Sir Arthur C. Clarke, writer, best known for his science fiction masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey, died on March 18, 2008. Eleanor Wachtel remembers him (with audio excerpts from old interviews) in her CBC program Writers & Company. [Broadcast 30 March, 2008 and April 3, 2008]
Sir Arthur had his epitaph written: He never grew up. But he never stopped growing.
Listen to the entire program (50 mins 54 secs) here. [Link]
Kate Zernike, in a New York Times article titled 'Post-feminism and other fairy tales,' writes:
If you are skeptical of Zernike's assertion, then pay attention to how prevalent and familiar the insult 'bitch' is in everyday use. One political blogger, reacting to Zernike's article, has a post titled, 'Stop trying to excuse the racist bitch'. (He's alluding to Geraldine Ferraro). Under similar circumstances in the opposite camp, we would be hard-pressed to find a post titled 'Stop trying to excuse the sexist _______.' Fill in the blank with your choice of ethnic/racial slur....[M]any women who fought the first wave of battles for gender equality have seen a bias against Mrs. Clinton — which helps explain why older women form the core of her support...
...A contest between a woman and an African-American raises the inevitable question about whether it is harder to overcome racial bias than gender bias. Few claim to know the answer, and many argue it’s too hard to tease out the ways each plays a role. But some also argue that the media is not as quick to recognize misogyny as it is to recognize racism. “The media is on eggshells about race, but has blinders on about sex and gender stereotyping,” said Ms. Goldberg of Columbia... [Link]
As his wife, it is my prerogative to criticize everything that Melvin does, including what he does for a living (i.e., writing). I take my role seriously. Even the lightest, breeziest, funniest humor he writes gets subjected to my evil scrutiny. The sole purpose of such activity is to find something, anything to make him scratch that bald spot on his head -- even if only for a moment. If you can't have fun at your spouse's expense, what is the point of long-term commitment?
So when he announced he had an 800-word assignment on Hinduism for the Winnipeg Free Press, I doubted his sanity. Melvin on theology? Turns out I learned a thing or two from his article on Hinduism. In the process of his writing, we, as a family, made our first (and second) visit to the local temple.
An article on Sikhism followed, which prompted this response from a member of the local Sikh community (scroll down to the letter from Harpal Singh Dhanjal). It reminded me that it is so easy to get caught up in the external aspects in almost every walk of life.
Whichever book of Naipaul’s I read, I am struck by the ease with which he writes. This book, in which Willie Chandran learns about his “tainted” origins in India, comes of age in England and buries himself in Portuguese Africa for 18 years, is no exception.
Whatever you think of Naipaul and his politics, you have to admire his writing genius, the command he has over his writing, his unwavering, assured confidence. Although sometimes I am not sure whether the awe his style inspires in me is merely my own reaction to his stature and position in the world of literature. Would I accept without question similar techniques from a novice or less-acclaimed writer? Possibly, yes. Consider for instance how (smoothly and effortlessly) he changes the narrative voice in this book (3 times, in fact):
And this was the story Willie Chandran’s father began to tell. It took a long time. The story changed as Willie grew up. Things were added, and by the time Willie left India to go to England this was the story he had heard.About 30 pages later:
*
The writer (Willie Chandran’s father said) came to India to get material for a novel about spirituality. This was in the 1930s…I was doing penance for something I had done, and I was living as a mendicant in the outer courtyard of the big temple…
This was the story that Willie Chandran’s father told. It took about 10 years. Different things had to be said at different times.The omniscient, third-person voice takes over the story-telling for the next 100 or so pages again, after which,
And just as once his father, had told Willie about his life, so now, over many days of the Berlin winter, in cafés and restaurants and the half-empty flat, Willie began slowly to tell Sarojini of his life in Africa.
In keeping with the nature of those who believe in the caste system (such as Willie’s father), Naipaul unwaveringly, unself-consciously and unapologetically depicts the raw, sordid, unsanitized details of the upper/lower caste relationship.
It was the kind of voice I associated with people of her kind. I thought it might have been something that as a scholarship girl she had left behind…The cold, self-centered, dysfunctional father is unable to see his own son as a normal human being full of prospects, potential and inherent worth. Willie the hybrid, bereft of his father’s help and guidance and unable to look up to his dad, looks towards the mission school for direction and support. To me, Willie’s life, his search to find his place in this world – all are a fitting metaphor for the social and political, historical and modern-day relationships between the upper and lower castes/classes in Indian society.
…All my anxiety, when little Willie was born, was to see how much of the backward could be read in his features. Anyone seeing me bend over the infant would have thought I was looking at the little creature with pride. In fact, my thoughts were all inward, and my heart was sinking.
A little later, as he started to grow up, I would look at him without saying anything and feel myself close to tears. I would think, “Little Willie, little Willie, what have I done to you? Why have I forced this taint on you?” And then I would think, “But that is nonsense. He is not you or yours. His face makes that plain. You have forced no taint on him. Whatever you gave him has disappeared in his wider inheritance.”
