"Truth titillates the imagination far less than fiction. "

"The blurring of boundaries between fiction and non-fiction has been going on for some time. Fiction has always been an uneasy form to define. It has always been somewhere between truth and falsehood. After all, fiction must claim to represent a kind of truth. And, in a postmodern age, fact has been somewhat called into question too on the other side of the divide.Perhaps this is the latest in a long series of premature obituaries of the novel. Whenever people say 'the novel is dead', it usually means it is transforming or metamorphising into something else, a new kind of fiction, and that may be what is happening again now." - Terry Eagleton, Professor of English

"The definition I use when teaching is that if you're writing anything that's based on what you've lived, what you've read, what you've dreamt about, and that you're prepared to own - to stand by and say 'this is me' - then that's autobiography. We call that non-fiction though there is creativity and fiction within it. Or you can move beyond that, and then you call it fiction - because you are not prepared to, or don't want to, own it in that way. But sometimes you call it fiction because its too true, and so you call it fiction as a disguise. That can be an important - people are less likely to put you in jail for writing fiction. There are times when it can be the only way to tell about something that is true." - Maureen Freely, Novelist and non-fiction writer

I am still adoring these poems, so I'll keep sharing them. These are Hafiz's poems from I heard God Laughind--Poems of Hope and Joy. It is also a wonderful collection of poetry that reminds me of my relationship with God. I hope you love these poems as much as I do! The first poem I have already dedicated to Sarah:

My Brilliant Image

---

One day
the sun admitted,

---

I am just a shadow.

I wish I could show you

The infinite Incandescence

---

That had cast my brillian image!

---

I wish I could show you,

When you are lonely or in darkess,

---

The Astonishing Light

---

Of your own Being!

---

---

---

Would You Think It Odd?

---

Would you think it odd if Hafiz said,

---

"I am in love with every church

And mosque

and temple

And any kind of shrine

---

Because I know it is there

That people say the different names

Of the One God."

---

Would you tell your friends

I was a bit strange if I admitted

---

I am indeed in love with every mind

And heart and body.

---

O I am sincerely

Plumb crazy

About your every thought and yearning

And limb

---

Because, my dear,

I know

That it is through these

---

That you search for Him.

---

---

---

Why Carry?

---

Hafiz,

Why carry a whole load of books

Upon your back

Climbing this mountain,

When tonight,

Just a few thoughts of God

Will light the holy fire.

---

---

---

Someone Should Start Laughing

---

I have a thousand brilliant lies

For the question:

---

How are you?

---

I have a thousand brilliant lies

For the question:

---

What is God?

---

If you think that the Truth can be known

From words,

---

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean

---

Can pass through that tiny opening

Called the mouth,

---

O someone should start laughing!

---

Someone should start wildly Laughing---

Now!

---

---

---

A Golden Compass

---

Forget every idea of right and wrong

Any classroom ever taught you

---

Because

An empty heart, a tormented mind,

Unkindness, jealousy and fear

---

Are always the testimony

You have been completely fooled!

---

Turn your back on those

Who would imprison your wonderous spirit

With deceit and lies.

---

Come, join the honest company

Of King's beggars---

Those gamblers, scoundrels and divine clowns

And those astonishing fair courtesans

Who need Divine Love every night.

---

Come, join the courageous

Who have no choice

But to bet their entire world

That indeed,

indeed, God is Real.

---

I will lead you into the Circle

Of Beloved's cunning thieves,

Those playful royal rogues---

The ones you can trust for true guidance---

Who can aid you

In this Blessed Calamity of life

---

Hafiz,

Look at the Perfect One

At the Circle's Center:

---

He Spins and Whirls like a Golden Compass,

Beyond all that is Rational,

---

To show this dear worlds

---

That Everything,

Everything in Existence

Does point to God.

---

---

---

Every Movement

---

I rarely let the word "No" escape

From my mouth

---

Because it is so plain to my soul

---

That God has shouted, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

To every luminous movement in Existence.

