Europe and the People Without History (Wolf, Eric)

The aim of historians is to narrate, to describe, and sometimes, to judge; but above all, it is to interpret and explain the past in a coherent framework. Historical explanation is broadly of two kinds: reductionist and holistic. A rather extreme example of reductionist explanation is the following tongue-in-cheek piece, by Bertrand Russell, in Freedom and Organisation:

"...if Henry VIII had not fallen in love with Anne Boleyn, the United States would not now exist. For it was owing to this event that England broke with the Papacy, and therefore it did not acknowledge the Pope's gift of the Americas to Spain and Portugal. If England had remained Catholic, it is probable that what is now the United States would have been part of Spanish America."

In short, reductionists believe in simple, linear cause-effect chains, which, while being easy to understand and therefore popular, could be incomplete at best and grossly inaccurate at worst. Textbooks often describe the Greco-Persian wars as pitting brave Greeks defending democracy against tyrannical Persian invaders. But then we will have no explanation for the fact that "there were more Greeks fighting in the ranks of the Persian kings than in those of the Hellenistic Alliance." Nowhere, as Wolf points out despairingly, is this myth-making scheme more apparent than in schoolbook versions of the history of the United States. This of course, is dangerous. Schoolbook history is a powerful weapon of propaganda. On the one hand it polarizes political opinion, and on the other, it encourages analytical laziness.

Europe and the People Without History, on the other hand, is a tour de force of holistic thinking. Eric Wolf has synthesized a lifetime's worth of multi-disciplinary erudition into this formidable magnum opus - the bibliographical notes at the end of the book alone occupy 80 pages. Synthesis, indeed, is the operative word, as Wolf's fundamental argument is a categorical rejection of studies in isolation.

History has traditionally been written (and taught) as a sequential torrent of battles, treaties, coronations and assassinations, all from the perspective of the fortunes of a single nation or people. We are taught that great men - and women, but mostly men - bestrode the narrow world like colossuses, drawing and re-drawing political maps to suit their whims.

Economics, on the other hand, restricts its focus to a dry study of demand and supply, capital and labor, currencies and commodities. It is fundamentally anhistoric - it doesn't ask how things got the way they did - and apolitical, remaining silent on the question of how economics influences, or is influenced by, political events. In fact, in its obsession with equilibrium and central tendency, it tends to ignore "events" altogether.

Anthropology and sociology, meanwhile, ignore both history and economics, and attempt to portray societies and cultures, not as responses to political and economic stimuli, but as standalone static phenomena.

Wolf's world, on the contrary, is a web of intricate political, cultural and trade networks connecting peoples and nations around the world since pre-history, a "totality of interconnected processes", the examination of each link of which is necessary in order to obtain a clear understanding of any of the parts. In a similar vein, he argues for the rigorous examination of causal chains connecting economics, sociology, politics, history and anthropology, no single one of which disciplines adequately explains reality.

For instance, just to cite one of an interminable set of threads he reels off: thanks to technological advances, clippers were replaced by the faster and more capacious steamships of the Blue Funnel line (launched in 1865) as preferred modes of freight transport. Meanwhile Mehmet Ali, the Albanian-born Ottoman Viceroy of Egypt, buoyed by a sudden huge demand for Egyptian cotton by the temporary world shortage caused by the American Civil War, had put his country on an aggressive path of modernization. Egypt used French technological assistance and British (and Rothschild) capital to build the Suez Canal. (Later, civil war ended in the US and the price of cotton plummeted, Egypt defaulted on its loans and Britain seized control, but that's a different thread). With the Suez open, clipper-borne trade in Chinese tea came under threat - steamships could get more tea into London via the Suez and much faster, from plantations in Ceylon and India. Huge areas of land were cleared for new plantations in North Ceylon, unilaterally declared 'royal lands' by the enterprising colonial masters, displacing Sinhala farmers from their land and livelihood. Cheap labor for the plantation was provided by a wave of indentured workers imported from Tamil Nadu in India.

Surely this background, combining technology, political history, labor mobility and commodity trade linking Britain, USA, Egypt, Ceylon, India and China helps us understand better the 150-year tension between the predominantly Hindu Tamils, speaking a Dravidian tongue, and the predominantly Buddhist Indo-European language speaking Sinhalas they displaced from their land? Note, however, that it is easier (and lazier) to label the parties into aggressors and defenders, heroes and villains, freedom fighters and oppressors, or terrorists and victims.

