An Update on 2009 Reading

1. Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
2. The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
3. Physics of the Impossible by Michio Kaku
4. False Economy by Alan Beattie
5. Hyperspace by Michio Kaku
6. Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
7. This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald
8. I, Claudius by Robert Graves
9. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
10. Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
11. The Love of the Last Tycoon by F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane
13. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
14. A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

A Review I Wrote Some Time Ago.

The fact that Scott McClellan's book provides us with few of the "juicy details" of the intricacies and secrecy of the Bush White House is evidence of how in the dark the Press Secretary was kept at times. Having read the news reports about current and former Bush White House personnel being upset over the publication, I was at a loss to specifically identify which parts they so objected to. McClellan's book is far from an excoriation of the Bush Administration; McClellan consistently maintains an disposition of fondness for Bush, despite McClellan's disappointment over Bush's failure to live up to his original 2000 Election claims of overcoming "hyperpartisanship."

After completing McClellan's account, I end up regarding the book as an expression of disappointment and frustration, not bitter resentment. While I can readily fathom McClellan's irritation over being put in a difficult position of defending individuals despite their latently blatant lies, I do not conclude my reading with terrible degree of sympathy for his "plight." I discern a sense of naiveness with regard to the Washington political sphere as McClellan early on in the novel states his high hopes for an end to the "permanent campaign." Additionally, one must raise the question as to the actual veracity of McClellan's role in the mechanics of the Bush White House. Was he as innocent a figure as he presents himself? It will be interesting to see if another Bush Administration member publishes a novel that provides a sharply divergent account of "What Happened."

Despite these objections that I tend to have towards any single-person account, McClellan's book is a worthwhile read. While in the end the reader may not feel the book has entirely satisfied the claim made by the title, any insight into the opaque administration is welcome.

Does my life have meaning? Have I made something out of my existence? These are some of the existential questions that the man who told us Paradise is lost and subsequently told it is regained, asked himself as his life’s work became suddenly jeopardized by ill health. In “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent,” famed 17th century poet John Milton explores the religious complications that ensue when one believes him/herself unable to serve. Through this poetry, Milton, a Puritan himself, examines and critiques the accepted Puritan notion that salvation is solely the reward of “hard work.”
The form Milton employs as a vehicle to convey his assertions is the Petrarchan/Italian sonnet popular at the time. This style of sonnet is characterized by its division into an eight-line octave and a six-line sestet—a division marked by the volta, a change in tone or the author’s attitude towards the subject at hand. Milton’s diction is of note because it is somewhat reminiscent of religious discourse (i.e. a preacher’s sermon). Such a connection does not seem unreasonable considering Milton was a well-versed in theology and a practitioner of religious discourse himself.
Regarding the identity of the speaker, it is not hard to associate it with Milton himself, when Milton’s personal history is factored in. The “light” referred to in both the title and the repetitive first line can be read as an individual’s available time to do work, whatever said work may be. More specifically, contextualizing this time to do work with regards to Milton, the light spent is his career as a poet and in general, a writer. Eyes are merely an organic optical device that reflect light for neural processing, thus an individual with failing eyesight has his/her light drastically limited. The second line, “Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide” supports the assumption that Milton himself is the speaker was blind for half of his life after completing his studies at Cambridge.
If we are to assume that Milton is the speaker of the poem, then he conveys a deep sense of anxiety over his future. The future of his “one talent,” his superior poetic ability, is rendered uncertain by the exhaustion of his light, causing him to feel as though this talent is “log’d with [him] useless.” The word talent—and the ensuing lines through “My true account”—is significant because it not only refers to Milton’s literal talent but also is a biblical allusion to the Parable of the Talents—a didactic tale that has been interpreted to mean responsibly carrying out one’s duties results in future blessings—“For to everyone who has will be given, and he will have abundance, but from him who doesn’t have, even that which he has will be taken away.” The speaker frantically imagines himself as the “wicked and lazy” servant of the parable who hid the one talent, an ancient measure of currency, his Master gave him instead of growing it into more talents when he states, “my soul more bent to serve therewith my Maker…lest he returning chide.” The line “the one talent which is death to hide” not only alludes to the Master’s throwing out the servant who hid his one talent but also refers to the speaker’s spiritual death; hiding one’s talent, in the case of Milton his literary genius, whether involuntarily or voluntarily, theologically damns an individual. The speaker’s words express his immense dissatisfaction with his inability to correlate his actions with his intentions. Unfortunately for him, his Master happens to be the Supreme Being, leaving the speaker to pose a singular question: “Doth God exact labour, light-denied?”
The poem takes a turn, a characteristic element of the Petrarchan sonnet, however, after the speaker silently poses his ultimate question for the personification Patience interrupts to “prevent that murmur.” Firstly, though, consider the speaker’s statement. Reading the word exact as to require, the speaker asks whether God requires work from those unable to provide it—the speaker’s ultimate fear. But the speaker does not ask this question; the deity of patience stops him. Why? To be blunt, he asked a stupid question; the speaker admits that fact through his use of the word “fondly,” which means foolishly in this context. Milton uses the personification of patience as an instrument of exposition, to convey a theological message. The understanding that only the hardest-working are truly serving God is a fallacy for not only “who best / Bear his mild yoke” serve him best, but also “thousands at his bidding…also serve who only stand and wait.” Thus, those who only stand and wait, as an obedient servant would do, are no less worthy than those who actively serve. The last line of the poem provides reassuring comfort for the speaker because his being “light-denied” will not be the end of him.
Milton’s fears must not have been too colossal for he wrote his, arguably, greatest works, Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, after he had become completely blind. Is the association between Milton and the speaker misleading? Or is the poem merely a transient expression of Milton’s apprehension? Even if Milton did not intend for himself to be the speaker, his personal experiences nevertheless permeate this description of a general human concern. The fear of unfaithful execution of service is not misplaced when it comes to one’s Maker.

