Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

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One Hundred Years Of Solitude, By Gabriel Garcia Marquez

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Gabriel Garcia Marquez is obviously not for everyone, the reviews on this site alone should suffice to point that out, here, he gets one star from one person who claims it's little more then intellectual porn, to the five star review where the constant ride of characters is likened to an oceanic ride... But for me, this book took on a whole new range, for me, it was like listening to a story told by my mother. Maybe it's the Latin American culture's shift to Christianity despite it's magical origins that has created this genre-Magical Realism.

I can't say for sure, nor would I claim that I understand Mr. Marquez' intentions, but I do know that my mother would often speak of magical events as if they were the norm. But that was my upbringing, so reading a lot of this story was quite literally like listening to my mothers voice.

The story itself is simply the tale of the fictional town of Macondo, it's founder, Aurelio Buendia, and roughly 23, or 24 more Aurelio's, and their family. The town was blessed at first, and through various stages of it's development, goes through countless magical and odd transformations.

It is a bit choppy, in that almost no characters are allowed to fully develop, and you are simply allowed to view them from a distance, so to speak. Also, the characters pop in and out, and back in again at such a rate that I could see how one might get confused. I even noticed a few of the reviewers actually used the family tree at the beginning to try and keep track. I didn't do this, but perhaps I have a better memory than most, or perhaps I was a bit more absorbed by the text.

Marquez is also on the top of his game in terms of writing style. Almost 432 pages, yet never once did I feel jarred, like some have claimed on this site. I felt he very smoothly transferred from character to character, and he writes with this fluid prose that for me is absolutely entrancing.

From beginning to end, this book seems to challenge the reader to look beyond the realm of whats real, to become absorbed in the drama surrounding the characters, and never really the characters. It compels one to try and digest the massive tale. Ultimately, you will feel changed when you are done with this story.

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Happy Birthday, Mom.

I wrote the following piece for an English course I took in school. It was a definition piece, where I supposed to define anything I wanted. I chose my family, and I do so through a fictitious get together reminiscent of our typical family parties. I'm posting it today to celebrate my mother's birthday. Eight years ago, her life was tragically cut short, today she would be celebrating her 52th birthday. But tomorrow is never promised to us, and today is only borrowed. For this, we should cherish every moment above ground.

Defining My Family.

I drink Bourbon; Booker’s if I can afford it, Jim Beam since I can’t. My brother pours me the first shot of the evening. The shot glasses are lined up side by side, five in all, one for me, one for my older brother Danny, my oldest brother Yulio, Fernando, a brother by choice, and my little sister Darleen. Yulio lifts his glass in toast. “Salud!” he shouts. The Spanish phrase means health, but he only says it for decorative value, it’s something to say. I take the shot down as my face grows hot, then I gasp a little, a mistake in my family, and one that they don’t miss.

“What’s the matter Nancy?” I hear shouted out, but I ignore it.

My sister comes up behind me and grabs my shoulder. She whispers, “That was for us, but I got a bottle of Limon for Mom. Not till later though, aight?”

I remember my mother then, and since she’s passed away these get-togethers happen a lot less. If she were alive right now, she’d love this scene. She always loved the symphony of voices clogging the air with memories, the children laughing and playing, and the smell of the roasted pork shoulder cooking in the oven.

A table stands proudly displaying the various plates we all brought with us. Well, they brought, I never bring a dish. My sister is expected to bring her special potato salad since she’s always broke and the dish is relatively cheap to make, so it’s hers to make. I used to wonder why she called it her “special” potato salad, but my sister is the definitive hoodrat, so I don’t want to know anymore.

A couple of pans of Spanish rice glow amidst the dishes, one was brought by my older brother Danny’s wife, the other was cooked here by Yulio’s wife Sarah. The former is yellow rice with sausage and corn made just for me, the latter; yellow with beans. I don’t eat beans.

Along with the main dishes, there are the desserts. Sarah has made her marshmallow cheesecake, and Danny’s wife Cathy has made a Flan, which is a custard like treat. My sisters’ kids have made a pie which looks, um, interesting. They claim it is apple-banana, but we may never know for sure. The girls have all made cookies for the event, various shapes and sizes, but mostly hearts.

I hear my new name for the evening being beckoned at the row of shot glasses, and I join them gladly, ignoring my new feminine moniker. They’ve cracked open a bottle of champagne, and my brother Danny says the toast; “Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my cham friends! Salud!”

“Salud!” we all reply in unison.

