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I just finished this amazing intellectual history of the Middle Ages. The unifying theme of the book is Western Europe's incorporation of and reaction to the works of Aristotle, which were rediscovered in the West in the 11th century. It's so interesting to see that past generations wrestled with the same issues that we do. And it's always surprising to learn the little-known stories of the past.

I tended to think of the medieval period as largely and simply Catholic. But there was always, always, resistance and diversity. Sometimes it came from within the Church, from reformers who urged the Church to give up its manors and wealth to embrace apostolic poverty and eschew the power that inevitably corrupts. Other times it existed outside the Catholic power structure, as in the case of the "counter-church" of Cathars that existed in cultured, wealthy Languedoc in southern France. When the Catholic church's attempts to (re)convert the population through preaching failed, Innocent III announced a crusade against the Cathars and told soldiers they could keep whatever they took from Languedoc. A bloody land grab ensued, and the armies of northern France killed everything in their path, bragging of the 20,000 men, women, and children they chopped down in one day.

This makes it sound like the book is anti-Catholic, but it isn't. Rubenstein gives full credit to the good people within the Church who pushed for justice, social welfare, and intellectual freedom. The great heroes of this time period are precisely those churchmen and monks who pushed time and again to explore the ramifications of classical knowledge and thus started Europe down the path to modern science.
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Put 2/3 cups water and 1/3 cup sugar in a small saucepan. Heat until the sugar dissolves, then remove from heat. Stir in a couple tablespoons of lime juice and lemon juice.

De-seed and cut up 6 cups ripe watermelon.

Put half of the watermelon and half of the sugar water in a blender and puree. Repeat with the other half. Chill and/or serve over crushed ice.
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This was a great novel on many levels. Although some of the characters' behavior seemed unrealistic, it was essentially necessary for the plot to be carried out as intended; a frustrating but I guess unavoidable reality. But here's a detail that I wholly admired and would be easy to overlook.

The author wanted to give the troubled teenage boy a physical appearance that would be off-putting and strange. It doesn't work to make him ugly because that's too objective, too logical a reason to feel an aversion to him. The kid has to emanate something that makes people uncomfortable without knowing why, make them feel a subtle disturbance in the psychic atmosphere.

The kid---and the author too---know that having him dress in all black is hackneyed, and oversized clothes would be too urban and common. So the author has him adopt a fashion of wearing clothes that are slightly too small for him. The pants are always too short. The t-shirts hug his torso tightly. The bottoms of his shirt ride up and show an uncomfortable amount of skin. This is not a dorky kid; it's more of a punk vibe, and the kid enjoys the discomfort his body creates in his mother and neighbors and other students. I thought this was a brilliant touch---a really clever solution to a technical challenge in character development.
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I'm deep into this novel by Lionel Shriver, which is narrated by the mother of a Columbine-type teenager killer. In it she reviews her past, her worries about motherhood before her child's birth, her relationship with her husband, and much more. It's a really good novel, with passages on nearly every page I'm tempted to underline. And I'm impressed with the narrative voice, since I routinely (and mistakenly) think of the book being written by a woman.

The book is being turned into a movie now, with Tilda Swinton cast as the lead. Although she's a fabulous actor and will be excellent, her face has a kind of built-in haunted look. Her high, chiseled cheekbones and huge, light eyes look too easily like the face of someone traumatized by fate. I kind of wish they had cast someone with a round, friendly face and small quotidian eyes instead---a Kathy Najimy type. Hard to find, though; the really successful indie actresses tend to have those striking eyes and cheekbones (Patricia Clarkson, Catherine Keener, even Jane Lynch). 
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Interesting article by Lance Morrow in Smithsonian magazine about the medieval Japanese writer Kenko, with discussions of Montaigne and others woven in. I particularly like this line by Morrow:  "Every moment readjusts the coordinates of hope and despair."

