Russian Novelist Ivan Turgenev, "My friend, return to literature!"

Last week I happened upon a copy of "Father's and Sons" by Ivan Turgenev, the 19th century novelist, playwright and short story writer. Here I thought Russian literature was all Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, then this guy shows up!

As I read, slowly, deliciously, each morning, I traveled to rural Russia in the mid-1800s, into the lives of his exquisitely drawn characters. That's what stood out most: the characters. I had them so firmly imagined that I knew who was speaking each line of dialogue -- it was just that great. The descriptions were simple and detailed and so perfectly consistent that you felt them.

It's a story about a son who comes home from college with an older friend, almost a doctor, who was scientifically-oriented and questioned everything, absolutely everything, causing a stir wherever he went. The story essentially debates, "nihilism" and explores the differences between generations, the differences that are always there. It was fun and interesting, yet deeply philosophical, and Turgenev accomplishes this almost without the reader noticing, it is so deftly done.

It was pleasant reading -- not what everyone says about Russian writers having too many characters and convoluted plots.

I was putting myself there with them, riding in a carriage pulled by a troika of horses, sitting in the garden reading, or spending the afternoon listening to someone playing classical music on the piano. No TV, no radio, no Internet, hell -- no electricity! Up at sun up, lighting a lamp at dusk, asking for a woman's hand in marriage, announcing your arrival at an estate, this is how they lived. I thought of what steadiness and peace and tranquility that would be!

But I'm sure the less romantic side of their existence would make the reality perhaps unlikable for a Modern Man. I remember Henry Miller saying in "Tropic of Cancer" how absolutely frustrating it was to not be "at the machine" (typewriter) when some of the most brilliant thoughts hit. They didn't have laptops or voice recorders or portable HD video cameras, no, they had to remember, sift through it and write it down by hand.

They also defended honor with a duel (you know Tolstoy once challenged Turgenev to a duel?), with both men honestly following the ground rules (8 steps, or 10 steps? One or two shots? You load the guns or shall I? Until death or only wounding?)

So at first I had imagined how easy they had it -- no distractions, no buzzing electricity, no electronic music, no big screen TV. But then I thought of just how easy we have it: online dictionaries, thesauri, quick and easy reference searches on Google to find facts. There are no excuses. And we can always go off to the country and camp out, if we want to.

Back to Turgenev: he was such an influence in Russian literature -- world literature -- on his death bed he pleaded with Tolstoy: "My friend, return to literature!"

Which is what I, and all of us, need to do.

Artistic Purity

When you watch live music -- like I did all the time in New Orleans -- sometimes you come upon those rare artists and rare moments when you can feel the "artistic purity" of the musician or singer shining through like pure moonlight skipping across the ocean's waves. I've seen it in other artists too, like painters, sculptors, poets, and dancers.

You see them connecting -- maybe it is their soul connected to God -- and losing themselves in their art, in their performance. It isn't rehearsed, not an act. You can't fake it.

Sometimes I have felt it in myself when I'm writing. It's what Tennessee Williams called, "purity of heart" which he said was about the only noble aim, in the end.

I witnessed this type of artistic purity last night when I was strolling along the boardwalk and observing the beach scene after dark. It turns Bohemian, especially on Sunday nights at Latitude 32, the cafe and hangout on the beachfront, next to another newer cafe, down the block from a pizza joint, and next to a new upscale lounge.

Javier Cabanillas was playing his set of bongos, madly, feverishly, in complete control. Sometimes the speed and precision of his hands became superhuman. He led the campy crowd through the grooves and beats, at times standing to clap and sing, bringing the crowd to its feet. Javier was so lost in his art he didn't notice me standing in the window, transfixed. I scanned the crowd and drank it in. A girl in skimpy shorts dancing awkwardly, couples rocking to and fro, people milling in and out, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Another man, shaved bald, arms bulging from his sleeveless shirt, stood and squeezed in and pulled a few bongos from behind the piano and sat and joined in. A younger man kept time with a cowbell and rimshots on a drum set, and a pretty young girl sat back on a sofa and chimed in with tambourine.

They built to a crescendo and then ended a tune perfectly together. There was applause, and laughter, and joy and Javier stood, wiped his brow and took a long pull off his water bottle. He looked over and I gave him the high sign and clapped directly at him, nodding. "Robert!" he cried, and we exchanged smiles. He sat back, and they started up another frenetic beat. I watched and grinned and slowly faded out of the window, cleansed and pleased, and continued my stroll on the moonlit boardwalk.