Programa de mano Denia 3 oct 2024

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

This is a masterpiece of story-telling. It is short - about 130 pages - and tells the tale of a man living an isolated life in New England. The time is not specific, but the feel is always contemporary with the date of publication, which was 1911. The narrator met Ethan Frome in Starkfield, Massachusetts and immediately his countenance made its impression. He is described as already looking “as if he was dead and in hell.” The narrator sets about telling the story of Ethan Frome, a story that apparently is hard to extract from the laconic people who inhabit this part of New England. The structure of the novel, we are told, reflects this local habit, but by the time we are half way through, the reticence seems to have eased.

Starkfield is a harsh place. Winters are particularly difficult, and people measure lifespan by the number of winters they have survived. This is not a sociable community, we are told, and people live isolated lives. It is an isolation that in some ways is dictated by their environment. “Beyond the orchard lay a field or two, the boundaries lost under drifts; and above the fields, huddled against the white immensities of land and sky, one of those lonely New England farmhouses that make the landscape lonelier.” It is thus a place where the distance between people renders everything lonelier.

Ethan Frome has a sick wife. She needs a home help, live-in assistance. Mattie Silver is hired. She is young, full of life and frankly not much of a help. She is a relative of Ethan Frome’s wife, Zelda, and so is tolerated. Ethan is attracted. Mattie changes his life.

What happens is so important to the story that how it happens cannot be described. Let it be said that what appears to be a simple love triangle does not turn out to be so. Though reticent, these people live charged emotional lives and conflict is never far removed from the cold. 

Edith Wharton’s prose is wonderfully evocative of this isolated and inward-looking community. In her fiction, she is generally an urban creature, wandering the society events of New York, describing the nuances of class politics among the well-to-do. The fact that in Ethan Frome she inhabits a quite different environment with fundamentally different people living different lives is testament to her skill as a writer.

Dialogues and Natural History of Religion by David Hume

These extracts from the writings of David Hume concentrate on his views on religious belief. The Dialogues are clearly inspired by the writings of Plato in that, at least ostensibly, they are arranged as a discussion between three people of differing views. The Natural History Of Religion, on the other hand, is a more conventional analysis of several aspects of belief.

As ever, David Hume comes across as a logical positivist of the eighteenth century. For him, it seems that there are three possible positions to take on any natural phenomenon, belief or custom. First, something may be known. Where science has trod, where theory has been discussed and where findings have been demonstrated and then reproduced, Hume will admit no deviation of interpretation. Everything else is folly. Secondly, something may be widely assumed but as yet it remains unproven. Though he regularly alludes to such phenomena, he actually rarely analyses consequences of taking a particular standpoint, or pronounces on whether such things, perhaps at a later date, might become known. Throughout his pronouncements on such topics, he reveals himself to be as unquestioning of his assumed culture as anyone who espouses religion. An illustration of this tendency would be his regular reference to “savages”, people who don’t really qualify as human beings. These beings tend to live in Africa, in “jungles” or even in Asia. These are, of course, my own tongue-in-cheek words. He does not question the labels he uses, or their existence as such. But he repeats the position and clearly sees no reason to question it, despite the fact that it is not a “known” fact, in terms of there existing any kind of proof – or, for that matter, even evidence.

The third category in Hume’s thought relates to things that are unknown. Not only do these phenomena exist outside his concept of science in that they cannot be tested, but also, they defy description in a way that human beings can comprehend them. It is in this third category, the unknown, that human beings find fertile ground for their pronouncements of religion.

What is known is adequately described by this passage: “if the cause be known only by the effect, we never ought to describe to it any qualities beyond what our precise the requisite to produce the effect: nor can we, by any rules of just reasoning, return back from the cause, and other effects from it, beyond those by which alone it is known to us.” Here the process of scientific inference is raised to the status of a rational god, perhaps. But it is rational…

What is assumed but not proven is illustrated by this assertion: “I am sensible, that, according to the past experience of mankind, friendship is the chief joy of human life, and moderation the only source of tranquility and happiness. I never balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of life; but I’m sensible, that, to a well-disposed mind, every advantage is on the side of the former.” The assertion exists because he believes it, and can cite evidence, but he does not have proof. But equally he does not admit belief, believing that at some point the quality may be tested and proven, perhaps.

