A Natural Curiosity :: Category :: Books A Natural Curiosity - Geoff Wisner's Blog
Sunday, June 14, 2015

Try my quiz!

My quiz on African literature is now available at the Christian Science Monitor! Hope you have as much fun trying it as I did creating it.


Posted by geoff on 06/14 at 10:54 AM
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Categories: AfricaBooks

A Natural Curiosity - Geoff Wisner's Blog
Sunday, March 15, 2015

A sentence by W.G. Sebald

The slow unfolding of memory that drives W.G. Sebald’s last novel Austerlitz makes it one of the most powerful of the many Holocaust narratives I have read. Toward the end, the title character gives voice to this detailed, unhurried, and suffocatingly endless single sentence about the concentration camp of Theresienstadt.

It seems unpardonable to me today that I had blocked off the investigation of my most distant past for so many years, not on principle, to be sure, but still of my own accord, and that now it is too late for me to seek out Adler, who had lived in London until his death in the summer of 1988, and talk to him about that extra-territorial place where at the time, as I think I have mentioned before, said Austerlitz, some sixty thousand people were crammed together in an area little more than a square kilometer in size—industrialists and manufacturers, lawyers and doctors, rabbis and university professors, singers and composers, bank managers, businessmen, shorthand typists, housewives, farmers, labourers and millionaires, people from Prague and the rest of the Protectorate, from Slovakia, from Denmark and Holland, from Vienna and Munich, Cologne and Berlin, from the Palatinate, from Lower Franconia and Westphalia—each of whom had to make do with about two square meters of space in which to exist and all of them, in so far as they were in any condition to do so or until they were loaded into trucks and sent on east, obliged to work entirely without remuneration in one of the primitive factories set up, with a view to generating actual profit, by the External Trade Section, assigned to the bandage-weaving workshop, to the handbag and satchel assembly line, the production of horn buttons and other haberdashery items, the manufacturing of wooden soles for footwear and of cowhide galoshes; to the charcoal yard, the making of such board games as Nine Men’s Morris and Catch the Hat, the splitting of mica, the shearing of rabbit fur, the bottling of ink dust, or the silkworm-breeding station run under the aegis of the SS; or, alternatively, employed in one of the operations serving the ghetto’s internal economy, in the clothing store, for instance, in one of the precinct mending and darning rooms, the shredding section, the rag depot, the book reception and sorting unit, the kitchen brigade, the potato-peeling platoon, the bone-crushing mill, the glue-boiling plant, or the mattress department, as medical and nursing auxiliaries, in the disinfestation and rodent control service, the floor space allocation office, the central registration bureau, the self-administration housed in barrack block BV, known as “The Castle,” or in the transport of goods maintained within the walls of the fortress by means of a medley of carts of every conceivable kind and four dozen ancient hearses brought from the now defunct Jewish communities in the Bohemian countryside to Terezin, where they moved along the crowded streets with two men harnessed between the shafts and four to eight pushing or putting their weight against the spokes of the wheels of these oddly swaying conveyances, which were covered by ulcerations of peeling black varnish and from which, before long, the rickety superstructures, high-built coach boxes, and silver-bronzed canopies resting on turned columns had been roughly sawn away, so that the lower parts, on the sides of which rows of letters and numbers were coarsely painted in lime-wash, scarcely betrayed their former function, a function, said Austerlitz, for which they were still frequently employed even now, since much of the load carted round Theresienstadt every day was made up by the dead, of whom there were always a great many because the high population density and poor diet rendered it impossible for the course of such infectious diseases as scarlet fever, enteritis, diphtheria, jaundice, and tuberculosis to be stemmed, and because the average age of those brought from all regions of the German Reich to the ghetto was over seventy, and these people, who before they were sent away had been led to believe some tale