tang dynasty times

Kashmir

Shunya was recently talking about possible solutions for the situation in Kashmir. Indeed, the place has been a battlefield practically my entire adult life and truly there seems to be no easy answers to the problem of what to do.

When pressed, Shunya said he thought that,

...if a people demonstrably want independence, the Indian state has no right withholding it. The current occupation will only radicalize the local Muslim youths. As Kennedy said, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable."

Nodding my head in agreement as I read; I couldn't help but wonder, but, do governments often give up states? Or parts of states? When colonial powers call it quits and pull out or governments collapse-- those are the times we see countries divided or broken up. But what about countries on the rise, like India? It doesn't seem likely they would give up territory-- no matter what the human and economic cost.

In truth, I have been in love with Kashmir my whole life. And, just like Herr Utz, I can point to the precise moment-- both in time and place-- of the start of my obsession.

I was maybe 10 or 11, and like every month, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the magazine's bright yellow cover sticking out of our mail box: National Geographic! The Vale of Kashmir was the cover story-- and from that moment on, Kashmir became the place of my dreams. Even the little girls on the cover with their hair pulled back in scarves with huge, bright blue eyes, fascinated me and I remember telling my mom how, "this is what I should look like."

I kept the magazine for years, and read what I could-- but in fact, there really wasn't a lot of well-written histories or accounts of the region-- with the exception of, of course, Rumer Godden. The lack of books, however, allowed my imagination greater freedom....

Finally, away at college the chance presented itself-- a trip to India. My traveling companion-- well, I think he actually thought we were going to Rajasthan. Little did he realize that I had other plans-- and not just other plans, but a one-track mind to go with those plans! Landing in Delhi, I insisted we head straight to the train station:

 "We've gotta head into the mountains, you see."

It was very late, and dark, and the Delhi train station was eerily quiet (though packed with sleeping travelers, who were sprawled on mats and on benches).

Exhausted from the flight from Amman, the place seemed shut for the night. Suddenly, though, a man came out of nowhere (a phenomenon which happened a lot to us in India I recall), took us by the arm saying, "you want a bus, I think"... and literally an hour later we were heading north-- at full throttle. We were on a "video bus" and the Bollywood extravaganza was blaring out the bus speakers full blast.

Yes, we were on our way.

24 hours later, covered in soot from the road, we stumbled off the bus, and there before my eyes was the object of my desire. No amount of reading and no amount of imagination could have prepared me for what splendors would unfold in front of my eyes in the days to come.

Staying on one of Dal lake's legendary houseboats, we both just silently looked around, stunned at the incredible beauty of the place. Shikaras glided here and there along the lake and through the many watercourses. It was early June and water plants and flowers were in full bloom in the shallower parts of the lake, where children played and large families, vacationing in the Vale from the plains, bordered brightly decorated boats to head out to the Gardens of Love that dot the lakes in Srinagar.

Yes, the gardens of love.

My favorite garden, Shalimar, had been built by the Moghul emperor Jehangir in 1616 to celebrate his love for his wife. Set up against Dal Lake, the entire garden is a cool grassy place created along three great terraces (charbaghs)-- the lowest originally set aside for the common people, the middle for the invited guests of the emperor, and finally the top charbagh, which was reserved for the emperor himself. Along the fountains and canals, colorful spring flowers were in bloom.

Kashmiris-- like Persians-- love to picnic, and countless families were enjoying themselves under the shade of the many trees. We elected to have ours right on top the emperor's terrace with its splendid views of the lake below. Sultan's wife had prepared a true Persian-style picnic of pollo rice and yogurt, kebabs and tea served in glasses. Although nearly 20 years have passed since then, I will never forget it. To sit in the warm sunshine in a cool garden surrounded by the sounds of water and laughing children-- truly it was just as the Kashmiris say, "a piece of heaven."

Surrounded on almost all sides by the greater Himalayas, Sultan told us that the Kashmiris liken their valley to a huge emerald surrounded by diamonds. Those diamonds, my companion was anxiously waiting to travel over. He thought we were there only killing time till the road opened to Ladakh. Didn't he know, I would have stayed right there in Kashmir the rest of my life?

A full month later than is done in Japan, they had just let the water flood into the rice terraces that dotted the lush, emerald green valley. Each terrace, bordered by pink colored stones, was like a gigantic mirror reflecting the snow-covered mountains in their glassy waters.

