Kindle Series No. 2: First impressions after borrowing one.

I let the Kindle sit, fairly glowing, on the mantle ...

November 2, 2010

Hugh Gilmore

Kindling Bovary

            I finished reading "Freedom" on Friday night, spurred to read a lengthy final section by the desire to try the Kindle loaned me by a fellow member of the Chestnut Hill Book Festival.

            As I mentioned last week, Franzen's tale of a dull-but-kindly husband and his yearning, adulterous wife, reminded me of Flaubert's "Madame Bovary." I wanted to reread that story and also wanted to see what it was like to read a book on a Kindle electronic reader.

            Downloading "Madame Bovary" took about 90 seconds and cost 99 cents. Pretty impressive. I learned how to read from the Kindle in about another minute and that aspect of its simplicity impressed me too. After that, I closed the cover, and let the Kindle sit, fairly glowing, on the mantle while I buried my nose in "Freedom" and finished it around 1:00 a.m. Saturday morning.

            On Saturday night, I got in bed, propped myself in reading position, and pushed in sequence three little Kindle buttons that opened the world of "Madame Bovary" to me once again.

            My reactions next week.

Kindle Series No. 1: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your Kindle (?)

What I need to know is, can the Kindle deliver a book like "Madame Bovary"
into the hands of the next generations?

October 27, 2010 

By Hugh Gilmore

            Is anyone willing to trust me with his or her Kindle for a few days so I can test-drive it? I'm serious. And I'd be willing to mention you in a future column (in a positive way, too!) as the "kind person who trusted me to borrow his/her Kindle" so I can see what it's like to read an entire book on an electronic device. I'll also mention anything else you'd like said about yourself ("great smile," for example, or even "avid reader").

            I don't want to buy one just yet because they're still rather pricey and I'd hate to find out that I don't like reading that way. I am open-minded on the subject, however, and want to give it a try. It would be fabulous if you've got a downloaded copy of "Madame Bovary" also, because I developed a yen this week to reread that book, probably last read by me almost 20 years ago. But I'd pay for a Bovary download if necessary. 

            The notion that I should read a serious and time-tested literary masterpiece on a Kindle came about in this way: I've accepted that a high-adrenalin book, a thriller or mystery, would be easy to get through on a Kindle because of their "and then" type of plots. But, what about a quiet, contemplative, deeply serious book? Would that be readable when squooshed into the confines of a small electronic screen?            

            How about a sentence like this, from "Madame Bovary: "... no one can ever express the exact measure of his needs, or conceptions, or sorrows. The human language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out a tune for a dancing bear, when we would wish with our music to move the stars." I'd like to know if I could comfortably read a passage like that on a Kindle and feel as though I'd just fallen through into outer space, as I did the first time I read those words. 

            I'm not, believe me, trying to set this up so that Kindle will fail my expectations. If the medium is capable of carrying any message, as books are, I'll be delighted. I'll feel I've added a tool to my reading kit.

            Now, as to why this subject has come up at this time. Like all great, international, historic issues, this question arises from a small domestic scene. Which is: nearly every time I pass my son's room (Andrew is 24), he is looking at a computer screen. I don't stop and bother him; I simply sigh a bit and feel a twinge. The next time we are alone, taking a car ride somewhere, for example, I ask in as innocent a fashion as I can: "So, are you reading anything lately?"

            "Not right now," he says. "There are a couple of things I want to start soon though."

            "Oh," I say, "well, that's good. I'd like to hear about them when you get around to reading them."

            All very vague. Like all parents. I wish my child would read more. There's nothing more reassuring than the sight of your child curled up with a book. That blankety-blank computer, and those darned iPods are destroying the minds of our nation's young people. That's what I think usually.

            But then, one day, I thought, Well, what is he's doing when he's staring at that screen? He doesn't play games. He's reading. And he's taking in information. In his case, the content most often concerns the history of some aspect of American entertainment: humor, jazz, vaudeville, early recording equipment, always set within the historical events that affected their form and content. (For example, Patriotic songs of World War I, or, pre-Hays code cartoons and the length of Betty Boop's skirts).

