Odysseus's Remorse For Ajax Continues in Joyce's Ulysses

Odysseus’s Remorse for Ajax Continues in Joyce’s Ulysses 

    All true heroes must enter the realm of the dead. Aeneas, Orpheus, Odysseus, and Leopold Bloom—yes, Leopold Bloom—all take their turns as the living amongst the dead. James Joyce’s Ulysses remains a vast labyrinth filled with classical allusion, formulating an impressively modern epic. During the episode “Hades,” the Odysseus stand-in traverses the cemetery, and like his predecessor, meets old souls. Scholars point towards a specific incident when Joyce alludes to Odysseus’s encounter to Ajax. While scholars support that Bloom indeed runs into an Ajax-like character in John Henry Menton, the allusion feels too short and anecdotal to have a tangible meaning. I will suggest that by applying the Odysseus-Ajax relationship to Bloom’s relationship with his father, and that perceiving their relationship through this classical lens better articulates his nightmarish journey through the cemetery.

    Scholars have already identified portions of “Hades” as an allusion to Odysseus’s and Ajax’s encounter in the Odyssey. Towards the episode’s end, Leopold1 tells Menton that his “hat is a little crushed,” who coldly “stares at him a little moment without moving” (Joyce 95). Only when Marty Cunningham intervenes does Menton recognize the friendly gesture that he “bulged out the dinge” and thanked him for his courtesy (95). This does represent the stony silence Ajax gives Odysseus when their paths meet in the underworld, when Ajax “gave [Odysseus] no answer, and turned away / into Erebus to join the other shades of the departed dead” (Homer 563-564). Menton’s disdain for Leopold reflects the cold shoulder Ajax offers Odysseus. Additionally, Leopold waffles between getting back at Menton or continuing his day, until he decides against it, figuring that when Menton realizes what he did Bloom will “get the pull over him that way” (95). Odysseus, like his literary descendant, also ponders if he could begin a conversation with Ajax despite “all his bitterness” (Homer 565). Eventually he chooses “to see the shades of others,” but not before he reveals his own bitterness that he and Ajax cannot bury the hatchet (568). For its brevity, Bloom’s exchange (or lack of) with Menton has a genuine Homeric origin.

 

    Although Ajax’s existence in Ulysses can be scholastically supported, the allusion’s purpose remains relatively lackluster when viewed remotely. The reference could help Joyce equal Homer’s seemingly exhaustive list of the famous Greek heroes Odysseus meets while in the underworld. This may add depth to the relationship between Book XI and “Hades” Additionally, both events occur towards their respective episode’s endings; the match is not exact, but Joyce rarely considers exact congruence as requisite for his allusions. Neither Bloom’s quip nor Odysseus’s soliloquy impacts the overarching plot of either tale. The reasoning for this Ajax-like encounter in Ulysses could be a checkpoint for the story: one more nod from Joyce that he is marrying his book with Homer’s, and further implications are not needed. 

    Rather than determining Ajax’s influence in “Hades” to this single occurrence, I suggest that Joyce resurrects him into the text prior to Bloom’s incident with Menton, this time with a stronger influence on Bloom’s character. Although “chapfallen,” the anguish that Bloom feels derives from Menton’s stiff negligence (95). This differs from the anguish expressed by Odysseus upon seeing Ajax, whose sorrow seeps much deeper than receiving a childish silent treatment. Odysseus feels such strong sadness when seeing Ajax because of his proximity to him at the time of his death. Sophocles’ Ajax recounts a funeral game for the fallen Achilles between Odysseus and Ajax. In response to Odysseus’s upset win, Ajax enters into a state of bloodlust and kills the Achaean (Greek) flocks before he takes his own life. Verity’s translation mentions the immense impact his suicide has on Odysseus, who says “we Achaeans grieve ceaselessly for you now you are dead,” even “as much as we do for hero Achilles” (Homer 557-558). While the emotions properly align, their intensity and their direction do not. The incident between Bloom and Menton lacks the weight as the Odysseus-Ajax encounter. Rather, the context of Odysseus and Ajax reflects a different character pairing in “Hades:” Leopold and Methuselah Bloom. 

    Two different people describe Methuselah Bloom’s death, Cunningham in “Hades” and the narrator of “Cyclops.” Both agree that he “poisoned himself,” the account in Cyclops adding “with prussic acid” (Joyce 275). The relationship between Methuselah and Ajax translated beyond suicide. The “Cyclops” narrator recollects Methuselah as a “robbing bagman,” guilty of “swamping the country with his baubles and penny diamonds” (275). And while his business skills appeared appealing, offering “loans by post on easy terms” and “advancing any amount of money with note on hand,” he remains a condemnable figure (275). Recalling the second-class nature of Methuselah’s merchandise may allude to when Ajax spoils the cattle flocks during his unconscious rage; both activities tarnish both a commendable product. Metuhuselah counterfeits precious jewely and Ajax desecrated cattle preserved for the slaughter. They also carry a similar importance to the protagonist in Ulysses and the Odyssey. Menton has no sentimental connection with Leopold, whereas Methuselah, at minimum, hereditarily affects him. This more properly aligns with the intense emotion Odysseus feels for his fallen comrade and rival. As strictly following the immediate events between Odysseus and Ajax produces the allegory of Bloom and Menton, adhering to the same event’s context produces another allegory between Leopold and his father. 

     This new Odysseus-Ajax allegory sheds new light to the awkward but overall harmless interaction Bloom has in the car with Mr. Power, Martin Cunningham, and Simon Dedalus. Leopold’s does not physically approach his father during his descent into the underworld, but as Power and Dedalus critique suicide as “the worst of all [death],” they inadvertently force him to confront his father’s fate (Joyce 79). Compatible with many instances in Ulysses, where Odysseus zigged, Bloom zagged. Again, silence follows the one-sided conversation, but this time Leopold, Joyce’s Odysseus, “about to speak, closed his lips again,” and enters into roiling thoughts (79). This moment plays upon Odysseus’s call for Ajax to “restrain his fury;” the fury that Bloom restrains becomes his own (Homer 762). Odysseus capitulates his grief for Ajax when he encounters him, while Bloom subverts whatever emotions he has for his Ajax, instead mounting a snarling thought-rant against his oppressors (Joyce 80). In the Odyssey, Odysseus argues for Ajax’s commemoration, downplaying his suicide to the point that he claims Zeus “brought him to his doom” (Homer 560). Bloom, aided by Cunningham, had the opportunity to defend his father’s death, parrying the stigmatism Power and Dedalus place on suicide. Instead, he allows the conversation to die, and begins an inner dialog focused more on resent than remorse. Never once does Bloom acknowledge how his father died, but through his response when the memory surfaces, we see a slightly different unrest than the conflict from Greek tradition. This presents an intriguing trichotomy between the three Odysseus-Ajax conflicts that have been discussed. In the previously established allusion, Ajax (Menton) carries his bitterness with him from the Odyssey; in the allusion I propose, Odysseus (Leopold) retains bitterness.

