Saturday, March 28, 2015
Alec and Adelaide Hixon Teacher Preparation Scholarships
Are you interested in teaching? Need some money to help you along? The Hixon Teacher Preparation Scholarships might be something to consider. David McCabe, (we're colleagues, not related) is the coordinator of the Teacher Preparation Program at PCC and he has some great news. There is scholarship money available to help future teachers support their dream. If you wish to learn more, go to this site. You can also check with me.
Alec and Adelaide Hixon Teacher Preparation Scholarships
Writer & Veteran BRIAN TURNER & PCC Borders of Diversity Conference, April 2, 2015 (Thurs.)
UPDATE March 28th: Program Schedule
from my colleague Prof. Kuroki,
coordinator of the day's events
2015 Borders of Diversity Conference
Crossing Boundaries: Finding Home
Creveling Lounge.
at west end of quad, next to L Bldg.
On Thursday, April 2, 2015, the Cross-Cultural Center, College Diversity Initiative, and the English Department will be hosting the 2015 Borders of Diversity Conference in Creveling Lounge. This year’s theme is “Crossing Boundaries: Finding Home.”
We hope that you will find the time to attend one of the panels to hear our very own students share their scholarship with the larger PCC community. Brian Turner - a writer, poet, and veteran - will also be reading from his memoir and talking about his writing. If you are an instructor, we encourage you to bring your students!
10-11:30
Being: at Home (Student Panel)
11:30-12:45 PM
Unifying a Diverse Landscape: A Mixed Media Presentation (Student Group Presentations)
1-3 PM
Keynote Speaker, Brian Turner
3:15-4:45 PM
American (In)tolerance
5-6:30 PM
Identity, Agency, and Individuality:
A Cultural Bouillabaisse
Books will be available for sale and signing after Mr. Turner’s talk. Refreshments will also be served. All events are free and open to the public (bring a friend!).
BRIAN TURNER
Veteran, Poet, and Essayist
PCC Borders of Diversity Student Conference
keynote speaker
He will read his work and sign his books
Creveling Lounge
at west end of quad, next to L Bldg.
Thurs., Apr. 2, 2015
from 1:00-3:00 PM
The Poetry Foundation reports that "Turner earned an MFA from the University of Oregon and lived abroad in South Korea for a year before serving for seven years in the U.S. Army. He was deployed to Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1999-2000 with the 10th Mountain Division. Then in November 2003 he was an infantry team leader for a year in Iraq with the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division."
Turner has published two collections of poetry and a memoir, My Life as a Foreign Country, about his experience in the United States Army. He is the director of the MFA program at Sierra Nevada College, in Incline Village, Nevada.
***
Read his poem
"Here, Bullet"
at his website
www.brianturner.org
Turner reads his poetry on NPR
Other sites re: Brian Turner
New York Times Book Review of My Life as a Foreign Country (read about reviewer Jen Percy here and here.
***
Turner's "The Hurt Locker" poem is not connected to Bigelow's The Hurt Locker film. Read this blog at The Washington Post for clarification.
***
***
"In his memoir My Life as a Foreign Country, Army sergeant and award-winning poet Brian Turner retraces his war experience, combining recollection with the imagination’s efforts to make reality comprehensible to paint a devastating portrait of what it means to be a soldier and a human being. What follows [are two excerpts] from his book." -- source: https://medium.com/@wwnorton/the-soldiers-enter-the-house-ad973237dd54:
“Here’s the situation,” Sergeant First Class Fredrickson said, gesturing to the tiny plastic red and blue flags driven into the ground on thin metal poles. There must have been thirty or forty of them arrayed in the grass around us, in no discernible pattern. It was September 2003, and, like some of the others gathered around SFC Fredrickson on that clipped green field outside our classroom, I’d been scanning the scene to gauge what the flags might represent. On the big-screen television in the company dayroom, the war waited for us. Fighters who shot at American soldiers in Baghdad and Samarra and Tikrit were perfecting their trigger squeeze for us.
“We are surrounded by the dead. And by parts of the dead,” Fredrickson said, emphasizing the word parts. “Your unit has come upon the scene of a possible ambush. Everybody’s dead. This is not a mass casualty exercise. So. What’s the first thing we should do?"
One of the students in the back said, “We better start scrounging up a shitload of body bags."
Fredrickson smiled.
“No. Like everything else, the first thing you do, the *first thing: set up security. Create a perimeter, and then you can get to work.” He went on to explain that a certain number of soldiers would be needed to deal with the task at hand, especially if time was of the essence, as it always was in these situations. “You’ll want to photograph the scene from several angles, if you have a digital camera and if you have the time. That’s why the flags are here. You have to place one flag at the spot of each body, or body part, that you find. If you don’t have a camera, do a field sketch.” We practice drawing hasty field sketches in our pocket notebooks, creating small legends in the margins, crossed lines with tiny arrowheads: a rough guide to the cardinal directions.
He tells us to use a certain Department of Defense form to label and keep track of the dead sealed up in their body bags. “And remember, this is very important: never place two separated parts into the same bag.” He pauses. “I’ll give you an example.” He points to the nearest soldier and tells him to lie down and act like he’s dead.
Sgt. Gordon kneels on the damp grass and then lies down prostrate, with his right arm stretched out from his side, as if pointing to something beyond us. His mouth is open and at first he stares blankly at the few clouds above. Then, he closes his eyes and assumes the role of the dead.
A few of us joke about Gordon and his ability to sham, to loaf, no matter the circumstances as Fredrickson steps closer to the body. “Imagine that this arm,” he says, gesturing toward Gordon’s outstretched limb, “has been blown off, here at the armpit. And there’s no other body nearby, and you can plainly see that it’s the same uniform and everything. Still, you have to put his body in one bag and give it a number and then you have to put this arm in another bag with a different number.” He looks across our faces. “Don’t assume anything. They’ll figure it out back home. They’ll test for DNA and all that jazz.” A pause, and then he continues: “Let me tell you something—you don’t want to be the one who makes some poor family bury their soldier with somebody else’s body part. Roger that?” As he carries on explaining the work at hand, my eyes wander over the grassy field and the bright flags stationed in the earth around us. It’s a rare day of sun in Fort Lewis, Washington State, and the early morning light illuminates the translucent nature of the grass in its subtle gesture toward infinity. The dead assume their positions. Some of them lie on their sides, others rest on their backs, their faces lifted toward the sky. Each with a numbered flag beside him. Some turn their heads slowly toward me, their eyes crossed over into the landscape of clouds as they call out with hoarse voices, quietly, asking for a drink of water. A small sip, they say. Just a sip of water.
The 1st Platoon of Blackhorse Company sits on the tile floor of the weight room cleaning weapons with CLP and bore snakes and dental tools after running lanes in the woods and conducting live-fire exercises. The men are dirty and exhausted. They laugh and shout out their orders as bags of burritos are delivered from the twenty-four-hour Taco Bell off post. I’m in the adjacent room with my squad leader, Staff Sergeant Bruzik, and Sergeant Zapata, my fellow team leader. We watch more of the war on television. Several Marines rush under fire to a bridge in Nasiriyah, Iraq.