about a pleasant resort in Bohemia called Theresienbad, with beautiful gardens, promenades, boardinghouses, and villas, and many of whom had been persuaded or forced to sign contracts, so-called Heimeinkaufsverträge, said Austerlitz, offering them, against deposits of up to eighty thousand Reichsmarks, the right of residence in what was described to them as a most salubrious place, these people, Austerlitz continued, had come to Theresienstadt, completely misled by the illusions implanted in their minds, carrying in their luggage all manner of personal items and mementoes which could be of no conceivable use in the life that awaited them in the ghetto, often arriving already ravaged in body and spirit, no longer in their right minds, delirious, frequently unable to remember their own names, surviving the procedure of being sluiced in, as it was termed, either not at all or only by a few days, in which latter case, on account of the extreme psychopathic personality changes which they had undergone and which generally resulted in a kind of infantilism divorcing them from reality and entailing an almost total loss of the ability to speak and act, they were immediately sectioned in the casemate of the Cavalier Barracks, which served as a psychiatric ward and where they usually perished within a week under the dreadful conditions prevailing there, so that although there was no shortage of doctors and surgeons in Theresienstadt who cared for their fellow prisoners as well as they could, and in spite of the steam disinfection boiler installed in the malting kiln of the former brewery, the hydrogen cyanide chamber, and other hygienic measures introduced by the Kommandantur in an all-out campaign against infestation with lice, the number of the dead—entirely in line, said Austerlitz, with the intentions of the masters of the ghetto—rose to well above twenty thousand in the ten months between August 1942 and May 1943 alone, as a result of which the joiner’s workshop in the former riding school could no longer make enough deal coffins, there were sometimes more than five hundred dead bodies stacked in layers on top of each other in the central morgue in the casemate by the gateway to the Bohusevice road, and the four naphtha-fired incinerators of the crematorium, kept going day and night in cycles of forty minutes at a time, were stretched to the utmost limits of their capacity, said Austerlitz, and this comprehensive system of internment and forced labor which, in Theresienstadt as elsewhere, was ultimately directed, so he continued, solely at the extinction of life and was built on an organizational plan regulating all functions and responsibilities, as Adler’s reconstruction shows, with a crazed administrative zeal—from the use of whole troops of workers in building the branch railway line from Bohusevice to the fort, to the one man whose job it was to keep the clock mechanism in the closed Catholic church in order—this system had to be constantly supervised and statistically accounted for, particularly with respect to the total number of inmates of the ghetto, an uncommonly time-consuming business going far beyond civilian requirements when you remember that new transports were arriving all the time, and people were regularly weeded out to be sent elsewhere with their files marked R.n.e. for Ruckkehr nicht erwunscht, Return Not Desired, a purpose for which the SS men responsible, who regarded numerical accuracy as one of their highest principles, had a census taken several times, on one occasion, if I remember correctly, said Austerlitz, on 10 November 1943 outside the gates in the open fields of the Bohusevice basin, when the entire population of the ghetto—children, old people, and any of the sick at all able to walk not excepted—was marched out after assembling in the barracks yards at dawn to be drawn up in block formation behind numbered wooden boards, and there, through the whole of this cold and damp day, as the fog drifted over the fields, they were forced to wait, guarded by armed police, and not permitted to step out of line even for a minute, for the SS men to arrive, as they eventually did on their motorbikes at three o’clock, to carry out the count of heads and then repeat it twice before they could feel convinced that the final result, including those few still within the walls, did in fact tally with the expected number of forty thousand one hundred and forty-five, whereupon they rode away again in some haste, entirely forgetting to give any orders for the inmates’ return, so