Svetlana
Alexievich’s Voices From
Chernobyl is a marvelous and tragic book. It is also an
exceptional one, of form—Alexievich’s curates the book, as she does most of her
work, in what she calls a “genre
of actual human voices and confessions, witness evidences and documents”—and by
orientation. Voices From Chernobyl is a continuing study of consolation and
sequence at and beyond the human scale, unpredictable in its humanity but also
(especially for those in power) its immediate consequence. As Sergei Gurin
notes in his testimony:
People who’ve been through that kind of humiliation together, or who’ve seen what people can be like, at the bottom, run from one another. There’s something I felt in Chernobyl, something I understood that I don’t really want to talk about. About the fact, for example, that all our humanistic ideas are relative. In an extreme situation, people don’t behave the way you read about in books. Sooner the other way around. People aren’t heroes.
In the book, there
are heroes, the many heroic individual who race to the scene (words of national
admiration—heroes, victory, sacrifice—are often shorthand for impending illness
and early death), but also, those many who speak now of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, recount the
devastating effects of its initial denial by the Soviet government, name
the politicos who denied and exploited it, and give witness to the continuing, decades-long poisoning that follows it in
the region, especially Belarus. Always, the human perspective comes forward.
The interest to deny and “move on,” whether political or national or personal,
is denied at every turn. Memory is lived with, rather than past. In this way, Voices From Chernobyl is a moral and democratic
work, willing a perspective—arbitrary, individual, vulnerable to memory and
time and bias, felt and continuous—that un-writes, with each recounting, the
oppressiveness of a single (national, official, historical) narrative. We are,
as Alexievich notes in her postscript, at a debt to these people who have prematurely
fixed their relationship with death and time. "These people had already seen what for everyone
else is still unknown. I felt like I was recording the future."
I have not so
actively read a book in years. I was showing Cait my copy this evening, and the
progression of my notations is positively manic, beginning with a periodic
single line that becomes underlining passages, then double-underlining and writing
in the margins, making all kinds of symbols to distinguish one passage within
another, one form of admiration against the next, a shorthand I’m still not
sure I really understand. Surely, this was part of Alexievich’s design, the
accumulation of testimonials, their impact and effect. Still, I feel at a loss
to describe exactly how I enjoyed this
book. I did enjoy reading it. I felt very alive while reading it. The book is
full of feeling, and with each account made, an overwhelming sense of the
ephemeral is twinned with some magnificent intrusion of the natural world. The
forests turn, in the days after the accident, yellow, then orange. An abundance
of cows and chickens are seized and eaten by bandits returning to the city. Rusting,
radioactive hulks are unearthed from mass graves and deep pits, scavenged and
sold across the region. Alexievich has said that she is interested in
what happens to the human being, what happens to it in our time. How does man behave and react. How much of the biological man is in him, how much of the man of his time, how much man of the man.
Nowhere in Voices From Chernobyl is suffering ornamented. Suffering is
never secondary to anything except, perhaps, feeling. But the natural world,
modified and, with some 48,000-odd years of inhabitation to follow and certain
to be neglected in large swaths, persists in spite of a human sense of
consequence, much less the individual.
There is a Danish
proverb, Old sins cast long shadows. I
came across it while watching an episode of River
on Netflix. River is the sort of
excellent BBC show that I am less and less interested to watch. Beautifully
shot, very well written and acted, full of unpredictable twists that elegantly
resolve across scenes, episodes, and seasons, River suggests a kind of familiarity to the crime drama that feels
strangely lifeless. Stellan Skaarsgard is terrific in the lead, as a police
detective who lives between the worlds of the living and the dead. His
partner—his best friend and confidante—is recently murdered. He works to piece
his life together and solve her murder. He is a brilliant mess. At the end of
the second episode, I thought, Okay, I
sort of know where this is going, right? Big twist. Revelation. Someone is
either not dead or really dead. The external will gradually become the
internal, or vice versa. Life will go on but it really won’t. Was I so
wrong? I have no idea. I can’t
emphasize how essentially good the
show was, and how disinterested I was in its excellence. I don’t think it's a
disinterest in the show, so much as a dread at whatever horrible final
twist—the excellent Broadchurch, the
pretty-good-until-the-end London Spy, the
thoroughly okay The Fall—will
finally release our hero from his suffering. What is there to live with,
finally, that will not inevitably come next?
A couple of weeks
ago, Bruce Springsteen gave out a free download of his recent Chicago live show.
