Posts Tagged ‘edmund pickett’

My Library

Monday, June 8th, 2009

In Czarist Russia there were officially only three classes of people: nobility, clergy, and peasants. By the end of the 19th century though, there were coming to be more and more individuals who didn’t fit into the recognized categories. The children of merchants for example, or Jews, those with some university education, or ethnic minorities… Quite a few people were falling between the cracks and they became known as razochinetski, meaning those of no clearly defined social class. The label could be derogatory. Sometimes the word just meant “middle-class intellectual.” The czarist officials didn’t trust these people because knowing their background didn’t tell you much about them. They might be either communists or nationalists. In an unsettling way, each razochinetz seemed to be self-defined.

Osip Mandelstam, the poet, proudly accepted the label and said that the biography of a razochinetz was his bookshelf. In other words, he was what he had read. In the United States, social classes are said to be fluid, but we still have razochinetski and a library can still serve as a biography of sorts, especially for self-educated people, who have complete freedom to choose what they read.

Nobody made me read any of the following books. It’s not a list of every book I’ve ever read, just those I still have copies of. Actually I don’t have them because they’re in storage in two different countries.

The first book I ever read was called “The Cozy Little Farm,” and I have a picture of myself holding it. The first adult book I read was “Edison” by Josephson. It was a bit over my head at age ten, but Edison was my hero and I still recall many scenes. One of the illustrations is a reproduction of a letter, showing Edison’s unique calligraphy, which he developed when he was a telegrapher. It was designed to be clear, beautiful and fast. I retrained myself to write in that style, and still do, more or less.


MY LIBRARY (What’s Left of It)


HISTORY


Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War

The Peninsular War, Jac Weller

Ivan’s War, Catherine Merridale

A Nation Made by War, Geoffrey Perret

Eisenhower, Geoffrey Perret

The Forgotten Soldier, Guy Sajer

The Second World War, John Keegan

The Boer War, Thomas Pakenham

The Age of Jackson, Arthur M. Schlesinger

Stalin, The Court of the Red Czar, Simon S. Montefiore

Lincoln, Redeemer President, Alan Guelzo

The Impending Crisis, David M. Potter

A Narrative History of the Civil War, Shelby Foote

Decline & Fall of the Roman Empire, Edward S. Gibbon

Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose

The Reformation, Diarmuid MacCulloch

A Short History of the Argentines, Felix Luna

At Home Among the Patagonians, George Musters

The Thirty Years War, C.V. Wedgwood

Anabasis (The Upcountry March), Xenophon

The Conquest of Mexico, Bernal Diaz

The Conquest of Mexico, W.S. Prescott

Emperor of China, Jonathan Spence

The Command of the Ocean, N.A.M. Rodger

The Guns of August, Barbara Tuchman

The Face of Battle, John Keegan

Maus I & II, Art Spiegelman

Harvest of Sorrow, Robert Conquest

Treason By The Book, Jonathan Spence

Annals of Imperial Rome, Tacitus trans. Grant

Army of the Caesars, Michael Grant

Adventures of Capt. Alonso Contreras, trans. Dallas

Memoirs, vol. I, George Kennan

The Pacific War—1931-1945, Saburo Ienaga

The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, T.E. Lawrence

Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose


FICTION, (novels, stories, drama)


Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe

The Riverside Shakespeare (1 vol.)