Wolf himself steers scrupulously clear of value judgments throughout the book, describing in dispassionate detail, and from every angle, major world events like the slave trade, the genocide of American tribes and the vast number of cultures and lives turned upside down by the advent of Western capitalism. His principal lesson is that comprehensive understanding takes away from the simplistic satisfaction of finger-pointing. This isn't an easy lesson. When you eschew value judgments, you risk being labeled insensitive and politically incorrect. For example, Wolf points out that it was African tribes like the Ashante that ran the slave trade - raiding villages, kidnapping prospective slaves, transporting them to the coast, and selling them to traders in exchange for wealth and social prestige. Or that fratricidal wars between Native American tribes of North America had a huge hand in wiping out several tribes (the Huronia, the Erie, the Illinois). He explains these actions, not as those of monsters, but as local responses to changes in the prevalent social equations and modes of production, brought about by the sudden advent of European trade, arms and money.

In short, if you are the sort that prefers simple answers to all questions, especially simple answers that conveniently advance your pet political agenda, if you instinctively separate the world into 'good guys' and 'bad guys', regardless of whether you call yourself a conservative or a liberal: do not bother reading this book. I recommend it strongly to the rest of you.

The Principal Upanishads (Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan)

Let me preface this piece by testifying that one has to stretch the meaning of the word 'religious' a mile in order to fit me with that description. Furthermore, it took me over four months to plough through this book - and so it is with some trepidation that I begin to write about my reactions to it.

On the other hand, it is entirely possible that my distance from the material makes me a more appropriate commentator than someone more devout - my objectivity is not obscured by blind faith, though admittedly it is somewhat clouded by a certain love of tradition, a tendency, from early childhood, to develop goosebumps in response to the strangely familiar singsong cadence of Vedic chants.

The Upanishads are Hindu scriptures, possibly as many as 170 in number (though opinions vary), and composed over two millennia by several anonymous authors. Typical of a religion with three hundred and thirty million Gods, the authors of the Upanishads say many different things, and to a modern reader brought up to worship Logic, often appear to contradict each other. However, the chorus is never a cacophony, the voices merge and diverge, patterns emerge and disappear, and the over-arching themes never change. Strict non-contradiction is clearly not something that mattered a whole lot back then.

And while on the subject: for a religion of three hundred and thirty million Gods, the scriptures are surprisingly monotheistic.

In this volume, Radhakrishnan, scholar extraordinaire and the 2nd President of India, has translated and commented on 15 of the Upanishads, in over a thousand pages of smallish print. The format is simple: he lays out a few lines of the original Sanskrit, translates it into English, and if he finds them interesting enough, spends a paragraph commenting - expanding on the origins of certain words, or comparing the thought with Sufi, Catholic or other Hindu philosophical works.

In my opinion, the Upanishads can be conceptually broken down into three parts (a) the mystical and theological bits; (b) some breath-taking speculative philosophy, and (c) pure poetry.

Given the somewhat unfairly modern vantage point from which I judge the book, I found myself profoundly unimpressed with the mystical, theological, ritualistic and unscientific bits - but I must hasten to add that I was more than sufficiently compensated by the frequent nuggets of pure poetry and fascinating flashes of a speculative philosophy as incisive and insightful, arguably, as any in the history of human thought. Why, some of the philosophy was almost subversive. Already, in the first (and possibly oldest) Upanishad covered (Brhad-aranyaka), I stumble across this.
This is the highest creation of Brahma, namely that he created the Gods who are superior to him. He although mortal himself, created the immortals...
Or this one:
Whoever knows thus, "I am Brahman", becomes [God]. 
Even the Gods cannot prevent his becoming thus
...
Therefore it is not pleasing to those Gods that men should know this.
And while I could go on and on, let me stop with this quaint story:
Then Vidagdha sakalya asked him: "How many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
He answered... "As many as are mentioned in the nivid of the hymn of praise to the Viswe-devas, namely, three hundred and three and three thousand and three."
"Yes," he said, "but how many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
"Thirty-three."
"Yes," he said, "but how many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
"Six."
"Yes," he said, "but how many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
"Three."
"Yes," he said, "but how many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
"One and a half."
"Yes," he said, "but how many Gods are there, Yajnavalkya?"
"One."
“Yes, said he, “but which are those three hundred and three and three thousand and three?”
Finally: beyond all measure, the joy of reading the Upanishads is the joy of reading pure poetry, metaphors that reached out across 2,500 years and left me gasping, drowning out the drone of Manhattan traffic and making me utterly oblivious to the ambient wails of a Wall Street sinking steadily under the weight of its woes, a momentary oblivion that only literature manages to create in its readers, like magic, with effortless ease, whenever it wants to. "Time is a horse with seven reins," said the authors of the Atharva Veda, "Him the knowing poets ride...all the world are his wheels." With consummate mastery over the poet's art of transcending time, the authors of the Upanishads grab the reader's attention from the depths of time ("Time the Invisible, who eats all beings as his food", Maitree Upanishad). And then this one, presumably also about Time or Death, though it could also (tantalizingly) be referring to Speech:

