Union Station
The gothic Union Station is now a hotel, but was once a major train station.
DAILY PHOTO: Union Station in Nashville
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Author Archives: B Gourley
The Bullets that Bore no Name: or, the Burden we all Bear
Mauthausen Attribution: Bundesarchiv, Bild 192-334 / CC-BY-SA
Thanks for joining me on the veranda. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, this post flows from a book review I did on Elie Wiesel’s Night, which can be seen here. But don’t wander off just yet.
I married into a family of holocaust survivors.
Being sufficiently narcissistic, I haven’t been able to avoid thinking of the profound impact this had on my life. I am married to the most extraordinary woman in the universe [my apologies to all other women, I’m sure you’re someone else’s most extraordinary woman] by virtue of the strength of a man who wrestled his way to the top of a pile of corpses, bleeding profusely from multiple shrapnel wounds, clawing his way out of a pit, and cleaning the gashes with his urine. That man was married to a woman, tiny of body but colossal of mind, who was in the group force marched from Budapest to Mauthausen. After the war, they had a child–my mother-in-law. Yada-yada-yada. I have marital bliss.
Not being completely narcissistic, I’m reminded that every one of our lives have been shaped by strong people who lived through close calls. Each of us comes hither as a gift from men and women who passed through a hail of bullets that bore no name. Some, like my wife’s grandfather, were riddled by bullets bearing their name, and still refused to heed their deadly whisper. Every holocaust survivor survived by a thin margin. Every battlefield veteran’s life is an execution order rescinded. Every prisoner of war was one germ away from an unmarked grave.
No pressure or anything, but that sounds like a heavy debt we all bear.
Telling this story in greater detail is one of my bucket list tasks. It’s a project I’ve had on the back burner for far too long. There are several reasons for this. The most feeble of which is a hope to find the right timing. Sadly, there are so many such stories that I fear it will be lost amid a sea of sorrow. Then there is my need to develop grace with language sufficient to do the story justice. In a way the two novels I have drafted, and whose mess I am now painstakingly trying to dance into shape, are practice exercises. Wish me luck.
On the plus side, my wife’s uncle had the foresight to have her grandfather speak his story onto about 20 tapes before he died. With today’s technology, there’s no excuse for anyone’s life-altering story to go untold. So I guess if there is a moral to my rambling post it’s this: don’t let anyone in your life with a spectacular story pass from this world without it being heard.
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BOOK REVIEW: Night by Elie Wiesel
Night by Elie Wiesel
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Nobel Prize Winner Elie Wiesel’s book, Night, tells his story as a boy caught in the Holocaust. A Jew from Sighet in Transylvania, Wiesel was evacuated from the ghetto as a teenager and shipped off to Auschwitz–later to be moved to Buchenwald.
At little over 100 pages, this thin book is tragedy distilled and condensed.
A few of Wiesel’s experiences stick with one because they are just so gut wrenching. One such story is about a woman in the train car who hallucinates fire and flames. Her insanity no doubt spurred by hearing of the massive crematoria. Her delusions were prophetic for all too many of those packed in that cattle-car.
Another key moment came after their train rolled into Auschwitz. Both Elie Wiesel and his father followed advice to lie about their ages, he to make himself older and his father to become younger. This got them both directed to the left; the people who would live for the time being– though they didn’t know that at the time.
The climactic portion of the book deals with the boy’s attempts to cope with his father’s severe illness. On the one hand, his father was all he had. On the other hand, he feared that he would not survive if he had to keep looking after the ill elder. Wiesel is quite frank about the dilemma that clouded his mind. His father’s death would make his own survival more likely. The guilt caused by these thoughts tormented him. This kind of guilt is a prevailing theme in genocide literature. It reminds me of Viktor Frankl’s comment in Man’s Search for Meaning in which he says that the sad truth survivors must live with is that, “the best of us did not return.”
I will end my review by suggesting that you read this book. It’s quick and–while not painless–insightful. I’d intended to ramble on with some personal experiences and observations, but have decided to make that its own post entitled <em>The Bullets that Bore no Name: or, the Burden we all Bear</em>.
If you’re just here for the Night review, thanks for visiting and Godspeed in your journeys through cyberspace.
If you’re at all curious about what I have to say, grab your mint julep and join me on the veranda. The veranda is this way.
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Who Am I?
