stumbling virtue

Debate Club

 

Lincoln--way taller than Douglas.

Whenever there was a debate during the last year or so of this endless campaign, my dad would complain about how useless they were because no one got a chance to really say anything, they were all about the soundbites, etc., etc., and why couldn't they do a Lincoln-Douglas style debate, where each candidate got to speak for an hour or so? I would usually point out to him that people nowadays wouldn't have the patience to sit through that, and really, out of the available candidates, was there anyone whom you'd want to hear speak for an hour? And he'd sigh, and long for the good old days he never personally knew.

So after hearing all this Lincoln-Douglas nonsense forever, imagine how excited I was to read a review of Allen Guelzo's Lincoln and Douglas: The Debates That Defined America, an account of the 1858 Illinois senatorial faceoff. Now that was a book I had to read, as it fell under the category of subject you hear a lot about but don't really KNOW that much about. That was last March. I reserved the book right away and it didn't become available until the beginning of October.

I don't know if any book can live up to the anticipation that comes with a seven month wait. Between that, and my general scatterwittedness right now, I don't know if I can give a really fair assessment of this book. It took me weeks to read it, which is a bad sign--it wasn't a long book either. And when I was trying to read it, I felt like my mind was melting or like I was undergoing some kind of weird brain-word disconnect. I stared at the pages and the sentences seemed to break apart before my eyes, with random words and phrases exploding in different sized print, with no order and no meaning. I found myself constantly backtracking and having to read pages over and over and over, and even then still feeling like I wasn't getting it. Either I'm getting really, really stupid...or I was a little bored.

I'm too busy and too overwhelmed (and maybe too stupid) to give a really in-depth summary, which I'll soon regret, as my main purpose for writing these things is so that I'll remember the important details in the book I'm writing about. I guess I'll just say that Guelzo gives a little bit of background to both Douglas and Lincoln's careers, sets up the state of Illinois and national politics at the time, then launches into account of each of the seven debates that took place as the two men campaigned for senator. He gives a scorecard for each debate that summarizes the points each brought up, as well as any denial of the charges brought up by the other. And...that's the basic structure. It's pretty workmanlike.

The fascinating thing about these storied debates is that although Lincoln and Douglas attracted large, passionate crowds, they weren't really campaigning for themselves--remember, until 1913, US senators were chosen by state legislators, not direct elections. The people they spoke in front of did not actually get to vote for either man. Essentially, even though they spoke their own views and own positions, they were advocating for their party; if enough Republicans got elected to the legislature, Lincoln would win; if Democrats won out, Douglas would get the position. (And don't feel bad if you didn't know this about the senatorial appointments--I didn't until a few years ago when I was researching something. Another stellar job by the American public school system.) In the end, Lincoln didn't get the right number of Republcian supporters elected to win the senate spot. However, the debates gave him a national reputation that helped pave the way for his presidential bid in 1860; at each debate a stenographer copied down the men's words, gave them to a transcriber, who then telegraphed them to the press. With each passing debate, the interest increased, until seemingly the whole nation was caught up in the Illinois senate race.

These kind of long-form debate were essentially trade off of speeches. The main issue, of course, was slavery. Douglas had staked his reputation on the doctrine of popular sovereignty, something that allowed some wiggle room on the issue of whether slaves would be allowed in each new state or not. Lincoln, while not a firebreathing abolitionist, had long believed that slavery was just wrong, but that was hardly the majority at the time--interestingly, , his now famous "A house divided cannot stand" speech was seen by many as potentially career ending. Afterwards, in the interest of saving some votes he might otherwise have lost with a squeamish public, Lincoln hedged by proclaiming he believed that the African slaves had natural rights--as in they were born equals as men under God's eyes--but not civil rights, which would give them the right to vote and be treated as equals under the law. Douglas and his camp, needless to say, ignored this fine definition and campaigned with racial scare tactics; at one rally, young women on floats wore dresses with cards on their skirts that read "white men only."

For each debate, Guelzo describes the local political climate, the venue, each candidate's arrival, and the reactions of the crowd. He includes some quotes from letters and journals, but not a great deal from each man's speeches; he tends more towards summaries. Maybe he thought the material was (or should be) already familiar. There are less from the newspaper accounts than I would have expected as well, and I don't recall a lot of first person, attendee reaction--though note that "don't recall" with care. I had to return the book to the library and can't refer to it so if I missed something or am forgetting percentages of material, apologies.

