Stochastic Bookmark

abstruse unfinished commentary

about correspondence



So I've been at this thing off and on, lately more off than on, for ten years. In that span I've read nearly a thousand books, and for a long time recorded first impressions here for my own benefit but stopped when it became more hindrance than help (last year's monologging just displaced litchatboard dialogging since resumed). I've cast a wide net, and in particular got caught up with Latin American (esp Argentinean) and Eastern European literature (as translations have burgeoned), and filled many gaps in my poetry reading while creating some in The Bookshelf of Good Intentions. Not that I'll ever be well-read, not that that is the object; study is its own reward, with a bonus of better understanding (not to say knowledge), and of not knowing where it may lead, as the field may deepen but never narrows, as literature creates its own context even as it operates within a larger one, moreso than other arts. (Something similar pertains in mathematics.)

So what is it that I study? And why the slant towards foreign literature? Yes, there's history, and culture, but that's more ground than figure for me. What piques my interest is two-fold: the art of representation through language (which is rich enough to carry over in literary translation), and the situation of the individual apprehending his/her culture or society, whether at large or in detail (not only the author but also the intended reader). Between the two, without immersion in either the language or cultural/societal matrix, I take away (or better: incorporate, assimilate) more than I'd be able to otherwise: the different forms empathy takes, perspectives askew from those I'm familiar or comfortable with, just f'rinstance. I may not always get it, but I always get something out of it. And it's those little somethings I've tried to share here, and by formulating those somethings to draw more out of them for myself.

There are plenty of reasons for reading (or blogging), and plenty of ways to do it; I'm not saying that my rationale, or method, is better than others (even if I'm pretty good at rationalization and methodization), just that it works for me. For that matter, my idea of study differs from most, self-directed, more serendipitous than systematic; in this I've followed not so much a calling as resonances (and have described myself as a strict interdisciplinarian). Despite which, I've been able to lay claim to expertise in some areas (eg APL programming, financial markets: made for a nondeadening way to make a living) and to something beyond lay knowledge in many others.

Enough of explaining myself (even if only to myself). This being a bloggiversary ... I've catalogued past work before, on Nabokov and others; I'll add to the list homages to imitations of riffs on Frost, Dickinson, WCWilliams & Lewis Carroll ... and poems and prose I have no one to blame for but myself. And a bit of lit crit on spec, blue-skying on Tlön.


Reading music: scattered notes

At times certain themes emerge in my reading matter; this time, music was the keynote, or more properly, the incorporation of musical form into the writing, playing on Walter Pater's old saw on art's aspirations. All of the following required a slower tempo than I'm used to, but with commensurate reward.

The theme was introduced by Ingeborg Bachmann's Malina, though I'd picked it up more as another instance of a poet's novel; she'd also done opera libretti, and takes opera as structure and tone for the three-part narrative (with three principal parts), while permutational elements of duodecaphony are compositionally brought in. Other (Viennese) influences include Wittgenstein (Ludwig not Paul: of what we cannot sing we must be silent), and Freud, not to mention the novelists. Mark Anderson contributes a voluble valuable afterword, "Death Arias in Vienna", situating all this and more (but alas not online). Philip Boehm's translation seems a bit flat, but I suspect it's a matter of trade-offs. [John Taylor in Context]

Curiously, A.G. Porta overlaps some of the same territory in The No World Concerto (translated by Darren Koolman and Rhett McNeil), especially Schoenberg and Wittgenstein. Again it wasn't so much the music that prompted me as his early collaboration with Roberto Bolaño (Consejos de un discípulo de Morrison a un fanático de Joyce (Advice from a disciple of Morrison to a fan of Joyce), 1984 Premio Ámbito Literario winner; didn't publish on his own til 1999 with Braudel por (by) Braudel). No World in turn won the 2005 Premio Café Gijón and is the first to be englished. So ... two mirrors bumping into each other walking down the road ... or,

As noted in the review linked below, it is indeed "vulnerable to the line of attack James Wood mounted against Paul Auster in a 2009 New Yorker takedown: 'Because nothing is persuasively assembled, the inevitable postmodern disassembly leaves one largely untouched . . . Presence fails to turn into significant absence, because presence was not present enough.'"; and the Austerizing is annoying (to nonfans like yrs truly; fans will eat it up) but mitigated (but only mitigated) by relevance to the formal conceits (the Tractatus as well as dodecacaphony [tho warped rather than wrapped]). (Incidentally, the review is wrong in its finding that "the only full proper name I found in the novel was that of Leon Kowalski"; the other is Mrs. Oedipa Maas.) (and my lukecoldness may be attributable to having recently read Malina, better where there's overlap, but unfair comparison). [Eric Lundgren in TQC; interview in Bomb]

