Proust and Genesis

In the final volume of In Search of Lost Time, Proust reflects on the nature of art, in his case, fiction, and the relationship between the author and the reader.

"The only true book, though in the ordinary sense of the word it does not have
to be 'invented' by a great writer -- for it exists already in each one of us --
has to be translated by him. The function and the task of a writer are those
of a translator." (Time Regained, at 291.)

For it seemed to me that they would not be 'my' readers but the readers of their
own selves, my book being merely a sort of magnifying glass....it would be my book,
but with its help I would furnish them with the means of reading what lay within
themselves. So that I should not ask them to praise me or to censure me, but simply
to tell me whether 'it really is like that', I should ask them whether the words that
they read within themselves are the same as those which I have written.... (Id. 508)

So for Proust, the truth of any text is the degree to which the text accurately reflects the world in which the reader lives. If the book resonates with the reader, if it accurately reflects the human condition for the reader, then the reader finds it to be true. Forget Proust for a second, who is too obscure, and whose subject matter (French society) is too esoteric, for most readers to judge whether true or not. Consider Shakespeare, whose plays are true because they best represent what it means to be human.

What do Proust's reflections say about Genesis, portions of which have been explored here at some length? For many, Genesis is true, because it is the literal word of God. But what if Genesis is only a book? Is it still true? Is it just as true for a non-believing reader? What is it about Genesis that has allowed it to be read meaningfully for three millennia, and not to have been relegated to the category of ancient myth, about battling gods and monsters?

Joel Rosenberg has written about the Eden story as an example of biblical allegory. If you disregard the whole original sin concept, and reread the Eden story, it becomes a explanation of much of the human condition. Men and women; people and nature; life as a struggle to survive, ending with a return to the earth; the origin of human consciousness. So then if Proust is right, Genesis has been been read for so long, and so often, and so closely, because it's true. It resonates within each of us, because it tells us much about who we are.

I think the same is true of Abraham, and I'll explore this some more in a future post. But to combine my ongoing thesis with this concept of Proust, Abraham is the guy who discovered these truths, that were then carried around as oral tradition for close to a thousand years, before they were recorded in the original Genesis text around the time of Solomon. And even if Abraham's insights were not conveyed literally in conversations with God, and even if the text written down a thousand years later was not the literal word of God, the text remains true, as true today as three thousand years ago, which helps explain why everyone still reads the same book.

Laphroaig 30

A couple winters ago, when the economy was chugging along, when everyone in New York, certainly everyone working in finance, thought they were millionaires, the Wall Street Journal ran an article about 30 year-old malts. The idea was that if you needed a special gift, say for a good client, and the client was a scotch lover, then you might think about buying a bottle of someone's thirty to express your deep appreciation. The article reviewed about five or six of these special malts, and I can only remember two things about the article. One: the most expensive 30 was, as you might have suspected, the Macallan. It was close to $750. And two: the least expensive 30, which the author also felt was the very best of the lot, was the Laphroaig. Somewhere in the low two hundreds.

Now flash forward to the spring of 2009. Right now the economy isn't doing so great, and I don't imagine that seven hundred dollar malts are flying off the shelves anywhere, even in downtown Manhattan. Perhaps once upon a time, when that was happening, we wouldn't have even seen any 30s up here in Rochester. But this spring, I noticed that our favorite purveyor was displaying the Laphroaig 30 in the locked glass cabinet, where I had once seen a couple bottles of Hirsch. Not only that, but the price was very reasonable, under $200. Now another thing that happened in the the spring of 2009, in fact it's something that happens every spring, is that I had a birthday come due. I'm not exactly wild about that development any more, as the numbers have now grown close to astronomical levels. But as the day approached, I dropped some very pointed hints, and whaddya know? On my birthday, there appeared a bottle of, you guessed it-- Laphroaig 30. Is that a great gift or what?

I've tasted it twice, and have decided that it defies explanation. I can't imagine there is anything else quite like it. It has a big round flavor, caramel, maybe chocolate, that quickly gives way to smoke, and thenmore smoke. It's clearly a Laphroaig, no doubt, but smoother, richer, much more luxurious, and really without any bite. Jim Murray says it's "sweet peat-reek from distant lumbs", but I have no idea what that means. The other distinctive characteristic is that it has a forever finish. This is only the second time I've tasted a 30 - the first being a tasting sized pour of HP30 at the Last Hurrah in downtown Boston. That 30 had a finish that went on forever also. And this Laphroaig, after you swallow, the taste lingers in your mouth. And it doesn't change. Some whiskies are nice on the palate, but after you swallow, there is an aftertaste that doesn't quite match the whisky. The Laphroaig 30 keeps reminding you of just exactly how delicious it was.

