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BOOK REVIEW: The Stonewall Reader

August 9, 2019

Thanks to Laken Brooks, a 2019 Harrison Middleton University Fellow in Ideas recipient, for today's post.

The Stonewall Reader, edited by the New York Public Library, was published by Penguin Classics in 2019. The book brings LGBT archives to life by presenting a graceful and radical chronology of LGBT history in America. Edmund White’s foreword establishes a raw, personal insight into the social tensions brewing before and during Stonewall. White’s candid, if not irreverent, tone complements the more academic historiography in Jason Bauman’s introduction. Together, these first two sections suggest that The Stonewall Reader appeals to both a public and an academic audience, combining archival information with engaging personal narrative. A reader may be surprised, like me, to realize that the editors have listed their suggested readings at the start of the book, after the introduction, instead of in the appendix. However, this intentional placement provides a sense of ethos. This text draws on work from other writers and activists, and this early reading list conveys a sense of the editors’ humility. The list reminds the reader that this book is one of many texts that represent the LGBT community, a diverse group of people instead of a monolith.

The New York Public Library has edited this book with an eye on cohesion. The book itself is a collection of various letters, autobiographies, and other texts from the LGBT community. The book organizes these pieces into three broad categories: Before Stonewall, During Stonewall, and After Stonewall. The first entry in Before Stonewall is a selection from Audre Lorde’s Zami: A New Spelling of My Name. While Lorde describes covert glances between quiet lesbians who pass one another on the street, the book’s last piece emphasizes the progress since Stonewall. Chirlane McCray’s “I Am a Lesbian” bookends The Stonewall Reader by, in its title alone, speaking aloud the identity that many have kept hidden. Lorde’s and McCray’s texts also excavate the marginalized history of lesbians of color. The reader should not underestimate that The Stonewall Reader prioritizes writing from people of color when many media accounts portray white, cisgender, gay men as the primary subjects of America’s queer history.

The Stonewall Reader deserves a place on college syllabi. Younger readers, such as those in middle and high school, may have difficulty intuitively connecting the tones and topics in each section because the New York Public Library mostly lets each primary text speak for itself without editorial footnotes or comment. Furthermore, the collection contains graphic examples of police brutality, sexuality, and other content that an educator might need to preface with content warnings. However, the diverse texts can spark rich discourse for older readers. The primary source material, from legal documents to literary memoirs, allows this book to stretch across disciplines. Professors who teach gender studies, American history, civil rights, library science, archival studies, or queer theory could assign this book for their students. While The Stonewall Reader is well-curated, one benefit of the book is that professors can thoughtfully scalpel out samples of each section to make new connections or to emphasize certain experiences. Readers interested in queer history may consider the following texts alongside The Stonewall Reader: Michael Bronski’s A Queer History of the United States (2012), Don Romesburg’s The Routledge History of Queer America (2018), Allida M. Black’s Modern American Queer History (2001), Harry M. Benshoff and Sean Griffin’s Queer Images: A History of Gay and Lesbian Film in America (2005), John Howard’s Men Like That: A Southern Queer History (1999), Eric Marcus’ Making Gay History (2009), and Vicki L. Eaklor’s Queer America: A People’s GLBT History of the United States (2011).

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The Form of Sound

July 26, 2019

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

Forms have recognizable shapes. Typically we speak of visible forms, such as the difference between smoke and a cloud. These two share commonalities, but also have some very recognizable differences. Sound also has a shape of its own, though it is rarer to discuss forms of sound than visual forms. Musicians, however, are tasked with the goal of modeling sounds which create recognizable forms for the listener. I love to listen to film scores in order to gauge the shape of a movie. These scores give hints about the emotional content of the film. More than that, however, they often shape the film for the viewer – as if able to encapsulate roughly two hours of content into a single melody. In order to better understand how this is possible, I will focus on the way that musicians have demonstrated the form of water.

By identifying some of the key features used to imitate water I realize that I am ignoring the fact that sound can represent many things simultaneously. I do this only because I wish to trace a single thread, namely, the way that sound literally shapes an idea. Furthermore, the shaping of an idea (such as water) carries emotional connections which music ably conveys. While I focus on contemporary music due to time and space limitations, I do also understand the very healthy and necessary historical understanding of why and how sound evolved. If this topic interests you, I encourage you to look into the more historical elements of sound for cinema, the form of sounds, and emotional response to sound. Finally, I just want to note that the many links embedded in this post may appear tedious, but the soundbites are worth the time if you are at all interested in my argument, sound, and/or film scores.