Finally, a novel that attracted specifically because of the music: Kirsty Gunn's The Big Music, on the Highland bagpipes and the pibrach (since I can't spell piobaireachd), analogue to the concerto. The story also blends elements of genealogy, history, and pedagogy (the last would put me off were it not stylistically justified; that said, the authorial instrusive asterisks make explicit much of what is clear implicitly, and so annoys). The review below covers the ground, but I'll note that one note is never sounded (until the last appendix). [Andrea Scrima in TQC; interview]

(I'm also dipping into Songbook: The Selected Poems of Umberto Saba [George Hochfield & Leonard Nathan], but the early stuff loses its music in translation ...)



I've read more of the fiction eligible for the Best Translated Book Award than in prior years, comprising a larger proportion of my reading (about a quarter), though only a small fraction of the candidates, but I think larger among the viable ones. For opinions that count, there's a more complete listing of the judges' ruminations than I linked last post ( though there's the occasional mistagged stray), and a dedicated message board for speculation. But here you'll have mine, as final as I can make it prior to the April 7 longlist announcement.

Those that should make the 10-title shortlist (should both in my estimation and, I expect, in the judges'):
Juan José Saer, La Grande (Steve Dolph) [Open Letter]
Andrei Bitov, The Symmetry Teacher (Polly Gannon) [FSG]
Leopoldo Marechal, Adam Buenosayres (Norman Cheadle) [McGill-Queen's Uni]

Those that I would shortlist, that should at least make the judges' 25-title longlist:
Bohumil Hrabal, Harlequin's Millions (Stacey Knecht) [Archipelago]
Sergei Dovlatov, Pushkin Hills (Katherine Dovlatov) [Counterpoint]
Patrick Modiano, Suspended Sentences (Mark Polizzotti) [Yale/Margellos]
Can Xue, The Last Lover (Annelise Finegan Wasmoen) [Yale/Margellos]
Drago Jančar, The Tree with No Name (Michael Biggins) [Dalkey]

Those that should make the longlist (should see above) and might be shortlisted:
Mikhail Shishkin, The Light and the Dark (Andrew Bromfield) [Quercus]
Wilma Stockenström, The Expedition to the Baobob Tree (J.M Coetzee) [Archipelago]
Hilda Hilst, With My Dog-Eyes (Adam Morris) [Melville House]
Éric Chevillard, The Author and Me (Jordan Stump) [Dalkey]
Julio Cortázar, Fantomas versus the Multinational Vampires: An Attainable Utopia (David Kurnick) [Semiotext(e)]
Edouard Levé, Works (Jan Steyn) [Dalkey]
Carlos Labbé, Navidad & Matanza (Will Vanderhyden) [Open Letter]

Those that I would longlist that may not make the judges' cut:
César Aira, Conversations (Katherine Silver) [NDP]
Roberto Bolaño, A Little Lumpen Novelita (Natasha Wimmer) [New Directions]
Clemens J. Setz, Indigo (Ross Benjamin) [Norton/Liveright]
Pierre Michon, Winter Mythologies and Abbots (Ann Jefferson) [Yale/Margellos]
Sait Faik Abasiyanik, A Useless Man: selected stories (Maureen Freely & Alexander Dawe) [Archipelago]

The rest within the ambit of my reading (all of which I'm glad to have read, lest relegation seem dismissive), which the judges may well dip into:
Alberto Savinio, Signor Dido (Richard Pevear) [Counterpoint]
Georges Perec, I Remember (Philip Terry, David Bellos) [Godine]
Frankétienne, Ready to Burst (Kaiama L. Glover) [Archipelago]
Milena Michiko Flašar, I Called Him Necktie (Sheila Dickie) [New Vessel]
Hugo Ball, Flametti or The Dandyism of the Poor (Catherine Schelbert) [Wakefield]
Vladimir Lorchenkov, The Good Life Elsewhere (Ross Ufberg) [New Vessel]
Scholastique Mukasonga, Our Lady of the Nile (Melanie Mauthner) [Archipelago]
Jon Fosse, Melancholy II (Eric Dickens) [Dalkey]
Rodrigo Rey Rosa, Severina (Chris Andrews) [Yale/Margellos]
Carmen Boullosa, Texas: The Great Theft (Samantha Schnee) [Deep Vellum]
(I could be wrong: that last'un won the Typographical Translation Award ...)

