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About B Gourley

Bernie Gourley is a writer living in Bangalore, India. His poetry collection, Poems of the Introverted Yogi is now available on Amazon. He teaches yoga, with a specialization in pranayama, and holds a RYT500 certification. For most of his adult life, he practiced martial arts, including: Kobudo, Muay Thai, Kalaripayattu, and Taiji. He is a world traveler, having visited more than 40 countries around the globe.

DAILY PHOTO: Snail Day

Taken at Angkor Wat in October of 2012

BOOK REVIEW: Candy by Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg

CandyCandy by Terry Southern
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon page

 

The protagonist of this story, Candy Christian, is a caricature of a flighty, young beauty with daddy issues. Candy’s personality mixes cringe-worthy naivete with an endearing – if unjustified – optimism about the virtue of men. This, combine with her laudable but exploitable desire to render assistance, leads to a chain of events in which her trusting nature is repeatedly manipulated, usually without her ever becoming aware she’s been duped (or, at least, without it being admitted to the reader.)

This book claims to be a satire on Voltaire’s “Candide.” While readers may find varying degrees of commonality between the books, they do share some common ground. Both start with the protagonist being educated by a philosopher. In Candide’s case, it is Pangloss (i.e. “all talk”) who insists that Candide lives in the best of all possible worlds. In Candy’s case, it’s Dr. Mephesto (i.e. presumably derived from the Germanic demon “Mephestopheles” whose name means something like “scatterer of lies,”) and Candy’s philosophy teacher harps on the point that a person must find meaning in service, and to be willing to demonstrate that service as – of course – an attempt to bed Candy.

The books are also both episodic, jumping from location to location with adventures occurring at each locale. However, this episodic nature starts late in “Candy,” with the first two-thirds or so taking place in her hometown (Racine, WI) and – only then going on the move. Despite the availability of air travel, Candy doesn’t get around as much as Candide, though she does finish her journey at a Tibetan monastery. Both books have also been classified as being of the “education of a youth” (i.e. Bildungsroman) variety. However, they both have also been criticized on the basis that there wasn’t much of value learned by the lead. That said, Candide offers a clear moral to end the story, whereas Candy’s takeaway is in a more ambiguous twist ending.

“Candy” (the book) hinges on more than one absurd turn of events, but given that the genre is humor, I had no problem with that. [Even Shakespeare, in works like “The Comedy of Errors,” asks one to suspend disbelief in exchange for a laugh and some solid entertainment.]

I will point out one last similarity between “Candide” and “Candy,” they have both frequently been banned on the basis of moral arguments. Which brings me to to a couple warnings. If it’s not been made clear to this point, this book is sexually graphic, and individuals troubled by that may want to avoid it. The other class of reader who may be offended by the work are those disturbed by the book’s frequent victory of exploitative characters. In some ways, the book shares as much in common with Marquis de Sade’s “Justine” as it does with “Candide.” While the tone isn’t at all dark like Sade’s book, the story does suggest that world order is such that the weak and naïve will repeatedly be exploited by the strong and amoral.

I found the book to be humorous. The story is intriguing and well-developed, and – if one can suspend one’s disbelief regarding a few of the more absurd events – the reader will find it engaging. It’s not always a comforting read, but if you don’t mind (or enjoy) that condition, then you’ll likely to find it a pleasant read.

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POEM: Beauty

blinding fire of neurons

— excitation & secretion —

all from a 2-D arrangement of pixels

that my brain thinks is worth getting worked up over —

symmetry, smoothness, scaling, and that jazz–

but that program isn’t the final word

i’ve re-jacked the synaptic dance

when the wiser bit recognized something

flawless in the arrangement of a pile of flaws

or a gorgeous simplicity,

or, alternatively, poison in the perfection

in the short-run,

what was said of pornography may be true of beauty —

i.e. “I know it when I see it.”

but, in the long run,

we’re all dust,

&

vaguely-remembered best impressions

DAILY PHOTO: Ganga Mahal Ghat, Varanasi

Taken in October of 2015 in Varanasi (Benares)

DAILY PHOTO: A Zeal of Zebra Walks by the River

Taken in April of 2017 at Chobe National Park

POEM: The Shallow Death

At night, I die a shallow death.
The heaven is strange; its rules few.
I walk forest, field, and mansion,
weaving the doors of one hallway.

I’m told it’s me all the way down,
but something says, “Psst!” in the dark.
Subconscious is a drug dealer.
It tempts me with alluring prey.

I give chase in that spaceless space.
Unlike the dog with twitching legs,
This chase succeeds or fails at rest.
Then, I claw back to life each morn.

POEM: Tempest

a rock slab juts angularly through the waves
in a tempest — torrential & tumultuous

the tip-top of that rock forms a jagged cliff,
and next to that jagged cliff stands a shack —
rickety but resolute —
it sways in whipping winds,
but neither collapses
nor flies into the gnashing maw & smashing fists
of the monstrous surge below

between the slats of that shack,
a rain-pelted eye peers out,
awaiting the lightning that will
show her a flash frame of infinite, angry seas

POEM: Moonlit Room

skeletal nakedness,

lurking in the shadow black corner

of a moonlit room

invisible,

but emitting a hum

fifty octaves below human hearing

DAILY PHOTO: Camel on the Sacred Way

Taken in the summer of 2008 on the Sacred Way

POEM: Below the Waterline

eyes closed
the world vanishes
a switch is flipped
and I’m adrift

but the world spins on
i can hear it
if i listen

otherwise, it’s just chaos on a distant shore

two planks plonk against one another,
and I await a judge to call this world to order

the tinkle of a tiny bell
reminds me of snapping icicles
but unless the world has shifted under me
i’m in a place that only knows icicles
on the inside of an ice-cream vendor’s cart

what has made the puttering
of the Jetsons’ car so bass?
oh, that is a scooter

as i drift
a montage sounds,
signalling a shipwreck on that far shore
the clunk of a timber washed against sea worn rocks,
creaking wet rope,
the moans of wounded sailors,
and the screech of a seagulls