“Inside Out: A Personal History of Pink Floyd” by Nick Mason

I thoroughly enjoyed this one. “Inside Out” is a personal look at the evolution of Pink Floyd by drummer Nick Mason. Not only is it interesting and educational, but the writing was flawlessly succinct. (I could really write this on how well edited the book was, and how easy it was to read.)

I have always imagined Pink Floyd using psychedelics to perfect their psychedelic sound. It made sense to conclude that. Listening to them certainly seemed to channel another realm of human experience.

But the musicians in Pink Floyd weren't acid-dropping star gazers, an image I couldn't relate to in the first place because I'm not a drug user. They were hardworking, their music growing out of their constant experiments rather than a fog of chemicals, their ambition and consistency grounded in their middle-class background and college education.

Though none of them actually finished college (Mason, Wright, and Waters had met in architecture school), they used what they learned, mixing technical expertise with free expression: the freedom to create a sound unhindered by technique, with the order of design.

They were self-taught musicians who felt comfortable wandering away from known paths. Mason remarks late in the book that they eventually stopped playing the song “Echoes” live because the younger musicians they played with in the late 80s were too accurate, too inhibited by their professional training.

Though they certainly partook in drugs occasionally—Alcohol mostly, some marijuana, and Richard Wright's cocaine addiction—no one died. No one overdosed. No one was so high that they couldn't perform.

It was refreshing (and ironic) to find that the band most thought of as psychedelic didn't divine their sound from psychedelics, but from a mix of hard work and play.

I appreciated this fact deeply. Pink Floyd was no fluke or accident. A lot of hard work and careful planning—with a heavy dose of free spirit—went into the albums they made. Their songs were borne from consistent effort to find perfection rather than from listless tinkering. Because I am not a drug user, I could not relate to the false image I had of the band, even though I enjoyed their music. But knowing the truth, I now realize that their process is repeatable. I personally can strive for what they strove for. We are on the same field.

Like all bands, fame didn't come easy and keeping it together at the top was more difficult. Their “best musician” as Nick Mason called their first lead guitarist left the band before they really got started, and their second lead guitarist and singer went crazy partly as a consequence of their growing fame, but also as a result of getting caught in the drug culture the others avoided.

They cut their teeth in the mid-60s in London clubs and Freak Outs, but while their fans watched on in starry-eyed wonder, tripping on drugs, high on the music and the light show, Pink Floyd was, according to Mason, too ambitious to pay attention to the lifestyle around them (except for Syd Barrett). They were working class, they were dedicated to making it as musicians, motivated by what they played and the reaction they got from those listening.

Syd Barrett unfortunately and inevitably succumbed to the lifestyle of the people around the band. Once they lost their lead singer and guitarist, they had to regroup, take on a new guitarist (David Gilmour) and point themselves in another direction, slightly away from the psychedelic scene and more toward an instrumental focus. Perhaps into the heart of the sun, as they would, within ten years, find themselves at the top of the world.

“Why We Hate” by Rush W. Dozier, Jr. was an interesting book. Dozier substantiated many of the ideas I have had about hatred: namely, that hatred is a “normal” human defense mechanism. Racism, for example, would not be possible without the human instinct to regard what is different as dangerous (the opposite of our instinct to be curious, but something that would have protected us from poisonous fruit or venomous snakes in the wild; it serves less purpose in our relatively safe, modern environment).

Dozier makes the case that we hate because of positive evolutionary behaviors. That basically (and to simplify it a great deal, I don't doubt) we are prejudiced and commit violence against each other largely for the same reasons we don't like spiders and wish to step on them. The same processes are happening in each case. We see something that our brain interprets as dangerous and we react to it. The problem of course is that extreme hatred is out of place in society, and the hurtful effects of prejudice and hatred reach far beyond the individuals involved.

Dozier explained his theories in simple, straight-forward language, making the book easy to read as he discussed how the brain processes external stimuli, how it reacts to its own emotions, but lacking in the book is any clear way to use these insights.

He writes that, someday, hate will be treated as a medical disorder, in the realm of psychiatry. But if this book shows the clearest picture of hate that we have to go on, it's obvious to me that we're lacking a sure-footed road to the future.

Or, perhaps, the insights are the solutions we need to live without hate. Understanding the “reptilian” primitive brain structures of the amygdala which cause fight or flight reactions, understanding how children learn violence at a young age—how violent adults were once children who were indoctrinated into a culture of hate—how mental illness and everyday stress can lead to anger, even rage. Chapter 6, “The Primitive Mind” was especially interesting to me.