And then there's the one that got away, unread:
Arno Schmidt, Bottom's Dream (John E. Woods) [Dalkey]
but only because it hasn't come out yet. Maybe next year ...

And finally, the only eligible poetry I've read, which should make the shortlist:
José-Flores Tappy, Sheds/Hangars: Collected Poems 1983-2013 (John Taylor) [bitter oleander]

No doubt I've missed some worthy candidates, which will be rectified by the longlist announcement; I'm grateful to the BTBA (and prime mover Chad Post) for past guidance (best among the awards, and transparently at that), and for more generally raising the profile of translated literature, making it easier to find and to sort out. (And while I'm being appreciative, thanks too to fiction judge Michael A. Orthofer, who's reviewed as much in translation on his site as the cumulative BTBA-eligible fiction; there's only so much one man can do, and he does so much more.)


Adam Buenosayres

I've been catching up with a lot of the BTBA contenders, and still mean to sort them all out, but Leopoldo Marechal's Adam Buenosayres (Norman Cheadle) [McGill-Queens] calls for separate consideration, not just as a likely shortlister. (Not a review; for that, Michael Orthofer's your go to guy for that.)

A satirical tour de farce, the novel is a strange hybrid, at once foundational and anomalous to Argentinian (and Latin American) literary tradition. Heavy on pastiche and parody, it leans on both Joyce (see below) and Dante (both exiles, I note; Marechal's exile from Argentinian culture was internal, for Peronist leanings), in the latter's case on Vita Nuova (Beatricial idealization, esp in Book VI, "The Blue Notebook") and Inferno (Book VII, "Journey in the Dark City of Cacodelphia"), though more in its score-settling aspects; Cervantes is also prominently in the mix. It is no less sparing of the theological or metaphysical, but no less chauvinistic as it takes Swift kicks at the pretentions of 1920's Argentina. The eponymous hero not only traverses Buenos Aires but in some ways embodies it (as do his circle, as too the Dantean circles).

Reception and influence: From Stephen Dedalus in Argentina, Richard Canning [TLS $ub only sorry]:
"Abundantly spattered with manure.” Thus Eduardo González Lanuza’s splenetic review of Leopoldo Marechal’s first novel, which appeared in the Argentinian journal Sur in 1949. Lanuza acknowledged that Marechal had been deeply influenced by James Joyce’s experimentation in Ulysses, but he dismissed Adán Buenosayres as derivative and disrespectful of the city in which it was set. Julio Cortázar was rather more impressed, hailing the novel as “an extraordinary event in Argentine literature”, even if he initially found it “incoherent” [see here]. Cortázar was most drawn to Marechal’s formal daring – an experimentation that informed his own writing style in novels such as Rayuela (1963; Hopscotch). It was a fellow Latin American Joycean, the Cuban writer José Lezama Lima, who first insisted on the connection between Adán Buenosayres and Rayuela. His own magnum opus, Paradiso (1966), adopts a similarly subversive approach to narrative orderliness and dialogic effect, this time applying it to his own city, Havana.
And as Cheadle points out in his introduction, so too the praises heaped up by Carlos Fuentes, Fernando del Paso, Ricardo Piglia, Ernesto Sábato, Augusto Roa Bastos ...

Canning again (til fair use runs out):
As Norman Cheadle’s lucid introduction points out, though the structure of Adam Buenosayres also invites comparison with Ulysses – its length; its mapping of plot across just three days; its episodic chapters; its self-conscious plurality of narrative modes; its textual jokes, puns and self-referentiality – in many ways the closer textual source remains A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. For Buenosayres, like Stephen Dedalus, is a writer, and this novel, like Joyce’s, is not only a Bildungsroman but a Künstlerroman [ntm a Roman à clef, with Xul Solar figuring prominently (and taking it in good humor, unlike Borges)]. The epic sense of disproportion characteristic of Marechal’s prose reflects just as much the awesome fear and opportunity felt by the young artist as the effects of rapid social transformation in the Argentinian capital immediately after the First World War. This was the age of Martinfierrismo, a literary renaissance focused on the journal Martin Fierro, which was promoted through the capital’s tertulias or literary salons, attended by a crowd of native writers, artists and thinkers, some lately having sailed back from Europe. [...] Marechal’s politics moved consistently away from liberalism, and by 1946 he was a functionary in what Borges termed the “Nazi-Fascist-Peronist dictatorship”. He was also a Catholic nationalist, and a key distinction between Adam Buenosayres and Ulysses relates to a paradoxical, even duplicitous element both in Adam’s character – based on that of the young Marechal [quoting his poetry] – and in the guiding presence of his author: aesthetic radicalism coupled with radical sociopolitical conservatism. [...] The internationalist horizons of the characters in Adam Buenosayres tend to be undermined not just by obdurate local forces of self-interest, but also by an underlying scepticism or contempt towards an ongoing history of European influence [...]

