Finally. A well thought out and well executed book about a major movement in American art that is often dismissed as being one dimensional. Dennis' introspective look into the most revered "Regionalist" artists not only offers engaging scholarship, but a very good education in American social history as well. A must read for anyone who thinks they know what "Regionalism" is.

This book makes you rethink any ideas you might have about Regionalism. Whether you agree with James Dennis or not is up to you, but he certainly does bring up some very interesting ideas. The basic ideas of the Regionalism school are initially laid out for the reader, and from this beginning it is already possible to see the weak foundation of the very definition of "Regionalism," as it was defined NOT by the artists, but by their critics and the public. The sterotyping generalities inherent in this 'school' set the stage for Dennis' questioning of the similarities of the work of Thomas Hart Benton, Grant Wood, and John Steurat Curry, the triumvirate of Regionalism. The author proceeds to explicate the inherent differences between the 3 artists' work, as well as the eventually obvious flawed general definition of "Regionalism." Dennis breaks down his discussions into realism vs. abstraction, realistic subject matter vs. fantasies, the ideas of nationalism and fascism in the artists' work, their varying depictions of women, and finally compares the three Regionalists to three contemporary modernists, Charles Demuth, Charles Sheeler, and Marsden Hartley. Dennis concludes with the assertion that the so-called "Regionalists" are in many ways more "modern" than their modernists contemporaries. The book has plenty of pictures, sadly only in black and white, and thus the book is a surprisingly quick read. Each chapter is thorough however, and must be studied to be fully understood. The reader should have some art historical background, and some knowledge of the history of the first half of the 20th century. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in Regionalism, and the history of American art. Makes you think.

This is a well written and engaging look into the importance of the Mandan and Hidatsa Indian villages as a pivotal point in trade systems during the late 1700's through early 1800's. Being located along the Missouri River in present day North Dakota, the Mandan/Hidatsa Indians traded horses, robes and furs to Canadian Fur Companies in return for guns and ammunition. They would then trade these goods for other commodities from various Northern Plains Indian Tribes, who previously may have traded with other tribes or the Spaniards further south. In part one, the authors give a lengthy but excellent and relevant chronological introduction as to the fur trade history of this geographical area. Part two includes five journals (or excerpts) of some of these Northwest Fur Company traders' first hand accounts depicting life as it was: John Macdonell's descriptions of the Indians, geography and trade in the 1790's; David Thompson's narrative describing his harrowing 1797 journey from Fort Assiniboine to the Mandan villages in the dead of winter; Larocque's two narratives, the "Missouri (1804)" and "Yellowstone (1805)" Journals, the latter of which, in the company with Crow Indians, he may possibly have been the first white man to descend the Yellowstone River, pre-dating William Clark by more than a year. The final narrative is of Charles McKenzie's four journeys to the Mandan villages (1804-1806), the first two in company with Larocque's expeditions. This is a fascinating read for fur trade enthusiasts and/or those whose interests are in early western exploration.

In this reenactment of the ancient Western myth of Faustus, Thomas Mann tells us the story of German composer Adrian Leverkuhn, a man obsessed with themes of mathematics, theology and music. Leverkuhn is intent on composing the greatest and most original work of music ever thought of, and so, in a tiny village in Italy, expresses his disposition to sell his soul to the devil in order to achieve that. He gets what he wants, and for a number of years he works at another village, in Germany, until he achieves his dream, at a cost so terrible that in the end you will feel the creeps about it.

Intertwined wiht this story, written during WWII, are reflections of another selling of the soul to the devil, this time not by an ambitious individual but by a tormented people, the Germans, humiliated after WWI and in the midst of utter decadence, economic, political and moral. The devil is personified by a man called Adolf Hitler, who promises the Germans a thousand years of power and richness, if only they will support him in destroying the Western civilization, the Jews and international peace. And price the pay they do, but somehow you can not trust the devil and in the end, after the most gruesome conflagration in history, destruction is all the Germans get.

This is not an easy read. It takes concentration and a willingness to digest deep reflections on the subjects mentioned above, like the relationships between mathematics and music, sexuality and theology, and the reflex of the ancient myth on the lives of Leverkuhn (the prostitution of art) and Nazi Germany (the prostitution of hope). However, it is an exceptional work of art and of modern thought, so it is very rewarding.

