Books and Baked Goods

Virgil Walker

Several weeks ago we read the short story Virgil Walker, written by Arthur Bradford. This story took us into the strange life of Virgil the octopus. In the 15 pages (including illustrations) of this story we learned of the hardships of being born to a human mother when you resemble more of an octopus. Immediately disowned by his mother and given to a pet store Virgil, gifted with a human mind, gets an interesting view at the cruelty of humans through the walls of his aquarium. Growing up in a pet store is proved to be difficult when you are an octopus and nobody wants to take you home. As a form of protest Virgil valiantly eats all of the fish who he is competing with for the affection of the potential owners that enter the store, and escapes with a fairly sophisticated turtle named, Mr. Beeker. From there the hit the town. But to learn what they do you have to read the story, included in McSweeney’s 28.

¿Español o Inglès? (Spanish or English?)

Today, we read The Blue Bouquet (Octavio Paz).  Jake posed the question of whether there was a significant difference between the original in Spanish and the one in English.  And moreover, if the English even measured up to the Spanish.  Spanish/English speakers, what are your thoughts?

Hoy, leìmos El Ramo Azul (Octavio Paz). Jake nos preguntò, “¿Qué es la significa entre el original en Español y la otra cuenta en Inglès?”  ¿Los locutores de Español y Inglés, qué son tus ideas? Lo siento mi español es muy malo porque ya no aprendo Español en mi escuela.

El ramo azul

Desperté, cubierto de sudor. Del piso de ladrillos rojos, recién regados, subía un vapor caliente. Una mariposa de alas grisáceas revoloteaba encandilada alrededor del foco amarillento. Salté de la hamaca y descalzo atravesé el cuarto, cuidando no pisar algún alacrán salido de su escondrijo a tomar el fresco. Me acerqué al ventanillo y aspiré el aire del campo. Se oía la respiración de la noche, enorme, femenina. Regresé al centro de la habitación, vacié el agua de la jarra en la palangana de peltre y humedecí la toalla. Me froté el torso y las piernas con el trapo empapado, me sequé un poco y, tras de cerciorarme que ningún bicho estaba escondido entre los pliegues de mi ropa, me vestí y calcé. Bajé saltando la escalera pintada de verde. En la puerta del mesón tropecé con el dueño, sujeto tuerto y reticente. Sentado en una sillita de tule, fumaba con el ojo entrecerrado. Con voz ronca me preguntó:
-¿Dónde va señor?
-A dar una vuelta. Hace mucho calor.
-Hum, todo está ya cerrado. Y no hay alumbrado aquí. Más le valiera quedarse. 
Alcé los hombros, musité “ahora vuelvo” y me metí en lo oscuro. Al principio no veía nada. Caminé a tientas por la calle empedrada. Encendí un cigarrillo. De pronto salió la luna de una nube negra, iluminando un muro blanco, desmoronado a trechos. Me detuve, ciego ante tanta blancura. Sopló un poco de viento. Respiré el aire de los tamarindos. Vibraba la noche, llena de hojas e insectos. Los grillos vivaqueaban entre las hierbas altas. Alcé la cara: arriba también habían establecido campamento las estrellas. Pensé que el universo era un vasto sistema de señales, una conversación entre seres inmensos. Mis actos, el serrucho del grillo, el parpadeo de la estrella, no eran sino pausas y sílabas, frases dispersas de aquel diálogo. ¿Cuál sería esa palabra de la cual yo era una sílaba? ¿Quién dice esa palabra y a quién se la dice? Tiré el cigarrillo sobre la banqueta. Al caer, describió una curva luminosa, arrojando breves chispas, como un cometa minúsculo.
Caminé largo rato, despacio. Me sentía libre, seguro entre los labios que en ese momento me pronunciaban con tanta felicidad. La noche era un jardín de ojos. Al cruzar la calle, sentí que alguien se desprendía de una puerta. Me volví, pero no acerté a distinguir nada. Apreté el paso. Unos instantes percibí unos huaraches sobre las piedras calientes. No quise volverme, aunque sentía que la sombra se acercaba cada vez más. Intenté correr. No pude. Me detuve en seco, bruscamente. Antes de que pudiese defenderme, sentí la punta de un cuchillo en mi espalda y una voz dulce:
-No se mueva , señor, o se lo entierro.
Sin volver la cara pregunte:
-¿Qué quieres?
-Sus ojos señor –contestó la voz suave, casi apenada.
-¿Mis ojos? ¿Para qué te servirán mis ojos? Mira, aquí tengo un poco de dinero. No es mucho, pero es algo. Te daré todo lo que tengo, si me dejas. No vayas a matarme.
-No tenga miedo señor. No lo mataré. Nada más voy a sacarle los ojos.
-Pero, ¿para qué quieres mis ojos?
-Es un capricho de mi novia. Quiere un ramito de ojos azules y por aquí hay pocos que los tengan.
-Mis ojos no te sirven. No son azules, sino amarillos.
-Ay, señor no quiera engañarme. Bien sé que los tiene azules.
-No se le sacan a un cristiano los ojos así. Te daré otra cosa.
-No se haga el remilgoso, me dijo con dureza. Dé la vuelta.
Me volví. Era pequeño y frágil. El sombrero de palma la cubría medio rostro. Sostenía con el brazo derecho un machete de campo, que brillaba con la luz de la luna.
-Alúmbrese la cara.
Encendí y me acerqué la llama al rostro. El resplandor me hizo entrecerrar los ojos. El apartó mis párpados con mano firme. No podía ver bien. Se alzó sobre las puntas de los pies y me contempló intensamente.
La llama me quemaba los dedos. La arrojé. Permaneció un instante silencioso.
-¿Ya te convenciste? No los tengo azules.
-¡Ah, qué mañoso es usted! –respondió- A ver, encienda otra vez.
Froté otro fósforo y lo acerqué a mis ojos. Tirándome de la manga, me ordenó.
-Arrodíllese.
Mi hinqué. Con una mano me cogió por los cabellos, echándome la cabeza hacia atrás. Se inclinó sobre mí, curioso y tenso, mientras el machete descendía lentamente hasta rozar mis párpados. Cerré los ojos.
-Ábralos bien –ordenó.
Abrí los ojos. La llamita me quemaba las pestañas. Me soltó de improviso.
-Pues no son azules, señor. Dispense.
Y despareció. Me acodé junto al muro, con la cabeza entre las manos. Luego me incorporé. A tropezones, cayendo y levantándome, corrí durante una hora por el pueblo desierto. Cuando llegué a la plaza, vi al dueño del mesón, sentado aún frente a la puerta.
Entré sin decir palabra.
Al día siguiente huí de aquel pueblo.