    When analyzing where Joyce redirects this Odysseus-Ajax relationship, the distance between Leopold and his nightmarish visions of the dead in “Hades” becomes more personal, and perhaps more explainable. When he enters the cemetery, Leopold becomes enamored with the dead and their keepers. Despite the grave humor which riddles the conversations while in the cemetery, interiorly Leopold slowly unfolds. Upon leaving the funeral party he admits he has had “enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time” and one more small quip during his errant train of thought: “poor papa too. The love that kills” (Joyce 94). Entrenched between a reference to a Dubliners character and the grotesque image of necrophilia is a bizarre reference to Leopold’s father. Leopold associates two traditionally incompatible actions—loving and killing—together, exposing the tension attached to the memory. This anguish better reflects Odysseus’s emotions when meeting Ajax. The two greatest Achaean heroes remaining after the sacking of Troy are now unable to talk with each other. This tension better explains why Leopold struggles with the dead in “Hades.” Like Odysseus, Leopold feels the immense pressure between his life and his father’s death, unable to release “the tale [he has] to tell” (Homer 561). How Leopold handles the silence greatly differs, and taints his vision of the other deceased, turning the funeral into a ghoulish procession. If Leopold’s relationship with Methuselah does not allude to Odysseus and Ajax, then the episode loses a concreteness to Joyce’s nightmares. 

    The contrast between the Odysseus-Ajax and Leopold-Methuselah relationships generates a more literary allusion than the more established Leopold-Menton pairing. While the Leopold-Menton allusion is easily identifiable, it also feels incredibly ornamental. Contrarily, the contrast between Homer’s heroes and Joyce’s premier father-son relationship enriches the conversation behind “Hades,” further bonding the episode’s theme. Both the scholastically established allusion and the one I have presented increasingly authenticates Leopold as a classical hero entering the underworld, but only one captures the character of the Greek hero— tragically confronting a failed relationship of the past. The other struggles under the light of function. 

Works Cited 

Homer. “Book XI.” The Odyssey, translated by Anthony Verity, Oxford UP, 2016, p. 223 

Joyce, James. Ulysses. Ed. by Hans Gabler, 1984. http://www.joyceproject.com/#

Stand Up, Don't Shoot.

"That's the weird thing about explaining what comedians are like. Literally everything has a funny side."

-Trevor Noah

    The recently promoted anchor of Comedy Central's The Daily Show cruises through New York City via a collector's edition Ferrari with the most famous (at least the richest) comedian of them all, Jerry Seinfeld. Noah then discusses how nobody would laugh at Nelson Mandela's joke despite his incredible humor. "they were releasing Kruggerands with his face on them", the press asked him 'Mr. Mandela, how does it feel to go from being labeled as a terrorist in your country to now having on the currency of that same country?'' and he solemnly said 'that's how you know you've made it. you have your own money. No more talking to poor people." Noah and Seinfeld both explode with laughter. As do I, the not that funny viewer. Whether or not I believe his premise, the fact that Mandela would crack a joke about class inequality is hilarious regardless of the punchline. The word punchline itself summons images of a wily boxer, slipping by uppercuts and absorbing hooks to deliver zany jabs. It's a skill, to retaliate from life's ills with humor. And comedians are so flexible they can find the humor from life surrounding them, as well as their own. And one with heavy rewards in our entertainment-drenched society. It got Jerry Seinfeld a few collector's edition Ferraris and Nelson Mandela's face on a Kruggerand. I'm not so into it for the money as I am for the emotional malleability. What if I could bounce back from anything with a laugh?

"When I googled pictures of America, all I saw were pictures of  police and people fighting in the streets"

-Lasalo Vaitai

    He laughed. The elderly couple and I didn't. Before laying a foot on U.S. soil he received a call to be a missionary for the LDS Church. When he got the news, he did what everyone does when they're moving: check out the new scene. He made that google search a few days after Tamir Rice was shot by Timothy Loehmann. Protests ensued, and soon the story shifted from a terrible shooting to the boiling unrest between police and protester. Without context Lasalo saw a tumultuous depiction of the United States, moments after discovering he discovered God wanted him to teach the gospel. 

    "Vaitai" is Tongan for "dead water," and the conversation remained dead in the water for quite some time. His islander mindset let him to dead water upon multiple occasions, often producing hilarious results. He understood that "rough" could mean difficult but not that when you repeat the word it becomes a noise dogs make, so when people talked about stories about evictions, abuse, and spiritual heartache he'd pause and go "ruff ruff." We received news that there may be race riots downtown after a local police shooting and he responded, "I'm kind of black, should we go?" but no conversation was more dead in the water than when that quaint retired couple and I realized that our country was defined by violent arguments between law keepers and law speakers. I couldn't find a way to make that funny. 

"I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace."

-Sir Toby Belch, 12th Night

    "That's getting cut." My drama teacher told me. I landed a sharp mark through the middle of the peeing joke, relieving my high schools censorship rules. Four years of Shakespearean acting, continuously playing the fool--Horatio, the Porter, Sir Toby--and I still wasn't allowed to have a potty mouth. Not that it was a personal hobby behind the scenes. To this day I've sworn three times offstage, and one of them was when I couldn't quite get the past participle of shoot. If I actively swore, not only would it be vulgar but it would be so awkward. Martha Stewart at a Korn concert would look more natural. But vulgarity onstage is different. Almost always there was art at its soul, whether comedic or tragic.

