Nothing To Be Frightened Of - Julian Barnes

I bought this book a couple of years ago, probably one day when I was being particularly depressed about being in my sixties. I don't mean to say that I have this morbid fascination with death. I don't. And even though the occurrences of death among my family and friends are increasing with each passing year, I am reasonably convinced that I am going to survive forever.

Besides, each new day brings a new potential disaster to worry about and either way you look at that you win. If the ruination of the earth from global warming takes another generation to take effect, I will be dead when it happens, so there is really nothing to worry about. On the other hand, if some crazed religious zealot manages to secure a nuclear stockpile and decides to blow up the world and me with it tomorrow, there is really nothing particularly irksome about my individual death, therefore; nothing to worry about.

I think that is the way our politicians ought to think. Sure, our economy is going down the toilet and our country's maddening propensity to feed the poor and comfort the afflicted will bring us all to the brink, but with any luck the ice caps will melt before that happens and Wall Street will be under water. See, in the long run there is nothing to worry about.

Julian Barnes' book ruminates about death in that manner for almost 250 pages. I managed to come away from the book with a healthier attitude about the whole thing and ended up finding the whole subject quite funny.

It also taught me a lot about the writing of fiction. Barnes looks at death through the eyes of a fiction writer whose job is to turn real life into narratives that expose some truth by telling lies about reality. The whole book, then, is an erudite, if gloomy, exercise in creating art with death as the fitting ending.

There is at least one laugh line on each page and little revelations that force the reader to reevaluate his certainties. What more can you ask for?

I think I'll share some.

* * * * *

When talking about Pascal and the whole idea that it is a better bet to believe in God than not, Barnes offers a great illustration.

". . . In June 2006, at the Kiev zoo, a man lowered himself by rope into the island compound where the lions and tigers are kept. As he descended, he shouted across to the gawping crowds. One witness quoted him as saying, 'Who believes in God will be unharmed by lions'; another, the more challenging, 'God will save me, if He exists.' The metaphysical provocateur reached the ground, took off his shoes, and walked towards the animals; whereupon an irritated lioness knocked him down, and bit through his carotid artery. Does this prove a) the man was mad; b) God does not exist; c) God does exist, but won't be lured into the open by cheap tricks; d) God does exist, and has just demonstrated that He is an ironist; e) none of the above."

* * * * *

Barnes likes to talk about how Renard faced death. In one section he talks about Renard's understanding of irony.

"Irony does not dry up the grass. It just burns off the weeds."

* * * * *

Barnes is an art critic/lover. He wonders if atheism puts up barriers to the appreciation of art and beauty.

"Missing God is focused for me by missing the underlying sense of purpose and belief when confronted with religious art. It is one of the haunting hypotheticals for the nonbeliever: what would it be like 'if it were true' . . .Imagine hearing the Mozart Requiem in a great cathedral--or, for that matter, Poulenc's fishermen's mass in a clifftop chapel damp from salt spray--and taking the text as gospel; imagine reading Giotto's holy strip-cartoon in the chapel at Padua as nonfiction; imagine looking on a Donatello as the actual face of the suffering Christ or the weeping Magdalene. It would--to put it mildly--add a bit of extra oomph, wouldn't it?"

* * * * *

My favorite Barnes' book is Flaubert's Parrot. He includes this great quote from Flaubert. I have to reproduce it here because I once used this quote as an essay question in Advanced Placement just to drive a certain earnest young woman crazy.

"Is it splendid, or stupid, to take life seriously?"

* * * * *

And my favorite passage about fiction.

"Fiction is made by a process which combines total freedom and utter control, which balances precise observation with the free play of the imagination, which uses lies to tell the truth and truth to tell lies. It is both centripetal and centrifugal. It wants to tell all stories, in all their contrariness, contradiction, and irresolvability; at the same time it wants to tell the one true story, the one that smelts and refines and resolves all the other stories. . ."

I'm surprised at how much I ended up liking this book.

The New Death Row Diet

Did you see in the papers the other day that state legislators in Texas are pushing an initiative to stop the practice of giving those slated for execution the right to order a last meal? Since Texas, under governors Bush and Perry, has executed more individuals than all the other states combined, this is a proposal whose time has come.

I'm sure when the practice of granting last meal requests was first introduced, penal authorities naturally assumed the requests would befit the low economic status of most of the condemned. They had visions of chicken flavored Ramen Noodles, Whoppers with cheese, Taco Bell specials when the home team scores enough runs, food scavenged from neighborhood dumpsters, and of course plenty of collard greens. But no, the condemned displayed alarmingly good taste. They opted for lobster, filet mignon, fois gras, baby asparagus, and french fries cooked in duck fat!

