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Arts
Tuesday, October 29, 2019 — 5
Fall came on my birthday this year. Not officially,
and not according to the seemingly arbitrary “first
day of fall” that our calendars mark every year. On
that official day, the high was 82 degrees. Given my
unconventional love for cold weather, this sequence of
events seriously depressed me. There was not a golden
leaf in sight, and I was sweating on my way home from
class.
I had to wait several more weeks for the real fall
— the tangible fall — to grace us with her presence.
By the time she showed up for good it was the first
week of October. The air turned crisp and a prickly
breeze danced across my cheeks. The tree outside my
apartment shimmered with hints of gold, and I wore
boots to class. It was the best birthday present I could
have asked for.
I grew up in a California beach town where we have
no seasons. We divide the years into rainy halves and
dry halves and live in a year-round temperature range
of 50 to 80 degrees. It’s beautiful weather, sure, but
when deciding on the college that would take me away
from home I knew it had to be somewhere with more
temperature variation. I wanted to watch the leaves
turn for the first time and feel my skin contract in
bitter cold. I wanted to see the flowers come out from
hiding and watch the sun melt the last bits of snow off
the sidewalk.
Out of all the seasons, though, fall is so easy to
love. It is not too harsh nor too long, and it brings an
unbeatable color scheme. It offers me sweaters and
boots and scarves and pumpkin bread that my mom
sends me in the mail. The crunching leaves create
soundtracks for my walks to class and the crispness of
the air in my lungs makes me smile. I am not swollen or
sweating; I am cozy and comfortable and happy.
The closer we come to brushing shoulders with
winter, the more I recognize fall’s communal spirit.
She brings us together as we prepare for the looming
frost. Friends often disagree with me. They say that
cold weather separates us. That, apparently, our thick
coats and hunched postures encourage isolationist
tendencies.
But I think that a gust of cold air and a fallen leaf
will teach us more about the meaning of community
than anything else. I point to the Big House on the
first Saturday that the air is just a tad too cold to be
comfortable. I gesture toward the thousands of us who
still march toward kickoff, gloves in hand. I make a
note of the crop tops that
have
become
sweaters
and the sunglasses that
have turned into beanies.
I point to the loyalty
of Michigan’s fans, the
friends huddling together
under the lights of a rainy
night game and the beat
of students jumping along
to “Mr. Brightside” just to
get their blood pumping.
I point and smile at our
unbreakable spirit, as I’m
reminded what it really
means to be a Michigan
Wolverine. And then I
shiver, because it is cold,
and I can’t seem to get
enough of it.
Autumnal musings: Finding
warmth in the falling leaves
ZOE PHILLIPS
For The Daily
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
LITERATURE COLUMN
In the past month or so, I have
started keeping track of what books I
want to read next by placing them in
a short, orderly stack next to my bed.
This is a step forward from my previous
method, which was to make a spur-of-
the-moment decision after finishing a
book. I would look at my shelf, suddenly
enamored by the possibilities it holds for
a giddy moment before finally lighting
on one almost by chance. This seemed,
ultimately, like an odd way to pick
something that I was to spend several
hours with later. I thought it would be
worth considering the structure of my
reading.
This
hasn’t
been
going
well
at
all, of course. I
spontaneously
move
things
around,
add
books I deem
necessary
for
whatever
I’m
working on, put
books back on
the shelf for the
simple
reason
that
I
don’t
really feel like
reading
them
just now. The
stack of books
has
become
a
representation
of my confusion
and flightiness
rather than the
solution to it.
I don’t study
literature
in
school, but have
recently started
taking
reading
more seriously.
My
reading
has
taken
on
a
furtive,
almost desperate quality, balanced as
it is between vocation and distraction.
