The question I should have been asking when deciding what to include in my canon came to me when I was watching a cheesy sci-fi movie.
What works would I recommend to an intelligent extraterrestrial to give it an understanding of humanity?
I realize that it is kind of a silly question, but it has helped me focus. It would eliminate most science texts, as we could assume that any being intelligent enough to travel through interstellar space would understand science at least as well as we do. Most philosophy, arguably, could be removed also, as any practical application of it is reflected in other seminal works.
While I understand that a knowledge of science is essential for any 21st century human (American human, anyway), it is not essential that I read Newton’s Principia. Nor is it necessary to read Locke, if we can see his ideas reflected in the US Constitution and the Federalist Papers. Reading summaries of scientific and philosophic ideas would suffice, as the primary texts are no longer part of my canon.
And, because more than 2 or 3 works by a single author (with possibly the sole exception of Shakespeare) would be unnecessary, the list is further narrowed.
But to how many?
That was relatively easy. 247. It is the number of books currently on the large bookcase in my living room. It is also a number that could be digested over a few years, rather than a lifetime, which would be necessary for this hypothetical ET.
More important than all of this, though, is that I will never, in all likelihood, run into this ET, and no one will look to my canon as The Canon for all of human endeavor. I am not a philosopher, nor a scientist, nor a literature professor. My knowledge of any of these subjects does not need to be comprehensive. My canon will be mine alone, and its purpose is to allow me to see the commonality of human experience. Nothing more. To attempt more is get mired in details, be overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, and never get started.
With this focus, I was freed from my own tyranny. I am no longer beholden to the 800 items, many of which are irrelevant to my pursuits. It is no longer a chore I dread, but something I can enjoy over time. It is manageable, and that is what any item on a life-list should be.
Since I decided that the best way to get an understanding of world literature was to define my own canon, I’ve been struggling with a definition. According to Princeton WordNet, a canon is “a collection of books accepted as holy scripture, especially the books of the Bible recognized by any Christian church as genuine and inspired.” This, though, describes the word’s origins, more than its meaning in the sense I am seeking.
Wikipedia has a more helpful definition:
a specified collection of works considered to be both representative and the best of a particular form, genre, or culture.
The problem with this definition is that one has to ask, who is doing the considering?
This is not a new question. Since the concept of a literary canon was introduced, it has caused controversy. But, I am not interested in this debate (if you are, Wikipedia has a brief section on it). The only canon I am interested in is my own.
I started my canon in my late teens, and in the intervening decades, that original type-written, two-page list has bloated to over 800 items. For every book I read from it, I add 2 more. It has not been particularly productive.
I had to ask myself, what was the purpose of creating this canon, and what did I hope to get from reading all of its constituent members? Believe it or not, I had never really answered this question to any satisfaction. I just kept plodding along, reading the books and adding more as I discovered more connections and influences. Back in my days as a Project Manager, I would have called it scope creep.
So, what is the answer to the question, Why? As best as I can come up with so far it is this: to understand what it is to be a human at the turn of the 21st century.
I cannot possibly know everything about every culture that is extant today, let alone all that have come before. But, there is a commonality to the human experience that, by reading those who have written down their thoughts, I can open a window onto that commonality.
But what about those influences and connections? Is it necessary to read Ptolemy in order to understand Kepler? Is it important to know, and read, a minor poet who may had an influence on a major poet, but who really adds nothing to my knowledge of that commonality?
And of those major writers, is it important to read all of their works? Dickens is undeniably a major voice in Victorian England, but must I read all of his works to understand life in 19th century England?
These and other questions nagged me. Until I stumbled on the question I should be asking.
Though I was little disappointed at the time, I have come to realize that the meeting in the Rose Garden was largely ceremonial. It was not meant as a policy symposium where the President debated the future of the country with a group of teenagers.
But there are situations where a politician needs to take unscripted questions from a potentially hostile audience. Sally was in the audience for an MTV special (the boxers-or-briefs one) when Presidential candidate Bill Clinton debated the future of the country with a group of teenagers.
She wasn’t feeling well that day, and decided not to ask any questions. After the taping, Clinton mingled with the crowd. When he shook hands with Sally, he looked her in the eye, and said, “Why didn’t you ask me a question? I think everybody else here did.”
Stunned that he he had recognized her as the person who did not ask a question, she stammered out a reply. “I’m not feeling well, and I didn’t want to be on TV and look and sound sick.”
“Well,” he said, leaning in closer, “if you weren’t sick, what question would you have asked me?”