"Did they make those fields just for the sheer beauty of them," I wondered.

"No stupid, they're for food!"

You see, I had never left the country before. This was my first time ever abroad-- and even the rice paddies were unfamiliar.

My companion had grown increasingly anxious, though. He could no longer wait for the snows to melt. Didn't I know, they were having their most famous masked dance ceremony in just two more weeks in Leh?  And he had his heart set on being there for it. So, everyday, we took a shikara from our houseboat across hepatitis-filled waters to shore. There we would go line up at the air India office to see about getting on a flight to Leh.

But flights were booked solid till the end of the month and the Beacon Highway had still not announced an open date for the season. He was beside himself.

Across the street, there was a cafe. I hadn't thought of it in years. In fact, I might never have really thought of it before. But, I'm sure it was there. A small wooden house-- like any you would see in northern California with a large garden full of tables, with wind chimes in the trees and music playing nonstop. They served the backpacker's food you can find anywhere from Bangkok to Borocay: banana pancakes, iced coffee, delicious icecream, burgers, curries, vegetarian.... Was it my imagination or wasn't that Led Zeppelin playing in the background: Kashmir.

"What are we going to do?"

In spite of his frustrations at not being in Rajastan, and despite his anxiousness to hit the road, he was as delighted to be here as I was. He had even done a little jig, so excited was he when we followed the Jhelum River and turning a corner got our first glimpse of the market area and the old city. 

That jig would develop into a fascination with Central Asia that would last for him for a very long time --at least ten years that I knew of. He kept repeating, "It's a medieval city." "This is the Central Asia I have been dreaming about my entire life." 

Srinagar was indeed a Central Asian town, which had long stood on one of the axillary routes of the Silk Road. I would like to somehow find out more about this part of Kashmir's past, but have been unable to really find much to read. Still, this much I know. Traders traveled over the mountains from Kashgar to Kashmir, before they headed south into India.

In the picture, you can see the old fort up on the hill. The town was not only full of history, but no matter where we looked, things looked relatively prosperous, clean-- and stunningly picturesque. Some lived on boats along the river, some above shops in the market and many more in homes clinging to the hill below the fort. Walking around, people would call out,

"Come, have tea"

And the tea. Kashmiri tea is a bit of Persia. Sweet with sugar and milk and perfumed with cardamom, it was served out of silver samovars. 

Last night, lying awake in my futon and thinking about the lake, the lotus flowers and water lilies and all the birds; the fragrant food, and the people we met, I don't know why I felt so incredibly nostalgic. And sad, as well. For I wondered, would I ever see it again? Probably the question itself is flawed for how could I ever see it again? After all that has happened, could the place ever recover? Hasn't, in fact, too much been lost?

At the start of the violence, Sultan had immediately left Kashmir with his family, re-locating to Goa. At first, his letters were filled with discomfort: it was too hot, the food too spiced and he longed so terribly for home. The honeymooners we shared a boat with, Nana and Dilip, had returned to Gujarat. Nana and I corresponded for many years --though we never spoke of Kashmir again.

About six months ago, I read a review in the NYRB about a Kashmiri arts exhibition written by one of my favorite writers, William Dalrymple. (The article is here). Some of the graphic things he described as having seen while in Kashmir, however, have haunted me since. I don't know what should be done anymore than anyone else. All I know is that I feel a sense of great loss-- for a way of life, a place which I too considered to be a slice of heaven-- has been lost. For almost two decades I have been waiting to hear some good news about this magical place.

And, I am still hoping for that news to come.

**

Most of the photographs in the post are from LRaleigh's gorgeous (!) photostream His essay too is worth a read too! He visits Jesus' supposed grave outside Srinagar (which I wrote about here) as well as about the 2nd Buddhist council held in Kashmir in 100 ad (which was where the difference between Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism were hammered out. The great Nagarajuna was said to have attended: I wrote briefly about Nagarjuna here)

John M., whose own trip to Kashmir three years ago was not quite so idyllic, writes to recommend this book by Sumantra Bose (These articles I thought were worthwhile reading) While John M's report was really not positive, LRaleigh was only there a year ago and the way he wrote about Kashmir's allure and mystique-- well, it was good to read.