I am food! I am food! I am food!
I am the eater of food! I am the eater of food! I am the eater of food!
I am the poet! I am the poet! I am the poet!
I am the first born of the cosmic order,
Earlier than the gods, in the center of immortality!
...
I, who am food, eat the eater of food!

I wasn't sure, when I started the book, whether I would progress beyond the first few pages. I am happy to note that I finished it and live to tell the tale. I am no more religious than I was when I started off - but I suspect the authors of the Upanishads wouldn't have minded that. I can't even pretend that I understood all that I read - and I am very certain the authors of the Upanishads wouldn't have minded that. For here it is, right here, in the Kausitaki-Brahmana Upanishad:

na vaacam vijignasita, vaktaaram vidyaat.

Speech is not what one should desire to understand. Try to know the Speaker.

Where we have Hope: A Memoir of Zimbabwe (Meldrum, Andrew)

Where we have Hope: A Memoir of Zimbabwe is the powerful first person account of an American journalist, Andrew Meldrum, who came to the newborn and newly christened nation of Zimbabwe in 1980, and stayed on until he was forcibly deported by the Mugabe government in 2003.

The landscape he paints is so familiar to western eyes that it is now a cliche. An African nation throws off minority white rule, crowns the leader of the freedom-fighters President, and watches him morph steadily into an autocrat for life, intent on self-aggrandizing, preoccupied with fighting off other rebel forces and dedicating state machinery to the sole purpose of crushing all opposition to himself. The West reacts with sanctions and sanctimony, and the dictator responds with indignation and contempt, his defiant bombast making him even more of a ridiculous caricature than before. The relationship between the African despot and the Western press is particularly fascinating - the dictator hates what they print about him, never fails to point out their hypocrisy ("where was all this outrage when the white men were treating us like dogs?") but he needs them, too: his megalomania makes him crave the attention of the world and the admiration of all Africa. The story he is painting is uncomplicated as well: "White Men ruined our continent and made beggars and slaves of us. Having sucked out our life-blood, they left us to fend for ourselves, and now mock us from afar as savages unfit to rule ourselves. By treating them like trash, I am setting an example to all Africans to get over their inferiority complexes and rise to meet their destiny."

The press, on their part, hang on to his every word, while finding him repulsive. 'Corrupt African Dictator On Rabid Rant While Millions Die' sells more copies than any attempt to analyze the problems of the country in depth, including those caused by the West, and suggest real solutions even at the expense of Western commercial interests. Surely readers of the article, even as they tut-tut to themselves and turn the page to something else, feel unconsciously relieved and reassured to hear that Other People have worse governments than their own.

In a way, the African dictator and the Western press need each other to perpetuate their own myths about themselves and each other. They circle around, locked in a dans macabre, while AIDS, malnutrition and malaria pick off, at leisure, the very people they pretend to care for.

Having never lived in Zimbabwe (unlike the author), and not even having followed the fortunes of its people too closely, I have no intention of questioning any of the facts Meldrum brings to light, nor of condoning any of the murders, police beatings or state terrorism unleashed by the Mugabe administration. But it just occurs to me that placing the entire blame on a single man - Robert Mugabe - is a bit too smooth and convenient. Could macro-economic factors not have contributed as well?