I read somewhere that Laphroaig is going to replace the 15, which I love, but which some critics find too soft, too smooth, with an 18. I figure the 18 will be that much richer, that much more full flavored than the 15. So maybe it won't be the 30, but still I've got my hopes up. Meantime, I need to think of as many special occasions as possible, so I can make up reasons to take out the 30 and enjoy a pour.

Papelbon - Still Money

Aside from the minor nagging injuries, like those that have sidelined Youk and now Pedroia, the big question marks for 2009 have been Papi, Beckett, and before last night, Papelbon. Papi, we all know about. Forget about the batting average that's slowly climbed above .225. It's more a question of whether Papi can hit with power. He's had over 150 at-bats this year, and not a single home run. Last night the ESPN crew mentioned that during batting practice, he hit a few half-way up the seats in the right field bleachers. That's a long ways out, because it's 380 to the bullpen in right, so half way up the seats is an upper deck shot in many parks with a short right field porch, say the new Stadium, for example. But that was batting practice, and although Papi had a big double in the eighth, and came around to score the winning run (on Jason Bay's game winning hit), he still hasn't parked one all year long.

Second question mark is Beckett, who looked terrific in shutting down the Rays in the season's opener, but since then has looked ordinary at best. He tossed a decent game last night, allowing only three earned runs over six innings, which turned out good enough because the bullpen followed with three shutout innings. (Really, it's been the pen and not the starters for pretty much all of 2009.) But since opening day, Beckett's ERA has been sky high, even worse than in 2006, when he was having trouble adjusting to the AL. And I still believe that Beckett is the key, if the Sox make it to the post-season. So unless he rounds into 2007 form, I don't care how the regular season goes. No one is going deep into October without an ace, without someone to play the role of stopper. Beckett was that guy in 2007, and especially with Schilling having retired, there's no one else on the staff who has shown he can do that job.

The other question mark had been, at least in my mind, Papelbon. I know that Pap had converted all of his save chances this year, but still, he hadn't looked dominant. He's been giving up more hits; he's held on for a couple saves despite having been hit hard; and I just don't recall any of those one-two-three innings, where he threw only eight pitches; where he would strike guys out on three pitches; where no one could make decent contact; or where the ball didn't leave the infield.

But then last night, Tito brought in Pap to pitch the ninth, even though Ramirez had looked solid facing a single batter in the eighth. I figured: Why not hold Pap in reserve? Why not use him only if Ramirez allows a base runner. I was still wondering about that as Pap walked the first batter, and then gave up a single, putting runners on the corners with no outs. Fly ball -- tie game. Double play ball - still a tie game. And Carlos Pena now coming to the plate as a pinch hitter. So after putting his back against the wall, and putting the tying run ninety feet from home, all Pap did was strike out Pena, Upton and Crawford, in order. Game over. Better than the win was the reassurance that Pap was back. That he could be every bit as overpowering and dominant as he had been in 2007, when he did not allow a single run in the post-season. When the game is close he's still money. He's not so money that he doesn't know he's money. On the contrary, I think Pap well knows that he's money. But who cares? What difference does that make, if he really is money? You understand what I'm I'm saying here?

Bladnoch

John and I first tasted Bladnoch at Federal, on a day when we had gone looking for Rosebank. Always being helpful, Joe offered us a taste of Bladnoch, as another lowland malt we might want to consider. We enjoyed the tasting, but didn't give much consideration to buying that day. Too bad for us. A wasted opportunity. We next tasted Bladnoch at Keens, during last fall's Haters Ball. Keens was featuring a twenty year old Bladnoch on their Great Scots flight. We loved it, but I figured that a 20 year-old malt, from a distillery that had been mothballed in the 90s (although recently reopened) was probably way out of our price range.

A week ago, I stopped in one of our local purveyors, really just intending to window shop. Imagine my surprise when, amidst about a dozen unspectacular Signatory bottlings, mostly malts I had little or no interest in, I spied a sixteen year old Bladnoch, non-chill-filtered, 46 percent, for the very reasonable price of $65. And so now, my cabinet features two of the great lowland malts -- whiskies that are not readily found around these parts; whiskies that are unlike anything else distilled in Scotland; hidden treasures if you will.