There are some interesting details. I particularly liked a section about how both men used speaking techniques that were straight from the popular rhetoric textooks of the day, things like "raise arms to express admiration but never above the eyes," "express anger with a closed fist," "speak slowly at first," etc. One textbook apparently listed fifteen different arm positions to express different things. All this precision about gestures may seem a little bit silly now, but remember that the speakers weren't miked and still had to communicate to large crowds. Actually, Guelzo never really addresses how they managed to speak to such large gatherings of people. Did people in the back just accept that they weren't going to hear anything said? Did the candidates shout their whole speeches? He does point out that although Douglas was the more famed speaker, he wore down over the last few debates; his exhaustion, combined with heavy drinking, limited his effectiveness. In contrast, Lincoln held up well and bought some credit just by appearing more vibrant.

Somehow, though, this book just didn't come to life for me. Guelzo has written a number of books about Lincoln and obviously must have a great deal of feeling for the subject, but there was something about the writing that didn't draw me in. The only time I felt any passion or excitement from Guelzo was in the last chapter, when he writes about how the true meaning of the debates is not in their role in Lincoln's election to the presidency, but for how Lincoln's stance on slavery showed that a democracy must have some kind of moral stance to have meaning; Douglas's kind of democracy, Guelzo writes, in which pure sovereignty rules and every choice is made by individuals concerned only with their own rights, is a hollow kind indeed. Libertarians, run!

I feel uneasy about casting judgement on this book; as noted above, I was reading it in a very scattered state of mind, in bits and pieces, and not always with full concentration. I want to blame myself for not loving this book; maybe I didn't give it the best opportunity to make me love it. But I can't help but feel that as busy as I am rightnow, if I had really been captivated by this book, I would have found some way to devote the time to it. I was never compelled to, though, and I'm sorry for that, because it's a worthy topic.

One thing I did realize while reading this book is that I need to read more about Lincoln. I haven't read a Lincoln bio since about second grade, and while I don't recall all the details, I'm just guessing it wasn't particularly in-depth. From what I read in Guelzo's book, though, I'd like to learn more. Lincoln: interesting guy. I know, that's a real revelation. I'm a little late to that party. Sorry. Have I mentioned that I'm kind of tired?

Every Who?

Here's the PR material for the upcoming play. We. All. Hate. The. Artwork. It has nothing to do with our production. No one's happy with it.

 

But hopefully the actual play will be fine. Things look a little rocky now, but I see definite glimmers of something special in it. Really. Trust me.

 

Gold Star Girl

Look at this!! I won a little short fiction contest. Indeed the world is strange. 

(Skippy is one of my noms de Internet, by the way) 

Oh the Drama

I still have not finished the book I'm reading. This is a problem. It's not even a long book, I'm just a little under everything right now. But nevertheless, I am angry at said book. When I do finally finish it and get a chance to write about it, I will explain. I promise. Oh, all right, I know no one cares.

Instead I will tell a little about what's going on with the plays. First off, TofF--four short Grand Guignol plays for Halloween. The problem is that the one I'm in is not very Grand nor is it Guignol. No blood or scares, very sad indeed. So we've tried to perk it up by playing the melodrama, which isn't too hard because it's a bit silly. But so are we, and on Thursday night, we could not stop laughing during the entire play. I kept coughing to try to cover and others kept turning their backs and walking around to hide the hysterics. We had to skip one line because I knew if I said it we would never recover. It was incredibly unprofessional but the audience was laughing too, so they must have been having some kind of good time. Or they may have been drunk. This always has to be considered. On Friday, then, we played it so straight that it was really dull. So we have to find a medium between the two and see if we can make it fun without making it a mess.

Everyman, however, is currently a mess. No one knows their lines, no one knows what they're doing, everyone is cranky. It feels like we're getting nowhere and we open in two weeks. The arrival of a choreographer with a background in modern dance hasn't helped matters (in my opinion). She is very bubbly and seems to have a hearts and flowers and unicorns and rainbows animated around her when she speaks. She turned one rehearsal into something that resembled a seventh grade sleepover too closely for my comfort. I didn't enjoy that kind of thing the first time around and have no desire to repeat it. Oh well, every play looks like a mess at some point and then it comes together in unexpected ways...usually...somewhat...sometimes...hopefully.

Update: October 26th, 6:14 pm

And unsurprisingly, after three weekend performances and two daylong rehearsals, with one evening show left to go, it all ends in tears.