Please humour me as I hypothesise the following, based purely on snippets of information available from the book. Remember that a large part of the land was owned by white Rhodesians - for generations. They had dispossessed native Africans from the land and pushed them into the hills ages ago (where was all the outrage then?!). These families continued to own the best land, with the most capital and the best farm equipment at their disposal. On the other hand, a generation of African young men, having spent a dozen years of their early adulthood in the jungles fighting a guerrilla war against the colonial masters, came out blinking into the sunlight at independence and needed a new livelihood, with little training or tradition in modern farming methods, and no land to call their own. These men could have drifted into crime, or rebelling yet again - as a politician, Mugabe had to ride the tiger, feed it, or be eaten by it. Either way, the cycle repeats with the next set of rebels and leaders (who sells them guns?!). The Mugabe's and Idi Amins didn't create the cycle. It is too big for them to create. They could have, at grave personal risk, attempted to break it - but then it is not easy to be Nelson Mandela. The tragedy of Africa is that those of its leaders who fail at being angels are doomed to be demons.

Now, having only read the one, rather slim, book on Zimbabwe, I will not pretend that I have understood a continent and reduced its plight to a 300-word post - but I do make a convincing case, I hope, for attempting to understand both sides of any argument. Simple explanations (including my own) are likely to be, at best, partially true, and at worst, completely off the mark. Meldrum deserves a great deal of credit for living in Zimbabwe for 23 years and he clearly called it as he saw it in the face of hostility and personal danger. He is a more courageous man than I. But could he have missed the forest of macro-economic factors for the trees of individual atrocity?

Meldrum plays prosecutor, judge, court reporter and star witness in this book, as he builds up a damning case against the president. I thought it was pity that he didn't put up a witness for the defence on the stand. The verdict may possibly have remained the same, but the judicial process would have been fairer.

Short Note on the Title of the Blog

When I started this blog, I didn't give too much thought to the title - "Diary of a Bibliophile" seemed to do a reasonable job in describing the broad intent behind the effort. I have always assumed that 'bibliophile' meant 'book-lover', going purely by the Latin roots of the two halves of the word.

Unfortunately, to my consternation, I have just discovered that according to the Wikipedia entry, a Bibliophile is a lover of books, "but especially for qualities of format". "Also", the article continues, "a bibliophile may be a book collector." Essentially, the bibliophile values form over content - first editions, unusual bindings and autographs are what a bibliophile lives and dies for.

Oops.

This is not what I meant at all. I love books for their content, and my most treasured books are cheap paperback editions. The bindings, where they exist at all, are more likely to be cardboard than leather. All autographs adorning the title-pages are those of previous owners.

However, I am going to stick with the current title, for want of a satisfactory alternative word that conveys what I mean: a word that signifies "Lover of Reading". I am amazed to find out that despite the plethora of '-mania', '-phrenia' and '-philia' suffixed words, there isn't one to describe my, um, condition. Surely I can't be unique?

Oh, and I am considering "bookworm", but it makes me feel all furry and multi-legged.

Perhaps what I wish to convey in this blog about my love of books can't be reduced to one word. Albert Goldbarth needed 172 lines, but in my opinion, he came closest in a poem called "Library".

Dialogues Concerning Two New Sciences (Galilei, Galileo)

There are some books that are significant because of the novelty of their content, others for originality of form; a third and rarer kind exists, that derive their significance purely from knowledge of the historical context in which they were written, and the profound influence they have had in the history of ideas.

This is one such book.
It was written in 1638, by an old man (Galileo was 74) on the verge of going blind, an insomniac who had been severely reprimanded, placed under house arrest and ostracized by the Church six years prior to this date, as a consequence, it was said, of his defence of the Copernican system in his book Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief Systems, but mainly, it is suspected, for his unflattering portrayal of Pope Urban VIII as a kind of buffoon in the book.
Galileo, broken but not crushed, wrote Two New Sciences in 1638 as his final offering to posterity: a summary of his entire scientific body of work over the previous 30 years. He avoids astronomy scrupulously, but breezily chats about motion, gravity, statics, projectiles and simple harmonic motion, with loads of geometry thrown in. He is clearly one of the first "moderns", intoxicated by the beautiful idea of a physical reality that can be described entirely in mathematical terms - inclined planes, arcs of circles and directrices of parabolas. I think, upon reading this book, that we do not do him sufficient justice as a pioneering scientist. Note this nugget on Page 74:

I begin by saying that a heavy body has an inherent tendency to move with a constantly and uniformly accelerated motion toward the common center of gravity, that is, toward the center of our Earth...