The blue bouquet

I woke covered with sweat. Hot steam rose from the newly sprayed, red-brick pavement. A grey-winged butterfly, dazzled, circled the yellow light. I jumped from my hammock and crossed the room barefoot, careful not to step on any scorpion leaving his hideout for a bit of fresh air. I went to the little window and inhaled the country air. One could hear the breathing of the night, feminine and enormous. I returned to the centre of the room, emptied water from a jar into a pewter basin, and wet my towel. I rubbed my chest and legs with the soaked cloth, dried myself a little, and, making sure that no bugs were hidden in the folds of my clothes, got dressed. I ran down the green stairway. At the door of the boardinghouse I bumped into the owner, a one-eyed taciturn fellow. Sitting on a wicker stool, he smoked, his eye half closed. In a hoarse voice, he asked:
‘Where are you going?’
‘To take a walk. It’s too hot.’
‘Hmmm – everything’s closed. And no streetlights around here. You’d better stay put.’
I shrugged my shoulders, muttered ‘back soon,’ and plunged into the darkness. At first I couldn’t see anything. I fumbled along the cobblestone street. I lit a cigarette . Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a black cloud, lighting a white wall that was crumbled in places. I stopped, blinded by such whiteness. Wind whistled slightly. I breathed the air of the tamarinds. The night hummed, full of leaves and insects. Crickets bivouacked in the tall grass. I raised my head: up there the stars too had set up camp. I thought that the universe was a vast system of signs, a conversation between giant beings. My actions, the cricket’s saw, the star’s blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken? I threw my cigarette down on the sidewalk. Falling, it drew a shining curve, shooting out brief sparks like a tiny comet.
I walked a long time, slowly. I felt free, secure between the lips that were at that moment speaking to me with such happiness. The night was a garden of eyes. As I crossed the street, I heard someone come out of a doorway. I turned around, but could not distinguish anything. I hurried on. A few moments later I heard the dull shuffle of sandals on the hot stone. I didn’t want to turn around, although I felt the shadow getting closer with ever step. I tried to run. I couldn’t. Suddenly I stopped short. Before I could defend myself, I felt the point of a knife in my back and a sweet voice:
‘Don’t move, mister, or I’ll stick it in.’
Without turning, I asked:
‘What do you want?’
‘Your eyes, mister,’ answered the soft, almost painful voice.
‘My eyes? What do you want with my eyes? Look, I’ve got some money. Not much, but it’s something. I’ll give you everything I have if you let me go. Don’t kill me.’
‘Don’t be afraid, mister. I won’t kill you. I’m only going to take your eyes.’
‘But why do you want my eyes?’ I asked again.
‘My girlfriend has this whim. She wants a bouquet of blue eyes. And around here they’re hard to find.’
‘My eyes won’t help you. They’re brown, not blue.’
‘Don’t try to fool me, mister. I know very well that yours are blue.’
‘Don’t take the eyes of a fellow-man. I’ll give you something else.’
‘Don’t play saint with me,’ he said harshly. ‘Turn around.’
I turned. He was small and fragile. His palm sombrero covered half his face. In his right hand he held a country machete which shone in the moonlight.
‘Let me see your face.’ I struck a match and put it close to my face. The brightness made me squint. He opened my eyelids with a firm hand. He couldn’t see very well. Standing 
on tiptoe, he stared at me intensely. The flame burned my finger. I dropped it. A silent moment passed.
‘Are you convinced now? They’re not blue.’
‘Pretty clever, aren’t you?’ he answered. ‘Let’s see. 
Light another one.’
I struck another match, and put it near my eyes. 
Grabbing my sleeve, he ordered: 
‘Kneel down.’ I knelt. With one hand he grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back. He bent over me, curious and tense, while his machete slowly dropped until it grazed my eyelids. I closed my eyes.
‘Keep them open,’ he ordered. I opened my eyes. The flame burned my lashes. All of a sudden he let me go.
‘All right, they’re not blue. Beat it.’
He vanished. I leaned against the wall, my head in my hands. I pulled myself together. Stumbling, falling, trying to get up again. I ran for an hour through the deserted town. 
When I got to the plaza, I saw the owner of the boardinghouse, still sitting in the front of the door. 
I went in without saying a word. 
The next day I left town.