Palinurus sleeps

--from the Peony archives

A poet himself, he remarked to me that he thought that, "as a rule of thumb all poetry is bad poetry."

I said, NO. Because, of course, bad poetry always comes as a shock.

(And, I think we have all had the experience of reading bad poetry-- which like bad theater, can have the peculiar ability to cause embarrassment).

No, I said. Good poetry leaves us somehow changed. I really said that it somehow stains you with its feeling. But, no, what I meant is that like all great art -- in subtle or profound ways-- fine poetry can change you.

He was working on a poem himself at the time. Given his fascination with boats, shipmen and the crew, his choice was not all that surprising.

Palinurus:

Palinurus, at the night helm, watches the ebb and cease
of the evening light from his post. Palinurus dreads:
the sea, the chill of the lorn coast—
he dreads what lies beyond the ship,
he dreads the slick slip of a day into dusk,
dusk into night, the swathes of offusc
threat, the roil and rumble of the waves.

For years, I too have felt as if I am in a rickety wooden boat being tossed about on huge frothy, beast-like waves. This is no Polynesian outrigger gliding gracefully, effortlessly on the water's surface-- headed south toward Tahiti-- no, I am talking about a tiny boat full of gaping holes being tossed about atop cold, deathly waters.

Sometimes at night when I close my eyes, I almost feel the rise and fall of the swell.

Yes, I know what it is like to feel as vulnerable as Palinurus.

Others could gratefully succomb to the temptation of sleep. Release, as he calls it. But not Palinurus-- for his promise was too great.

Despite his dread he behaves
as a man must: for he who holds the tiller
commands the crew's trust. In his arms he cradles an oar
as a totem against death, mutters and dumbles
to himself, with an eye on the stars and rocks.
As he steers, his oar rocks in his arms
and becomes a wife's calf, a friend's wrist,
a friend half-remembered, and wreathed about in mist—

Grasping the tiller, he is griped-- bathed in mist-- it's power proves too much, and he slips quietly overboard. 

You see, this is why I hate boats. 

Sailing toward Athens across stormy Adriatic waters-- all I could think of was the limbless bronzes, sunk down at the bottom looking up at us. Laughing at our temerity. Yes, I pity Palinurus-- I pity his promise, I pity his occupation, I pity his fate.

And, I loath the feckless waves. I once shoved out of my way a group of Buddhist monks-- dressed in orange robes, heads shaved bare en route to some temple in Bangkok, to be the first one off a boat on the Chao Praya when the current got too rough. Creating bad karma perhaps, but what would they understand about being pulled down under the water? 

Sleep alofts and thrusts the body overboard;
night, obliviscous night, sticks and clutches at the helm.
The stars no more illuminate the rocks, unshored,
and the ship she drifts and rocks and wanders from the realm.

Exquisitely crafted, beautifully resounding, reading his poem I realized something I had never thought of before: The boat. Drifting without its helmsman, it still made it to where it was fated to go. Believe it or not, up till now, I had never imagined that rickety boat would land anywhere...Thinking that, I smiled, feeling oddly at peace-- and even perhaps somehow changed-- for a moment or two. 

Penelope Waiting for Odysseus

 What is better-- to live a short and glorious life, or to live a long and easy one; a short life of stunning achievments which are talked about well into history-- or La doche vita? 

Some may recall that I have been listening to Hubert Dreyfus' Heidegger lectures on my iPod. I enjoyed them so much that I am now re-listening to his Philosophy 6 Lectures-- which have the intriguing title of From gods to God and back.

The class had a different title back then, but this actually was my very first class at Berkeley some twenty years ago (almost). And, just like with the Heidegger lectures, listening to Professor Dreyfus' voice all over again is just the most nostalgic experience I think I have ever had (It seems that I am now getting to the age where I can experience "nostalgia"...)

Ostensibly about the Great Books, Dreyfus inherited the class when he first arrived at Berkeley probably at least a decade before I got there. Professor Dreyfus-- being Professor Dreyfus-- however takes the class and runs. And even though Heidegger is nowhere on the syllabus, Heidegger remains the elephant in the room. Dreyfus begins the very first lecture with a presentation of Heidegger's concept of the clearing.