So much for the apocryphal story about Newton and the apple! Or when Galileo states:

Furthermore we may remark that any velocity once imparted to a moving body will be rigidly maintained as long as the external causes of acceleration or retardation are removed…

... which of course is Newton's first, minus the hoopla about inertia!

One also gets fleeting and fascinating glimpses of the world-view of the man. There is some bitterness:

…for human nature is such that men do not look with favor upon discoveries – either of truth or fallacy – in their own field, when made by others than themselves. They call him an innovator of doctrine, an unpleasant title…and by subterranean mines they seek to destroy structures which patient artisans have built with customary tools.

But there is much humility as well - as in this quote, remarkably similar to the pebbles-on-a-beach statement of Newton's:

Profound considerations ... belong to a higher science than ours. We must be satisfied to belong to that class of less worthy workmen who procure from the quarry the marble out of which, later, the gifted sculptor produces those masterpieces which lay hidden in this rough and shapeless exterior.

Galileo couldn't find a publisher willing to touch him in all Italy, such was the ubiquitous fear of incurring Papal wrath. He found a patron and publisher in faraway Netherlands, whence copies flew, within a generation, to Flanders, Germany, France and England. Perhaps this was part of an overall movement of the center of gravity in arts, sciences and commerce, from Italian cities to Western Europe. We know Descartes read him, knew what horrors Galileo was subjected to for speaking the truth, and so wrote his own "Discourse on Method" (of cogito ergo sum fame) with much trepidation, many misgivings and couched in several loud protestations of deep faith. We know John Milton thought the world of Galileo, meeting him near Florence around the time of publication of this book and incorporating a mention of the scientist in Paradise Lost ("...the Moon, whose Orb / Through Optic Glass the Tuscan Artist views"). And yet, beyond doubt, there was at least one other man who was significantly influenced by Galileo's works, someone who, from a safe distance, was able to whip up the winds of scientific change that blew away the cobwebs of medieval superstition in a way that Galileo simply couldn't.

On 8 Jan 1642, Galileo Galilei died in Florence. On Christmas Day the same year, a baby was born in Lincolnshire, England, and named Isaac Newton...and finally, then, there was Light.

Snow (Pamuk, Orhan)

Pamuk, whose My Name is Red I count as one of the best novels I have read, has a lot of things to say in Snow - about love, betrayal, poetry, and most of all, about contemporary Turkey, torn as it is in different directions - towards modern Europe, towards Islamic Iran, and towards an inward-looking militarist and strident nationalism.

The novel is not of the same standard as My Name is Red, but is nevertheless worth a read, and I think it is relevant today even outside its Turkish context. While we have been made aware, repeatedly, of the dangers of fundamentalist Islam, we are much slower in recognizing or condemning neo-fascist state terror, unleashed with subtlety in the name of patriotism, or the many crimes of apathy committed by the Westernized urban elite. Ultimately, it is the well-educated man from the city who betrays the trust of the crude, "uncivilized" villagers, proves morally inferior to the "terrorist", and walks away unscathed. I was reminded briefly of Khushwant Singh's Train to Pakistan.

Is this situation unique to Turkey? Perhaps not.

A Devil's Chaplain: Reflections on Hopes, Lies , Science and Love (Dawkins, Richard)

This is a collection of essays by Richard Dawkins, high priest of rationality and Darwin's own Doberman. I haven't read any of Dawkins' books prior to this, though several have been highly recommended to me (The Selfish Gene and The God Delusion among others) by people I trust, and so I am familiar with the general thrust of his arguments in favor of the theory of Evolution as opposed to those of Creationism or Intelligent Design. While I haven't done much research into Professor Dawkins' body of work over the years, I have a faint suspicion that what once started as a defence of Darwin's theory has broadened into a rejection of organized religion, and has then inexorably led to a stinging attack on those who profess faith in God without any evidentiary support.