The last straw came just a week ago when the latest in a continuing string of the condemned ordered two chicken fried steaks, a pizza, gourmet ice cream, and other food stuffs too numerous to mention! The capper was that the ingrate did not eat a single bite! It all went to waste. Well, that is not exactly true. I suspect that the death row guards gathered around the largess and ate their fill as the lethal injection slowly took effect.

This was understandably too much to bear in a down economy and the Texas legislature leaped into action. I'm not sure of the provenance of the bill, but it is comforting to think that enlightened legislators around the country will take note as they introduce their own cost saving measures. Paul Ryan is already adding an addendum to his Plan for Prosperity and Eric Cantor is trying to figure out how to incorporate this spending cut into the next debt ceiling debate.

This is yet another reason why we can all be proud to be living in Amerika.

A Reverse Bucket List

I recently read a terrifically clever piece by someone I wish I could credit who, realizing he/she could never achieve his/her bucket list, decided to write a list of things he/she definitely didn't want to do before death. Here's mine.

1. Climb Mount Everest (This was also the top item in the list I read, but I had to list it anyway.)

2. Summit all the fourteeners in Colorado. I could still buy a tee-shirt proclaiming I had made it to the top of all of them, so what would be the point?

3. Scuba the Blue Hole in Belize. Again, I could always buy the tee-shirt.

4. Ride through the Everglades in one of those boats with the big propeller in the back.

5. Travel to Australia, or to any other place where you have to wear a hat with corks hanging down to keep the bugs at bay.

6. Attend the Daytona 500 or any other Nascar event.

7. Ride mules on that tiny little trail into the Grand Canyon.

8. Step out on that platform the local indians financed that looms over the Grand Canyon and makes you feel like you're standing on air.

9. Go paragliding off Lookout Mountain.

10. Go spelunking or any other activity where the likelihood of a bat getting into your hair is high.

11. Go for a run with those barefoot running indians in the Copper Canyon in Mexico. I liked BORN TO RUN, but come on man.

12. Attend a baseball camp for middle aged men. Little League provided enough humiliation for a lifetime.

13. Play Texas Hold 'em in Las Vegas.

14. Do anything in Las Vegas. Even the upscale restaurants there are depressing.

15. Watch the St. Patrick's Day Parade in New York City.

16. Attend a couples Tupperware Party.

17. Go on a cruise.

18. Buy a pair of white, patent leather shoes just in case I had to go on a cruise.

19. Play golf.

20. Attend a time share presentation.

Not Within Shouting Distance

There was an interesting article by Adam Gopnik in the September 12 New Yorker entitled "Decline, Fall, Rinse, Repeat." It was a criticism of the expanding genre of history writing, Declinism. Declinist books have been around forever. They are always prophesying some impending disaster like the Population Bomb, or a Nuclear Winter, or Class Warfare, or some other apocalyptic vision that is sure to spell our planet's doom in the near future. Then when the apocalypse has for whatever reason not happened, a new wave of Declinist books hits the stands explaining why the last prophesy of doom was wrong, or ill-timed, and why this new apocalypse detailed in the new book is the real thing.

According to Gopnik, the best Declinist book was written in 1918 by Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West. Spengler's hypothesis was that there is always a cycle of decline and growth. It is as inevitable as the change of seasons. Furthermore, western civilization reached its high point somewhere during the 13th century and has been in decline ever since.

It is difficult to look at our world as it currently exists and not agree to a certain extent with Spengler. But that is not the subject of this reaction. Gopnik goes on to talk about a number of other Declinist books and ends up focusing on Friedman and Mandelbaum's new book, That Used to Be Us. This work focuses on recent history, the ravages of 9/11, the Islamic threat, the paralyzed U.S. government, the world wide economic collapse, and basically wonders why we all can't just get along (Please note that this is a one reading knee jerk reaction to Gopnik's article).

The things we all want and need seem obvious to Friedman and Mandelbaum: good schools, safe roads and bridges, efficient airports, universal healthiness, no poor people starving in the streets, a clean environment. They have an almost impossible time envisioning anyone disagreeing with any of this. And yet history tells us that we have always had a large group of individuals who don't want these things, not if it means broadening the reach of government. The fact of the matter is that many individuals are perfectly willing to sacrifice bridge safety, air safety, better-informed children, faster, more efficient forms of transformations like bullet trains, and the like in support of their undying belief that we should give government as little money as possible. If that means the government will default, so much the better. It is, for instance, quite possible that republicans in Congress will block disaster relief funds for the east coast rather than cede more power to the central government. It is hard for us to imagine, but it is true.