A Dance to the Music of Time (12 vols.), Anthony Powell

Sixteen Plays, Henrik Ibsen trans. Michael Meyer

Plays of Moliere, trans. Richard Wilbur

Midaq Alley, Naguib Mahfouz

Palace Walk, Naguib Mahfouz

The Master & Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov

Aunt Julia & the Scriptwriter, Mario Vargas Llosa

Walls Rise Up, George Sessions Perry

Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain

Darkness At Noon, Arthur Koestler

The Third Bank of the River, Joao Guimaraes Rosa

Maiden, Cynthia Buchanan

Stories, Nikolai Gogol

Dead Souls, Nikolai Gogol

The Leopard, Giuseppe di Lampedusa

The Stories of Anton Chekhov, trans. By Constance Garnett

The Plays of Chekhov, trans. by C. Garnett

New Grub Street, George Gissing

The Odd Women, George Gissing

Kim, Rudyard Kipling

Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham

Ashenden Stories, W. Somerset Maugham

Moon & Sixpence, W. Somerset Maugham

Child 44, Tom Rob Smith

The Secret Speech, Tom Rob Smith

Old Goriot, Balzac

Cousin Bette, Balzac

The Great Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald

Tender Is The Night, F.Scott Fitzgerald

A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway

Sword of Honor, Evelyn Waugh

The Loved One, Evelyn Waugh

Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh

Under Western Eyes, Joseph Conrad

The Secret Agent, Joseph Conrad

Pride & Prejudice, Jane Austen

Emma, Jane Austen

Animal Farm, George Orwell

1984, George Orwell

The Sorrows of Young Werther, J.W. von Goethe

Mother Night, Kurt Vonnegut

The Good Soldier, Ford Madox Ford


BIOGRAPHY, AUTOBIOGRAPHY, MEMOIR


The Shorter Pepys, ed. Robert Latham

Pepys,The Unequalled Self, by Claire Tomalin

Mr. Pepys, Samuel Ollard

Goethe, 2 vols. (so far) by Nicholas Boyle

Orwell, Jeffrey Meyers

Edmund Wilson, Jeffrey Meyers

Ibsen, Michael Meyer

Edison, Matthew Josephson

Alexander Pope, Maynard Mack

Chekhov, Donald Rayfield

Chekhov, Henri Troyat

Letters of Chekhov, ed. by Simon Karlinsky & M.H. Heim

Wellington, The Years of the Sword, Antonia Fraser

Witness, Sam Tannenhaus

Eugene O’Neill (2 vols.), Louis Schaeffer

Hindo Holiday, J.R.Ackerly

Henry James, (1 vol.) Leon Edel

W.Somerset Maugham, Ted Morgan

Italian Journey, J.W. von Goethe

A Time of Gifts, Patrick Leigh Fermor

Between the Woods and the Water, Patrick Leigh Fermor

Roumeli, Patrick Leigh Fermor

Mani, Patrick Leigh Fermor

The Cretan Runner, George Psychoundakis

Daedalus Returned, Baron von der Heydte

Oscar, Peter J. Wilson

The Lives of Talleyrand, Crane Brinton

Survival in Auschwitz, Primo Levi

The Reawakening, Primo Levi

The Periodic Table, Primo Levi

Eminent Victorians, Lytton Strachey

The Double Life of Stephen Crane, Christopher Benfey

Isaiah Berlin, David Ignatieff

Spinoza, Nadler

Chaucer, John Gardner

Chaucer, Donald Howard

Whittaker Chambers, Sam Tannenhaus

The Baburnama, Sultan Muhammad Babur, ed. Thackston

The Quest for Corvo, A.J.A. Symons

Parallel Lives, Plutarch

Emperor of China, Jonathan Spence

The Long Walk, Slawomir Rawicz

Comrade Valentine, Richard E. Rubenstein

Lords of the Sea, John R. Hale

Coyotes, Ted Conover


POETRY


The Odes of Horace, ed. by McClatchy

The Odes of Horace, trans. James Michie

Horace in English, ed. D.S. Carne Ross

The Complete Odes & Epodes of Horace, trans. W.G. Shepherd

Complete Odes & Satires of Horace, trans. Sidney Alexander

Sonnets of Shakespeare, ed. Helen Vendler

Collected Poems of Richard Wilbur

Collected Poems of W.H. Auden

Collected Poems of William Butler Yeats

Poems, Robert Frost

A Net of Fireflies, trans. Harold Stewart

Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Poems of George Gordon, Lord Byron