            About a week ago I walked by Andrew's room and had a sudden realization. If he were sitting reading the same information from a book I'd feel happy. Followed by the question, So, what's more important: that he have a book under his nose, or that he's driven to learn about a subject he's interested in? Even if the information comes from an electronic screen?

            My reluctance to accept the electronic book must be equivalent to the head shaking people did when automobiles replaced horses. No more dainty, reassuring, clip-clops as folks pass by outside the window. Just the dismal roar of the future whizzing past.

            So, yes, okay, I'm certainly happily served by computers now and I'm comfortable with them. And I accept that e-publishing is very soon going to nearly eradicate print publishing. And I imagine it must be pleasurable to read a best seller on an electronic reading device. Those of us who grew up loving the feel and smell and sight of printed books will murmur and yearn nostalgically to the end of our days, but what's coming is coming. Ours will also be the last generation to say we remember being children and seeing horse-drawn carts delivering milk. And holding new books in our hands.

            So be it. But what I need to know is, can the Kindle deliver a book like "Madame Bovary" into the hands of the next generations?

            I'm willing to find out if one of you will lend me your Kindle for a few days.

                                                        

             

C'mere boy, this won't hurt a bit: A bullfighting aficionado waves the cape at me

 We were just two guys with more time behind them than ahead ...

March 16, 2011  

By Hugh Gilmore

I'm sitting at my desk at three in the afternoon -- this is last Wednesday, the day the Local comes out -- and the phone rings. I pick up.

   "You really think bullfighting should be banned? Is that really your opinion? You given a lot of thought to this?"

    Who starts a phone call without saying hello? This has to be one of my friends kidding around. The voice is gravelly, but kind of friendly.

            He goes on, "What would you rather be: a fighting bull, you live for four or five years pampered, nice easy life, and then you go out in a blaze of glory, have a chance to defend yourself? Or live for a year and a half as a dairy cow and then get slaughtered?"

            Whoa. I don't like words like 'slaughter' spoken by strangers in the first minute of a, so far, anonymous conversation. And I just realized that what I thought was friendly in his tone was really just a mid-western accent.

            I said, "I'll be glad to talk about this, but you should identify yourself."

            "I'm Jerry McMurphy (2nd name a pseudonym I've assigned him) calling from southern California. Do you really think bullfighting should be banned? Why? You think it hurts the animals, eh? Animal cruelty. Man you don't understand, these toreros love the animals. They love them. There's such respect. You ever seen a bullfight? Live?"

            "Not yet."

            "Man, I was to 24 corridas last year, up and down Spain. Every feria (festival) we went to was capped off with a corrida. Amazing. I've seen some beautiful bullfights."

            "So you're a real aficionado?" I said.

            "Oh god, yeah, have been since 1966, I've done the whole eight days at Pamplona, I've been up and down that country. Madrid, Barcelona, Seville, even in southern France, Portugal, Mexico City. All over. I met James Michener back in '66 when he was researching his book "Iberia." He based a character on me."

            By now I was very excited and enjoying this conversation. The column he'd read ("Running from Hemingway's Bull, Part 3," March 9) described my enthusiasm to learn about bullfighting for a novel I'm writing. As an aside I'd written that despite bullfighting's occasional grace and beauty it was cruel and should be banned.

             In this telephone conversation though, I had no interest in getting into a fruitless debate about whether animals felt pain. Of course they do. Pain evolved to tell creatures to get the hell away from whatever was causing them the pain. And just because some people had found a way to make a mysterious, aesthetic ritual out of handicapping a competition, that didn't mean the animal felt pain any the less. And the animal is not there by choice.

            But what I said was, "What ferias have you been to? Who have you seen fight?"

            And oh, he was a fountain of information. He told me I should read Kenneth Tynan's "Bull Fever," if I wanted an inside-the-game view. That the perfect bulls come from the Victorino Ranch. That we live today in the "golden age of bullfighting." Unlike the old days when the emphasis was on simply having the courage to kill, today's fights were all about the "prep."

            And each thing he said was a thrill for me to hear because all the words he was using and ideas he was expressing had merely been words on the printed page before he called. Now I was hearing the words pronounced correctly. I was hearing fine distinctions made about concepts I didn't quite understand just from my reading. The information was coming alive.

            From watching YouTube I knew a few matadors of today. "Have you seen Alejandro Talavante?" I asked.

