Another Journey

Regardless of outward circumstances, whether constantly traveling or remaining stationary for a prolonged amount of time, a perennial nomad recognizes the transitory nature of existence and acknowledges that life is a continually evolving series of adventures. My latest journey does not involve a shift in physical location but rather a plunge into another facet of reality: the world of the unwell. Mortality is hardwired into all of our lives, but when a potentially lethal disease rises up and attacks like an evil monster, what has been relegated to an abstraction takes on deadly corporeality.

I was first diagnosed as having early-stage prostate cancer back in 2017. At that time, it was advancing so slowly that no treatment was advised; instead, it would be monitored regularly through blood tests. My doctor assured me that many men get prostate cancer as they age, and most die with it rather than of it. The “wait and see” attitude was fine by me; I was busy with freelance work and raising my sons.

A few months ago, though, during a routine visit, my primary care doctor detected signs of another unrelated type of cancer erupting within my body. She was alarmed enough to insist on immediate tests. Examinations and a biopsy confirmed the presence of a malignant tumor, which was successfully removed through surgery. However, to minimize the possibility of reoccurrence or the cancer metastasizing and spreading elsewhere, follow-up radiation therapy and medication is necessary. Around the same time, another doctor dealing with my prostate cancer insisted that I was overdue for a biopsy.

I find myself increasingly caught in a quicksand of medical appointments, examinations, biopsies, and procedures. There seems to be no end to them. As Red Skull declares of the Hydra warriors in the Marvel movies, “Strike down one and two more will take their place.” That’s how it is with my doctor visits lately. One leads to more, and to more, and to more. I could have remained clandestine about this development in my life, I could have kept it to myself, but this would not be in keeping with my predilections as a writer. In fact, this is my latest adventure, my most recent journey. It is ongoing and extremely intense, and it is very possible, even likely, that I will not make it out of this one alive. This is not necessarily a cause for sorrow and lamentation; after all, the mortality rate for every member of humankind is one hundred percent.

Why do I share this with you, the readers of my weekly columns? Because as a perennial nomad, this is my latest journey, and I invite you to join me as I wander into the wilderness of mortality. All my posts will not be cancer-related; I will continue to write about travel, about museums and other local fascinations, and about books I am reading. However, sometimes I will also include observations from the realm of the unwell.

And I have another reason for sharing this. All of my writings on my website/blog, on Substack, and on Patreon have been freely available to all, and they will continue to be. Donations are optional. However, my medical appointments take up significant amounts of my time, which leaves me less time for the freelance work I undertake to be able to survive financially. If you value my weekly words, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is possible on any of the platforms, but the most versatile option is on Patreon.

Having shared my request, let me reassure you that whether you are able to assist financially or not, I welcome you to join me as we together explore the multifarious fascinating grand roads of the universe.

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Book Review:  Joyride: A Memoir by Susan Orlean

To many people, Susan Orlean is a character played by Meryl Streep in the film Adaptation, which is based on Orlean’s book The Orchid Thief. Others know her for her decades-long work as a staff writer for the New Yorker. Not long ago, I read and enjoyed The Library Book; in it, Orlean tells of the devastating fire that destroyed much of the Los Angeles Central Library in 1986, and then launches into a fascinating multifaceted true tale of libraries in general.

Joyride is a celebration of Orlean’s lifelong love of writing. Her writing career is the core of the book, compared to which the details of her personal life comprise a sort of scaffolding set up to support the writing adventures. Early on she states: “I write because I think it’s important. There are a million different kinds of writing, but this belief applies to all of them. Writing in all its forms is the essence of human interaction.” And a little further on, she clarifies that “I can respond to the question of why I write with a very simple answer: I write because I must.” This is similar to my own statement that I have repeated many times: I write because I can’t not write. The story of Orlean’s life is the story of her obsession with writing. That’s what drew me into this book and kept me enthralled throughout it. I soon realized that there were so many marvelous quotes on writing that there was no way I could include more than a smattering of them in this review. All you writers out there: read Joyride and you’ll recognize a kindred spirit.