    In some ways I use this to reconcile my favorite comedians bludgeoning their routines with curses. Even Bill Cosby, the superficial model of a modern major comic, let one slip into his acts. Like Stephen Colbert and Jerry Seinfeld I would fall asleep to his records, playing them on my portable CD player. I'd giggle and snort for 20 minutes during Why is There Air? and then fast forward through half of "Hofstra" to avoid the bad words. My innocent 10 year old brain refused to be corrupted, even by Bill Cosby (I didn't realize that was a losing battle until much later). But fast forwarding became more difficult as I discovered modern comics: Jim Gaffigan, John Mulaney, Dmitri Martin. Their wit and character were so brilliant and fresh, I began consuming their stand up bits just like I did with Cosby's. And when they swore, it was emphatic, purposeful, timed. I craved their humor, their ability to make lemonade from lemons. I quickly learned to extract laughs from vulgarity.

    I reached a point of no return when I listened to comic geniuses Dave Chappelle, Wanda Sykes and Chris Rock. I realized they had a power searched for by ancients and contemporaries: emotional alchemy. They turned blackest moment to gold, maybe with some untouched coal still attached. Deep down, I insisted there was art behind comedy, and the further the mine went to discover it, the more valuable the art.

"We have an opportunity because I'm mad. But I don't have any good advice."

-"Killer Mike" Michael Render

    Killer Mike got his name from being so good at rapping he would "kill the mic." I first became acquainted with him through his feature on Outkast's "The Whole World," when he was not a pop culture/political lightning rod but an Atlanta kid having a shot with rap legends. Then my brother told me to look up his collaboration with New York rapper El-P. Together they made Run the Jewels, which not only is stylistically innovative group but also incredibly funny. Their first three albums make you dance and cringe and laugh with lines like "Beware of horses / I mean a horse is a horse of course but who rides is important." And at this point, Killer Mike has become a spokesperson on cable news and talk shows, discussing his vision to implement MLK policies all with twisted humor. And his various appearances with Bernie Sanders made for a visual comedy--a tall, skinny Vermonter with a 300-pound rapper.

    But their fourth album is almost pure anger. A few weeks prior, Atlanta native Rayshard Brooks was killed by a police officer in a Wendy's parking lot. Before, Minnesota cop crushed George Floyd's windpipe with the accumulated weight of a prejudice country. And America was enraged, Killer Mike included. In a press conference aired nationwide, he addressed the nation with raw emotion, buoyed by seemingly involuntary jokes. He called CNN "CartooN Network" and beating up prosecutors in the voting booth. Despite his wrath, comedy carried the burdens that became too much, 

    I watched the conference. I heard the album. I looked at videos of the millions across the United States brave enough to take the streets and demand a voice. It looked like chaos. Killer Mike, one of the most deservedly angry men in America, found a way to laugh. And I could not. 

"Too Bad."

-Kelsey Phelps

    We sat side by side every Music 101 class. She was incredibly bright and slipped pop culture witticisms under her breath during the lecture. I liked that she knew my favorite bands. A friendship made in heaven. 

    Until I asked her on a date. Knowing our quirky relationship, I thought it'd be fun to attend the weirdest concert BYU had to offer: Tuba Christmas! She loved the idea. The premise was absurd enough that nothing could go wrong. And nothing did go wrong because it never happened. I sat outside a modestly packed performance hall containing over 80 tubas for half an hour, and Kelsey never showed. I was astonished, defeating. The premise was too absurd. I may never see Kelsey again.

    But no. She had the gall to show up to Music 101 and sit in the exact same spot--as if I never asked her out. It was hard enough being stood up. But now I'm being gaslit? I asked what she did that weekend to see if she had an excuse and forget to text me. Nope. Stayed in her pajamas for 48 straight hours. She then politely asked how my weekend was.

"It was alright. I got stood up on a date." 

She gazed into my eyes with a cold fire. "Oh. Too bad."

Too bad....

Too Tu bad

Tubad.

Tuba'd.

Tuba'd at Tuba Christmas.

    I look in the mirror, exhausted after my first dry run. The "Too Bad" story caps a 30 minute set. Because admiration begets imitation which eventually begets emulation, I find myself 23, studying for the LSAT, a senior in college, and practicing for a stand up routine. A new notebook is quickly filling with golden stories and sharp observations. Everything is on the table; everything can be funny. The time I watched a fly ball carom straight off my forehead. The time I was high on pain meds and spoke Spanish to random people. Why do we think life advice from Billy Eilish is valid? 

    A comedian's early career often is terrifying and miserable. Trevor Noah worked six nights a week on two continents before becoming a staff writer for the Daily Show. John Oliver was so unpopular in England his audience often disappeared like cockroaches beneath a flashlight before he could finish his set. Dave Letterman's TV career was stymied for years after Robin Williams took over his comedy club. Steve Carrell, Stephen Colbert, and Louis C.K. all lost their first jobs as content writers after one season of The Dana Carvey Show. And here I was, tepidly dipping my toe in a big pool of pain at the Bar Stool Sports Comedy Club in Salt Lake City.

    Jerry Seinfeld once said "You can't really become a comic unless you've been poor. Otherwise your a jerk." And while almost every comic began with public humiliation by unimpressed audiences while barely affording rent, I would say "poor" may be replaced with "struggle." And from that struggle comes an impervious wisdom and humor. It is the only way. I want their wisdom, so I voluntarily submit to the struggle.

"You have no idea. I have no idea. There's a difference between having a liberal arts degree and being black."

-My Mom

    My mom is the funniest family member. And she could make that cutting statement funny.

Two months prior another horrible shooting was caught on a phone camera. Jacob Blake was shot. In broad daylight. Eight times. In his car. His children watching. And once again, the America flew into turmoil. My favorite baseball team boycotted two games in protest. A minor shot and killed two protesters (no, not rioters). My brother called me in rage. And I had enough. I could no longer watch people cry out in sorrow, I had to cry with them. The Saturday after Jacob Blake's shooting I drove to the state capitol to commemorate Martin Luther King Jr's March on Washington. I bought poster board from the dollar store and with black paint smeared the phrase "MLK WOULD SAY BLACK LIVES MATTER." My anger, sorrow, determination, and empathy led me to this moment. And I was not laughing. 

    At the time, it felt real. I remember being so nervous afterwards I told my best friend and brother and no one else. And when my Mom flung that scathing critique on me, I wanted to retort "but I took the streets. I marched mask-by-mask with my black siblings. I never will understand but I stand with them." But she didn't know I went to a protest yet. And the more I thought about, the more I realized I still wasn't one of th protesters Lasalo saw or achieving Killer Mike's anger.

