The Lemon in China and Elsewhere
By Berthold Laufer, for Journal of the American Oriental Society (1934)
Okay, let me preface this (because I can never focus, damnit) by saying that I have a few articles by Laufer on a variety of topics and I quite like him.
The Lemon in China and Elsewhere: this article is mostly irrelevant, but it presents a discussion of the earliest records of lemons as a medicinal and edible resource in Indian, Chinese, Arabic and European literature. It makes useful reference to Friar Odoric and Ibn Battuta.
(Speaking of which, votes: should I re-read Ibn Battuta? His travel narrative was assigned to me by an enthusiastic art history professor who was teaching a class on Islamic art that I ended up dropping like acid. But I still read Ibn Battuta, because he seemed cool, and my vague, useless recollection of the text is positive. Thoughts?)
I’m skipping over the majority of the article and jumping to the last few pages, where Laufer brings in some of the later European threads of the lemon story. If it becomes important later, note to self: the majority of the article is a detailed chronicle of the lemon as it moves through Eastern literature.
On to Europe: “The earliest references to lemons in India on the part of European travelers are by the two friars, Odoric of Pordenone and Jordanus” (157). Arabic writers note the fruit much earlier (lemons make frequent appearances in Arabian Nights) and Ibn Battuta, like Odoric, details their use in deterring and removing stubborn leeches. Jordanus speaks to the diversity of lemons – some sweet, some sour. Eventually, as Laufer notes, the lemon migrates to Europe and becomes well established in Italy and then Germany and France. It is not until the reign of James I that lemons are definitely cultivated in England.
Is Laufer still alive? He might document the migration of lemons to North America, right to the point that coastal eccentric Jean-Marc planted a huge organic fruit garden/grove in his greenhouse on Denny Island, across the channel from Bella Bella.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
European Voyages in the Indian Ocean and Caspian Sea (article)
European Voyages in the Indian Ocean and Caspian Sea (12th – 15th Centuries)
By Jean Richard, for Iran (1968)
Lord, is this article in rough shape. I read it during one of the moment where I gave in to my base urges: I dragged my ridiculously comfortable second-hand recliner in front of my woodstove, poured myself a glass of wine, and did my reading curled up like a cat in front of the fire. A spark burned a hole through the first three pages of the article, and there are enthusiastic wine stains on most of the pages too. Sorry, Jean Richard.
Most of the research I did over the summer was conducted in my tent, which was pitched at the edge of a cliff overlooking Fitzhugh and Hakai Pass, or on thumping, cacophonous boat rides between Bella Bella and far-flung coastal wilderness gems like Koeye and Goose Island. My copy of the Metrical Version of the Travels spent a brief moment in the sea (I caught it before it sank over the side of the boat) and some of my books still carry a lingering wisp of driftwood firesmoke, splashes of single malt, and the fresh scent of big wilderness.
It’s okay. In a way, it’s like field research. Parts of my thesis will be written while I am in transit, a road- (or ocean-) weary traveler reflecting (with some fondness for embellishment) on matters of dubious import and relevance.
Anyway, on to the European Voyages. This article provides a brief catalogue and discussion of the European presence in the Indian Ocean and Caspian Sea during the period mentioned in the title. It also makes interesting notes on European use of indigenous trade routes in the area.
Of momentary interest to my research is Richard’s thought on William of Rubruck’s contributions to geography and cartography: Rubruck is the first to note that the Caspian Sea is not, in fact, a gulf leading to the “Oceanic Sea” but a sea itself. Also, Richard makes some brief remarks about the center of the pepper trade on the Malabar coast, “a place where there had lived a rich and influential Christian community since the sixth century” (47).
It’s official: my completely useless preamble is significantly longer than my reflections on the article I’m meant to be discussing. I should probably send a fruit basket or a sorry bundle of posies to my unwitting committee. I’m fun to talk to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the first draft on my thesis is primarily comprised of an enthusiastic attempt to phonetically transcribe the amazing sounds the ravens make on my roof to wake me up every morning.
By Jean Richard, for Iran (1968)
Lord, is this article in rough shape. I read it during one of the moment where I gave in to my base urges: I dragged my ridiculously comfortable second-hand recliner in front of my woodstove, poured myself a glass of wine, and did my reading curled up like a cat in front of the fire. A spark burned a hole through the first three pages of the article, and there are enthusiastic wine stains on most of the pages too. Sorry, Jean Richard.
Most of the research I did over the summer was conducted in my tent, which was pitched at the edge of a cliff overlooking Fitzhugh and Hakai Pass, or on thumping, cacophonous boat rides between Bella Bella and far-flung coastal wilderness gems like Koeye and Goose Island. My copy of the Metrical Version of the Travels spent a brief moment in the sea (I caught it before it sank over the side of the boat) and some of my books still carry a lingering wisp of driftwood firesmoke, splashes of single malt, and the fresh scent of big wilderness.
