Review: The Story of Art

Realised I need to do a quick review of the history books I have been reading this summer.

I read my copy of EH Gombrich’s The Story of Art, which I loved, and another 3 history books on world history in general. I’ll start reviewing my Story Of Art first.

I think Gombrich’s style of writing endears his readers to his book because it distills the more abstract concepts of reading art in a simpler, more natural way – instead of writing in terminology he tries to put in layman’s knowledge what a layman would instinctively feel when faced with the work of art in question, and then progress to highlight the major concepts in art history from there. It offers a good overview of the history of art (to a layman such as I) so that now I understand better how western art ideology (so to speak) developed over the centuries.

Another good thing about Gombrich is that he has a policy of not writing about works he cannot show, and the glossy, quality coloured prints of art works are not only keepsakes in themselves but also give the reader a good, primary source material reference when he/she needs to trace the developments in art (‘Now let’s see: it progressed from symbolism in… now where was that work he mentioned? Page 198…’)

I discovered a number of artists whose work I liked at the same time, and a number of them quite astonishingly so since, prior to reading about their philosophy of art, I never really appreciated! I came to recognize the beauty and skill in Greek sculpture, whose Roman copies are already so wonderfully exquisite (can one imagine how the real copies must have been?), learnt to appreciate that their beauty lied primarily in how extraordinarily real they looked, yet so unreal because nothing in nature seems so astoundingly beautiful and whole! Thus the artworks are sublime… Saw a painting by Fra Angelico and appreciated his Byzantine symbolism and his radiant mix of colours. Loved Michelangelo’s genius, appreciated Raphael’s use of colour. Saw Bosch’s wonderfully heinous depictions of hell and the spiritual realm and laughed with Bruegel’s portrayal of human folly. Admired the reality of Dutch 17th century still lifes and their luscious texture. Loved Holbane’s The Rake’s Progress for its use of art as a social medium. Appreciated Renoir for his love of all things beautiful, dappled, with unclear borders. Liked Magritte’s dreamlike musings and his rather comic sense of humour. Loved Titian’s colour, found Correggio’s play of light and its use in arranging the composition of picture instead of according to colour and size and subject matter interesting and novel. Thought Turner brilliant for his revolutionary style of landscape painting.

The surprises came mainly in the form of Rembrandt, Cezanne, Goya and Dali. To some extent even Gauguin. Rembrandt, because I never really appreciated his I thought too-drastic contrast between light and shade. But Gombrich made me see that Rembrandt’s rendering of the human face rendered something that even the best portraitists cannot do: the soul beneath the face. It wasn’t only lifelike, it was that expression that revealed a person’s personality and being, as it were, just like how the best novelists were able to paint a vivid picture of a character solely by description. Cezanne, because of his noble aims and perhaps, more astonishingly, how he managed actually to fulfill them. He wanted to paint both reality as the eye saw it, as little dabs and spots and reflections, and yet retain some features of reality as we perceive it, that makes it understandable – clarity of structure. So in his own unique and masterful way he accomplished a midway between relativism and certainty. Yet in trying to achieve both his ways he was curiously able to always stay true to nature. Goya, for his fantastic paintings of the horrors of war, even though I never liked his too bold style. Dali surprised me because I never quite agreed with his demented images, but I realized I shared his surrealistic tendencies – he makes my dreams come to life.

What I didn’t like was Baroque and Mannerism. To some extent also the pointless innovations of post-Michelangelo artists. Baroque was too much style without much content, and so was Mannerism, which in my view is worse, since it painted a false heaven. I am sure heaven will not be an idler’s paradise as Watteau’s paintings portray the idyllic nobles’ lives to be. Despite that, I do have a qualifier… my dislike of Rococo doesn’t prevent me from strangely being attracted to Watteau’s The Swing, although I still feel rather put off by the coquette and her skirt-chaser!

Little book update

Just updating a list of books I’ve been reading since the holidays started (about a month and a half now) and a possible description following:

The Brother Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky – commented on this blog already

Kant: A very short introduction – More accessible than the original The Critique of Pure Reason, but I had a hard time with it, both in terms of understanding and also in keeping up with the reading itself

Who moved the Stone? by Frank Morison – if you’re into apologetics for the resurrection of Jesus Christ, you would probably like this.