that this great crowd of many thousands stood out in the Bohusevice basin on that gray tenth of November drenched to the skin and increasingly distressed until well after dark, bowed and swaying like reeds in the showers that now swept over the countryside, before finally, driven to it by a wave of panic, they poured back into the town from which most of them had never emerged except for this one time since their transfer to Theresienstadt, where soon after the beginning of the new year, said Austerlitz, what was described as a Verschonerungsaktion or general improvement campaign was undertaken, with an eye to the imminent visit in the early summer of 1944 of a Red Cross commission, an event regarded by those authorities of the Reich responsible as a good opportunity to dissimulate the true nature of their deportation policy, and consequently it was decided to organize the ghetto inmates under the command of the SS for the purpose of a vast cleaning-up program: pathways and a grove with a columbarium were laid out, park benches and signposts were set up, the latter adorned in the German fashion with jolly carvings and floral decoration, over a thousand rosebushes were planted, a children’s nursery and creche or Kriechlingskrippe, as it was termed, said Austerlitz, in one of those perverse formulations, were adorned with pretty fairy-tale friezes and equipped with sandboxes, paddling pools, and merry-go-rounds, whilst the former OREL cinema, which until now had served as a dumping ground for the oldest inmates of the ghetto and where a huge chandelier still hung from the ceiling in the dark space inside, was converted within a few weeks into a concert hall and theater, and elsewhere shops stocked with goods from the SS storehouses were opened for the sale of food and household utensils, ladies’ and gentlemen’s clothing, shoes, underwear, travel requisites, and suitcases; there were also a convalescent home, a chapel, a lending library, a gymnasium, a post office, a bank where the manager’s office was furnished with a sort of field marshal’s desk and a suite of easy chairs, not to mention a coffeehouse with sun umbrellas and folding chairs outside it to suggest the agreeable atmosphere of a resort inviting all passersby to linger for a while, and indeed there was no end to the improvements and embellishments, with much sawing, hammering, and painting until the time of the visit itself approached and Theresienstadt, after another seven and a half thousand of the less presentable inmates had been sent east amidst all this busy activity, to thin out the population, so to speak, became a Potemkin village or sham Eldorado which may have dazzled even some of the inhabitants themselves and where, when the appointed day came, the commission of two Danes and one Swiss official, having been guided, in conformity with a precise plan and a timetable drawn up by the Kommandant’s office, through the streets and over the spotless pavements, scrubbed with soap early that morning, could see for themselves the friendly, happy folk who had been spared the horrors of war and were looking out of the windows, could see how smartly they were all dressed, how well the few sick people were cared for, how they were given proper meals served on plates, how the bread ration was handed out by people in white drill gloves, how posters advertising sporting events, cabarets, theatrical performances, and concerts were being put up on every corner and how, when the day’s work was over, the residents of the town flocked out in their thousands on the ramparts and bastions to take the air, almost as if they were passengers enjoying an evening stroll on the deck of an oceangoing steamer, a most reassuring spectacle, all things considered, which the Germans, whether for propaganda purposes or in order to justify their actions and conduct to themselves, thought fit after the end of the Red Cross visit to record in a film, which Adler tells us, said Austerlitz, was given a sound track of Jewish folk music in March 1945, when a considerable number of the people who had appeared in it were no longer alive, and a copy of which, again according to Adler, had apparently turned up in the British-occupied zone after the war, although he, Adler himself, said Austerlitz, never saw it, and thought it was now lost without trace.
Posted by geoff on 03/15 at 02:10 PM
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A Natural Curiosity - Geoff Wisner's Blog
Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas with George Templeton Strong

