She by Robert A. Johnson

I first read this book at roughly the same time last year, and I found that revisiting it was worthwhile.

This is a book subtitled: Understanding Feminine Psychology, and it is Johnson's explanation of the feminine psyche (in both men and women) using the myth of Eros and Psyche.

There isn't much to critique from a book like this, but it has some personal significance to me, so I will make a few comments.

I did not consider myself a Jungian in any sense of the word prior to reading this book, and was in fact highly skeptical of dream analysis or mythological comparison having any usefulness in my daily life. I would not say that Johnson's book radically or suddenly altered my opinion: when I first read it I completely neglected the dream analysis portion of the back of the book, and scoffed at certain chapters. Much of it reads like a self-help book in the abstract - the "lessons" of the myth are frequently as simple and cliched as "take things one at a time" or "maintain perspective lest you get lost in insignificant and overwhelming details," etc.

These certainly work against the book as a piece of literature, and I am not sure what redeems this book for me. It may be that its very simplicity is welcome. In the face of heavy and complex literature, it might be a good idea to remind oneself that the mythologies much of today's stories draw on are, in fact, quite simple. They require that you, the reader (or listener) apply meaning to them, and it is a fun mental exercise to consider how or why these same stories have survived many generations and floated through different cultures. Such ideas are better addressed in the works of Joseph Campbell, I'm sure, but not everyone wants to start out on that heavy level.

If you have an open mind, and are interested in ways that myths might apply to our modern psychologies, this is a very simple and unassuming place to start. Treat it like a primer. Johnson has also written He and We, neither of which I have read, but I would like to obtain a copy of each soon.

She, in particular, is to blame for a subtle shift in the way I began to think about women and how they interact with men, each other, and themselves. It made me think of personal psychological progress in a different way. And it certainly affected the way I thought about meeting my partner's Mother (believe me, that capital M belongs there).

In other words, although this may fall into a literary category somewhere between storybook and psychobabble, there is inherently nothing dangerous about exploring some of the (admittedly) abstract ways our lives can connect to the lives of gods and goddesses from thousands of years ago. It can infuse meaning, or it can be merely a distraction during your lunch hour. It is an extremely short and simple book, after all.

I have been away.

It only takes one comment, sometimes.

Hello. I have been away. Some personal issues and changes in my schedule have unfortunately kept me from updating this journal with regularity. I did not quite realize I was missed, but as that seems to be the case, I will attempt to update soon.

I was reading The Demon Flower when I stopped updating - I never finished the book, and actually found it to be quite dismaying. I have since read bits and pieces of things here and there, but the only entire books I have read are Naked Lunch and Nothing More Than Murder by William Burroughs and Jim Thompson, respectively.

I have begun to work on some writing projects of my own, which has slowed down my reading considerably. This is probably to the detriment of my personal well-being. Hopefully, I will soon be in a position where I have a smoother commute to work, as I do the majority of my reading to and from the office. Currently, I need to transfer buses, which only gives me ten to fifteen minutes of reading time at once, and this is not enough to sustain the mentality required for engaging with a book. My evenings are taken up by sporadic activities, including the sudden disposition to daily journaling, which requires an entirely different mentality from that of reading, a renewed interest in film, and the acquisition of a new boyfriend.

Given all that, I am also currently reading a non-narrative. I am reading The Goddess Tarot, which is nothing more than the explanatory book accompanying a deck of tarot cards a good friend gave to me.

However, I have recently purchased a number of interesting books, and when Christmas break arrives I will make it a point to read at least one of them. For now, I will make a short post on a short unknown book, and then go to bed. Thank you for continuing to read.

In Praise of Barbarians: Essays Against Empire by Mike Davis

It took me a good long while to get through this book of essays. There is only so much really depressing socialism I can take at any given time.

Here, I'll sum this book up for you. "You think things are bad? Well you're wrong. They're TERRIBLE. I'm Mike Davis. *very dry joke that's almost impossible to laugh at given the circumstances of the world you've just been made aware of*"

Don't get me wrong. I like Mike Davis, even though I understand there is an anti-Davis element in the literary world that accuses him of being too dour and twisting the facts to fit his apocalyptic socialism-fueled views of the world.

It's good to realize that the problems of this country, and this world, and far deeper than just "some of us like Jesus and some of us don't." There really are systematic problems that have become bigger than any particular individual and therefore require an equally organized response.

Unfortunately, Davis doesn't seem entirely hopeful about a counter-organization. So each essay is sad and terrible and hopeless. That's why it took so long for me to read the whole thing. I couldn't possibly read it all in one sitting without jumping off a bridge and/or annoying the shit out of my friends.

There are a lot of interesting facts in this book, but unfortunately I have neither the patience nor desire to check up on their veracity. By the end of the book, I felt that doing so was necessary to make any informed review, because without the facts at hand I can't analyze Davis's slant. Are things really that bad? Really?

