On the back of the dust jacket for David Mitchell's new book, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, one blurb from the New York Times proclaims, "Mitchell is, clearly, a genius." Of course flipping a book over and reading a line like that raises anticipation to unrealistic heights for the reader. Combine the genius label with the fact that Mitchell's Cloud Atlas is one of my absolute favorite books, and suddenly The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet needed to be the best book I read all year in order to meet my expectations. I am glad to say that the novel did not disappoint.
Narratively, Jacob de Zoet is more straightforward than Cloud Atlas, but certainly more interesting than his work in the good-but-not-great coming of age story, Black Swan Green. It's divided into five parts, mostly centering around the title character, a Dutch clerk in Dejima, a little Dutch East India Company trading port along the coast of Nagasaki in 1800. The setting is fascinating as Dejima is not quite Japan, and it operates under its own rules. Jacob is a solid main character, a stubbornly honest man surrounded by crooks, but many of the other characters are equally fascinating, especially Orito Abigawa, a Japanese woman who, despite laws keeping her from study, becomes a midwife. The story is sprawling, covering MANY themes: alienation, homesikness, racism, gender inequality, slavery, greed, religion, etc. Mitchell is one of those authors that is able to really capture the human experience while still telling a compelling story. And, like any historical fiction, I learned loads about and became immersed in a past I was previously completely unfamiliar with.
The "genius" of Mitchell, for me, is his prose and narrative framework. His novels draw attention to the art of storytelling. While Jacob de Zoet is not the structured marvel of Cloud Atlas, Mitchell is still anything but boring. Little shifts in point of view elevate moments in the book. Towards the end, an rhyming rap-like section springs out of nowhere in an unexpectedly beautiful moment. Somehow, Mitchell can make two characters talking about drafting a document setting the new price for copper engaging, even though I know nothing about early 19th century trading. After reading three of his books, Mitchell is now officially right up there with Chabon and Gaiman on my list of living authors I'm obsessed with. I really need to go back and read his first two books. Don't know how I missed them.
Thinking about David Mitchell brings to mind one of the ways I get book recommendations: from famous people I like. By famous people, I mean writers, musicians, bloggers; basically just people whose work I respect. Occasionally, this does not go well (Picked up Boneshaker based on the recommendation of Cory Doctorow and did not care for it, even though it sounded great in synopsis-form). Usually, though, I can really trust the taste of these creative types. Neil Gaiman led me to Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Colin Meloy wrote about his enjoyment of Arthur & George, and it was from Owen Pallett that I first heard of Mitchell. I suppose it makes sense that I'd be a fan of the works that inspire the artists that I'm already a fan of.
Lots to blog about, so little time. I'd like to write a post on Kelly Link, Scott Pilgrim, or Inception, but things are now crazybusy. School officially started this week, and grad school starts up next week. By Monday, I have to read an entire book that defines the various disciplines that fall under the heading of "English Studies." Ugh. Sounds like the perfect start to rekindle my love/hate relationship with academia. Yay?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Speculative Fiction
The term science fiction brings about some strange images. Let's face it, we all see spaceships and robots and moon colonies when we hear that word. One assumes that sci fi will be based around technology and "the future." Often, sci fi does fit into this stereotype. The most popular examples certainly do: Star Wars, Star Trek, I Robot, etc. However, there's another term often used for this genre. Speculative Fiction. For many science fiction books, I feel that this term feels more appropriate. It's not much of a distinction (like the whole comic vs. graphic novel thing), but it doesn't make me feel like I need a background in electrical engineering to really appreciate it. Speculative fiction says, "What if ..." The Road, for instance, falls under this umbrella. It's not really about science, but it does speculate what could happen in a very possible future of destruction.
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro is another prime example of speculative fiction. If you've never read the book and don't want it spoiled, STOP READING HERE. If you have read it or don't mind a few hints at what happens, read at will.