The Story of Art by E.H. Gombrich – oh my gad I just love this book. Art history for dummies, with really beautiful glossy pictures to go with.

DK’s History of the World – because I couldn’t find a good one-volume on history I resorted to this picture book from the library’s juvenile section. It’s a pretty good starter that helped me with general world history knowledge, and a useful timeline-table at the beginning of each chapter (It goes chronologically) listing out what happened in that period in all five continents of the world, so it’s also like a comparison. But it can be haphazard, and sometimes the historical flow of events for one country between different time periods can be confusing.

Christianity for Dummies – Reversed my initial assumption that it was going to be sketchy and incomplete. Read the chapters on the Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox churches in detail for sunday school lesson planning and found it comprehensive, and written in a simple to follow and rather entertaining manner.

Rick Steiner’s Scandinavia 2006 and Rough Guides’ Norway – for information on Norway. Rough Guides is more comprehensive. I recommend internet searches for more info on this elusive country, the national tourism websites are replete with pictures.

Now reading: Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon – interesting read, but attempt only if you’ve read some works by the authors he discusses. Argues for the canonical writers, strongly against all attempts to de-centralise western literature from the canon. Can be annoying at times because of his obviously biased stance, but if you understand where he’s coming from and take it with a pinch of salt, you will appreciate some of his arguments for the brilliance of some of these authors’ works.

Would like to read: A more comprehensive one-volume history. I’ve been recommended Straviano’s A Global History, would probably check that up. Also, a one-volume Chinese history, in chinese. A web search recommended a good zhong guo tong shi. Some theological works dealing with issues of predestination, the Trinity and Christology, and perhaps a commentary on Revelations. The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis and Where is God when it hurts? by Philip Yancey.

The Brothers Karamazov

I finished the book about a week ago. It was a good read… all the way until the end, when I was somewhat surprised. Alyosha’s speech seemed to be on such a note of happy idealism that was a tad too dramatic and idealistic for me, in some ways I felt that the ending could have been better. I was expecting something dead realistic. ‘That’s how the world is, live with it, but live on christ-like’. Alyosha’s speech was more along the lines of ‘Whatever happens, let us live on with Hope and Love!’ You can argue that the content is by and large the same, but the tone was totally different.

I gave it some thought and eventually realised, upon a second reading of the ending, that it’s not altogether so incongruent with the rest of the novel. After all, is not a central theme in Dostoevsky’s novelistic outlook about Amazing Grace? That no matter what happens, how debauched Dmitry might be, he can be assured of Grace, most aptly portrayed in the form of his brother, the ‘cherub’ Alyosha? No matter how filthy and downtrodden human nature may be, there is always a sparkle of that noble aspiration to goodness, as Dmitry’s Confessions in prose and verse, show? (I must admit, I liked that section of the whole near-1000 page novel – it left an impressionable mark on me). What better way to end the novel than to introduce that little sparkle of hope in the otherwise dreary ending to the novel, where Dmitry was convicted of a crime he did not commit and sent to Siberia, and Ivan with not much hope of living?

Although I like the book for its explorations of such themes as human nature and guilt, and redemption and forgiveness, I cannot help but admit that certain places left me feeling rather letdown. For one, Dostoevsky seems to paint stock characters. His characters are larger than life, improbable, and he does not seem to care much about what happens to them as a character per se (we never see Alyosha marry although his starets, who has this prophetic quality about him, has predicted it, and in spite of the fact that his lifelong friend, Lise, had confessed earlier on in the novel about her ardent feelings for him and we see him reciprocating. And what will come out of Ivan in the end? Will he live? And barring that, what will happen of his tortured soul, between atheism and his desire to believe?), as long as he is able to use them to flesh out his main themes. His dramatic, sometimes gripping, pace of narration holds the reader in breathless suspense until the end, which was disappointing since I was already caught up in the whole chase-the-narrative mode until I squared with Alyosha’s somewhat anticlimax ending.