            "He's good, yes, I've seen him. But I'd put him in my top nine, as number nine. My absolute favorite, the best in the world today is Jose Tomas. Then there's Enrique Ponce. He's so perfect, he's too perfect many people say. There's also El Juli."

            I said, "I'm trying to get into the head of this bullfighter character I'm writing. Do you think these toreros you mentioned care about the so-called artistry of bullfighting, really care?"

            "Oh god, yes. You've got to see this one matador, Morante de la Puebla. He's the epitome of the brooding artist. And my own personal favorite along those dramatic lines, Miguel Pererra."

            And on and on we went for an hour. By now, his angry edge was gone; we were just two guys with more time behind them than ahead. An incredible amount of forgiveness goes into that equation when men talk. I was willing to be the pupil if he was willing to be the teacher. I felt as though I were passing some elementary test, given at the end of the first weeks of study. But I needed to satisfy my curiosity about another simple matter.

             "Say, Jerry, how did my article came to your attention?"

            He growled, "There's a website, Mundo Taurino. The world of bulls and bullfighting. It picks up stories from all around the world. I linked to you from there. You should subscribe. Oh, and yeah, there's a group in England that publishes an English-language quarterly. They're called Club Taurino of London. You should join."

            A few more interchanges and then I was being called to dinner. "Jerry, a final question before I go," I said.

            "What's that?"

            "What prompted you to actually pick up the phone and call? What did you want to get out of calling me?"

            "Ah, I don't know. Probably just to say "Eff you" or something along those lines."

            "You mind if I call you if I have questions?"

            He hemmed and hawed a bit, but gave me his home, and, after another pause, his cell numbers.
            "What the hell," he said, "I'm an old retired guy. I got nothing better to do."

           

            PS. I joined Club Taurino of London on Friday. The next time they have their monthly Thursday night dinner I might just fly over and drink some manzanilla (like Carmen, et al.) with them. And possibly rub epaulettes with that "brooding artiste" Morante de la Puebla or whoever the guest is. "Hate the sin, love the sinner" or something.

Catching up to Hemingway's bull. Part 3: Trying to get Inside the mind of a bullfighter

March 9, 2011   

Time for a little mano a mano with Papa

By Hugh Gilmore 

I take long walks every day trying to understand Escamillo, the torero from Georges Bizet's "Carmen." I'm trying to write a novel about his love affair with Carmen but I don't have the feel of him yet. I can't see him. I don't know whether I'm outside him, watching and waiting to see what he'll do and say, or inside him, feeling his pain, thinking his thoughts. Sometimes in life all problems are point of view problems.

            In the meantime I walk around, look at the trees and sky, smell the green earth coming back to life, and wait with an open heart for the solution to crawl inside me and lock the door behind it. The "click."

             Also, I must do background research. On so many subjects I feel overwhelmed. Spanish culture in 1875, for example. There's a small topic, eh? And Bizet's "Carmen," inside and out. And, of course, bullfighting. I'm not sure if this book will be worth the effort. And time -- I have many other books I'd rather write.

            Escamillo's a mystery to me. I do know that he has retired from the bullring. And like any man, he must have been formed and scarred by his occupation. His work history must shape his reactions to the world. But how? What does he know that a lawyer or tavern keeper or teacher cannot know? And vice-versa, of course: in what ways is he ignorant. For all the bloodshed he has seen, in what ways has he led a sheltered life? What facts of life does he not know? I want to write a story that concludes with knowledge attained. Is that not the goal of all good literature?

            These questions will sort themselves out as I go along. There's another kind of knowledge I need right here and now: what is a bullfight? What are its rules? How is it conducted? How do men cheat at it? That would be good to know, wouldn't it? Men everywhere cheat at everything. How is this sport kept honest? It is a "sport," isn't it? If it is, or isn't, does it matter? Some say it is theater. Others say ritual. Others, barbarism.

            For several months I've been reading books about bullfighting. Despite my limited Spanish, I've been learning its vocabulary, its history, its technicalities, and its rationale. I've rented both documentary and fictional movies about bullfighting. I've watched about a hundred clips from YouTube. For a gringo, marooned here on the Chestnut Hill Peninsula, I've learned a lot. And I conscientiously avoided reading Ernest Hemingway on bullfighting.