I settled upon reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night for this novel assignment primarily out of my liking of The Great Gatsby. While Tender Is the Night failed to supplant The Great Gatsby as my favorite Fitzgerald book that I have read, it nevertheless piqued my interest in terms of its depiction of American expatriate life, something I was exposed to in Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Also, the Jazz Age is high on my list of “Historical Periods of Interest” and a glance at its back cover indicated the novel would correspond to this interest.

My initial thoughts after completing of Fitzgerald’s work were somewhat mixed. I had difficulty enjoying the significant dedication towards exposing Dick and Nicole’s initial contact and the development of their relationship: it was rather dull and unconvincing in the sense that it seems very unrealistic. Yet, the novel did present an intriguing dynamic in terms of its consideration of a relationship between a mental-health professional and his patient. Fitzgerald’s analysis of the questions of the stability of such a relationship and the existence of a mutual benefit stood out for me because I had never really thought about such an interpersonal relationship.

As of now, I have yet to be resolved as to which particular element of Tender Is the Night I wish examine in depth. My present inclinations are towards the blurred husband-doctor dichotomy I interpreted as being present in the novel. Additionally, I am quite interested in exploring the potential of a zero-sum relationship between Dick and Nicole as Dick’s world descends into chaos as Nicole’s opens up

Efficiency First

Managerial efficiency is the quintessential component of a well-run business (assuming said business has a successful business model), and a well-run business is the hallmark of an ideal capitalist society. However, within the gloriousness of this ideal system lies a contentious issue: labor. Labor is one of the most problematic issues of business analysis because some individuals argue that the human element either is not quantifiable or transcends the profit/loss mindset. In Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, Willy Loman, an alleged veteran of thirty-four years is let go after gradually being demoted—he loses his salary to a commissions-only compensation package; a heartbeakingly cruel moment for some readers. But was Howard, Willy’s boss, so cruel to fire him?