As regards the point I am going to make, this is probably personal, but I feel as though Dostoevsky had not really elucidated his themes really well. For a novel this size, I left off feeling like all I got were memorable snippets, such as Dmitry’s Confessions, The Grand Inquisitor, The Onion, The Devil visits Ivan etc. Towards the end, during the long trial, when Dostoevsky begins to dig into earlier parts of the novel which you would not have suspected to be part of the evidence against Dmitry’s committing the murder, I had already forgotten most of them and only had a faint inkling that I’d seen those before… It’s not surprising, I suppose, that when I finally put the novel down and was trying to analyse it in terms of themes and message, that I found the task insurmountable. I resolved to consult a critic’s works instead of go solo.

That said, however, I loved those scenes, they are really inspiring in terms of portraying the eternal struggle between rationalistic Ivan and his desire to believe, his conscience and his statement that ‘everything is permissible’, the strumpet Grushenka (for that really seems to be the main essence of her character, although I own that when she loves she loves steadfast – if only for a moment) and her sudden admission of granting an onion (an altruistic act counter to her base nature) and owning that she is like that old woman who granted an onion in that fairy tale… who will save Grushenka? In those memorable snippets I think I find the best this novel has to offer. It is touching, in a way completely Dostoevsky-an, the way these seemingly irredeemable characters can, in their most debased hour, suddenly turn in a frenzy and confess to nobler sentiments, and all in a way that actually moves people, instead of appear farcical. In a sense it is at these moments when I think I see a sneak-peek into the human condition: whatever the basest of characters may be, there be moments of introspection when they, in like frenzy, confess to better aspirations, if only… True to life, Dostoevsky’s characters return to the dirt and grime their impassioned states seem to be inevitably drawn to. Realistic and poignant, it is this that draws the reader to Dostoevsky.

The Seventh Seal

Ingmar Bergman’s critically acclaimed black-and-white medieval movie that reminds me more of a play.

Was browsing around the local library for the Dekalog to continue my episode-watching when I realised that the one and only copy was borrowed. I stumbled upon this and knowing my friend to have expressed her wish to watch it once, I peered with interest at the blurb and its first sentence about a knight, freshly returned from the crusades in the holy country for ten years, challenging Death to a game of chess to decide his impending fate, caught my eye.

I watched the film twice, the first time with the commentary on (this, after a previous bad encounter with Jean Cocteau’s Orphee, which I couldn’t understand unaided), and, not entirely getting the film, I watched it again unaided.

I’m come to think that the entire film revolves around the central theme of Death, which it is preoccupied with, and by implication, Life – the joys of being alive, the meaning of, and what can one know of the otherworld, if there is one (something that the knight’s squire, a cynic, refutes) beyond Death. And, it seems, inevitable in a Bergman film, the idea of religion.

Part of the reason why this film leaves a favourable impression on me, despite the rather stiff portrayal of characters and their movements, and the seemingly random scene-to-scene progression, is because of its medieval theme. I haven’t really seen a film that brings medieval times so much to life. The attire, which is strange enough to belong to that era, yet carries a rugged simplicity about it, fitting an era which had much less of the splendours of our current generation, the general simple make-up of the flimsy cart and the wagons, the modes of transport, the tavern with its straw laiden floor and the swine trodding them alongside the humans, the solemn yet messy procession of flagellants flogging themselves for God’s glory without pomp and ceremony – all these, probably a side-effect of a low-budget movie shot within 52 days in the summer, produced the ordinariness that lends the film an authenticity of portrayal of those times that I believe most other modern films cannot match up to.

Something of the medieval nature of the film is given by the ‘random’ scenes in the film – it just does not flow the way Hollywood movies and their equivalents do. How does a solemn round of chess with Death flow seamlessly into a lively tavern scene, or how does a scene of a medieval play synchronise with a (mock)bawdy scene of the seduction of an actor by a smith’s wife? To me this is reminiscent of a Shakespearean play – bare settings, stiff acting, scenes that are plainly separate and distinct, instead of melting into each other in a trend of continuity that seems to be all the rage these days. The beauty and essence of Bergman’s film is arguably in his Message, as evinced through the speech of the artistes, and the accompanying gestures and facial expressions. It has too much of a staged-up, dramatic, pregnant with meaning feel to be truely realistic. But then again, that wasn’t its aim.