Never Let Me Go is a touching and tragic novel about a girl named Kath and her relationship with Ruth and Tommy. They all met at an English country boarding school named Hailsham and have to deal with hormones and life after leaving the school. Pretty standard dramatic literature fare. Oh, and did I mention all of the students at Hailsham are clones that have been created so that their vital organs can be harvested for donations? This is what's so fascinating about the book. It's not for almost 100 pages that Ishiguro actually spells out the purpose of Hailsham. This not only gives the book a sense of mystery. It also shifts the focus from that sci fi plotline to the characters and their very messy, but realistic, emotions and relationships. It's also a book about memories, as the bulk of the narration is taken up with Kath's reminisces of life when she was in Hailsham. Like anyone who takes trips down memory lane, it's not a straight road. Memories flow one into another, and not necessarily in chronological order. This made the whole thing feel like a bit of a puzzle (most good books are), and also very authentic. The book can certainly be appreciated on this level, as a tragic human drama. This, I suppose, is why the book is categorized as "literature" and winds up getting nominated for the Booker Prize.
However, the speculative fiction side here is fascinating. When read from this angle, Hailsham is as intricately created as Hogwarts, though certainly a great deal less whimsical. The school's strange customs and enigmatic atmosphere are not fully explained until the final pages. That whole cloning thing is not explained scientifically; we get no explanation about how this breakthrough was achieved, only that it happened. What Ishiguro focuses on instead is what life is like for a clone who knows that they will never see forty because their vital organs are going to be extracted. What's life like for someone whose death is scheduled? While my heart went out to these characters, I had to remind myself that this organ donation is the only reason these people even exist, and that their death is saving someone's life.
Many science fiction books tackle a contemporary social issue. Never Let Me Go is about the ethical implications of cloning and stem cell research. It asks the question: if we ever clone a human being, will it have a soul? Ishiguro obviously believes that clones would have souls, as his characters feel heartbreak, longing, and fear just like the rest of us. The much larger question: if we ever see a world with human cloning being used for medical purposes (this is not that far fetched at all), will there be a place in the world for clones? Never Let Me Go asks huge questions with a deceptively simple narrative. It took me two days to read, but I'll be turning it over in my head long after. Highly recommended.
Heading out tomorrow morning to Milwaukee. I'm hugely excited about this; it's one of my favorite cities. It'll undoubtedly include multiple Kopp's Frozen Custard indulgences and a trip to my favorite coffee shop ever, Al Terra. Also excited to return to the beautiful and delicious New Glarus Brewery and to travel up north to Eau Claire, which will be farthest north I've ever been. Most excitingly of all, Mary bought me tickets to see a stage adaptation of Neverwhere, a classic Neil Gaiman novel. The play is in Chicago, and we'll be spending a day in the city. It's going to be a very exciting summer trip. I'm packing along Boneshaker since fun steampunk action is more appropriate than deep ethics-of-cloning dilemmas for vacationing.
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro is another prime example of speculative fiction. If you've never read the book and don't want it spoiled, STOP READING HERE. If you have read it or don't mind a few hints at what happens, read at will.
Never Let Me Go is a touching and tragic novel about a girl named Kath and her relationship with Ruth and Tommy. They all met at an English country boarding school named Hailsham and have to deal with hormones and life after leaving the school. Pretty standard dramatic literature fare. Oh, and did I mention all of the students at Hailsham are clones that have been created so that their vital organs can be harvested for donations? This is what's so fascinating about the book. It's not for almost 100 pages that Ishiguro actually spells out the purpose of Hailsham. This not only gives the book a sense of mystery. It also shifts the focus from that sci fi plotline to the characters and their very messy, but realistic, emotions and relationships. It's also a book about memories, as the bulk of the narration is taken up with Kath's reminisces of life when she was in Hailsham. Like anyone who takes trips down memory lane, it's not a straight road. Memories flow one into another, and not necessarily in chronological order. This made the whole thing feel like a bit of a puzzle (most good books are), and also very authentic. The book can certainly be appreciated on this level, as a tragic human drama. This, I suppose, is why the book is categorized as "literature" and winds up getting nominated for the Booker Prize.
