am not gravely shocked at the sins of others unless they personally affect me."

Sorry, Maugie, there's plenty of reason to be gravely shocked by the crumbums of life. Here we must part ways. Though you can take some solace in the recipients of your award:

Amis died in 1995 at the age of 73 with over 20 novels to his credit, plus dozens of volumes of poetry, stories, collections of essays, and criticism. His last unfinished novel was BLACK AND WHITE, about an attraction between a white homosexual man and a black heterosexual girl.

Final verdict: Somerset Maugham, curious dude. Necessary to know? By no means.