The giants before us.

I've travelled a few roads in my seventy years. Here in the West, all over the U.S., and in Europe.  I've read works from all over the world.A few decades ago I could read in four different languages. Now, I can't seem to find the stamina to finish anything.  My eyes get tired; my body dozes off to sleep. Oh well, these are things  to be explored another day.

The books and authors I feature on this blog heading appeared in front of me the day I designed this blog.I remember the hullabaloo around Rushdie's  publication of Satanic Verses.  Now, if you a religious conservative, you probably did not pick up a copy and read it.  Most people were upset about Rushdie's treatment of religion. Had he appeared around the time I attended  catholic schools, his name would be anathema to me.

But, I read him in my mature years, and compared his situation to those of poor Galileo and Leonardo and the problems they had with the Church. Writers and artists and scientists have to wait years before anyone bothers to look carefully at their contributions.

In East, West, Mr Rushdie is more approachable. Less controversial. If you never questioned your own sensibilities, your point of view, your cultural biases, this book pricks you here and there.

Pirandello,- not known by many people either, though I found this collection written in English-questions our veracity, our very ability to speak the truth, as characters on a stage with an audience, as characters in our living room with our mate.
We construct reality as we speak, wearing masks with every situation.

I read Milan Kundera when I was young, and the story in The Umbearable Lightness of Being seemed to be talking to me, exposing me, stripping me down to the essence of what men and  women feel.  It was his message at the end, the motif throughout that I remember best: The burden of being human.

And then, Chomsky. If you want to know about communication, language, cognition, his works are germinal.

These are giants before us.
They are not alone.  You have works and people who have provided you with knowledge and insights.  Who are they?   

Notes

If these men were wines:

Salman Rushdie is almost Moscato at times,  light and playful, in The Enchantress of Florence.  His Verses, much maligned; though, like Dante, he was getting back at lots of folks, for lots of good reasons. He rocks with an arugula salad, sprinkles of hazelnuts, shavings of pecorino. Or, a deep curry.


Pirandello is darker, moodier, a robust Angiovese, lingering with you through your entire meal of pasta bolognese, and a rack of lamb with new potatoes.  He's the South, I feel, the South of Italy the way I remember, dark, fierce, full of concerns and traditions that pop up whenever you try to get too comfortable. 


Kundera is a breath of fresh air, a young Pinot Grigio, full of hints, peaches and pears, and a hint of shadowy truffle. Best with stroganoff, with light sourcream and lots and lots of mushrooms. I want then to lie in bed for the afternoon, or in a hammock under a big oak and talk trash with the likes of Kant.