If humans have no essential nature as the Existentialists tell us (ie, "existence precedes essence"), then it is humans themselves who assign meaning to being. That is to say, that humans assign meaning and interpret not only the world around them, but their understanding of being itself, so that being is in fact intrinsically embedded within all the shared social and cultural practices by which we have been socialized and through which we understand the world around us. It is this understanding of being that Heidegger refers to as "the clearing" (lichtung). So fundamental and often times unconscious to us as well, these shared practices so inform how we understand things, that anything outside the paradigm will show up as incomprehensible (just like trying to get a flat-worlder to think about the earth being round-- it just "doesn't compute"). For another explanation see this.

To be perfectly clear, this goes far beyond what I have been talking about concerning our cultural heritage, cultural patrimony and memory, for example. This is not only to say that many of my friends in Japan would find it difficult to grasp the meaning of this Post's title (as their images of marital fidelity spring from different sources) but more that this shared background dictates everything from how close we stand to other people when we talk, to how we understand the deepest philosophical concepts concerning being itself.

(Special note for Conrad)

Dreyfus talks about these concepts of being in terms of Greek temples and European cathedrals. For us now, the ancient temples of Greece or the Medieval cathedrals are "sights"-- for those dwelling within those paradigms however, the temple or the cathedrals stood as what one scholar has called encyclopedias of stone. Everything made sense and everything was intelligible as part of an all-encompassing world-view, and therefore their experience was utterly different from how we today experience temples or churches (perhaps with the exception of practicing Catholics)

Even more illuminating are the various understandings of what it means to be a human being. Two that Dreyfus brings up a lot are heroes and saints.

In this existential scheme, Western history is not an unfolding progression of human development, but rather a history of several major understandings of being ( major paradigms or interpretations of being). None are better or worse than the others as some illuminate certain aspects of our humanity while others illuminate other aspects of our humanity. In that way, the heroes as represented in the Iliad or Odyssey don't really have it more or don't really have it any less "right" than we do. They just understood things differently.

Take Odysseus. The reluctant hero. He never wanted to leave his fields nor his wife. And Ithaca wasn't all that easy either. It was a rocky island where one had to work and feed oneself and weave one's own clothing... it was no Land of the Lotus Eaters. And yet, he never for a moment stopped wanting to get back, did he? He even stooped to less than dignified means to try and get out of the entire thing. Agamemnon and his ill-thought out war. Isn't that also intriguing--how much he didn't want to go? He never forgave Palamedes either for foiling his strategy for getting out of going off to Troy, and he bid his time till he could had his revenge.

Odysseus-- he just wanted to go Home.

He seems so familiar to us-- and yet, Odysseus also remains strangely un-familiar as well. He did, after all, go and fight. Heroically. All for honor and for a woman. Large-scale warfare for an insult over a lady? Well, it does sound odd. Not to mention the meddling ways of all those gods with their interesting human-like flaws....Penelope too was not exactly as she seemed either. And don't even get me started on Aeneas and Dido.

The Greeks were also un-familiar to the Medieval Christians as well for don't forget Odysseus was banned by Dante to the 8th level of Hell.

Even now, one can get a sense of this dis-connect when one travels overseas. People no matter how far you travel are fundamentally the same. We are born, we love our parents, we grow up, marry, love our children and then die. This is our biological nature. And yet, at the same time, our cultural background informs so many details of daily life, of how we think and how we understand ourselves and the world; how we raise our children and how we view "Country" or Heritage. Even if you buy the evolutionary psychology line, still I think it is apparent that the way in which we share an understanding of being affects the way we view the world around us.

So, returning back to the West, where once being was understood in terms of heroes and slaves (in ancient times) and saints and sinners (in Medieval times); and where power was positioned as a myriad of gods and the Good --versus God and the Church during Medieval times-- what have we now?

What is our Post-modern understanding of being? Dreyfus, elaborating on what Heidegger said about technology, I think gives an interesting answer.

Our post-modern understanding of self boils down to Resources. Not only things, but people (even our very selves) are viewed as resources to be used, bought, sold or bartered. Expressions of this understanding of being could include a striving to live lives that utilize our capabilities to the utmost; self-help, self-improvement, being the best you can be, etc. This is neither bad nor good... and people manifest this to differing degrees, though I do thinks modern people (myself included) have this desire to "get the most out of life" and "to develop" as people and individuals. All of these concepts, which were I think apparently absent from the ancient or medieval anthologies.

