Tag Archives: war

He is nothing but war.

books, culture, quotes, , , , , , , ,

Alongside my reading of The Iliad itself, I have collected a few books from the library that are commentary or retellings. When I think about how many people have translated, interpreted and commented on Homer over the centuries, I realize I can only hope to scratch the surface layer of their insights, and of the poem — or poems, if I go ahead and read The Odyssey as well.

I am really enjoying The Iliad, but at this point in my life I don’t expect to gain enough knowledge to put together a whole essay. I will, however, feel free to share little bits related to that epic that are interesting to me. One of these is from a “Bloom’s Guide,” in which the literary critic Harold Bloom gives an introduction, and assembles a few articles by various other scholars. Bloom is known for his bold statements about culture and literature, and I appreciate that style, which is often refreshingly clarifying. This is an excerpt from the introduction to his guide to The Iliad:

“The heroes of the Hebrew Bible — Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, David — have no affinities whatsoever with Achilles. Even David, the only professional warrior among them, carries on their blessing from Yahweh and so is in a position beyond tragedy, despite his many griefs that terminate in the death of his beloved son, Absalom. You can make a covenant with Yahweh and then trust in the covenant, but no one can trust Zeus. Achilles is half a god, and he says that ‘who trusts himself to the gods will gain their hearing,’ but he knows that the response to such a hearing is likely to be equivocal, and they cannot free him from war, since despite his disillusion he is war and nothing but war. The poetic strength of Achilles is that he is a man. No other purely literary figure is nearly as heroic, or is aesthetically satisfying to us, but Achilles’ otherness, in relation to us, is now his dominant characteristic.”

-Harold Bloom

Whispered to a child.

poetry, ,

This poem reminds me of “Life is Beautiful,” the Italian movie by Roberto Benigni, released in 1997. Do you remember it? I thought it was very good, but some people who watched with me did not like the way the father in the movie dealt with his truly heartrending dilemma.

WORDS WHISPERED TO A CHILD UNDER SIEGE

No, we are not going to die.
The sounds you hear
knocking the windows and chipping the paint
from the ceiling, that is a game
the world is playing.
Our task is to crouch in the dark as long as we can
and count the beats of our own hearts.
Good. Like that. Lay your hand
on my heart and I’ll lay mine on yours.
Which one of us wins
is the one who loves the game the most
while it lasts.
Yes, it is going to last.
You can use your ear instead of your hand.
Here, on my heart.
Why is it beating faster? For you. That’s all.
I always wanted you to be born
and so did the world.
No, those aren’t a stranger’s bootsteps in the house.
Yes, I’m here. We’re safe.
Remember chess? Remember
hide-and-seek?
The song your mother sang? Let’s sing that one.
She’s still with us, yes. But you have to sing
without making a sound. She’d like that.
No, those aren’t bootsteps.
Sing. Sing louder.
Those aren’t bootsteps.
Let me show you how I cried when you were born.
Those aren’t bootsteps.
Those aren’t sirens.
Those aren’t flames.
Close your eyes. Like chess. Like hide-and-seek.
When the game is done you get another life.

-Joseph Fasano

From the movie “Life is Beautiful.”

The catch in the world’s breath.

humanity, poetry, , ,

THE BODY IS MINE AND THE SOUL IS MINE

‘The body is mine and the soul is mine’
says the machine. ‘I am at the dark source
where the good is indistinguishable
from evil. I fill my tanks up
and there is war. I empty them
and there is not peace. I am the sound,
not of the world breathing, but
of the catch rather in the world’s breath.’
Is there a contraceptive
for the machine, that we may enjoy
intercourse with it without being overrun
by vocabulary? We go up
into the temple of ourselves
and give thanks that we are not
as the machine is. But it waits
for us outside, knowing that when
we emerge it is into the noise
of its hand beating on the breast’s
iron as Pharisaically as ourselves.

– R.S. Thomas

 

 

Kissing in Vietnamese

history, poetry, ,

KISSING IN VIETNAMESE

My grandmother kisses
as if bombs are bursting in the backyard,
where mint and jasmine lace their perfumes
through the kitchen window,
as if somewhere, a body is falling apart
and flames are making their way back
through the intricacies of a young boy’s thigh,
as if to walk out the door, your torso
would dance from exit wounds.
When my grandmother kisses, there would be
no flashy smooching, no western music
of pursed lips, she kisses as if to breathe
you inside her, nose pressed to cheek
so that your scent is relearned
and your sweat pearls into drops of gold
inside her lungs, as if while she holds you
death also, is clutching your wrist.
My grandmother kisses as if history
never ended, as if somewhere
a body is still
falling apart.

-Ocean Vuong

The author with his mother and aunt.