“Hey!” Yulio reply’s with a start, “To Costa Rica, too.”

“Yeah,” I start in, “To Costa Rica, only six revolutions till were Mexican.”

My brother begins to tell of the idiocy of my remark, and to tell of the beauty of our supposed native land. I’m only half Costa Rican, the other half is Puerto Rican, and so I could care less. I leave before he begins to tell me why Costa Rica is paradise.

I head over to the children. My daughter, a seven year old red headed fireball of energy, is leading a dance off to a High School Musical number that I now know by heart. Yulio’s daughter, a six year old doll, joins in along with her little brother and my sister’s armies of kids-three in all-also begin dancing. My daughter spots me, and requests my hand in the dance. I join in, and we all begin to “Bop to the top” I wipe away my inhibitions as the anarchy these kids call dancing erupts around me. They grow bored with me after my first set, so I excuse myself to the kitchen were my brother is still talking about Costa Rica. My sister pulls out a bottle of Bacardi Limon, my mother’s favorite drink. We all notice it, and quickly head towards the row of shot glasses.

The five glasses are still in place, only now, three more have emerged. The wives have joined in. The glasses are filled, and then lifted to the air. I glance around at the people around me, this is my family. I wish I could get this more often. My sister says the toast now.

“To mom and the family she left behind. Salud!”

Why I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I spent the last two days of my life quite bored. Yesterday, I visited a library over in Leominster and spent almost three hours indulging in the almost symphonic prose of the great literature of one Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I did this on Wednesday as well. Yesterday, I read "A Chronicle of a Death Foretold"; on Wednesday; "Memories of My Melancholy Whores". The latter I read in the Fitchburg Public Library, the former in Leominster's. Leominster definitely has the better Library, as it carries an almost Barnes and Noble feel to it, Fitchburg is more like a crappy bookstore.

With his story, "Memories of my Melancholy Whores",Marquez has this remarkable prose that even with a vulgar topic such as this story-a tale of a ninety year old who decides that, on "the eve" of his ninetieth birthday, to bed a virgin-an obvious beauty shines through in his writing.

The tale centers around a sort of anti-hero, whose name I don't believe is ever revealed. He is a washed up, retired journalist of no fame who has spent his life bedding whores with whom he "makes love without love", sometimes not even fully undressed.

The story follows him on his mission while he recounts his life. In true Marquezian fashion, the tale is filled with a very original prose which is so fluid that to stop reading is almost impossible. I read this at the library in about 3 hours...much to the chagrin of library lurkers-of which there is few in my new local library.

I would highly recommend this book...whether or not you know Marquez

As for "A Chronicle of a Death Foretold", What I learned was a)Marquez enjoys intermingling his stories-a couple of characters from "One Hundred Years in Solitude" make a reappearance here. b)Marquez has a fluidity in his writing that I can only dream of one day possessing and c)For a man who rarely ever ends a book well(I love him, but you know I'm right)this book will surprise.

The story is a retelling, after the fact, of a heinous crime in which despite the clarity of the suspects and victim and motives, a great deal of unanswered questions remain.

The story itself is told in first person, by the friend of the victim, in what appears to be a report of some sort; like a journalist trying to get at the heart of the matter. But this formula is undermined by the writer's use of ethereal metaphor; a trademark of Marquez's Magical Realism. The writer is hardly concerned with discovering the truth-it's obvious that the truth is already found--but more with understanding the motives, and exposing further the many failings that it took to create the crime.

In essence, the "Death" was "Foretold", but nobody listened. Marquez has a way of making even this magical. If you like anything by Garcia Marquez, you will "love" this story.

Also, a master of the short novel, at 120 pages, you will barrel right through this story; I finished this in just shy of 3 hours--and I enjoyed every minute

The Death of a Poet

Our President spoke last night about his troop surge in Afghanistan, and what struck me first was the lack of poetry in his words. I think we saw the death of a poet live on primetime.

The first ten minutes of his speech was essentially a history lesson on the Afghan and Iraq wars, with a much needed emphasis on the fact that we want nothing to do with occupying these nations, but rather to simply to remove a common enemy. His retelling of the history of our wars in that region was very kind to our former cowboy president. And it was very clear that, as most already knew, Afghanistan is the proverbial ground zero. Although, as Chris Matthews pointed out, his logic in this situation was slightly more a domino effect than an all out assault on Al-Qaeda.