It was a gesture to his New York fans. Winter Storm Jonas had postponed the
Madison Square Garden show of his tour in support of the 30th
anniversary of The River and the wonderful
bells-and-whistles box set reissue, The Ties That Bind. So, The Boss offered
all of his fans a fantastic consolation prize. It’s a terrific live show and
recording, and of course, amazing that The
E Street Band is more or less at it still, and so well, all these years
later. I liked it so well that I downloaded much of The River that I hadn’t really listened in a while, which led me to
this terrific 1980 (Tempe, Arizona) live version of “Out in the Street”:
Bruce is skinny.
Little Steven is really skinny! Clarence Clemons is dapper, in full force. The
tone on his tenor is unbelievable. The song is up-tempo compared with the
Chicago version. The vocals have a bigger range. The arrangement is so tight:
fast. It’s hard to believe that this is the same song as the Chicago concert. It
sounds like the original that it is. The new version sounds almost like a
cover. Both sound wonderful. YouTube is well populated with great Springsteen
tunes from across the years but those prime middle years feel distinctly
uncurated and live, (sorry to use this word) visceral. Near the end of his 1980 review in Rolling Stone rock
journalist Paul Nelson says this about The
River:
While most of The River runs wide and deep, there are a few problems. Ever since he started conceptualizing and thinking in terms of trilogies, Springsteen has lost some of his naturalness and seemed more than a bit self-conscious about being an artist. At times, you think he's closed off his casualness altogether, that he can't bear the idea of playing around with a phrase when he could be underlining it instead. Will we never hear the spring and summer of "Wild Billy's Circus Story," "4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)," "Thunder Road" and "Born to Run" again? Must even the brightest days now be touched by autumnal tones and winter light? Bruce Springsteen isn't an old man yet. Isn't it odd that he's trying so hard to adopt the visions of one?
That last line
reminds me of the end of Denis Donohue’s 1989 review of John Updike’s Self-Consciousness in the New York Times,
''Suffering and I,'' Mr. Updike concludes, ''have had a basically glancing, flirtatious acquaintanceship.'' I see no harm in that, no reason why those flirtations should not continue. I trust they will. Mr. Updike writes, in ''Self-Consciousness,'' as if he had nothing to look forward to but sunset and the western porch: ''Between now and the grave lies a long slide of forestallment, a slew of dutiful, dutifully paid-for maintenance routines in which dermatological makeshift joins periodontal work and prostate examinations on the crowded appointment calendar of dwindling days.''
Meanwhile I note that he is four years
younger than I am.
A few weeks before
he died, Cait and I saw Clarence Clemons getting out of a car in Marin. He was
using crutches, or a cane, I think. I remember that he was moving really
slowly. I said to Cait, “Hey, that’s Clarence Clemons!” and she had no idea who
he was, and by the time I explained it, he was smiling and talking with
someone, and we didn’t really want to interrupt him, so we kept walking.
Clemons is 38 in the above video. Which is to say, he is my age. It’s hard to
think that there is anything more representative of this time in life than
sitting here, writing a blog post, listening to Sam snore loudly in the
bedroom, the baby waking and crying, Cait grading papers, Walt finally gone to
sleep after some epic Minecraft-related page-turning. Sure, yes, there is an
eagerness in my attentiveness. It feels a bit too on the nose, a warmness to
the kitchen (autumnal?) light and wistfulness for Bruce Springsteen that is maybe
quasi-elegiac in its anticipation, or worse pre-nostalgic, a sure symptom of what
the Chicago doc calls an unease with happiness, or perhaps even a wariness for what
Josh
Billings notes is “the
only difference between the poor and the rich…the poor suffer misery, while the
rich have to enjoy it.” Better, I think, to try to leave such happiness alone,
rather than topple it with acknowledgments and testimonials and evaluations, to
“just
for this evening” let it alone, a line I curated right out of Mary
Szybist’s Incarnadine, a collection
that begins with an epigraph from Simone Weil’s Gravity and Grace:
The mysteries of faith are degraded if they are made into an object of affirmation and negation, when in reality they should be an object of contemplation.
Walt loves the
1980s television game show, Press Your
Luck. We watch it most nights. I turned it on in a moment
of desperation a couple of weeks ago, when Walt and Sam were home sick, and I
haven’t heard the end of it since. His enthusiasm and our watching have led me
down any number of internet rabbit holes, the least fascinating of which might
be my extensive knowledge of the life of Peter Tomarken, the
creator and host of Press Your Luck.
What Walt loves, of course, are the whammies. Before every episode begins I
have to reassure him that we are cheering for the whammies, we want the
whammies to win, even if we like one of the contestants, which isn’t really the
point of the show, we want to see more whammies. Walt loves the Tarzan whammy
the best. The Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper whammies are beyond him. I love
that this is one way to spend time with him now that’s new, a way to share what
I know will one day become his sense of humor, a concept I associate frequently
with leisure and silliness, as opposed to the gallows, the satirical, the ironic, and feel
fortunate to do so.
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