Christmas was a less strenuous holiday for George Templeton Strong than New Year’s Day, when respectable New Yorkers were expected to pay calls on as many of their friends and acquaintances as they could fit in.

Perhaps for that reason, he may have enjoyed it more. (For more Strong, follow me on Twitter at @StrongsCivilWar and @StrongsNewYork.)

CHRISTMAS — and the best day in the year, but its cheerfulness rather damped by a constant drizzle of rain with an accompaniment of fog. Went to St. Paul’s in the morning and stayed home in the afternoon. 12.25.1836

Went to Niblo’s after tea with Anthon to hear Horn’s Christmas Bells again. It’s decidedly a good thing — many passages remarkably neat and graceful — and I enjoyed myself highly. 12.29.1842

With Dickens’s clever (but mighty absurd) extravaganza, the Prose Christmas Carol, I’ve been very comfortable and strong of heart ,,, The blue devils are scattered, and I trust that I shall “live to my dying day in despite of mine enemies.” 1.27.1844

Christmas Day. To church as usual, and heard Higbee. Mama couldn’t go; she had an unlucky fall yesterday that produced a certain discoloration about one eye, not altogether ornamental. Adjourned to St. Peter’s and heard the finale of one of Mozart’s masses. Looked in at Appleton’s and got a copy of Martin Chuzzlewit wherewith I’ve been making myself comfortable, for the book’s far better than I expected and Mr. Dickens’s tone of coloring is exactly in harmony with Christmas, though it won’t do for everyday use. 12.25.1844

Yesterday was Christmas. Lucky it’s essentially an indoor and domestic festival, for the weather was of a kind to suffocate rejoicing and to make all festivity a hopeless thing except in the house and with the blinds closed.... Put myself into an omnibus and went ploughing and lunging down to Greenwich Street. The driver was drunk and the progress of the vehicle was like that of a hippopotamus through one of the quagmires of South Africa. 12.26.1848

Christmas eve. Very appropriate bitter frosty night. Evening has been quite lively; Ellie receiving and sending out presents, and enthusiastic over the black lace I got her. Sophie has dressed up a little table with all Johnny’s presents (including hers and Louisa’s) and candles and Christmas greens, and everybody that came into the house has been trotted up to the nursery to see. Sophie’s laugh and ecstacy over each new present that arrived was worth the ascent of two flights of stairs. 12.24.1853

After a sleety Sunday, Christmas introduced the thaw. It was a beautiful, mild, sunshiny day, “very good walking, overhead.” At Trinity the music was uncommonly good and abundant; it was almost a “choral service.” Higbee preached very splendidly. 12.27.1854

Most of the morning spent in the active pursuit of Christmas presents; after dinner, in arranging Johnny’s for his astonishment, on the table in the middle parlor — Napoleon’s Old Guard, the elephant with the moveable head, and so on, the railroad train (“long cars”) being deposited on the floor. 12.24.1855

Christmas — always a day to be prized; one can’t have very many of them, in the nature of things, and this one has been altogether good and genial and bright.... This Christmas began yesterday afternoon when I met Ellie at Trinity Church, where were some special services; the children got together, the church quite filled, a Christmas tree in the porch hung with lanterns and toys, distribution of presents, “Christmas Carol” sung, and an assemblage of clergy in the chancel, and marching with David Lyon at their head (his sextonical staff florid with a winter bouquet and streamers of ribbon) in stately procession down the middle aisle to inspect the Christmas tree… 12.25.1856

Christmas Eve has been duly celebrated. I was stunned and sore with headache through the day, but it has passed off. Presents came in and went out. Mine to Ellie were an ermine cape and an ugly staring three-quarter length “imperial photograph” of my own delectable person. 12.24.1857

Christmas Eve. The day has been one of sunshine, moral and meteorological; everything has looked Christmaslike, or Christmatoid, Christmatic, or Christmal. Shops are full of business, streets are thronged; every other pedestrian carries a parcel or two, or escorts one or more eager, expectant children with big eyes fixed on the gorgeous succession of shop windows. 12.24.1858

Christmas has passed off satisfactorily. It has been the clearest of clear days and not so cold as yesterday. After breakfast, the children were admitted to the beatific vision of their presents and made the middle parlor a bedlam for an hour. Then we went to church. Great crowd. Aisles full of standing people. Vinton’s sermon respectable. Music good. Wonderful to relate, the anthem was the “Gloria” of Mozart’s No. 12. Has a note of Mozart’s ever been sung in Trinity Church before? 12.25.1863

Monday and Christmas Eve…. Presents came in, were unpacked and arranged in the middle room, the boys being sent off to bed. But they were hallooing till near nine o’clock in high excitement. Then, or an hour later, we had our traditional roast oysters. 12.24.1866