“I” am a collection of cells.
some expressly invited by “my” genes
others are interlopers, “my” guts their cross-town bus
but these interlopers defend “me” daily
fending off worse marauders
thankfully
so “I” let them stay inside “me”
“my” greatest shame? “I” am a slave owner.
the mitochondria in “my” cells are trapped and forced to serve “me”
all this begs one fundamental question,
am “I” really just a “me?”
or a whole society?
If “my” parts
needn’t be fully integrated
where do “I” end and “you” begin?
can “I” say that “I” have been everywhere?
well, everywhere on this tiny, spherical-ish speck of galactic dust?
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DAILY PHOTO: Plaza de Armas in Arequipa by Night
Basilica Cathedral
Arequipa is known as the White City for the appearance of the stone that serves as one of its most conspicuous building materials. Above is the Basilica Cathedral located on Plaza de Armas, which is the city’s main square. Arequipa is a beautiful city, and is the second most populous in Peru. One sees a level of indigenous wealth here that one doesn’t in say Cusco. There is vibrancy to this town.
One of the most impressive local sites is the Convent of Santa Catalina. There are also some impressive views of volcanic mountains that can be seen from the city.
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TODAY’S RANT: Stuck with a Bad Ending
Bonus pages for active readers
I miss the days when they put extra blank pages at the end of a book so that you could rewrite an unsatisfactory ending. (Someone once tried to tell me that the extra pages were the result of bulk paper cutting methods. They said it was cheaper to include the blank pages than to remove them. Yeah, I know. How ridiculous, right?) Of course, it wasn’t long before ads began to sully these blank pages, making them less than blank.
I’m not a fan of wastefulness, but if I have to rewrite your ending, why should I incur the cost of paper.
Being lazy, there are not many cases in which I feel compelled to rewrite someone else’s ending. Most books that manage to get published have at least a tolerable ending.
One book always springs to my mind when I think of bad endings. It’s a book called Hostage by a writer named Robert Crais. For those who saw the movie, the movie ending is vastly different–presumably because moviegoers would have insisted on their money back otherwise. While Hostage is not among Bruce Willis’s best, it’s also a prime example of the rare case when the movie is better than the book–for just this reason.
Part of the disappointment stems from the fact that the book has an outstanding premise for a thriller, and in my opinion it was carried off well until the end. (Another reason that I don’t come across too many terrible endings may be that I jettison books that aren’t so good, but this one fooled me.) Anyway, three delinquent kids rob a house and end up with a hostage situation with the homeowner’s two kids. The tension is ratcheted up when it turns out that the upscale home where the kids are being held up is owned by a mob accountant. Inside is evidence that could put half the mob away. The mob gets proactive by taking the police chief’s (i.e. the protagonist’s) family (ex and child) hostage and insisting that he get the evidence out before the house is stormed by the sheriff’s department and falls into an evidence locker.
SPOILER ALERT: Ultimately, our hero has no agency in the survival of himself or his family. It’s purely the decision of a mob enforcer that leaves them alive. I guess it could have been worse. It could have ended with him awaking from a dream.
What book gets your award for “worst-ending-ever”?
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DAILY PHOTO: Sapelo Island Lighthouse
Sapelo Island Lighthouse
This lighthouse is located at the southern end of Sapelo Island off the coast of the state of Georgia. Sapelo island can only be accessed by a ferry operated by the Georgia Department of Natural Resources (DNR.) Tours are available through DNR.
The island is home to the Hog Hammock community (Population 70), a mansion that was once owned by RJ Reynolds (as was the island), and a research facility associated with the University System of Georgia.
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BOOK REVIEW: Story of O by Pauline Réage
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Amazon page: See Here
I haven’t read 50 Shades of Grey, but was surprised to hear that it began as Twilight fan fiction. From the descriptions that I’d seen, it seemed much more like a relatively softcore, commercial-fiction version of Story of O. I don’t whether the Story of O fits into this recent genre development called “mommy porn,” because the book predates that terminology.
In Story of O a successful fashion photographer named “O” is in love with a man whose tastes run to the extreme. Her lover, René, asks her to come into this lifestyle, and she willingly submits to his wishes. Submission involves some harsh tests of her willingness to endure.
I expect the initiated will point out that one major difference exists between the two works. 50 Shades seems to involve a monogamous relationship, whereas– in the Story of O— O is handed off from René to a more senior dominant for her “training.” O then begins to fall for her new master. Moreover, there is no monogamy in Story of O–whatsoever. (i.e. O is passed around like a doobie at a Greatful Dead concert.) I’m not saying they are the same books, just that they seem similar. They are both books about women who willingly surrendering to men with exotic (re: freaky) desires.