What is unknown, outside of human inference facilitated by a scientific method, then becomes explained by speculation, or invention. Human beings hold up a mirror to the universe, and in its see themselves and interpret phenomena beyond their understanding as mere aspects of themselves. “…there is an universal tendency among mankind to conceive all beings like themselves, and to transfer to every object, those qualities with which they are familiar acquainted, and of which they are intimately conscious. We find human faces in the moon, arm is in the clouds; and buy a natural propensity, if not corrected by experience and reflection, ascribe, malice, or goodwill to everything, that hurts or pleases us. Hence the frequency and beauty of […] poetry; where trees, mountains and streams are personified, and the inanimate parts of nature, acquire sentiment and passion. although these poetical figures and expressions gain not on the belief, they may serve, at least, to prove a certain tendency in the imagination, without which they could neither be beautiful nor natural… philosophers cannot entirely exempt themselves from this natural frailty, but have often described it to inanimate matter the horror of a vacuum […] and sympathies, and other affections of human nature. The absurdity is not less, while we cast our eyes upwards; and transferring, as is to usual, human passions, and infirmities to the deity, representing him as a jealous as jealous and revengeful, capricious and partial, and, in short, a wicked and foolish man, in every respect, but his superior power and authority.”

Personally, I have often wondered why, given our knowledge of the universe and our place within it, why the religious continue to use personal pronouns and human labels to refer to gods. “He, Father, Lord” are common: “it” and “thing” are not. In a reconstructed terminology, “The Lord is my Shepherd” would thus become “It is a thing”. Without the completely human dimension, the phrase becomes meaningless. With the human dimension raised to a status of essential, the phrase no longer describes anything that might not be earth-bound.

Hume expands on this elsewhere: “…the great source of our mistake in this subject, and of the unbounded license of conjecture, which we indulge, is, that we consider ourselves, as in the place of the Supreme Being, and conclude, that he will, on every occasion, observe the same conduct […] in his situation, would have embraced as reasonable and eligible. But, besides that the ordinary course of nature may convince us that almost everything is regulated by principles and maxims very different from ours, besides this, I say, it must evidently appear contrary to all rules of analogy to reason, from the intentions and projects of men, to those of Being so different, and so much superior.” He also equates the tendency to adopt religious believe to ignorance: “…it seems certain, that, according to the natural progress of human thought, the ignorant multitude must first entertain some groveling and familiar notion of superior powers, before they stretch the conception to that perfect Being, will be stowed order on the whole frame of nature.” He does however admit that there are possibilities for the committed: “A little philosophy, says Lord Bacon, makes men atheists: a great deal reconciles them to religion.”

Dialogues and Natural History of Religion are a superb illustration of what drove David Hume towards his eighteenth-century version of logical positivism. They come here with copious notes, where the numerous classical illusions are clarified, and where the author’s references to contemporary writers and texts, now forgotten, are referenced.

I do, however, find the format of the Dialogues gets in the way of the argument. I realize that Hume wanted to emulate the form of such writings as Plato’s Symposium, but here the structure becomes an imposition on the reader. There is no obvious stylistic difference between the three characters involved in this argument, so it is often confusing for the reader. This apart, the essays are a wonderfully enlightening read, even though they may present what, for some, may be a tough encounter with reality

The Children Act by Ian McEwan

 

Ian McEwan’s novel The Children Act is probably as close to the label masterpiece as any piece of fiction might get. Having just read David Hume’s ideas on religion, where the all-powerful takes on a human face, where rational thought is raised the status of an ivory tower, and where human prejudice regularly masquerades as potentially rational opinion, this novel provided a perfect fit to counterbalance and contextualise continued thought about these fundamental issues.

The novel immediately introduces Fiona. She is married, her adopted surname of Maye appearing sometime later. She is a judge. She has risen to a significant pinnacle within her profession. Married to Jack, for who knows how long, she shares a relationship which is both childless and lately unsteady, largely because Fiona’s work seems to take over her life.