It’s frequently what I retreat to when
everything else is too much, and I
forget that reading is, in fact, work, and
difficult work at that. In a related way,
I tend to forget that reading is slow,
and any given 200-page book might be
a commitment of ten or so hours, and
longer if I choose to annotate it. The
other day I looked at my bookshelf,
which is full of unread books, and calmly
realized that it will take me years at my
present rate to finish everything on it.
This is a source of mild stress to me as
much as it provides me with a wellspring
of possibility. I pass by my bookshelf and
sometimes open a book at random, flip
through it, put it back. I feel ambivalent
about this impulse — it feels cursory,
usually leaves me feeling hollow. I
sometimes wonder what the point of
my collection is, why I’m overwhelmed
by it, but keep continuously adding to
it. I can spend hours browsing around
bookstores, even as the unread books in
my room pile up.
I’m reminded, of course, of Walter
Benjamin’s
famous
1931
essay
“Unpacking
My
Library,”
a
semi-
personal
investigation
into
“the
relationship of a book collector to
his possessions.” Benjamin wrote the
essay on the occasion of moving, after
an acrimonious divorce, into a half-
furnished apartment with crates full of
nearly 2,000 books. He seems sheepish
about his habit even as he enumerates
its appeal — toward the end of the essay
he admits that “this passion is behind
the times,” and more than once adopts
a sort of ironic position that suggests
the ridiculousness of the collector.
“Writers are really people who write
books not because they are poor, but
because they are dissatisfied with the
books they could buy but do not like,” he
writes, deftly compressing all of literary
endeavor into that of the collector. The
real thesis of the essay is that collecting,
at its core, is about appreciating and
preserving
the
kind
of
historical
memory that coalesces in old objects,
something that has a quality of childlike
“renewal” of objects.
The essay is beautiful, generous,
self-aware and judiciously funny. I
never really liked it; I don’t find myself
agreeing with Benjamin most of the
time. At one point he mentions that the
“non-reading of books” is characteristic
of collectors. An unread book is, for me,
an assignment. Too much of them and
I can feel them
staring
at
me
reproachfully.
I have friends
who,
like
Benjamin, own
thousands
of
volumes.
It
seems
terrifying.
It’s
worth
noting
that the great
philosopher
wrote
his
essay
as
someone whose
collection
is
specific to topics
that he had a
special interest
in:
children’s
books, theology,
Baroque
German
literature.
It
means
something else
to be in your
early
twenties
and have such
a
voluminous
collection.
There’s
an
element here of
self-creation, divorced from the actual
work of reading, that feels slightly
distasteful to me.
And yet, this attitude is still more
legible to me than that of my friends
who only acquire copies of books by
happenstance, or only own what they
read in class, or my housemate, who
returned from the bookstore one day
and said, like it was the simplest thing
in the world, “I finished my book, so
I went and bought a new book.” A lot
of the time, these friends are better-
read overall than I am, but just have an
uncomplicated relationship with the
physical objects associated with them.
I am still compelled to buy books, to
wonder what my collection says about
me as a reader, a writer, a person.
Maybe I envy them. Sometimes
I look at my (still comparatively
modest) bookshelf and wonder if it
has a mnemonic quality, as if I will
not only forget to read these specific
books but will forget to read at all if
I don’t have the force of my unread
books compelling me. On the other
hand, there is so much pressing on my
attention that I don’t get to choose: A
book offers immersion and solace that
is elusive elsewhere. To have a large
collection of books is to have a large
and varied window of possibility that I
can take comfort in when my world is
feeling small. This is a silly, irrational
feeling that is only tenuously related
with actually reading, but it’s one I
treasure for its silliness — it reminds
me that in every ostensibly serious
thing I do, there is always an element of
indeterminacy and blind passion. I live
my life, as Benjamin wrote, somewhere
in between the “poles of order and
disorder.”
A library between the
poles of order, disorder
EMILY YANG
Daily Literature Columnist
Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia, was deemed great
for a reason. “Catherine the Great,” the mini-series, hasn’t
quite decided what that reason is just yet.