    The protest was protected by the police. We were flanked by a motorcade. The streets on every side were blocked off by several hundred streets. The march was one way and was completely downhill. When we reached its end, at the Salt Lake City Chamber of Commerce, BLM of Utah provided food and water while a DJ played dance music. I was not shot at like those in Kenosha or downtown Provo. I was not teargassed like those in between the White House and St. John's Church. In reality, all I did was hold a sign while on a brisk walk, chanting catchy tunes with some like-minded people. And thinking about it that way made me laugh.

"Try wearing the mask I've been wearing all these years! I can't even tell something true unless it has a punchline before it."

-Dave Chappelle

    In one of his finest performances recorded, Chappelle controls the audience with incredible ease. They whir and shudder like a computer undergoing an overhaul. His audiences anticipate his impeccable craft, but his yo-yo-ing between explosive comedy and biting truths always take some adjusting. Once he finished his set with serious ideas on Kaepernick's protest, the #METOO movement, and on prostitution and capitalism's evils, solemn topics with an occasional gut-buster. They don't know when they'll be smiling and when they'll be moved, but both will happen. 

    It is the Saturday Night Live occurring only hours after major media outlets called Joe Biden to be president elect, and mixtures of exhaustion, celebration, frustration, and foreboding swirl around his feet. Chappelle not so-coincidentally was the host of SNL after the 2016 election. What most people assume when they hear a comedian with NSWF diction and irreverence is that he or she is out to watch the world burn, but he knows what it takes protest and laugh.

    "Do something nice for a black person--just because they're black. And you got to make sure they don't deserve it. It's a very important part of it. They can't deserve it. The same way all them years they did terrible things to black people just because they're black--and they didn't deserve it. If you're driving through the hood one day and see a black dude standing on the corner, selling crack, destroying his community... buy him an ice cream. Just buy him an ice cream. He'll be suspicious... but he'll take it."

    He asks the sparse group of masked New Yorkers on set to be humble winners. Learn how to forgive each other, and find joy in spite of that feeling, before leaving with one last joke. And I, in my own apartment, giggle while holding back tears. 

I Have Three Friends in Chicago

One of my favorite bands is from there.
So is Obama. And Oprah (kind of).
I know why it's called The Windy City (and it's not because of the wind).
Cold winters.
It has a massive bean which qualifies as art.
There's seemingly an 80% chance that cop/firefighter/doctor show on prime time is based there.
It's also a home for all four major sports teams.
Sufjan Stevens wrote an amazing song about it.

It's Chicago! And that's an exhaustive list of what I know about it and what it means to me. But there are people there that mean something to me. Three friends, each made during different points of my life, are floating in a sea of 2.7 million people next to Lake Michigan. The strength of friendship fluctuates between each of them, but truth be told--I really like all of them. Can't exactly say why, but they mean so much to me.

This connection with my Chicagoan friends and how they don't seem to intersect at all makes a bizarre journal of my life. It seems that wherever I have been, Chicago has a piece of me with it. Through these friends, a city holds my history, no matter how distant it is.

Here are a few stories about each of them.

LAUREN, FROM HIGH SCHOOL
One time me, Lauren, and some other members of our high school drama group volunteered to do tech work for a travelling acting group. we got an excused absence from school and did 12 hours of slave labor. We had about an hour break, and we all went out and got some really nasty pizza. It looked like it had cancerous lumps on it.
The company was an Irish dancing group. The crew was gregarious. A guy who looked like Liam Neeson pulled a prank on me and he laughed at me the rest of the night. Lauren and I hung out the whole time.

She once tried to make moonwalking a requirement at a musical tryout. I'm pretty sure she succeeded.

One time she gave me a ride home and we were listening to "Lisztomania." The line came up where it sounds like they're saying "Like a rhino / not easily offended" and I turned to her and said "contrary to this song, Rhinos are easily offended." We laughed a lot.

Easily the most underappreciated actress during the time I spent with her.

It's been a long time since I have seen Lauren, which is a real shame. Her Instagram stories are the best in the business. Quality original content. She's incredibly genuine, someone who I call a "corner" friend. If you ever got backed into a corner, you'd want her by your side. And best of all, she'll always go along with your jokes.

Lauren is the incredibly happy person next to the tall, scarved me.I have a lifelong trend of not taking photos with people, making it incredibly difficult to locate one. 

ERIN, FROM COLLEGE
Erin and I have similar music tastes, which is fantastic. There's a very small cluster of friends that I share musical taste with. Anytime she mentions a song on social media, I look it up. We bonded over Bon Iver's 22, a million album.

We were in the same play together. She was a stone. I was the lord of the underworld. The more I look back, the more I love that play. But the actors I worked with were even better. So much talent was in that little play. While I sadly flaked out of BYU's acting major, a lot of those people stayed in theater, Erin included. She was a professional through in through. Powerful and humble.

Her friend came to support her one night. She was really nice. I ended up marrying her. To this day that was the only time Ashley has seen me act.

I really enjoy following her escapades. I think she's brave and highly admirable. Hopefully Chicago treats her well.

Erin is the redhead in the middle, as I am the suited man on the left. This was a beautiful, moving play and she blew the doors off with her performance.

FRANK, FROM MY MISSION
Missionaries and those they teach tend to bond. But Frank and I have gone beyond that. It has been three and a half years since I taught him, and we've reached out to each other at least once a week ever since. Who knows why.

The first time I met him he wore a Yale shirt because my companion's last name was Yale. And he said Hall and Yale sounded like Hall and Oates. I included three references to Hall and Oates in that lesson, and he picked them all up, if I'm not mistaken.

I was feeling pretty blue when a girl dumped me and gave Frank a call. I opened the conversation with a joking backhanded compliment so sharp I'm surprised he stayed on the call. He laughed and said "I'm pretty sure you're the only person that can get away with saying that."

Through a sequence of events he became my best man. He did a great job at it. At the wedding he got to meet my family. Now he's kind of like one of us--for better or for worse.

Frank is on the left. I am incredibly grateful for our friendship, no matter how abnormal it may be.

These stories are what Chicago holds. It is a city of records, and it sort holds bits of my home with it. In that sense, it is like one of my favorite songs from my Chicago bands, "via Chicago." Somehow, I come home via Chicago, even if I don't fully understand it.

And yes, I am pretty sure I have some cousin there too. Don't have any connection to them at all. Sorry. Wish I did.

What Was This Strokes Song Doing in the 70's?

