Not much going on in Debateland, this being the summer and
all. I’m giving myself another week before I go into the Yale setup on tabroom.
The Pups put it up themselves, no doubt based on last year, so it should be
mostly okay, but given that CP secretly updates it every 27 hours, one never
knows, does one? Over the weekend I posted a whole bunch of coach jobs for Bronx Science on
NDCA; looks like a complete turnover. That’s a tough one, replacing everyone
under the sun. It’s hard enough to replace one person, going by the other local
postings. Oh, well. It is what it is.
We went up north this weekend, ostensibly to see the Van
Gogh exhibit at the Clark, but also just to see what they’ve done to the Clark
overall. Nice job: the galleries really flow well. The pix weren’t bad either.
A few revelations, but mostly just an interesting and focused display on V and
the natural world. We also went to Edith Wharton’s house about an hour south of
Williamstown, in Lenox. She lived there with her husband, and got to design
things according to her own lights (she was big on that sort of thing), but
honestly, while the house was nice and pleasant, I was more taken by the
various thematic displays. While a pretty big Wharton fan, I can’t say I knew
too much about her war work, which was fascinating. She lived in France during
WWI. In fact, she only lived at this house, the Mount, for a relatively short
period of time. She’s more interesting than the place, in other words. I got a
bit of an itch to do some rereading. I read all the big novels before getting
to Ethan Frome, which is burned into
my brain. That’s another one of those books that they should never assign to
teenagers to read. They’re too young for it. Of course, I have plenty of
complaints about what is assigned to teenagers from the so-called canon. Chief
among this is ATOTC, which as far as I’m concerned is the least fun of all the
Dickens novels. Perhaps the most entertaining author in the English language,
so let’s make everybody read his least entertaining book. Of course, maybe
that’s just me, and the world at large thinks it’s his best. Not that it
doesn’t have its moments, but compared to BH or OMF, or even DC? Pull-eeze.
Maybe, aside from a nodding acquaintance with Scrooge and company, CD is
another author educators shouldn’t teach teenagers. Can’t say I’ve met many
teenagers who don’t think CD is death on two wheels. The joy of his work has
been beaten out of them.
Along these lines, there’s Wharton's buddy Henry James. I tried to read
James in college, and aside from getting through the short stuff like Daisy and
Turn (which were packaged together in my paperback), I just didn’t get it. I
said to myself then that I’d wait until I was older, and I had Portrait on my
reading table for about 30 years. When I finally got to it I devoured it. To
everything there is a season… Novels where not a lot happens openly are
probably not the best things for young people. There will be time enough for
those books after first getting through the more lively ones. I read Trollope’s
He Knew He Was Right during my most
recent vacation. There’s a lively one for you. With all the hoopla for his
bicentennial, there’s been plenty of articles, but the one that struck me as
most relevant was a comparison of him and CD, where the latter was described as
the more poetic author. True, I think, but the article's point was that where Trollope has him beat is in
his female characters. Say what you will about CD, his women are dreadful.
Trollope’s are alive and remarkably memorable (I have yet to get over falling
in love with Lady Glencora).
Oh, well.
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