That’s not to say that Orlean’s writing career is similar to mine or anyone else’s. She has great talent, true, but there are many other writers who also have great talent but have not had the opportunities or sheer luck that Orlean has enjoyed. When she was starting out, she advanced rapidly from small magazines to midsized magazines to journalistic giants such as the New Yorker. She’s had expense accounts that have enabled her to journey all over the world in pursuit of unique and often quirky stories. But expense accounts and high salaries and advances and royalties are not what make real writers. Those are just the peripheral tools, the fallout, the residue of the writing experience. I really don’t care about the glamorous aspects of working for a major magazine: interviewing and hobnobbing with celebrities and so on. That’s just bells and whistles. If that was the main focus of this book I would have tossed it aside early on. What redeems it is Orlean’s commitment to her work, to her art. It is obvious that she would continue to write even if she were relegated to a tent on a street corner. In fact, it is clear that what gives her writing flare and immediacy and grit and substance is her willingness to dive into extraordinary situations in pursuit of a story’s essence.

Apart from Joyride, Orlean has spent her career digging deep into the lives of others, diminishing her own presence so that the people and cultures she writes about can shine; it is exhilarating, though, to read of her stepping into the spotlight as she shares the process of writing her most renowned stories and books. Henry Miller wrote that “writing is a voyage of discovery,” and that’s the approach Orlean takes as she goes from an initial interest in a subject to diving in and researching and writing about it in all of its ramifications. At least for me, that’s what bursts through in Joyride more than anything: the sheer exuberance of the creative process.

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Strange Christmases – Part Two: Penang, Malaysia

Here’s a holiday reprint for your enjoyment and edification!

On one of the strangest Christmases I have ever spent, when I was all alone on the island of Penang in Malaysia, I received an unusual but intensely valuable gift: a clue that led me toward my destiny.

This was during the period of my life when I lived and traveled overseas for thirty-five years. I had been living in Nepal, had met a woman from New Zealand, and had gone with her to her home country. When we broke up, I flew back to my home town of Seattle via Los Angeles (where I briefly visited another ex-girlfriend). After an interlude with my family in Seattle and a brief flurry of work to raise landing funds, I was ready to be off again. My mother worked for Pan Am Airways and was able to obtain tickets for me at ten percent of cost, so I flew from Seattle to San Francisco to Hong Kong to Jakarta. In Indonesia I joined an Australian friend on a road trip across the island of Java to Bali. When I returned to Jakarta, I flew to Singapore, and after spending a few days in that idiosyncratic city-state I took a train to Bangkok. There I moved into a communal home with other young travelers and taught private English lessons.

All went well until I’d been there almost a month and my visa was about to expire. To renew it I had to take a train ride to the Malaysian border and back. I was making enough money for self-support but I couldn’t afford the visa trip. What to do?

The answer came out of the blue. A Thai film production was looking for foreign extras to appear in a Thai-language movie. Since one of my roommates knew someone on the crew, she managed to get several of us hired. All we had to do was dress up like hippies and walk in a bedraggled bunch through a section of the Bangkok Airport concourse, where we would appear as background color behind the main Thai actors. For that brief appearance, the other foreign extras and I were not only taken to a fine restaurant and treated to normally-unaffordable cuisine, but also paid enough to cover my round-trip train ticket to Penang and back with enough left over for food and a few nights at a hotel.

And here’s the holiday tie-in: my visa trip happened to take place over Christmas. There was nothing I could do about it. If I waited to celebrate the holiday with my friends, I wouldn’t make it out of the country in time and would risk getting penalized for overstaying my visa.