The Timeless Wisdom of Kenko

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When we got home from vacation, we found these squatters taking up residence on our deck:

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I learned about these deserving nominees from Tim Harford's new book, Adapt: Why Success Always Starts with Failure, which was recently excerpted in Slate. Harford writes of how a philanthropic lady donated money to develop fighter planes in the 1930s when her government wouldn't, and how later, during WWII, a government bureaucrat took a chance on a descendent of that very fighter plane, which ended up saving Britain from the Nazis:

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"When Supermarine approached the ministry with a radical new design, an enterprising civil servant by the name of Air Commodore Henry Cave-Browne-Cave decided to bypass the regular commissioning process and order the new plane as "a most interesting experiment." The plane was the Supermarine Spitfire. [. . .]

Thanks to the Spitfire, Britain's tiny Royal Air Force defied overwhelming odds to fight off the Luftwaffe's onslaught in the Battle of Britain. It was a dismal mismatch: Hitler had been single-mindedly building up his forces in the 1930s, while British defense spending was at historical lows. The Luftwaffe entered the Battle of Britain with 2,600 operational planes, but the RAF boasted fewer than 300 Spitfires and 500 Hurricane fighters. The wartime Prime Minister himself, Winston Churchill, predicted that the Luftwaffe's first week of intensive bombing would kill 40,000 Londoners. But thanks in large part to the Spitfire's speed and agility, the Germans were unable to neutralize the RAF.

This meant the Germans were unable to launch an invasion that could quickly have overwhelmed the British Isles. Such an invasion would have made D-Day impossible, denying the United States its platform to liberate France. It would likely have cost the lives of 430,000 British Jews. It might even have given Germany the lead in the race for the atomic bomb, as many of the scientists who moved to the United States to work on the Manhattan Project were living in Britain when the Spitfires turned back the Luftwaffe. Winston Churchill was right to say of the pilots who flew the Spitfires and the Hurricanes, "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few."' [. . .]

In 1929 and 1930, Mitchell's planes—the direct ancestors of the Spitfire—held the world record for speed, winning the Schneider Trophy set up to test competing designs. But the government, which was providing much of the funding for these record attempts, decided that they were frivolous in a time of austerity. Sir Hugh Trenchard, marshal of the Royal Air Force at the time, called high-speed planes "freak machines." Without the development money for the latest world record attempt—and with Henry Cave-Browne-Cave not yet on the scene to pay for an "experiment"—Supermarine was set to abandon the project.

Rescue came from the most unlikely character: Dame Fanny Houston, born in humble circumstances, had become the richest woman in the country after marrying a shipping millionaire and inheriting his fortune. Lady Houston's eclectic philanthropy knew few bounds: She supported oppressed Christians in Russia, coalminers, and the women's rights movement. And in 1931 she wrote a check to Supermarine that covered the entire development costs of the Spitfire's predecessor, the S6. Lady Houston was furious at the government's lack of support: "My blood boiled in indignation, for I know that every true Briton would rather sell his last shirt than admit that England could not afford to defend herself against all-comers." The S6 flew at an astonishing speed of 407.5 mph less than three decades after the Wright Brothers launched the Wright Flyer. England's pride was intact, and so was the Spitfire project. No wonder the historian A.J.P. Taylor later remarked that "the Battle of Britain was won by Chamberlain, or perhaps by Lady Houston."

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 The book goes on to praise the need for diversity because we never know what bit of research or what prototype is going to be the one that ends up being critical. For their role in taking such chances and funding such experiments, the Order of the Circular Wag is hereby awarded to Cave-Browne-Cave and Dame Fanny.
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Cairns are little stacks of rock that are used to indicate where a trail is. Once upon a time they were used extensively, but not so often now. So it was fun to see them employed so extensively in Arches and Canyonlands. And we used them a lot. We'd look ahead at the terrain, unsure where to go next until we spotted that little stack of stones.

I like this b&w pic that Jay took of one cairn because, with the lack of other objects in the photo to give a sense of scale, it looks like it could be a tremendous tower of boulders rather than the 6-inch stack of rocks that it is.

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Nature can't help but inspire. Keats knew it, Wordsworth knew it, Shelley knew it. Poesy sprung forth during our travels last week:


Ode to My La Quinta Hotel Room

Your dressers are spacious.
Your towelage is abundant.
The shower controls aren't too complicated.
I like you, my La Quinta hotel room.