Death is the central concern of the film, I see in the Knight a reflection of myself at my most doubtful moments regarding God’s existence. The Knight is tired of his life, which has been a meaningless search. What for? For definite knowledge of God’s existence, it seems. He does not want belief, he wants knowledge. He wants to know for sure that He exists, and not have Christ live painfully and in such a humiliating way, behind shrouds of doubt and speculation. He wants certainty, and it is in part for this knowledge that he desires a wager with Death, as the latter seeks him, in the form of a fateful game of chess in which Death would spare him if he wins, but claim him if he loses. I didn’t see it the first time round, but this is evident in the Confessions encounter he has with Death, and later, when, at the last chess encounter with Death, when the knight responds that Death will reveal his secrets when he comes to claim the knight and his friends the next time they meet. Unfortunately for the knight, Death replies candidly that he does not know anything, that he is ‘unknowing’. Belief (which seems impossible for the knight), or cynicism (of which his realistic Squire is the embodiment of), seems to be a necessary choice that the wavering knight has to make.

In a sense I am tempted to see the Knight as the representation, Everyman, in this allegory of every man’s universal wager with Death.

I cannot, however, figure out a couple of questions that remain lingering after I viewed the movie twice. Firstly, as the disbelieving son of a pastor/priest/church figure of a Father, Ingmar Bergman, I believe, associated more with the Squire than anyone else in the play, as Peter Cowie, the movie critic who gave the commentary, claims. If so, I cannot quite reconcile his ending with the consistent portrayal of the Squire’s ‘superiority’ over the Knight in everyday matters – the Squire’s realism makes him the ‘saviour’ of the mystic girl who would have been raped if not for his intervention, an aid to the smith and indirectly a help in the reconciliation of the smith and his wife, an equal ‘saviour’ to the poor Joseph who was bullied at the inn, and Justice when he branded the seminarist. In stark contrast the Knight is the one whose idealism and subsequent pessimism tortures his inner soul, which had to be soothed and temporarily revived through Joseph and Mary’s hospitality over a bowl of wild strawberries and fresh milk. Why then, is the Squire also in the Dance of Death, when the more religious amongst them, his girl and the Knight’s wife, as it were, are not included? Why give the final triumph to religion?

And the weirdest part is that Joseph and Mary and little Michael, a parellel with the Holy Family, are the only persons in the fateful party who escaped from Death for the moment at the end of the story.

It is hard to reconcile this with the obvious portrayal of religious characters throughout the movie in a bad light. The seminarist resorts to stealing and attempted rape, the priest (I’m not sure if it is) at the head of the flogging procession stops to address the crowd in derogatory terms, insulting them and instilling fear if only for the purpose of turning them towards Christ and their salvation in this way. The priests are said to have been more approving of immolation for one’s sins than eternal suffering in hell. Death is twice disguised as religious personnel, once as the priest at Confession and another time as the monk who has broken the arms of the witch. Yet the pious are given such wonderful acclaim. Joseph and Mary and Michael are saved, the Squire’s girl tries to save the Seminarist when he is struck by the plague despite his earlier attempts to rape her, and she and the Knight’s wife are spared from the solemn Dance of Death. The only plausible way of reconciliation seems to be that Bergman, whilst distrustful of religion and its fanatic, oppressive leaders (not surprising, given his childhood), is nevertheless drawn by the good-naturedness of the pious, which I believe he credits to their simplicity rather than their piety.

Literature is Didactic: 23/5/08

I must not forget 23 May 2008.

On the morning of the 23rd of May 2008, I was reading a section of The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky and afterwards I viewed the Dekalog. I think it was episode trzy (three). Then I had an epiphany: Literature teaches!

Later on I rode the bus to HKU whereon I was reading a book, ‘Why literature matters’ whose message was in accordance with what I was thinking about earlier.