Afghanistan, as the president pointed out, can not be lost because if we lose, the Taliban will set up shop, and give safe haven to Al-Qaeda. Winning in Afghanistan will help to keep pressure on Al-Qaeda, and show Pakistan that they have a partner, which will help to further drown out Al-Qaeda’s power.

His plan is fairly simple; increase troops by as much as 30,000 in Afghanistan as early as January, 2010, spend 18 months helping to train Afghan soldiers, combat the Taliban-which has grown in strength while we wasted time over in Iraq chasing imaginary weapons and such-and try to suppress the presence of border region militias that operate with, as Obama himself put it, “impunity”, who send terrorist to America to execute various nefarious plots to disrupt western life, while preparing Afghanistan to take over and hold the fort down themselves.

Dennis Kucinich would rather not send more troops to Afghanistan; he would prefer to bring the troops home, and focus solely on “nation building” here at home. Several other well known democrats have joined him, including Rep. Maxine Waters, and they are poised to disrupt funding for the task. Unfortunately, Obama does not have the luxury of focusing on one problem, a point that he stressed in his speech.

Now one point that can be made is the concern over whether we should be fighting a war for a country steeped in corruption, but this holds onto a mistaken belief that corruption is unfixable. I will concede that “60 percent of the population said Karzai's government was the most corrupt in 40 years” as is stated in a report by Integrity Watch Afghanistan . And it is somewhat disturbing that Hamid Karzai, the President of Afghanistan, is himself incredibly tainted with both of his two elections to office marred by fraud and the fact that his brother is one of the most powerful drug lords in the area-as well as his well known tendency to keep incompetent generals in power for political reasons-but this assumption that going only through the President is the only way to stabilize the region and push Taliban forces away, is historically wrong.

Mark Moyar, a professor of national security affairs at the U.S. Marine Corps University, points out that the U.S. has, on occasion, effected political change through convincing leaders to designate particular cabinets posts to effective leaders, and to shift certain power to those posts. And this can happen in Afghanistan.

Another point that the President made in his speech, was that he was not dithering, as former Vice President Dick Cheney has recently been claiming, but that he took the amount of time allowed him by his Generals to think this decision through. He correctly pointed out that in no way has he stalled any assistance to our troops over in Afghanistan. I like that, a President that actually thinks the problem through, not just some gung-ho cowboy looking to shoot from the hip. He made it very clear that he does not take this lightly, that it weighs heavily on his mind. I like that.

But the one thing about his speech that struck me was the pragmatic perspective. As Rachel Maddow pointed out, there was a lack of poetry in his speech, it was more prose. But I like this approach, old fashioned pragmatism, a realistic look at matters. There was no sloganeering, he gave us the facts, laid out in a very precise manner. And I believe he stated his goals very clearly. I, for one, never truly understood the goal of the Afghan war, nor the war in Iraq, but in his speech, not only did our President very clearly spell out his goals, he has assured us that they can be met.

Last night, on prime time, we might have seen the death of a poet but at least we saw the birth of a true President.

Eric Pabon

Inaction is not an option

It’s been repeated over and over, and by several well-known liberals--inaction is not an option.

When the healthcare bill passed the House on Saturday, I was excited; at last, I thought, finally, these Democrats managed to pass something, and the healthcare bill, no less. Now, I’ve seen the original bill and I agree wholeheartedly with it, but since I last read it, it’s been abused, and abused, and so badly changed, that I no longer know what it is.

Let me specify, I, for the most part, agree with the current healthcare bill, but I do disagree with this arrogant belief that we should allow some very important reforms go away in the name of the public option. I know that the provision in this bill that say’s insurance companies will no longer be allowed to deny coverage based on pre-existing conditions, could help a lot of families. And removing the health insurance industry’s exemption from anti-trust laws would help to bring prices down. Along with several other really important reforms.

But for some in the senate as well as the house, the public option is a do or die provision. And this is true for both sides. For Lieberman, that clear attempt at maintaining the healthcare revenue stream that flows so well from his home state insurers is of the utmost importance, and as such, he is poised to insure it remains that way. And he has a great deal of power right now; with a single deviation on a procedural vote, he can bring this reform to a complete stop, all because of the public option. So, what we can have is nothing, and the insurance industry keeps on abusing customers.

Now, if we dump the public option, Lieberman has no real reason to complain, and any complaints will be clear cut greed.. Not that his objection to the public option can’t be supposed greed, but at least it is defendable, and with the nation so evenly split, it is defendable. But, none of the other major provisions can be deemed overly controversial; I would love to see him defend the insurance industries exemption from the anti-trust laws, or see him defend pre-existing conditions.

