Alley, Albany

alley

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Uncertainty by Michael Larsen

I wrote a little while ago about the delightfully random way books come into my hands. To paraphrase Poe, I cannot, for my soul remember how, when, or even precisely where I first became acquainted with Michael Larsen’s Uncertainty, but I can certainly say that I’m glad it did. I see a lot of books, and an impossibly large number of them look like something I wouldn’t mind reading. I guess what tipped the scales for Uncertainty was Kirkus Reviews description of it as “a whodunit with echoes of Robbe-Grillet, John Hawkes, William Gibson, and J.P. Smith,” and the description of the plot as a guy trying to solve the murder of his girlfriend, his search especially urgent because he’s the chief suspect. It’s the Laura trope, one I’m especially fond of, because the understanding of the character of the departed becomes the solution of the mystery, that character, of course, being much more ambiguous that the searcher imagines. But in the European tradition there’s an added philosophical layer, the usual question of if the past or even (gasp) reality itself is ever really truly comprehensible, or becomes more uncertain the closer you examine it, but in this case there is added the more modern complication of the further uncertainty of technology and the increasing ability, in a digital age, of technology to manipulate apparent “reality.”  In other words, the anxiety that appears to be affecting a lot of shaky psyches these days – is this real or some kind of virtual TV show? The thriller is the dominate contemporary form of narrative, mostly because it’s so flexible and so effective. The protagonist of Uncertainty follows the ambiguous path in a sex and drugs haze, invoking for me Brett Easton Ellis or Jerzy Kosinski. Larsen is remarkably prescient about the problem of authenticity in our cyber-world, but pulls back from the full Blow-up in his resolution, opting instead for the usual pages of explication from a sneering villain and even a car chase. The final vision is dark enough, however, to qualify the book as a work of Virtual Noir.

Uncertainty was a smash in Larsen’s native Denmark when it appeared in 1994 and was at least well received when it was translated here a couple of years later. Although he probably benefited from fellow Dane Peter Hoeg’s Smilla’s Sense of Snow, it’s bad timing that he was too early for the current “Nordic Noir” craze initiated by that crazy female with the dragon tattoo, as Uncertainty appears to be Larsen’s only book to be translated and has now gone out of print. It’s readily available used, however, and I would certainly recommend picking up a copy if you see one. In the interim, here are a few choice passages I hope you will enjoy:

Everything’s so disconnected. Her face with its polite smile. Her impeccable manners, impeccable façade. And underneath, her lust.

One is drawn magnetically to the edges of the shadow, but then one becomes wary.

TV is light: it’s the only medium that emits light; that’s the secret of our fascination with it.

Perhaps we’re a kind of mutation, the first of a generation that has become fixated on looking, and whose greatest revelation is also its curse: that life can only be looked at.

 

Progress is a leech, a parasite whose greatest accomplishment is to be able to allay, at a later date, all the catastrophe it creates.

 

When the world as we know it becomes formulized into an artificial universe, it’ll seem as incomprehensible as it does today. Images will pour down like multicolored rain from satellites dotting the sky like prisms.

 

The most important thing is to acknowledge beauty and preserve the ability to be fascinated. If you can see the beauty even in what you most despise, you have a chance of mastering it.

 

You’ve assured yourself a synthetic immortality, Monique. You’ll crackle across thousands of screens in the New World. They’ve reconstructed you and given you eternal life in a world that unites the seemingly incompatible: numbers and images. You’ve become the sum total of other people’s fantasies, a mathematical problem in the heads of sick people.

 

Brain-dead narcissists lead us through idiotic television games, news programs bring us to war zones with images of the wounded and mutilated, but the only thing that bothers us is that no one dies when we press the remote. But that’ll come too. It’s on its way.

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J Coombes

JCoombes

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Demon with a Child’s Head, from the series Ghost Tales

1950.7631830

Artist/Maker: Katsushika Hokusai

Japanese, 1760-1849

Color woodblock print

Allen Memorial Art Museum

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BOING!

boing2

 

or are you just happy to see me?