Literature has a message. In The Brothers Karamazov, which others call a dark novel (I actually thought it was pretty optimistic), Dostoevsky interspersed sudden unexpected confessions from his characters of their guilt, their downtrodden natures, but, and most importantly, the hope they have of salvation and of divine grace descending upon them. The message is of man’s fallen nature and grace. I believe there are other themes as well, but the one that strikes me most is this.

The Decalogue also has a message, episode three was about honouring the sabbath, and, as I wrote earlier in a previous entry, I believe that it was kept, somewhat unconventionally. The series can be rather perplexing and grayscale in its message (it does not admit of a clear answer), and is food for thought.

But what distinguishes literature from hard-core thinking subjects like philosophy, for example, the book asserts, is (inter alia) literature’s sensuousness. Spot-on, it hit on the reason why I prefer literature. Literature is subtle. Literature does not seek to explicitly put forward its axioms and whatnot. Instead it spins a narrative, and sometimes does so in such a realistic manner that one is drawn into another world, but one no less realistic from the real one, whereby one learns to contemplate universal issues that have equal relevance in reality. One can choose how much one will really devote to rumination, but most of the time the author’s craft is such that one is drawn in, and one slowly starts to think…

Another great aspect of literature is that it does not always admit of a clear answer. When things are in narrative format it is hard to see it in definitive terms. The author’s ‘solution’ may not always be agreed with, and at any rate, one can always think about alternative causes of action that led to the outcome in the narrative apart from what the author points out (I am thinking about Hardy’s idea of Fate leading to the demise of Jude and Sue in Jude the Obscure – at some points I believe that, had Jude and Sue been a little more clear-minded, they could have avoided their tragic outcomes). Literature does not command acceptance, it is not a proposition in philosophy or a theory in science that has first to be accepted before the rest of the exposition can go on (at least, not that necessary – I know that sometimes the author’s firmly held beliefs shape the way of his narrative and the reader feels at points so irritated and frustrated that he is ready to fling the book to the floor. But the essence of my argument is, the author has not at any point required the reader to accept his presuppositions before being able to carry on reading the narrative – the reader can disagree, and still reach the end of the work all the same).

I know I went on for a while and to the casual reader this may seem unnecessary. But having pondered and agonised over the question of why literature matters it was relieving to see that it has its importance and its place in society.

Who moved the stone? (Frank Morison)

Read as part of a church book club.

Have to admit that I don’t really enjoy the book, in its english or chinese (translated) version. Whatever Lee Strobel said about the book being used by God to bring him into His kingdom (and I give thanks for that), it didn’t work for me. The first half about events leading to the cruxificion (what was Jesus doing at the Garden of Gethsemane? Why did he wait that long? He led himself into the trial, without his cooperation the prosecution could not have succeeded…) seemed to be so… du-uh. Obvious, wouldn’t it have struck anyone as obvious that the whole narrative shows Jesus playing into the scheme? Perhaps the best parts I gleaned from the first few chapters were that Jesus had initially been staying at Bethany at Mary and Martha’s and was probably due that evening back again, so that his delay at Gethsemane would have been a great cause of concern and bewilderment for his sleepy disciples. Secondly, that according to strict Jewish laws a large case involving a human life ought not to be tried in the middle of the night, so the Jewish authorities (Caiaphas and gang) were toe-lining the entire process. No wonder they had to approach Pontius Pilate for his cooperation, since by Roman authority they could eventually seal the deal and get Jesus crucified. Pilate apparently is a man of fiery temper and great stubborness, and his reluctance to deal with Jesus was an exception, not the norm, and worth questioning – so why did he not swiftly put Jesus up on the cross? After all, what is one more human life on the cross to the many innocents that could have been crucified and subject to all manner of torture under the cruel Roman regime? Morison’s answer, if I remember correctly, seemed to be that his wife Claudia had sent him a note saying he was to have nothing to do with this man. So Pilate was hen-pecked? I don’t know. Or was he mystical? I’ve seen enough intellectuals reverently lifting joss sticks and offerings to statues that I can understand that being an official does not exclude flights of mysticism that are seemingly incompatible with a rational mind. My own problems are not really with why he delayed – after all, it is a human life, people do have consciences – my problem is with why he eventually went along with the crowd and crucified Christ. Because he was anxious to appease the Jews and because he was afraid of being denounced as not being a friend of Caesar’s? Come on. What is one ‘insignificant’ maverick crying that he is the king of the Jews going to be a threat to Ceasar’s place on the throne, and if Pilate could ruthlessly execute/crucify so many Jews in the past for whatever (there was an average of one cruxificion per day, it seemed), why should he care so much about appeasing Jews? Despite washing his hands symbolically off the matter, he went along anyway. Befuddling.