Of course I am on the same side of the fence as Professor Dawkins on every point he makes, but occasionally - and certainly by the end of the book - I think he gets shrill and preachy in a tiresome way, a bit like an exasperated Ayatollah.

Searching for a historical analogy that would best explain my thoughts, I think of the Roman Inquisition in the 16th century, and the heresy trials of Giordano Bruno, for his defence of Copernican theory. I tend to forgive Pope Clement VIII for burning Bruno at the stake, because that was the unreasonable, uncivilized and brutal thing to do. That is what medieval religion did when faced with a stubborn opponent who would simply not agree to see eye-to-eye. Scientific knowledge, on the other hand, comes with the moral responsibility to be objective, dispassionate and never vindictive. And perhaps therein lies the source of my discomfort with Professor Dawkins' book.

After such knowledge, as TS Eliot reminds us, what forgiveness?

A Serious Hobby of the Third Kind

There is something not quite satisfactory about a grown man who does not have a serious hobby - I think it's a bit like being on the wrong side of thirty without ever having been in a serious relationship. It isn't illegal, clearly, in most parts of the civilized world - but when I come across such people, I sigh, I shake my head, I roll my eyes and I purse my lips: in short, I Look Askance. Is this a life well lived, I ask myself while doing all the above, is this not imprudent profligacy of the precious coinage of Time?

And then, of course, on the other hand, I know of those who launch giddily into multiple desultory dalliances, often simultaneously - I frown on their fickle frivolity. "So how's the fossil-hunting?" "Oh, that was last year. I don't do that any more. These days, I am totally into para-sailing." Tut, tut, is what I say, deploring the modern inability to devote attention on a single subject for long enough.

Most people I know pursued their first hobbies in high school with all the ardour of hot-blooded youth, and while many of them have swapped their first loves for something more appropriate later in their lives, a lucky few have managed to live with the same overriding passion all their adult lives. I have even known people who realize, quite suddenly, in middle age, that what they had always maintained was nothing more than an pleasant way to pass the time has, over time, become considerably more serious than they had initially intended.

The relationship analogy can be extended even further without loss of argumentative validity. The name of both games is commitment. A serious hobby requires investment of time, effort and emotion. Like a woman or a jealous God, it demands personal sacrifice and periodic proof of undying loyalty, though it hands out no promises of return or reward. The sacrifice it seeks is not a calculated gambit, it is a leap of faith. And when sacrifice is involved, pain can't be far behind.


In order for something to count as a SERIOUS hobby, pain HAS to be involved. There must be things given up, things that are important to you. If money is what your hobby guzzles, you must give up enough of it to hurt. If time is the substance of its sustenance, you must pull out every spare minute for the cause. If your mental and physical effort is the material it is made of, you must strain every sinew, shut out every other thought, get completely exhausted in the indulgence of the hobby.


Here's a thumb-rule: if the feeling of satisfaction is not linked to what you have given up for it, it isn't a serious hobby, merely a casual flirtation with no strings attached. The hobby is not The One for you - cut your losses and move on.

If all this sounds too difficult for you, there is an alternative. The next time someone asks you, "so, do you have any hobbies?", you shake your head, look at your shoes and mumble, 'no, can't say i do.' Or you can try suggesting, with a leer, that your hobby consists of looking for nacho crumbs in the folds of your belly while balancing a beer on it and lying on the couch watching TV. But you need a great deal of personality to carry that off, and if you dont have a hobby, you probably dont have much of a personality either. (sigh, shake head, roll eyes - you know the drill)

There are three types of serious hobbies. My hobby, reading, is of the third, and most problematic, type. Allow me to explain.


Serious Hobbies of the First Kind
I envy people who collect antique locks. Or who run the ultra-marathon. Or who fashion canoes out of oak trees. In a weird way, they dont need to DO much. Their hobby is so esoteric that it achieves cult status automatically. "What's your hobby?" "Oh, I collect ancient Mesopotemian copper coins of the early Hammurabi period." "Awesome! Can I come over and see them sometime?" "Here, look, I carry both of them in my wallet." See what I mean? Quality renders quantity redundant, and that is the single characteristic that defines Serious Hobbies of the First Kind. Its like climbing the Everest. You dont need to do it every summer to call yourself a top mountaineer.