Consider the following evaluation of Willy’s job performance. He has crashed his car several times while on the job, he manages to sell a paltry quantity of merchandise, and he bores his customers to death with incessant talking and irrelevant stories. When the company sends Willy on a sales trip to some location, he is the representation of their enterprise as far as the customer is concerned, and one cannot reasonably conclude that Willy is a positive representation of Howard’s business. Howard is thus in a predicament: he cannot be an efficient manager while at the same time keeping Willy on. One might ask, just as Willy does, why Willy cannot have a lower-paying job at the New York headquarters. The simple, obvious reason for why he cannot is that it would be a sheer waste of money. Howard already has his sales floor at maximum capacity, and Willy has no assets to offer. Why should Howard use company resources to keep on “dead weight” when he could hire a more skilled salesman to replace Willy? Why should Howard arbitrarily choose to maintain Willy as an employee when, as far as the reader knows, there may have been/are people in Willy’s same situation who were also let go?

An assertion counter to the above claims is that Howard should find Willy some accommodating job because it is the “right thing to do” or that he should reward Willy for his loyalty to the company or Willy still has something valuable to offer the firm. While the last contention is fundamentally false for aforementioned reasons, the first two arguments pose the problem of incredible arbitrariness. What is the right thing to do? Is it right if Howard keeps on one old-timer but not another? Is it right to keep Willy on if doing so sets a precedent of not firing anyone, causing spiraling labor costs and ultimately threatening the stability of the firm and the job security of all its employees? My utilitarian calculus tells me no. Furthermore, loyalty is a hollow notion: would Willy have remained with the firm if some other company had offered him a more lucrative job? And does not this attempt at the incorporation of loyalty into decision making contradict the aim of efficiency? Ultimately, one cannot come up with a justification for Howard maintaining Willy as an employee of the firm that does not jeopardize efficiency, make sound business sense, or is not entirely arbitrary and thus unfair.

A Doll's House: Marital Power Relations

Not having a very detailed understanding of the history behind Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, my recognition of the gender significance of the play was very latent during my reading. However, as I approached the climactic action that defines Act III, and in turn the end of the play, I realized the true extent to which Ibsen analyzes and overturns the categorical power relations that defined, and unfortunately continue to do so in some respects, marriage and the respective roles of men and women his society.

To be blunt, I strongly believe that it is nearly impossible to regard the end of Ibsen’s play as anything but anti-patriarchal. Nora, on her own volition, walks out on her husband of eight years and her children because she is outright tired of being a “doll,” a mere object to “play” with. Ibsen conveys a strong message of the male commoditization of women as a possession not only through Nora’s forceful and serious discourse with her husband, Helmer, at the end of the play but also through his sheer failure in understanding that it is not a “stupid child” with whom he is speaking. Helmer, following social norms, defines their marriage in terms of their respective power positions: he—the male, the husband, and the controller—repulsively asserts this claim, saying “knowing that he has forgiven his wife…It’s as though it made her his property.” Helmer further states his understanding of his role in their marriage claiming that he will for ever after view Nora as a “helpless, perplexed little thing.” He derives a perverse sense of satisfaction and pleasure by forcing his wife into the role of the “simple-minded, frail woman” and himself into that of the benevolent, guiding master.

Much to my relief, Nora, after having endured eight years of this belittling form of existence rejects her husband’s implicit demands of an even more re-entrenched power-based relationship. Her double-edged response of “I’ve changed” to her husband’s question of “You’ve changed your things?” reveals the realization that she has achieved and the accompanying transformation she has undergone: no longer is she content with being treated as a child. This transformation is strongly textually marked by the change in her discourse at the end of the play with strong statements like “You don’t understand me. And I have never understood you” and “It’s your fault that I’ve never made anything of my life.” This is, as her tone demonstrates, a far different Nora than has been seen before by the reader. Through Nora’s “defiance” and egregious upsetting of 19th century mores, Ibsen establishes the true criticism of conventional gender roles. We see Nora as the stronger character, not her husband. She is the one who is assertive of her needs, conceding that she is inexperienced and will remain so in the world of the status quo; she truthfully tells her husband that she is not in love with him, never has been, and does not desire anything more to do with him.In the end, Nora walks out of their house confidently, with only a simple “Goodbye” to an emotionally distraught husband who has probably never been so bewildered in his life.