---

---

---

Something Invisible

---

Once I asked my Master

"What is the difference

Between you and me?"

---

And he replied,

"Hafiz, only this:

---

If a herd of wild buffalo

Broke into our house

And knocked over

Our empty begging bowls,

Not a drop would spill from yours.

---

But there is Something Invisible

That God had placed in mine.

---

If That spilled from my bowl,

It could drown the whole world."

---

---

---

Strange Miracle

---

O Wondrous creatures,

By what strange miracle

Do you so often

Not smile?

---

---

---

Forever Dance

---

I am happy even before i have a reason.

---

I am full of Light even before the sky

Can greet the sun or moon.

---

Dear companions,

We have been in love with God

For so very, very long.

---

What can Hafiz now do but Forever

Dance!

---

"Woman's destiny is to be wanton, like the bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her. "

So I had been contemplating reading Swann's Way for a few years, and after finishing Moby-Dick I was naturally delighted when I found a used copy of Swann's Way at my local used bookstore. I have to say that from the first page I was in raptures. I consider myself a bit of a sentence connoisseur, and I love an author who can write an excellent long sentence, the kind of sentence you don't even notice is several lines long when you're reading it. Here is the sentence that struck that chord in me from the first page of the novel, translated by Lydia Davis (he is talking about waking from sleep, thinking about the book he was reading before he fell asleep):

"Then it began to grow unintelligible to me, as after metempsychosis do the thoughts of an earlier existence; the subject of the book detached itself from me, I was free to apply myself to it or not; immediately I recovered my sight and I was amazed to find a darkness around me soft and restful for my eyes, but perhaps even more so for my mind, to which it appeared a thing without cause, incomprehensible, a thing truly dark."

Now that, my friends, is a beautiful sentence.

I have been feeling ill as of late, so I have been trying to read to pass this sick feeling in my stomach. And so I came across The Gift, a culmination of poems by Hafiz. Just reading those poems felt like God was healing me through Hafiz's words. I feel like every time I read Hafiz's poems, this old love within me rekindles for God. I hope these do for you too. some of these poems may have already been on my blog, but I love them so much that I have to re-share them again. Again, these are from Hafiz's The Gift:

My Eyes So Soft

---

Don't

Surrender

You Loneliness so quickly.

Let it cut more

Deep.

---
Let it ferment and season you

As few human

Or even divine ingredients can.

---
Something missing in my heart tonight

Has made my eyes so soft,

My voice so

Tender,

---
My  need of God

Absolutely

Clear.

---

---

---
Until

---

I think we are frightened every

Moment of our lives

Until we

Know

Him.

---

---

---

Then Winks

---

Everything is clapping today,

---

Light,

Sound,

Motion,

All movement.

---

A rabbit I pass pulls a cymbal

From a hidden pocket

Then winks.

---

This causes a few planets and I

To go nuts

And start grabbing each other.

---

Someone sees this

Calls a

Shrink,

---

Tries to get me

Committed

For

Being too

Happy.

---

Listen: this world is the lunatic's sphere,

Don't always agree it's real,

---

Even with my feet upon it

And the postman knowing my door

---

My address is somewhere else.

---

---

---

How Fascinating

---

How

Fascinating the idea of death

Can be.

Too bad, though,

Because

It just isn't

True.

---

---

---

Buttering the Sky

---

Slipping

On my shoes,

Boiling water,

Toasting bread,

Buttering the sky:

That should be enough contact

With God in one day

To make anyone

Crazy.

---

---

---

The God Who Only Knows Four Words

---

Every

Child

Has Known God,

Not the God of names,

Not the God of don'ts,

Not the God who does

Anything Weird,

But the God who only knows four words

And keeps repeating them, saying:

"Come Dance with Me."

Come

Dance.

---

---

---

This Sky

---

This

Sky

Where we live

Is no place to lose your wings

So love, love,

Love.

---

---

---

Everywhere

---

Running

Through the streets

Screaming

---

Throwing rocks through windows,

Using my own head to ring

Great bells,

---

Pulling out my hair

Tearing off my clothes,

---

Tying everything I own

To a stick,

And setting it on

Fire.