Serious Hobbies of the Second Kind
I also envy, albeit to a lesser degree, the hobbies where you can boggle minds with sheer numbers. You absolutely have to have the numbers if your avocation is more commonplace than the ones in the first category. If you collected stamps, for instance, you had better own a larger number of them than the kid next door. If you claim to play the piano, you had better know more than just the two tunes. If wine-tasting is your thing, you can't just say "Oh I dont know, I just get wasted on whatever they happen to be handing out". You've got to be able to name, in excruciating detail, all 120 varieties you've tasted since last July, and manage to weave into the story your recollection of that one Chateau Malescot St Exupery that you bumped into one summer day. This sort of serious hobby is all about a large number of different types of the same stuff; the ability to compartmentalize, categorize and classify to death is what it's all about. Here, the quality is DEFINED by the quantity. It is also important to note that the numerical standards of excellence in this kind of hobby are commonly understood, objective, and indisputable.

Serious Hobbies of the Third Kind
Reading falls under the third and most tricky category, because in order for it to qualify as a serious hobby, one must have read a fair number of books, and a large number of them must ALSO be of some critically acclaimed quality. Moreover, exactly HOW many, and WHO sets the quality standards is left undefined, and the latter is hotly disputed as well. Ergo, every man fancies himself a reader : even those whose entire book-reading experience is restricted to the Letters-to-the-Editor section of Playboy. Are we all, then, readers? And if not, who is to lay down the guidelines? These difficult questions are exactly what make reading such a painful hobby to classify. In order to define the standards of this hobby, I believe we need to go beyond the usual enumeration or qualification of the Object collected, and describe it in terms of the behavior of the Hobbyist, instead.


I believe there are three broad stages involved in the transition of a hobby from frivolity to seriousness. The first step is when you derive satisfaction out of showing off to people who don't share your hobby - cute girls in parties, colleagues around the water cooler, executives in job interviews. Maybe looking cool was the REASON you picked up the hobby in the first place. At some point, though, talking to laymen about your hobby begins to get embarrassing, because you are (by now) aware of the immense possibilities of the field, of your own limitations, and of the sheer effort it will take to explain your passion to someone who may not understand.

You then stop talking about your hobby except to those likely to offer good advice. This is Stage Two. You derive satisfaction from a word of encouragement from someone who should know, someone you look up to as member of an elite group who has attained levels to which you possibly do not even aspire. You stretch yourself hard with the objective of attaining membership to this august club. A passing nod of acknowledgement from one of Them would compensate for all the pain you've taken. The rest of the world doesn't matter. Think of the fairly well-knit club of people who attend Crossword Puzzle or Trivia competitions regularly. Or who go mountain-biking on summer weekends. Or who attend play-readings with regularity.

The final step, of course, is when the only acknowledgement that matters comes from within you, and arises precisely from an acute awareness of the pain you've put yourself through to attain the goal you have set for yourself, and the satisfaction from the thought that the pain has been WORTH it, in some inexplicable way.

So, the driver for the first step is a need for universal attention and admiration, the second is a primal need to forge a common identity with a few like-minded people, and the third is a deeper understanding of one's own identity and purpose in life, an understanding that is ultimately associated with a contemplation of one's own mortality.

Mind you, these steps don't necessarily have to correspond with how 'good' you are at the hobby. A guy who's only collected a thousand stamps may SERIOUSLY derive intense satisfaction from it, while the kid who's been gifted the entire USPS collection by a rich uncle may still be showing off to the chicks and is condemned to lifetime dilletantism.

So it is with reading, and so it is with me. I have clear opinions about which books I enjoy, and which books I believe are trash, and I have no intention of changing your mind for you if you disagree with me. The objective of this blog, which is going to be devoted to my book-reading obsession, is not evangelical; it is to record, largely for my own benefit, my thoughts and reactions to the books I read, in the manner of a diary. I hope you enjoy reading it, and that you will post comments that will point me to more books, and they, in their turn, to still other books, that I may read and love.

One lifetime is far too short. Memory, clarity of thought and the use of one's sense organs are likely to fail even sooner. I am thirty-eight as I write this: life is using me up (as Borges says). I cannot conceivably read every book I would like to, in my lifetime; however, I intend to die trying...

Followers