Dreyfus has an interesting anecdote in the first lecture, in fact, about St Augustine who amazed people with his story of St Jerome who was able to read the Bible silently. It seems difficult to imagine now, but before that time, people did not have inner lives in the way we think of them today and in fact people did not even read inside their heads, but read aloud. (Incidentally, my son is still unable to wrap his mind around the concept that I read without speaking)....With the Medievals, however, this stress on prayer and quiet reading-- and then later with our personal relation to God became ever more important. It was during ancient times a very alien notion, he tells us.

Returning back to our Post modern understanding of Being in terms of resources, relationships too can be viewed in terms of a cost-benefit analysis.

Are they useful? Are they conducive to bringing out the best in me?

And the post-modern Good? It is the Will to Efficiency; whereby the economic good is the economically efficient; the moral good is the most good for the most amount of people... you get the picture.

Art, religion, relationships, education, political policy all must serve the greater good-- that is, it must be useful or find itself obsolete. This goes well beyond materialism or efficiency as an adjective. This last point has so much resonance, I think, when we start talking about "American Philistinism" or "Where have all the Intellectuals gone?" it is a useful place to begin-- as indeed, education is no longer viewed as something to edify but rather as something that will serve a useful purpose, and intellectuals themselves are under the gone to be Relevant. People who care about intellectual matters are seen as snobbish and in Ivory Towers and indeed it is publish or perish-- (ie, be economically useful or find yourself another job) It wasn't always like this either (Recently I "read" a biography about Joseph Needham and his career would be quite frankly impossible today. Scholars just can no longer freely follow their interests that far afield.)

Conrad also does a really good job of presenting the issue here?(it is way far down but also see Xensen's comment 9/18/2007)

Heidegger, according to Dreyfus actually did find something worrisome in our post-Modern paradigm of Efficiency as the Good. And that is, it seems to imply a philistinism that actually defines as "Inefficient" all other paradigms-- thereby becoming a kind of black hole of all other paradigms. Other ways of doing things no longer "make sense" since they are inefficient and therefore "bad." Heidegger believed this was a fundamentally different understanding than all that came before it. For example, even during the crusades, the Christian Crusaders were not going out export their way of life in as much as they wanted to reclaim the holy Land and push the other side back.

This, I think is also interesting in terms of cross-cultural understanding, historical research and even the way we think about contemporary culture for anything not seen as efficient is therefore viewed as being irrelevant.

Yes, Philistinism.

And as Goethe said, "The Philistine not only ignores all conditions of life which are not his own but also demands that the rest of mankind should fashion its mode of existence after his own"

On Technology, see this paper (esp. the part on libraries with reference to this post of mine and this one too at Conrad's).

Dreaming of Tibet

 Last night, I dreamt I was in Lhasa. It was the glorious Tang dynasty (618-907), and I was an honored guest of the King of Tibet. A short dream, it was extremely vivid. In the dream, I was dressed in dark colored velvety robes and wore elaborate headgear. My triangular shaped hat was the same velvety color as my robes and was adorned with a large red bead on the top. There were long chains of red coral and turquoise beads hanging down in front of my ears. While it resembled the headgear worn by the ancient empresses and other royal ladies of Tang China, the coral and turquoise chains were in the great tradition of Tibet.

The room was very airy and yet also very warm. Huge windows of old-fashioned glass (which is so different from the glass of today) allowed a tremendous of amount of light into the simple room. The room was in a multi-story building located on a mountainside overlooking the old city of Lhasa. It was the view out the window which dominated. The city seemed to go on and on endlessly-- well, that is until one's eyes reached the mountains. The mountains. On that day, they were mostly covered in clouds.

Below us spread the valley of Lhasa. White-washed houses were piled practically one atop another. Prayer flags waived in the breeze and the city was surprisingly green from the many, many willow trees. It looked very frigid outside. There was no snow, but the moment I stepped away from the warm stove (located in the center of the room) I felt the frozen air of the mountains coming through the glass. The floor was covered in a felt carpet the color of the sky.

I was aware of two things. One was how beautiful my headgear was. Every time I moved, the coral and bead chains tinkled in my ears in the most charming way. My velvety hat also had a pleasing heaviness.