Norton Anthology of Classical Literature, ed. Bernard Knox

Collected Poems, Czeslaw Milosz

Collected Poems of Houseman

Piers Plowman, Norton Edition

Poems of F.G. Tuckerman

Poems of Thomas Hardy

Poems of John Gay, 2 vols., ed. Dearing

Psalms of Sidney & Pembroke, ed. Rathnell

The Aeneid, Vergil trans. P.Dickinson

Complete Poetry of Mandelstam, trans. Raffel & Burago

Iliad, Homer trans. Fagles

The Divine Comedy, Dante trans. Ciardi

Complete Poems, Andrew Marvell

Duino Elegies & Sonnets to Orpheus, R.M. Rilke trans. Poulin

Faust, Goethe trans. Kaufman

Complete Poetry, Alexander Pope


ESSAYS, CRITICISM


The Captive Mind, Czeslaw Milosz

Poetic Meter & Poetic Form, Paul Fussel

Cultural Amnesia, Clive James

Forwords and Afterwords, W.H. Auden

Essays Ancient and Modern, Bernard Knox

Essays, Letters, Journalism (4 vols.), George Orwell

Less Than One, Joseph Brodsky

Intellectuals, Paul Johnson

The Sense of Reality, Isaiah Berlin

The Crooked Timber of Humanity, Isaiah Berlin

Patriotic Gore, Edmund Wilson

Axel’s Castle, Edmund Wilson

To The Finland Station, Edmund Wilson

Essays, Montaigne trans. Frame

The Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Lionel Trilling

Distant Neighbors, Alan Riding

Mexican Etiquette & Ethics, Boye de la Mente

Narcocorrido, Elijah Wald

To Keep The Ball Rolling, Anthony Powell

Miscellaneous Verdicts, Anthony Powell

Under Review, Anthony Powell

True Tales From Another Mexico, Sam Quinones


RELIGION, PHILOSOPHY


Jews, God & History, Max Dimont

Judaism, Roy Rosenberg

This Is My God, Wouk

Jews, Arthur Hertzberg

The Sabbath, A.J. Heschel

Farewell, España, Howard M. Sachar

The Essential Talmud, Adin Steinsaltz

A History of the Jews, Paul Johnson

The Gospel According to Jesus, Stephen Mitchell

The Book of Job, Stephen Mitchell

Jesus of Nazareth, J. Bornkamm


HISTORICAL FICTION


Memoirs of Hadrian, Marguerite Yourcenar

I, Claudius, Robert Graves

The Mask of Apollo, Mary Renault

The King Must Die, Mary Renault

Captain From Castille, Samuel Shellabarger


ENTERTAINMENTS

(thrillers, mysteries,

romances, adventure tales, etc.)