She is very thorough. The law requires judgments to be correct, justifiable within the confines of the law, itself, especially in the UK according to precedent, but they must also at least approach the concept of natural justice, in that they must at least appear to be morally as well as legally justifiable. The process of reconciling these two demands often results in conflict. Complication arises when the subject of the legal action is a child, because, when that child is below the age of majority, eighteen years of age, the child is not deemed mature or responsibly enough to make up its own mind.

Fiona specializes in cases involving children. These may be to determine custody after divorce, protection against a malevolent parent or merely an absent one. They may involve a care order, where a child is judged to need the safety or stability of institutional care when parents are abusive, drug addicted, negligent, alcoholic, or merely absent. The issues may be fairly clear, but nothing is more complicated than human relationships. And even when these are simple, we seek to complicate them. But when seventeen-year-old is the subject of legal action, the situation is more complex. Especially when religion has reared its complicated head…

Adam has leukaemia and needs a blood transfusion. Without it, his chances of survival are limited because the drugs that form half of his treatment only work if a transfusion is carried out. Alan, like his parents, however, is a Jehovah’s Witness, to whom blood transfusions are anathema, simply not allowed. The question for Fiona to judge upon is whether the child can refuse treatment, whether his parents are denying him a chance of life for ideological reasons and whether the professionals involved should countermand the parents’ and the patient’s wishes. Fiona decides to visit Adam in hospital to inform her position. This happens against the backdrop of her own marriage failing, her husband walking out and an approaching eighteenth birthday for Adam, meaning that then he will be able to decide for himself what happens. She finds Adam interesting. Adam finds Fiona slightly more than captivating.

What happens is the book’s plot, and a reader will just have to discover it by reading the book. What I can write to conclude my review is the fact that these issues of the correctness or rationality or otherwise of belief come into sharp focus when ideology becomes a life and death issue. And Ian McEwan deals with these issues in a highly complex and transparent manner, which is also highly creative. What will always be dilemmas without resolution are presented as such, but somehow, they are never complicated. Decisions taken always seem justified by circumstance. What people do scene by scene makes sense, but then overall everything is driven by the moment, by assumption and by personal identity that we cannot control, because it grows within us, apparently independently. Fiona approaches every situation with a judge’s eye for the law, with an eye for accuracy and correctness. Internally, she reveals herself as vulnerable, open to instinctive and irrational thoughts.

What Ian McEwan does is portray character supremely well, providing a balance between the professional, the personal, and the social elements that contribute to make a human being. David Hume’s quote from Bacon really does ring true, that when we become really involved in the issue, then the case for religion strengthens. As for Fiona, life must go on. But how?

ADDA Alicante under Josep Vicent begin a new season with Bruckner's Seventh Symphony

 

Anton Bruckner was born in 1824, meaning this year is his bicentenary. In recognition of this, the new season of Alicante concerts opened with a performance of his Seventh Symphony by the ADDA orchestra under the artistic director, Josep Vicent.

This is a mammoth work that lasts over an hour. The first two movements alone exceeded forty minutes. As a result, as with this evening, it is often played alone, with no other work either before or after it to offer musical contrast. With such immersion, an audience ought to feel bathed in the musical style to such an extent that the experience is all enveloping.

But nothing involving Anton Buckner is ever that that simple. He was a paradoxically simple man, yet simultaneously outrageously complex. Deeply religious, but with an often-expressed passion – unrealised - for young girls, he seemed to offer up to the world a riddle that could never be solved. A professor in Vienna and a teacher of many years, he never attained sufficient confidence in his own abilities to finish definitively most of his works. Near constant revision, often prompted by the lukewarm praise of others, left multiple versions of many of his works. This can give much scope for conductors to pick and choose, to incorporate this revision or ignore another. Definitive Bruckner is an oxymoron.

And with the work of Anton Bruckner, no one is going to notice very much, given that by design the music often swerves, changes direction or delights in apparent non sequiturs quite often. Bulow described the composer as “half genius, half simpleton” and he had the reputation, even in society events, of turning up dressed like a peasant. He was an enigma, was overtly sensuous with the sound of his music, but deeply religious, and lived, generally speaking, the life of an ascetic. His express motivation was to write music to celebrate the glory of God, in both scale and depth.