The part about the resurrection was a more engaging read. Morison refutes several alternative hypotheses to the gospel narrative that Jesus rose from the dead. Perhaps the part that I agree with mostly is that these hypotheses are not in accord with the striking omission of any historical evidence to show that the tomb of Jesus was not in fact empty after three days. No one seems to have raised any objections, no one has found his remains elsewhere, no one has asserted that his remains are still in the tomb or that the tomb is in any way intact. Very interesting in light of the fact that Caiaphas must have been hopping mad at the assertion by the bandy group of followers Christ had, whom he had effectively put to death a while earlier.

Morison goes on to say that by the personal testimony of the disciples themselves at the Feast of Weeks, some seven weeks after Jesus’ resurrection, points to the historical authenticity of the narrative. For no one would have believed the motley gang of, seriously, questionable faith and even intelligence, would have been so emboldened by anything short of solid truth in order to testify in front of 3000 people at the Pentacost. My personal opinion is that it is not hard for one to say that Peter would have firmly believed, after being taught a valuable lesson about staying faithful to the Master after the cock had crowed three times, whether it was truth or no, simply because he believed his rabbi’s words that the Lord would resurrect himself. Although I do not find the disciples’ faith part entirely persuasive (forgive me for my harsh standards), I am inclined to feel that the ‘bumbling recruits’, the disciples, would never have been a gang brave enough to stand in front of a crowd on a jovial, festive and large-scale occasion giving a public announcement about a controversy, and a pretty ridiculous one at that (that so-and-so had RISEN FROM THE DEAD), had it not been true. Just imagining Peter standing on the steps of a podium, eyes bright with anticipation and passion, loudly proclaiming the fanatical truth got me laughing.

Other parts about the testimony of the great stone, the testimony of Paul, at first a gentle-bred, sceptic Jew who turned to Christianity at a time when the grave was still open to scrutiny, was persuasive. I particularly like Morison’s way of reasoning that the reason why it was Jerusalem and not Galilee that experienced the great conversion of 3000 during the Pentecost has probably much to do with the fact that the empty grave was in such close proximity to Jerusalem that the truth could be so definitely verified. I also like the idea that there has not been any strong argument levelled against the early Christians suggesting that the tomb was NOT empty shows that the allegation that the tomb was indeed empty was an established fact that no one dared refute. That is telling enough. As icing on the cake Morison’s way of suggesting that the reason why the women’s testimony was not invoked by Peter as he preached openly on Pentacost of the resurrection and salvation had to do with the fact that 1) it was shadowy to allege that the women trespassed private property to get to the body of Christ, and may work against their favour by allowing the dissenters to insinuate that the disciples stole the body at the time it was supposed to have risen, and 2) because the open grave was an established fact that no one needed to buttress by any more rhetoric, goes down well with me. I think it cements the strong evidence for the resurrection of Christ through the testimony of the open grave.

The last few chapters were revolutionary and whilst I cannot exactly find fault with them I would be more cautious in accepting them. To suggest that Mary Magdalene and the rest of the women who went to the tomb that fateful morning saw, not an angel, but another living human being who got to the tomb of the risen Jesus before them, is probably seldom heard of. The reasons Morison uses to support this hypothesis of his are based on inductive reasoning and a slightly tenable piece of evidence from the Gospel of the Hebrews (I should think) which has a later part about the tomb episode that is corroborated by one of the Gospels (can’t remember which). The Gospel of the Hebrews states that the man the women saw was ‘the servant of the priest’. However telling, I consider it wise to suspend judgment since the authenticity of this account is not verified by other sources, and the fact that the part of the Gospel of the Hebrews that immediately follows is verified by an authoritative gospel, does not entail the truth of this preceding statement.