So it was that on Christmas day I sat at an outdoor cafe in George Town, Penang, perusing an English-language newspaper travel supplement that someone had left at the table. And in it, there were two human-interest articles about India. I had already spent a few years altogether on the Indian Subcontinent, in India and Nepal and Sri Lanka, and I loved it. It was one of my most favorite places on Earth, and if it had not been for the ubiquitous visa vicissitudes, I might have been there yet. One of the articles, I recall, was about an isolated island in the Andaman cluster where primitive tribes were protected by law from civilization. I forget the details of the other article. The point is that they got me thinking about India and how much I missed it. I decided then and there that when I got back to Bangkok I would somehow raise the money to return. As I made the decision, I burst into tears.

Destiny indeed. For on that next visit to the Subcontinent, I would eventually meet the Greek woman who would become my wife and the mother of my five children. All in all, at that cafe in Penang on Christmas Day, I made one of the best decisions of my life.

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Strange Christmases – Part One: Goa, India

Here’s a holiday reprint for your enjoyment and edification!

As we enter into the winter holiday season, I find myself looking back to some of the unusual places where I have spent past Christmases. The first that comes to mind is Goa, India, in the mid-1970s. I had spent the summer hitchhiking around Europe. As I was enjoying Greece late in August, wondering what I should do next, knowing that the hot weather would soon wane, I began to hear of other young budget travelers heading across the Middle East to the Indian Subcontinent. This was in the days when the Overland Trail, also known as the Hippie Trail, was still open, and you could travel by hitchhiking or on cheap public transportation across Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan all the way to India and beyond.

The idea deeply appealed to me. I had come this far partially due to the example of literary progenitors such as Ernest Hemingway and Henry Miller. They had got as far as Europe, but if I struck out farther east, I’d be accomplishing something that even they had never attempted. The problem was that I’d almost run out of money. So I first hitchhiked back to a friend’s place in Holland, where I worked in factories for a couple of weeks and saved up two hundred dollars. I then set out on my journey through Holland, Germany, Austria, and communist Yugoslavia and Bulgaria to the Turkish border. I managed to hitchhike with European truckers all the way to Kandahar in Afghanistan before I switched to buses and trains. By the time I made it to Bombay (what Mumbai in India was then known as) I had heard from numerous travelers that they were headed for Goa to celebrate Christmas. Goa was on the coast south of Bombay, and because it had been a Portuguese colony, there was still a strong Catholic influence.

And so, as Christmas approached, I found myself in a warm tropical paradise with incomparable sand beaches, coconut palms lining the shores, unimaginably beautiful sunsets, and friendly welcoming people. Oh, and quite a few of the foreign women would sunbathe in the nude, oblivious to the crowds of Goans who would observe them from polite distances. It wasn’t exactly the white Christmas that Bing Crosby sings about, unless you count the color of the sand on the beaches, but it bustled with activity and its own version of holiday cheer. The accommodations and food were dirt cheap, and many Goans were eager to extend hospitality to the foreigners who had come for the season.

All went well for several days. However, it was on Christmas morning, as I recall, that I was strolling from the room in a thatched hut I shared with several other foreigners to the seashore when I passed a shack with a makeshift kitchen where a Goan was preparing and selling masala dosa. These are folded-over pancakes with potato curry inside, and when they are prepared properly, as these were, they are delicious. I had three, and then continued on my way to the beach. I did not, however, account for the cook’s lack of sanitary precautions. Later in the day, I began to feel uneasy, and not long afterwards, my stomach erupted in pain. For the next three days I lay on my bed too weak to move, except to make frequent trips to the outhouse, where the resident pig waited underneath to noisily consume whatever I discharged. Finally one of my roommates called an Indian doctor, who stabbed me in the ass with a needle-full of what I presumed was penicillin. I was soon able to travel again, although my stomach was tender for several days.

All in all, despite the malady, my Christmas in Goa was a wonderful interlude. After all, as a budget traveler on the Subcontinent I expected to catch some sort of illness now and again. It was one of the prices I paid for a glorious adventure, and it was well worth it.