There's more to it than that, the sharp social satire f'rinstance (portrait of the society as a young country), and given its scope its oddness makes for some unevenness (and it wears its prejudices on its sleeves). But it's essential reading for a fuller picture of Argentinian literature, spinning gold out of the dross of what preceded it, and setting its course for the second half of the century.

For notes on my other reading, now and in future, see my postings over to TheFictionalWoods.


ex tempore

The past is a foreign country; its armies are massing on the border. The future is staging a strategic withdrawal, leaving little forage behind. In between, we get by moment to moment, occupying a thin slice of territory at once coveted and forsaken. Trapped in a never-ending now, we evade for a time the inexorable advance of what was and, so long as we can, follow an ever-receding what will be, gleaning what we may from what is. And though we try to steer to where we might find some respite, more often than not we are simply carried by the current.


December reads

Catching up on this year's prose (asterisks mark the BTBA-eligible) and less recent poesy ...

Philippe Jaccottet, And, Nonetheless: Selected Prose and Poetry 1990-2009 (John Taylor) [Chelsea]: essayistic capture of the light and transient color of moments of eternity
* Patrick Modiano, Suspended Sentences (Mark Polizzotti) [Yale/Margellos]: notes from the margins and erasures of Paris
* Pierre Michon, Winter Mythologies and Abbots (Ann Jefferson) [Yale/Margellos]: mainly medieval historical byways
* Can Xue, The Last Lover (Annelise Finegan Wasmoen) [Yale/Margellos]: gnomic intersubjectivities of dreams and loves oddly related
Witold Gombrowicz, Trans-Atlantyk (Danuta Burchardt) [Yale/Margellos]: frenzied farce as only Gombrowicz can ... reread, sort of; bills itself as An Alternate Translation, and indeed complements rather than supersedes the prior (perhaps overexuberant) attempt
* Hugo Ball, Flametti or The Dandyism of the Poor (Catherine Schelbert) [Wakefield]: vaudevillians, more proto-Brechtian than Dadaesque, from the initiator of the Cabaret Voltaire
* Vladimir Lorchenkov, The Good Life Elsewhere (Ross Ufberg) [New Vessel]: dark light comedy on the Assumption of Italy [MAO]
* Scholastique Mukasonga, Our Lady of the Nile (Melanie Mauthner) [archipelago]: Rwandan lycée as pococosm [MAO]
Christian Bök, Eunoia [Coach House]: Oulipo tributary, exercising vowels (after Rimbaud, Perec)

... and wishing all a best of 2015.


Best of 2014

Despite a nearly month-long hiatus (now thankfully ended), I've managed over 10 books per month, but unlike last year, way behind on what came out this year, especially in translation. So I won't opine on candidates for the Best Translated Book Award except to say that I expect Yale/Margellos to make a good showing on the longlist (and perhaps a first appearance by Counterpoint, for Dovlatov's Pushkin Hills) (but in a month or so I may have more to say about all this). Nearly half of my reading was first encounters, many of which augur further visits down the road.

But, if I have to select just one title from amongst all the excellent reading (and I have to), it has to be Classical Chinese Poetry: An Anthology (David Hinton) [FSG]: As I said before, not just an anthology (nor just great translation) but wrapped in the context of the development of the tradition and the aesthetic. As such, it was the book from which I drew the most, and that's saying a lot (though there's a lot of competition out there).

While this year I've been diligent about keeping an inventory of monthly reading, I don't think I'll be continuing the practice into the new year. The blog is just one of many things I'd like to take in a different direction. After all, it's worked for the reading ...


