“Hippias Minor” by Plato (translated by Nicholas D. Smith)

In this dialogue Socrates asks questions of Hippias, a sophist visiting Athens. The discussion is ostensibly about the moral differences between Achilles and Odysseus, but the argument turns to much larger themes of truthfulness in the context of voluntary action, degrees of knowledge, and the wholeness of man.

Socrates begins by stating something of his method, “But it is always my custom to pay attention when someone is saying something, especially when the speaker seems to me to be wise. And because I desire to learn what he means, I question him thoroughly and examine and place side-by-side the things he says, so I can learn. If the speaker seems to me to be some worthless person, I neither ask questions nor do I care what he says. This is how you’ll recognize whom I consider wise. You’ll find me being persistent about what’s said by this sort of person, questioning him so that I can benefit by learning.” Socrates is both stating the modesty in his method of interrogating others for the truth, while he is praising the worthiness of Hippias, even as he contradicts him at the same time. Throughout this dialogue, one gets the feel that Socrates’ praise for Hippias is faint indeed.

However, Socrates is nothing if not always modest. Later he states, “But I have one wonderfully good trait, which saves me: I’m not ashamed to learn. I inquire and ask questions and I’m very grateful to the one who answers…. I’ve never denied it when I’ve learned anything, pretending what I learned was my own discovery.” Finally, Socrates admits that philosophy is hard and one should be expected to waver, to struggle, and to change one’s mind. Speaking directly to Hippias (and more generally about sophists), Socrates says, “On these matters I waver back and forth and never believe the same thing. And it’s not surprising at all that I or any ordinary person should waver. But if you wise men are going to do it too—that means something terrible for us, if we can’t stop our wavering even after we’ve put ourselves in your company.”

“The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas” by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis (translated by Gregory Rabassa)

This is a fictional memoir written by a corpse. That should make this novel weird enough. The eponymous hero, Cubas, also has a flippant way of recapitulating the details of his life. He writes of his undertaking, “this book is written with apathy, with the apathy of a man now freed of the brevity of the century, a supinely philosophical work, of an unequal philosophy, now austere, now playful, something that neither builds nor destroys, neither inflames nor cools, and, yet, it is more than a pastime and less than an apostolate.” Cubas was a life-long bachelor and an aristocratic layabout in 19th century Rio de Janeiro. He does not claim to be anything more or less. He gives an idea of his philosophy of life when he writes, “tight boots are one of the best bits of good fortune on earth, because making one’s feet hurt they give occasion to the pleasure of taking them off. Punish your feet, wretch, then unpunish them and there you have cheap happiness, at the mercy of shoemakers and worthy of Epicurus.” He is marvelously self-centered. He is not overly proud, but unrepentant. He often expounds on (in order to relieve?) his own conscience, “Ventilate your conscience! That’s all I can tell you…. So I, Bras Cubas, discovered a sublime law, the law of equivalencies of windows, and I established the fact that the method of compensating for a closed window is to open another, so that morality can continuously aerate one’s conscience.” Later, when reflecting on the religious compunctions of a poor old maid he has put up in a house as cover for his liaisons with his married lover Cubas again reflects, “vice many times is manure for virtue. And that doesn’t prevent virtue from being a fragrant and healthy bloom. My conscience agreed and I went to open the door for Virgilia.”

Much of his memoir focuses on his intimate escapades with this one true love of his life, the one who got away, Virgilia. Initially, after he was spurned as her suitor, he writes, “I’d stayed awake a good part of the night. Because of love? Impossible. One doesn’t love the same woman twice, and I, who would love that one some time later, wasn’t held at that time by any other bond than a passing fantasy.” Cubas often talked about how little he liked to talk about money. Reflecting on an incident with a beggar, “I took out my wallet, picked a five mil-reis note—the least clean one—and gave it to him.” Throughout much of his memoir Cubas digresses into his method of writing it. “I went on my way, unraveling an infinite number of reflections that I think I’ve lost completely. They would have been material for a good and maybe happy chapter. I like happy chapters, they’re my weakness.” Later on in his memoir, he self-edits, justifying his previous word choice, “If the reader remembers Chapter XXIII he will observe that this is the second time I’ve compared life to an overflow, but he must also notice that this time I add an adjective: perpetual. And God knows the strength of an adjective, above all in young, hot countries.”

“Man Tiger” by Eka Kurniawan

Normally murder mysteries do not reveal the names of the corpse and the murderer in their first sentence. This novel has elements of pure fantasy mixed with a realistic window of modern day Indonesia. The scenes of rural life, the natural beauty of the countryside, and the vibrancy of the ordinary villagers all keep you enthralled the whole way through. And the plot still does manage to keep you guessing. 

“Existentialism is a Humanism” by Jean-Paul Sartre

This short lecture really sums up Sartre’s version of existentialism. It starts with the fact that existence precedes essence foremost in man. Man chooses. Life is all about choices made and choices abandoned, but in all that man is the chooser. “Reality exists only in action…. Reality alone counts.” Furthermore, in choice there is responsibility: a responsibility for one’s own actions affecting the self, but also a responsibility affecting mankind. In one’s conception of the self, in one’s morals, in one’s subjectivity one is also affecting humanity at large. There is a commitment to live authentically in the world and primarily not to live in bad faith with oneself.

“A Million Windows” by Gerald Murnane

As is the case with many of Murnane’s works of fiction, this novel has layers of story built upon layers. The stories are embedded within stories. “For the sake of the undiscerning reader, I shall repeat the simple fact that I am the narrator of this work and not the author.” Also similar to some of his previous work, this novel is more about the craft of writing than any so-called plot. In fact, Murnane repeatedly mines the same basic facts about his family and his past, all completely fictionalized, of course. “I recall no reviewer or critic who insisted that fictional characters ought not to be discussed as though they are persons living in the world where books of fiction are written and read.” The beauty of Murnane is that the reader gets so wrapped up in the asides and tangents that if one is not careful one can lose track of who exactly is speaking and what is story and what is commentary. “For him, the personages who had first appeared while he was reading some or another fictional text were no less alive after the text itself had come to an end than while he pored over it.” Of course, nothing is real. It is all fiction. “Fiction, even what I call true fiction, is fiction. An author demeans fiction if he or she requires the reader to believe that what happens in his or her mind while reading is no different from what happens over his or her shoulder or outside his or her window.” Murnane spends the most time in this novel ruminating on the art of narration. “The narrator of the this present work of fiction is one who strives to keep between the actual self and his seeming self and his seeming reader such seeming-distances as will maintain between all three personages a lasting trust.” He reveals on the very first page of this novel, “one of the commonest devices used by writers of fiction is the withholding of essential information.” This is sort of like a magician revealing his trick right before he goes ahead and deceives you. “Even the discerning reader who is also a student of narration — even he or she might struggle so far to classify the narrator of this present work and might struggle further as the work becomes more complicated in later pages. It is not for me to define myself, as it were.” The mystery should satisfy the reader even to the very last page. “But what could I have been hoping to learn about the flesh-and-blood author, the breathing author of these and who knows how many other pages of true fiction?”