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Book Review:  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is a children’s book, isn’t it? Then how came I to review it on this blog, which is devoted to literary works for adults? Not by the usual pathways, I assure you. In fact, renewed interest in Alice’s adventures was ignited in me by means of the song “White Rabbit,” which is written by Grace Slick and performed by her and the rock group Jefferson Airplane. It came about because the phrase “feed your head,” which is the song’s climax, came to me as I was writing about a perennial nomad staying on the move mentally, if not physically, by visiting local museums and reading lots of books. A bit of online research turned up a recent article in which Grace Slick explains that though the song definitely deals with the experience of taking psychedelics, “feed your head” also refers to the act of reading.

In my younger years, I took a variety of types of psychedelics in a number of places around the world, the most notable being an LSD trip in which a companion and I wandered up into the Himalayan foothills surrounding Kathmandu, Nepal. I have also done extensive reading in the science fiction and fantasy genres. My objective in reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was to find out if it was really written for children or if it has nuances that will absorb the attention of adults as well. I wanted to know what Carroll really had in mind when he wrote it.

A brief online perusal of several articles, including one by the BBC News, seems to indicate that there is no evidence that Carroll used drugs, even though opium, laudanum, and other now-forbidden substances were legal back then. As any writer will tell you, though, you don’t need drugs to take off on incredible flights of fancy. By all accounts, Carroll wrote the book simply as an entertainment. However, when I read it I realized that it contains many more nuances and complexities than are usually found in children’s tales. Carroll was a mathematician, and there is a fair amount of number play in the text. There is also pun after pun after pun, some of which children would be oblivious to, and a lot of word-play, such as the famous example: “Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English). There are perplexing poems and idiosyncratic characters such as talking animals, an animate deck of cards, and a Queen of Hearts with a penchant for decapitating anyone who annoys her. Alice traverses this alternate universe with courtesy, intelligence, equanimity, and courage.

In short, I greatly enjoyed reading about Alice’s adventures. If the book was originally intended for children, I think that Carroll’s wit and intelligence and acumen and gift for storytelling made it so much more. Many modern fantasies have turned to repetitious epic patterns that have rendered them somewhat cliché, whereas Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, although published way back in 1865, to me was like a breath of literary fresh air. As for the psychedelic references, those seem to have been tacked on (brilliantly, I might add, in the case of “White Rabbit”) by the counterculture of the 1960s. In the book, unlike in the song, the dormouse does not say “Feed your head.” In fact, the dormouse is the epitome of laziness, always falling asleep no matter what is going on around. (Come to think of it, that’s how a lot of people react to drug intake too.)

In conclusion, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is a dazzling, ingenious, well-written, and entertaining book. Its effectiveness does not rely on supposed hidden allusions. It is brilliant enough on its own.

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Book Review:  Enshittification: Why Everything Suddenly Got Worse and What to Do About It by Cory Doctorow

Lest anyone should conclude that the title of this book is merely a blatant foul-mouthed outcry for reader attention, Doctorow states in the acknowledgement section that “in late 2023, the American Dialect Society named enshittification their Word of the Year.” He then goes on to list some of the festivals, podcasts, and talk shows at which he was subsequently asked to speak on the topic. Doctorow, besides being a popular science fiction writer, is also a leading tech activist. Enshittification builds on ideas he proposed in his recent book The Internet Con, but ultimately goes far beyond it. In short, the largest internet companies, as well as auto manufacturers and many others, have ruthlessly eliminated competition to establish monopolies and cartels that they rule over unopposed, and they have taken advantage of their powerful positions to invade your privacy and degrade the quality of their products so that they might squeeze you for more and more profits.

To make the situation clear, Doctorow begins with a series of chapters detailing case studies of some of the worst offenders: Facebook, Amazon, iPhone, and Twitter. These examples are all horror stories of extreme and deliberate enshittification – in other words, reducing value to customers and businesses. He then delves into an equally horrific explanation (which he calls “the epidemiology”) of how things got this bad. As he convincingly explains: “All our tech businesses are turning awful, all at once, and they’re not dying. We remain trapped in their rotting corpses, unable to escape.” Hyperbole? Not at all. It is a mere statement of fact. That’s what makes this book so scary: because it is so true.