Reading Room

I am on a rehearsal break right now for Everyman, then I have a Theater of Fear performance tonight. In other words, I am at the theater all day, which is not a bad place to be, I suppose. ToF seems to be going well, though I do feel a little bit like apologizing to audiences because the show I'm in doesn't have any blood. Then again, we don't have anything to clean up, so that makes life a little easier.

I am not even close to finishing my current book. In lieu of a lengthy, tiresome review, I'll just mention for now that I have a short story here and a bit of essay craziness here; I think the essay is going to be appearing somewhere else as well, maybe next week? Anyway, they're both first drafts and could use some work no doubt, but they're what I can do when things are kind of a time crunch.  

Here's our messy theater.

 

It looks better when a show is going on. Trust me.  

Best Friends

 

Tintern Abbey

At the beginning of my senior year in college, I had to meet with my major advisor to go over the classes I had taken to make sure that I was on target to complete all the requirements for my degree. After looking over my list, he looked up at me and said rather dryly, "Congratulations. You've managed to complete an English major without taking a poetry course."

This wasn't quite true--I had taken a gigantic overview of English literature course when I was a freshman and we covered quite a bit of poetry throughout that year. Well, I mean, we were supposed to--ever crunched for time, when I made decisions about what to skim and what to concentrate on when studying, poetry usually went out the window first. Especially long poems, which meant that much of the Romantic poets went right by me in a flurry of quickly flipped pages on my way to reading something else, like a nice, comfortable novel excerpt. I am, after all, the person who when asked to write about "The Wasteland" turned in an exam book with nothing written in it but, "Smarter minds than mine have failed to completely understand this poem." I had to get an A on every other thing I wrote that semester in order to survive that huge bad grade (and the professor refused to let me drop the class when I tried after that Wasteland debacle).

In the time that's passed since, I haven't given much of a thought to Wordsworth and Coleridge except momentary bursts of gratitude that I no longer have to fear answering an essay question about one of their poems on an exam, or an obligatory nod to Coleridge while watching Citizen Kane. But recently I was writing something about the Romantics (historically, no literary explication in this project) and found a brief note about Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth having been very close friends who then became irreparably estranged. This sounded like something that would interest even poetry-challenged me (though I will note that I recite poetry much better than I write about it. Oh the drama). Lucky me, I did a little searching and found The Friendship: Wordsworth and Coleridge, by Adam Sisman.

The book opens in 1797 with a young, lively Coleridge arriving at the Wordsworths' cottage in Dorset after a forty mile walk from his own home in the Quantock Hills. What was intended as a short visit between the two men who knew of each other more than actually knew each other, turned into a stay of several weeks. Suddenly inseparable, they formed a close-knit partnership that kicked off the Romantic era in English poetry.

Mini-biographies detail the two men's lives up until they met. Both were of a radical bent in their younger days. Wordsworth spent a few years in France after the revolution, enthralled by its ideals, and insistently oblivious to its turbulence and violence. Coleridge stayed in England and sought reform there; his pet idea for a long time was to form a utopian society called the Pantisocracy in Pennsylvania. As is often the case with utopian communities, this idea failed to get off the ground, finally falling apart when Coleridge's then close friend and partner Robert Southey dropped out to marry and lead a more conventional life. This angered Coleridge who treated friendship with an intensity that others could only match for so long; if a friend appeared to fail him in any way, his disappointment was bitter and long-lasting. Southey, whose industriousness and precise work habits came to annoy the slower, less-disciplined Coleridge, bore the double blame of not just bailing out of the Pantisocracy scheme but also seeming to push Coleridge into marrying the sister of his own wife, a marriage that would eventually turn into a disaster. Of course this wasn't quite true--Coleridge married Sara Fricker quite willingly, and only looked for someone to blame after he fell in love with another Sara, Sara Hutchinson, whose sister Mary would eventually marry Wordsworth.

Coleridge and Wordsworth traveled in the same circles and probably crossed paths a few times when they both were in the Bristol area. Coleridge was the better known of the two at the time, due to his involvement in politics in England while Wordsworth had been in France. However, he had read the two poems Wordsworth had published and greatly admired them. Coleridge had no doubts about his own talents and believed few rivaled his intellect; Wordsworth was one of the few men he had met who he considered his superior.