They crawl on the concrete and asphalt of the roadway as the invisible trails of bullets zip past them from the far shore of the river. They return fire, shooting at what I’ve been trained to think of as known and suspected enemy targets. The Marines rush the bridge over and over as the newscast replays the scene.
The television is on mute. I don’t know what Bruzik and Zapata are thinking, but I’m looking at the far shore and trying to make out the muzzle flashes. Those on the other side of the river are honing the same fundamentals of marksman-ship we’ve studied at the rifle ranges of Fort Lewis. It isn’t something I mention to Bruzik and Zapata. I feel remote, somewhat cold, my mind working out the possible trajectories that might bring me home. I’m Sgt. Turner and I’m a team leader preparing to deploy to combat. But there’s something echoing through the branches and channels of my central nervous system.
On the other side of that river, Iraqis continue to crouch along walls and lie on rooftops in the prone. Even when I fall asleep tonight, they’ll continue to fire their weapons. The news anchor will narrate the action. On replay. Figures in the distance. Soldiers running toward the bridge. The sight picture placed over them as I dream and sleep in the state of Washington. The Iraqi men, again and again, pulling the trigger. Once the plane comes to a stop in the dry waves of heat and the orange night air of Kuwait, we’re bused north to one of the many camps along the border with Iraq. The military supply system begins delivering a staggering amount of new equipment to my unit. We shuffle through three different sight systems for our carbines until settling on a sight we’re told Special Forces use, too. Among other things, I am given a coil of metal with an eyepiece at one end and a tiny optical instrument at the other—for snaking under a door and peering into a room. Journalists report of units lacking the proper gear, like body armor for flak vests and slat armor for Humvees or five-ton trucks; we are given so much new and expensive equipment that our unit has to stow much of it away in metal connexes, the large cargo boxes used by the military to ship much of its inventory. I am in the first Stryker brigade to deploy to combat and the path of a number of careers depends upon how lethal and how durable this unit will be during its time in country—maybe that’s why we’re getting special attention. Our Strykers weigh nine-teen tons and are fitted with wheels rather than the tracks of traditional armored personnel carriers; soon local Iraqis will refer to us as “the ghosts” because of the speed and silence of our approach. When we learn about this, our platoon sergeant, SFC Daigle, changes our platoon nickname from “The Bonecrushers” to “The Ghostriders.” My new call sign: Ghost1–3 Alpha.
SSG Kaha, who will later go AWOL, packs away some of this equipment when I pass him on my way to the showers. He’s been fired from his job as squad leader due to perceived incompetence. I nod as he continues to sing “Rain-drops Keep Falling on My Head.” Long after dusk has shifted to stars, I lie back on my bunk and think about the divorce paperwork signed a few months earlier, the few addresses where I might mail a letter if I were to write one, and it occurs to me that if I were to die in the country north of our camp during the year ahead, my death wouldn’t irreparably alter the life of another. My address is now my Name, Rank, Unit, and the last four digits of my Social Security number are stenciled in black spray paint onto the duffel bag containing my worldly goods. It doesn’t seem possible that in the years to come, in the years after the war, I’ll get married and move across country and start my life over. Why should it seem plausible? No one stood at the unit staging area in Fort Lewis to wish me goodbye and, however I make it home, in a body bag, on a gurney, or stepping off onto the tarmac with my duffel in the belly of the plane, no one will be there to welcome me home. I step outside the tent to get a breath of air and quiet. A slight breeze lifts fine grains of sand from the landscape of the desert as if a white gossamer veil were slowly being drawn over the surface of the earth. There is a distinct sense of the past and the future being erased at the horizon’s edge. The circumference of the world retracts itself until it comes to a rest beneath the nightfall of stars within my field of vision.
Later tonight, I will read a book, a translation of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. I will think about the idea of home, what the country before me might have in store, and know that I have become, as Aurelius had quoted centuries before, one of the many “leaves that the wind drives earthward.”
“We are surrounded by the dead. And by parts of the dead,” Fredrickson said, emphasizing the word parts. “Your unit has come upon the scene of a possible ambush. Everybody’s dead. This is not a mass casualty exercise. So. What’s the first thing we should do?"
One of the students in the back said, “We better start scrounging up a shitload of body bags."
Fredrickson smiled.
“No. Like everything else, the first thing you do, the *first thing: set up security. Create a perimeter, and then you can get to work.” He went on to explain that a certain number of soldiers would be needed to deal with the task at hand, especially if time was of the essence, as it always was in these situations. “You’ll want to photograph the scene from several angles, if you have a digital camera and if you have the time. That’s why the flags are here. You have to place one flag at the spot of each body, or body part, that you find. If you don’t have a camera, do a field sketch.” We practice drawing hasty field sketches in our pocket notebooks, creating small legends in the margins, crossed lines with tiny arrowheads: a rough guide to the cardinal directions.
He tells us to use a certain Department of Defense form to label and keep track of the dead sealed up in their body bags. “And remember, this is very important: never place two separated parts into the same bag.” He pauses. “I’ll give you an example.” He points to the nearest soldier and tells him to lie down and act like he’s dead.
Sgt. Gordon kneels on the damp grass and then lies down prostrate, with his right arm stretched out from his side, as if pointing to something beyond us. His mouth is open and at first he stares blankly at the few clouds above. Then, he closes his eyes and assumes the role of the dead.
A few of us joke about Gordon and his ability to sham, to loaf, no matter the circumstances as Fredrickson steps closer to the body. “Imagine that this arm,” he says, gesturing toward Gordon’s outstretched limb, “has been blown off, here at the armpit. And there’s no other body nearby, and you can plainly see that it’s the same uniform and everything. Still, you have to put his body in one bag and give it a number and then you have to put this arm in another bag with a different number.” He looks across our faces. “Don’t assume anything. They’ll figure it out back home. They’ll test for DNA and all that jazz.” A pause, and then he continues: “Let me tell you something—you don’t want to be the one who makes some poor family bury their soldier with somebody else’s body part. Roger that?” As he carries on explaining the work at hand, my eyes wander over the grassy field and the bright flags stationed in the earth around us. It’s a rare day of sun in Fort Lewis, Washington State, and the early morning light illuminates the translucent nature of the grass in its subtle gesture toward infinity. The dead assume their positions. Some of them lie on their sides, others rest on their backs, their faces lifted toward the sky. Each with a numbered flag beside him. Some turn their heads slowly toward me, their eyes crossed over into the landscape of clouds as they call out with hoarse voices, quietly, asking for a drink of water. A small sip, they say. Just a sip of water.
The 1st Platoon of Blackhorse Company sits on the tile floor of the weight room cleaning weapons with CLP and bore snakes and dental tools after running lanes in the woods and conducting live-fire exercises. The men are dirty and exhausted. They laugh and shout out their orders as bags of burritos are delivered from the twenty-four-hour Taco Bell off post. I’m in the adjacent room with my squad leader, Staff Sergeant Bruzik, and Sergeant Zapata, my fellow team leader. We watch more of the war on television. Several Marines rush under fire to a bridge in Nasiriyah, Iraq.