Establishing aggressive monopolies is a key to the success of the largest tech companies. Doctorow provides numerous examples of their misdeeds, but one of the most blatant, egregious, and well-documented instances is the deliberate decision of Google to dumb-down search results. If the results are less effective, this causes people to search again multiple times, and this in turn makes more money for Google through its sponsored advertising. For a more obvious personal example, I need only look at my feed on Facebook. It used to be that when my relatives and friends would post content, I would be able to scroll through and read these posts. Nowadays, though, my feed is inundated with advertisements and so-called “boosted” content – that is, content that someone has paid a lot of money to shove before my eyes whether I want to see it or not. As for the content I have logged on to view – the content that connects me with my loved ones – it is hopelessly buried in this – let’s face it: there is no word that better describes it: shit.

One of the favorite tactics of these “purveyors of cloud-based products” is what Doctorow calls “bait and switch.” These tech companies monitor every keystroke you make, and when they find out what facets of their services are most valuable to you, they “remove that feature from the product’s basic tier and reclassify it as an upcharged add-on.” And don’t think that you will be able to upgrade again in a one-time purchase; no, they’ll charge you rent for that upgrade for as long as you want to use it. If certain programs are desperately needed, you may have no choice. As Doctorow states: “Enshittification is what happens when the executives calculate that they can force you to go along with their schemes.”

The vile stench of evil, all too prevalent in American corporations nowadays, makes this uncomfortable reading. Nevertheless, it is vitally important to see how things are and how they got this way; otherwise, how are we going to have a chance to change it all? And Doctorow does offer some possible solutions, although none of them are easy. He affirms that we can have a new, good internet if we “restore the four forces that discipline technology firms.” These are competition, regulation, interoperability, and tech worker power. Antitrust legislation enables competition, and Doctorow explains the status of such legislation around the world, including in the United States. Regulation, of course, puts the greed of massive corporations in check. Interoperability enables us to own and repair our devices rather than have to be forced to go to company-approved repairers at bloated prices whenever anything goes wrong. As Doctorow demonstrates by example, tech workers used to be idealistic and hold tech executives and boards in check; now, however, tech workers who misbehave are being fired by the hundreds of thousands.

I have summarized a few basic ideas from this book, but these are merely examples. Before we can change things, we have to know how bad they have become. And they have become much, much worse than we could have imagined. Tech executives see us as chumps, nothing more. They want to extract as much value as they can from us and then toss us aside. The only way we can make things better is to first of all understand what is going on. Doctorow provides excellent explanations of the current state of affairs. This is essential reading for all of us. Highly recommended.

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Book Review:  Roads: Driving America’s Great Highways by Larry McMurtry

Larry McMurtry is best known for his award-winning novels and screenplays, but he also wrote several memoirs. Roads tells of a series of trips he made by car in 1999. By way of explanation he says: “I wanted to drive the American roads at the century’s end, to look at the country again, from border to border and beach to beach.” And: “Other than curiosity, there’s no particular reason for these travels – just the old desire to be on the move.” He writes that his “aim in recording these journeys is simple: to describe the roads as I find them and supplement current impressions with memories of earlier travels along some of the same routes.” And: “My method, to the extent that I have one, is modeled on rereading; I want to reread some of these roads as I might a book.”

McMurtry undertakes his journeys in an unusual way. When most people take a road trip by car, they use a vehicle that they own; McMurtry, however, flies to whatever point from which he wants to begin, rents a car, stays in high-quality hotels or motels en route, and either returns to his hometown or drives to whatever place he chooses to end his journey at and flies back from there. This is, of course, a method of travel that only the affluent would be able to afford, even accounting for the fact that airline flights, rental cars, gasoline, hotels, and so on were much cheaper back at the end of the 1900s.