---

What else can Hafiz do tonight

To celebrate the madness,

The Joy,

---

Of seeing God

Everywhere!

---

---

---

The Stairway of Existence

---

We

Are not

In pursuit of formalities

Or fake religious

Laws,

---

For through the stairway of existence

We have come to God's

Door.

---

We are

People who need love, because

Love is the soul's life,

---

Love is simply creation's greatest joy.

---

Through

The stairway of existence,

O, through the stairway of existence, Hafiz,

---

Have

You now come,

Have we all come to

The Beloved's

Door.

---

---

---

The Sun Never Says

---

Even

After

All this time

The sun never says to the earth,

---
"You owe

Me."

---

Look

What happens

With a love like that,

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

I can’t help but use gas,

Sorry Ginsberg.

I’ve never been to the east coast

And you dead all over.

I feel guilty as hell. 

"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."

In re-reading “Reading Lolita in Tehran”; I came across a phrase Nafisi mentions briefly toward the beginning of her book.  The phrase is introduced with a small nod to the main character’s painter friend, who when faced with the harsh realities of Iran during the “revolution” and “counter-revolution”, stated “reality has become so intolerable, so bleak, that all I can paint now are the colors of my dreams”. In which Nafisi goes on to ask “who, actually (is so lucky, as to be able to) is able to paint the colors of their dreams?”  I have come to become quite obsessed with the minor phrase. It has occupied an immense amount of my time. The colors of my dreams. Metaphorically, I know, they lie in my future. Ideas, thoughts, plans unknown, which occupy an immense amount of my precious time. But dreams, even when they are an escape, are not just this. Dreams are a reflection of reality. A dream allows the mind to wander to places subconsciously, to explore the deeper meanings of a reality, and often even in escaping a reality, you begin exploring it. What would the colors of my dreams from the past represent? What would they be?

Would they be a mellow blue green, gently carrying me back to the zig – zag oblivion of the afternoon waves in the Mediterranean ocean of my childhood? Or something racy like a hooker red, my favorite shade of finger nail polish speckled with a hint of the golden glitter eye shadow I favor? Would the colors of my dreams smell like the fresh grown rosemary that my parents planted ages ago, however cannot seem to tame? Or are they full of the sweet scent of jasmine on a humid Texas day, softly twirling around a yard stick, engulfing the entirety of our backyard fence without shame? Would they emanate peace and tranquility? Or will they urge me to follow and act upon every impulse I refused to follow through upon in real life? Could they be a passionate purple embodying its history of royals and of those blessed with riches and power and of those who abuse both? Or are the colors of my dreams filled with the dark, deep scarlet, which slowly creeps around my neck serving as a reminder of secrets which are better served kept? Could the colors of my dreams, the sole being of my existence, be something as simple as a sunshine yellow, radiating happiness on a bright sunny day? Or it is a dark, powerful, shade of green, absorbing the jealous taunts I threw at those I loved the most, only to find that in the end, it was me who was flawed? Could the colors of my dreams consist of a multitude of woven tapestries, full of color, life, and light, allowing me to hide and transform those hues I am ashamed of into new shades, magnificent and glowing, bringing me back to the realities which always exist despite of my various attempts to escape?

I’m not quite sure what the future holds, but I do know, I continue to plan on “painting the colors of my dreams” until I am no longer able.

All universal moral principles are idle fancies.

today in creative writing poetry class

we listened.

Catching up on some of the newest links in 3 Quarks, saw mention of Wood's essay in

Nobody's a Critic - Or they're at least terrified to be one.

By Morgan Meis

The Wood was not linked to but luckily the title came up in a Google.

Saks' success is remarkable in light of the fact that only about 10% of schizophrenic individuals have steady jobs. Saks has not only remained employed, but she has also become a leader in her field and a role model to many who suffer from mental illness. In fact, she credits her career as an enormous source of strength during the most turbulent periods of her life. Saks goes into more detail, and reads several excerpts from her book, in this video:

Russian Ark (2002) is a single, unbroken tracking shot that: (1) lasts for an hour and a half; (2) manages to tell the story of two characters caught in the sweep of Russia's epic history; and (3) orchestrates the movement of over 2000 people.