They crawl on the concrete and asphalt of the roadway as the invisible trails of bullets zip past them from the far shore of the river. They return fire, shooting at what I’ve been trained to think of as known and suspected enemy targets. The Marines rush the bridge over and over as the newscast replays the scene.
The television is on mute. I don’t know what Bruzik and Zapata are thinking, but I’m looking at the far shore and trying to make out the muzzle flashes. Those on the other side of the river are honing the same fundamentals of marksman-ship we’ve studied at the rifle ranges of Fort Lewis. It isn’t something I mention to Bruzik and Zapata. I feel remote, somewhat cold, my mind working out the possible trajectories that might bring me home. I’m Sgt. Turner and I’m a team leader preparing to deploy to combat. But there’s something echoing through the branches and channels of my central nervous system.
On the other side of that river, Iraqis continue to crouch along walls and lie on rooftops in the prone. Even when I fall asleep tonight, they’ll continue to fire their weapons. The news anchor will narrate the action. On replay. Figures in the distance. Soldiers running toward the bridge. The sight picture placed over them as I dream and sleep in the state of Washington. The Iraqi men, again and again, pulling the trigger. Once the plane comes to a stop in the dry waves of heat and the orange night air of Kuwait, we’re bused north to one of the many camps along the border with Iraq. The military supply system begins delivering a staggering amount of new equipment to my unit. We shuffle through three different sight systems for our carbines until settling on a sight we’re told Special Forces use, too. Among other things, I am given a coil of metal with an eyepiece at one end and a tiny optical instrument at the other—for snaking under a door and peering into a room. Journalists report of units lacking the proper gear, like body armor for flak vests and slat armor for Humvees or five-ton trucks; we are given so much new and expensive equipment that our unit has to stow much of it away in metal connexes, the large cargo boxes used by the military to ship much of its inventory. I am in the first Stryker brigade to deploy to combat and the path of a number of careers depends upon how lethal and how durable this unit will be during its time in country—maybe that’s why we’re getting special attention. Our Strykers weigh nine-teen tons and are fitted with wheels rather than the tracks of traditional armored personnel carriers; soon local Iraqis will refer to us as “the ghosts” because of the speed and silence of our approach. When we learn about this, our platoon sergeant, SFC Daigle, changes our platoon nickname from “The Bonecrushers” to “The Ghostriders.” My new call sign: Ghost1–3 Alpha.
SSG Kaha, who will later go AWOL, packs away some of this equipment when I pass him on my way to the showers. He’s been fired from his job as squad leader due to perceived incompetence. I nod as he continues to sing “Rain-drops Keep Falling on My Head.” Long after dusk has shifted to stars, I lie back on my bunk and think about the divorce paperwork signed a few months earlier, the few addresses where I might mail a letter if I were to write one, and it occurs to me that if I were to die in the country north of our camp during the year ahead, my death wouldn’t irreparably alter the life of another. My address is now my Name, Rank, Unit, and the last four digits of my Social Security number are stenciled in black spray paint onto the duffel bag containing my worldly goods. It doesn’t seem possible that in the years to come, in the years after the war, I’ll get married and move across country and start my life over. Why should it seem plausible? No one stood at the unit staging area in Fort Lewis to wish me goodbye and, however I make it home, in a body bag, on a gurney, or stepping off onto the tarmac with my duffel in the belly of the plane, no one will be there to welcome me home. I step outside the tent to get a breath of air and quiet. A slight breeze lifts fine grains of sand from the landscape of the desert as if a white gossamer veil were slowly being drawn over the surface of the earth. There is a distinct sense of the past and the future being erased at the horizon’s edge. The circumference of the world retracts itself until it comes to a rest beneath the nightfall of stars within my field of vision.
Later tonight, I will read a book, a translation of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. I will think about the idea of home, what the country before me might have in store, and know that I have become, as Aurelius had quoted centuries before, one of the many “leaves that the wind drives earthward.”
+The second excerpt from Turner's memoir follows. It is known as "The Soldiers Enter the House" You can read it below or at medium.com.
The soldiers enter the house, the soldiers enter the house.
Soldiers, determined and bored and searing with adrenaline, enter the house with shouting and curses and muzzle flash, det cord and 5.56mm ball ammunition. The soldiers enter the house with pixelated camouflage, flex-cuffs, chem lights, door markings, duct tape. The soldiers enter the house with ghillie suits and Remington sniper rifles, phoenix beacons and night-vision goggles, lasers invisible to the naked eye, rotorblades, Hellfire missiles, bandoliers strapped across their chests. The soldiers enter the house one fire team after another, and they fight brutal, dirty, nasty, the only way to fight. The soldiers enter the house with the flag of their nation sewn onto the sleeves of their uniforms. They enter the house with Toledo and Baton Rouge imprinted on the rubber soles of their desert combat boots. They enter the house and shout ‘Honey, I’m home!’ and ‘Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!’ The soldiers enter the house with conversations of Monday Night Football and the bouncing tits of the Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleaders. The soldiers enter the house with cunt and cooch, cock wallet and butcher’s bin on their tongues. The soldiers enter the house with paperbacks in their cargo pockets, Starship Troopers and Black Hawk Down, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. The soldiers enter the house Straight Outta Compton or with Eminem saying, ‘Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity’. They enter the house with their left foot, they enter the house the way one enters cemeteries or unclean places. The soldiers enter the house with their insurance policies filled out, signed, beneficiaries named, last will and testaments sealed in manila envelopes half a world away. The soldiers enter the house having just ordered a new set of chrome mufflers on eBay for the Mustang stored under blankets in a garage north of San Francisco. The soldiers enter the house with only nine credits earned toward an associate’s degree in history from the University of Maryland. They kick in the door and enter the house with the memory of backyard barbecues on their minds. They kick in the door while cradling their little sisters in their arms. They kick in the door and pull in the toboggans and canoes from the hillsides and lakes of Minnesota. They kick in the door and bring in the horses from the barn, hitching them to the kitchen table inside. The soldiers enter the house with Mrs Ingram from the 2nd grade at Vinland Elementary School. The soldiers enter the house with Mrs Garoupa from Senior English at Madera High. The soldiers kick in the door and enter the house with their arms filled with all the homework they ever did. They enter the house and sit down to consider the quadratic equation, the Socratic Method. The soldiers enter the house to sit cross-legged on the floor as the family inside watches on, watches how the soldiers interrogate them, saying, How do I say the word for ‘friend’ in Arabic? How do I say the word ‘love’? How do I tell you that Pvt Miller is dead, that Pvt Miller has holes in the top of his head? And what is the word for ghosts in Arabic? And how many live here? And are the ghosts Baath Party supporters? Are the ghosts in favor of the coalition forces? Are the ghosts here with us now? Can you tell us where the ghosts are hiding? And where the ghosts keep their weapons cache and where they sleep at night? And what can you tell us about Ali Baba? Is Ali Baba in the neighborhood? The soldiers enter the house and take off their dusty combat boots and pull out an anthology of poetry from an assault pack, Iraqi Poetry Today, and commence reading poems aloud. The soldiers say, ‘This is war then: All is well.’ They say, ‘The missiles bomb the cities, and the airplanes bid the clouds farewell.’ The soldiers remove their flak vests and turn off their radios. The soldiers smile and stretch their arms, one of them yawning, another asking for a second cup of chai. The soldiers give chocolates to the frightened little children in the shadows of the house. The soldiers give chocolates to the frightened little children and teach them how to say fuck you and how to flip off the world. The soldiers recite poetry as trays of chai and tea and cigarettes are brought into the room. The soldiers, there in the candlelight of the front room, with the Iraqi men of military age zip-tied with flex-cuffs, kneeling, sandbags over their heads, read verses from Iraqi Poetry Today. The soldiers switch off their night-vision goggles and set their padded helmets on the floor while the frightened little children pretend to eat the chocolate they’ve been given, their mothers shushing them when they begin to cry. And the soldiers, men from Kansas and California, Tacoma and College Station — these soldiers remove the black gloves from their hands to show the frightened little children how they mean no harm, how American the soldiers are, how they might bring in a pitcher of water for the bound and blinded men to drink from soon, perhaps, if there’s time, and how they read poetry for them, their own poetry, in English, saying, ‘Between time and time, between blood and blood. All is well.’ All is well, the soldiers say. The soldiers kick in the doors and enter the house and zip-tie the men of military age and shush the women and the frightened little children and drink the spooned sugar stirred into the hot chai and remove their stinking boots and take off their flak vests and stack their weapons and turn off their night-vision goggles and say to the frightened little children, softly, with their palms held out in the most tender of gestures they can offer, their eyes as brown as the hills that lead to the mountains, or as blue as the rivers that lead to the sea — ‘All is well, little ones, all is well.’