Dekalog: Trzy (The Decalogue Episode Three)

Just emerged from watching the third episode of the Decalogue.

This episode is modelled (or rather, inspired) by the third commandment of the Holy Ten: ‘Keep the sabbath day, for it is holy’. A married cab driver is – enticed? harangued? threatened? – by his ex-lover on Christmas eve to drive all around Warsaw to look for her errant new boyfriend who has ran away. It is eventually found that she has lied the night through to keep him with her because she is convinced that if she manages to keep him through the lonely night good luck will ensue.

Ewa, the ex-lover, is to all appearances a psychotic, manipulative and emotionally reliant, needy woman. Janusz, the cab driver, does not seem put off, although at moments in the film he coolly asks if she has had enough and would like to go home. Instead he seems, if mildly irritated, largely coalescing. It did puzzle me at first but as the film progresses I think that for all his new-found fidelity to his family (and not really his wife, really, we see that the love he has for her has quietened down considerably) Ewa still has a hold on him and his willingness to accompany her on this joy ride of sorts, despite knowing, by a very cunning and observant que, that she is lying (shan’t spoil the story for you), has got to do with his wanting to tie up loose ends in his past affair with him. The complications of adulterous relationships…

I cannot help noting with interest that although going on a goose chase all over Warsaw on Christmas eve with an ex-lover seems prima facie to be in direct conflict with the commandment, one cannot help feeling like Janusz has kept the commandment. The holiest thing he did was probably to help the broken (although fallen) spirit of Ewa: keeping her company on the loneliest of nights (for a single, emotionally let down woman devoid of family love – all she has for family is a senile aunt). Sometimes all people need is affection. And at the same time convincing himself of the true worth of his family, witnessed when he makes a decisive break from Ewa’s clutches and returns to his wife, who, in understated elegance and magnanimous, loving restraint, shows by a simple one-word question that she knows what he has been up to the whole time. Some comments I’ve seen online state that the ‘rendezvous’ showed him just how self-centred Ewa is and how, in all probability, their affair was, which motivated him to make a clean break. I concur.

Can’t type the rest of the themes that I’d gleaned from the movie over, rather pressed for time and hungry (lunchtime!). But I’ll leave a link to a site which discussed the episode:

http://artsandfaith.com/index.php?showtopic=876

The Brothers Karamazov – Still very unclear

The chapter where Ivan squares off with Smerdyakov.

We finally see Ivan losing his cool. Here the whole scene is underlined by a certain amount of pathos as we watch the usually very cool and rational Ivan suddenly losing himself somewhat erratically.

Dostoevsky does endear ourselves to this character. Makes me remember those times when someone hit a raw nerve.

Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov

I started this book the day I finished my exams the Saturday before last (10 May). I’m a third through by now.

Intrigued by a referral and rough summary of his broad thematic message and his Grand Inquisitor chapter, I decided to tackle the book. It was an exciting, gripping and yes, intriguing read from the start.

I cannot believe how deranged a family this is. Yes, sometimes his portrayals border on the theatrical (and therefore the unbelievable), but critics are right to credit Dostoevsky for his vivid portrayals of humans. I think what impresses me most is the fact that in varying degrees even the most debauched characters think of the ‘univeral questions’ – God, sin, forgiveness, eternity, life etc.

Before I started the novel I thought I would like Ivan. It is true, I do like the character. He is impressive in his coolly rational manner, his (somewhat pseudo) intellectual qualities and the pathos of his belief-disbelief. But now somewhere deep into the Grand Inquisitor I find him a little… half-baked intelligent, somewhat contradictory, a little crazed, perhaps due to disillusionment (all the pity). Even, amazingly, somewhat annoying – why does he refuse to accept the painful truth? Perhaps he is annoying because he is incomprehensible to me (which, granted, is not very good grounds for feeling annoyed at anyone, or any character).