First we must ask about water’s essential characteristics. Water is often moving, it is liquid, elemental, often depicted as blue, though we also know that water can be dark, muddy, green or sparkling. We sometimes describe water as: tinkling, running, falling, rushing, rough, swollen, winding, flowing, gushing, gurgling, brackish, fluid, murky, etc. In order to visualize water, we think in terms of waves and crests, rivulets, riverbends, droplets. Water can also be calm, choppy, ferocious, salty or fresh. Different types of animals live in freshwater versus saltwater. This abbreviated list alone demonstrates how water can be many things. If it assumes so many forms, how is it possible to know - and represent - its form?

And yet, water does have an essence. The following movies focus on water’s force in one way or another, as is reflected in their soundtrack. I made a few notes about the musical elements that caught my attention, but it is interesting to listen to these songs back to back in order to hear a possible version of the shape of water.

1] James Horner’s “Hymn to the Sea” from Titanic

It begins with a peaceful, calming human-like voice. The bagpipes indicate the tradition of a funeral hymn. Why is it titled Hymn to the Sea? Was the Titanic a sort of offering? Does this hymn personify the sea? Is the voice meant to be human or sea or ship? Is it meant to be female? The bagpipes incorporate the melody, and then many voices sing out in chorus. There are no words. This is a burial at the hands of the sea.

2] Alan Silvestri’s “Main Title” to The Abyss

It also begins with siren-like voices similar to the beginning of Horner’s “Hymn.” The voices gain force crashing into drums. What do the drums represent? Horns end this main title, accumulating into a clash of elements. It feels unsettled and gives the impression of the heartbeat. How does the music move from one element to another? How does this one incorporate ideas of water? Is water tied to fear?

3] Roque Banos’s “A Thousand Leagues Out” from In the Heart of the Sea

Intense from the beginning, a little percussion underscores the intensity and action. Ideas of size, perhaps of the whale, are implied. The music moves through all sorts of depths very rapidly, demonstrating change of water, emotions, situations. The music is meant to convey the spirit of depth, the unknown, mystery, fear and perhaps power, moving in and out like waves.

4] Johann Johannson’s “Into the Wide and Deep Unknown” from The Mercy

Piano music over a driving beat demonstrates both action and emotion. Then higher notes tinkle across the top, much like in Finding Dory, which implies a bit of love, hope, light, or whimsy. It ends with the lower notes on the piano and a sense of foreboding.

5] Thomas Newman’s “Main Title” to Finding Dory

Often watery sounds are expressed by the higher notes on the piano and/or keyboard, as heard here. The tinkling piano sounds seem to imitate the way that sunlight reflects off of water. The music also includes a structure that may refer to a whale song, or the sound of things that live in deep water.

6] Mark Isham’s “Haunted by Waters” from A River Runs Through It

Strings underscore a back and forth movement. Does the sound move over these strings in the way that water runs over rocks? It is as if the strings carry us, willingly, across the terrain. Does the fly fisherman’s hand and string move in a way that resembles water, and if so, are the sounds of water literally connected to the fisherman? The haunting of this song feels much less dangerous or fearsome than with some of the others, perhaps that is an essential difference between deep ocean water and rivers. The track title mentions haunted, but perhaps it is a necessary or beneficial haunting, as in the way that rivers define human lives.

7] Alexandre Desplat’s “Main Score” from The Shape of Water

An electronic human-like voice washes in and out of the melody. It comes and goes, not quite an eerie sound, but not fully human either. Voice and piano move up and down the scale in tandem for a short section of the score.

What is the essence of water? Does this list help to understand the way that humans see (or hear) water?


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Traces of Bergson

June 21, 2019

Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.

Read Lalucq’s full poem from Fortino Sámano here: https://poets.org/poem/fortino-samano

Bergson’s Creative Evolution: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/26163/26163-h/26163-h.htm

For our upcoming Quarterly Discussion, we will discuss a selection from Henri Bergson’s Creative Evolution. I had such a difficult time narrowing down this reading because there are so many wonderful avenues to take. I find his ideas of multiplicity to be very much in our rhetoric today. Since these concepts challenge the reader, today, I wanted to apply them to a contemporary poem which may (or may not) illustrate some of his ideas. Below, I focus on a single poem from Fortino Sámano by Virginie Lalucq which demonstrates, at least to me, the way that perspective alters a thing. This concept aligns with Bergson’s discussions of duration and reality.