The ADDA programme notes quoted Wilhelm Furtwangler saying that Bruckner composed Gothic music that had mistakenly been transplanted into the nineteenth century. Stylistically, the music is far from Gothic, but perhaps its architecture is not. Personally, I would go as far as describing the symphonies as cathedrals, where the parts only come together when the whole is considered from afar. There are no grab quotes from these symphonies, except perhaps in the scherzi, and even these are heavy on process rather than melody.

A possible problem with the cathedral analogy is perhaps that the composer had forgotten to include a door. It is possible to experience this music and feel permanently shut out. Yes, the edifice is impressive. Yes, it towers above us. But does it ever reveal its interior?

Having discussed the work, what about the performance? Well, it was faultless, committed, subtle, and even communicative. The Wagner tubas did not play a wrong note all evening, which is rarely the case with this notoriously mind-of-its-own instrument. Their sound, booming and enveloping, when added to a full orchestra created a special world, which the audience eagerly inhabited.

Josep Vicent drew every morsel of texture from the score and the resulting detail, even within the tutti, was simply vivid. In recognition of the work’s dedication to Ludwig II of Bavaria. The concert bore the subtitle “Legend of the mad king”. It wasn’t a legend, but it was a great start to a new season.

The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende

 

In The Stories of Eva Luna, Isabel Allende presents a collection of stories ostensibly told by Ralph Carlé’s partner. Ralph is a television journalist and features in the last story of the set when he tries to free a young girl trapped by mud after a landslide.

Before the prologue in which Ralph Carlé asks to be told stories, Isabel Allende refers to Sheherezade of Arabian Nights fame. Her task was to keep the Grand Vizier entertained all night until dawn so that she might survive the telling, unlike all who had previously been similarly tasked. A footnote informs the reader that Sheherezade did indeed succeed in her quest. “At this moment in her story, Sheherezade saw the first light of dawn, and discreetly fell silent.” This surely implies that a woman with a gift of language might just escape the nightly attentions of a man. Such attentions feature large throughout the The Stories of Eva Luna and all the usual and perhaps inevitable consequences follow to form the central focus of almost every one of these tales.

These stories are written in the magical realism style of much Latin American fiction. The language is quite dense, but often not as dense as the fusillade of events that attach themselves to the lives of these people in this provincial, quiet and often rather boring town. The lives described in the stories, however, are surely never dull. Indeed, so full of detail are they that these short stories would be difficult to digest as suggested over a single night.

Try, for instance, this passage about an English couple. “The large headquarters of Sheepbreeders Ltd rose up from the sterile plane like a forgotten cake; it was surrounded by an absurd lawn and defended against the depredations of the climate by the superintendent’s wife, who could not resign herself to live outside the heart of the British Empire and continued to dress for solitary dinners with her husband, a phlegmatic gentleman buried beneath his pride in obsolete traditions.” There are many who might understand something general in this particular description.

I read these stories in a first English paperback edition, and, it has to be said, there were several misprints. When reading magical realism, however, one is never sure if the misprint might just have been intended. On board ship, for instance, Maria just might have been interested in her desk. “Several days after the tragedy, Maria emerged with unsteady step to take the air on the desk for the first time. It was a warm night, and an unsettling odour of seaweed, shellfish, and sunken ships rose from the ocean, entered her nostrils, and raced through her veins with the effort of an earthquake. She found herself staring at the horizon, her mind a blank and her skin tingling from her heels to the back of her neck, when she heard an insistent whistle; she half-turned and beheld two decks below a dark shadow in the moonlight, signalling into her.”

Local politics aften figures large in the stories. There are corrupt local officials, some honest ones, dictators called benefactors and revolutions, bandits and thieves. There is even a man who maintains his respectability by virtue of the existence of buried gold which, when push comes to shove, is no longer where he put it.