The other was that while it was the 8th century, I had, in fact, traveled back in time. A time traveler, I noticed every detail. I thought, "how comfortable it is here." And, that coming from a girl who does not like to "rough it" when it comes to hotel bathrooms and public restrooms. I also thought, "It must be different out there." Life in the palace, though, was warm comfortable and very refined. "Not bad for the 8th century," I thought to myself.

Although I was calm and feeling extremely agreeable about my surroundings, there was much going on around me. The great Gialbo had rushed in. Everyone bowed to the great King of Tibet.

During the Tang dynasty, the Empire of Tibet had reached its zenith. A thousand years before the famous Great Game between the British and Russians who vied for colonial power in that part of the world, the 8th century was a time when the earlier great Titans (Arabs, Turks, Chinese and Tibetans) clashed and fought for control of the region. With the great Abassid empire to the west (under the greatest Caliph of all, the magnificent Harun al-Rashid), and the Chinese to the East (under the glorious Tang), the Tibetans somehow reigned supreme.

After bowing to the King, tea was poured. The ladies retreated to the area by the window where I was standing and we all listened as the generals briefed the King: They were sending most of the army north to meet the Chinese head on. Jumping to his feet the Great Gialbo said forcibly, "Prepare my horse, for I ride with the army." Marching toward the door, he turned and with great kindness looked at me and said, "You will be safer inside the Palace. Please wait here till my return." 

As the King exited, a great gust of cold air blew into the room. We all shivered. I thought to myself, "It would be the perfect time to leave." I didn't think "escape" but I suppose, I was thinking it was time to return to my own time. And yet, the room was so warm and comfortable....

Thinking this, I then woke up.

It is rare that waking from a dream, I actually feel that I want to go back. Usually, I try to shake off the dream and immediately turn to the tasks at hand. This time, however, so pleasant and so warm was this dream-- well, I have to admit, I was a little disappointed waking up. My headgear had been, afterall, incredibly beautiful. Women of modern Heisei times, have so few chances to wear accessories like that.

It could have been any of the Kings of the Empire of Tibet. However, if the King in my dream was the Great Trisong Detsen (who I think it was)-- well, that battle would go well for him. Even more than his skills in the battlefield, however, Trisong is best known as the great promoter of Buddhism in the region. Having invited many famous philosophers of India and monks of China to come and teach in Tibet, his court was a place of great scholarship and intellectual excitement. He arranged the famed Two-Year Debate (the "Council of Lhasa" as it is also erroneously known) between the Chan (Zen) monk, Moheyan (the "Mahayana Monk") and the Indian Buddhist philosopher, Shantarakshita's student Kamalashila.

The Debate was on the topic of methods of enlightenment. The Zen faction argued (as it still does) that enlightenment was possible in an instant. The Indian philosopher, however, disagreed. While the actual moment may happen suddenly, enlightenment must, argued Kamalashila, be preceded by years of study and training that prepared the mind. Moral and mental training is essential in other words. Our King eventually sided with Kamalashila -- thereby introducing Indian-style Buddhism into Tibet. Trisong, incidentally, is also traditionally associated with the construction of the legendary stupa of Bodnath in Kathmandu.

In my dream, perhaps the Great Gialbo had just learned of the Chinese troops amassing on his northern frontier. 200,000 Tibetans rode to meet the Chinese head-on, and there, they literally wiped the Chinese into the dusts of the desert. Victorious, they rode on to the Tang capital of Chang'an. It was the greatest city on earth. Arriving just in time to fill in the great power vacuum that had ocurred as a result of the An Lushan rebellion, the only way the Chinese could get rid of them was to grant them all the lands of the much vied-over Kokonor (where the current Chinese government now tests its nuclear weapons and dumps its toxic waste). 

As if gaining victory over the Chinese hadn't been enough, Trison was to spend the remainder of his days with his eyes turned West. He got as far as the Oxus River, and it was probably only the Arabs' hastily agreed-upon alliance with the Chinese that stopped him from going all the way to Baghdad. It was one of the most glorious periods of Tibetan civilization.