For the next few years, Coleridge either lived with Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy, or lived as near to them as possible. Wordsworth and Dorothy were already a formidably close pair who could barely stand a moment away from each other (poor Dorothy's reaction on her brother's wedding day is the most crushingly sad thing in this book). Dorothy also was awed by her brother's talents, and in her, he found unwavering support and inspiration; both Wordsworth and Coleridge felt that she had the keenest eye for the beauties of nature, and in their poems can be found lines directly from her journals (perhaps Dorothy Wordsworth is the true founder of English Romanticism? Then again, spinsters are always the biggest romantics).

A friendship as intense as Wordsworth and Coleridge shared can only survive so long. Just like love, a friendship that burns too hard also reaches a point where it either settles into a comfortable, though less brilliant glow, or sputters out. The two worked on a volume of poems, Lyrical Ballads, that was not well-received. For a second edition, Wordsworth had Coleridge's epic Rime of the Ancient Mariner pushed from its place at the front of the volume to the back, because he feared that the creepy grandeur of the poem didn't fit well with the rest of his more pastoral pieces, and might have put off readers. He put his own name on it and left Coleridge's off the book. Coleridge agreed to this, didn't complain, and as always, supported the one who he felt was a superior talent, but probably harbored some secret hurts and resentments at these casual slights.

Coleridge was also becoming more difficult to deal with. He was addicted to opium and becoming, to be quite honest, a mess. If he was ill, he took opium. When he didn't take opium, he became ill. He recognized that the drug he thought was helping might be making him sick, but couldn't stop himself from taking it. Wordsworth and Dorothy didn't particularly support Coleridge's wife or marriage, but his pursuit of his other Sara was uncomfortable for everyone. When Wordsworth married Sara's sister Mary and Sara came to live with them, Coleridge was so tormented over his inabiltiy to have her that he even began to have paranoid thoughts that she and Wordsworth were having an affair (he was wrong). The two men's personalities were just different as well, no matter how in sympathy they had first appeared. Wordsworth was quiet and reticent, while Coleridge was outgoing and voluble; one person (I think Madame de Stael--sorry, had to return the book today) said that Coleridge knew about monologues, but not dialogues. Their work habits were different--as with Southey, Coleridge saw Wordsworth's steady workmanship as almost a rebuke to himself and his inabilty to produce work. Even the long walks they took showed their differences. In an era where paper and ink were expensive, both poets composed much of their work in their heads before setting it down on paper, usuall while out on long rambles. A friend noted that Coleridge liked to compose while walking on uneven, twisting, turning paths, while Wordsworth preferred steady, smooth, straightforward routes.

Wordworth grew more staid as he grew older. He was given a postal appointment in a town that provided a steady income while giving him plenty of time to write. He became conservative and reactionary, far from the young man who had gone to France to witness the Revolution. He produced plenty of work, but staggered to some degree under Coleridge's faith in him. Early on in their friendship, Coleridge had conceived the idea that Wordsworth would be the one to write the world's greatest poem, something that would encompass all the greatness of the mind of man, that would be bigger than "Paradise Lost." Wordsworth worked on this poem most of his life, but he never finished "The Recluse." At some points later in life he was known to make a few comments to others about not being up to the great task entrusted to him (Coleridge had his own unfinished work to struggle with; he never believed he had finished his poem "Christobel" but it became a hit as an unpublished manuscript, and he finally published it fifteen or so years after he wrote it).

The final break between the two men took place when Wordsworth told a friend who had been planning to offer Coleridge his house in London that Coleridge was alcoholic, addicted to opium, and disagreeable to live with. All of these things may have been true and widely known, but Coleridge was infuriated. This incident put some distance between the two men that was never breached again, although they managed to be coldly cordial to each other when they met; however, it is obvious that the break had been on the verge of happening for years. Some things just aren't meant to last.

Sisman does a good enough job of tying together all the characters and of giving a portrait of the time. He quotes extensively from the poets' work and letters. He is good at explaining, but the main players never really spring to live. Coleridge seems a bit more favored of the two, but in real life he was undoubtedly the more dominant personality as well. I found it odd that when I finished the book I was not nearly as interested in finding out more about Coleridge and Wordsworth as I was about the supporting characters Dorothy Wordsworth and Charles Lamb. There is something calm, chilly, and instructive about the book, which maybe isn't quite what you would hope for in a book about the romantic era. But there is a lot to be gained from reading this book, no doubt more if you are a student of poetry, which I, sadly, am not.

