Platypus of Truth

We have a well stocked fiction library at school.  In light of this, I've devoted this semester to going back and reading a few of the books on my "this comes highly recommended" list.  Near the top of that list is Orson Scott Card's "Ender's Game."  I think it's joined "Foundation" and "Starship Troopers" as a modern political sci-fi masterpiece.  After reading it, I agree that it is an excellent piece of fiction but, as with "The Name of the Rose," I have to say that the message fell flat. Now that I've incurred my readership's collective wrath, let me explain.  I enjoyed the book; I honestly did.  The writing was tight and gripping the way a great novel should be.  From page one, I never wanted to put it down.  The characters were interesting, the pacing flawless, and the world it created was, given its premises, believable.  What fell flat then?  As with Eco, the problem is one of meaning.  "Ender...

I finished reading Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose a few weeks ago and have found myself in the odd place of having very little to say about this highly acclaimed book.  Now, it's not that I didn't like it.  It was a highly enjoyable read and, like Eifelheim by Michael Flynn , did a wonderful job of envisioning the medieval past.  I did, however, feel a sense of being "under-whelmed," especially as I worked my way through Eco's afterword.  The point of the book is that it has no point except for what the reader and author create together, and Eco gets a chance to laugh at your bourgeois expectations.  I may not quite agree with that, but usually I'm at least open to it.  This time, for whatever reason, the usual postmodern/mannerist schpiel fell completely flat. I thought of reading some Foucault to revive my waining interest, but then I remembered something a professor of mine said recently.  The context was a discussion about why there were...

I love watching the films of Japanese director and animator Hayao Miyazaki.  At this point, I've seen almost everything of his I can get my hands on.  There's a simple why to this: great production value and great story-telling.  The closest thing I've seen to it in American film is Pixar, and Lasseter makes no bones about the intellectual and creative debt he owes to Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli.  To put a finer point on it, however, I love Miyazaki's films for their theophanies. Many, if not all, of Miyazaki's films has a moment in which the world as it appears to us, physical and mundane, is pierced by a deeper spiritual reality.  This moment, the revelation of the divine (or theophany), leaves the charaters of Miyazaki's dramas transformed.  Whether it's the Spirit of the Forest in "Princess Mononoke," the Sea Goddess in "Ponyo," or the cloud of slain pilots in "Porco Rosso," these moments of spiritual revelation form the ...