I really enjoy how Virginie Lalucq plays with Bergson’s ideas of being and time. In Lalucq’s poetic series on Fortino Sámano, the narrator assumes the persona of Sámano on the day of his execution. Using nothing more than the last surviving photo, she begins a narration of his final thoughts. The poems, however, do not contain his voice any more than they contain the poet’s. Rather, they demonstrate an interplay between reality and perception, vital ideas in Bergson’s theories. In Chapter IV of Creative Evolution, Bergson addresses duration and perception. He suggests that the mind does not invent reality, but reconstructs a portion of it. In fact, reality happens simultaneous to a single perception of reality. This gives rise to the idea of multiplicity. Bergson writes,

“Matter or mind, reality has appeared to us as a perpetual becoming. It makes itself or it unmakes itself, but it is never something made. Such is the intuition that we have of mind when we draw aside the veil which is interposed between our consciousness and ourselves. This, also, is what our intellect and senses themselves would show us of matter, if they could obtain a direct and disinterested idea of it. But, preoccupied before everything with the necessities of action, the intellect, like the senses, is limited to taking, at intervals, views that are instantaneous and by that very fact immobile of the becoming of matter. Consciousness, being in its turn formed on the intellect, sees clearly of the inner life what is already made, and only feels confusedly the making. Thus, we pluck out of duration those moments that interest us, and that we have gathered along its course. These alone we retain. And we are right in so doing, while action only is in question. But when, in speculating on the nature of the real, we go on regarding it as our practical interest requires us to regard it, we become unable to perceive the true evolution, the radical becoming. Of becoming we perceive only states, of duration only instants, and even when we speak of duration and of becoming, it is of another thing that we are thinking. Such is the most striking of the two illusions we wish to examine. It consists in supposing that we can think the unstable by means of the stable, the moving by means of the immobile.” (273)

In her poetry, Virginie Lalucq plays with this idea. The narrator wonders about Sámano and asks, “How can he be absolutely in motion and/ absolutely motionless at the same time?” In other words, why does the photograph appear to be a single, instantaneous image, but in reality is a container for many narratives. The viewer perpetually makes and unmakes the image, adding details, questioning details, and then changing the narrative again. This reflects Bergson’s idea that we perceive only states of becoming, but not becoming in its entirety. This is our attempt to make something concrete out of something much too fluid which in this case is, ironically, a photograph.

Furthermore, the narrator addresses the dilemma of an absolute. The image has become shaded, “snowy,” distorted or unclear. The opacity heightens the enigmatic ending which reads: “From which the snowy/ image: each thing in its place is absolutely in/ motion is absolutely at rest.” The line break indicates a potential definition for image: “each thing in its place is absolutely in.” Generally speaking, the voice indicates that an image contains everything, perhaps even the motion. However, they also note that the motion is at rest, which reiterates the question from the beginning: how can he be simultaneously in motion and motionless? The poem’s structure literally reflects this question by placing four lines above and four lines below the central word: “absolutely?” This word becomes its own line because it is the key to the poem. That it is in the form of a question demonstrates its inability to be pinned down or defined.

This poem is about both becoming and duration. This poem demonstrates multiplicity because without multiplicity the reader (and narrator) would not be able to embody Sámano, to recreate his life from images, to wonder about the details in the photo’s background. In short, the reader moves Sámano because of the mind’s ability to think in terms of multiple realities. Only through the dense stream of reality can one body understand the “traces” left by motionless bodies. I think this poem directly expresses the confusion that one feels in trying to assemble reality, or, in Bergson’s terms, in trying to come to terms with the way that consciousness constructs our duration. It indicates that consciousness “sees clearly of the inner life what is already made, and only feels confusedly the making.”

I wonder about the idea of duration and how it plays into our knowledge base, or our constructed world. I want to see more examples of the “radical becoming.” For this reason, and many others, I am excited to discuss Bergson’s ideas in our upcoming Quarterly Discussion. If you would like to join, email asimon@hmu.edu for more information.

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The Misfit's Wickedness

May 24, 2019

Thanks to James Keller, HMU student, for today's post.

Borrowing from Bradbury, Great Books Chicago 2019 was titled: Something Wicked This Way Comes. Taken as a statement rather than a title, it is a somewhat comforting thought—at least initially. If the wicked thing is coming, it is something outside and not of ourselves. It is something foreign to humanity, perhaps a distortion of humanity, but not endemic to humanity. But comfort turns cold when one asks, from where does this wicked thing come? From where does wickedness itself come? How is it that otherwise good people sometimes perform horrifying acts of violence? How is it that people have at times submitted themselves to great oppression, and worse, that they have become complicit in aiding the oppression of others? Lingering in the back of the mind is dread, the fear that wickedness is not something foreign after all, but something to which any one of us might be prone under the right—or rather, wrong—circumstances. Whence wickedness?

Among the readings at Great Books Chicago 2019 was Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” In that short story, a murderer and thief who has adopted the name, The Misfit, explains the source of his own wickedness. The cause of his criminality is rooted in his doubts regarding the resurrecting power of Jesus. If Jesus did indeed do as he claimed to have done, The Misfit asserts, then one has no choice but to follow him, but “if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can—by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness” (71-72). He goes on to say that he wishes he could be certain whether or not Jesus raised the dead, because, if he had certain knowledge of the resurrection, he would not be like he is. But, the reader asks, why should religious doubt lead The Misfit to the mistreatment of his fellow human beings?