            When I was young and a fan and determined to read through all of Ernest Hemingway, I simply could not read through "Death in the Afternoon" nor its sequel, "The Dangerous Summer." Those are his two major writings on the subject. But two weeks ago I wondered if I'd be missing something important if I didn't try again, so I found copies, and last week I read them both.

            It is with very mixed feelings I tell you that these two books are terrific. From the very first pages of "Death in the Afternoon" I felt I had found the ingredient, the perspective, the eye for detail I had been fruitlessly searching for as I read the more objective and historical explanations of the "corrida." In my youth I lacked the vocabulary and knowledge of the rules needed to understand Hemingway's bullfighting books.  

            Hemingway wrote for those who already knew the corrida. He wrote as a baseball writer, for example, does. He assumes you know what a curveball is and why a pitcher would throw one and that you can appreciate the nerve it takes to throw one with a 3-2 count and bases loaded and two out in the ninth inning of a tie ball game. Everyone enjoys home runs but only those with knowledge get to enjoy the inner game.

            Hemingway was very well respected in Spain, especially in bullfighting circles. Or so it seems. It's possible he had such intimate access (he traveled with the famed Antonio Ordonez, for example, and often watched the fights from the barrera, (the wooden fence that encircles the ring) because the athletes' vanity was stroked by having a famous writer describe their exploits. The Howard Cosell factor.

            Whatever the case, I very much enjoyed both books. If anyone reading this knows of other, detailed, insider books about bullfighting I'd be grateful to know about them.

            I did not enjoy Hemingway's mystical side, his constant need to find the "art" in bullfighting. And I did not enjoy the stupidity of his classifying every creature in the ring -- whether two- or four-legged -- as either "brave" or "cowardly." Taunting death is not brave and respecting the brief lives of our fellow creatures is not cowardly.

            Bullfighting is sometimes exciting, sometimes graceful and artistic, and always cruel, degrading, and indefensible. It should be banned.

            I realize my attitude presents quite a barrier to getting a grip on my character. I'm hoping that what I lack in understanding bullfighting I can make up for in understanding love. 

            Equally dangerous undertakings, wouldn't you say?

             

On The Hundred Books Aspired (to) Yearly Club -- My first post

January 1, 2006       

“Happy as a mushroom collector bounding from the stables, I come to spread the joys of discoveries in Book Land.” (ibid).

            Every January 1 I vow to read a hundred books in the coming year. That sounds like a lot of books to me and seems wonderfully counter-cultural. After all, we live in a country that encourages us to do everything but read books, especially serious books (books that can’t be read while listening to television, radio, CDs, DVDs, streaming websites, instant-messaging or  iPoding). Some very big businesses spend millions of dollars annually hiring experts to kneecap anyone who’s selfishly set aside time for peace of mind. Their ethos demands that any brain corrugations not currently being hammered smooth by an advertisement are wasting space. And any mind that is already occupied by an advertisement should be distracted away from that advertisement to listen to a more determined predator’s advertisement for his manufactures.  Books are products that don’t allow for simultaneous use of other products (except among students) and, hence, time spent with them is time stolen from the national mission of nudging the Dow Jones heavenward.  So, we get ads and counter-ads all day long, every day, everywhere we turn our eyes and ears. All determined to steal our time and money, our minds and souls.

And so on . . . “Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite them, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.” (Jonathan Swift, 1733, words later echoed by the dead-too-soon comedian, Bill Hicks, who asked during a stand-up routine, “Anyone here in marketing? Would you raise your hands? Okay, thank you. Now, go kill yourself. I’m serious, go kill yourself. You’re ruining the world for the rest of us. So, please, leave. Right now. Kill yourselves.”)

Given today’s world, I’d compare reading a hundred books in a year to a 1000-yard rushing season, or hitting a baseball at a .300 clip. Nice round numbers that speak of dedication and commitment. To some people, professors perhaps, or 100,000 mile frequent flyers, or mystery readers even, 100 books may seem like a piffling few, but let’s just ignore these pituitary giants and keep reaching for an attainable number.