Soldiers, determined and bored and searing with adrenaline, enter the house with shouting and curses and muzzle flash, det cord and 5.56mm ball ammunition. The soldiers enter the house with pixelated camouflage, flex-cuffs, chem lights, door markings, duct tape. The soldiers enter the house with ghillie suits and Remington sniper rifles, phoenix beacons and night-vision goggles, lasers invisible to the naked eye, rotorblades, Hellfire missiles, bandoliers strapped across their chests. The soldiers enter the house one fire team after another, and they fight brutal, dirty, nasty, the only way to fight. The soldiers enter the house with the flag of their nation sewn onto the sleeves of their uniforms. They enter the house with Toledo and Baton Rouge imprinted on the rubber soles of their desert combat boots. They enter the house and shout ‘Honey, I’m home!’ and ‘Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!’ The soldiers enter the house with conversations of Monday Night Football and the bouncing tits of the Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleaders. The soldiers enter the house with cunt and cooch, cock wallet and butcher’s bin on their tongues. The soldiers enter the house with paperbacks in their cargo pockets, Starship Troopers and Black Hawk Down, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. The soldiers enter the house Straight Outta Compton or with Eminem saying, ‘Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity’. They enter the house with their left foot, they enter the house the way one enters cemeteries or unclean places. The soldiers enter the house with their insurance policies filled out, signed, beneficiaries named, last will and testaments sealed in manila envelopes half a world away. The soldiers enter the house having just ordered a new set of chrome mufflers on eBay for the Mustang stored under blankets in a garage north of San Francisco. The soldiers enter the house with only nine credits earned toward an associate’s degree in history from the University of Maryland. They kick in the door and enter the house with the memory of backyard barbecues on their minds. They kick in the door while cradling their little sisters in their arms. They kick in the door and pull in the toboggans and canoes from the hillsides and lakes of Minnesota. They kick in the door and bring in the horses from the barn, hitching them to the kitchen table inside. The soldiers enter the house with Mrs Ingram from the 2nd grade at Vinland Elementary School. The soldiers enter the house with Mrs Garoupa from Senior English at Madera High. The soldiers kick in the door and enter the house with their arms filled with all the homework they ever did. They enter the house and sit down to consider the quadratic equation, the Socratic Method. The soldiers enter the house to sit cross-legged on the floor as the family inside watches on, watches how the soldiers interrogate them, saying, How do I say the word for ‘friend’ in Arabic? How do I say the word ‘love’? How do I tell you that Pvt Miller is dead, that Pvt Miller has holes in the top of his head? And what is the word for ghosts in Arabic? And how many live here? And are the ghosts Baath Party supporters? Are the ghosts in favor of the coalition forces? Are the ghosts here with us now? Can you tell us where the ghosts are hiding? And where the ghosts keep their weapons cache and where they sleep at night? And what can you tell us about Ali Baba? Is Ali Baba in the neighborhood? The soldiers enter the house and take off their dusty combat boots and pull out an anthology of poetry from an assault pack, Iraqi Poetry Today, and commence reading poems aloud. The soldiers say, ‘This is war then: All is well.’ They say, ‘The missiles bomb the cities, and the airplanes bid the clouds farewell.’ The soldiers remove their flak vests and turn off their radios. The soldiers smile and stretch their arms, one of them yawning, another asking for a second cup of chai. The soldiers give chocolates to the frightened little children in the shadows of the house. The soldiers give chocolates to the frightened little children and teach them how to say fuck you and how to flip off the world. The soldiers recite poetry as trays of chai and tea and cigarettes are brought into the room. The soldiers, there in the candlelight of the front room, with the Iraqi men of military age zip-tied with flex-cuffs, kneeling, sandbags over their heads, read verses from Iraqi Poetry Today. The soldiers switch off their night-vision goggles and set their padded helmets on the floor while the frightened little children pretend to eat the chocolate they’ve been given, their mothers shushing them when they begin to cry. And the soldiers, men from Kansas and California, Tacoma and College Station — these soldiers remove the black gloves from their hands to show the frightened little children how they mean no harm, how American the soldiers are, how they might bring in a pitcher of water for the bound and blinded men to drink from soon, perhaps, if there’s time, and how they read poetry for them, their own poetry, in English, saying, ‘Between time and time, between blood and blood. All is well.’ All is well, the soldiers say. The soldiers kick in the doors and enter the house and zip-tie the men of military age and shush the women and the frightened little children and drink the spooned sugar stirred into the hot chai and remove their stinking boots and take off their flak vests and stack their weapons and turn off their night-vision goggles and say to the frightened little children, softly, with their palms held out in the most tender of gestures they can offer, their eyes as brown as the hills that lead to the mountains, or as blue as the rivers that lead to the sea — ‘All is well, little ones, all is well.’
These excerpts, above, are from MY LIFE AS A FOREIGN COUNTRY: A MEMOIR by Brian Turner. Copyright (C) 2014 by Brian Turner. First American Edition 2014. With permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.
from The Telegraph, June 22, 2014
My Life as a Foreign Country by Brian Turner, review: 'war made into a poem': A soldier with the soul of a poet has written a remarkable Iraq memoir
by Joanna Burke
he took with him an anthology of Iraqi poetry Photo: Tom Bosch
You can read the following review here or click on this.