A Bad Business by Anton Chekhov

I was delighted to bring the mystical, chilling work of renowned Russian playwright and author, Anton Chekhov. “A Bad Business” is an eerie short story about a gravedigger that gets distracted by a mysterious man who claims to have risen from the dead. Chekhov hints at the end of the story that this man is a robber trying to deter suspicious observers from his accomplices’ crime.  Subtly he mentions that there was a robbery that occurred in the church next door, but he never really relates it back to the mysterious man from the graveyard. We don’t really know whether or not he really was a spirit from the dead, or just a clever robber.

Apart from our members’ reaction to the plot, we had a discussion on characteristics of Russian literature. Carla compared the style of Latin American authors to that of Russian authors, explaining that while many Latin American authors use magic realism in their work, Russian authors often allude to mysticism, and extreme fantasy. In both styles, there is a sense of exaggerating a character’s experience or situation with intense emotions and sensations in an overly fictitious world. Giving a heightened sense of reality creates an appeal to all types of readers. Children and academic scholars alike are fascinated by the mystical worlds because they too want to be transported to their favorite character’s life.

Another characteristic of Russian literature (made famous by Chekhov as well as Dostoyevsky) is presenting complex analyses of the characters’ minds. Rather than focus on poetic details about setting or scenery, Russian authors obsess over their characters’ emotions and thoughts.  This may be the reason for the vast amount of dialogue in Chekhov’s story. Many reader were surprised at this because most of our other stories have a lot more description of the characters’ environment.

            Overall, I think that “A Bad Business” was a haunting but overall successful adventure added to our repertoire!

This post by Carly Cozad.

The Great End of 2009

You’re Losing Your Head, Viskovitz by Alessandro Boffa and John Casey.  Rating of 4.5 stars. Tags as Fiction, Humor, Animal Personification, Morbid.

Once of These Days by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  Rating of 3.5 stars.  Tags as Magic Realism, Morbid, Revenge, Latino.

The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde. Rating of 3.5 stars. Tags as NOT Happy, Morality, Fiction, Animal Personification.

Accident by Dave Eggers.  Rating of 5 stars.  Tags as Flash Fiction, Realism, All Age.

Mother of a Queen by Ernest Hemingway.  Rating of 3 stars.  Tags as No-One-Understood-It, Fiction, Drama.

(Note: Rating is generated by the average member’s feeling towards the story)

Mother of a Queen

Ernest Hemingway’s short story, ”Mother of a Queen”, centers around a gay man, Paco, who must bury his recently-deceased mother. The narrator, Roger, chides Paco several times to arrange his mother’s burial.  Though Paco says he will get to it, he never does, and his mother ends up buried in a common grave.