The most distinctive characteristic of Bladnoch is the nose. It has a huge, rich, fragrant, flowery nose that makes you want to keep sniffing the malt the entire time you have some in the glass. And the second most distinctive characteristic is the fact that this malt is entirely unlike anything else currently distilled in Scotland. The great Lowland malts are light and floral, although very flavorful. Their taste is as far from a classic highland or Speyside malt as those whiskies are from the peated malts of Islay. The taste is clean, fruity, almost sweet. I prefer a lowland malt before dining, but Murray thinks Bladnoch is perfect with dessert. I can attest to the fact that even after Keens' porterhouse, we still loved the Bladnoch we tasted that night. This bottling also has a hint of spice, not unlike the Rosebanks we've tasted. And because the nose is so strong, there is an extra kick of flavor after you swallow. It's not just a long finish, but rather, by opening your mouth again after swallowing, you allow the fragrance to reassert itself, and now the taste and the nose combine with an extra kick.

I hope that the guys who reopened Bladnoch can restore this malt to its classic heritage. And if they do it, I hope they bottle enough so that some finds its way across the Atlantic, and into upstate New York, so I don't have to travel 400 miles to find it. In the meantime, I hope the Signatory folks don't catch on to just how classy this lowland malt really is. I'd like to keep finding the occasional bottle for a moderate price, until the new product ages long enough, gets put into bottles, and then gets shipped to my neighborhood.

The Fine Art of Hating

Everyone who reads this blog is an aficionado of hating. We're more than just haters; at the same time we hate on our respective rivals, we take pleasure from that hating. I for one, love hating on the Yankees; who wouldn't? We even celebrate our hating, not just with the creativity we use for expressing that hate, but now more formally, with the annual Haters Ball. And when someone else is a great hater; when someone hates with style, with panache, I like to think we give respect to that. So here's a long excerpt from Bill Simmons Page 2 column from April 23, about the Celtics-Bulls series:

"There's hate and there's sports hate. Real hate is not OK. Sports hate is OK. We are fans. We are allowed to "love" certain athletes and "hate" others. It doesn't mean we actually love them or hate them. So under that umbrella, I present you with the following statement: I hate Joakim Noah. I hate looking at him. I hate his hair. I hate how he dunks. I hate the way he high-fives. I hate every reaction he has. I hate his game. I hate the way announcers pronounce his name. I hate the story that I've heard a million times about his tennis-playing father.
I want the Celtics to win for a variety of reasons, but one of them is because it means Joakim Noah would lose. I want him to cry when it's over. And we are only two games in. I can't imagine how I'm going to feel about him by Game 5. He's like a cross between Bill Laimbeer, Marcus Camby and Lisa Bonet. Near the end of Game 2, he wandered over to the Boston bench after a whistle and lingered there pretending to be disappointed about a call -- breaking the NBA code of "don't hang out for too long near someone's bench," because, you know, he's a complete jerk that way -- and I was screaming at Kevin Garnett (on my TV), "PUNCH HIM! PUNCH HIM! DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU'RE NOT PLAYING ANYWAY! PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE!!!!" I hate Joakim Noah. I hate him.
Little does he know, but I already exacted my revenge on him a few months ago, when I took my daughter to a Clippers-Bulls game. She was entranced by Noah's hair for some reason and asked me in all seriousness, "Is that a girl?" I thought it would be funny to convince her that, yes, Joakim Noah was a girl. She didn't fully believe me for about a quarter. By the end of the game, Noah was her favorite player and she was excited that girls could play in the NBA. We came home and she said, "Mommy, we saw a girl play at the Clippers game!" My wife thought it was evil that I did this. She made me feel bad. Now I feel happy. I love that it happened. Just retelling the story makes me happy. I hate Joakim Noah.
(Of course, if he played for the Celtics, I'd love him.) "

Now I'm not sure that Simmons would merit an invite to the Player Haters Ball, only because the language he uses is too pedestrian. After all, if Simmons wants to compete with the likes of Silky Johnson, then he needs more novelty, more creativity, in the manner of his expression. Still, the business about persuading his daughter that Noah was a girl; that's pretty good. It gets close to the level of Chokeback Yankees. Let's just hope that Simmons gets the last laugh tomorrow afternoon. I'd hate to think about him having to watch Noah play another series.