Davis clearly identifies with the underdogs in every scenario he describes, which is all well and good, but by the final pages it feels like the identification is compulsive rather than informed. I can't attack the man personally, I can only talk about my impressions of the book.

For example, the essay on the Sunset Strip "riots" showed a clear willingness on Davis's part to believe that teenagers are, on the whole, calm. He cites the cost of their property damage as if to assuage our fear of chaos. Teenagers don't need to smash anything to make adults nervous. Put one too many teenagers on a public bus and you can feel everyone's heart rate rise. And those teenagers aren't even protesting anything. No, I don't side with the police, and in the instance of these "riots" I have to side with the teens on principle. As Davis describes it, this is an incredibly fascinating event that I didn't even know happened.

There's a lot of that "I didn't even know that happened" feeling radiating from this book, and on that level I recommend it. But maybe in bits and pieces.

Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood

I've decided to start adding pictures of the books, if I can acquire images of the correct editions. For example, this is the paperback cover, which is so much more . . . paperbacky than the original cover, as you can see:





Anyway, this book had been waiting patiently for me to read it. At first I thought I didn't have anything to say about it, although I enjoyed it immensely, but as I plumbed deeper into my own thoughts, I realized the exact opposite.

Many of the other books I write about have all this STUFF surrounding them. Of Mice and Men for example, is on the way. There's some amount of clout to them, whether it comes by way of critical recognition or mere shock value. I don't usually look at something, think to myself, "Oh this looks pleasant" and then get right down to it. You can ask Schrodinger's Ball, whose lime green cover and promises of mild intellectual challenges have been collecting dust at the floor near my bookshelf since late March while I passed it over for more frantic flights of fancy, again and again.

I also don't react well to clout, at times. This is why Siddhartha is bound to be neglected for awhile, and so on.

So why pick up Moral Disorder? Lately I've been drawn to short stories - in the past I was skeptical of short stories as art forms, don't ask me why, I guess I just didn't like what felt like a middling ground between poetry and novel. Lately, however, short stories have been all the rage for me.

I know a smattering of Atwood's poems outside of the collection Power Politics, which I know by heart and count as a personal influence in my own creative writings. So I surprise even myself by realizing that it has taken me this long to read any of Atwood's complete sentences. Maybe the titles of her books were just too daunting, or I was afraid I'd be getting into some overly poetical fiction, like I felt about A Spy in the House of Love. Short stories? Nice stopover to decide if I'm actually ready to try tackling the other novel of Atwood's I have sitting around, Surfacing.

Of course, none of this has to do with the book itself. The book is a collection of short stories that all center around one character, sometimes written in first-person, sometimes in third-person, perspective. She is a child in one, an adult in another - she is overshadowed by her parents, but then outlives them. Etc.

Atwood's writing is perfectly opaque. What she presents requires no interpretation, no reliance on outside philosophies, no comparison to other works. She writes so directly that I couldn't help but wonder if I was reading her diary or, at times, long-forgotten entries from my own diary.

This is the sort of thing that I always loved about Bukowski and, not to conflate the two authors AT ALL, Fante: the presentation of facts, both physical and psychological, were so direct as to be impenetrable. "Here," their works would say, and plop a huge heavy metaphor down on the table in front of you, "this is -how it is-." It is refreshing to read something that doesn't require intellectualism to move you.

But the major fault, if you can call it that (which you can't, I only do so for argument's sake), with these writers is that they are MEN. Their views on women and on themselves can help me understand what I would love to call a general "human" mindset, but unfortunately all they fleshed out was a very masculine point of view. Sometimes, it's easy to forget that there are other realities, because female writers can either be extremely feminine and write only of womanly things like flowers and dewdrops and, I don't know, Tampax or whatever. OR, they can try to adopt a more masculine genre, as Ms. Highsmith did. Or, god forbid, they can go in for Chick Lit.

It's an old feminist cry: women cannot be humans the way men can. Men have already set the standard for what is human, what is human experience. In a way, they have done so with books as well. We can choose the male authors who are most sympathetic or reverent of women, or we can go for Virginia Woolf, whose very sentence structure contains the sort of convoluted psychological and emotional superfluity that men are always ragging on women for. Don't get me wrong, I fucking LOVE Virginia Woolf, but she's not "practical" in getting the facts of the story across. The plot, like for many women, is all in her head.

In other words, how can a woman write a woman's life without just being either a reactionary or a lackey to masculine writing? Can she? What are her options? And then what are mine as a female reader in this situation?

What am I going to do to see my life reflected back upon me? Read The Devil Wears Prada? Try to find some modern parables in Jane Austen? What about ME, the intellectual, sexual, observant, creative modern woman who takes herself far too seriously but is still worthy of the respect of practical-minded folk?