There was some dang good music coming out in 1979. In fact, three iconic "band shirt" albums were released within this 12-month period: Pink Floyd's The Wall, The Clash's London Calling, and the immortalized Unknown Pleasures from Joy Division. You most likely cannot go one week on a college campus without seeing someone owning merchandise directly related to these albums. This short list fails to include other generational albums like AC/DC's Highway to Hell and Michael Jackson's iconic Off the Wall, which does not get the same love as Thriller but may a more complete selection of tracks. And even these additions exclude substantial releases from Tom Petty, David Bowie, Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, and Fleetwood Mac. Seriously, this year was loaded.

1979 was dope

That was a lot of name drops, and all deserve recognition. But I'm here to discuss only one song from '79, and it is not "The Wall" or "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough." Despite the ambitious trailblazing in sound and culture done by many of these bands, they all have a dated feel. "Oh, this is prime 80's music" is what most people would say, or "That's too much synthesizer."

There was one song by XTC which had to have been teleported from the 21st century. "Making Plans For Nigel" reached no. 17 at its peak popularity, but maybe would have broken the charts with the Strokes and Interpol. A reserved but fiery drum intro and muted guitar crashes sounds like a prototypical "Obstacle 1." Lead singer Andy Partridge curls snarky ironies around distant wails like a deep track from Funeral, the guitar solos show a calmer fire, much like the anthemic "Reptilia." The only part of the song which exposes its age is a jangly bridge which fizzles with early punk reverberations. The overall product would survive much better if placed alongside Is This It rather than Highway to Hell.

Why has this impressively predictive song not lasted in pop culture as much as its other dated contemporaries? Well, it's hard to enter mainstream recognition when you sound so different. "Making Plans For Nigel" came out at a time where "My Sharona," Gary Numan's "Cars," and this gem dominated the charts. And XTC never really converted towards a mainstream sound for the remainder of their small period of relevance. "Making Plans for Nigel" slipped through the cracks.

Critics have looked back and championed XTC's 1979 Drums and Wires. Paste has it as the 21st best album of the year, and Pre-Conde Nast (*cough* sell out *cough*) Pitchfork has it as the 38th album of the entire decade. But the critical eye rarely translates into the public one. So the next time you make your moody National/Strokes/XX playlist, don't skip out on XTC's biggest hit.

17 Christmas Songs For When You're Tired of Christmas Songs

I love Christmas music, and I've been having the local Christmas radio station on for much of December. However, I think the station is experiencing the same thing I am: Christmas Song Burnout. On the way to a party, Ashley and I heard Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" come on the radio. Not really a Christmas song, but hey, it's a classic. On the way back, only four hours later, "Linus and Lucy" came on again, after the third variation of "Let it Snow" that we heard that night. 

The warm, logs-by-the-fire novelty of Christmas songs mixed with overproduced Christmas carols is beginning to itch on me like an ugly sweater. Radios and mall background music can hit you with the same holly-jolly ring and Michael Buble sentiment, jading you from enjoying the holiday spirit. If you listen to only 60-70 songs, each with only a few variations (which often sound the same), for an entire month, you may end up a Scrooge. And no one wants that. 

There's three days until Christmas. The home stretch. To help you get through these last days of Christmas cheer, here's a short list of songs which don't get played enough during the season. These may includes songs you know but I think are just that good, or versions of songs that really bring you out of the Christmas slog. They also include indie kingpins and pop artists from yesteryear. If a 25-year-old Christmas song can be #1 on the billboards (All I Want For Christmas is You), then I know that people are up for recycling songs to endure the holiday.

I put the links underneath the list in case you want to listen to them write away.

Organized in a loose manner, here's the list.

17. Santa Claus is Comin' to Town - Bruce Springsteen

16. Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses

15. Merry Christmas Baby - Otis Redding

14. Just Like Christmas - Low

13. Run Rudolph Run - Chuck Berry

12. Christmastime is Here - Mark Kozelek  

11. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings - Barenaked Ladies/Sheryl Crow

10. What Christmas Means to Me - Stevie Wonder

9. Wonderful Christmastime - Paul McCartney

8. I Do Not Care For The Winter Sun - Beach House

7/6. Happy Birthday Guadalupe!, Don't Shoot Me Santa Claus - The Killers

5. Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis - Tom Waits

4. Frosty the Snowman - Cocteau Twins

3. NSYNC - Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays

2/1. Did I Make you Cry on Christmas? (well, you deserved it), Joy to the World - Sufjan Stevens

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town - Bruce Springsteen

If you can play a Christmas song live, in July, with the crowd going wild, I'd say you've got a winner. This gets airtime, but it definitely doesn't get enough attention amidst all the other jingles that smother the radio.

Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses

A freaking fun song. This is what an affordable shopping spree sounds like--lots of dancing, celebratory solos. And the song plows through the year to get to Christmas. Just like us. I promise there will be less saxophones as the list continues.

Otis Redding - Merry Christmas Baby

The soul-side of the holiday season. It's an Otis Redding song about Christmas. You can use it as another excuse to get into your Motown mood. Please excuse the third consecutive song in a row featuring a saxophone

Just Like Christmas - Low

It's the Christmas ditty about Scandinavia you never realized you wanted. Probably one of the most honest, homely songs in this list, it's a refresher that people make artistic songs about Christmas, and that sometimes the holiday revolves around your life instead of vice versa.

Run Rudolph Run - Chuck Berry

This is probably the most mainstream song on the list, but just jam out, Go for it. One of the funnest songs you'll hear any time of the year.

Christmastime is Here - Mark Kozelek

Leave to the human embodiment of Charlie Brown to turn the Peanuts classic into a somber, pensive experience. There's some self-demurring humor and a beautiful guitar riff, and you can't deny that you connect with his melancholy.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings - Barenaked Ladies feat. Sheryl Crow

Did you ever think you'd be tapping your toe to this mashup of carols? Thanks to a jazzy bass and fluttery vocals, this is just what you need to step away from the traditional production and enjoy a lovely song.

10. What Christmas Means to Me - Stevie Wonder

This is built upon the same foundation as Otis Redding's song: It's a Stevie Wonder song about Christmas. It's going to have a bunch of energy and make you dance in the car. And, it has the trademark harmonica solo. Listen to it more.