The Flashman series, George M. Fraser

The Travis McGee series, John D. McDonald

The Hornblower series, C.S. Forester

The Aubrey/Maturin series, Patrick O’Brian

The Bernie Rhodenbarr series, Lawrence Block

The Masters of Rome series, Colleen McCullough

The Sharpe series, Bernard Cornwell

87th Precinct series, Ed McBain

Arkady Renko series, Martin Cruz Smith

Rogue Male, Geoffrey Household

Scaramouche, Rafael Sabatini

Captain Blood, Rafael Sabatini

Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut

The Big Clock, Kenneth Fearing

Treasure Island, R.L. Stevenson

The White Tiger, Aravind Adiga

Outsourced, R.J.Hillhouse

Con Ed, Mathew Klein

Citizen Vince, Jess Walter

The Riddle of the Sands, Erskine Childers

The Faithful Spy, Alex Berenson

Six Suspects, Vikas Swarup

The Alibi, Joseph Kanon

The Club Dumas, Arturo Perez-Reverte

Captain Alatrice, Arturo Perez-Reverte


ISLAM


The Closed Circle, David Pryce-Jones

The Arab Mind, Raphael Patai

Why I Am Not A Muslim, Ibn Warraq

The Media Relations Dept. of Hizbollah

Wishes You A Happy Birthday, Neil MacFarquhar

The Rise, Coming Fall and Corruption

of Saudi Arabia, Said K. Aburish

The Two Faces of Islam, Stephen Schwartz

The Siege of Mecca, Yaroslav Trofimov

Islam, Robert Spencer

Terror’s Source, Vincenzo Olivetti

Hatred’s Kingdom, Dore Gold

The Looming Tower, Lawrence Wright

The 9/11 Commission Report

Understanding Arabs, Margaret Nydell

Princess, Jean Sasson

Sultana’s Daughters, Jean Sasson

Sultana’s Circle, Jean Sasson

Now They Call Me Infidel, Nonie Darwish

Perfect Soldiers, Terry McDermott

Islam and Terrorism, Mark Gabriel

Wahabism, A Critical Essay, Hamid Algar

Islam, A Short History, Karen Armstrong

The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Mohsin Hamid

The Blood of Lambs, Kamal Saleem

Nadia’s Song, Soheir Kashoggi

Learning Spanish

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

THIS PART OF THE SITE IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION AS OF  JUNE 2009

CHECK BACK LATER,  THANKS

 

 

Books, Courses, Tapes, etc.

Bilingual Audio Files

The Gringo’s Guide to Pronouncing Spanish

Books on Islam, pt. 1

Thursday, May 21st, 2009

For those who know very little about Islam, two authors offer very different introductions. One author bends over backward to give Islam and Mohammed the greatest benefit of any possible doubt, while the other contains every argument ever made against Islam.

          The apology (or defense) is  Islam: A Short History by Karen Armstrong, a former nun, who previously wrote a best selling biography of God. In her telling, Mohammed is the very soul of compassion, who brought enlightenment to the pagans of Arabia and improved the status of women. In this book and also in Muhammad: A Prophet for Our Time, Armstrong’s general thesis is that Mohammed never did anything wrong, and if he did, everyone else was doing it too, and in Europe at that time they were even worse. Seriously, this is the level of her analysis. In her spiritual autobiography, The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darknessshe describes her seven years as a nun, an experience which she says left her scarred emotionally. It is difficult to summarize her current religious beliefs, but basically she thinks all the great religious traditions are trying to approach the same God, and if you don’t take what they say literally, they are equally valid. She says that compassion is the supreme virtue and the one we must honor when speaking of anyone else’s religion. She believes this requires her to accept at face value everything Muslims say about Muhammad and Islam, so she accepts without question every dodgy excuse Muslims have ever made to excuse the barbarous cruelties of their prophet. For instance, Muhammad had two concubines, more correctly known as sex slaves, one of whom he enslaved after defeating her tribe in battle, and then executing her husband and father. Armstrong says, “The emancipation of women was a project dear to the prophet’s heart.” And on the same page she adds, “…Muhammad was one of those rare men who truly enjoy the company of women.” (Islam: A Short History, pg. 67) In short, Karen Armstrong might as well be a muslim missionary.

     However, if you can’t bear to think ill of anyone and sincerely want to believe that the billion muslims of the world follow a religion of love, then Karen Armstrong should be your guide. While she doesn’t admit to being a convert to Islam (and I doubt that she is) she is careful to say nothing that could possibly offend even the most moderate muslim. Miracles and legends that would strain the credibility of a gullible ten-year old are related by Armstrong as obvious truth. This kind of self-censorship is common among some writers on Islam. It is often presented as compassion towards the sensitivities of others, but in reality is nothing but hypocrisy. A real scholar of Islam, Maxime Rodinson, explains what seems to me a more honest position as follows,

 
          “May any muslims who happen to read these lines forgive my plain speaking. For them the Koran is the book of Allah and I respect their faith. But I do not share it and I do not wish to fall back, as many orientalists have done, on equivocal phrases to disguise my real meaning. This may perhaps be of assistance in remaining on good terms with individuals and governments professing Islam; but I have no wish to deceive anyone. Muslims have every right not to read my book or to acquaint themselves with the ideas of a non-muslim, but if they do so, they must expect to find things put forward there which are blasphemous to them. It is evident that I do not believe that the Koran is the book of Allah.”