**

Jetlagged in Los Angeles. I dreamt of a kind and gracious King, who had manners so exquisite that he thought to turn around and bid me to stay-- where it was safe and warm-- as he Himself headed out to battle. More than that, though, was the beauty of my headgear. Waking up, I could not get it out of my mind. Red coral had been greatly valued throughout the lands along the ancient Silk Road. Probably originating in the Mediterrean, like amber, the beads were carried on the backs of donkeys and camels traveling East from Constantinople where it was traded for silks, brocades and other commodies of the East. Located pretty much as far as one could go from the Sea, I wonder what the ancient Tibetans thought these corals were. Like torquoise (which they also valued above all else), perhaps, they thought it too was mined in the mountains of Persia and Turkey. Never having seen the sea, what else could they have imagined?

Turkish Delight

Like Tibet, I sometimes dream of Istanbul. It is, of course, known as "the City"-- the city of dreams-- a city of bridges and tall minarets rising up from across the shimmering aquamarine waters of the Bosporus. Slowly gliding above the water, in my dream I watched as boats plied here and there across the busy harbor leaving great streaks of white-- like huge strokes of calligraphy-- in their wake.

I had, as you remember, an angel's eye view-- very much like that of a Persian miniature.

Pure geometry drawn from the timeless perspective of God; Ottoman Miniatures are pictures portrayed as if seen from the top of a minaret rising above the city of dreams. They are also known for their rich, vibrant, intoxicating colors. In my dream, the colors were like that: richly detailed and incredibly vibrant-- the shimmering and rich colors of Herat and Tabriz.

Settling in with a much awaited for box of Turkish Delight, I re-read My Name is Red.

*

The Sultan's ambassador, Enishte Effendi finds himself in Venice. A renown miniaturist in the service of the Ottoman Court, he is utterly speechless when he sees his first Venetian-style Renaissance paintings. That is, the paintings completely boggle his mind. What could they possibly mean, he wonders?

One painting in particular has him so disturbed he is unable to sleep. It is a portrait- done in the Renaissance style. It is not meant to present a timeless realm, or represent any deeper truths. It does not seek to embellish a tale or illuminate the perspective of God, but rather, he realizes, it is something which stands all on its own.

I learned from the Venetian gentleman who was giving me a tour through the palazzo that the portrait was of a friend, a nobleman like himself. He had included whatever was significant in his life in his portrait: In the background landscape visible from the open window there was a farm, a village and a blending of color which made a realistic-looking forest. Resting on the table before the nobleman were a clock, books, Time, Evil,  Life, a calligraphy pen, a map, a compass, boxes containing gold coins, bric-a-brac, odds and ends, inscrutable yet indistinguishable things that were probably included in many pictures, shadows of jinns and the Devil and also a picture of the man's stunningly beautiful daughter as she stood beside her father.

"What was the narrative that this representation was meant to embellish and complete? As I regarded the work, I slowly sensed that the underlying tale was the picture itself. The painting wasn't the extension of a story at all, it was something in its own right.

I have already written elsewhere something about the similar Chinese reaction to Renaissance painting. You see, this desire to portray in art the manner in which the eye sees things, was in fact unique. Aiming at something altogether different, many Chinese literati painters upon seeing a Western painting, perhaps simply wondered, so what?

That was Enishte Effendi first reaction as well. And yet-- and yet!-- he found himself increasingly intrigued by the idea of representing individual people or horses or landscapes. Unable to get the idea out of his head, he thought, "I, too, wanted to be portrayed in this manner."

This is how the idea came about to have the Sultan's portrait painted in the style of the Venetians.

Perhaps not so coincidentally, Minerva of my "ladies" group (yes, I use the term loosely) happened to recently post about Candide's journey-- which also ended in Istanbul. Like a piece of a puzzle, her email arrived  reminding me of something important at just the right place and time...

Talking about the mysterious manner in which people's personalities change depending on location, she eloquently writes:

I know this guy who has a Jekyll and Hyde personality depending on where he is even in his own country. He loves hiking and nature and when he's in the countryside is a really nice, relaxed, generous person, but he insists on living in Manhattan because of various complexes and delusions of grandeur of his, and there he's mean, nervous, absurdly competitive and rude. He moved there
thirty years ago because it's The Center of The Universe, even though he's miserable and there's nothing keeping him there except his youthful dreams of a life it's way too late for him to ever have. Time to wave the white flag and admit defeat. Giving up is underrated. Sometimes it's the only thing to do, and sometimes a place is just a place.