Pledge Break

Yes, pledge break: a phrase that always struck me as odd, suggesting promises unfulfilled (though I suppose breaking a pledge might also be the purpose of fraternity hazing). But as year-end draws nigh, it's once again time to consider (tax-dedectible) donations to non-profit literary translation publishers. I am of course partial to Archipelago Books myself, but there are numerous other opportunites to bolster the diversity of voices available to us, and moreso all the time; last year I mentioned new entrant Two Lines Press, this year it's time to wish Deep Vellum success on their launch.



The name rings a bell

Flowers and jewels, powers and fools ... another back-up posting from The Valve, nearly a guest post, with a touch of embroidery added, brought to mind in part by the second quatrain of Sonnet 21:
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

John Holbo had prompted me waybackthen to pick up William Empson's Some Versions of Pastoral, and I found an odd congruence between otherwise unrelated passages:

Chapter 1, Proletarian Literature (paragraph 3):
Gray’s Elegy is an odd case of poetry with latent political ideas:
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
What this means, as the context makes clear, is that 18th century England had no scholarship system or carriere ouverte aux talents. This is stated as pathetic, but the reader is put into a mood in which one would not try to alter it. [...] By comparing the social arrangement to Nature he makes it seem inevitable, which it is not, and gives it a dignity which was undeserved. Furthermore, a gem does not mind being in a cave and a flower prefers not to be picked; we feel that the man is like the flower, as short-lived, natural, and valuable, and this tricks us into feeling that he is better off without opportunities. [...]

Chapter 2, Double Plots (paragraph 4):
This [tragic king/comic populace mirror] in itself can hardly be kept from irony, and the comic part, once licensed, has an obvious subject for its jokes. Usually it provides a sort of parody or parallel in low life to the serious part; Faustus’ servant gets dangerously mixed up with the devils like his master. This gives an impression of dealing with life completely, so that critics sometimes say that Henry IV deals with the whole of English life at some date, either Shakespeare’s or Henry’s; this is palpable nonsense, but what the device wants to make you feel. Also the play can thus anticipate the parody a hearer might have in mind without losing its dignity, which again has a sort of completeness. It is hard to feel that Mac’s wife was meant to do this, but she is only the less conscious end of the scale, and perhaps no example occupies only one point of it. A remark by Middleton on clowns seems a comment on this process:
“There’s nothing in a play to a clown, if he
Have but the grace to hit on’t; that’s the thing needed:
The king shows well, but he sets off the king.
The idea of foil to a jewel and soil from which a flower grows give the two different views of such a character, and with a long ‘s’ the words are almost indistinguishable; it may be significant that the first edition of Tamburlane’s Beauty speech reads soil for the accepted ‘foil,’ a variant I have never seen listed, but the line is at some distance from intepreting either word. A clear case of ‘foil’ is given by the play of heroic swashbucklers, which has a comic cowardly swashbuckler (Parolles), not at all to parody the heroes but to stop you from doing so: ‘If you want to laugh at this sort of thing laugh now and get it over.’ I believe the Soviet Government in its early days paid two clowns, Bim and Bom, to say as jokes the things everybody else would have been shot for saying.


Bim and Bom I’d seen not long ago, in context of translation of names in Beckett’s What Where (where or what in I don’t recall), though they originally appear as character names in Murphy (’57); Tyrus Miller’s Late Modernism (UCPress, ‘99) makes the Bolshevik connection (net info on this or these clowns appended waybelow), but a bit’o’googlin’ turned up J Meade Falkner’s Moonfleet (1898), which concerns smugglers, trying to cheat an heir out of a diamond.

Empson makes his sole appearance offstage in chapter 1:
‘Ay, ‘twas a cruel, cruel thing to fire on so young a lad,’ Ratsey said, as he stepped back a pace to study the effect of a flag that he was chiselling on the Revenue schooner, ‘and trouble is likely to come to the other poor fellows taken, for Lawyer Empson says three of them will surely hang at next Assize.’

