Washington Irving; A Movie Review; Chuck Todd About 9/11

What I was doing on 9/11, other than reading and researching and working on my research project. 

Starting off with a film review: ‘Hope’ Review  by Sonny Bunch (The Bulwark). 

Washington Irving is making a slight comeback. Preparing to be Forgotten: On Philip Lopate’s “A Washington Irving Sketch Book”  (Cleveland Review of Books) is the second review I have seen of this book. I first knew of Washington Irving from the Authors game. Looking back, it was an antique game when I was a kid. My mother's mother gave it to us. It seems it was a game she had played when young. Anyway, I did read The Knickerbocker Stories while in prison. All I can say is that I prefer Irving to James Fenimore Cooper - Irving has more humor. As to this review:

Lopate’s A Washington Irving Sketch Book is the tribute of one minor writer to another. It’s a collection of essays examining individual facets of Irving’s life and work in roughly chronological order. Each of Irving’s major works is given a chapter, but so are disparate topics like his bachelorhood, his affinity for painters, his melancholy temperament, his forays into paraliterature, and the house he built in the Hudson Valley. I don’t call Phillip Lopate a “minor writer” in order to demean him. It’s a phrase he applies to Irving in this book: “I am not trying to promote Irving to the top levels of the American pantheon. I agree, Irving is a minor writer.” And it’s a phrase Lopate has applied to himself, for instance in an interview in Tablet Magazine in 2023: “I didn’t imagine [as a young person] being a successful ‘minor writer.’ I have my place in the culture, not a huge place, but it’s respectable.” He is known as a personal essayist and anthologist of personal essays. He considers Irving a model. So what makes them both minor writers? 

 The Man Behind the Myth: Should We Question the Hero’s Journey? (Los Angeles Review of Books). I tried reading Campbell while in prison. He was one of the few books I did not finish. There was something about his thesis or his writing that I found tedious. It is good to find my dissatisfaction is shared by others.

Like many tales of compulsion, Campbell’s Hero brings dangers to those who put their faith in it. The first is a serious misunderstanding of how myth works. Myths and traditional stories function in specific environments for reasons bounded by time and place. Common traits are interesting, but the differences — what we might call variations or multiforms — cannot be ignored.

The second is the existence of an ideal form in myth. How we talk about and choose to accept differences is important. Calling one version of a story a “variant” implies, wrongly, that there is an authoritative and original form. This is a top-down version of storytelling that often misses the significance of the differences themselves. Famous things we think we know about ancient myths are mere possibilities contingent on their time and place. In many stories, Medea did not kill her children. In a majority of tales, Oedipus had children with someone other than his mother.

The Monomyth is the ultimate example of this simplifying of narrative patterns. It reminds us in a way of the Greek myth of Procrustes, the criminal hotelier who cut guests up or stretched them out to fit the bed of his choosing. Campbell started with a thesis and a fictive metric and then cut global myths to fit his Odyssean bed.

Another challenge comes from what audiences know and expect. As defenders of Campbell will argue, much of what he suggests is meant to be allegorical. The hero’s journey is not supposed to be a simple narrative pattern; it is instead a psychological, even mystical, exploration of the self. But his language, which is derived from myth, is slippery — and due to its outsize influence it affects how people understand ancient traditions. Modern notions of the word “hero,” for example, assume essential goodness or imply selfless deeds on behalf of others. Ancient heroes and figures from myth are anything but essentially good. Within ancient myths, heroes are young people in their full strength; they are part of a generation before the “iron” age of modern humans, marking the transition from a time when gods and people shared the earth. They can also be exceptional figures who follow a pattern of withdrawal and return to their communities, suffering pain and inflicting suffering in turn.

 Twenty years after 9/11, Chuck Todd asks if we have harmed ourselves.

 sch 9/11

Saturday I Stopped At Eden But Blew Through Hope

I decided to go to the Columbus, Indiana Scottish Festival. CC and my niece had been invited to go along. CC was otherwise busy. I never heard from the niece confirming she would come up from Tennessee. DM had problems to deal with. But I wanted to get out of Muncie, so I rented a car.

 

Of course, I got a late start. It had been raining, and I do not think I ran out of rain until south of Greenfield. 

 

Pendleton had some sort of festival going on in the park and I byapssed that. My curiosity about the effects of the big flood was nothing compared to my reluctance to get caught in a mob before Columbus.

 

Eden from what used to be the Irving Materials office. There used to be trophies in this building, I saw them first more than 50 years ago. I was much older when I learned this was the headquarters for Irving Materials, a large provider of gravel and road building supplies. IMI is still around, but long gone are the trophies and this spot as its headquarters. 