This is considered by some to be Mann's last great work. Great it is, though perhaps not the monumental triumph equal to the Magic Mountain. This novel is a Faustian story--its hero is the German composer Adrian Leverkuhn, a musician who becomes so tormented with his music and so obsessed with creative genius that he makes a pact with the devil and bargains away his soul for twenty-four years of unparalleled musical ability.

As always, Mann's work is full of philosophical and theological debates, and there is also a good deal of musical discussion here as well. Adrian's deal with the dark one is a metaphor for Germany in the period during and between the two great World Wars. Like his homeland, Adrian becomes obsessed with power and glory, and revolutionizes music to such a great extent that the outside world is repulsed by it. In the end, like Germany, his power and glory come to an end, and as Serenus (the narrator of the story) sits writing in the midst of the allied invasion of Germany, Adrian is finally called to pay his debt.

Mann's narrative is always very compelling, and this is no exception. And, as usual, there is much deeper meaning than what is perceived at the surface, and the poignant and important message of the novel is the danger of becoming over-greedy for power, and of falling victim to one's own ambitions (as both Adrian and Germany do). Adrian loses his ability to love, and he can never regain it, not even when he ultimately seeks redemption. This is a great spin on the Faustian concept, and also a very powerful novel about the effects of the German Reich during World Wars 1 and 2.

Study the mind of a genius and the soul of a mad man. Witness the depths of depression and heights of creation with demonic infection. In Thomas Manns epic rewrite of Goethes Faust we meet a musical genius through the academic eyes of his best friend. A fascinating and disturbing biografy telling the story of Adrian Leverkuhn whose lifespan was shortened by intellectual exhaustion and led towards distanced insanity.

The novel is written during world war II, and the storyteller condemnes the German aggression and nationalsosialism, while he slowly paints a picture of the growth our genius experiences during his development from innocent childhood towards phsycological corruption and breakdown.

A definite read for the "depths of mind"-oriented.

Considered by many to be the greatest German novelest of the 20th Century, Thomas Mann, in his first great novel, Buddenbrooks, chronicles the life and decline of what must be taken to be a typical 19th Century German middle class family. The Buddenbrooks, a conservative and traditional mercantile family (Johann Buddenbrooks, the family patriarch, sells grain for a living), live in a smallish Northern German town in which they, among other characters in the book, figure prominently as both local notables and political players. However, while this is a family chronicle that is reputed to mirror the joys and travails of Mann's own family, what is glaringly absent from Buddenbrooks is any concern or mention of, other than one in passing, any of the great events which forged the fate of modern Germany. While more than likely an intensional omission on the part of Mann, an omission that may be a telling signal to the reader of the insularity of upper middle class life in 19th Century Germany, the chonicle itself seems to suffer somewhat from the fact that the family seems to be relatively unaffected by the wars, the plebian revolutions of the 1940s--or by the great Franco Prussian war of 1870. Beginning in the 1830s, the family sees its business rise in the wake of the chaos brought by Napoleon 25 years earlier: children are born, grow up into different fates and pursuits, and this mirror of the mercantile classes of German hints at the wonders of an essentially modern era that since has been hailed as a national renaissance. Fashionable, comfortable, concerned with reputation, the Buddenbrooks family is not all that unlike many of the upper class families in America. Like the rise of a new nobility that has come to bear upon the ages in the footsteps of industrialization and the democratic impulse, the Buddenbrooks chronicles reveals just how modern in spirit Germany was in an era its people dominated the European spirit.

What carries this novel is its writing. Mann's style is exceptionally malleable: The descriptions are not only evocative, they are often powerfully emotional, full of the spirit of the times and revealing in themselves of the 19th Century German character. The dialogue is impeccable, the characters memorable and, like all family chronicles, the mundane events are not only entertaining and often funny, they are universal as well. All in all, Buddenbrooks was a much more rewarding book to read than I had expected.

LIKE Goethe, to whom he devoted a novel ("The Beloved Returns") and several thoughtful essays, Thomas Mann published his first and most enduringly popular novel at the age of 25. Unlike "The Sorrows of Young Werther" (1774), Goethe's brief epistolary account of the frustrations of life and love leading to the troubled hero's suicide, Mann's "Buddenbrooks" chronicles four generations in the history of a prosperous North German bourgeois family.