In the early hours of the morning, Turner recalls how he and his fellow soldiers would kick in the doors of suspected Iraqi insurgents; they would force the men to kneel; they would zip-tie them with flexi-cuffs and pull sandbags over their heads; they would offer chocolates to the terrified children. They would then turn off their night-vision goggles and read al-Azzawi’s poem:
Every morning the war gets up from sleep.
Every morning the war gets up from sleep.
So I place it in a poem, make the poem into a boat,
which I throw into the Tigris.
which I throw into the Tigris.
This is war, then.
This extraordinary image of heavily armed soldiers reciting the exquisitely sensitive poetry of an Arab intellectual appears about a third of the way through Turner’s memoir of military service in Iraq, My Life as a Foreign Country. Turner doesn’t mention al-Azzawi by name, but he does cite parts of his poem.
In an interview al-Azzawi gave last year, he recalled that his mother had not been impressed when he confessed that his ambition in life was to become a writer. “What is the real job of the Arab poets?” she scoffed. Surely it was “nothing but selling their praise poems full of lies, to this sheikh or that governor, to this vizier or that king”. The young al-Azzawi solemnly replied: “I promise you, I will not be like these people.”
That is the reason a soldier like Turner reads his poems. Like al-Azzawi, Turner also refuses to write “praise poems full of lies”. His memoir is an uncompromising story of violence and beauty, searing trauma and a dreamlike circulation between the past and the present. There is no future.
In many ways, Turner was destined for combat. His great-grandfather was gassed in the Argonne in 1918, his grandfather served as a marine in Bougainville, Guam and Iwo Jima, and his uncle could evoke the pungent odours of Vietnam. He is steeped in war films; at the age of 14, he learnt how to make napalm.
Even as a 12-year-old child, he recognised how easy it was to confuse sickening cruelty and heroic fantasy. He recalls his grandfather telling him a story about patrolling the jungles of Bougainville during the Second World War. Unexpectedly coming upon a Japanese soldier, his grandfather slashed his enemy with his machete, stumbled on some roots, and then dealt a second deathblow.
The young Turner fantasized about a different option: the two men could simply have paused “in the shock of the moment before slowly stepping back” from violence. But that wasn’t what happened. The young Turner reverentially cradled the machete memento that his grandfather handed him, and observed it as a boy would a sacred object.
This memoir is full of such stories. They are told simply, with a poet’s sensitivity for language and a soldier’s abhorrence of sentimentality. His comrades masturbate in the showers, “lovers transported by their own touch”, and discuss sex with passionate vulgarity. Turner explores dream-worlds with a startling vividness. The spirits of the dead haunt him; they perch like owls atop graves, crying out “water, water”. The bodies of the dead accompany him. Their caskets are lined up in the back of the plane that takes him home. He keeps them company. He is a man; he is afraid.
He is also a poet. One day, he sees a sign taped to the doors of the army chow-hall: it reads “Wednesday Nite/Open Mic/Poetry Nite!” He recoils from this invitation to share his writings because reading and writing poetry helps to “forge an internal space within me, a space that didn’t belong to the army”. Perhaps, though, the real reason is that he “just didn’t want to show how vulnerable and sensitive and afraid I was, how deeply the word 'beauty’ intertwines with the word 'love’ and 'loss’.” Like al-Azzawi, he struggles to make war into a poem that he could then “throw into the Tigris”. This marvelous memoir is his poetic message, floating gently towards us.
In an interview al-Azzawi gave last year, he recalled that his mother had not been impressed when he confessed that his ambition in life was to become a writer. “What is the real job of the Arab poets?” she scoffed. Surely it was “nothing but selling their praise poems full of lies, to this sheikh or that governor, to this vizier or that king”. The young al-Azzawi solemnly replied: “I promise you, I will not be like these people.”
That is the reason a soldier like Turner reads his poems. Like al-Azzawi, Turner also refuses to write “praise poems full of lies”. His memoir is an uncompromising story of violence and beauty, searing trauma and a dreamlike circulation between the past and the present. There is no future.
In many ways, Turner was destined for combat. His great-grandfather was gassed in the Argonne in 1918, his grandfather served as a marine in Bougainville, Guam and Iwo Jima, and his uncle could evoke the pungent odours of Vietnam. He is steeped in war films; at the age of 14, he learnt how to make napalm.
Even as a 12-year-old child, he recognised how easy it was to confuse sickening cruelty and heroic fantasy. He recalls his grandfather telling him a story about patrolling the jungles of Bougainville during the Second World War. Unexpectedly coming upon a Japanese soldier, his grandfather slashed his enemy with his machete, stumbled on some roots, and then dealt a second deathblow.
The young Turner fantasized about a different option: the two men could simply have paused “in the shock of the moment before slowly stepping back” from violence. But that wasn’t what happened. The young Turner reverentially cradled the machete memento that his grandfather handed him, and observed it as a boy would a sacred object.
This memoir is full of such stories. They are told simply, with a poet’s sensitivity for language and a soldier’s abhorrence of sentimentality. His comrades masturbate in the showers, “lovers transported by their own touch”, and discuss sex with passionate vulgarity. Turner explores dream-worlds with a startling vividness. The spirits of the dead haunt him; they perch like owls atop graves, crying out “water, water”. The bodies of the dead accompany him. Their caskets are lined up in the back of the plane that takes him home. He keeps them company. He is a man; he is afraid.
He is also a poet. One day, he sees a sign taped to the doors of the army chow-hall: it reads “Wednesday Nite/Open Mic/Poetry Nite!” He recoils from this invitation to share his writings because reading and writing poetry helps to “forge an internal space within me, a space that didn’t belong to the army”. Perhaps, though, the real reason is that he “just didn’t want to show how vulnerable and sensitive and afraid I was, how deeply the word 'beauty’ intertwines with the word 'love’ and 'loss’.” Like al-Azzawi, he struggles to make war into a poem that he could then “throw into the Tigris”. This marvelous memoir is his poetic message, floating gently towards us.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
1B: Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)
If I have to choose between Chekhov and most
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Russian writers and homies
Anton "Tall Boy" Chekhov (1860-1904), at left,
and Leo "The Bear" Tolstoy (1828-1920) kicking it.
Tolstoy is best known for his novels
War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877).
Chekhov's plays are produced world-wide. Among classical playwrights he is thought to have the most productions of his work staged each year next to Shakespeare. His short stories continue to be the primary influence on many writers of fiction.
CHEKHOV and TOLSTOY
Tolstoy and Chekhov homies? To an extent. Here's a remembrance of the two by Peter Gnedich, “Memories,” from The Book of Life (1922):
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"Lev Tolstoy sincerely loved Chekhov, but did not like his plays. He told Chekhov once, 'A playwright should take the theater-goer by the hand, and lead him in the direction he wants him to go. And where can I follow your character? To the couch in the living-room and back—because your character has no other place to go.' They both—Tolstoy and Chekhov—laughed at these words.