 

Anyway, that is the center of Eden. This is me heading towards Greenfield. This would have been before 1 PM. A gray, lowering sky had me wondering if I had made the right choice, but my other choice being the Penrod Festival in Indianapolis would not have been any better.

Then I came into Greenfield:

 Where US 40 (The National Road) and State Road 9 meet, the government centers of Hancock County and Greenfield:

 The south side of Greenfield, away from the interstate and the north side's gauntlet of franchise restaurants and strip malls.

 Passing out of Greenfield, now in the land south of 40.

 Coming into Shelbyville:

 

I did not manage any photos here. I did not stop or get stopped by a red light. There are points here I would like to come back to check out. Not least what looks like some good fishing spots on Blue River here, 

Moving south, what is the chief feature of the Indiana landscape in Summer. 

After this, I passed through Hope, Indiana. Not a bad-looking little town, albeit not interesting enough for me to stop. I did call CC. She now wished she had come along. We made plans to go on another road trip together the following day.

I came to the end of State Road 9 and probably took a wrong turn here. On the other hand, is it a wrong turn if one doesn't turn? I wound up going out of my way to the south end of Columbus. Now, I had not been here in 25 years, and then not in this area. Quite commerical with all the usual suspects: Lowe's, Walmart, and franchise restaurants. All in all, I have to say Columbus looked better than I remembered. I had not seen its best when I was younger.

 I finally found myself downtown. This area I knew. The park at the headwaters of the East Fork of the White River was here; this was where the Festival had been held before the turn of the century, Here was the courthouse. For those who do not know of Columbus, it is known for its modern architecture. I managed a few shots to give you the flavor.

 I should admit here that I left without the address for the Scottish Festival. I drove through the park where there was something going on that looked far larger than the Scottish Festival had and without any Hibernian vibes. However, I got some views of the river and good access spots for fishing.

I left the park thinking I would go to Indianapolis. Then I saw a sign for the Scottish Festival and I finally reached the Bartholomew County Fairgrounds. For about fifteen minutes I was out of the car. I was very late and I missed the dog trials and who knows what else. What follows looks a little disappointing, so take that into account. The photos loaded here in reverse order of being taken.

I have no idea what this fellow was doing. I saw nothing about a reenactment of Bannoackburn. 

A Morgan, a car I had never seen before. When I approached it, I thought it was an MG.

No dog trials but someone brought a Clydesdale.

I had been on the road for about 3 hours by now, There was a whisky tasting at 5 pm, but between me driving and not having any idea what to do for another 90 minutes, I saw no reason for staying. I could still make The Penrod Festival.

When passing through Garden City, Indiana, I was struck by how Hoosiers affix city to places that are little more than wide spots on the road and could disappear if there was a strong enough wind. 

My next stop was Edinburgh, Indiana. There were a few more wrong turns there, too.

The discount mall at I-65 and US 31 has grown up. It seems I was last there with T2, and that would be close to 30 years ago.

Edinburgh, Indiana, was the birthplace of my mother's father. I had never been there, pretty sure neither my mother or her sister had been either. As far as I know, no one has been here since my grandfather left home years before World War One.

It was a good-looking town; its principal industry used to be oak veneer. I have no real idea what that is  apart from having to do with wood and furniture. I wonder if it was this prosperous when my grandfather and his brothers left for the wider world. I think that was the end of the Downes family in the town.

An interesting house:

 

For some reason this historical marker differs from the official name.

The historical downtown, maybe it was known to my grandfather.

Evidence you never know what you might find in a small Indiana town; a Jaguar parked on the street.

For me, a marker that you know you are in southern Indiana, the JayC grocery store:

 

 And that was enough for me. I was getting tired and decided to go home. By the time I hit I-465 in Indianapolis all I wanted to do was get back home. I got back a little after 6 PM and was exhausted. I piddled with my obsession. Watched His and Hers on Netflix. Went to sleep. 

Church on Sunday, no word from CC, and I went home. I have to admit I could have gone nowhere else. I don't remember Kerouac getting so wiped out from his road trips, but then I am about 40 years older than he was. I slept for about 4 hours after church and still felt wiped out. I got enough energy up for a trip to Payless for dinner supplies. I spent the rest of the evening being a zombie in front of the computer.

I made it through one book review from The Guardian only because it was about Dianna Rigg: All About My Mother by Rachael Stirling review – a joyous love letter to Diana Rigg.

The car needs to go back, I have been at this post for about two hours. If only I could have gotten myself out of bed at six! Laundry needs done. I need to leave you with what is here.

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