Superclass is Super-Classless

Superclass in lots of ways is not a classy book. It's written in a homely, aw-shucks sort of way -- although it starts to fade by the time book hits its stride, there are a
bunch of people (judging from Amazon, at least) who were seriously turned off by
the tone of it all. David Rothkopf is a friendly guy -- but he's wined and dined with
the rulers of the world, or people who think they are at least, and he wants to tell
you all about it.

For sure, the first chapter is full of dumb stories about Davos parties; the last
chapter is some ho-hum philosophy that tastes a bit like crocodile tears after three
hundred pages of pumping you up with tales of caviar and Gulfstream jets. But all
this crap is happily (and, I suspect, deliberately) sandwiched away at the very start
and very end of the book. The rest is actually an easy and informative read; it's not
all just fodder for the globalist junkies.

Rothkopf seems to get along well with establishment paragons like Steven
Schwarzmann, Richard Holbrooke, Anthony Zinni, Klaus Schwab, and plenty more.
There is some good information in here, all in all. Rothkopf tells a few good stories
about the folks he knows, and he digs up some bookish anecdotes to tell about the
folks he doesn't (e.g. Chinese emperors, Greek tyrants, and the like). It's like the
History Channel -- nothing too deep, and it's a little tacky at times, but it glides along
smoothly, and the set is clean and bright.

Readers who come to Superclass (as, alas, did I) looking for in-depth exposes of
Masons, reptiles, or rosicrucians will be disappointed. Rothkopf does throw the
conspiracy-mongers a bone somewhere near the end, talking about Skull and Bones
and so forth, but he makes it all sound like no great shakes. (Bohemian Grove,
however, does receive a special mention.)

One thing that becomes apparent as one keeps reading the book is that the author
really, really enjoys being able to hang out at Davos. But Rothkopf is such a jolly
fellow that I'm willing to forgive him. You can't blame a guy who used to manage
Kissinger Associates if he has sort of a complex about this stuff.

To wit: a recurring theme in Superclass is that most of the folks at the top got there,
more or less, because they deserved it -- at least in the business and financial
worlds. (He is, thankfully, not so sure about kleptocrats or military elites.) It is hard
to escape the feeling that Rothkopf figures the elites just work harder, faster, or
better than the rest of us, and this is why they are where they are.

Maybe there is a grain of truth to this. But maybe there is also something creepy about a self-selecting group of workaholics who are thoroughly convinced of their own ability to change planet Earth. This shines through in several glorious moments: I laughed ghoulishly at one great passage where Larry Summers suggests to Rothkopf that the rich really *do* add this much value to society, like thousands of times more than the average person. These are the guys who would go back in time and give Isaac Newton a patent on calculus if they could. But hey, this is the world we live in, right? Superclass is worth reading for these little moments alone.

The Sad Tale Of The Bad News Bear

"He was not hunting people, he was hunting peace. But it's a funny way to get it, whacking people".

 

Steve Herrero, bear expert, on the protagonist of “The Black Grizzly Of Whiskey Creek”

 

I dunno. Seems reasonable, sometimes.

 

A mystery co-worker, aware of my penchant for things ursine, saw fit to plonk this book on my "Staff Picks" shelf. It's a title which has evaded an interested but cash-strapped me in the past, so I thought it appropriate that I should intercept and actually read it this time around. 

 

Sid Marty, the author, is as prodigious as he is eclectic. Erstwhile poet, journalist, and -most importantly in this context- ex-park ranger and actually present during the drama, he takes on the dread but impelling task of committing to text the appalling and tragic (for human and bear alike) circumstances surrounding a spate of bear maulings in Banff, during the summer holiday of 1980.

 

Taking the subject matter into consideration, one might expect the usual lurid beatdown of man against beast; fodder for a beach chair on the porch by the lake on a weekend afternoon. I soon found, however, like the denizens of a bygone Banff, that I was up against something far more numinous and worthy of both serious consideration and respect (a 2008 GGs finalist, no less). Time and screen space preclude my musing upon the importance of Bear to the human psyche and environment alike; perhaps it is well that I direct others to Marty's masterful tale in order to conveniently, if sensationally, remind them of it. 

 

Everybody knows what eventually happened: a man was killed, and a number of others were permanently scarred, physically and otherwise, as the result of a hideous agglomeration of shames and sadnesses: human laziness, incredible bureaucratic chicanery, Nature's inopportune indifference, as well as her inevitable expression in carmine tooth and claw. The mystery and mastery of Marty's take on the horror lie in his skills as a artistic magpie. A vast, vivid melange of character sketches, natural-historical observations, and journalistic reportage, conspiring, tensing and inevitably honing themselves towards a gut-churning and awful denouement, Marty's patchwork warp and weft leave us in no doubt as to who is the villain: we have seen the enemy, and he is us. Nonetheless, a due and trembling deference is granted to the eternal, fearsome Bear as archetype, avatar, and very real predator; Marty clearly admires and respects bears, but is no teddy-hugger. If some measure of humility and sorrow were not granted to the Banff residents who witnessed the happenings in the summer of '80, perhaps the smack of it could still be had by the naïve and curious bystander through a reading of this book. It would be difficult not to be affected, even if bruin-neutral. 