 

It is worth mentioning that many violent jihadist websites recommend Karen Armstrong’s books. I can’t help but wonder if she has ever stopped to think how miserable her life would have been if she had been born in any muslim country.

 

 

The contrary view on Islam is given in Why I Am Not a Muslim by Ibn Warraq, a readable guide to every argument ever made against Islam. The author was raised as a muslim, then became an atheist. He attacks every claim made by muslims about their faith and leaves not one stone standing on another. The Koran is not infallible, not the word of God, it is not even good Arabic. Mohammed was a mass murderer, a pedophile and a fraud. Islam despises women and hates science. If this sounds harsh, you should be aware that all the facts presented by Ibn Warraq come from canonical Muslim sources. I believe his arguments are irrefutable and that they should be read by anyone who wants to discuss Islam in public. Aside from the fraudulent nature of the Koran and the reprehensible character of Mohammed, Ibn Warraq discusses two important areas which are commonly shrouded in myths: Science and Women.

It is widely believed that there was a period of time lasting several centuries when Islamic civilization was exceptionally tolerant of other religions and that there was a great flourishing of science and art. Ibn Warraq debunks this myth completely. Of course there are some grains of truth around which the myth is built. There were some great scholars in Muslim countries who preserved manuscripts of classic Greek philosophers and mathematicians, manuscripts which would otherwise have been lost to humanity. However, most of these men were not muslims. They were Christians or Jews who lived in Muslim countries. Their names are Arabic, because they were born in Arab countries and Arabic was their native tongue, but they were not muslim. They and the few muslims who shared their interests were not actually tolerated, in the usual meaning of that word. Almost every one of them was persecuted, some were executed, some were exiled. Others had to write in allegorical language or leave their works to be published posthumously. If these men survived unscathed, it was by accident, or because they lived in seclusion. In every case, their accusers were the leading Islamic scholars of the day, who denounced them for the simple crime of reading non-Islamic books. It has long been a fundamental belief in the muslim world that all books written by non-muslims are useless and probably dangerous. The argument given is that if by chance the book contains material that agrees with Islam it is redundant and therefore superfluous. If it contains material contrary to Islam then it is evil. This single idea is responsible for the cultural egotism and widespread ignorance in the muslim world. A few years ago a United Nations study counted all the books translated into Arabic in one year. It was equal to the number of books translated into modern Greek. Since the Arab countries have 30 times the population of Greece, these majority muslim countries clearly suffer from a profound lack of curiosity about the rest of the world. This, as much as anything, explains the widespread ignorance, lack of development, and intolerance among muslims. Simply put, Islam is hostile to all education except the study of the Koran and other Islamic texts. There never was and never will be a great age of science in the muslim world until this self-imposed narrow mindedness disappears.

As Ernest Renan observed, we do not give the Catholic Inquisition the credit for the works of Galileo, so why should we give Islam the credit for the achievements of a few scholars whose lives were lived in constant fear of Islamic persecution?

Ibn Warraq also gives a full account of the status of women in Islam, throughout history and throughout the Muslim world today. I thought I knew most of the indictment here, but I was wrong. The truth is much more horrible. Reading the catalog of horrors against women committed in the name of Islam is very much like reading about the Nazi death camps, and it must be emphasized again and again, the misogyny starts with Mohammed. It’s there in the Koran. It’s in the hadith, the biographical sketches of the prophet’s life, where it is obvious that to Mohammed, women were not fully human in the same way that men are. For Mohammed, women were nothing but sex toys. Hatred of women is not a perversion of Islam, it is Islam. For example, Al-Ghazali, an Islamic scholar sometimes called the second greatest muslim after the prophet, was a sick misogynist. Ibn Warraq provides a short summary of Al-Ghazali’s pronouncements on women, and reading it, I hope, will make you throw up. And the story never gets better. In every century and in every Islamic country, women have been treated like livestock.