HBO’s new historical drama “Catherine the Great” stars
Helen Mirren as the titular Russian queen who assumed the
role following a coup that dethroned her husband, Peter III.
The premiere follows Catherine and her advisors, including
the cautious and calculating Minister Panin (Rory Kinnear,
“The Imitation Game”), as they determine how to handle her
tenuous grasp on power.
After giving a speech calling for the end of serfdom,
Catherine struggles to maintain control over her court of
wealthy landowners and military leaders. In the midst of her
shaky political future, she is met with a young man’s claim:
He is the rightful heir to the
throne. Fearing a possible
revolt, Catherine ultimately
decides to disregard her
liberal principles and call
for him and his conspirators
to be executed. This violent
and
out-of-character
decision
marks
the
beginning of her struggle
to uphold her values while
cultivating respect as a
leader.
As Catherine navigates her life with absolute power,
she juggles the personal relationships that have defined
her legacy in history as much as her policies have. Former
lover and accomplice in dethroning Peter III, Grigory Orlov
(Richard Roxburgh, “Moulin Rouge!”) demands more of
a share in her rule due to his involvement with the coup.
However, handsome military lieutenant Grigory Potemkin
(Jason Clarke, “Zero Dark Thirty), begins courting the
queen, much to the chagrin of Orlov. The men, in hopes of
obtaining bureaucratic influence and wealth, compete for
Catherine’s affections.
While the costuming and set design beautifully reflect
the royal grandeur of the Golden Age of Russia, the rest of
the show does not seem nearly as powerful. Throughout the
premiere, the threat to the throne and a looming war with
Turkey feel inconsequential and take back seats to romantic
subplots. This, of course, is perfectly fine, but without any
significant dramatic stakes, “Catherine the Great” fails to
excite in the ways it could.
Helen Mirren, though committed to her role, does not get
to play with some of Catherine’s more outlandish personality
traits. Frequent mentions are made to the queen’s infamous
promiscuity, but she is never shown doing anything more
than making suggestive eye contact. Rather than dive into
Catherine the Great’s salacious reputation outright, the mini-
series substitutes any lewd content with tangential scenes of
lesser court members exchanging sex for power.
This is just the most visible failure of the show to engage
its audience with the most compelling parts of this woman’s
history. Catherine’s dynamic with her murdered husband
and her ambitious son, Prince Paul (Joseph Quinn, “Game
of Thrones”) is hinted at but ultimately unexplored. In
splitting its focus between the
members of her court instead
of solely Catherine herself,
the show dilutes whatever
cultural impact it could have.
On
a
network
known
for its provocative content,
“Catherine the Great” has
the opportunity to present
a
history-making
and
enlightened
female
ruler
within the context of her
own sexuality. Given the chance, the show could break
expectations of women in politics and present a more
thorough examination of how power and femininity interact
in a conservative environment.
While undoubtedly beautiful, this mini-series does not
seem to understand its angle in depicting Catherine’s history.
Not quite political and not quite shocking, “Catherine the
Great” has trouble choosing what its audience wants. Mirren
delivers a few lines that strain to be potential feminist adages,
but the appearance of depth proves as fabricated as the cast’s
lustrous outfits.
All things considered, “Catherine the Great” is a fine
show. Though nothing about it is distractingly poor, the
series suffers from its hesitance to make waves and commit
to its own controversy. Here’s hoping they at least pay
homage to that horse rumor.
‘Catherine the Great’ shies
away from its own potential
ANYA SOLLER
Daily Arts Writer
HBO
TV REVIEW
Catherine the Great
Series Premiere
HBO
Mondays at 10 p.m.
Sometimes I
look at my (still
comparatively
modest)
bookshelf and
wonder if it has
a mnemonic
quality, as if I
will not only
forget to read at
all if I don’t have
the force of my
unread books
COURTESY OF EMMA CHANG
KATELYN MULCAHY / DAILY