While above are assertions of A Doll’s House’s criticism of patriarchal power relations, the uncertainty of the play’s ending regarding Nora and her future render final conclusions somewhat ambiguous. Will Nora end up hopelessly failing in her endeavor to be independent, thus proving the stereotype of the “helpless child”? Or will triumphantly make something of her life now that she has thrown off her oppressive shackles? I will not produce a prediction for I am skeptical of forecasting at its best; however, I believe that it is a noteworthy reflection of the uncertainty that surrounded the nascent historical origins of modern feminism. Nevertheless, ultimately I do not believe Ibsen does a disservice to the play’s thematic significance for uncertainty does not mean the worst, it is merely indicative of an unknown future.

An Update on My Reading

Books I have Read So Far This School Year:

1. How I Became a Quant by Richard Lindsey and Barry Schachter
2. When Genius Failed: The Rise and Fall of Long-Term Capital Management by Roger Lowenstein
3. The Grass Crown by Colleen McCullough
4. Fortune's Favorites by Colleen McCullough
5. Derivatives Diary by Richard Folcker
6. Equity Portfolio Management by Frank Fabozzi
7. Fooled by Randomness by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
8. The Future of Everything by David Orrell
9. Caesar's Women by Colleen McCullough
10. Caesar by Colleen McCullough
11. The October Horse by Colleen McCullough
12. The Next 100 Years: A Forecast for the 21st Century by George Friedman
13. Bad Money by Kevin Phillips
14. Subprime Solution by Robert Shiller
15. Antony and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough
16. The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
17. The (Mis)Behavior of Markets: A Fractal View of Risk, Ruin, and Reward by Benoit Mandelbrot.
18. Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World by Niall Ferguson

The Question of Hamlet's State of Mind

It is virtually incontrovertible that Hamlet, as a human being, is not healthy. While there may be no evidence of his physical health being compromised, his state of his mental health is certainly in question. And yet, can one truly state with reason that Hamlet is crazy? The existence of such an ability is made dubious by his alleged “master plan” to convince the court of Elsinore that he is quite mad; however, it is rationally impossible to dismiss his status as a symptom of scheming.
Let us begin with the obvious: Hamlet is suffering from depression or whatever one may wish to designate his gloominess as. His condition is logical as his father has just died and his mother has inappropriately hastily married her brother-in-law, Hamlet’s uncle. Feeling isolated and alone, he believes that he is the only one who cared about his father. His sentiments are rightfully justified too, considering his mother’s new husband characterizes his emotions as impious and unmanly. Hamlet’s soliloquy in scene II of Act I reveals his tormented state of mind as he remarks, “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world!” His discourse cannot but reinforce the case for his depression. Furthermore, one could even argue that Hamlet is suicidal. In Scene IV of Act I, right before Hamlet is to engage the Ghost, he indicates his despondency by stating “I do not set my life in a pin’s fee.” Conventional wisdom, in an instance where conventional wisdom is correct, indicates that individuals are naturally inclined to value their lives; however, recent events have compelled Hamlet to lean the other way.
Although one might wish to immediately conclude that Hamlet’s behavior is a reflection of the chemical imbalance in his brain, Hamlet’s attempts to feign “madness” complicates the prognosis. To begin by eliminating possible conditions, I believe basic insanity can be easily dismissed. His odd conversation with Polonius and his frenzied encounter Ophelia can be easily attributed to his grand plan. During his dialogue with Guildenstein on the subject of the coming theatre troupe, Hamlet states that “my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.” Hamlet’s elaboration, “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind / is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw,” provides the necessary support for his claim of deception. Furthermore, we cannot merely regard the Ghost as a evidence of a hallucination or delusional state of mind for Hamlet is not the only individual to see it: Horatio and the other guards are the first to notice the apparition. Hamlet’s dialogue with the ghost is more suspicious, however, considering that (1) he is the only to hear it; Horatio and the others do not seem to detect its voice as it eerily whispers “swear” later in that scene.
Thus, if insanity is sufficiently ruled out, then the only two solutions that answer Hamlet’s medical question are simply depression or something more than depression. In the end, I have to conclude the latter. Hamlet has himself so caught up in this quest for revenge while at the same lamenting the continuing of his existence. This obsession with uncovering the truth of his father’s murder while simultaneously being tormented by thoughts of the Existential paints a picture of a man whose mind is viciously wracked. Hamlet’s attempts to oddly cope with his depression by rectifying the wrongs of Elsinore distort his awareness of his own state. While he may think his feigned madness is only a sham and that sufficient evidence exists to support his convictions over his uncle’s deeds, in reality, his alleged ruse distorts his reality to his suspicions. Although certainty is non-existent, it is quite possible that Hamlet perversely resolves his depression through the determination to avenge.