9. Wonderful Christmastime - 

Okay, Another mainstream Christmas song. But it sees Christmas time much differently than what we're used to in Christmas tunes. "Christmastime" ornaments are disco balls and brings out the silly sentimentality of traditions. Paul + Synthesizer = Fun!

8. I Do Not Care For the Winter Sun - Beach House

"Happy Holidays, we wrote a song for you, thanks for the great year!
Love,
Beach House" - December 16, 2010, on their Facebook page
...I could give you a lot of reasons to listen to this song, but that suffices.
7/6. Don't Shoot Me Santa, Happy Birthday Guadalupe - The Killers




"Don't Shoot me Santa" is a great song, coupled with a hilarious video, but "Happy Birthday Guadalupe" really shines as a song. It also completely breaks through the normal instrumentation of Christmas songs, taking you through the Arizona desert with a Mariachi band. Both songs incredibly fun.






















5. Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis - Tom Waits

Very Tom Waits-ian. Adds "Hooker" in the title but ends up writing a warm, tender song. Tom Waits utilizes the universality of Christmas to look a piece of humanity that so often gets overlooked, even by themselves.

4. Frosty the Snowman - Cocteau Twins

"Frosty the Snowman" has to be one of the most annoying songs ever made, in my perspective. Why the Cocteau Twins decided to make this into a dream-pop throw down is beyond my understanding, but I'm very grateful

3. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays - NSYNC

This video is an American treasure. Young JT joins up with the other dudes of NSYNC and Gary Coleman (Gary Coleman sighting!!) to make a kind-of politically correct Christmas song! Will this ever get old?

2/1. Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day (well, you deserved it), Joy to the World - Sufjan Stevens

Picking two songs from an artist who has made almost five hours of Christmas music is daunting, but these are two songs stand out. "Did I Make You Cry" completely reverses what we understand about a Christmas Song, and Steven's version of "Joy to the World" is the most praising and heartfelt that I've ever heard. Perfect to jolt you out of the non-stop Christmas music world.

Friends Once Lost, Are Friends Again?

By Buckets Hall

Infinite apparitions from the past swarmed me, each awaking a separate, transcendent sentience.

People I saw and talked with the first week of the semester

January 5-9, 2018
Maya. A young woman from one of my mission areas. Anastasia. Childhood friend. Used to have sleepovers at her grandma's house. Alex. Ate at his apartment almost daily my freshman year. Garrett. Went to a scout camp together when we were twelve. Miraculously still looks twelve. Hayden. My mission trainer.

Actually, Hayden was the first person I saw on campus. Messy hair tousled by bitter wind. wrinkled pants clutched his slim thighs. A massive grin spilled over flushed cheeks. The needling cold numbed me, but the warm, sweet essence of our relationship pierced through the frost. 

Missionary trainers can potentially change your life, and Hayden did not waste his opportunity. As a collar-choked, nervous 18 year-old, thousands of miles and two years away from my family, Hayden closely resembled a mother hen coddling a frightened chick during a thunderstorm. He taught me what missionaries are and are not. Missionaries are instigators. They are not afraid of calling people. They are extroverts, not avoiding. Humility and Happiness 101.

That was almost three years ago. But this blustery Monday morning, I could see no difference. I bolted to him, nearly decking him off his penny board and onto the frozen ground.

In the Book of Mormon, there's a well taught story of a man named Alma who reunites with some old friends after a 14-year hiatus. He was elated, calling them "brothers in Christ." I was experiencing Alma's joy. Both of us captured the pure reunion with old friends--a holy serendipity. Alma and I shared a glance that Emmanuel Levinas describes eloquently.

"To approach the Other in conversation is to welcome his expression, in which at each instant he overflows the idea a thought would carry away from it. It is therefore to receive from the Other beyond the capacity of the I, which means exactly: to have the idea of infinity."

I was surrounded by heavenly Others. Infinite apparitions from the past swarmed me, each awaking a separate, transcendent sentience. These encounters were bronzed statues. Inexplicable. Overwhelming. Permanent. 

People I saw and avoided this last week

October 28 - November 1, 2019
Sarah. Went on some dates with her. Painful conversations. Professor Scott. Had his class a year ago. Had a question, but forgot. Some dude from World Religions, long ago. Always wears business casual. Athena. Current classmate. We walk past each other in the same corridor twice a week at 2:55. Hayden. My mission trainer.

Only 10 feet away. Same hair. And pants. His smile was exchanged for an unwelcoming grimace. Rushed steps whisked him through the courtyard. 
I cannot decide between saying hello and checking my phone. Contorted, dismantled thoughts. My jaw sags agape, waiting for a command. I eject a ramshackle "hey..." into the stony air.
He walks away, unfazed. Relief and regret, two unlikely friends, begin homemaking in the pit of my stomach.

They are everywhere. ghostly specters. I want to drop my backpack and say "CAN'T YOU SEE YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE?" As they impassively float by. Something has changed, but what exactly? My bonds to old friends and acquaintances feel more like bondage. In its twisted way, Time has spewed corroded patina onto my memories like never before. Before, they were heavenly personages. Now, these cretins silently wail their siren songs as I reel through campus, haunting me with jilted taunts. "Remember me? Do you care? Do I care?" And guilt, ever present, bruises my circumventing heels. 

I have immense difficulty feeling the joy Alma had, and Levinas embraced. I don't discover infinity in the Other's eyes now; I confront an awkward conversation. Unneeded minutes spent on conjuring emotions. Betrayal and helplessness pierce me, like a magician discovering he is a charlatan. These relationships are no longer golden shrines preserved in my memory's memorial. There is no spark of eternal light in their doleful countenances.

When did I learn of awkwardness? Perhaps seeing old friends has become a glorified name game, scraping the dregs of discarded knowledge, done solely to reinforce how small the world is. Sometimes I wonder if I have too many relationships, and now I must dispose of expired ones from the fridge. Or maybe too many of these unexpected engagements have been met by disengaged faces, too bothered to ignite old flames.

For some time I have seen my old friends disintegrate to stoic ghosts. I have grappled with the distance between I and the Other. 10 feet becomes light-years when the timing fails me. "Sorry, can't talk. I'm supposed to see you in class, not the library." "Excuse me, I'm buying cookies from the vending machine. You aren't supposed to glance over here." My life appears too burdensome for memories now. They are a hulking filing cabinet. An outdated accessory, too heavy to move. Negligence appears more comfortable.

But one moment keeps the hope for joyous reunions on life support. Five minutes which jolted everything.