I was struck by the language used by people in letters at the time--the outpouring of emotion, the expressions of longing, the declarations of love, the promises and dedications. And I don't mean love letters, but letters between friends, siblings, seemingly anyone. It's astonishing to see such unabashed feelings shared, and it made me sad to live in an era where honesty and outspokenness have been replaced by too-careful reserve and irony. 

 

The Horror

 

Here's the poster for the upcoming play. As noted, I'm a bit worried about what I'm doing--okay, more than a bit--but I liked the artwork here and thought I'd put it up. Creepy, isn't it?

 

Mad Love

 

Carole Lombard and John Barrymore feel the drama of it all.

As I've mentioned before, I'm a huge Carole Lombard fan. But somehow I'd never gotten around to seeing Twentieth Century (1934), her first big comic breakthrough (it's also often considered the first screwball comedy, probably edging out It Happened One Night by a matter of months). I finally got to it, though, and it deserves all the exuberant praise it has earned from many others much smarter than me.

In short, John Barrymore plays Oscar Jaffe, a grandiose theatrical imrpesario who can't do anything without making it into a massive melodrama. To the despair of his director and accountant, he impetuously plucks a lingerie model out of a department store, changes her name from Mildred Plotka to Lily Garland and makes her the star of her play. The newly named Lily (Carole Lombard) has no experience but is eager to learn and Jaffe somehow gets a performance out of her in what seems to be a dreadful play. In addition to becoming the money-making star of all of his productions, Lily becomes Jaffe's lover and an immense diva who now wields a sense of drama and excess that is rivalled only by her mentor, Jaffe. When she's had it with his controlling ways, she heads to Hollywood. At first grandly angry, Jaffe finally chases after her in an attempt to bring her back to the stage. The two end up on the Twentieth Century Limited where Jaffe tries to get Lily to sign a contract for what he believes will be another surefire hit--the Passion Play, with Lily starring as Mary Magdalene. Chaos ensues.

Of course by the time the '30s and talkies rolled around, Barrymore was barely a shell of his former self. In other movies he made during the decade, I've usually found him more annoying than charming or touching. But in this case, he's perfectly suited for the role of the temperamental, over-the-top Jaffe and has a great time with it. Lombard, unafraid as always, also enjoys wringing every bit of diva-dom out of her part. The scenes on the train get a little tangled over themselves with the machinations of the plot, especially compared to the scenes in the theater or between Oscar and Lily alone, but all in all, it's still a great deal of fun.

It's Carole Lombard month on Turner Classic, so don't miss her movies on Monday nights in October. Then you'll see why I'm always going on and on about her comedies. Oh, to have a chance to be as funny as her or any other 1930s comedy queen. Instead I am in a play where I am supposed to be dying. The director (who's very good, by the way) does want us to play up the melodrama of the plot, though, so hopefully we'll have some fun with it. I am working on my Camille-like coughing.

Cut

I don't have a book to write about as it took me a while just to get my current one from the library and I'm only one third of the way through it, so it'll be some time before the review. But I don't want to fall off the posting habit, so in lieu of a book I'm reading, here is something from a book I'm writing. Well, when I have time--if I can't find time to read, then I certainly don't have time to write my own work. I'm too busy doing hack work for money. Educating the kids and all that. 

Anyway, this is the beginning of a novel. I don't know what possessed me to jump into this type of story. It's definitely out of my league. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to pursue it all the way through as it is (such as it is...the writing's pretty awful, isn't it? So why am I posting it? I'm in a reckless mood) or whether I'm going to turn it inside out at some point to help get myself off the realism hook. It's hard to explain. But isn't everything? Except the Defenestration of Prague, of course. 

Click on to read if you dare.

At the Movies

Just a note--I've started reviewing movies for FilmForward. No pay, but I get free movies, a byline (well, not quite, the editor puts writers' names at the end where they're a little buried, but you get my point) and the right to say annoying things like, "Well, let me check my calendar...no, sorry, can't make that, I'm going to a press screening." Which of course is the best part. The second best part is the remarkably comfy seats in the screening room I was in this morning. I sat down and nearly fell asleep. I wanted to take that chair home with me. Also, no crowds, no talking, no super tall person blocking your view (well, so far--nothing I've been to has been particularly crowded). It's a pretty nice atmosphere. The downside is that I'm very far down the food chain of the reviewers on the site, so it looks like I'm getting the most obscure movies that no one else is taking. Oh well. It's a start.