We're Fated to Have Free Will?

Friday’s somewhat circular discussion concerning the guiding elements of fate and free will in Oedipus Rex prompted me to reflect upon these two fundamental aspects of Greek mythology and tragedy. The underlying theme behind the back-story of Oedipus Rex is the attempt to escape one’s fate. The Oracle tells Oedipus that he will kill his father and sleep with his mother, prompting him to flee Corinth under the pretext that the King and Queen are his actual parents. Despite his efforts, the Oracle’s prophecy invariably and tragically holds true. Similarly, the Oracle tells Laius, Oedipus’s real father, that his son will kill him, thus provoking Laius to attempt to preemptively kill his son. And yet, his son does not die and in turn, Laius does not live. This all raises a simply worded, yet complex question: what is an individual fated to do and what is an individual free to do?
For the sake of simplicity and non-historical truth, let us assume that the Oracle is never wrong. Such infallibility implies that whatever is spoken by the Python—the priestess of Apollo who spews out prophecies—will eventually occur. Thus, it is impossible for Oedipus, nor anyone who receives a future-indicating statement from the Oracle for that matter, to prevent the realization of such statement. Unfortunately, Oedipus, and everybody else, is condemned to commit patricide and incest, a combination of one or the other, or their equivalents. Taking Oedipus’s story as a case study, one does not have choice whether he or she wants to kill his father and copulate with his mother; it is predetermined. The only scenarios in which Oedipus avoids his fate are those in which the Oracle is wrong, but (1) that violates our above assumption and (2) the Oracle is never wrong; therefore, no such scenarios exist. And yet, even though each of these scenarios ends with the same aforementioned outcome, an infinite number of scenarios exist.
What is the reason for such variation? The answer is rather simple: it is free will. Although it may seem like a contradiction, Oedipus’s story is riddled with examples of fate’s polar opposite twin. Let “Point A” denote where Oedipus is at in terms of space and time immediately after he hears the Oracle speak and let “Point B” denote where Oedipus is at, again in terms of space and time, where Oedipus is at after he kills Laius in the first recorded instance of road rage. Going even further, let “Point C” denote Oedipus’s spatial and temporal location after he first engages in intercourse with Jocasta. There exist an infinite number of paths varying in the distance and the time between Points A and B, Points B and C, and Points A, B and C. Obviously, the distance and time differences are metaphorical; but the point—no pun intended— is that Oedipus can choose any one of these pathways. That, precisely, is a demonstration of free will. The Oracle, a very ends-focused entity, merely tells him what he will unquestionably and inevitably do, not the nature in which he will do it.
Fueling the hopes of those who like to believe in human agency, individuals are not forced to consult to the Oracle; knowing one’s fate is entirely the decision of the individual. Although this assertion may seem irrelevant since, arguably, it is characteristic human behavior to be curious about the future, it nonetheless is incontrovertible that neither Oedipus nor Laius was commanded to know his fate. This fact, though, raises an interesting backward-looking question: would Oedipus’s life have occurred in the same manner had neither he nor his father ever scratched the itch of curiosity? The answer is no, but that is only because the way the question is worded. If Laius did not know that his son would eventually kill him, he would not have killed Oedipus. Furthermore, Oedipus would never have consulted the Oracle because he would not have been at the court of Corinth where a drunken man questioned his legitimacy. However, none of that is a definitive guarantee that Oedipus would not have killed his father and had sex with his mother. This, in turn, raises another, even more confusing question: would a prophecy be realized even though no one knew it existed?
It is this author’s strong conviction that this question cannot be answered. Attempting to answer the above question requires the individual to be aware of the prophecy, which violates the condition that no one know of its existence. The easiest and the most logical—even though the notion of pre-determined events may seem illogical—way to resolve this dilemma of fate and free will is to accept the following position: an individual is free to choose how he or she meets his or her fate; but meet his or her fate, he or she will. One might argue that “self-fulfilling prophecy” describes Oedipus’s course of action, but that assertion falls into a destructive double-bind: either (A) there exists a probability that the Oracle’s words will not compel the hearer to realize his or her fate, in which case there exist scenarios in which the Oracle is wrong—the Oracle is never wrong; or (B) there exists no probability that Oracle’s words will not compel the hearer to realize his fate, in which case the Oracle’s words are always true, which in turn means that the hearer still does as he or she is fated to do. In the end, it is impossible to prove categorically that all of our actions are not predetermined and cannot be correctly divined, since we can never prove that there does not exist such a diviner. Such rationale has ensured the continuance of the profitability of the prophecy industry. (956)

