I’m reminded now and then of a list of names I read last year. They were the names of children killed by unmanned aerial drones. American drones. I forced myself to read every name. I’m reminded now and then when I see kids playing in a park, or walking through town with their families. If this was Yemen or Pakistan, they could be dismembered at any moment by something from the skies. Their arms and legs, still growing, could be scattered like sticks in a storm. Snapped. Tossed.
I’m reminded now and then of the way I felt when John McCain lost the election. Thank God, I thought, no more warmongers in charge. It was a bright day for acolytes of peace. So we thought. The slaughter of children is something against which a human conscience hurls itself desperately. The subject of the slaughter of children, however, is something from which a human intellect retreats with a fearful passion. I’m reminded of the fire with which acolytes of peace railed against Rumsfeld, Cheaney and Bush. We could use a little of that fire now.
My family and my co-workers think any talk about this subject is the raving of lunatics. Keep our shores safe, support the lesser evil, vote and vote and vote and vote they say. Someone needs to stand up for those kids. Someone needs to demand accountability and justice. Someone braver than I am; I’m reminded now and then, but that’s where it stops.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 3, 2014
Somedays Alyosha, Somedays Ivan
Last night I met a writer at a birthday party and we talked about Alyosha and Ivan Karamazov.
She had a son--Alyosha--named after her favorite literary character. Surprised, I told her that Ivan is my favorite literary character and I tried to explain why. I feel like Ivan Karamazov most of the time, I told her, before droning into a flood of autobiographical musing.
Once, I lived in an apartment with three other people. All four of us were reading The Brothers Karamazov. I don’t think any of the others finished the book, but I was struck by how closely we roommates corresponded to the titular brothers in Dostoyevsky’s novel. One roommate, our Dimitri, was full of passions he could not control. A second roommate was decent and gentle, our Alyosha. A close friend of ours squatted with us, only Smerdiakov in jest. And as we read, I was deeply wrapped up in Ivan. His voice was so similar to my voice, and his angers and doubts were just like mine.
Last night, I tried to explain to the writer that I feel like Ivan. I am fond of making devil’s-advocate arguments, I doubt the sincerity of the Alyoshas of the world but I find them lucky and I want to be one of them, though I can never stop being haunted by cruelty, no matter how distant. I am not willing to accept suffering and murder (particularly that of children) as part of a divine plan, pushing us to greater things or teaching us valuable lessons or happening for a reason. Or any of that bullshit. If these things happen for a reason they are not worth it. I refuse any plan that justifies or accepts them. Out of love for humanity, I return the ticket. Like Ivan.
The writer listened patiently and told me why she loves Alyosha, and why she could never be an Ivan. She praised Alyosha’s actions. His actions. his forbearance. There’s a scene early in the novel when Ivan and Alyosha have a conversation that spans chapters. The distance between them is immense. I felt that distance between the writer and I, but I also felt a kind of resonating sympathy, as with Ivan and Alyosha. I saw a startling goodness in this writer and I was humbled by it.
Allegedly, Dostoyevsky planned to write more about these characters, but his death prevented him from doing so. Ivan is left guilt-stricken, lovelorn and sickly. Ivan is frozen on a good Friday, never given his Easter. Some of the things we can be, especially some of the things that people need us to be, are not happy things to be.
She had a son--Alyosha--named after her favorite literary character. Surprised, I told her that Ivan is my favorite literary character and I tried to explain why. I feel like Ivan Karamazov most of the time, I told her, before droning into a flood of autobiographical musing.
Once, I lived in an apartment with three other people. All four of us were reading The Brothers Karamazov. I don’t think any of the others finished the book, but I was struck by how closely we roommates corresponded to the titular brothers in Dostoyevsky’s novel. One roommate, our Dimitri, was full of passions he could not control. A second roommate was decent and gentle, our Alyosha. A close friend of ours squatted with us, only Smerdiakov in jest. And as we read, I was deeply wrapped up in Ivan. His voice was so similar to my voice, and his angers and doubts were just like mine.
Last night, I tried to explain to the writer that I feel like Ivan. I am fond of making devil’s-advocate arguments, I doubt the sincerity of the Alyoshas of the world but I find them lucky and I want to be one of them, though I can never stop being haunted by cruelty, no matter how distant. I am not willing to accept suffering and murder (particularly that of children) as part of a divine plan, pushing us to greater things or teaching us valuable lessons or happening for a reason. Or any of that bullshit. If these things happen for a reason they are not worth it. I refuse any plan that justifies or accepts them. Out of love for humanity, I return the ticket. Like Ivan.
The writer listened patiently and told me why she loves Alyosha, and why she could never be an Ivan. She praised Alyosha’s actions. His actions. his forbearance. There’s a scene early in the novel when Ivan and Alyosha have a conversation that spans chapters. The distance between them is immense. I felt that distance between the writer and I, but I also felt a kind of resonating sympathy, as with Ivan and Alyosha. I saw a startling goodness in this writer and I was humbled by it.
Allegedly, Dostoyevsky planned to write more about these characters, but his death prevented him from doing so. Ivan is left guilt-stricken, lovelorn and sickly. Ivan is frozen on a good Friday, never given his Easter. Some of the things we can be, especially some of the things that people need us to be, are not happy things to be.
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