Now, if we do dump the public option, it would behoove us to also remove the mandate, not the employer mandate, but the personal mandate. I can understand the frustration, people run to the emergency room because of a lack preventative healthcare, and we the tax payers are forced to subsidize, but mandating that we get insurance is at best laughable. Perhaps a better solution would be enforcing hospital pay the same way we mandate federal loan repayment, by force.

Now, the republicans have been touting this portable insurance idea, allowing all insurance companies to cross state lines, and I agree, but only if we agree on a federal standard that must be met, and allow states to keep whatever standards they have, which any insurer doing business in that state must abide by.

This is hardly a cure-all, but at least it gets us moving in the right direction, and until we get a more liberal senate, it’s as good as it gets. And at the very least, it’s action.

Ghetto WordSmiths-Hip-Hop as Modern Poetry

Poetry is defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary as being “A metrical writing…that is arranged to create a specific emotional response.” Unsatisfying as it may be, that is roughly what all dictionaries agree upon as a definition. I would prefer Mark Flanagan’s definition, that Poetry defies definition. He likens defining poetry to “grasping at the wind.” Although his definition is a lack of definition, it seems surprisingly fit to its task. Robert Frost wrote in his notebooks that “a poem is an idea caught fresh in the act of dawning.” and that “poetry is the renewal of words.” Perhaps the New Englander’s loose definition is a bit too abstract, but then so is Poetry.

Following suit, Hip-Hop, or rap, is equally definable. Merriam Webster defines Hip-Hop as “a subculture especially of inner city youths who are devotees of Rap music.” And then rap music is defined as “a rhythmic chanting often in unison of usually rhymed couplets to a musical accompaniment.” What a sexy way to describe a social movement, perhaps Merriam Webster would claim Dorian Gray was a little too into his looks, or that Gregor Samsa had a bad hair day.

To a degree, some words redefine themselves over time, so the fault cannot lay in Merriam‘s hands entirely. The definition of these words grow like vines, increasing their reach, and blending into other vines in odd Gordian knots. Rap, and Poetry have grown like vines, and to an extent, are no longer truly indistinguishable from one another. We can see where they both started, but which stem belongs to which vine?

Like any proper craft, Poetry has its tools. Aside from the obvious knowledge of words, other tools in the poets tool box are metaphors, analogies, similes, as well as the ability to apply them. The range these simple tools provide though is staggering. Poetry itself has grown with the age of the poets who compose it. From Homer to Dante, from Hugo to Poe, Frost to Hughes, Angelou to…well, I suppose Nas and Necro now, Poetry is constantly evolving.

Opponents of Rap music will lay claim that because of the vulgar language often employed, and the way rappers use slang terminology in their lyrics, that rap can not be considered poetry. I oppose this view. In my opinion, Poetic Rap is a reflection of society, and in some cases it raises the consciousness of its fans. Oscar Wilde, in the manifesto to Dorian Gray wrote that the realism movement in literature created the “Rage of Caliban at seeing his own image in the mirror.” Or, simply put, society hates to view itself in a negative light. Rap suffers from this view, and the Poets who create it suffer a lack of artistic respect.

Several rappers could serve as examples of the poetic nature in rap, but Nas has gained the most respect in terms of accolades, so I will use him. One song in particular serves to showcase his wide range of topics. In “Last words” he takes on the persona of a prison cell. He starts off by telling you that he’s a prison cell, then he explains that he is alive, giving the eerie warning that “Convicts think they alone/but if they listen close/They can hear me groan/touch the wall feel my pulse”. In the dark nights, when you think that nobody is listening, he can hear you crying. He taunts you by making it hotter in the summer, and colder in the winter. He hides your weapons for you. He watches you sleeping, and he makes you dream of freedom, but when you wake up, you wake up to him. He warns you that he can turn the toughest man into a beast, and should you ever be freed, he will go with you wherever you go as a constant reminder to live legally.

In this one song, he personifies a prison cell, warns of the hell a prison can inflict, and serves as a warning to live the legal life. All of this captured in eight bars, or to put it in poetic terms, about five stanzas of pentameter.

To capture that much emotion, and reflect it efficiently in a matter of a few stanzas showcases his ability as true wordsmith. To deny him the right to be called a Poet is simply injustice.

Works Cited available upon request