The Insufferable Loneliness of Dying

Lev Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan llyich conveys the unique experience of dying through the narration of the eponymous protagonist’s descent into abyss of the death. Described by Ronald Blythe as evoking “the sheer desolating aloneness of dying,” Tolstoy’s novella paints a grim and unfortunate picture of a man who is alone not only in terms of physical experience from which he suffers but also in terms of the inner agony that accompanies the waiting for the termination of one’s existence.

Following his unexpected fall while decorating his house to look like that of every other man’s of his class, Ivan, or Jean if were Francophiles, begins his dark period of aloneness. He understands his condition, or at least the symptoms of it, while all who surround him are without a modicum of knowledge as to cause of his suffering. One doctor thinks the malady is a “floating kidney”—and Russians wondered why western Europeans thought them backward—another thinks his illness is “something…in the vermiform appendix.” But in reality, none of them are certain to any significant degree. All the while Ivan suffers “with the consciousness that his life was poisoned and was poisoning the lives of others.” Furthermore, his wife, a constant thorn in his side whose pain occasionally goes into remission, thinks Ivan’s illness is his own fault. These attitudes exhibited by those around him all contribute to his feeling he is “all alone on the brink of an abyss, with no one who understood or pitied him.” Tolstoy conveys the classic emotion almost every individual experiences at one point in time: the feeling that nobody understands what one is going through. In Ivan’s case, this sentiment his exponentially heightened with his impending demise.

Moreover, though, Ivan is suffering from an existential crisis that 1) is primarily irrelevant to people who are not about to die and 2) only he can resolve for himself. Ivan wrestles with the fear of what he will be, when he is not, while the others—family and friends—are unfazed by such mysteries. Ivan, and in turn Tolstoy, conveys the universal qualm when he says “Death. Yes, death. And none of them knows or wishes to know it, and they have no pity for me.” When his wife comes in after he has had a bout with this plaguing question, Ivan immediately assumes that she will not understand. It is as though Ivan has become an inconvenience to those around him. The people who would have been regarded as being close to him now await his passing so that this unpleasant period may quickly fade. Ivan is left alone to painfully “sweat out” this final chapter in his life without any for company, with Gerasim as a possible exception. This unfortunate reality compels Ivan to feel that he is and will be all alone throughout this tortuous experience; a sentiment that seems to be reasonably true, considering the strikingly absent mentioning of his family or friends tending to him.

While it may not be difficult to describe the “aloneness of death” for a man with a family like Ivan’s, Tolstoy’s attempt to depict Ivan’s situation raises a broader question: how can something so personal and intimate as the process of dying be adequately conveyed by an external observer? This question is not intended to be a criticism of the masterful Tolstoy. Rather, it reveals that the assumption that has been made in affirming Blythe’s aforementioned statement is that one can truly understand this experience. While I have no intention of resolving the question posed, I will readily concede that at the very least, Tolstoy displays a profoundly convincing conjecture in The Death of Ivan Iliych. (614)