"Chekhov told me later, 'When I am writing a new play, and I want my character to exit the stage, I remember those words of Lev Nikolaevich, and I think "Where will my character go?" I feel both funny and angry.' Chekhov’s only consolation was that Tolstoy also did not like the plays of Shakespeare.
"Chekhov told me once, 'You know, I recently visited Tolstoy in Gaspra. He was bedridden due to illness. Among other things, he spoke about me and my works. Finally, when I was about to say goodbye he took my hand and said, "Kiss me goodbye." While I bent over him and he was kissing me, he whispered in my ear in a still energetic, old man’s voice, "You know, I hate your plays. Shakespeare was a bad writer, and I consider your plays even worse than his.”'
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| This was not my idea. It is some entrepreneur unknown to me. For more information about other "Chekhov is my Homeboy" merchandise click on this. You can also find "Tolstoy is my Homeboy" at the same site. |
CHEKHOV BIOGRAPHY
Looking for a concise biography of Anton Chekhov that goes beyond the above memories of Tolstoy and Chekhov? Here's a good place to start. You'll get the highlights: where he went to school and what he wrote. He studied medicine and became a doctor. He wrote over 200 short stories and 14 plays. For more comprehensive biographies try the Encyclopedia Britannica or this page from Andres Teuber of Brandeis University. There is also a good reflective essay on Chekhov in The Guardian 150 years after his birth.
CHEKHOV'S SHORT STORIES
Who says that Chekhov is one of the greatest short story writers? Writers often do. The Wall Street Journal declared: "Many modern writers consider Chekhov to be not only the father of the short story but the first modern fiction writer. In 1987, Daniel Halpern, a poet and publisher, asked 25 noted authors to name the most crucial influences on their own work. Chekhov was cited by 10 of them, including Eudora Welty, Nadine Gordimer and Raymond Carver; he received double the nominations of any other writer. In a Paris Review interview in 1981, Tennessee Williams said, "What writers influenced me as a young man? Chekhov. As a dramatist? Chekhov. As a story writer? Chekhov.'" Richard Ford's introductory essay, "Why We Love Chekhov," to Tales of Chekhov, 2007, further explains the admiration writers have for Chekhov. Ford's complete essay has also been published as "Chekhov: A Writer for Grown Ups."
Where can you find more of Chekhov's stories? You can read some of the 200 plus short stories by Chekhov at this site.
Chekhov said the following about his stories: "my openings always promise a great deal, as if I had started a novel; the middle is crumbled up and timid; and the ending is like fireworks, as though in a short story."
Where can you find more of Chekhov's stories? You can read some of the 200 plus short stories by Chekhov at this site.
Chekhov said the following about his stories: "my openings always promise a great deal, as if I had started a novel; the middle is crumbled up and timid; and the ending is like fireworks, as though in a short story."
Some American readers find character names in Russian fiction complicated to follow. Yet, they are not as difficult as it seems, Masha Holl explains at her site. I find her description easy and straightforward. Let me quote her: "To see just how crazy and wild these nicknames can become in Russian, click on the names in the table. The cascading folders will reveal the common diminutives (hypociristic forms, as linguists like to say) in progressive order: from the more ordinary to the more intimate. This is where readers are often lost in Russian novels: characters may have several different nicknames and still be the same person." Go see her. She knows what she's talking about.
If you want more information, there are an endless number of sites to turn to. One such place is Russland Journal, which you might find easy to navigate. Another source, surprise, surprise, is Wikipedia.
Chekhov on the 8 qualities of cultured people.
Cultured people must, in my opinion, satisfy the following conditions:
- They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a row because of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live with anyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say “nobody can live with you.” They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meat and witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes.
- They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches for what the eye does not see…. They sit up at night in order to help P…., to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their mother.
- They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts.
- They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don’t lie even in small things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lower position in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in the street as they do at home, they do not show off before their humbler comrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvited confidences on others. Out of respect for other people’s ears they more often keep silent than talk.
- They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not play on the strings of other people’s hearts so that they may sigh and make much of them. They do not say “I am misunderstood,” or “I have become second-rate,” because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, stale, false….
- They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds as knowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P., [Translator's Note: Probably Palmin, a minor poet.] listening to the raptures of a stray spectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns…. If they do a pennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundred roubles’ worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are not admitted…. The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, as far as possible from advertisement…. Even Krylov has said that an empty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one.
- If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, women, wine, vanity…. They are proud of their talent…. Besides, they are fastidious.
- They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go to sleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe bad air, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oil stove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual instinct…. What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow … They do not ask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They want especially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, the capacity for motherhood…. They do not swill vodka at all hours of the day and night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know they are not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion…. For they wantmens sana in corpore sano [a healthy mind in a healthy body].
CHEKHOV and the THEATRE
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OSF production of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard, 2007
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This documentary, Meeting Chekhov, might be of interest to those of you who are reading Chekhov right now (in 1B), have read him previously, or are considering attending the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Libby Appel, the former artistic director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, talks about her lifetime love of Chekhov's plays and the man, from the day she was introduced to him as a 16 year-old girl. OSF actors also talk about their admiration of Chekhov, and we get to see some scenes of Ashland and the OSF campus.
You may find it easier to watch the above if you go directly to YouTube.
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Judith Marie Bergan and Gregory Linington in The Cherry Orchard, OSF, 2007
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| Chekhov reads The Seagull to actors. 1899. |
You can learn more about the Oregon Shakespeare Festival's 2012 production of The Seagull here.
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| The cast of Vanya on 42nd Street. From left to right: Brooke Smith (Sonya), Wallace Shawn (Vanya), Julianne Moore (Yelena), and George Gaynes (Serybryakov) |
Chekhov's Uncle Vanya & Vanya on 42nd Street
1B Students: If you have the inclination, read Roger Ebert's review of Vanya on 42nd Street. Go to the Criterion film page for Vanya on 42nd Street; read the film essays and view the trailers at the page. Here's an article from The New York Times, "'Vanya,' Theatre and Art of Being". It provides additional information about Vanya on 42nd Street, which you may know is an adaptation of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya by David Mamet.
Chekhov has had a great influence on other artists, besides writers. The great ballet artist Mikhail Baryshnikov, shown above, talks about doing a play inspired by Chekhov's short stories, "Man in a Case" and "About Love." Following the Baryshnikov interview members of the producing theatre company, the avant garde Big Dance Theater, talk about the Chekhov stories, Baryshnikov, and their goal in bringing Chekhov's short stories to the stage.
TRANSLATING CHEKHOV
TRANSLATING CHEKHOV
Translation is a tricky business and contentious. The argument raised: is the translation representative of the author's language, ideas, and tone, or has the translator twisted the original into their own literary bias and limited imagination? An article in The New Yorker addresses this issue in their profile of two contemporary translators know for their Russian translations, husband and wife Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.
