The Last of the Mohicans

This story is set in 1750 in the area around what is now modern day New York State during the French & Indian War.  Two sisters, Cora and Alice, set off from Fort Edward to meet up with their father, the English commander in charge of Fort William Henry.  Along the way, their Indian guide reveals himself as a traitor and engineers the kidnapping of the two sisters.  Nearby, two Indians – a father and son – along with their companion, a white scout with a fearsome reputation, become embroiled in rescuing the sisters. 

This wasn’t necessarily a “hard read” but the prose was sometimes overwhelming.  For example, here’s the first sentence:

“It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet.”

Although I’m used to reading lots of different kinds of books, I’ve never had trouble reading a novel before now.  It wasn’t the difficulty of the words, but rather their intensity and the way they are put together that made me have to read some sentences, like that first one, a couple of times to really take it in and understand it. 

The story was captivating – the action, the detail, the beauty and wildness captured perfectly, or at least what I think may be perfect.   Ok, I confess.  I know close to zilch about the early French, English and Dutch settlers is close.  Ditto for the northern tribes of Native Americans.   So, I was sometimes confused.  Where they in Michigan?  Canada?  New York?   Then I did some research at http://www1.american.edu/ted/ice/french-indian.htm and the setting became clear and the story ever more engrossing because I could better understand some the important subtext of the story like the profound distrust between the English and the French, as well the Indians for both nations, and the constant changing of sides of the Native American tribes to protect their hunting and sacred grounds being a prime factor in the changing of native and traditional allegiances between tribes, eventually causing their destruction both through external fighting against the "pale faces" but also amongst themselves.   (How’s that for academic?!) 

The characters were rich and deep, interestingly so, since at first read, one could accuse Cooper of using stereotypes – the untamed frontiersman, the noble savage, the honorable military man.   Except that his characters are like uncut diamonds - while embodying at the core some of those simple stereotypical characteristics, their many facets are cut through the hardships and trials of the story, ultimately revealing their brilliance.   

Now that I’ve read the book, I guess I should see the movie.  The problem is that while reading this book, sometimes I had to take breaks just to move around and make myself relax and let go of some of the tension and to digest what was happening.  You can’t do that with a movie.  The battle scenes will be hard to watch, too.  And, I'm notoriously picky when it comes to film adaptations - just ask my son about Harry Potter.  

Hmmmm……Daniel Day-Lewis?! Nevermind, the book and my imagination's more than enough for me!   

Interpretation

I promised to post my interpretation of "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot, and I'm sure that if anyone who has a clue about Eliot reads this, they will probably have a seizure. In the hopes of preventing major medical complications, please know that I do not pretend to be any sort of Eliot scholar.  Every one of the words typed below (that aren't in purple, cause those are Eliot's) comes, essentially, from my gut as opposed to some soaring poetic intellect, which is just as well as I haven't got any of the latter to work with and way too much of the former!  That said, read on if you dare.

Part I – The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers

--I think Eliot has been cruelly reminded of his past and the homosexual feelings he’s long suppressed have now come to the surface. 

--He sees his old lover, or believes he sees him -

         

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men

Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable,--mon frère!’

--Translation:  Hyprocrite reader! – my double,-- my brother!

--This may be a description of how he has buried his former self and that he fears those feelings coming to life again, but it also conveys the shame and anger Eliot feels about himself with the denial of his true self. 

Part II – A Game of Chess

                                                ‘Do

‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

Nothing?’

    I remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?

                                                But

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag –

It’s so elegant

So intelligent

‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’

‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

With my hair down, so.  What shall we do to-morrow?

What shall we ever do?

                                                The hot water at ten.

And if it rains, a closed car at four.

And we shall play a game of chess,

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

--A glimpse of Eliot’s life after the burial – a conversation between a man and a woman:   

She asks for reinforcement of his feelings for her, but all his feelings are for a dead lover or, possibly, his lost life.  So, she threatens to prostitute herself to receive the attention he fails to give her, but, in the end opts to remain with him and live a dull, repetitive life without passion.  The game of chess being the way men and women interact with each other, and the way we feel about ourselves as a result.  

Part III – The Fire Sermon

Or other testimony of summer nights.  The nymphs are departed.

And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;

Departed, have left no addresses.

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

--Now, that Eliot is getting older, he realizes that all he had is gone as if it never were, and it makes him profoundly sad.   

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

And on her daughter

They wash their feet in soda water

Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

--Translation:  And, O those children’s voices singing in the dome!