Among Christmas presents I note a copy of the “Legende of St. Gwendoline,” a folio, with photographs from Jack Ehninger’s crayon drawings. They seem the best work Jack has ever done. Another folio, Tennyson’s “Guinevere and Vivien,” from The Idylls of the King, is illustrated by G. Doré, and the engravings are favorable specimens of M. Doré’s art. They shew his good points, and his bad points do not appear. But he cannot draw the form or face of a pretty or of a beautiful woman even when stimulated by the text of Tennyson. 12.25.1867

Xmas, and a happy Christmas it has been, Dei grati. Morning clear and bright; afternoon and evening cloudy and blusterous, with a heavy snowstorm seemingly just at hand…. This evening a small symposium…. Johnny found his duty of accompanying mamma on his ’cello before a few people less formidable than he expected. 12.25.1868

Walked uptown this afternoon Christmassing. Broadway thronged with folk on the same errand. Was weak enough to stop at Tiffany’s, resolved to be parsimonious this year and spend not more than $20 on a present for Ellie. But I was inflamed by a pretty cameo brooch, and involved myself to the extent of near $200, which was sensible of me, especially as I had been obliged to subtract a little more capital from the Trust Co. this morning to pay current bills. 12.23.1869

Christmas eve; clear and wintry. Delatour’s thermometer 24º at noon. Tonight seems colder and is windy. Rampaged after Christmas presents on my way downtown. It is at this season that a lean bank account is most afflictive. But we ought not to grumble. This is a very black Christmas to thousands in France, and in Deutschland, too. 12.24.1870

The small ruffians of the streets began to blow the trumpet in Zion at an early hour this morning. It’s a tin trumpet, and its brayings are now rising and falling outside. I remember no Christmas eve when the outward and visible and audible signs of the Christmas feast have been more prominent. 12.24.1873

Christmas. Seldom a brighter or better Christmas. Sky crystalline and temperature just chill enough to be seasonable and befitting the day. To Trinity at nine-thirty, where I was joined by Ellie an hour later.... The Schubert music was beautiful and well rendered. Haydn’s Gloria Tibi (that is, the Kyrie) is most Christmasesque, joyous and lovely. 12.25.1874

Posted by geoff on 12/25 at 10:22 AM
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Categories: BooksGeorge Templeton Strong

A Natural Curiosity - Geoff Wisner's Blog
Saturday, December 06, 2014

Coming in 2016: THOREAU’S WILDFLOWERS, illustrated by Barry Moser!

imageI am delighted to report that I have just signed a contract with Yale University Press to publish my next book, Thoreau’s Wildflowers! The book is scheduled to appear in the spring of 2016.

Thoreau’s Wildflowers is a selection of observations from Thoreau’s Journal between 1850 and 1861, arranged by the day of the year. The text is illustrated with more than 200 long-unavailable black and white drawings by Barry Moser, first published in the 1979 book Flowering Plants of Massachusetts. I am very grateful to Mr. Moser for allowing me to reprint this beautiful work.

Thoreau’s Wildflowers also includes an introduction by myself, and Ray Angelo‘s classic essay ”Thoreau as Botanist.”

For a taste of what you’ll find in the book, follow me on Twitter at @ThoreausFlowers.

Posted by geoff on 12/06 at 04:52 PM
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Categories: ArtBooksThoreau

A Natural Curiosity - Geoff Wisner's Blog
Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A page from Thoreau’s Journal

This is a page from Thoreau’s Journal, scanned from a copy of the original volume held at the Morgan Library & Museum in New York. It startles me a bit to see the sketch of a familiar object like an acorn embedded in text that looks all but incomprehensible.

It’s a testament to the quality of the Journal that Bradford Torrey and Francis Allen were willing to decipher all two million words of it, then edit it for publication in the 1906 edition.

Today a team of editors at Princeton are revisiting the Journal for an annotated scholarly edition that has already taken longer to produce than the 24 years Thoreau spent writing it in the first place. Volume 1 appeared in 1981, Volume 8 is the most recent, and there is still a long way to go. 

Posted by geoff on 10/28 at 01:02 PM
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Categories: BooksNatureThoreau

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