In this way, McMurtry drives from Minnesota to Oklahoma, Florida to Louisiana, Maryland to Colorado, California to Texas, Washington D.C. to Texas, Washington State to Nebraska, and so on. Don’t think of this as a travelogue, though, in the conventional sense. He sometimes describes the landscapes he sees along the way, but that is not his main intention. Instead, he wants to “have a look at the literature that had come out of the states I passed through.” He was not only a writer, but also an antiquarian bookstore owner, and as he passes locales, he launches into stories of writers associated with those places or book-buying adventures he had there. It’s like taking a long drive with an exceptionally literate friend and listening to him reminisce along the way. But because of his bookselling background, he is aware of obscure local travel authors from all of these places, and he is able to draw upon this knowledge to provide fascinating glimpses into the literary scenes in various parts of the country.

Because McMurtry finds such genuine satisfaction and fulfillment in his journeys, he is able to pass on these emotions to his readers. Near the end he sums up his feelings thusly: “Being alone in a car is to be protected for a time from the pressures of day-to-day life; it’s like being in one’s own time machine, in which the mind can rove ahead to the future or scan the past.” For the perennial nomad who enjoys roaming the country, the world, and the entire cosmos through literature, this book is an excellent vehicle for enjoying a vicarious journey with an extremely knowledgeable and erudite companion.

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An Unfinished Love Story: A Personal History of the 1960s by Doris Kearns Goodwin; Part Two

As history, backed up by Dick Goodwin’s documentation, points out, John F. Kennedy was in the midst of overseeing many profound societal changes when he was assassinated, and Johnson, on assuming the presidency, became determined to see these initiatives through to completion. According to Goodwin, who knew him well and worked closely with him, Johnson was sincere in his desire to improve the lives of the poor and the working class and to assist Black people and other minorities in obtaining equal rights. As part of an initiative called the Great Society, he pushed through legislation such as the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the Civil Rights Act of 1968, which focused on housing discrimination. In addition, the Food Stamp Program, Medicare, and Medicaid were all initiated in 1964 and 1965 due to his efforts. In 1964, he was elected to the presidency by an unprecedented landslide.

Alas, though: Johnson’s reputation became irreparably tarnished by the escalation of the Vietnam War during his presidency. In fact, it was opposition to the war that finally led Goodwin to leave the White House. He wanted his friend Robert Kennedy to make a run for president, but when Kennedy hesitated, Goodwin allied himself with the budding campaign of Eugene McCarthy, assisting McCarthy in getting his campaign off the ground. However, when Kennedy opted in, Goodwin returned to him. It appeared as if Kennedy was going to win the Democratic nomination, but then he, like his brother, was assassinated by a gunman.

Another major player in this drama was Martin Luther King, Jr. He worked closely with Johnson during the victories of the Great Society, but he broke with the president over the issue of the Vietnam War. When King was shot and killed, shortly before Kennedy’s murder, rioting broke out around the country; it was difficult to quell the grief and anger.

All of these events are explained from an insider’s perspective as Doris and Richard Goodwin go through his papers, notes, journal entries, newspaper clippings, and so on – and add to the historical accounts with personal reminiscences. After their careers in politics, both Doris and Richard went on to become teachers and writers, but the heart of this book is their involvement in the history-defining activities of the sixties. For me, reading it was like hopping aboard a time machine back to that era and reliving events that shaped my own life, the country, and the world. I realized as I read that the government-induced violence and polarization of the present are not unique. Every historical period has its heroes and its villains, and in the case of politicians these are often the same people depending upon the decisions they make and the actions they take in the context of their times. Johnson was first adulated for his efforts to improve the lives of downtrodden Americans and then excoriated for his continual escalation of the Vietnam War effort. As a result, he has a mixed legacy. John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy’s lives were cut short before they could fulfill their potential. So it goes. That the country was able to pull itself out of the quagmire of the Vietnam War and the resultant internal disunity gives me hope that we might somehow be able to recover from the present chaos once again.