The salient title, “Mother of a Queen,” reflects the complexity of the story in just four words. The “Mother” refers to Paco’s actual mother as well as Roger’s doting ways. Paco is the “Queen”: he acts like a royal queen in how he carelessly treats his responsibilities and the people around him, as shown in the treatment of his mother’s burial and when he insists he and Roger are friends, completely bamboozling Roger. However, in addition, many clues point to Paco as a gay man —another type of a “queen” — with Roger as his love.

The complexity in the simple title makes Hemingway’s stories true works of art.

- Taylor Jones

The Dawkins Delusion

To preface this story, you must understand about a week ago, I was the biggest Richard Dawkins fan.  His wonderfully comical and simple explanations of the conflict of religion and science were so intriguing and fun to read.  I devoured his books one by one starting at The Selfish Gene and continuing on to Unweaving the Rainbow and The Greatest Show on Earth.  My insatiable appetite for any Dawkins related thing pushed me further.  I soon became an ardent reader and listener of any article or talk I could find that involved him in any capacity.  Now, I wasn’t obsessed.  But naturally, when Dawkins came to Menlo, I attended all the discussion meetings leading up to assembly where he spoke and, of course, the lunch-time discussion with he himself.  But when the clock struck 1 and we were herded off to class, I still had one lingering question.  And here my story begins:

I yearned to run to the line forming in front of Dawkins to ask my question, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.  So I instead tried to briskly, casually walk which resulted in an awkward, clumsy sort of jive across the room.  When I had finally reached my intended destination, my heart sped up and I tried to compose myself by uncreasing and reading my 8.5” by 11” typed page of questions, only to nervously crumple it again.

Finally, my turn came to ask my question.

“Mr. Dawkins, I’m really sorry” –I apologize a lot– “but I have one last question for you.  If you believe in God, God is something that constantly is with you and can constantly make you happy.   Your suggestions of religion, art, poetry, and friends are only temporary relieves, so what can replace religion?” I dug my nail into the back of my hand in order to alleviate the pressure of the situation.

            Very matter-of-factly he replied, “I don’t believe you need to replace religion.”

            I plucked up some courage. “But in The God Delusion, you definitely emphasize that religion is bad.  And if something is bad, you must replace it, change it, or eradicate it.”

            “No, you don’t need to change religion.  Belief in God has just been passed down throughout the ages and one must take a step back and critically look at it.”  He recited as if reading from a book.  But then –and now– I am unsure how his second sentence supports his first.

            “So then you think we should eradicate it?”

            Briskly he responded, “No no, that isn’t necessary…”

            “So then if you don’t think we need to change, replace, or eradicate religion, do you think it’s ok?”

            “No, religion is not a good institution.  If one has cancer and is dying, people rely on false thoughts rather than reality.”

             “Well, what’s wrong with believing in an irrationality if it can make one slightly happier?”

            Now angrily and less composed he retorted, “NO NO NO! That is exactly the problem, you can’t keep on believing in the tooth fairy once you pass a certain age.  When one is grown up, one must stop believing in childish things.”

            And with that, he angrily darted off. 

Now of course, that isn’t exactly how it went. I have had a hard time capturing Dawkin’s stern and sometimes patronizing tone.  And of course, I too sound much more collected in my writing.  I might have –well, definitely– stumbled over some words and added like and um to an alarming amount of sentences. Also, I know others were there and at one point or another someone else interjected, but it wasn’t noteworthy to me. 

The answer I had in mind to my original question is that you don’t need to be constantly happy.  But Dawkins didn’t seem to figure that out, nor find it important to admit the flaw in his argument. 

Take my story as you will.  For as Dawkins would say, one must rely on the facts and evidence in order to draw conclusions.

- Gupta

Short Stories Thus Far

Popular Mechanics by Raymond Carver.  Rating of 5 stars. Tags as Dirty Realism, Disturbing, Dead Babies, Fiction.

The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. Rating of 4 stars. Tags as Archaic, Disturbing, Dark, Fiction, Morbid.

Preface of The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins.  Rating of 3.5 stars.  Tags as Controversial, Atheism, Argumentative.

Powder by Tobias Wolff.  Rating of 3.75 stars.  Tags as Dirty Realism, Dead Babies, Adventure, Fiction.

Anything look good? Come join us!

(Note: Dead Babies is a tag that means at some point in the story you believe there will be a dead child. Rating is generated by the average member’s feeling towards the story.)