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Fallen Angel

2fallenangel

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EST 1845

est1845Albany

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Okute: The Goddess Kannon Prevents the Hag of Adachi Moor from Killing a Young Girl, no. 48 from the series The Sixty-nine Stations of the Kisokaido Road

1950.633

 

Utagawa Kuniyoshi, 1852

Allen Memorial Art Museum

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The Upanishads

I like how big an effect chance has on what I read. Chance is, after, all one of the cardinal precepts of my beloved Surrealism, and really, along with its cousin uncertainty, is one of the hallmarks of our age. I love finding and digesting stuff that’s fringe, not exactly rare and valuable but obscure, ignored and not immediately comprehensible. Such was Upanishad Vahini by Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba, a product of the Sri Sathya Sai Baba Book Center of America. It’s an odd volume, 78 pages, somewhere between a pamphlet and a book, the penciled price of $1.75 written on the inside page. It’s basically a commentary on The Upanishads as well as a sort of Upanishad itself. When I found it jammed into the “Beliefs” section at the library book sale  I, of course, immediately picked it up, leading me to realize that I had never really read the original Upanishads themselves. I’m sure I have a copy somewhere, but I couldn’t find it, so I ordered the Penguin Classics edition, translated by Juan Mascaro, which whittles down what could be a bible sized tome to the core texts, and read them side by side, the original and then the sort of commentary, finding quite a bit of worth in each, the fruits of which I will share with you. O lucky reader. In general I’ll say that what I found demonstrated Hinduism evolving into beliefs I more associated with Buddhism, in its rejection of this world and its desires, and the whittling down of the vast Hindu pantheon into a single object of devotion. At this level of mysticism all religions seem to posit very similar things, and there are passages in The Upanishads that would be entirely comfortable in Gnostic, Mystic Christian and Sufi settings.

Those who have lost awareness will search for the lost jewels though they actually wear them at the moment.

The entire creation is bound with name and form and so, unreal.

There is no use seeking to know the cause of this delusion. Seek how to escape from it.

It is in the nature of things that ignorance prompts men to crave for plentiful fruits through the performance of actions. Then, they become despondent that they only bind them more and do not help make them free. That craving for fruit is hard to shove off, even though this fearful flux of growth and decay makes them shiver in dread.

Sai Baba

He is unknown to the learned and known to the simple.

Kena Upanishad

As fire, though one, takes new forms in all things that burn, the spirit, though one, takes new forms in all things that live.

…in the land of shades as remembrance of dreams, and in the world of spirits as reflections in trembling waters.

— Katha Upanishad

But the spirit of light above form, never-born, within all, outside all, is in radiance above life and mind, and beyond this creation’s Creator.

In truth who knows God becomes God.

— Mundaka Upanishad

There is the soul of man with wisdom and unwisdom, power and powerlessness; there is nature, Prakriti, which is creation for the sake of the soul; and there is God, infinite, omnipresent, who watches the work of creation. When a man knows the three he knows Brahman.

— Svetasvatara Upanishad

Even as a man who is asleep awakes, but when he is asleep does not know that he is going to awake, so a part of the subtle invisible spirit comes as a messenger to the body without the body being conscious of his arrival.

At the end of the worlds, all things sleep: He alone is awake in Eternity. Then from his infinite space new worlds arise and awake, a universe which is a vastness of thought.

Even as water becomes one with water, fire with fire, and air with air, so the mind becomes one with the Infinite Mind and thus attains final freedom.

— Maitri Upanishad

This universe is a trinity and this is made of name, form and action.

In truth, it is not for the love of a husband that a husband is dear; but for the love of the Soul in the husband that a husband is dear.

— Brihad-aranyaka Upanishad

There is a Light that shines beyond all things on earth, beyond the highest, the very highest heavens. This is the light that shines in our heart.

We should consider that in the inner world Brahman is consciousness; and we should consider that in the outer world Brahman is space.

That is why when here on earth a man will not give any gifts, when a man has no faith and will not sacrifice, people say ‘This man is a devil’; for this is in truth their devilish doctrine. They dress their dead bodies with fine garments, and glorify them with perfumes and ornaments, thinking that thereby they will conquer the other world.

— Chandogya Upanishad

The spirit of man has two dwellings: this world and the world beyond. There is also a third dwelling place: the land of sleep and dreams. Resting in this borderland the spirit of man can behold his dwelling in this world and in the other world afar, and wandering in this borderland he beholds behind him the sorrows of this world and in front of him he sees the joys of the beyond.

But in the ocean of Spirit the seer is alone beholding his own immensity.

The Soul is made of consciousness and mind: it is made of life and vision. It is made of the earth and the waters: it is made of air and space. It is made of light and darkness: it is made of desire and peace. It is made of anger and love: it is made of virtue and vice. It is made of all that is near: it is made of all that is afar. It is made of all.

— The Supreme Teaching

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From The Great Lakes Center For The Literary Arts Library

spfWho is the promiscuous female? What sort of life does she lead? Who are her friends? Is she capable of a genuine emotional involvement?

Here is a book which examines her problems — nymphomania, frigidity, repressed lesbianism, social rebellion, sexual compensation — and tries to give some insight into the problems of the girl who is trapped by her own emotional failings.

[1963]

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