Think about that. Think how many things could go wrong trying to make a feature-length film in a single unblinking tracking shot, and that didn't.

This is the cinematic equivelent of seeing how long you can go without coming, and discovering yourself dwarfing all of history's previous attempts, landing next to the fat twins on motorcycles in the Guinness Book of World Records.

The director, Alexander Sokurov, attempted the shot on a single afternoon, at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. The shot covers nearly a mile of roaming the hallways, corridors, grounds, and rooms of the famous museum. He botched it on the first three attempts, but hit it so exquisitely on the fourth that one is simply left gaping at the beauty and power of his achievement.

Watching Russian Ark has the feel of witnessing exquisite choreography done on highwire, where even one aesthetic mistep would break the film's spell and collapse the performance---and yet, seemingly miraculously, none occurs.

There is an "ooh and ahh" quality to watching this film, as if one is experiencing the organic unfolding of a garden of flowers opening to the sun.

In its gorgeousness, sensuousness, ambition, and poetic orchestration of a huge cast, Russian Ark seems to be Sokurov's 21st century response to Fritz Lang's German silent film masterpiece, Metropolis.

Russian Ark is, as it were, a Russian Metropolis.

If you called Sokurov's achievement heroic, I would not argue. Ayn Rand would have loved this film, and if she has any aesthetically alert contempory devotees, they would love it too. Sokurov is Howard Roark and Cecil B. DeMille rolled into one.

The film begins with a black screen.

The narrator, speaking to himself, says "I open my eyes and I see nothing," and we are left to infer that he has perhaps died, so that when the tracking shot begins we seem to have joined him on his journey as a ghost with an unblinking, roving eye. 

Like one of the animals entering Noah's ark, the narrator follows a group of people (who don't perceive his presence) entering, via a side door, St. Petersburg's Hermitage. In other words, the "herd" moves from the wintery weather outside into the warm embrace of a building suffused with European high culture.

It is here that we begin to catch on to the conceit of the film's Noah-alluding title. The Hermitage is, as it were, an Apollonian Love Boat of beauty and high culture that floats in the midst of the heaving watery chaos of Russia's Dionysian history.

The narrator, as he begins to haunt about---sometimes visible to others, sometimes not---finds himself joined by another ghost, the 19th century French travel writer, diplomat, and aesthete, Marquis de Custine.  

So it is that we discover, with the narrator and Custine, that they---and we---are moving, not just in space, but in historic TIME. In one room we may find ourselves with the narrator and Custine in the 18th century, in a second room the 21st century, and in a third room the 19th century.

Custine functions as a kind of Virgil to the narrator's Dante, leading him about the Hermitage and pointing out things.

Their roles do switch up a bit in places. When they pass through a room that has 20th or 21st century people in it, for example, Custine, who died in the mid-1800s, is perplexed. The narrator then takes on the roll of guide, telling Custine tidbits of information about what is, to Custine, in the future.

Marquis de Custine is played perfectly by Sergei Dreiden. Tall and lanky, taut and elastic---he is utterly mesmerizing to follow. His movements are those of a dancer. And his sensuous and sharp eyed wit and commentary on the people and art that he encounters heightens our own appreciation of what we are experiencing. He is the spell-casting aesthete opening our eyes to life's beauty and strangeness.

What may be the most poignant moment of the film is where it starts to wind down, and in which we, and our accompanying ghosts, follow thousands of early 20th century people, still warm from an evening of ballroom dancing, down a grand staircase, soon to depart the Hermitage into the Russian cold, as a mass of animals might leave Noah's ark. The moment is poignant because we know their fate, for they are, without yet knowing it, moving in time and space toward the Russian Revolution and World War I.

The final moment of the film is devastating and perfect, and will be left for you to savor, and not be revealed.