But chapter 3 introduces a distinctive ring, echoing once and only once later:
Soon I wished I had not come at all, considering that the diamond had vanished into air, and it was a sad thing to be cabined with so many dead men. It moved me, too, to see pieces of banners and funeral shields, and even shreds of wreaths that dear hearts had put there a century ago, now all ruined and rotten--some still clinging, water-sodden, to the coffins, and some trampled in the sand of the floor. I had spent some time in this bootless search, and was resolved to give up further inquiry and foot it home, when the clock in the tower struck midnight. Surely never was ghostly hour sounded in more ghostly place. Moonfleet peal was known over half the county, and the finest part of it was the clock bell. ‘Twas said that in times past (when, perhaps, the chimes were rung more often than now) the voice of this bell had led safe home boats that were lost in the fog; and this night its clangour, mellow and profound, reached even to the vault. Bim-bom it went, bim-bom, twelve heavy thuds that shook the walls, twelve resonant echoes that followed, and then a purring and vibration of the air, so that the ear could not tell when it ended.
I was wrought up, perhaps, by the strangeness of the hour and place, and my hearing quicker than at other times, but before the tremor of the bell was quite passed away I knew there was some other sound in the air, and that the awful stillness of the vault was broken. At first I could not tell what this new sound was, nor whence it came, and now it seemed a little noise close by, and now a great noise in the distance. And then it grew nearer and more defined, and in a moment I knew it was the sound of voices talking. They must have been a long way off at first, and for a minute, that seemed as an age, they came no nearer. What a minute was that to me! Even now, so many years after, I can recall the anguish of it, and how I stood with ears pricked up, eyes starting, and a clammy sweat upon my face, waiting for those speakers to come. It was the anguish of the rabbit at the end of his burrow, with the ferret’s eyes gleaming in the dark, and gun and lurcher waiting at the mouth of the hole. I was caught in a trap, and knew beside that contraband-men had a way of sealing prying eyes and stilling babbling tongues; and I remembered poor Cracky Jones found dead in the churchyard, and how men _said_ he had met Blackbeard in the night.

Chapter 15, with our hero lowered into a well-shaft in search of secreted treasure:
I heard them talking together, but could not make out what they said, for the bim-bom and echo in the well, till Elzevir shouted again, ‘They say this floor has been raised; you must try lower.’
Then the bucket began to move lower, slowly, and I crouched down in it again, not wishing to look too much into the unfathomable, dark abyss below. And all the while there rose groanings and moanings from eddies in the bottom of the well, as if the spirits that kept watch over me jewel were yammering together that one should be so near it; and clear above them all I heard Grace’s voice, sweet and grave, ‘Have a care, have a care how you touch the treasure; it was evilly come by, and will bring a curse with it.’
But I had set foot on this way now, and must go through with it, so when the bucket stopped some six feet lower down, I fell again to diligently examining the walls. They were still built of the shallow bricks, and scanning them course by course as before, I could at first see nothing, but as I moved my eyes downward they were brought up by a mark scratched on a brick, close to the hanging plummet-line.
Now, however lightly a man may glance through a book, yet if his own name, or even only one nice it, should be printed on the page, his eyes will instantly be stopped by it; so too, if his name be mentioned by others in their speech, though it should be whispered never so low, his ears will catch it. Thus it was with this mark, for though it was very slight, so that I think not one in a thousand would ever have noticed it at all, yet it stopped my eyes and brought up my thoughts suddenly, because I knew by instinct that it had something to do with me and what I sought.


That note had been wrung long before from another bell: from Edgar Poe's “Marginalia,” Southern Literary Messenger, June 1849:
The Carlyle-ists should adopt, as a motto, the inscription on the old bell from whose metal was cast the Great Tom, of Oxford: — “In Thomæ laude resono ‘Bim! Bom!’ sine fraude:” — and “Bim! Bom,” in such case, would be a marvellous “echo of sound to sense.”
(I find it curious that birth of Bossa Nova was marked by João Gilberto's Bim Bom.)
I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what would be the fate of any individual gifted, or rather accursed, withan intellect very far superior to that of his race. Of course, he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he would make himself enemies at all points. And since his opinions andspeculations would widely differ from those of all mankind–that he would be considered a madman, is evident. How horribly painful such a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being charged with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong.
In like manner, nothing can be clearer than that a very generous spirit–truly feeling what all merely profess–must inevitably find itself misconceived in every direction–its motives misinterpreted. Just as extremeness of intelligence would be thought fatuity, so excess of chivalry could not fail of being looked upon as meanness in its last degree–and so on with other virtues. This subject is a painful one indeed. That individuals have so soared above the plane oftheir race, is scarcely to be questioned; but, in looking back through history for traces of their existence, we should pass over all biographies of "the good and the great," while we search carefully theslight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows.