For additional current information on the lives of women in Islamic countries, see my next post,”Books on Islam, pt. 2″ which contains reviews of “Infidel” by Ayan Hirsi Ali, “Now They Call Me Infidel” by Nonie Darwish and the books by Jean Sasson, “Princess,” “Sultana’s Circle,” and “Sultana’s Children,” and others.

 

The Birth of Laughter

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

          

 

 

Jumbling down the street beneath       

umbrellas of colored cellophane,

these turned-up crescents full of teeth

are children, blooming in the rain.

 

Like stained glass mushrooms come alive,

whose powers at last are unconfined,

this motley squad of four or five

is death on sight to a gloomy mind.

 

Squealing, splashing, wet as snails–

    their mothers dressed them warm today

    and now they all drag furry tails–

    the coats that Spring should pack away.

 

Sunshine erupts, with rare bad taste,

baking the splash right out of those

in whom a sudden hope was placed.

Betrayed, they drip, and pout and pose.

 

Their shelters folded turn to swords,

with all hands now repelling boarders.

Past squealing quickly, they now use words,

and some now give, and some take, orders.

 

Old Gloomy would lose heart at this,

but sees a dark cloud on the way

and stands his ground, afraid to miss

the birth of laughter twice in a day.

 

I wait.  Quite soon that shriveled plume

wrapped round each fighting stick will bloom.

They’ll play.  Old me will stand in thrall,

and water will fall and fall and fall.

 

 

© 2009  Edmund Pickett

 

       (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

          you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)

As If Led

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

 

 

As If Led

 

 

                                       I

Spilled blood dies

long before it dries.

With no breath

to flow toward it’s death

comes on fast.

Each cell breathes its’ last

and all stop

as life leaves each drop.

I forget

that what’s now just wet

was once warm;

this splat had a form–

a branched view

of all it flowed through,

blue then red,

circling as if led

by a song

’til something all wrong

slacks the stream.

What leaves then like steam

is all one:

heat, shape, direction.

 

 

                                      II

 

Split in three,

blood’s integrity

eludes us.

More is dangerous

to our lives

than glass shards or knives,

but damage

is harder to gauge.

Shapeless form,

heat that doesn’t warm,

red and blue

circles are a few

of what we

bleed through quietly,

wondering at

the simple fact that

lives are spilled

long before they’re killed.

 

                                     

 

©  2009  Edmund Pickett

 

                 (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

                  you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)

Your Poised Hand

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

 

                        1

These clothes my former lover made

Fit even better as they fade.

 

                        2

There’s frequently a lot of dust

in what we think is solid sand.

In finding out you never trust

your eye or how it feels in hand.

To quench such curiosity,

fling it to the wind! You’ll see

the powder, born in falling grit,

billow, and abandon it.

Then you’ll know exactly just

how much rock and how much dust

were in that pile of so-called sand,

lately lying in your poised hand.

 

                        3

Exactly what you had will then

be known, and never known again.

The clothes she made are wearing thin.

 

 

           © 2009 Edmund Pickett

 

     (This poem may be copied or forwarded, as long as

       you retain the copyright notice and author’s name.)

 

 

Two Clerihews

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

 

 

(Clerihews are short humorous poems based on the name of a famous person.

Writers or historical figures have been most common in clerihews, but any celebrity

would do. The writers mentioned here may no longer be that well-known…)

 

1

John O’hara bemoaned as a tragic loss

that he was not born Louis Auchincloss,

who himself was surely not even awara

that plebeian scribbler, John O’Hara.

 

2

The last name of Anthony Powell

rhymes with that of Robert Lowell,

which makes no sense, but then

neither did Lowell.

 

© 2009 Edmund Pickett

 

     (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

       you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)

 

 

 

 

Lady With Small Dog

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

 

 

A story by Anton Chekhov,

transposed into verse

 

1

A new arrival made the round one day:

a young lady, with small dog, and a beret;

and people talked and guessed and wondered who.

In Yalta now for nearly fourteen days,

Dimitri Gurov had picked up its’ ways,

and he too was curious for something new.