It’s okay. In a way, it’s like field research. Parts of my thesis will be written while I am in transit, a road- (or ocean-) weary traveler reflecting (with some fondness for embellishment) on matters of dubious import and relevance.
Anyway, on to the European Voyages. This article provides a brief catalogue and discussion of the European presence in the Indian Ocean and Caspian Sea during the period mentioned in the title. It also makes interesting notes on European use of indigenous trade routes in the area.
Of momentary interest to my research is Richard’s thought on William of Rubruck’s contributions to geography and cartography: Rubruck is the first to note that the Caspian Sea is not, in fact, a gulf leading to the “Oceanic Sea” but a sea itself. Also, Richard makes some brief remarks about the center of the pepper trade on the Malabar coast, “a place where there had lived a rich and influential Christian community since the sixth century” (47).
It’s official: my completely useless preamble is significantly longer than my reflections on the article I’m meant to be discussing. I should probably send a fruit basket or a sorry bundle of posies to my unwitting committee. I’m fun to talk to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the first draft on my thesis is primarily comprised of an enthusiastic attempt to phonetically transcribe the amazing sounds the ravens make on my roof to wake me up every morning.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Interlude
Reflective Interlude (because sometimes your stomach twists in a knot when you look at the daunting stack of articles on your desk, and you have to take a deep breath and dig down to find the roots of your interest and passion).
Throughout my childhood, I spent a lot of time with an amazing man by the name of Ed (“Pops”) Martin. Pops was a community icon, well known for his incredible ability as a master storyteller.
When my father migrated to Bella Bella thirty-five years ago from his home in Ontario, Pops was one of his first friends in this small indigenous community. In fact, Pops took him in and adopted him, under Heiltsuk law, as his son.
In our culture and under our law, the family links you forge through traditional adoption are strong as blood ties, and weave you into a whole family. So, Pops took in my brother and I, when we came along, as his grandchildren. I grew up listening to his stories.
Pops had a rough go under the residential school system, and when he returned to Bella Bella to pick up the pieces of his life, he put away our culture and our language in a place far from his daily life. Throughout most of his adulthood, he repressed them. It wasn’t until late in his life that he let them back in, and to everyone’s amazement (and joy), his powerful grasp of our traditional language and the First Generation stories that tell our history as a people remained intact.
Woven together with his own life’s story – his experience on the land as a trapper and in the variety of occupations he adopted in his life – his recollections of family moments and the history of our community – the traditional narratives and oral historical methods that helped him to preserve a piece of our culture we nearly lost – the greater story that Ed told, piece by piece, throughout his life, was compelling and beautiful to say the very least.
I remember him admonishing me, when I asked him why he was telling me the same traditional story he’d told me the day before, that we learn by repetition and reinvention. He never told stories the exact same way, though he told them dozens and hundreds of times in his old age. Sometimes an image or a phrase or an event would migrate from one story to another. Sometimes the sequence of events would change. Sometimes the raven would transform into a loon or a deer or a wolf. Sometimes the moral would be located in a different moment, a different sentiment, a different sentence.
And sometimes, it was hard to discern where Pops’ life left off and the storytelling began. Sometimes, in his stories, he was the trickster raven. Sometimes his fishing buddies in a fond recollection of the cannery days seemed pretty similar to the figures of myth and legend. But what it taught me was that our identity as indigenous people is inextricably linked to place, and the stories associated with those places. I am the places my people come from, and I am the raven and the wolf and the deer and the First Woman. And in the end, what I amount to is just a story (I hope it’s a good one).
Maybe what appeals to me most about Mandeville is the space he creates to wear him like a garment. “He” is a fabrication. There is no Mandeville, and everyone is Mandeville. He is not rooted to just one place, one origin – he uproots, and transplants himself in a diverse range of wild and beautiful places. And in doing so – through inventing an identity that is inextricably linked with a rambling concept of nature and place – by inventing a self that is reflects a compelling impression of the exotic – by inventing a story that is many narratives, all of them invented and true even if they are not real – in doing all these things, if you read them just the right way, he teaches you how to invent yourself through storytelling.
It’s the same thing, really, that Pops used to do. In their way, they were both trickster-figures. They both blurred the boundaries between invention and recollection, roots and imagination, culture and perception. It’s not about fact or truth. It’s about how you receive the story, how you adopt it, and how you pass it on. That’s why I don’t care, frankly, who the “real” author of the Travels might be. That’s why I don’t mind that people have proven (Heavens, no!) that the narrative contains invention and plagiarism. At the end of the day, don’t you fall asleep imagining yourself traversing those incredible landscapes? Don’t you wish you could sit down across the table from Mandeville-the-imagined-figure, put down a bottle of bourbon, and start swapping stories like a couple of old soldiers – like a pair of old friends?