I was encouraged that Dozier dedicated part of the book to self-hate; depression, eating disorders, and even suicide. The current “gun control” battle in the wake of the Sandy Hook shooting is an example of how we ignore suicide in our culture. Around 19,000 people shoot and kill themselves in America each year, yet the media attention remains on mass shootings that take fewer than 100 lives a year on average. Both are tragedies, but the former is more personal to many of us, and it's not enough to discuss hatred without discussing the hatred of self that leads to depression and negative self-images.

That said, the book didn't really say anything I hadn't already heard before or hadn't thought of myself. I didn't get as much out of it as I expected, based on the title, and never having read a book specifically on hatred (it was the book I was most excited about on my first trip to the library). Apparently I've absorbed most of this information by reading psychology books—which this is certainly not. So “Why We Hate” was little more than a boost to my own ego (verifying my ideas), and perhaps something I'll remember to bring up next time I'm debating violence—“Why don't you read...” For someone new to the subject it may be a perfect overview.

There are a few downsides to “Why We Hate.” Because it was written so shortly after 9/11, and by a journalist (instead of a doctor or scientists), the book comes off as opportunism. I would recommend it to someone only because I don't know of a better book, or any other book on hatred specifically. It's a one-stop shop for understanding hate and anger. You'll find the same information on the internet, in documentaries, etc. Because it glossed over as much information as it gave, and because I felt too many “real life” examples of hatred were used (and sometimes reused) to make an emotional point instead of showing statistical or experimental data, “Why We Hate” could have been titled “Hatred for Dummies.”

One interesting note to make on the book is that on each page, at the top where the chapter titles are, is a swastika. I thought that was the most interesting part of the whole book, more so than anything Dozier wrote, because it shows the polarity we have towards symbols (as well as people) better than any word can.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and in the Western world the swastika is a symbol of hatred. In the Eastern world the swastika is often a symbol—representing the sun—of peace and renewal.

I can understand why he used the swastika. There's no better symbolism for how low humans can sink into violence, or be lifted out of our apparent animal instincts.

“Jingo” by Terry Pratchett

Note: This isn't going to be a review on a novel so much as a review on an author and myself.

I don't often take, at least immediately, someone's suggestion to read a particular book or author. I usually file these in the back of my mind for when I'm bored or am looking for something new to read. But this time I asked my friend, Daniel Golightly, what he usually reads. He told me, and I went to work finding it.

On my first trip to the library I picked up “Jingo” by Terry Pratchett. It's a novel of Discworld.

I was thoroughly pleased with it. Not only was “Jingo” a fun read, but it had the potential to be very influential on me as a writer.

I cannot claim, by any stretch of my imagination (and how far it can stretch!), that I am well read. But in my experience, though stories, plots, and characters can be vastly different from one author to another, writing style is much less flexible. I can spot Ayn Rand from Stephen King and Anne Rice from Michael Crichton, but all of these authors have a very serious, straight-forward tone and voice. You'll find nothing unusual here. And to a degree, many other far less-known authors write similarly.

Then there are authors like Terry Pratchett, who if I were to compare him with anyone it would be to the outright silliness of Piers Anthony's Xanth series.

But you know what? For as much as I like Anthony, I like more, at least after one novel, Terry Pratchett. He retains the silliness, the wit, the humor, as well as the seriousness—which makes his story not only fun, but believable. In Anthony's Xanth series I'm constantly reminded that it's just a story. Not so with Pratchett. I was there.

Pratchett made me think more than I have in years: on writing. I always read with both a reader's and editor's hat on, and I can enjoy a story even as I'm dissecting it (or perhaps because I'm dissecting it), but “Jingo,” a simple story about an island floating up from the bottom of the ocean, and the chaos it creates between two neighboring nations, has me thinking a lot about the writing process itself, specifically my style. I'm often thinking about how to write good characters, good scenes, good settings, good plots and endings, but rarely do I ever think about my style, my voice, my tone, probably because so much of what I read is already like how I write.

I'm obviously not going to start writing like Sir Pratchett. That would be foolish on several levels. But this novel is making me think things like “Hey, I could really loosen up a bit when I write.” or “Why don't I start writing with a little more wit?” “I should go ahead and take those risks that I've always wanted to take.” “I don't have to write so close to the vest.” “I can afford to be creative not just in my story, but in my style.”

To put it simply, “Jingo” is thawing the ice on the continent of my creativity. Pratchett has shown me that there are more ways to write than with a serious tone all the time—and yet still write for adults.