The saga picks up the tale of the Buddenbrooks in 1835 at the peak of their financial prosperity and family stability. Old Johann Buddenbrook, son of the founder of the family firm, has just moved the family and the business into one of the most handsome houses in town. By the time the novel ends 42 years later, the aging yet still spirited Tony is almost the only surviving member of the family. Her parents and grandparents, as well as Thomas and a younger sister, have died. Christian is confined to an asylum, and the only male heir is dead. The house has been sold and the firm liquidated. In the course of hundreds of pages we have witnessed a succession of marriages, births, divorces and deaths punctuating the decline of the initially robust family -- a decline brought about by the weakening of business acumen and ethics as the family succumbs to the enticements of wealth, with its inevitable concomitants of sickly religiosity, artistic inclinations and disease.

"Buddenbrooks" constitutes a remarkable achievement for a first novel. Incisive characterizations are achieved through a witty use of German dialects and the adaptation of leitmotif techniques borrowed from Wagner. And the fast-paced narrative is tightly controlled by a structure evident in the parallel between the first chapter and the last: both take place on rainy evenings in the fall, and both feature Tony Buddenbrook in conversations about religion -- first with her rationally skeptical grandfather and at the end with her aged teacher, who has always waged the good fight "against the onslaughts of reason." "Buddenbrooks" encounters a work that is close in style, vocabulary, idiom and tone to the writer's intent and can thus appreciate more fully the monumental achievement of the artist as a young Mann, this is a powerful read!

I read this book for an Independent Study on the works of Thomas Mann. Although I found the beginning a tad slow, it soon picked up. For a book written so long ago, there is a lot in it that applies to life today. In addition, the characters are highly developed, and come alive on the page. You actually CARE about what happens to this family. Thomas Mann wove in so much symbolism and made everything connect so wonderfully, this book, although long, is sure to become a favorite. I would recommend this book to everyone. I have always been an avid reader, but this was my first real reading of Thomas Mann. He does not disappoint.

I've just been travelling for 2 months and decided to pack a ratty second copy of The Magic Mountain with me. A long 'didactic' novel, certainly enough sustenance for any journey. I managed to skim through most of the last half on a 10 hour train trip, so my impressions will be that of a tourist. A friend of mine who read it said it was a powerful work of philosophy. Having studied a certain amount of philosophy, I found certainly a whole wealth of philosophical, sociological and historical musings. But to my annoyance, none of the issues could really be developed into a strongly structured argument. Rather, I feel, Mann was trying to conjure up the intellectual milieu of the time. If anything, Mann, as artist was trying to describe the philosophy of the age from a point above philosophy, weaving a narrative of contradictory thoughts, if you will. I found the characters beautifully drawn and they rebounded off each perfectly. From the indolent, dreamy Hans to the intensely funny Settembri, as he pontificated what was basically an inarticulate philosophical position. The book was at its best in the heated discussions which cemented the foible and nuaced details of the characters. But...between these conversations, I found the prose rather lacklustre and pedestrian. Pages and pages of static descriptions of the sanitarium put me very close to catatonia, until I got woken up by the arrival of some characters. Perhaps I've been spoiled by the writings of some more contemporary writings, but couldn't the passage of time be evoked by ways other than the physical passing of time in the reading process itself? But let it be said, the coherence of the novel is staggering. The tightness of the structure is sustained over the course of this weighty novel. Now that is a feat to be admired.

I grabbed hold of this novel after I read that Susan Sontag read this aloud when she was an adolescent. Harold Bloom, the literar critic from Yale, said that this book requires considerable learning to read and understand. Having read all of it and understood most of it I feel pretty well.

The thrilling part of this novel is when Hans Castrop is educated into the ways of an intellectual life by his mentor Herr Settembrini. In the rarefied air of the mountain sanatorium the two debate art and literature. For an air-chair intellectual like myself it was fun to learn more about the humanities from the discourse of Herr Settembrini.

Like all of Mann's novels and short stories the prose is beautifully written. And as Susan Sontag points out "The Magic Mountain" includes it's own built in literary criticism to help you understand the plot and theme.

For a homosexual, Thomas Mann knows the heterosexual skill of seducing a female. When Hans Castorp was wooing Madame Chucat I had to look over my shoulder and see if anyone spied my embarrassment as I am sure I was blushing. This was such a beautiful narrative that I wanted to subject it to memory so I could use it in the future. (I have the same goal for some of Shakespeare's sonnets and soliloquoys.)

I am still a little confused by the ending. I won't ruin it for you but suffice it to say it is not clear to me which character was the subject of the final few paragraphs. Maybe someone can recommend an Edmund Wilson, Irving Howe, or other informed criticism that I can read.