Bim and Bom backgrounding:

Dennis Casey, Lawful Terror: The Cheka (Air Intelligence Agency, Lackland AFB) confuses the joke:
When the Cheka opened for business in Moscow, their list of candidates to receive brutal treatment was extensive. Heading the list was the celebrated circus clown Bim Bom. His repertoire included jokes about the Bolsheviks in particular and Communists in general.
When Cheka agents attempted to arrest the irreverent clown during one of his performances, the audience thought the antics were part of the act. Bim Bom fled from the ring with the agents firing at him. His escape was made possible when the audience in panic bolted for the exits. As one amused bystander so aptly put it, the clowns were chasing the clown.

Time, Courtiers B. & K., April 30, 1956: "Russia’s Premier Nikolai Bulganin and Communist Party First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev visit Britain—subhead: Jeweled Cuff Links. The Soviet story in the past three years is largely the story of Nikita Khrushchev’s effort to wear the mantle of Stalin’s leadership."
Home from his foreign exploits, Khrushchev began preparing for his major triumph as First Secretary: dominating his first party congress. His 47,000-word speech was loaded with tables of production, learned quotes from Lenin, and exhortations to efficiency and greater production. It sounded like (and might easily have been) a rehash of one of Stalin’s old speeches. In Stalin’s mighty fashion, Khrushchev took lofty cracks at top party comrades, referred to Malenkov as an “incorrigible braggart,” and told how it had been “necessary to correct” Molotov on an important ideological point.
It was the attitude of a man who undoubtedly considered himself Stalin’s legitimate heir. But crafty little Anastas Mikoyan, the Armenian trader, had been chosen to deliver a speech (obviously approved by others in the leadership) which snatched the rug out from under Nikita’s big feet. Mikoyan attacked Stalin’s Short Course of the History of the Party, for years the ideological basis of all such Communists as Khrushchev. He dismissed Stalin’s phony account of the civil war and talked of “party leaders of that time who were wrongly declared to have been enemies of the people.” Adding insult to injury, Mikoyan named Khrushchev’s liquidated predecessor Kossior as one such and asserted, to the sound of laughter, that “Ukrainian historians will be found who will write a history of the emergence and development of the Ukrainian socialist state better than some Moscow historians.” The speech, opening up the whole case against Stalin, and by indirection the complicity of his associates, was a sensation.
For two days it was withheld from print. Then, as the 20th congress ended, Khrushchev called his famous secret meeting in which he tearfully blabbed the whole story of Stalin’s mass murders, torturings and evil motives. Nikita’s reasons could be deduced: if the party was going to open that one up, he was going to be chief opener. If they intended to pin a guilt label to him, he would show that they were all equally guilty. By twice indicating in his speech that Georgy Malenkov was Stalin’s most trusted collaborator, he wanted to make certain that Malenkov (whom Muscovites now somewhat affectionately call Georgy Neudachnik (Georgy the Unsuccessful) came in for his share of guilt.
Leaked to the world press and foreign diplomats at a French embassy party (attended by Mikoyan), the story exploded on the foreign Communist Parties and rebounded in the Soviet Union with atomic force. In Soviet newspapers it was the signal for an intense campaign against “the cult of personality.” Ostensibly the campaign was directed against the dead Stalin, and busts of the dictator began falling all over the land. But it was also a warning to Khrushchev. The subsequent acknowledgment of Stalin’s anti-Semitism was also a reminder of Khrushchev’s work in the Ukraine. As the Central Committee began rehabilitating liquidated Red army officers, Nikita’s chosen partner Bulganin suffered a severe loss of prestige. Marshal Zhukov, who had been downgraded (and all but liquidated) by top military commissar Bulganin at the high point of his great wartime victories, had an old score to settle.
In Moscow, where people are quick to catch the political drift, anyone can get a laugh today by starting out in high-pitched Russian, “Ya i moi droog . . .” a phrase which appears often in Khrushchev’s speeches, meaning “I and my friend . . .” i.e., Bulganin. Jokes about Bim and Bom, famed Russian circus clowns, have suddenly found a new popularity in Moscow.
Boo & Chant. In Britain last week Bim and Bom (or B. & K.) doggedly labored at their act, even though their audiences were cool. At Oxford some 5,000 people, mostly students, broke police lines to crowd around them booing and chanting: “Poor old Joe, poor old Joe!” (to the tune of Stephen Foster’s Old Black Joe). Bulganin stood up smiling and raising his arms like a boxer acknowledging applause, signed autographs and patted student cheeks. In New College quadrangle, students set off a huge firecracker which made B. & K. jump, led Bulganin to quip: “Are they making an atomic bomb?"