He saw her walking on the beach, from his chair

in the sidewalk café. She wore a beret

and a small white dog followed her everywhere.

After that he saw her several times a day

in the park or on the square: that same beret,

walking alone, the small dog trotting near.

No one knew her, and she simply became

“The lady with the dog” for lack of a name.

 

“It’s plain she has no friends or husband here,”

Dimitri thought, “It couldn’t hurt at all

if she and I should prove congenial…”

Though not yet forty, Gurov was the father

of teenage sons and a twelve year-old daughter.

Marriage happened to him young, his second year

in college, and now his wife looked sixty.

She was tall and dignified, erect, austere,

and had black eyebrows. She constantly

read books, and always wrote in modern spelling.

“I am a thinking person,” she would claim,

and she called her husband by his full name.

 

Dimitri found her narrow, unappealing

and dumb. She nearly always had her say

around the house,  because he stayed away.

In the years since he had first stepped out on her

he’d lost count, and somehow this dishonor

to the wife extended to the sex as well.

In his opinion, ‘female’ ranked with ‘vermin;’

‘The Lower Breed’ was his pet name for women.

 

He felt that all his life he’d gone through hell

with them; that his past justified his creed,

and yet, he was lost without this ‘lower breed.’

Around men, a dull, stale feeling always blocked

his inner self; he was bored and never talked,

but with women Dimitri felt free…

He knew how to behave and what to say

and even handled silence gracefully.

His character, in an elusive way,

charmed women. His looks, his every action,

had an indefinable attraction

which drew them on, as he well knew, and he

was drawn to them, just as irresistably.

 

Now Gurov knew, from frequent bitter lessons,

an affair, (especially with the decent kind)

which seems adventurous at first and lessens

the monotony of life, will soon unwind

in complicated ways, causing pain

for all, and problems no one can explain.

   (The worst are those who always change their mind

    and can’t get a move on, in short, the Moscow kind)

but each new lovely woman that he met

made him hunger for life, and he’d forget

the sorry past. Love seemed like a new thing,

and it was all so simple and amusing.

 

And so one afternoon, in the cafe

in the park, the lady with the beret

walked slowly to a table and took a seat

near Gurov, who’d just begun to eat.

Dimitri could tell, by the way she wore her hair,

her clothes, her walk, her general air,

that she was upper class, a husband somewhere,

new in town, and becoming more aware

of what her situation tended toward:

she was young, and alone, and also bored…

 

The stories told of immorality

among the Yalta set could hardly be

less true, and Gurov held them in contempt,

as fictions made by those who’d love to be

what they condemn, but shrink from the attempt,

but when this girl sat down not ten feet away,

it brought to mind the things he’d heard them say,

of easy conquests, picnics for the day

in mountain fields…. A thought began to tempt

Dimitri: an affair, quick and quickly done,

a romance with a stranger, with someone

whose very name he lacked– beyond control

at once, the thought of it possessed his soul.

 

He lured the dog his way, and then he scowled,

shaking his finger when it came; it growled,

he teased again.

                           She looked at him and dropped

her eyes. “He doesn’t bite,” she said and stopped,

turning red.

                      “Could I offer him a bone?”

he asked. She nodded. In a friendly tone,

he went on, “You’ve been here for awhile?”

 

“About five days,” she said.

                                                      “Tomorrow I’ll

have somehow managed two full weeks,” he sighed,

and then their talk was briefly set aside.

 

“Time flies,” the lady said, looking away,

“and yet it’s boring!”

                                    “That’s what they all say,”

said Gurov, “and yet these very people live

for years on end in God-forsaken holes

like Belyov or Zhidra and never give

a thought to boredom, but, you set these souls

in Yalta– ‘Oh the dust!’ they cry, ‘le ennui!’

you’d think they spent each winter ‘a Paris!’”

 

She laughed.

                          They finished eating silently,

like strangers, but, when through, quite naturally

departed side by side; and there arose

that playful kind of talk you find in those

who are content and free, who hardly care

in which direction words or steps might bear.