Ode to the American Retiree

Thou long-since-ravished bride of suburbia
Pulling up in your RV with your homies
Your poufed platinum hair shines in the sun.
Your voluminous, light-wash jeans
And bulbous nurse-white sneakers
Mark your genus.
Your husband wears a polo shirt
And is tanned from your long travels.

The young ones sprint by you on the trail
And feel themselves a breed apart.
But I know, thou ravaged bride,
I know the secret:
Thou art I,
Thou art us all, in time,
And there are worse things to be.
You are intrepid--not for you
The confines of family, housework, and weekends at the VFW.
You are Columbus in Reeboks
But louder, funner, and funnier.
You care not what the world thinks.
You're having the time of your life.


Ode to the Environmentally Engineered, Backcountry Waste Disposal System

Deep dark well of filth
And yet you stink not a whit.
Hats off to you,
Pit toilet.

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It has been a few years since Jay and I went to the Grand Canyon and experienced for the first time that particular brand of peace and freedom that comes from basking in the ecosystem of the American Southwest. So this year we spent a week in Moab, Utah, a nice town situated right between Arches and Canyonlands national parks. Moab is a perfect vacation town, maybe a perfect town period. It's large enough to have a movie theater, but small enough to be able to walk to it from almost anywhere. It has great restaurants, from cheap Thai to haute cuisine. It has fun, friendly people, probably the friendliest grouping of humanity I've run into since Italy.  And it's surrounded by red-rock mountains on three sides and the distant snow-capped LaSal mountains on the fourth.

You really don't need to do anything there. You can just wake up and go outside. The sparkling blue sky stretches everywhere and is a balm in and of itself. And one of the best parts of vacation is being freed from that pressure, that voice in the back of your head that is on 24-7, saying, "Don't forget to . . .  You have to be there by . . . Remember to . . ."  So Jay would get up early, eat the free breakfast at the La Quinta, and roam about town while I slept in. When I eventually got up, we'd have breakfast at the Jailhouse Cafe: chorizo scramble, blueberry waffles, veggie omelet. Coffee. Orange juice. Eating outside, watching other happy people walking down the street in their outdoor gear, on their way to something fun. A high percentage of restaurants in Moab close by noon or 1:00; they serve breakfast and then take off for their own good times. Good on them.

On Saturday we went to Arches. Arches is great because, like Canyonlands, it has lots of fantastic trails that are easy yet rewarding. We stopped first at the Park Avenue Trail near the park entrance. It's one of the most famous trails for its line of sharp, tall red rocks lining the valley like skyscrapers. Quite a few people were at the viewpoint taking photos, but once we went down onto the trail, we didn't run into a single other person till the very end. Incredible. We couldn't stop looking up. We couldn't stop looking down either, as the plants and rocks and patterns were just as amazing as the grand vistas. But although you can capture plants and rocks on camera, it's really impossible to photograph the openness and the general atmosphere, that magic way it makes you feel.

When we got to the end of the 1-mile trail, I realized I wouldn't be up for hiking back to the car by the same route. Although the trail was short, we spent a lot of time there taking pictures and staring at things with a look of stupor. So adventure number one, I did something I haven't done since I was a teenager: hitchhiked. Jay was skeptical, but the 30th car (or so) picked us up and drove us the short way to our car. Thank you, nice guys!

The next day we did river rafting through the area where they shot the movie Rio Grande. Big buttes. Then winding turns through small canyons. Pretty, but a little too slow. I would have enjoyed it more if it were an hour shorter in duration, but I did enjoy talking with my raft mates. I used to be snobbish about crowds and other tourists, but now they are one of my favorite parts of traveling. We rafted with a couple who had immigrated from the Netherlands and now lived in San Francisco with their two young boys. These boys were extremely outgoing and engaged, but in the nicest way possible. "I'm going to really like this!" says one. "This is going to be great!" says the other. While waiting for our ride back to the outfitters, I had a long talk with the mom about her experience of Americans. She loves them, thinks they're so nice. When her fellow Europeans complain that Americans are superficial, she says, "Of course they're superficial! You're standing in the grocery line---they're not going to tell you about their dying mother or fear of abandonment!" Preach it, sister.

Day 3 we went back to Arches and did the rest of the park. Every time you turn a corner there's more beauty. In the evening we went to the dinkiest movie theater I've ever been in and saw the film Hanna. Strange film but it won me over.