People I saw and talked with while I was late to class

March 23, 2018
Ashley. Sang in a choir together. Competitive dancer. Went to the Missionary Training Center at the same time.

The somber March sun threw flecks of light from behind the cloud cover. Spindly legs launched me through the courtyard. Hopelessly tardy. Head down. Rushed steps,

"Richard!" From nowhere, a small, bundled woman blocks my path. Caked in spray tan, A bronze aura emanates from her. I can hardly recognize her.

This is Ashley. We strike a conversation. I walk with her. She smiles. I do too. We meet up weeks later. Date. Marry. We smile some more.

A coincidental run-in with an old friend altered my life's trajectory beyond belief. Because Ashley, a friend who once sat in mundane mission classes with me, had courage which I lacked--looked up instead of down--we took cheesy couple photos together instead of seeing each other's on Facebook.

The glimmer of light we saw in each other that brisk spring morning, sometimes it is replicated in other old friends. And while I enjoy the invisible wall that separates me from them, I cannot always avoid these apparitions. They look too much like angels. 

People I saw and made myself talk with last week

October 28 - November 1, 2019
Kami. Served in the mission as me. Not Facebook friends. Devon. Worked with him as an intramural referee. Great future car salesman. Jessica. In a current class. Spent most of the time figuring out who I was. Smiled in the end. Professor Boston. Refuses to call me Buckets. Knows me as "The student not named Buckets." Hayden. My mission trainer.

The Books I've Read This Year So Far, Ranked.

This year I have read more books than any year in my life--and it's only August! Between winter semester and the summer, I have started and ended 20 different stories (all but one for the first time), and I feel like they deserve some reflection before I hop into next semester. And what better way for a sports junkie to express his feelings than through a rankings system!
I'll get this right out there--ranking books is frivolous. There is no way you can quantify books by pleasure. I liked and disliked something from every book I read. Additionally, these books span a vast array of genres, some that were never meant to be compared. Imagine trying to see what household appliance makes the best pet. Books weren't made to be ranked.
But I would go with a microwave. Much lower maintenance than a sink, and it needs less exercise than the fridge, which never stops running.
However, there's a lot of joy to be found in organizing my emotions and pondering on which books I perceive as great. Sometimes you feel like there is a very loud, rambling figure that is trying to tell you to rediscover greatness, which makes you wonder in the first place, what is greatness? This was a fun exercise to reveal what I appreciate while participating in a broad spectrum of books.

So this exercise proves to be simultaneously pointless and fulfilling. Sort of like winning a video game, or burning leaves under a microscope. As the ranker, there was one critical rule I made myself follow: no religious books or texts included. While I am having fun crossing boundaries, this remains untouchable. It feels wrong to quantify a text I actually believe matters. And there is a rule that I advise the reader to follow: This list is not definite. It's a thought experiment provokes John Keating and oozes subjectivity. But hey, this is the internet, and you clicked on this link. So compliment, fire back, suggest new reads, but this is all really meant to introduce/reintroduce books you may have closed the case on.

So here they are, ranked 20 to 1 that also fits into a more inclusive tier system.

TIER 1: THE NEVER AGAIN'S
These books just didn't do it for me, and I don't think they ever will.

20. The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane (summer reading)
I knew I shouldn't have read this. The other Stephen Crane story I read wasn't my favorite, and the mundane, meticulous commitment to realist description slurred an exciting story into a drag. Additionally, it's hard to connect with the main character at all. Like, he's just a punk, and not symbolic enough to overcome his flaws. The brights spots in Badge were few and between for me.










19. The Firm, by John Grisham (The Law in Literature class)
iPlacing a Grisham novel ths low definitely defies popular opinion, but I perceived a critical flaw in the book I just couldn't overcome. Mitch McDeere. Not admirable enough to be a hero, not strong enough to be an antihero, we see him slipping into a gimmicky plot that I couldn't grasp. He's the center of a story too big for him, and described too bluntly to take seriously. I found myself laughing at bad times.










18. The Color Purple, by Alice Walker (The American Novel class)
Sorry Oprah. Bizarrely beautiful and filled with illogical positivism, it's truly a good book. This gets knocked down to the bottom because of its aggressive, physical approach to problem solving made me too uneasy. It's supposed to be jarring, and Walker does not respect your inclinations for one moment. Purple's rawness and plays against tenderness overwhelmed me. Perhaps it's unconventional path to finding its soul forced me to move on from it.









TIER 2. THE SLOW BURNS
While I would reread and recommend these books, they were kind of... a struggle to finish.

17. The Sound and the Fury, by William Faulkner (The American Novel class)
I enjoy Faulkner, so for this to be 17, you should recognize I really like most of the novels. Heck, I even said nice things about a book I never want to read again. With Faulkner, the strength and weakness of his books is his character building. Truly marvelous creations, but a thick, heady read. Moving from narrations from an autistic adult, a tormented college freshman, and a petty sexist is just hard to do. Overall fascinating, but a burden to get through.
P.S. there's a film adaptation with James Franco in it. The movie looks awful, but the trailer looks hilarious.









16. A Civil Action, by Jonathan Harr (The Law in Literature Class)
A completely true story about a lawsuit on two fortune 500 companies, this book is complex and stressful. Harr excellently describes how one real life horror story morphed into another one, and has the records to prove it. This may have struck a chord with my anxieties over finances, as Jan Schlichtmann almost spent himself to death. At times, Harr focuses too much on semantics and run dry, even for someone interested in law. But, they got John Travolta to be in the movie, so it's got that going for it.









15. The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway (personal reading)

This may come as a surprise to some, because Hemingway is one of my favorite authors. I loved the writing style, the relationships, the tension in the book, but in the end, did anything happen? Three guys go to Spain with a floozy and they all end up screwed (and not in the good way). Like, is this an Ashton Kutcher/Vince Vaughn/Owen Wilson movie? The plot is lame. You can't deny it. But I will hedge and say this is one of Hemingway's less-lauded books, and he still can write.









TIER 3: THE GOOD READS
These books read quickly, and though I won't rave about them, they were well crafted

14. Recursion, by Blake Crouch (suggested by Ashley)

A science fiction thriller that really stretches your intellect, Crouch relentlessly plugs his tragic, world ending theory at you until you feel like there is no hope (spoiler: there is hope), all while he gently reminds that the more important theme is simpler and purer. I read all 500 pages in under three days, and that includes taking a break. A very addicting book.





13. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman (The American Novel)

It's difficult to talk only about the story when there is so much to discuss about the writer and its film adaptation. I mean, Freaking Rob Reiner had to pry the screenplay from Goldman's reluctant hands. Even the story itself is about a different story that has been edited for better effect. The effect makes for a funny, postmodern icon filled with lovable characters. This book is a cult classic without its cult classic movie-ego.









12. Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Connor (The American Novel)
There's really only one way to describe this book: weird. And in its weirdness it sucks you in. Who in the world are these characters? Where are they? What type of world are they in? It's a modern fairy tale with unknown motives, all doused in obscure Christian imagery. The most helpful bit of knowledge I had while reading this book was that O'Connor was a Catholic woman in the Deep South. All sorts of weird can happen when looking at the world through that lens.









TIER 4: THE OH MY'S
Books that surprised me with their power and touched me on a special level. 

11. 1984, by George Orwell (recommended by Ashley)

About 70 pages in, I realized I was mad at this book because of how realistic it was. Of course, the motives for Big Brother and the party members are completely different than most people's, but this book is surprisingly human. I'm not going to lie, I read this book on 100% adrenaline, and it contains a heart-wrenching finish. But I will credit Orwell with his writing prowess, to spin a sci-fi story into a reality, and to constantly fool the writer.










10. Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom (summer reading)

The anti-text of 1984, Tuesdays with Morrie grounds itself in a reality that one wishes they could achieve. I feel that this story would best flourish in the 90s era, but it has a sentimental message that can still be felt to this day. I think the best part of this book derives from the non-novelist author. It allows the reader to cross a more sincere bridge to Morrie's story. I also appreciate how he doesn't take time to moralize the story, instead relying on his experience to induce a more honest effect.

9. Dark Matter by Blake Crouch (recommended by Ashley)
Another suggestion from my wife, another Crouch work. Essentially the big brother of Recursion. This book sucks you in from the start and only gets better. I read the last 70 pages in 30 minutes. Dark Matter's one-sentence paragraphs, perplexing plot and non-stop action makes this fast, enjoyable, and rewarding. Although the main character's motive (like the one in Recursion) remains altruistic almost to a flaw, Crouch uses meta-dialog to his utmost advantage, creating a humorous, preposterous, exciting novel.









8. The Joy Luck Club, by Amy Tan (The American Novel)
Tan zones in on mother/daughter relationships so precisely that you can't help but feel like you are reading a diary. Unlike most diaries involving awkward families, the melodrama is striking and sympathetic. It was a tearjerker in the most postmodern way, dancing with form and narrative and voice. You can see it coming down harshly against men, but when you perceive in its proper place as an immigrant narrative, you'll see critiques on harmful paternalism nurtured in the Far East. Overall outstanding writing.









TIER 5: THE KEEPERS
Downright good, completely re-readable, and will reside on my coffee table for years to come.

7. Just Mercy, by Bryan Stevenson (The Law in Literature)
If you think you are ready for this book, you are not. Shocking and captivating, Stevenson does everything in his power to pack sympathy into his work. You cannot help but become emotionally entangled by the webs of American courts and prisons. Call him crazy, but Stevenson's insanity is bringing justice against all odds, and if that's not an American story, then it's certainly a good story.










6. To Kill a Mockingbird (The American Novel AND The Law in Literature)
This is the sole book on the list I read before this year. It was also an assigned reading in two different classes. Who doesn't love this book? If you don't, you aren't American (being semi-facetious). Similar to The Princess Bride, Mockingbird has its own austere aura. The writing is gorgeous. Lee pens a friendlier, endearing Mark Twain novel. And the story will never die; its overtone is too powerful. There is negative criticism on it regarding ensconced racism and sexism, but frankly, I think that is a reductionist at work. As much as I love this book, there are five more ahead of it. I have a lot of love to give








5. The Kite Runner (Recommended by Ashley)
I understand if you are surprised. A grand narrative on a personal level with a narrator so intriguing that I wished the book lasted until his death. I admit, there is a lot of "magic" in the book, but sometimes the suspended reality works. It was also enlightening to view a culture across multiple generations, tearing down the one-sided American view of Afghanistan while building up my country's view of its villains. It was also a gift to the reader to finish the book with such concrete hope.









4. The Chosen, by Chaim Potok (The American Novel)
I didn't expect a book about a smart Jewish kid in New York City to touch me so greatly. The matrix of relationships between the two fathers and two sons is so aesthetically beautiful. Potok craftily mixes the natural tensions in Judaism into his composition, forming a segue into a culture few know or have seen. Potok finds ways to traipse in between massive tropes and confine them into a likable teenage boy. An intimate book built upon love that I will gladly read to my children until they can read it on their own.









3. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen (summer reading)
I've been an English major for this long and I just not read this book. The irony of me enjoying Pride and Prejudice this much is almost too much for me to handle. I've watched movies rifting off of the plot, seen a Kera Knightly-played Elizabeth Bennet splayed on my parent's screen multiple times, heard my brother rave about it, and I never read it. I actually developed a bias against it--There's no way it is really that good. But it is. It's a satire trapped in a romance and it genuinely funny, engaging, and lovable. Yep, I was Elizabeth, and it was Mr. Darcy.









2. Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoevsky (summer reading)
So yeah, this book was incredible. It's bare bones Barnes and Noble Classics page count was over 500 pages, but I never found a dry spot. Rashkolnikov is one of the most entrancing characters in literature, and the more confusing he becomes, the more you relate to him. The books "punishment" is relentless, and you feel it's heavy breath come down with a thrill that noir novelists would kill to have in their own pieces. It's a different type of terror, one that makes you tense until the very last page. If you can get past the Russian names, you will find a diamond.









1. Dr. Zhivago, by Boris Pasternak (summer reading)
Which leads me to my favorite book of the year. Yes, the Russians took silver and gold. You are allowed to see if there is an illegal doping scandal. This is a tough, intricate read that doesn't quite end with a warm fuzzy, but it is immensely rewarding. Pasternak uses his poetic background to construct a massive swath of Russian history out of intricate, delicate minuets. It's sort of like a Matryushka doll set, where one piece of art snugly fits over another, and then another, until you can't realize how many parts made the whole. It's a tantalizing work that refuses to figure out which side is up, and you have to admit that Pasternak outdid everyone. He wrote an untouchable story.