There is a story in psychoanalytic circles of a patient who did not know she was cold until given a blanket. I think Atwood's prose might be my blanket.

These stories are just about life. They are about being an educated but earthy woman, a human being, a collection of memories, hopes, dreams, comparisons, imaginings. The actual subjects almost sound ridiculous: the protagonist remembers knitting for her baby sister, she remembers an overly elaborate Halloween costume she made that went unappreciated, she tells us the story of breaking up with a boyfriend while trying to study for an upcoming exam on Browning's "My Last Duchess." She recalls living alone, living domestically, caring for her parents, being smothered by her parents, etc.

I am reduced to profanities when I try to express how much I liked this. The stories were so real, so resonant. Instead of someone trying to predict how women feel, how life works for them, she just tells you. That's what I mean by opaque. There aren't huge loping metaphors, but there's a dense block of psychological reality nonetheless.

Finally, I felt like someone was talking to me, about me. That is far different from being entertained or informed. I felt connected. I felt the way I want other people to feel when they read whatever it is I may or may not end up writing.

Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith

The tagline on the back of my paperback edition of this book reads, "The psychologists would it folie à deux . . ."

This book was recommended to me by a very sharp and intelligent woman who was thrilled to have a chance to "talk shop" to another reader, even while inebriated. She thrust a worn copy of the novel into my hands and I must admit, the cover is very cheesy: a bright purple glove laid out against a flask atop what appears to be a newspaper, with some kind of metal weapon also in frame. Ridiculous. She implored me to pay attention to Highsmith's writing style, as Strangers was mentioned in the context of 1950s crime novels and the recommender wanted me to note what happens to the same story elements while in the hands of a woman.

She did not need to point this out. Highsmith writes with a particular attention to pure psychology - that is, whereas a lot of other writers (male especially) resort to metaphors in order to describe a characters feelings, Highsmith describes them plainly and directly. Of course, those metaphors -- black coffee, empty shell casings, the smell of honeysuckle, a twist in bones, crushing pumpkins -- have helped shape the genre of noir and crime fiction, they have become hallmarks and expectations. There is nothing wrong with them; they are one of the genre's greatest appeals and delights.

However, Highsmith's ability to astutely present the downward spirals of our main characters, Bruno and Guy, makes their world simultaneously realistic and staggeringly unreal. This is really a great effect - one that you might normally expect from reading a romance: two people meet in an unlikely way and around them forms a universe that "normal" rules cannot penetrate.

Oh, you don't know the story? Of course you do, this is a classic, thanks in large part to Hitchcock's film of the same name, which (from my hazy memory) maintains much of the tension but loses the actual psychological fear and desperation involved. Two men meet on a train. One, Guy, is more "like us," you could say. He seems normal, he's having some marital troubles, but he's relatively calm about them, alternately optimistic and nihilistic. It seems normal. On the train, he meets Bruno, who we immediately assume is "the crazy one" - one huge shining pimple on his forehead, a strangely concentrated but distant gaze, a drinking problem, and a tendency to start talking to strangers (how dare he!). Bruno eventually suggests the outline of "the perfect murder" - two strangers meet on a train, each commits a murder "for" the other one. The proposition: Bruno murders Guy's obstinate wife so that Guy can move on with his career and marry his true love, and in exchange Guy murders Bruno's overbearing and unsupportive father so that Bruno's finances can be freed up. The two men have no connection to each other (besides having ridden the same train), so the crimes will, ostensibly, never be solved.

Due to a strange mood and an undue amount of alcohol, it's never clear if Guy actually agrees to this plan, or leads Bruno on in any way, but Bruno moves ahead with the plan and murders Guy's wife.

It's difficult to explain the effect of this book - it's a dance between two minds and dissecting them is impossible without quoting huge sections of the book or ruining fun plot twists. For Bruno and Guy, it's madness at first sight, and the simple idea that Bruno has dragged Guy into this can be dispelled or at least questioned thanks to Highsmith's scientific presentation of each character's mental processes.

Whatever, just read it. There isn't much I can say. The novel results in tunnel-vision, very effective. It drags you along with the characters and makes it difficult to treat the story as something apart from you. Highsmith puts such a fine point on certain psychological developments that you can recognize them in yourself, even though -you've- never arranged murders with some dude you met on the bus. But once you see yourself in Guy, or Bruno, it's hard to turn back. In the same way, once Guy sees himself in Bruno, he simply cannot turn back. Lucky for the reader, the book ends and you can put it away.

Listen, Little Man! by Wilhelm Reich

I would have looked at this book in a completely different manner had I any idea who Reich was when I picked the thing up. I bought it for all those reasons they tell you not to buy a book: a) good cover, b) cheap, c) short. But it also has a great title, and was illustrated by William Steig.