I miss Pops. He’s one of those people whose loss can never be reconciled. It’s been years since he passed away, but when I close my eyes, I can still see every wrinkle with perfect clarity. I can still see his twisted, arthritic hands gesturing wildly to punctuate an enthusiastic story. I can still hear every nuance of his cracking voice. I think he would have liked Mandeville. I think, next summer, that I’ll take a copy of the Travels to his mortuary pole with a bottle of bourbon and share some Mandeville stories with him. I’m not very good at compartmentalizing – I’ll probably end up weaving in some threads of Heiltsuk lore, and even some fond recollections of special moments I shared with my Pops. But that’s fitting, isn’t it?
The truth about stories, huh.
Throughout my childhood, I spent a lot of time with an amazing man by the name of Ed (“Pops”) Martin. Pops was a community icon, well known for his incredible ability as a master storyteller.
When my father migrated to Bella Bella thirty-five years ago from his home in Ontario, Pops was one of his first friends in this small indigenous community. In fact, Pops took him in and adopted him, under Heiltsuk law, as his son.
In our culture and under our law, the family links you forge through traditional adoption are strong as blood ties, and weave you into a whole family. So, Pops took in my brother and I, when we came along, as his grandchildren. I grew up listening to his stories.
Pops had a rough go under the residential school system, and when he returned to Bella Bella to pick up the pieces of his life, he put away our culture and our language in a place far from his daily life. Throughout most of his adulthood, he repressed them. It wasn’t until late in his life that he let them back in, and to everyone’s amazement (and joy), his powerful grasp of our traditional language and the First Generation stories that tell our history as a people remained intact.
Woven together with his own life’s story – his experience on the land as a trapper and in the variety of occupations he adopted in his life – his recollections of family moments and the history of our community – the traditional narratives and oral historical methods that helped him to preserve a piece of our culture we nearly lost – the greater story that Ed told, piece by piece, throughout his life, was compelling and beautiful to say the very least.
I remember him admonishing me, when I asked him why he was telling me the same traditional story he’d told me the day before, that we learn by repetition and reinvention. He never told stories the exact same way, though he told them dozens and hundreds of times in his old age. Sometimes an image or a phrase or an event would migrate from one story to another. Sometimes the sequence of events would change. Sometimes the raven would transform into a loon or a deer or a wolf. Sometimes the moral would be located in a different moment, a different sentiment, a different sentence.
And sometimes, it was hard to discern where Pops’ life left off and the storytelling began. Sometimes, in his stories, he was the trickster raven. Sometimes his fishing buddies in a fond recollection of the cannery days seemed pretty similar to the figures of myth and legend. But what it taught me was that our identity as indigenous people is inextricably linked to place, and the stories associated with those places. I am the places my people come from, and I am the raven and the wolf and the deer and the First Woman. And in the end, what I amount to is just a story (I hope it’s a good one).
Maybe what appeals to me most about Mandeville is the space he creates to wear him like a garment. “He” is a fabrication. There is no Mandeville, and everyone is Mandeville. He is not rooted to just one place, one origin – he uproots, and transplants himself in a diverse range of wild and beautiful places. And in doing so – through inventing an identity that is inextricably linked with a rambling concept of nature and place – by inventing a self that is reflects a compelling impression of the exotic – by inventing a story that is many narratives, all of them invented and true even if they are not real – in doing all these things, if you read them just the right way, he teaches you how to invent yourself through storytelling.
It’s the same thing, really, that Pops used to do. In their way, they were both trickster-figures. They both blurred the boundaries between invention and recollection, roots and imagination, culture and perception. It’s not about fact or truth. It’s about how you receive the story, how you adopt it, and how you pass it on. That’s why I don’t care, frankly, who the “real” author of the Travels might be. That’s why I don’t mind that people have proven (Heavens, no!) that the narrative contains invention and plagiarism. At the end of the day, don’t you fall asleep imagining yourself traversing those incredible landscapes? Don’t you wish you could sit down across the table from Mandeville-the-imagined-figure, put down a bottle of bourbon, and start swapping stories like a couple of old soldiers – like a pair of old friends?
I miss Pops. He’s one of those people whose loss can never be reconciled. It’s been years since he passed away, but when I close my eyes, I can still see every wrinkle with perfect clarity. I can still see his twisted, arthritic hands gesturing wildly to punctuate an enthusiastic story. I can still hear every nuance of his cracking voice. I think he would have liked Mandeville. I think, next summer, that I’ll take a copy of the Travels to his mortuary pole with a bottle of bourbon and share some Mandeville stories with him. I’m not very good at compartmentalizing – I’ll probably end up weaving in some threads of Heiltsuk lore, and even some fond recollections of special moments I shared with my Pops. But that’s fitting, isn’t it?
The truth about stories, huh.
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