We should keep in mind that no matter how good translators may be, they come between the writer and the reader--if only slightly. Yet it is not uncommon for readers, and especially those skilled in the author's native language, to have a preference. Please note, below, the two different translations for the same Chekhov story.
We should keep in mind that no matter how good translators may be, they come between the writer and the reader--if only slightly. Yet it is not uncommon for readers, and especially those skilled in the author's native language, to have a preference. Please note, below, the two different translations for the same Chekhov story.
A
Doctor’s Visit
(tr.
Constance Garnett, 1917)
The
professor received a telegram from the Lyalikovs’ factory; he was asked to come
as quickly as possible. The daughter of a certain Madame Lyalikov,
apparently the owner of the factory, was ill, and that was all that one could
make out of the long, incoherent telegram. And the professor did not go
himself, but sent instead his assistant, Korolyov.
It
was two stations from Moscow, and there was a drive of three miles from the
station. A carriage with three horses had been sent to the station to
meet Korolyov; the coachman wore a hat with a peacock feather on it, and
answered every question in a loud voice like a soldier: “No, sir!” “Certainly,
sir!”
It
was Saturday evening; the sun was setting, the workers were coming in crowds
from the factory to the station, and they bowed to the carriage in which
Korolyov was driving. And he was charmed with the evening, the farmhouses and
villas on the road, and the birch-trees, and the quiet atmosphere all around,
when the fields and woods
A
Medical Case
(tr.
Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, 2000)
A
professor received a telegram from the Lialikovs’ factory asking him to come
quickly. The daughter of a certain Mr. Lialikov, apparently the owner of
the factory, was sick--nothing more could be understood from the long,
witlessly composed telegram. The professor did not go himself, but sent his
intern Korolev in his place.
He
had to go two stations away from Moscow and then some three miles by
carriage. A troika was sent to the station to pick Korolev up; the driver
wore a hat with a peacock feather, and to all questions responded with a loud
military “No, sir!” or “Yes, sir!” It was Saturday evening, the sun was
setting. Crowds of workers came walking from the factory to the station
and bowed to the horses that were bringing Korolev. And he was enchanted
by the evening, and the country houses and dachas along the way, and the
birches, and that quiet mood all around, when it seemed that, together with the
workers, the fields, the woods, and the sun were preparing to rest on the eve
of the holy day--to rest and perhaps to pray . . .
and
the sun seemed preparing, like the workers now on the eve of the holiday to
rest, and perhaps to pray. . . .
He
had been born and grown up in Moscow; he did not know the country, and he had
never taken any interest in factories or been inside one, but he had happened
to read about factories, and had been in the houses of manufacturers and had
talked to them; and whenever he saw a factory far or near, he always thought
how quiet and peaceable it was outside, but within there was always sure to be
impenetrable ignorance and dull egoism on the side of the owners, wearisome,
unhealthy toil on the side of the workpeople, squabbling, vermin, vodka.
And now when the workers timidly and respectfully made way for the carriage, in
their faces, their caps, their walk, he read physical impurity, drunkenness
nervous exhaustion, bewilderment.
They
drove in at the factory gates. On each side he caught glimpses of the little
houses of workpeople, of the faces of women, of quilts and linen on the
railings. “Look out!” shouted the coachman, not pulling up the horses. It was a
wide courtyard without grass, with five immense blocks of buildings with
He
was born and grew up in Moscow, did not know the countryside and had never been
interested in factories or visited them. But he had chanced to read about
factories and to visit factory owners and talk with them; and when he saw some
factory in the distance or up close, he thought each time of how quiet and
peaceful everything was outside, and how inside there must be the impenetrable
ignorance and obtuse egoism of the owners, the tedious unhealthy labor of the
workers, squabbles, vodka, vermin. And now, as the workers deferentially and
timorously stepped aside before the carriage, in their faces, caps, and gait he
could discern physical uncleanness, drunkenness, nervousness, perplexity.
They
drove through the factory gates. On both sides flashed workers’ cottages,
women’s faces, linen and blankets on the porches. “Watch out!” cried the
driver, not reining in the horses. Then came a wide yard with no grass, and in
it five huge buildings with smokestacks, standing separate from each other,
warehouses, barracks, and over everything lay some sort of gray coating, as of
dust. Tall
chimneys a little distance one from another, warehouses and barracks, and over
everything a sort of gray powder as though from dust.
Anton Chekhov
Chekhov's Pets
Chekhov and his pet mongoose that he acquired upon his return from Sakhalin Island. The Atlantic reports, "Chekhov called his [mongoose] Svoloch and described it in a letter as 'a mixture of rat and crocodile, tiger and monkey.' He kept it for about a year and a half, but, citing a need to travel, he then donated it to the Moscow zoo, which he had fiercely criticized as an "animals' graveyard.' The mongoose lived in captivity for two more years. The average lifespan of a captive mongoose today is about 20 years." More about Chekhov and his mongoose can be found here and here.
A PET QUESTION & ANSWER
What was Anton Chekhov's favorite breed of dog? There is one person out there who believes it was a dachshund. Get the story at "The Long and Short of It All: Dachshunds in Pop Culture." Here's what we learn from site administrators Rowdy and Bette:
In 1892, Chekhov bought the small country estate of Melikhovo [that you will find pictured below], about forty miles south of Moscow, where he lived until 1899 with his family. In April of 1893, his sister brought home two Dachshunds; the "blackish dog" was named 'Bromine,' and the "tan bitch" was named 'Quinine.' Quinine is a drug used in his day to treat advanced cases of tuberculosis, the disease that had killed his brother Nikolai in 1889 and would take his life in 1904. Bromide was a sedative, as well as a cliché. Chekhov is pictured above with Quinine at his side.
It is good to know that someone is working on this canine's behalf. More proof that we live in fascinating times, that are exceeded by the animation, below.
This beautiful work of Russian animation, above, from 1952
What was Anton Chekhov's favorite breed of dog? There is one person out there who believes it was a dachshund. Get the story at "The Long and Short of It All: Dachshunds in Pop Culture." Here's what we learn from site administrators Rowdy and Bette:
In 1892, Chekhov bought the small country estate of Melikhovo [that you will find pictured below], about forty miles south of Moscow, where he lived until 1899 with his family. In April of 1893, his sister brought home two Dachshunds; the "blackish dog" was named 'Bromine,' and the "tan bitch" was named 'Quinine.' Quinine is a drug used in his day to treat advanced cases of tuberculosis, the disease that had killed his brother Nikolai in 1889 and would take his life in 1904. Bromide was a sedative, as well as a cliché. Chekhov is pictured above with Quinine at his side.
It is good to know that someone is working on this canine's behalf. More proof that we live in fascinating times, that are exceeded by the animation, below.
This beautiful work of Russian animation, above, from 1952
retells the story of Chekhov's "Kashtanka".
You can watch an English translation of it
by clicking here.
You can watch an English translation of it
by clicking here.
