Whoa! Move over John Le Carre!

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Move over John Le Carre! What research! What psychology! What style!

Yes, what style! What deft shifts between time and reference frames! What masterful prose! As complex as the best of Le Carre, and yet not as dense. Not sure whether to recommend this, or Leaving Berlin, or The Accomplice, as the place to start. But do not start with Istanbul Passage, which by comparison is relatively weak: author just does not have the background on Turkey to give us something as rich and complex as his books set in postwar Germany. But his Germany is superb. Superb.

Forced Cultural Attainments

These "cliff notes to culture" were published when showing up at a dinner party meant you would be expected to display your broad reading. People would literally judge you on how well you could quote Shakespeare and how insightful your comments on The Marble Faun were. (The what?) And how well you did on those subjects would determine whether you were invited to join Skull and Bones, or considered as a match for the young Miss X, or offered an early investment in the Pittsfield-Bulldock Railroad. Contrary to what some suggest, you were NOT expected to love Shakespeare or Hawthorne. But you had to know them and have a well-reasoned opinion about their work.

Two things come to mind about this:

1. It is a good thing for any field of cultural production when strong social pressure exists for individuals to cultivate it. But it is also good for the poor pressured people, too, as at least some of them will discover a pleasure in the process, a pleasure which will enrich their life forever.

2. As in all ages, we are judged on our cultural likes and dislikes today also. But today a well considered opinion on Shakespeare does not matter; while familiarity with a recent pop star and/or stand up comedian and/or news commentator does. And since I can't name a singe one of those, I am never offered an early peek on the PBR investment. So thank god it has been built already and doesn't really need me.

For a moment, the place seemed magical

I once lived in old Lisbon and not far from my place there was a landing with a broad panorama onto the river, all glimmering in sunlight most days. And on the white wall of the church someone had scribbled a line from Ary dos Santos:

È tão difìcil guardar o Rio Cuando el corre dentro de nòs

("How hard it is to observe the river As it flows right through the middle of us")

Later the city painted over the graffito. And soon thereafter another artist/thinker penned:

Pretos fora

("Away with Africans")

But for a moment there, Lisbon seemed magical.