They strolled along nand talked about the strange

effects that night and ocean can arrange,

how lilac sea and lunar gold exchange.

They described the sultry night, which also led

to talk of daytime heat. Dimitri said:

he’d majored in Linguistics but somehow

had gotten into banking; lived in Moscow;

had trained to sing in opera, but threw it in;

and owned two houses…

                                              She had been,

he learned, brought up in Petersburg, but since

her marriage two years past her residence

had been in the town of X–. She planned to spend

another month, although that would depend

on her husband, who might come down.

He worked in government, perhaps a Crown

department, or just some local bureau…

She laughed herself, amused she didn’t know.

And Gurov got a name from her as well,

which was Anna.

                               Later, back in his hotel,

he thought of her, and it seemed a certainty

they’d meet again next day. It had to be.

As he got in to bed he thought how recently

she’d been at school; the shy and awkward way

she laughed or talked with strangers gave it away.

His daughter’s age almost, she was now alone

in circumstances she had never known:

men followed her, or watched, or spoke to her

with one intention, plain, though not expressed–

intentions she could hardly fail to guess.

He thought of her neck, delicate and slender,

her lovely grey eyes.

                                  He was thinking, when sleep came,

“There’s something pathetic about her, all the same.”

 

               (End of Chapter One)

 

 

© 2009 Edmund Pickett

 

         (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

            you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)

 

     There are five more chapters I haven’t versified. Of course Gurov’s hopes for a quick anonymous affair don’t pan out. He and Anna become far more involved than that. I recommend that you finish the story in Chekhov’s prose version, and I hope you will then read all his stories, preferably in translation by Constance Garnett.

       Anton Chekhov was not only one of the best writers who ever lived, he was one of the best human beings, and his short life, which ended just before the Russian revolution of 1917, is worth knowing.  Reviews of some of the best books about him are here.

 

 

 

 

The Fourth Draft Celebration Walk

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

 

 

Writing all night left me drained, undone…

in need of a walk streaked with early sun,

but winter has the sun still earth-blocked here.

Leaving dark porch for windy street I felt fear—

a large black cat broke cover on my right,

crossed third street like blown trash and dropped from sight.

Though not a lot afraid, I was enough

to bear left, my fourth draft celebration walk.

Discovering cause for joy at all was rough,

re-reading the static scenes and wooden talk,

but Five could improve, Six just might be great.

Plays almost write themselves when the hour is late.

So why push my luck tonight? A black cat

says South’s taboo… I can live with that.

 

 

© 2009 Edmund Pickett

 

     (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

        you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)

Quakies

Monday, May 18th, 2009

 

 

Above bare limbs of dark quaking aspens,

like ornaments, the stellar sparkles glimmered.

Beneath the trees a poet and, as happens

occasionally, a girl, lay and simmered

in young lust, an appetite all ages

have thought to be a beautiful folly,

a drive this very poet had spent pages

rhapsodizing over, being ‘melancholy,’

using a grander word, almost religious.

 

Now, none of that matters. Her waving legs

blot out the stars and the lacy, deciduous

canopy. He’s strong enough to juggle beer kegs,

if tapping her could be forgot, and she…

unsure if it’s the stars, the trees, or her

insides that quake, drinks it in. A banshee

scream or two, appreciative moans… for her

it’s not the words, but what’s said wordlessly.

 

At the moment, he doesn’t know his name;

because she didn’t ask, neither does she.

Your poet, who just barely overcame

his occupational prerogative

to lie about such uninspiring facts,

still sees those trees backlit so well. To give

a tree’s nickname to lovers maybe lacks

that true poetic touch, but ‘quakies’

gives to panting strangers a name of grace;

I think it fits us all, for I can’t shake these

images of people made of brown lace,

trembling on a dark hill, just holes and scars,

and shining through them, distant flickering stars.

 

 

© 2009 Edmund Pickett

 

                 (This poem may be copied or forwarded as long as

                  you retain the copyright notice and author’s name)