There also seems to be a difference in endings between the two story lines (vis-á-vis who walks), but I will not go into that.
Actually, one major fault of Story of O is that there is not a proper ending (completion of a narrative arc.) The version I have has a brief annotation that says the ending was suppressed. It goes on to give a description of two alternate versions of a similar ending. I suspect the drafts of those endings were lost to the ages because I have a copy of the 1973 edition (the book came out in the 50’s) and to my knowledge there is no subsequent edition.
Those who are freaked out by kinkiness will find Story of O hard to stomach. In terms of language, I’ve read that it’s calmer than 50 Shades…, but in terms of the actions carried out I suspect it runs a bit more toward the exotic. Another group that will find this book to not be their cup of tea are those who have strong feelings about women’s empowerment. If that’s you, you will likely find it hard to relate to a woman who has power in her life, but who willingly–nay, eagerly– relinquishes it. Moreover, O seems to thrive on being dominated. That is, she falls hardest for the man who will most forcefully enslave her.
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The Sound of One Nub Clapping
Taken at the Red Cross Snake Farm, Bangkok
Once upon a day in February
ruminating about creatures scary
staring at a flaring cobra hood
I thought, maybe this serpent ‘s just misunderstood
I know its bad rap (wrap?) is Biblically-inspired,
but perhaps it’s time that rap be retired
if you stepped on me, I’d bite you too
well, perhaps not bite, but in the harshest tone bid you adieu
The crocodile has a snappy smile
and is always dressed in dapper style
if you evict him from his birthday suit
to suit your needs for some snazzy boots
I think we’ll all understand, if he claims as his your right hand
don’t think it’s some vast assault on man
think of it as a reptilian guru teaching one Zen koan
and, to you, the sound of one hand clapping will be known
hint: it sounds like a bloodcurdling scream
and requires a readied surgical team
Taken at Budapest Zoo
Your bigger tiger can be a grumpy cat
when unwise souls encroach its habitat
just don’t pitch a tent like you own the place
if you value the features on your face
think of yourself as that visiting kin
for whom “just passing through” looks like “moving in”
you don’t feel nice calling Uncle Bob a pest
think how the tiger feels ripping your heart from your chest
Taken at a “bear park” in Veresegyház, Hungary
Grizzly bears’ hairiness inspires scariness
but under that fur is the motive for wariness
it may look like rolly-polly flab
but bears have muscular six-pack abs
you think you’ve got him in your trap
but wonder how your spine just snapped
a minor miscalculation on the tranq front
and your life is liquids through a shunt
can you blame him, the trap ‘s a rusty, toothy maw
that you just caused to kill his paw
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DAILY PHOTO: Cambodian National Museum in Phnom Penh
In the courtyard of the National Museum of Cambodia
The National Museum of Cambodia is picturesque. The collection is small and simple, but impressive in quality. For those of us who run out of “ooh” and “ahh” stamina after a few hundred artifacts, it’s just the right size. It’s also not stuffy in the usual way of museums– large barred windows are unshuttered while the museum is open. (This is probably less than ideal from both the perspective of security and artifact preservation, but it gives the place a certain ambiance, and maybe helped the exodus of the bats that took up residence during the museum’s dormant period)
It’s great to see what they’ve done with the place considering the state of disrepair it was said to be in after the Khmer Rouge period. With respect to my comment about it not being a large collection, it’s a wonder that any collection exists at all after the wave of lootings from the French through Vietnamese soldiers that took place in the country.
Be forewarned, once one is inside, one will be confronted by Buddhists from a monument preservation society seeking donations at about half a dozen different Buddhas around the museum. If you aren’t a Buddhist, this can be a bit of an annoyance. If you are a Buddhist, you may find their approach disconcertingly unBuddhist. They will try to press incense into one’s palm in order to corner one into paying homage to the Buddha so they can make some dough for their cause. However, they don’t follow one around once refused (as similar individuals have been known to do at Angkor.) It may be a great cause, but they’d probably do better if they restricted it to one per museum and not one per gallery, and just let people drop cash rather than insisting on the idol worship first. I’m nondenominationally happy-go-lucky myself, but I can imagine this being troublesome for some visitors. At any rate, it’s symptomatic of the country’s poverty and their inability to support their deity at the level to which he has apparently become accustomed.