She says she felt like the only person in the room with him, and they were surrounded by dozens of other people. Love him or hate him, Bill Clinton was no ordinary politician.
“I can’t believe he can’t field questions from a group of 17-year-olds.” Dan was saying this to no one in particular as we were finding our seats in the Rose Garden.
“Relax,” said Mario. “The guy probably just doesn’t want any curveballs. It’d look even worse, because we’re 17-year-olds.”
“You’re just saying that ’cause you get to ask him a question.”
From nowhere I could ascertain, a disembodied voice announced, “Ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States.” And from that same nowhere “Hail to the Chief” started to play.
Someone opened a side door, and Ronald Reagan came striding into the garden. He sprung up the steps to the make-shift stage and stood behind the podium, which had been adorned with the Presidential Seal while we had our heads turned.
He welcomed us to the White House, made a speech I cannot even remember, then asked if any of us had questions for him. I was not a huge Reagan supporter (nor a huge detractor for that matter), but even the very little amount of pomp surrounding our visit impressed me, as I’m certain it’s designed to. I wondered if Dan had been equally impressed, and turned to ask him, when his hand popped into the air.
“I’m totally gonna throw him that curveball.”
Whether President Reagan thought Dan looked a little too eager, or whether he was just lucky that day, we’ll never know. He didn’t call on Dan. But he did call on Mario, who asked the question he was supposed to, in spirit if not in letter.
“So, yeah, Mr President, whaddya think of Mikhail Gorbachev? Is he like a good guy?”
I don’t remember the answer.
After the questions, Reagan stepped off the stage and mingled with the crowd for a few minutes, shaking hands and posing for pictures. Before walking back inside, he pointed and waved at some windows in the residence. Nancy Reagan was standing in one of them, waving back. She stopped for a moment, bent over out of our view, and when she reappeared, she was holding their dog, Rex. She waved his paw at us.
When I was a teenager, I was active in politics. All of the ASB stuff, but some local, real politics, and a little national involvement as well. I met more politicians and office-holders than I can remember, and with a few exceptions, they all had one quality in common. I would call it distractedness, but that word doesn’t quite fit.
It is a feeling that, when they are talking to you, they’re thinking about 10 other things. They are looking at you, but not really listening. The best illustration of it I’ve seen is Al Pacino’s performance in City Hall. The combination of distractedness, deflection, and denial he uses to define his character is an incredible performance in an otherwise average film.
I understand that I’m not particularly important, and most of these politicians do have other things on their minds. What for me might have been a memorable moment, was for them something quickly forgotten. They seem to want these meetings with the public to be quick, predictable, and uneventful.
In the summer of 1986, I was a delegate to Boys’ Nation. For those who are not familiar with Boys’ Nation, it is a fantastic program sponsored by the American Legion. Every year, two boys are selected from each state to travel to Washington, DC and learn about the nation’s history and government. One hot August day, all 100 of us delegates were waiting in line to tour the Old Executive Office Building. I was talking with my friends Dan and Mario when guys wearing dark suits and fusilli wires in their ears started pulling a few people out of line. One of those pulled out was Mario.
After a few minutes, Mario got back in line next to me and Dan.
“What was that about?” I asked.
He handed me a small piece of paper. On it was typed, “What are your impressions of Mikhail Gorbachev?”
I looked back at him. “Is this…?”
He held his hands up. “I dunno. They just asked me a few questions, and then gave me this piece of paper.”
After a trip through the metal detectors, we were corralled into a small auditorium in the OEOB. A woman walked to the front of the stage.
“OK, welcome to the OEOB!” she said. “As you probably have started to suspect, in a few minutes, you are all going to meet with President Reagan in the Rose Garden.”
The audience started murmuring, and a few people cheered. Though I hadn’t yet conceived of the list, I was about to fulfill item #21 – Meet a US President.
Once we settled down, she continued, going over some basic rules and the protocol of meeting the President. Then she told us one last thing.
“The President will be taking questions, but only those who have already been spoken with are to raise their hands. If I didn’t speak to you personally before we came into this room, you are not to raise your hand when the President asks for questions.”
My friend Dan was excited, but for a reason I hadn’t considered. As we stood and started to walk over to the White House, he shook his head and said just one thing.
“I’m gonna raise my hand anyway.”
Since CJ was born, Beezus has been getting less of our attention. Our vet told us she could stand to lose few pounds, so we’ve started taking her off-leash in Central Park to let her run around.
Off-leash hours in all New York City parks are from 9pm-9am, and there are few things in her life she enjoys more (see picture). Normally, we take her in the mornings, but lately we’ve been taking advantage of the abnormally temperate nights. So we’ve been going into the Park at night.
