29 October 2011

Halloween (somewhat): Old Prussian Cemeteries

Growing up in rural ex-Prussian Lithuania had its advantages for my father, especially when, this past summer, he provided me with an all-expense-paid all-inclusive tour of the small fishing village of RusnÄ— and its surrounding area.

We set of on a horridly soggy and equally early morning, aboard a rather old borrowed car of a brand I’d never even known existed (Proton? Is that even a real company?). Very fortunately for us, the rural Lithuanian roads where nowhere near paved. In fact, they were more along the lines of unceasing rivers of vaguely red sludge upon which our poor vehicle groaned dolefully.

Stopping briefly to chase around a herd of very talkative newly-weaned calves and to scope out the Curonian Lagoon from a watch post, we continued on to a secluded patch of trees that, had I not been told otherwise, I would’ve mistaken for an ideal setting for a gruesome homicidal wood-creature film of sorts. There, I was informed, was the setting of an old Prussian cemetery.

Not knowing what I’d see, I zealously expected some sort of grandiose burial plot complete with granite tombstones, bouts of vigil candles, and an eerie statue or two. The works. The reality was quite, quite different. In fact, the cemetery, if you could call it that, was no more than a plot of dauntingly overgrown vegetation scattered with fragments of broken headstones and iron railing. It was beyond vandalized, it was virtually non-existent.

Fortunately, I was subject to a brief history lesson from my father. Apparently, following the Soviet occupation of Lithuania in 1944, the Russians had sought to eagerly erase every trace of Prussian culture from the nation, especially in the west, where it was most prominent (the west was already the badly battered doorstep between Nazi Germany and the USSR). This involved both the destruction of Lutheran churches, exile of German nationals, and methodical demolition of Evangelical Lutheran burial plots such as the one I was treading upon. The Russians even went so far as to unearth most of the traditionally crafted Prussian ironwork and stick it under the ground several kilometres away to rust.

Names can only be made out on one or two tombstones, and most crumble slowly into the ground in this isolated patch of greenery seemingly exempt from the surrounding agricultural work. Surely, in a few decades, what’s left will be overwhelmed.

I attempted to sift through some of the greenery in the hopes of finding more headstones, or, admittedly less likely, some tremendous historical artifact. My hunger, however, and the prodigious abundance of insect life in the area successfully chased me back into the car a short while later.

I spent the remainder of the evening chiselling mud from my shoes and about the next four weeks recuperating the blood I’d lost to mosquitoes.

It reads L. Girth 4 Jan 1812 - 21 April 1880
and L. Girth 29 Dez. 1863 - 35 Febr. 1895





And here are some gratuitous images of unrelated objects in the area.




20 October 2011

Belated Birthdays: Oscar Wilde

We’ll pretend Oscar Wilde’s birthday wasn’t four days ago because I am in need of a solid excuse to wax poetic about his existence.

If I attempted to pinpoint the moment I fell madly in love with Oscar Wilde it would be in vain. It might have been sometime around my reading of excerpts from his plays ages ago, during which I was cackling madly to myself, and also likely subject to the worried gazes of onlookers. A dry mix of Victorian humor and social commentary, shaken not stirred, is side-splitting, all right? Don’t judge. And Wilde is formidable at it, if not the very best. Peppered heavily with sneering commentary of Victorian culture, Wilde’s work, whether farce or earnestly (pun somewhat intended) pensive, does not lack relevance. From the Harry Wottons to the Cecily Cardews all, often regrettably, exist today.

And yet, Wilde isn’t just some extraordinarily glib well-worded satirist. Quite far, in fact. The dimension to his work is astounding (and what makes his writing, most notably Picture of Dorian Gray, so effective). Especially poignant are Wilde’s writings following his exile, which actually turn rather depressing. Nevertheless, whether Wilde is pictured reclining on a chaise lounge and noting caustically the flaws of his society, or scrawling away solemnly to Robbie Ross, either image is that of both a quintessentially Victorian aestheticism, and universal literary magnitude.