(And by the way, professors must read out of fear of being turned on by the rest of the pack if they show a knowledge or opinion gap. They are said to be able to actually smell such weakness. And I suspect frequent flyers read mostly because OxyContin is too expensive and dauntingly illegal. And as for mystery readers: they read more than any other category of reader mostly because they’re addicted to the adrenalin-pumping side effects. They have to shoot up daily. I know people who read at least one of those contrivances a day and I’m sure there must be others who need even bigger boosts.)

That said, I must turn the flashlight around and shine it in my own face. Full disclosure: last year I finished only 82 books. I touched well over that number, but actually read only 82 cover-to-cover. And the year before, 2005: I read only 78. In 2004: 74. Not quite the ace you may have thought I thought I was. And I’ll tell you why, honestly, and I won’t try any of that “A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for” stuff. The answer is simple. And insidious: Comcast Cable.

Three years ago I bought a beautiful flat-screen TV and touch-toned that 800 number they’d begged me to call for years. Till then I’d laughed at their mailings, “Look, another invitation from Comcast. Ha Ha Ha.” Rip Rip Rip. Read read read.

Then 9/11 happened and I wanted to see the television reports. And then the USA went to war in Iraq and I wanted to see that too. And sports, of course. But I wanted to SEE them see them. TV reception is lousy in Chestnut Hill, despite our lofty status as the highest point above sea level in Philadelphia (Summit Street - 200 and something feet).

After several trips to Best Buy and other such places, and after trying many hinky rabbit ear antennas, and after many wasted foot-tapping AOL dial-up internet moments (Hours! If you want to use Ebay), I humbly made the cable call. All three TV’s in the house, and all three computers, charged as a tidy little monthly bundle costing more than twice the take-home pay of my first grown-up job. Instead of seven channels of crap, I rented 188 channels of crap. But the reception is great!

I am not a daytime book reader. Magazines, yes. Newspapers, yes. Menus: yes, yes! But, book time is nighttime for wild guys like me. And here’s what happened: Evening news, then Jeopardy! We’re now at 7:30 p.m. Comcast gives you (and me, alas) every Phillies and Sixers home game. And they start around 7 o’clock. Just take a peek to check the score – while finishing the newspaper, or a magazine article … badda bing! It’s 9:30. I like to be asleep by 10:30 or 11:00. I read about 50 pages and hour, maybe. A 300 page book takes about five or six days. Badda bing! It’s December 31 and I’ve only got 70 or 80 books on my reading list! You tell me, Mr. Soprano, but am I missing something here? Is it just me, or does somethin’ gotta give here?

Okay, Okay, I know you get the point. So, from now on, the time between when I stop working for the day and the time I go to sleep is not going to be wasted (as much).

If you want to join me in the Hundred Books Aspired (to)Yearly Club, I welcome you. Just so you don’t try to talk me when I have a book in my hands. (Okay, YES, I’m married and I know what talk-magnets books in spouses’ hands are, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, etc.).

Oh, yes, I’m getting near the end of this page and my crayon is nearly ground down, so: To the Point! In this column I’ll be discussing ways to avoid the spike-strips thrown in our HBA(t)YC way. And I’ll be addressing the hardest question of all when it comes to reading: What’s fun to read, and maybe even worth reading? That question-and-a-half is the true genesis of this column. I’ve read some wonderful books in recent years and want to tell the world (aka Chestnut Hill - you’ve seen the Steinberg cartoon where he mistook New York for Chestnut Hill? ) about them.

My prejudices first:  I read mostly nonfiction, but try to make at least every third book fiction because I owe the fiction writers of the world an enormous, unpayable debt for all the pleasure they’ve given me. 

In nonfiction, I read almost anything I call a ‘backstage’ book about an occupation, profession, mission, caper, crime, quest, tryst, or just plain dirty rotten shame. Among history books I prefer first-person accounts by people directly involved, either as perpetrators, victims, or witnesses. Books must be personal to draw me. I love survival books. I nearly OD’d on true crime a few years back, but make exceptions now and then.

In reading fiction, I tend to count on serendipity, stumbling into someone in the dark and sharing a bottle with him while I listen to his story. Yes, ‘him.’ When I’m wandering through lists or libraries I tend to choose male authors telling stories about males, but I do brake for good female writers when they’re pointed out to me. More on all this in future pieces. . .  .