This entire book is Reich basically yelling at you for being such a weak-minded, pathetic, socially irresponsible person. But wait! you say, and then Shut up! he says.

If you can humble yourself enough to ignore that fact you're basically being screamed at in text format, then this book is actually a pretty good read. For all the social justice they tried to teach me in high school, and all the world perspective they tried to give me in college, this little book actually made me understand what my responsibilities as a common woman are. Is that weird?

This guy may be a total crackpot. I'm not sure. I haven't had a chance to research orgones, but I plan to. He is certainly angry, and arrogant, but it's forgivable. There isn't anything really forgivable about it in the actual writing, but in his life story.

Some of the best social philosophers would probably back up his thought process. He made me think of Foucault frequently - webs of power and oppressing each other and whatnot. But Reich makes it easy for you to digest, and Steig illustrates to lighten the mood as well.

In a way, you could say this book is about a failed career, an abundance of trust in science, failed revolutions, the cruelty of man, our tendencies to destroy our friends and revere our enemies, the destruction of love, the pornografication of love-making (yes, I made up a word, so what?), the importance of sex, the importance of responsibility, ignoring the Eye of the Other, reshaping your modes of criticism, and more! With cartoons!

I would recommend this book to almost anyone, actually. It's kinda funny, but it also makes you think. If you don't introspect, as a general rule, you will probably be insulted, or think the book is rather pedestrian. But I found Reich hitting on some important aspects of human psychology - little patterns of thinking that destroy our interpersonal relationships as easily as our political ones.

I wouldn't say this guy is a new disciple or anything, but it might be worth listening to him for even just one concentrated afternoon. I felt somewhat inspired to live differently, or more consciously (if that's possible).

The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West

Unfortunately, this book's write-up is getting a bit of the shaft, as I'm extremely tired and have read almost three books since finishing this one. Better late than never - just wait until I reread this for a proper write-up.

In trying to describe the feeling of this book, I kept coming back to one adjective: seething.

This book was an example of "apocalyptic California literature" in my geography class junior year of college (oh, UC Berkeley), and I had heard this sentiment echoed for some time before that. The reviews and blurbs all point to the violence, the growing push toward implosion, and so forth, unraveling within Hollywood.

The brilliant thing about Locust is that you don't notice this violence at first. The story opens with a frantic cavalry and mob, but it's on a movie set. The violence is simulated and practically comical. Slowly, as the novel goes on, the violence gets closer and closer to home.

By the time West gets to the impromptu cock fight in Faye's garage, your stomach should probably be starting to turn. What's really interesting is that the gut wrenching aspect of the violence, of the whole scene, isn't its brutality or its realism, but how unreal everything seems, and how casual the participants are in the face of blood and death.

The calmness with which everyone absorbs absurdity, blood, violence, sex, and a general human facade might be taken for granted, but you can imagine that Tod is not the only one having a strong emotional reaction to his surroundings, and that everyone involved is, in some way, seething just below the surface.

Faye is our protagonist's obsession, and like any proper obsession she arouses both desire and hatred. Tod is drawn to her, but is also constantly aware of how much she is an actress in daily life. Her very gestures are rehearsed and calculated movements - they excite him, but he knows his excitement has been manipulated by her, which makes him resent both Faye and himself.

Wow, the parallels with sentimental Hollywood! You are brought to tear by the latest schmaltz-fest, but only because it knows exactly what buttons to push, and wouldn't you (shouldn't you?) feel vulnerable and resentful about something so artificial and designed and un-human being able to move you? It reminds us of our pathetic emotionality, and Faye reminds Tod of his pathetic lust.

I will warn you, if you plan to read this book, please start dissociating a fat yellow animated character from the name Homer Simpson right . . . NOW. Otherwise, you may be unable to concentrate on the character of the same name in this book. He, too, gets bound up with Faye, but in a different way. Tod and Homer have a strange rivalry bond over Faye, and it's actually Homer that Tod is attempting to rescue, or at least reach, in the classic final chapter.

Throughout the book, Tod envisions a drawing of the burning of L.A., and as frantic, horrible, and outright apocalyptic as this drawing is described, it has nothing on what Hollywood actually is, already. Madness finally breaks free at the end of the book, the seething finally explodes in one scream, one big final gust of complicated emotion. His drawing does not come true, as you might expect when you first hear it mentioned. Instead, there is a version of the end of the world already present, at a movie premiere.

In West's Hollywood, in the thirties, we had already reached the end of the rope of human sanity. Things were already starting to crumble. At this point, shouldn't we all be screaming? And why aren't we? Because we're seething instead.

Great book. Also an excellent pairing with Miss Lonelyhearts, juxtaposing West's ability to provide us with outwardly emotional and genuinely good-hearted characters and more inwardly-focused and morally ambiguous characters.