But there's something else about “Jingo” that's got me thinking. This time it's to do with where I fit in genre-wise. I've never really been sure where to place my own writing. I can be very serious, very deadly serious and dramatic, even sinister (think Stephen King). But often times I find myself writing with a softer touch, and my characters almost seem to take on the characteristics of YA fiction (Young Adult). They want to play, without the seriousness. They want to grow up, to face challenges, but not take the world as if it's important.

I always assumed, to write that way, adults wouldn't be interested (I was very self-conscious about this!). But I am not a YA novelist, nor do I want to be because I like the flexibility of having my characters cuss, kill someone in a bloody scene, or even explore their sexuality. I want to be myself, but who I am as a writer doesn't seem to fit into a more specific label than “fantasy.” This may also be because on one hand I see children as free-spirited, carefree, and on the other adults being oh-so-serious and facing everything in life as if it were life or death.

I also incorporate elements of many different genres, from steampunk to gothic to YA to horror to science fiction to romance. But don't go reading my stories because you're looking for one of these, because any one “thing” is drowned out by all the rest. It's like I write with the genre of no genre. Oh, how very Bruce Lee!

But, hey, Pratchett does it, and this Pratchett guy, he's famous! He's written dozens of stories. He's a knight for God's sake! Yeah, that's Sir Terry Pratchett to us peasants. And I have no idea where to place him. And it works, at least for him. So what should I do as an author? My impression after reading “Jingo” is to simply not care, and just write.

What is my overall impression of “Jingo”? Well, when I first started reading it, the story and characters almost seemed to be fit for children. But I was enjoying it, and as I dug deeper I found that “Jingo” obviously wasn't a children's story. There was cussing, sexual innuendos, violence.

I was liking the story a lot by the time I started figuring out where my mind was going on the topic of writing. It's a pretty good book. I'm definitely going to seek out more Terry Pratchett stories.

I think I'm hooked.

And I'm also going to loosen up a bit with my own writing. Pratchett shows me that there is an audience of people who can appreciate the serious mixed with the not so serious. It just has to be a good story, with interesting and likeable characters, that moves readers along.

And that's that, right? Nothin' to it!

“The Science of Yoga: The Risk and Rewards” by William J. Broad

At around 220 pages, The Science of Yoga is not a very long book, but it is a very demanding one—if only because it contradicts so many mistaken beliefs. William J. Broad attempts to bring perspective to this ancient practice, not to disprove it, but to make it better.

Broad takes Yoga seriously. He's benefited personally from it (having practiced for thirty years), but has also been injured while practicing. He is not so naïve to ignore the inherent dangers: that some poses can cause chronic damage to nerves and tissue, and even cause fatal blood clots.

Yoga can save, but it can also destroy. It can kill.

Due to Broad's past injury, I question his objectivity at times, as he appears to have an ax to grind with the Yoga community, which flaunts Yoga's benefits while hiding its dangers; but to any reader who can read objectively, there's enough of the good and bad to see both sides. And Broad doesn't blame as much as he explains why modern Yoga is the way it is today—for better or for worse.

In The Science of Yoga William J. Broad discusses “yoga myths,” statements about Yoga's ability to increase metabolism and oxygen. He finds these myths to be false when science explores Yoga through its rigorous analysis. In fact, science has found that Yogic breathing decreases metabolism significantly, and though Yoga has been found to be uplifting and relaxing, this is due to increased carbon dioxide, not oxygen.

Broad attacks the myth that Yoga is sufficient for exercise. Though Yoga fails to meet cardiovascular standards, he asserts that Yoga's ability to increase flexibility and boost mood should not be ignored. But, he warns, Yoga is for cross-trainers, for those already in shape, and not for the weekend warrior who only exercises once or twice a week.

He discusses the history of Yoga (my favorite part). I learned that much of what we practice today as Yoga is not necessarily thousands of years old, but was perfected in the twentieth century by Indians, and brought to America where it has undergone even further evolution.

The Science of Yoga won't explain poses or breathing, but it'll give the reader a deeper understanding of Yoga's origins and not only its risks and rewards, but why the risks and rewards are what they are, and Broad sources most of what he has to say.

Unfortunately, the first half of the book was more interesting than the second half. Chapter five, on healing, seemed to unravel as he went back to the topic of the previous chapter, “The Risk of Injury,” attacking the Yoga community (and rightly so) for attempting to act as physical therapists without the required education. The final two chapters, on sexuality (with more warnings) and creativity, were anticlimactic compared to the book's eventful and knowledgeable beginning.

I didn't like at all his images of “Yoga in a century or two” in his epilogue. In the first he sees a Yoga that is even more splintered and disorganized than it is now, with more hucksters and misguided information. In the second he dreams of Yoga being accepted as medicine, with Yoga teachers as rigorously educated and qualified as doctors are today. I found both extreme, but especially his idea of “colleges of yoga medicine.”