A theme that reemerges several times is the eventual payback by a woman badly treated, misused or merely abused. Some of the twists and turns of plot, nay of lives, are too unexpected to have been imagined. Many of these events would have probably been true, but perhaps not so vividly embroidered. In fact, some of these tales are so densely woven that a reader might want a rest here or there! But they are superb and no doubt better if read in Spanish.

I usually don’t start book reviews with a warning, but this time I have to break the habit of a lifetime and issue one. If you are a Christian, you might find what follows offensive.

The She-Apostle by Glyn Redworth is a tale of self-harm, ideological control, and international terrorism. In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century, when the book is set, the social medium within which the self-harm of especially young women was perpetrated was the Church. The ideological control in question was also perpetrated by the Church, a control so absolute, misguided and complete that individuals often suffered hallucination as a result of the guilt that was heaped upon them by what they were taught. International terrorism, in the case of The She-Apostle, is manifest in the Gunpowder Plot, when a group of ideologically driven fanatics tried to blow up the entire political leadership of a sovereign state, being England under James the First. If this were a review of a contemporary novel, the fact that it featured self-harm promoted by social media, hallucinations and violence, and international terrorism might be merely par for the course. When, as is the case of Glyn Redworth’s book, it is associated with the life of a seventeenth century saint, it may seem strange. It might just be that little has changed in human society in the intervening four hundred years, except, of course, our appreciation of just how brutal life was at that time.

Doña Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza was born in Extremadura into a Spanish nobility that was enjoying the country’s Golden Age. Colonies overseas were disgorging their riches towards the seat of imperial power, the nobility were gobbling up the proceeds and Spanish priests were at work, saving the souls of a whole continent by converting them to Christianity, whilst at the same time sending them to heaven at the double by infecting them with smallpox, influenza, and typhoid. Europe was riven by ideological differences between Catholics and Protestants that to an outsider seem about as consequential as disagreeing about how many angels would fit on a pinhead. If you are a Christian, I accept, angels matter. If you are not, they don’t exist. The evidence, surely, lies on that side, but whenever did the ideologically committed ever trouble themselves with evidence? Unless, of course, it could be twisted into a case against someone who thought differently from oneself…

Born with several silver spoons already in her mouth, Luisa sought solace in faith. She was regularly abused by her guardian, in the name of God, of course, and regularly harmed herself with instruments of torture. Eventually, she adopted a life of frugality, continued to self-harm, and to pioneer a life of religious devotion that was personal rather than institutionalized. She never became a nun. She also decided to free the English from the manacles of Protestantism and, soon after the armada had failed to do the same by force, moved to England to follow her mission.

Glyn Redworth’s The She-Apostle is more than a biography of Luisa. It perhaps stops short of being a conventional hagiography. The author does describe the personal and societal consequences of Luisa’s campaign to promote Roman Catholicism in Protestant England, but quite often a reader might feel that the author stopped short of delivering the criticisms of her actions that he himself felt. Luisa may indeed have sought martyrdom, but her crime in the end was to steal the remains of already butchered Roman Catholics, put to death by a state that arrogated absolute power because of the terrorism they threatened.

As a reminder, it must be pointed out that the method of choice by which the just imposed their will on dissenters was as follows. “Hung, drawn and quartered” might sound like it might apply to a Spanish ham. But in that age, it meant being hung by the neck until you are almost dead. Then you were cut down and disembowelled, your intestines being trailed onto a fire as you watched. Then your arms, legs and head were cut off and then the final ignominy was that your torso was cut into quarters, each part of you destined for a different resting place. The idea, of course, was ideologically driven in that admission to heaven needed intact remains, so once quartered, a person was to be damned forever.

Louisa, herself, was indeed arrested for stealing the remains of executed Catholics, although she herself died eventually in bed. She wanted to pass on the dried-out flesh and bones of the martyred as relics to consecrate holy places. But she was spared the ignominy of the gallows and axe so there was no obvious martyrdom for her. Glyn Redworth’s book, though superficially adulatory, does give a vivid portrayal of the political and social life of the time, and as such it is worth reading. For a believer, I suppose it provides joyous example of a pious life. For a nonbeliever, like me, it portrays the shockingly violent absurdity of the irrational.