--Eliot may be referring to his memories of during the war when his heterosexual alter-ego (Sweeney) visited prostitutes. 

Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter noon

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel

Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

--An admission that he has been approached by homosexual men (Mr. Eugenides) and that Eliot lives two lives – one as a heterosexual and one as a homosexual. Or, rather he once lived life one way and now exists as another.

         

‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

Under my feet. After the event

He wept. He promised “a new start.”

I made no comment. What should I resent?’

‘On Margate Sands.

I can connect

 Nothing with nothing.

The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

My people humble people who expect

Nothing.’

            la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

--Further proof that Eliot may have taken up the invitations, but instead of feeling the freedom of his youthful excursions, instead he felt shame, guilt and unclean made forcefully by a reference to the Bible about the Lord plucking out what is unclean in his sight.  Yet, he still desires.

Part IV – Death by Water

--States the death again of his homosexual alter ego, and Eliot asks whomever “turn[s] the wheel” to steer him away from that state of being

Part V - What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

--With that death, comes the death of his physical self. 

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

--But who is that on the other side of you?

--His attempt at marriage - living as a heterosexual is a failure because, as his wife explains in the stanzas above, Eliot cannot fully engage with her because of his constant memories of his former homosexual life/self.  

--Eliot has tried everything to live the way society tells him he should live, but cannot.  The following is a kind of synopsis of an attempt to seek understanding of his situation:

Then spoke the thunder

DA

Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms

DA

Dayadhvam:  I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

DA

Damyata:  The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

--DA – is the thunder’s answer, but each interprets the answer differently as Datta (Give), Dayadhyam (Sympathize) and Damyata (Control), which reveals Eliot’s own confusion. 

                        I sat upon the shore

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina

Ouando fiam uti chelidon – O swallow swallow

Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you.  Hieronymo’s mad againe.

Datta.  Dayadhvam. Damyata.

            Shantih  shantih shantih

--Translation of Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina:   

          ‘And so I pray you, by that virtue

            which guides you to the top of the stair,

            be reminded in time of my pain.’

            Then he hid himself in the fire that purifies them.

--Translation of Ouando fiam uti chelidon:                   When shall I become like the swallow?

--Translation of Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolie: The prince of Aquitainia in the abandoned tower

--Translation of Ile fit you:       I’ll oblige you

--Translation of Shantih    shantih   shantih:           The Peace which passeth understanding

--Eliot’s final thoughts on how to deal with his feelings is giving up, hiding away and asking for peace.  His life is actually a death, a wasteland…he awaits his imminent physical death that corresponds to his already dead spiritual, passionate self and the final peace he hopes/prays it will bring.

The Story of Ferdinand



Ah, smelling the roses!

This classic story by Munro Leaf is about a peace-loving bull, Ferdinand, who lives a bucolic life outside Madrid, Spain.  Through a series of funny misunderstandings Ferdinand is "discovered" and mistakenly assumed to be a fearsome fighter, and is carted off to the bullfights with hilarious results! 

After checking it out from my local library, I read it first to myself and then asked my Girlie Girl to read it to me while I just looked at the pictures.  She did great, except I did have to help with the pronunciation of a couple of Spanish words like Matador and Banderilleros.  Simple words used in an easy rhythm make the book no trouble to read or understand.  But, it's the drawings by Robert Lawson that bring this simple story to life! 



Ugly things, aren't they?  And creepy!



We read it a couple of times and then looked back through it because we noticed several pictures of vultures.  Especially those picturing the journey to and the city of Madrid.  We counted ten!  Now, I read this story as a kid and I never even noticed the vultures, but my daughter saw them right away.  I was amused, but a little disturbed, too….although it didn’t even come close to the level of discomfort I felt when I watched the movie Snow White as an adult and saw the vultures smile. That's scary stuff.   

The best pictures, we thought, were of the men who “recruited” Ferdinand.  Leaf’s only description is this:  



Her fav? Eye-patch guy.
Yes, that is worrisome! 

  One day five men came in very
   Funny hats to pick the biggest
   Fastest, roughest bull to fight
   In the bull fights in Madrid

Lawson’s interpretation was brilliant and caught my Girl's attention for more time than any other drawing in the book.   She loved looking at all the different hats.  And those mustaches!  Ha!

Overall, my first-grader (6) read it just fine, aside from the Spanish words.  But, this picture book is for any age!  For us, this short story turned into a 20 minute talk about bullfights, Spain, the Spanish language and, of all things, ponchos!  

I’m reminded once again of what books can do!