Day 4: Dead Horse Point State Park. Are you kidding me? It's a mini Grand Canyon. This was followed by a sunset Hummer tour in the evening back in Moab. The outfitter called it "special." It was special. We drove up the side of a red-rock mountain and then proceeded to drive up and down enormous . . . you can't call them mountains and you can't call them boulders. It's terrain. A terrain made up of vast and undulating hills of rock. At every stage I said to myself, "We can't be going there." And every time we went exactly there.

Day 5:  Canyonlands National Park. The Hummer tour seems to have cured me of the fear of heights that has been building over the last few years. So I ran up and pranced around on the huge, high dome of Whale Rock like it was a playground.

Day 6: We made a smart decision and decided to drive up to Provo, about an hour south of Salt Lake City, where our flight was leaving from the next day. On the way we detoured down Nine Mile Canyon, a mostly unpaved 40-some-mile road that takes you to some ancient petroglyphs and some really adorable cows. Plus one cow that looked like the devil.

Day 7: We drove the hour to Salt Lake and had a super relaxing check-in. The day was a lot easier than the day we arrived, when we spent four hours on the plane and then four hours driving to Moab. A good lesson for us.

The heroes of the trip? My Keen sandals, which I wore almost constantly for a week through hill and dale and never gave me one moment of discomfort.

The American Southwest

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This album.

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My new Keen sandals.

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Salted Caramel Sweet Square from Starbucks

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The phrase "you guys's [pronounced 'guises'] system." 
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I missed it this year, but belatedly here is the poem that someone sent me for it.


Shiloh
(Herman Melville, 1862)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

         The swallows fly low

   Over the field in clouded days,

         The forest-field of Shiloh—

   Over the field where April rain

   Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

   Through the pause of night

   That followed the Sunday fight

         Around the church of Shiloh—

   The church so lone, the log-built one,

   That echoed to many a parting groan

            And natural prayer

      Of dying foemen mingled there—

   Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—

        Fame or country least their care:

   (What like a bullet can undeceive!)

         But now they lie low,

   While over them the swallows skim,

         And all is hushed at Shiloh.

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From time to time I play around with trying to condense the Myers-Briggs model of personality types into its most essential elements, which necessarily entails putting my own spin on it.  Here is my latest attempt ...

  gregarious+concrete+passionate+decisive
      = affectionate (ESFJ)
  gregarious+concrete+passionate+creative
      = engaging (ESFP)
  introspective+concrete+passionate+decisive
      = nurturing (ISFJ)
  introspective+concrete+passionate+creative
      = artistic (ISFP)

  gregarious+imaginative+passionate+decisive
      = charismatic (ENFJ)
  gregarious+imaginative+passionate+creative
      = enthusiastic (ENFP)
  introspective+imaginative+passionate+decisive
      = intuitive (INFJ)
  introspective+imaginative+passionate+creative
      = principled (INFP)

  gregarious+concrete+analytical+decisive
      = authoritative (ESTJ)
  gregarious+concrete+analytical+creative
      = adventurous (ESTP)
  introspective+concrete+analytical+decisive
      = dependable (ISTJ)
  introspective+concrete+analytical+creative
      = logical (ISTP)

  gregarious+imaginative+analytical+decisive
      = focused (ENTJ)
  gregarious+imaginative+analytical+creative
      = pragmatic (ENTP)
  introspective+imaginative+analytical+decisive
      = insightful (INTJ)
  introspective+imaginative+analytical+creative
      = inventive (INTP)

Previous post on this subject here.
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The history of humankind is so much a tale of us making each other miserable. No sooner does one source of violence end than another starts up. Nonetheless, I'm happy today for the end of life of one who devoted his entire life and considerable resources to making others suffer.
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Jerusalem Hymn

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Everyone's been talking about this hymn since it was performed at the royal wedding, so I stuck my nose in to see what the fuss is about. It's a poem by William Blake that was later set to music, was used by early Labour Party candidates who were trumpeting workers' rights, and by English football teams. It's based on the legend that, as a young man, Jesus visited England with Joseph of Arimethea:


And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land


It was also featured in Chariots of Fire, from whence (I now see) the movie's title comes.
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