"Annoying liberals," Gopnik writes, "is a pleasure well worth paying for. As a recent study in the social sciences shows, if energy use in a household is monitored so that you can watch yourself saving money every month by using less, self-identified conservatives will actually use and spend more, apparently as a way of showing their scorn for liberal pieties."

Protestants in the seventeenth century hated the magnificent baroque cathedrals of Rome because they were symbols of an earthly power they despised. Conservatives hate fast trains and efficient airports and beautifully engineered bridges for the same reason.

What does all this mean? We are so polarized that we are not even within shouting distance of each other. The kind of thinking and innovation that lead to a growing civilization have become an impossibility. Whatever trends will take us over and lead us back to prosperity seem to be happening in Asia. There is no intellectual room for them here.

Everyone's an expert

I enjoyed reading the link on Amy Figler Goings' FB wall entitled "What teachers really want to tell parents" (CNN.com). It did a nice job of detailing the frustration teachers face when confronted by parents who are forever rushing in to save their kids. It reminded me yet again how I got out of the profession just in time.

If I reacted to parents the way I used to I wouldn't last very long. At parent/teacher conferences I delighted in asking disgruntled parents where they got their degree in education. I remember one father was furious with me for requiring that my students leave me a personal voice mail if they were going to be absent just like I had to call in if I was going to be absent. The parent railed and railed, called me unreasonable, and finally asked me what would happen if all teachers required their students to leave a similar message. "Then I would be a damn fool not to," I shot back in an echo of Yossarian's refusal to fly more bombing missions. I finally said, "Look, we can go back and forth like this all night, but nothing will make me change my mind." He called me an asshole and stormed off to talk to the principal. Nothing came of it, I am happy to report. Nowadays I suspect I would be put on administrative leave pending an investigation for such a transgression. The Denver Post would probably pick up the story and I would serve as yet another example of evil teachers undermining the self-esteem of young people.

Toward the end of my career I was always being called on the carpet for my tactics. Of course that was during the reign of Dr. Treichler who always supported parents for fear that we would be sued. Roger Sykes, our post Treichler principal, was even worse. I remember one student whose parents decided before class even met that I was too harsh and demanding for their kid and asked to have her transferred to John Brovsky's CCB class immediately. Sykes, Brovsky, and I had a meeting where Sykes decided to make the transfer because he didn't want to deal with the parent who happened to be a biggie in the soccer community. I was outraged (outrage was my default mode back in those days) and said why don't we carry your thinking to its logical conclusion and just transfer all of my students right now? Sykes did not appreciate the truth in that comment and looked at me like I had lost my mind. Looking back, I have to admit that I was close to losing my mind on any number of occasions. Oh well.

But the thing is that everybody has become an expert lately. After presidential speeches, networks offer viewers a chance to ring in on their approval or disapproval of certain statements. Sports shows encourage viewers to second guess certain trades, or play calls, or cheerleaders' outfits, or uniform styles, you name it, and they broadcast the results of those instant polls as if they had some relevance. Call me insecure, but I think that the opinions of coaches and managers trump knee jerk reactions from suburban mancaves.

Don't get me wrong. I think Jim Tracy should play Seth Smith every day and I suspect that all those who think that Tim Tebow should start are wrong, but I don't get angry when Tracy ignores my advice. And if Tebow ends up starting instead of Orton, my life will go on. I will not call up some talk radio station where tired old jocks with pot bellies yell at and interrupt eachother and add to the fray.

This perceived right to have groundless opinions happens in other venues as well. The cool blue mustang with the red eyes at DIA is a source of constant controversy. It makes me smile every time I drive by it, but other people think it is a (GASP) devil horse and should be torn down. That's fine; they certainly have a right to their opinion. But many of them actually get angry about it and fire off letters to the editor and shun DIA whenever possible to use the airport in Colorado Springs instead. They not only believe they have the right to their opinions, but that the rest of us should bend to their will.

I love the new addition to the art museum. The view up the staircase in the atrium gives me the shivers and the museum's collection is glorified by the whole thing. It makes me proud to live in Denver. Other people are outraged by the place. It has too many weird nooks and crannies. What's up with the way the whole place sticks out like a sore thumb? To hear these people loudly opine on paper and on the airwaves one would think they won't be satisfied until we tear down the whole thing and consult them on a new design which they will have a right to veto. I love to have strong opinions and I love to argue with people who have equally strong opinions, but ultimately I realize that my opinion just doesn't matter. What do I know from architecture?