 

Marty's style is as honest as it is sensitive; he careers between workaday brusqueness and profound lyricism on a dime, and herein lies the magic. His asides can become distracting at times, though he allows none of us to lose the ever-thickening spoor of a hollow and shameful conclusion. Suspense and poignance wax in grim contention. A newcomer to this country, I once anticipated the thrill which might accompany the sighting of a bear in the wild. This book is a sad reminder that the human gaze diminishes (as well as defines) wilderness, the bear's dwindling realm; it is best for a bear that I should never see him at all, and that he should never have to see me. I can visit with him vicariously from the comfort of my couch through Marty's literary offering. 

 

Particularly impressive to me, a chapter surprising in its utterly unexpected (but welcome) poetry, and juxtaposed with such hard-and-fast fact, to boot: how a single bear, deadly, mighty, and yet tragically indifferent, might -of all things- dream.

The Goddess of Large Ideas

Where Arundhati Roy is concerned, I would be lying if I suggested I wasn't already favorably biased towards her before picking up her novel, The God of Small Things. She is a well known voice of political and social change, an advocate of peace and harmony, and a friend to a good deal of very influential and intellectual individuals. Roy's renown aside, I delved into this novel with great delight, having heard only good commentary surrounding it.

The tale begins innocently enough, relating the tale of two siblings, twins, Rahel and Estha. The pair share a deep bond, deeper than most brothers and sisters can fathom. As the story unfolds, the narrator moves gracefully between Rahel and Estha's easygoing, childhood past, to their complicated future. With a theme revolving around how the small things in life are often the most complicated and difficult to get over, the plot keeps a steady but strange pace, enthralling the reader and continually turning the story in upon itself. Set in Kerela in 1969, it portrays an India, a southern India on the verge of communism, where the exchange between cultural identity and industrial complexe is brought into question. The imagery is beautiful; the people, dynamic and complex; and the story itself, masterfully woven.

The God of Small Things was a book I was unable to put down. The relaxed pace only serves to highlight the action in the story, bringing twists from out of the ether and keeping the reader awake and thoughtful. The contrasting elements are fashioned into a cognisant and artistic whole, making for one of the best, and most fulfilling, reads this young man has had in a long time. So to any and all that happen to see it on our shelves, The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy, is a definite must read. It's unapologetic, unreserved, unforgettable, and unbelievable.

Extremely Engaging and Incredibly Insightful

A review of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Like realizing one day that your childhood is past, finishing this book made me feel

trepidation about what came next; I feared that whatever new book I began, it could never

give me that same feeling.

I was reminded to read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close when I heard my friend

Rob reading it in a café—he was laughing out loud so much it was distracting. He read

me a passage from it, which I have since realized is impossible to avoid while reading

this book. You simply must share it, or else burst with the oddness and hilarity and

humility of trying to keep it all inside.

When I was done with the book, having searched in vain for another copy, I gave my

copy to my friend Joel—a young man who, like Oskar, is somewhat lacking in social

niceties, yet so full of real grace and vivacity that one must enjoy his company, not even

despite the lack but indeed because of it. Upon his reception of the book, others in the

room quickly learned that Joel was no longer present in the conversation, although the

flow was punctuated often by his helpless chuckles.

The precocious nine-year-old protagonist, Oskar, is living in New York City through

the aftermath of the World Trade Centre attack, and suffering through the loss of his dad

in the crash. His search for some meaning in his situation is enlivened by his constant,

stream-of-consciousness observations, musings and inventions. He is so intelligent that it

hurts, so sensitive he becomes remote, and so insightful it’s surprisingly hilarious.

In the tradition of older authors with three names, Jonathan Safran Foer explores not

only Oskar’s point of view but the earlier generations of his family as well. The second

and third viewpoints, from an earlier time, mirror Oskar’s devastation and reveal that his

bizarreness is hereditary—or maybe, in the end, that not only Oskar but also each of us

is neurotic, insightful, frantically loving, and sensitive like raw skin, and we are more

fascinating and strong and in need of each other than we realize.

A Profound Respect for Art

I can easily admit that this has been the single most difficult beginning to anything I have ever written. After having finished the graphic novel entitled "Maus", I spent several minutes in reverence over what I have read to be the most honest and humanizing biography concerning the holocaust. I do not intend to cheapen the gravity of the topic with this statement, yet neither did Art Spiegelman intend to cheapen it is gravity with the production of his work. It is a literary gem the same magnitude as a fist-sized diamond.

It will be impossible for me to explain properly the complexity and detail exhibited within the graphic novel with such short prose, but I hope that the vehemence in my writing will attract others to it. Spiegelman takes on the task of chronicling his father's survival of Auschwitz in a most artistic fashion. The beauty of a graphic novel as his medium rests in the ingenuity of pairing the heavy-handed nature of the subject matter with the light hearted approach of comic-styled graphics; done with flawless balance, he creates an easy to approach understanding without jeopardizing the seriousness of the story itself. It would require a graduate level dissertation for me to approach the many aspects of the interaction between characters, the inclusion of the relationship between father and son after the war and the use of anthropomorphic elements in it’s illustration to depict the racial tensions engendered by the Nazi campaign.

Some people tell me that I am a little long-winded, even verbose; there is nothing more that I can say about this astonishingly well made piece of literature without over simplifying it. I will relate one thing to the reader: brewing beneath the stark honesty of this very personal memoir is an understanding of family; of friendship; of hardship and of loss. To leave this off one‘s list is to deprive oneself of an exceedingly interesting read. I can only reiterate that those who go on to read the graphic novel "Maus" will be touched by it's sincerity and moved by it's profundity.