Should Yoga, a spiritual practice, be put into the hands of government or other powerful institutions? Would that even be legal? It would, seemingly overnight, remove the upstarts and hucksters from the Yoga community, but at the cost of Yoga being open to everyone. Yoga would become as expensive as medicine, if teachers had to be trained as if they were practicing medicine. Though Yoga is in its Wild West stage now, it is inexpensive and overwhelmingly beneficial, even if some yogis do get hurt—while athletes get hurt in every sport, no one is rushing out to regulate weight lifting or running.

As Broad states earlier in his book, the general Yoga community is in no hurry to change its practices or its image. Yoga, for now, will be up to each individual practitioner to manage for him- or herself.

So buyer beware.

A very short preface: This is book review #1. Since I'm now living in a larger city, the public library has much more to offer. I was there a week ago and checked out several books, and in the course of reading I decided that for any book that I enjoyed (any book that I actually finished), I would review it. As if the subject of my first review is a foreshadowing of my goals for this series, I want to state now that I have no goal, no intention. I'm simply going to write these for the experience itself. It may turn out to be a bit like homework, it may help me hone my critiquing skills, it may draw a larger audience to my blog, as my anxiety series did, or it may simply give me something to do while I give most of my creative attention to my novel. I'm fine with all of these, more, and nothing at all.

And at the risk of contradicting myself, I hope you enjoy what follows.

~*~

“Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind” by Shunryu Suzuki

I was thankful for having the opportunity to read Shunryu Suzuki's famous book Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. It's almost silly to write a book review on it. It's just 133 pages long, and it is quite repetitive in his simple, yet effective style. And perhaps because it is simple, it is difficult for me to explain in words the text itself. It's much easier explaining what it is not...as is often the case with Eastern philosophy.

Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind is not your typical self-help book, or even your typical religious/philosophy book. It doesn't explain to you what you need to do to achieve a goal, but tells the Zen practitioner that he must have faith that he has already reached the goal—just by practicing.

It is not, as is Alan Watts' book “The Way of Zen,” an explanation of Zen Buddhism. It gives very little history, and that is anecdotal. It doesn't explain terminology, and in fact, Suzuki emphasizes that the philosophy behind Buddhism, though helpful, is far from the point of actually practicing Zen. In the end it can be helpful, but is not necessary. The most important thing is to sit, and to breathe.

It is one of the best books I've read on the topic of Buddhism. I have in the past shied away from Buddhism because articles and books I read tend to be very concept-heavy, and so rather dogmatic. The Buddha himself wrote nothing of his enlightenment, and what little he gave to his students would have been given by a notable silence, or a simple analogy. Yet volumes have been written on the nature and practice of Buddhism in the last 2,000 years. Suzuki cuts immediately back to the original idea behind Buddhism, ignoring the “truths” and the logic and the philosophy in order to emphasize the practice.

The book is repetitive, but this is no disadvantage to the reader. Suzuki repeats only a few concepts, or themes, but from different angles of inquiry. He is not explaining a broad subject which requires many ideas, but a very narrow one, and if he uses many ideas it is only to help the simplicity of it sink in. It's clear that his purpose isn't to give an outline of Zen, as so many others have done, but to give instead a very detailed exposition of its heart. He very nearly puts the heart of Zen Buddhism in the reader's hands.

Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind is not a book that you will be satisfied reading just once, then put on a shelf or return to the library. I read it in two sittings and knew by the time I was done I was missing a great deal of what Suzuki was saying. I came out of that first reading with only a couple favorite chapters, words that spoke to me on a deep level. In recent days I've gone back to cherry pick various chapters, taking the time to study them, and have found that with fresh eyes passages that I had initially thought nothing of now seem profound.

There is a wealth of information in Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, and because it is presented the way it is, different people, at different stages of their practice, or of life, will likely find different chapters enlightening. That is the advantage of Suzuki's repetition, offering a variety of flavors of the same fruit. There is even a chapter on repetition, where he asks the reader not to lose the spirit of repetition. This theme is a perfect analogy for what Zen actually is.

All Zen is really is a practice of everyday living. It's a practice of finding joy in the ordinary and very repetitious (and often mundane) activities of our lives. It's doing the dishes for the sake of doing the dishes, with a smile, and with no mind for anything else.

“The most important things in our practice are our physical posture and our way of breathing. Instead of having a deep understanding of the teaching, we need a strong confidence in our teaching, which says originally we have Buddha nature. Our practice is based on this faith.” - Shunryu Suzuki