Like at the end of "Candide" when Candide meets a Turk in Constantinople who invites him home and offers him homemade sherbets of cream flavored with candied citron, orange, lemon, lime, pineapple, pistachio and some mocha coffee, and Candide says to him that he must possess an enormous and splendid property. The Turk answers, No, I only have twenty acres that I cultivate with my family
and the work keeps us from the three great evils: boredom, vice, and poverty. Professor Pangloss is going on about how "All events are linked together in the best of all possible worlds" ("there cannot possibly be an effect without a cause and that in this best of all possible worlds the Baron's castle was the best of all castles and his wife the best of all possible Baronesses" -- also known in other regions as Everything Happens For A Reason) and if Candide hadn't been kicked out of his homeland, if he hadn't gone up against the
Inquisition, if he hadn't traveled across America on foot, if he hadn't killed a baron, if he hadn't lost all his sheep in Eldorado, well, then he wouldn't be sitting here eating some nice candied citron and pistachios in Constantinople. To which Candide replies, That is very well put, but we must cultivate our garden. 

The question of place is interesting, of course-- and indeed, it is a question that seems to occupy Orhan Pamuk's writing to some extent. Pamuk has written again and again about the tension one feels between life in the Center of the Universe (New york City perhaps) versus that at the edges (Turkey).

When one lives one's life outside the center, he says, it can come to feel almost as though one's existence hardly matters at all. Talking about Turkey's own internal grappling with Western-style reforms, he says that in the beginning they arose in a manner which "sent the message to many that their culture was defective." This message, he continues:

"gives rise to a very deep and confused emotion: shame; and whenever a people feels deeply humiliated, we can expect to see a proud nationalism rising to the surface."

I see this conflicted kind of expression in the some of the translations I do for older generation Japanese business executives. It seems to inevitably rise to the surface in their speeches and writings-- a conflict between self and place; center and hinterland. This is also part of the project Hattori has written about which interests me as well-- this desiring need to be heard.

In my own case, I see things quite the opposite to Minerva and her friend. Traveling back and forth across Adonis' empire, I don't think my personality undergoes any significant change whatsoever. Yes, I tell more jokes and perhaps enjoy conversations more in the Eastern part of the realm, and enjoy books more in the Western part-- but that is perhaps the extent. On the other hand, while I don't change back and forth by place, still, over time my self is indeed influenced, stained and molded by place; indeed, the places we go, I think, are every bit as significant as the people we meet.

Back to Candide and the Turk's garden, though. A debate exists to whether Voltaire was implying a passive retreat from the outer world to cultivate one's inner Self, or whether he was advocating productive occupation and engagement (in the form of gardening) with the world-- that is working to improve the world through metaphorical gardening.

Candide's garden-- like all gardens-- could symbolize just about anything.

However, reading it in light of Orhan Pamuk's work, I think it means both-- simultaneously. Like a Japanese lacquer craftsman, in almost any interview or essay you read by Pamuk, he repeats the same phrase-- like a mantra. "All I want to do is sit in a room and write. That's it." It all comes down to that really-- some people require time alone, time apart. They truly only wish to focus on their CRAFT (which is their meaningful occupation). And, that is both a retreat into the self as well as part of the way in which they interact with the world-- which is to say that the garden serves, in the words of another Voltaire, as an End in Itself.

**

My Name is Red, remains one of my top 5 favorite books. This weekend, I also re-read Pamuk's Nobel Prize speech, My Father's Suitcase and think it remains recommended reading. Finally, regarding the literati project, Chinese art actually started off being strongly representational. By the late Tang, however, artistic trends were branching off, with certain styles "moving beyond" representation to pursue something more akin to modern Western expressionism. This project of the literati artists equally puzzled the Ottoman Miniaturists, and Pamuk describes it as the puzzling Chinese obsession with style or character.

*The BBC Interview (below) is highly recommended, but I think this older interview from Boston's public radio touches on more interesting issues (and it is on My Name is Red specifically.)

This BBC Interview with the author is also highly recommended. Though the interviewer tries to keep steering the conversation to Turkish politics, the Great Orhan keeps to his own project: "my devotion for the grand art of the novel... my devotion not to the art, but to my table, to my paper; to my fountain pen...; to being alone in a room and writing."