The search for an answer to this question involves other related questions: Why these pleasures? If one said that without a resurrection, one might as well devote himself to the pleasures of the moment, it does not follow that those must entail violence. Pleasure comes in many forms: food, sex, alcohol, art, fine conversation—perhaps about great books—sports... and so on. Why, then, does The Misfit focus on the pleasure to be derived from violence? And then, If there is no pleasure but meanness, why does he say about killing the grandmother, “It’s no real pleasure in life”? (73). By studying these questions, we may understand how The Misfit’s religious doubt is the root of his wickedness.

The limited pleasures of The Misfit grow out of a unique form of despair. For some, moral despair is induced by the belief that one is unable to improve, due to a natural badness or weakness of character. Because they find it unthinkable that they could morally improve themselves, they no longer make the attempt. This is just who I am. But this is not the source of despair in The Misfit. In his case, he cannot fathom why he ought to be punished. He relates the story of being imprisoned, despite being unable to remember the original crime. He is told that he killed his father, but he does not believe this to be true, claiming that his father died of the flu some time ago (69). An ambivalence marks his speech regarding his punishment. On the one hand, he suggests that he was rightly punished: “They had the papers on me” (69). But on the other, he expresses mistrust in the system that punished him, saying that no one ever showed him those papers and that from now on, he makes sure to keep a copy of all papers, with signatures: “Then you’ll know what you done and you can hold up the crime to the punishment and see they do match and in the end you’ll have something to prove you ain’t been treated right” (71). Indeed, he calls himself “The Misfit,” not because he feels no sense of belonging, but because he knows of no crime he committed that merited the punishment he received (71). Moreover, he expresses indignation that punishment is dispensed arbitrarily, with one being “punished a heap,” while another is not “punished at all” (71).

The fact that The Misfit is punished for an unknown crime is the motivation for his malevolent behavior—a case of “Let the crime fit the punishment.” His is a despair that grows out of his perception that the world is fundamentally unjust. If one is going to be punished, despite having never performed a crime—at least that he can remember—then he might as well be a criminal. He might as well do something worth punishing. His criminality is a twisted attempt to restore justice to the world by making himself worthy of his punishment.

But, if The Misfit’s criminality is an expression of his despair, then it can bring him no joy. This is one reason killing the grandmother and her family brings no pleasure. It is true that he sees something good in her before killing her, and this seems to produce a sorrow in him over killing her. He seems regretful when he says: “She would have been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life” (73). But the statement, “It’s no real pleasure in life” is broader than the regret of the single action. He expresses the lack of pleasure in the violence altogether, which supports the notion that his violence is an expression of his despair.

The Misfit’s despair and his complaint against the system can be read as a complaint against the doctrine of original sin. If one is born into the world worthy of punishment for the crimes of his forebears, crimes of which one has no memory, one response to that might be to be worthy of the promised punishment. The Misfit likens his punishment to that of Jesus, with the only exception being that “they” had no papers on Jesus (71). Both punishments appear to him to be unjust. Yet, in theory, Jesus was able to ultimately overcome death, i.e. reverse his punishment, while The Misfit cannot do so himself, except through belief in Jesus’ power to raise the dead. Through belief in the resurrection, The Misfit would be able to escape the punishment of death which he inherited. But, because he lacks certainty, he is left with the notion that he will be punished for crimes unknown to him, to a degree he cannot imagine having merited.

For The Misfit, then, the root of his wickedness is his religious doubt, the uncertainty that he merits death as a punishment and the uncertainty that he can be delivered from that death by Jesus. The belief that he will be punished, whether he is wicked or not, inspires him to pursue the pleasure to be found in violence. But, being motivated by despair, that violence cannot be an object of enjoyment, only an expression of rage against his perception that the world is unjust.

It will be obvious to the reader that the source of The Misfit’s wickedness is not the source of all human wickedness. The other readings at Great Books Chicago furnished other—perhaps “answers” is too strong a word—avenues for considering the origin of wickedness. They furnished us with good material for discussion. And, if it is a troubling notion that humans are capable of so much evil, some comfort is found in discussing the matter with others, looking together for the roots of wickedness within ourselves that they may be uprooted and never bear fruit.

I wish to express my gratitude to the organizers, speakers, discussion leaders, and fellow readers of Great Books Chicago 2019 and to Harrison Middleton University.

Work Cited

O’Connor, Flannery. “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” Vital Ideas: Crime. Ed. Theresa Starkey. Great Books Foundation. 2011, pp. 53-73.

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