I thought I’d be neutral with regards Alyosha, but so far I’ve developed a liking for this angelic younger brother. I always had an impression that he was naively sticking to his beliefs, unquestioningly, but how wrong! Alyosha does question. The amazing fact is that despite his own questions and despite his brother Ivan’s doubt-ridden questions about faith that he hurls mercilessly at his own brother (I recall the amazingly frank quote that he loved his brother very much and didn’t want to lose him to the starets, the religious leader), Alyosha doesn’t budge. Such steadfastness deserves admiration.

Introduction to Ezekiel

Ezekiel comes from the name of its (widely established) author of the same name, which means ‘God strengthens / will/has strengthen(ed)’. He was a Judean priest, and like Zechariah and Jeremiah, were the only writing prophets who were also priests.

Historically, Ezekiel started his ministry in 593 BC when he was 30 years old, it would appear he was born around 623 BC, and would have grown up during King Josiah’s reforms (his ministry was during Nebuchadnezzar’s time). Jeremiah was around 20 years before him, so it is likely that Ezekiel knew of this other prophet’s existence. There are similar themes about repentance, salvation not to those left-behind in Jerusalem but to the captive, individual retribution and repentance, long exile followed by godly leadership and restoration, a new covenant inwardly and outwardly appropriated, and condemnations of false prophets. It was probable he knew too Daniel and vice versa, for Daniel’s captivity was in 605 BC as a teenager and his birthdate is surmised to be about 620 BC, thus making both prophets’ ages similar.

Ezekiel ministered apparently only to the Jews in exile in Babylon, himself captured during Nebuchadnezzar’s second deportation of the Jews to Babylon in 597 BC. He ministered to the Jews living at Tel-abib (Tel-aviv) near the Chebar (Kebar) River (Ezekiel 3:15). Life was easy for the captives, Babylon giving them substantial freedom and a general lifestyle of luxury and excessive idolatry.

Purpose:
Ezekiel ministered to the twelve tribes. He sometimes had visions where God carried him to Jerusalem, but his concentrated efforts was towards ministering to the exiled Jews. His theme was twofold: to emphasise the sins and unholiness of the Israelites, and then to point towards the saving glory of God, and encouraging true repentance.

Structure:
Chronologically and logically organised. Probably one of the easiest books to outline in the Bible. Dates his prophecies precisely in the format month/day/year, starting from the year of Johoiachin’s (and his own) exile. Most prophecies written in chronlogical order, although the 7th and 8th one were organised thematically about Egypt. Logically ordered, it first speaks of the call and preparation of the prophet (chapters 1 to 3), then prophecies about Judah ending with the fall of Jerusalem (4 – 24), then prophecies about foreign nations (25-32) and about the coming restoration of Israel (33 – 48).

The book begins with the theme of judgment as Ezekiel receives a commission to prophecy on it, and sees God’s leaving the temple in judgment (2-3). It ends on the theme of deliverance, where Ezekiel is commissioned to deliver prophecies concerning that (33), and witnesses God returning to the temple to bless it (43: 1-5).

Style:
Autobiographical, although restrained with regards personal feelings, compared with Jeremiah.
‘Halving’ of oracles, first propounding a theme, then switching to another, and ending with a coda linking elements from the two.
Uses an earlier text or tradition, interpretation and application in light of the new situation.
Formulaic expressions – he is always referred to by God in the book as Ben Adam (son of man), stressing his own humanity. Unique probably to him and only appearing otherwise in Daniel 8:17. Likes to refer to God as ‘adonai yhwh’ (Lord Yahweh), emphasizing God’s title as divine master of the people. Israel he refers to mostly as ‘bet yisrae’l’ (house or family of Israel), emphasising the people’s solidarity.
Almost always carefully distinguishes whether it was God speaking or himself speaking with expressions like ‘The word of the Lord came to me saying’ etc.

Genre:
Ezekiel was the great mystic of the entire bible, and his one book contained so many different genres of writing that it seems impossible to analyse and interpret completely. As such it has been much of a closed book for many. He liked using dream-vision literature, which apparently was frequent in the literature of that time, presumably because the people got bored and God through Ezekiel got the message to them in this way.

Theology:
Identification of themes by major theologians vary, the common threads seem to be: God’s holiness, glory, men’s sinfulness, Israel’s moral, ethical, religious history, individual responsibility, God’s saving grace.