Nominally, the Magic Mountain is the story of Hans Castorp, a young German man who has just finished school and is about to start on a career in shipbuilding. First, he goes for three weeks to a Swiss sanatorium to visit his cousin, partly for a vacation before he starts his job and partly to convince his cousin, a soldier, that he should rejoin the real world rather than stay in the sanatorium. Castorp gets a check-up from the doctor, learns that he is ill and remains for seven years.

Mann originally started this book as a novella parody of sanatoriums and medicine in the early 20th Century, when doctors were first saying that disease was created by organisms and were enamored with the power of the newly discovered x-rays. However, Mann stopped the novella at the beginning of World War I, and came back to it at after the war, realizing that he had a lot to say and that this story might be a good vehicle through which to say it.

After all, the sanatorium's clientele were the new rich and the old upper class of all the different countries of Europe who began the war. The doctors acted both as the leaders who led them through the insanity and the scientists who made the mechanized, horrible war possible. And Hans Castorp was the age of the soldiers, following the leaders, the aristocracy, the scientists and the intellectuals into battle.

You can read all this into the book, if you wish. The doctors are firm in their belief that they are helping their patients, but are not above shenanigans like "proving" with little evidence that patients should stay year-round, rather than leave for the summer in order to line their wallets. Herr Settembrini and later Herr Nafta are the intellectuals filling Castorp with ideas that seem sometimes benign and sometimes diabolical. Castorp is a young, impressionable man who falls madly in love for a fellow patient, Clavdia, but has no outlet for his emotion, except during Carnival--a truly amazing scene, which alone is enough to make the book worthwhile. No wonder this continent was plunged into a tragic war that left Mann with the need to write this beautiful, tragic book.

I, however, was more interested in Mann's thoughts about of life in general that permeate this book. My favorite example is the way Mann talks about the concept of "getting used to getting used." He describes it in the sense of Castorp who never gets used to the thin air in the Alps and therefore always winds up redfaced and short of breath. However, Castorp does get used to always being redfaced and short of breath. Therefore, he gets used to getting used to the Alps.

This is what part of life is. We are unhappy with many parts of our life (maybe a job, maybe family, maybe friends or lack of friends, or financial resources) and we never get used to that. It leaves us with an empty feeling somewhere in our soul and no way to get rid of it. We never get used to this problem and thus the empty feeling never goes away. But we get used to the empty place in our soul and think of it only occasionally. But it is there crying out.

What a sad thought about life. The solution, of course, is to listen to the part that is crying out rather than squelching it and to try to do something about it. But it is often easier to get used to getting used to a situation than it is to fix the situation. It is easier for Castorp to stay in the mountains rather than breathing normally.

Overall, an excellent book, with ideas that I had never even come close to thinking of before.

A book like this...a review thereof for whom?
A certain amount of "familiarity" with Jackie's style of writing will probably be necessary to get into these three short essays around (and whatever other prepositions you care to put in) the theme of the name, naming, saving the name, keeping the name safe, and the name's refusal to be called by a name.
The first of the essays is titled "Passions" and is the most fragmented of the three in terms of delivery. A bit taxing, really. By way of introduction, Jack commits an abduction by way of "apophasis" -- a kind of an irony, whereby we deny that we say or do that which we especially say or do (OED) -- to bring about the idea of the passions of secrets: Secrets not by being hidden nor by being shared by a privileged few, but the kind that is open to all, perhaps taking on the form of a non-secret.

The second essay has a little more to sink one's teeth into. The subject is "negative theology" as such, or the (im)possibility thereof. A very penetrating reading of Angelus Silesius' The Cherubinic Wanderer.

The third essay, "Khora" -- non-placeable place, the third genus -- is a reading of Plato's notion of that "mother", "nurse", "the Receiver" that gives place for all that "takes place": A placing, a positing of displacement and differance, a displacement by way of oscillation between two types of oscillation: the double exclusion(neither/nor) and the participation(both this and that).

In short, this collection of essays opens up another (that is to say, the very same) horizon of thinking toward what used to be under the care of religion, and as such can be rewarding reading to those who are already aware of the necessity of reworking the language of absence without resorting to what was once named "mysticism". If Nagarjuna were born into the French language in the 20th century, he'd probably speak like this.

The writing on the back cover says that the last essay will be of particular interest to those in the burgeoning fields of "space studies"(architecture, urbanism, design). Interest? Maybe. Clarity and enlightenment? I wouldn't bet my lunch money on it myself.