In a perfect world, reflecting on the mistakes of the past would help us not make those mistakes again. Of course, this world is far from perfect, but we should not forget the struggles of the past, for though in them there is great tragedy and grief, there is also great nobility and heroism. The author herself says it best in the epilogue: “We are clearly in the midst of a profound ‘testing time’ today, and at such times, I have long argued, the study of history is crucial to provide perspective, warning, counsel, and even comfort. At a moment when the guidance of history is most needed, however, history itself is under attack, its relevance in school curriculums questioned.” And concerning the subject matter of this book, she adds: “Too often, memories of assassination, violence, and social turmoil have obscured the greatest illumination of the Sixties, the spark of communal idealism and belief that kindled social justice and love for a more inclusive vision of America.” I wrote of this recently, in fact, in my essay “During Times like These,” in which I balance the chaos and violence of the sixties with the humanistic revival that took place as an inevitable reaction. I wrote: “This internal awakening, which swept across the country and around the world, was like a bright shining light in the midst of the deep darkness of government-imposed violence. And this light inspired artistic representations in music, literature, film, and other mediums. It made the era special not only because of its crass horrific ignorance and violence, but also because of the awakening of the best in humankind, the brotherhood and sisterhood of all of us, the willingness to esteem others, regardless of their idiosyncratic characteristics, as beloved equals, and to assist those in need. Beneath the ubiquitous barbarity in the daily news ran an undercurrent of countercultural tranquility and harmony. I remember it well. It made the sixties and seventies special. It united those of good will.”

In closing, not many people have had the advantage of a close-up look at crucial historical events like the author of this book and her husband. This makes it a document of inestimable value that holds important clues for our collective way forward.

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Book Review:  An Unfinished Love Story: A Personal History of the 1960s by Doris Kearns Goodwin; Part One

The third time’s the charm. On three different occasions I checked this book out of the library. The first two times I returned it without reading it. I was tempted by it, as I am by all things having to do with the sixties, but ultimately other books caught my attention more. This time, though I decided to plunge in fifty pages or so and get a feel for the text. I’m glad I did. I thought, at first, that it was a compilation of personal diary accounts from the era, or something like that, but it is something entirely different. Additionally, the “love story” in the title is a misnomer. It’s true that the frame around which the story takes place is the marriage of Doris Goodwin to Richard Goodwin and the two of them reminiscing about the sixties fifty years after the fact, but the heart of it concerns the tumultuous politics of the era, in which the two were involved: Doris briefly at the end of the decade, but Richard intimately as advisor and speechwriter to John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Eugene McCarthy, and Robert Kennedy.

Back before the internet and personal computers, people kept their documents on paper, and the impetus of this tale is the transfer of about three hundred boxes full of Richard’s documents and memorabilia concerning his political work in the 1960s from storage to their home. He and Doris decide to go through the documents together to form a clear picture of what happened back then. What follows is a fascinating in-depth look at events that shaped the decade from the perspective of someone with a front-row seat.

I grew up in the sixties. I clearly remember the day in class (I was in sixth grade I think) that the school principal entered the room and paused the lesson to inform us that President Kennedy had just been shot while in a motorcade in Texas. I also remember, as a young teen, becoming more and more apprehensive as under President Johnson’s watch the Vietnam War kept escalating, the draft was initiated, and there was a significant possibility that when I came of age I might be called up and sent to fight in Southeast Asia.

Doris Goodwin served for a time at the White House under President Johnson near the end of the decade, but the book is mainly about the career of Dick Goodwin. After a stint in the military, he returned to the States with a “self-appointed mission: to do whatever work he could to close the gap between our national ideals and the reality of our everyday lives.” With this in mind, he went to Harvard Law School, graduating at the top of his class and then clerking for U.S. Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter. Early on as a lawyer, he investigated the national quiz show scandals, which became famous through Robert Redford’s award-nominated film Quiz Show.