Central Park, and New York in general, is not nearly as dangerous as many people think. We’ve never had any problems, and as long as we stay out of the Ramble at night, I don’t imagine we’ll have much to worry about. But just because it isn’t particularly dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s not downright creepy sometimes.
On a recent night, Beezus and I were walking with a friend and his dog when we strolled by a bench, upon which were some very fancy red cowboy boots.
“Don’t look at them,” said my friend.
“Why not?”
“A guy puts them there, and then hangs out in the bushes and watches people. If they look at them too long, he jumps out of the bushes.”
“And does what?”
“Hassles them, I guess. I’ve never given him the satisfaction of looking at the boots, but I see them there every night, and I’ve seen the guy in the bushes.”
“Where is he?”
“Tonight? I don’t see him, but he’s here, and I’m sure he’s watching us.”
I looked around, making sure Beezus was within a few yards of me. I felt my skin start to crawl.
“How do you know he jumps out and hassles people?”
“I’ve seen him do it. I was on the other side of the street, but later I talked to the people he accosted.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Don’t look at my boots,’ I guess. They weren’t really clear.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“I doubt it. It’s just his thing.”
“His thing? His thing is really creepy and f**ked up!”
“I know. That’s why I don’t look at them. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
While going about and cleaning up some of the items on my list, I noticed three that were awfully similar. The first I had already written about, #64 – Read the Harvard Classics. The second, “Develop an appreciation of literature,” is far too vague, and would develop naturally, I would hope, if I were to complete the Harvard Classics.
The third one is much more interesting to me. Rather than being told what the greatest literary works of humankind are, what if I were to learn enough about them to decide for myself? If I were to define my own canon, I would have to come to terms with other canons, like the Harvard Classics, and I would necessarily need to develop an appreciation of literature.
What the canon should be is a discussion for another post. For now, I will be merging the above three items into the single item: #64 – Define my own literary canon.
Later that night, I called Sally and told her I was sitting on the floor of my library, surrounded by hundreds of books I hadn’t yet read.
“Bring them with you!” she said. She knew how much I was giving up, how important my library was to me. “We’ll find the room.”
“I can’t,” I said, “The cost of moving them all would be outrageous. Plus, I have a bigger problem that I need to address, and bringing them with me just postpones the inevitable.”
I had to get rid of them. Most I sold to a local used-book store, but the lucky few in those 7 boxes came with me to New York. When I arrived in Brooklyn, Sally surprised me with a new bookcase she had picked up at a stoop sale. My 7 boxes filled about two-thirds of the case, and I swore I would never have more books than could fill this bookcase.
I’ve filled two more smaller bookcases since then, and have even more books on my Kindle. If I had the space for it, I’d probably be right back where I was before I purged the Treehouse.
But, this year, something changed. I’ve only brought 8 new books into the house since December.
What brought about this sudden change? The night I sat on the floor of my emptying library, realizing that I was acquiring more books than I could ever read, I did some math.
How many books could I read in the rest of my lifetime? I was in my 30s, so if I lived into my 70s and averaged one book a week, I had about 2000 books left to read.
While that might seem like a lot, it seemed like far too few for me. Plus, a book a week? Could I really read Boswell in one week? Proust? Gibbon? Not likely. 2000 was optimistic.
But, years later, I added it to my list anyway: #50 – Read 2000 books.
In order to achieve this goal, I had to read 50 books a year. I don’t think I’ve read 50 books in a year since I was in college, but decided 2009 was the year to start. For the first time in my life, I created a reading list.
In December, I reviewed all of the books I owned but had not yet read, about 250. (Most of them are ones I brought with me in those 7 boxes.) Creating a list of 52 books to read this year meant 200 that were not going to be read for at least another year, 150 for at least 2 years, and so on. It was sobering.
I use LibraryThing, which made the whole process much easier. As you can see I’ve kind of rigged this year to make it easier on me. There are several graphic novels, and a few books under 200 pages, but if I have to do this every year for the rest of my life, I can’t fail the first year I try.
As of this writing, I’ve read 28, so I’m in pretty good shape. More importantly, though, the process has helped me address my book problem. Rather than just picking up books that I might want to read in the distant future, I now see new books in a new light. Will I read it next year? Do I want to read it more than that Pelecanos that didn’t make this year’s cut? Should it really be one of the 1,948 I have left to read in my lifetime?
I have found the process so helpful, I’ve already started on the list for next year.