THEY HAD ME AT THE TITLE
"I Know How You're Feeling, I Read Chekhov"
from The New York Times, October 3, 2013
by Pam Belluck
Researchers have found that readers of literary fiction are more empathetic than those who read popular fiction. Belluck reported that "literary fiction often leaves more to the imagination, encouraging readers to make inferences about characters and be sensitive to emotional nuance and complexity. They theorize that reading literary fiction helps improve real-life skills like empathy and understanding the beliefs and intentions of others."
Read Chekhov for a Better 2014
from The Millions, posted at 6:00 am on January 15, 2014
By Brendan Matthews
New Year’s resolutions tend toward self-improvement. This is the year you will start going to the gym, or finally kick caffeine, or nip in the bud your nascent addiction to cronuts. Maybe you have promised to watch less television, or you have fiendishly reasoned that self-improvement relies on watching more television: you still don’t know what happened at the Red Wedding or who Walter White is, and this is making it hard for you to connect with your fellow human beings.
But what if you’re interested in connecting with your fellow human beings in a way that doesn’t require access to premium cable? According to a study published in October in the journal Science, reading literary fiction — including the works of Anton Chekhov — increases scores on tests of empathy and emotional intelligence. Who wouldn’t want to be more empathetic in 2014?
But before embarking on a self-help tour of late-Czarist Russia, be advised that Chekhov doesn’t provide easy answers to becoming a kinder, more caring person. There’s no five-step solution, no short prayer that will increase your fortunes and lay waste to the fields of your enemies.
To read all of this essay click here.
Other Articles and Websites about Chekhov
"Anton Chekhov: A Man for Our Times," in History Newa Network. "Chekhov homepage," "Chekhov's Legacy," and "Anton Chekhov on Writing" from Creighton University page on Chekhov. Encylopedia Britanica entry on Chekhov. 8 Things Civilized People Do by Anton Chekhov, from Forbes. The Stature of Anton Chekhov by Thomas Mann, from The New Republic.
from The New York Times, October 3, 2013
by Pam Belluck
Researchers have found that readers of literary fiction are more empathetic than those who read popular fiction. Belluck reported that "literary fiction often leaves more to the imagination, encouraging readers to make inferences about characters and be sensitive to emotional nuance and complexity. They theorize that reading literary fiction helps improve real-life skills like empathy and understanding the beliefs and intentions of others."
Read Chekhov for a Better 2014
from The Millions, posted at 6:00 am on January 15, 2014
By Brendan Matthews
New Year’s resolutions tend toward self-improvement. This is the year you will start going to the gym, or finally kick caffeine, or nip in the bud your nascent addiction to cronuts. Maybe you have promised to watch less television, or you have fiendishly reasoned that self-improvement relies on watching more television: you still don’t know what happened at the Red Wedding or who Walter White is, and this is making it hard for you to connect with your fellow human beings.
But what if you’re interested in connecting with your fellow human beings in a way that doesn’t require access to premium cable? According to a study published in October in the journal Science, reading literary fiction — including the works of Anton Chekhov — increases scores on tests of empathy and emotional intelligence. Who wouldn’t want to be more empathetic in 2014?
But before embarking on a self-help tour of late-Czarist Russia, be advised that Chekhov doesn’t provide easy answers to becoming a kinder, more caring person. There’s no five-step solution, no short prayer that will increase your fortunes and lay waste to the fields of your enemies.
To read all of this essay click here.
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Sergey Ponomarev for the International Herald Tribune
Chekhov’s country estate, which he bought at age 32, is where he wrote
“The Seagull” and many other works. (The New York Times, Aug. 10, 2013)
|
AT CHEKHOV'S ESTATE
At Chekhov’s Estate, a Pastoral Literary Shrine Belies a Turbulent Century
The New York Times, August 10, 2013
By Alison Smale
MELIKHOVO, Russia — In a country as big and brash as modern Russia, it is always something of a surprise to discover a modest jewel of the culture that many Russians value so highly.
The museum here at the former country estate of Anton Chekhov is just such a place. It is not very well marked from the nearby town of Chekhov — a typically ramshackle mix of Soviet apartments and post-Soviet garishness, founded only in 1954.
Yet once the visitor has crossed the railway tracks that once brought the Chekhovs here from Moscow, about 50 miles to the north, and onto the country road to Melikhovo, a pastoral scene unfolds.
To read the rest of the article click here.
To read the rest of the article click here.
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| Melikhovo, south of Moscow, retains the rural serenity that delighted the writer and his family in the late 19th century. (The New York Times, Aug. 11, 2013) |
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Sergey Ponomarev for the International Herald Tribune
Many artifacts came from the later Chekhov home in Yalta, enabling visitors today to get a full glimpse of a cramped family home in the late 19th century.caption. (The New York Times, Aug. 11, 2013) |
Other Articles and Websites about Chekhov
"Anton Chekhov: A Man for Our Times," in History Newa Network. "Chekhov homepage," "Chekhov's Legacy," and "Anton Chekhov on Writing" from Creighton University page on Chekhov. Encylopedia Britanica entry on Chekhov. 8 Things Civilized People Do by Anton Chekhov, from Forbes. The Stature of Anton Chekhov by Thomas Mann, from The New Republic.
By most accounts, Chekhov was known for his empathy. Here's an abstract of an article, "Chekhov as a Doctor" by Ned Tijdschr Geneeskd. 2003 Mar 1;147(9):406-11. [Article in Dutch]
Rooijmans HG. See this link for source of this abstract.
Abstract: "Anton Chekhov (1860-1904) was not only a writer, but also a doctor. One might think that he was primarily concerned with writing, but he also dedicated himself fully to being a doctor. When he had to give up his practice in 1897 upon urgent medical advice, he experienced it as a great loss. As a medic he often felt unsure and believed that he failed in his duties. This did not change the fact that many patients called upon him for assistance. They were probably also fond of him because of his genuine interest in their living conditions and because of his compassion. In terms of his scientific activities, his attempt to have his visit in 1890 to the Russian penal colony Sakhalin recognized as a dissertation [desecration?] failed. In many ways, Chekhov was a hard-working idealist, but one without illusions. Doctors appear as the main character or one of the main characters in 25 of Chekhov's hundreds of stories as well as in various plays. Although Chekhov undoubtedly will have incorporated his own experiences into his works, he did not give a picture of his own medical activities in the doctors he portrayed. A large number of the doctors he describes are depressed, nervous or irritable. Others are naïve and clumsy, while others still are skeptic, cynical or disillusioned. In some of the descriptions the image of Chekhov as a doctor may be observed."
Literary Hub published "Every Country Has a Chekhov" on July 15, 2015.
Literary Hub published "Every Country Has a Chekhov" on July 15, 2015.
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| The doctor is in. Chekhov graduated from medical school in 1884.
I think intellectually my hero is Anton Chekhov, who was for me the greatest artist of late modernity, whose appreciation of finding the genius in the everyday, whose unbelievable commitment to compassion against the backdrop of human’s darkness is unprecedented. We would have to go back to Shakespeare and on back to Sophocles in the West to compare with the depths of his genius.
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