And then, in 1959, Goodwin joined Senator John F. Kennedy’s speechwriting staff. He wrote some of Kennedy’s most famous speeches as he campaigned for and won the presidency. During his time with Kennedy, he became close friends with Jacqueline Kennedy and Robert Kennedy.

There are many touching stories of dedication and service. One of these is the enthusiasm for the Peace Corps amidst America’s youth. When Kennedy initiated the Peace Corps, it struck a chord in the hearts of the young and elevated the country’s standing in the eyes of the rest of the world. As I read about this, I wondered if the same commitment might be found in this modern era if a suitable program was available. But the world has changed, of course. The author points out that “unlike today, the Sixties were still a time when a candidate’s word represented a commitment to a prescribed course of action. What one said mattered. If one reneged on that word, a future time of reckoning would be waiting.” That’s not to say that things always went smoothly. As this glimpse into the inner workings of power demonstrates, the way forward generally lurched from one crisis to the next.

(To be continued…)

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Book Review:  Positive Obsession: The Life and Times of Octavia E. Butler by Susana M. Morris

From the mid-1970s until 2012 I lived overseas in Europe, the Indian Subcontinent, Southeast Asia, and New Zealand, and this kept me out of touch with much of what was happening in my homeland of the United States. Besides the presidencies of Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush, I also missed observing the stellar careers of luminaries of the science fiction and fantasy field such as Octavia E. Butler. I only discovered Butler’s works when I returned to live once again in the States. The first work I read by her, in an anthology I happened to pick up, was the amazing Hugo Award-winning short story “Speech Sounds.”

In fact, Butler was the first Black woman to make a career out of writing science fiction. When she began writing and submitting in the 1970s, the field was mainly dominated by white male writers. As Morris brings out, though, in this fascinating book, Butler not only had talent but persistence; the positive obsession of the title was an all-but overwhelming desire to write, a focus that began early, when she was still a child, and continued throughout her life. Her dedication paid off as she found publishers for her novels and stories, won multiple awards, and became the first science fiction writer to be awarded a MacArthur Fellowship, also known as a MacArthur Genius Grant.

This book is partially a biography and partially an analysis of Butler’s writings. I found the biographical elements most absorbing. I could have done with less comprehensive summaries of the plots of Butler’s novels. I would have preferred just a few teasers; I’d rather get the details by reading the novels themselves. Otherwise, though, the story of Butler’s obsession with writing deeply resonates with me. I can’t say I can relate to everything she went through; after all, I’m not a woman and I’m not Black. But I felt great empathy as I read of her struggles with loneliness and her fascination with writing. I share her positive obsession with writing. I too experienced (and still experience) the discouragement of rejections while attempting to establish myself as a published author. I concur with her realization that “the most important thing I do every day is to write, to work on my novels and stories. They are my love and my work, my fortune, my life…” And now that my kids have grown and gone, as an empty-nester, I sympathize with her heart cry: “My pen and my paper, they comfort me – at least a little. They allow me to scream into utter silence. They focus my thoughts, they permit me to act when no other action is possible.”

The stark difference between us as artists, of course, is that Butler became a famous award-winning writer, while I am as yet unknown. However, this story of Butler’s life brings out that if you are a dedicated writer, whether you are popular and fiscally successful or not, you don’t wait for some sort of ethereal inspiration; you sit down and write every day. Your waking thoughts are consumed with writing. It is your writing that gives your life purpose and focus.

I am truly thankful that I have had a chance to get to know Butler, at least somewhat, through this book. She spent her last years in Seattle, and I might have had a chance to meet her after I moved back to the area, but her life was tragically cut short when she fell outside her home and died in 2006 at the age of fifty-eight. At least she left us the legacy of her words, which are still in print and continue to be popular to this day. I highly recommend this biography of an exceptionally dedicated and talented writer.

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