Simply put, there’s quite a reason as to why my Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has essentially been beatified on my bookshelf.

The complete text of Picture of Dorian Gray, plus a myriad of other texts can be found here. A wonderful archive of manuscripts and letters by Wilde (it's quite amusing to see the process of his work- just compare the draft and final versions of The Artist from Poems in Prose) is offered over here. Another online manuscript archive, with a bit of analysis included here. Enjoy.

Here are a few favorite Wilde-isms:

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." (A Woman of no Importance) 
"The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read." (The Critic as Artist)
"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." (Lord Arthur Savile's Crime) 
"The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius." (The Critic as Artist)
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." (De Profundis) 
"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"
(The Ballad of Reading Gaol) 




Lippincott's original 1890 version of The Picture
of Dorian Gray

A bit of Wilde comic relief from Kate Beaton.

12 October 2011

Handwriting of Famous Dead Folk

I adore aesthetically pleasing and/or innovative signatures. I won't delve into psychoanalyzing the fact that an "i" is dotted slightly to the left, and that such a thing represents some sort of childhood trauma, or any of that hyper-analytical pseudo science. Frankly, I just think signatures are interesting, so here are a few from notable historical/literary/artistic figures.

John Hancock

John Keats

David Lloyd George

Albert Einstein

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Adolf Hitler

Joseph Stalin

Thomas Alva Edison

Queen Victoria

Andy Warhol

Kurt Vonnegut (note the asterisk)

Jean-Luc Godard (who is, thankfully, not deceased,
but I enjoy his signature)

Vincent van Gogh

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ernest Hemingway

Napoleon Bonaparte

05 October 2011

Music: Beirut's The Rip Tide


A tad belated but necessary regardless, I must speak volumes on Beirut’s new album, so hold on and prepare for word vomit. Zach Condon of Beirut (it’s always tricky with largely one-man bands like these- are the band and the leader synonymous or not?) released The Rip Tide August 30th of this year, to relatively good critical review, and good god was the wait worthwhile.

When Call to Arms began to play on a road trip through Eastern Europe four or five years ago, Beirut wormed itself into my heart instantly. With Hispanic, Balkan, and a myriad of other rhythms from all far corners of the earth, yet a simultaneous ability to retain painfully beautiful melodies, Beirut was nothing short of perfection.

However, the gap between The Flying Club Cup, released in 2008, and the new album was, to put plainly, a tad excessive. I went into Beirut withdrawal. I came to a point where I might as well have been thrashing frantically in a padded cell in anticipation for something new. The trouble is, The Rip Tide has nine new tracks. Nine. Hardly enough, right?

Wrong, at least somewhat. These nine tracks, whether individually or as a collective unit, are a fair reward for such a lengthy wait. Undoubtedly, as with The Flying Club Cup and Gulag Orkestar before it, The Rip Tide documents Zach Condon’s slow transition from pure, slightly musically abrasive folk, to more melodic, pop-driven tunes. Condon, however, does not completely relinquish the accordion, trumpet, and ukulele. He inserts it tactfully, mixing it with lyrics which are, as per usual, ingenious. Tracks like Payne’s Bay are strongly reminiscent of much of Gulag Orkestar, for example. Santa Fe, however, a likely homage to Condon’s hometown (I have never tried to track down another human being quite to such an extent as to when I visited that city), might as well be a modern pop ballad.

I can’t deny that I do pine for some good Balkan-inspired cacophony of countless instruments and Condon’s idiosyncratic tone, but I’m not disappointed by Beirut’s newer sound. Though it is more of a widely appreciated style, it remains uniquely Beirut’s.

I’m crossing my fingers for an EP sometime soon, since having to make it through another three years replaying my entire Beirut library is an extremely painful prospect.

Here are a few tracks from The Rip Tide worth noting:

East Harlem


Santa Fe


Port of Call


The Peacock