I love the book Heat by Bill Buford. Buford, a food writer for The New Times, takes a job in Mario Batali's kitchen at Babbo to see what it is like to be on the line of a great restaurant under the thumb of a great and demanding chef. It's damn hard, he concludes. But in the process he travels to Italy to see the origins of the industry up close and in his trip he meets the world's most famous and presumably best butcher, an iconoclastic sort with a temperament something like the soup nazi on Seinfeld. The great thing about the butcher and the reason I am sticking this digression into the middle of this rant, is that the butcher refuses to cater to his customers. Not only does he disagree with the idea that the customer is always right, he asserts that the customer is almost always wrong. When an unwary customer walks into his shop an asks for a particular piece of beef that is in fact out of season, the butcher will refuse to fill the order and tells the poor slob to get out of his store.

This happens all the time. Grocers will stock tomatoes in February because their customers are clueless enough to want them at that time even though they have no taste. Or people will sit down at a great restaurant and order a steak well done and expect the chef to prepare it that way. Or they will walk into a restaurant and ask for a salt shaker or, even worse, a bottle of catsup. A restaurateur with integrity should chase people like that out of his joint with a meat cleaver.

We are not experts at everything. Sometimes our opinions are just plain stupid. I think we should put ourselves into the hands of the real experts and maybe we might learn something. Of course, that is just my opinion.

Lou's Food Bar

Last night was my fifth visit to Lou's Food Bar, the newest addition to the Bonanno restaurant empire. I've had lunch three times; this was my second dinner. The first few times I liked the place, but was definitely not impressed enough to consider it a "destination restaurant." I live almost 40 minutes away and while it is worth a 40 minute drive to eat at Mizuna or Bones, that trek across town to Lou's was a stretch.

That attitude changed after last night's meal. We went there for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was a less than stellar review of the place in the 5280 this month. Katherine was even moved to write a nasty letter to the magazine which, due to its length, they will never publish. We wanted to go and reaffirm our undying faith in Frank and Jacqueline Bonanno's unerring instincts when it comes to eating and drinking establishments. There were a couple of other reasons to make the trip. You don't need reservations. It is easier to park at then Osteria Marco. It is their most affordable venue. We had gone to the Y every day for two weeks and were, by God, entitled. Most important, PERA and Metro State had filled the coffers of our checking account.

Lou's is designed to be a neighborhood bar where guys on Harleys and folks arriving on foot or by stretch limo will feel equally at home. A rather garish (in my opinion) neon sign announces the place and a parking lot in need of repaving supplies parking if you get there early enough (before 6 pm). There is an outdoor patio facing 38th with twinkling lights and plenty of space for neighborhood dog lovers to hang out with their pets. Inside it is a potentially cavernous space that has been toned down with off-white walls, brightly painted window frames, and names of entrees stenciled above the banks of booths lining the place. A lovely young dark haired girl in alarmingly tight jeans greeted us at the door and ushered us to a table in the bar area where the vibe is noisy and serious cocktails dominate the scene. There is a more sedate dining area to the right.

The 5280 reviewer said the place was too severe and unwelcoming and the concrete walls and floors made the noise level pretty high when the place fills up. The place is pretty noisy, and while the walls and floor do little to buffer the din, it is the kind of conversational hum punctuated with bursts of laughter born of the fact that 90% of the clientele, especially the gang in the bar area, according to Joe the manager, are regulars.

The food is what makes them regulars. The 5280 reviewer dissed the place because the menu didn't have a focus. There are charcuterie plates, the kind that keep people coming back to Bonanno's Larimer Square standout, Osteria Marco. There are Nicoise salads and Lyonnaise salads and white bean salads. There are artisanal sausages of all descriptions probably whipped up in the basement of Bonanno's North Denver home. Hanger steaks and frites are listed on the menu right next to organic fried chicken, french onion soup, and spaghetti and meat balls. All this variety left the 5280's hapless reviewer confused. What is this place? French? Italian? Biker bar? She couldn't accept it for what it is, an affordable comfort food venue in the Highlands area offering the kind of food you might have in your own home if you happened to be the best cook this side of the Mississippi.

Last night we shared the Lyonnaise salad which was easily large enough for two. Kathie moved on to a house made pastrami sandwich and I had a blackened fish sandwich with a remoulade sauce that was a revelation. We ended up sharing an apple pie from another Bonanno venue, Wednesday's Pies, made, like all the pies, with an almond flower that transformed that all-American dish. On other visits I've had veal sausage with German potato salad, a great reuben, and steaming mussels. My mother in law even ordered the spaghetti and meat balls on one occasion. You can bet that the folks who run Luca d'Italia whip up a great version of that road house staple.

It was a great and affordable evening. I left with two convictions. One, the 5280 had no clue. Two, it was worth the drive.