Russian Ark is, in short, a seminal film---perhaps the first truly seminal film of the 21st century. It takes its place, deservedly, alongside Fritz Lang's Metropolis as one of the most beguiling and haunting films ever made, and that will ever be made.

For a long time, I missed reading literature dearly but I imagined my mind had to be in a quiet place (and my life more or less stable) before I could truly enjoy it. I just couldn't unplug from my never-ending struggle and, more recently, from the spell of nonfiction and magazines. Well, that has started to change lately, for reasons I don't quite understand yet. I've read four novels in the past two months, which might be very little by other people's standards, but it's a lot compared to how few I used to read. And quantity isn't the best measure, of course; what elates me is that I am enjoying the experience like never before and I can get lost in those imaginary worlds.

I think I am finally starting to realize that I'm not going to live forever, so I'd better do what I like while I still can. There's a certain sense of urgency that is starting to take hold. And yes, literature is a great escape from the uncertainties of my reality.

I still love nonfiction and magazines, but I hope I will never betray literature again.

No doubt you were furious when you received your July 21st copy of the New Yorker with that scandalous drawing of the Obamas on the cover. Oh . . . (sniff) . . . you don't?  Well . . . surely you've heard about it by now.

And that's the origin of this whole ruckus. People who know the New Yorker know there are illustrations -- cartoons  -- on the cover and throughout the magazine; those who don't . . . don't.

The cartoons are by and for the aware, with-it,  NYC-metro haute bourgeoisie, and assume a common frame of reference. If you had to look up haute bourgeoisie just now, you don't share it. No wonder you were scandalized by the magazine cover. Would you be so upset if such images appeared in an episode of South Park? Of course not -- you expect them there.

Grassroots campaigners for Obama who work among the unaware and not-with-it  must constantly correct misconceptions about the Obamas, and are probably more exasperated than outraged by the magazine cover. People who actually read the magazine (or display it after looking at the cartoons) don't need a truth squad; they know about the false canards can appreciate a joke about the baseless rumors.  (Note: all canards are false; the redundant phrase is a common American usage. At ease, New Yorker readers).

The July 21st New Yorker cover was illustrated by Barry Blitt. The magazine's web site has mounted a small exhibit of his political work, The Politics of Satire.

Image by Mike Licht. Download a copy here. Creative Commons license; credit Mike Licht, NotionsCapital.com

The name "The New Yorker" and the logo of Eustace Harun Abdul al-Tilley are registered tradmarks of Condé Nast Publications and are used under the "Satire" clause of the "Fair Use" or "Free Will" Doctrine. Something like that.

The event really made me proud to be a writer - to be a 'colleague' of some of the most generous people I've encountered. In the intimate venue, around a large wooden table, Tadjo and Kalmer offered insight and nuggets of information about the genre and the renaissance of the short story, not only in South Africa but in the rest of the country. Questions from the floor focussed on the role of technology in maintaining a culture of reading and mention was made of Michelle Matthews's (ex-Oshun) latest endeavour - A Novel Idea. Her innovation allows the reader to receive chapters of a novel smsed to them. 

Well-organised book launches can offer so much more than just book-signing opportunities and it's a pity that Exclusive Books and most publishing houses don't offer readers and writers a forum in which to experience these literary interactions. A recent event that I unfortunately could not attend was one put together by The Write Company that involved an evening of chocolate tasting and a talk by writer Lauren Liebenberg author of The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam. Creative events such as these deserve good attendance.

To build a culture of readers, South Africa needs a culture of writers - ones that interact and share their skill and their hopes and aspirations for the genre in which they write.

ENJOY!

Of course, Shakespeare's plays were meant to be watched, not read, so I'm definitely renting it out some time in the near future. Coming up next is a useful study tip.

That place where once I lived, in
glory, is occupied: by
cruel forces of the invasion

The armies of the ignorant
twitch, and kneel:
they leave their blood upon the moon

©Dean J. Baker

Copyright © July 18, 2008 David Hodges