However, the speculative fiction side here is fascinating. When read from this angle, Hailsham is as intricately created as Hogwarts, though certainly a great deal less whimsical. The school's strange customs and enigmatic atmosphere are not fully explained until the final pages. That whole cloning thing is not explained scientifically; we get no explanation about how this breakthrough was achieved, only that it happened. What Ishiguro focuses on instead is what life is like for a clone who knows that they will never see forty because their vital organs are going to be extracted. What's life like for someone whose death is scheduled? While my heart went out to these characters, I had to remind myself that this organ donation is the only reason these people even exist, and that their death is saving someone's life.
Many science fiction books tackle a contemporary social issue. Never Let Me Go is about the ethical implications of cloning and stem cell research. It asks the question: if we ever clone a human being, will it have a soul? Ishiguro obviously believes that clones would have souls, as his characters feel heartbreak, longing, and fear just like the rest of us. The much larger question: if we ever see a world with human cloning being used for medical purposes (this is not that far fetched at all), will there be a place in the world for clones? Never Let Me Go asks huge questions with a deceptively simple narrative. It took me two days to read, but I'll be turning it over in my head long after. Highly recommended.
Heading out tomorrow morning to Milwaukee. I'm hugely excited about this; it's one of my favorite cities. It'll undoubtedly include multiple Kopp's Frozen Custard indulgences and a trip to my favorite coffee shop ever, Al Terra. Also excited to return to the beautiful and delicious New Glarus Brewery and to travel up north to Eau Claire, which will be farthest north I've ever been. Most excitingly of all, Mary bought me tickets to see a stage adaptation of Neverwhere, a classic Neil Gaiman novel. The play is in Chicago, and we'll be spending a day in the city. It's going to be a very exciting summer trip. I'm packing along Boneshaker since fun steampunk action is more appropriate than deep ethics-of-cloning dilemmas for vacationing.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Everything There Is To Know About Life
A character in Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five said that "Everything there is to know about life is in The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky." Having finished the book about a week ago, I can see where he's coming from. Dostoevsky has certainly written a book that covers much of the enormity of the human experience. While the philosophizing all over the place in the book gave me much to think about, I mostly learned about myself as a reader in the past month.
Like life, the book is a real roller coaster. There are moments of anger, passion, joy, grief, and confusion. Somehow, despite the many tragic moments in the book, I find the whole novel rather uplifting. Dostoevsky is somehow able to bring out the beauty in ugly character relationships. For instance, the final scene, in which a child dies, is among the most uplifting for me. I think Dostoevsky is being very true to life here: very rarely are the events of our lives completely hopeless or 100% awesome. We want our books to have nice and neat resolutions, but Dostoevsky does not let his readers off so easily. Some questions remain unanswered.
It's almost comical just how many philosophical discussions occur throughout the many pages of Brothers Karamazov. It's almost as if characters never make small talk. My friends and I quote movies and make broad jokes when we get together. It's not often that we discuss whether or not free will is actually good for humanity. The climax of the novel revolves around a murder trial, and the prosecuting and defense attorneys spend their closing arguments speaking about whether or not a neglectful parent can truly be considered a parent, sparking a philosophical debate, almost as much as focusing on actual evidence. This sort of dialogue, where characters mostly spoke in monologues that stretched across several pages without even so much as a paragraph break, did become a bit tiresome, but that's not to say I found no value in it. Ivan's treatise about how he could not believe in God because of the suffering of children was particularly powerful, as were many of the teachings of the elder monk Zosima.
The real treasure in Brothers Karamazov are the brothers themselves. Ivan, Dmitri, and Alyosha are fascinating throughout the entire book, even though they're not exactly realistic. The three are extreme character types: Ivan is the intellectual, Dmitri is passionate and reckless, and Alyosha as so faithful he's practically messianic. While they don't feel like real people because of this, it does open the door for some incredible conversation. Also, I'm not sure how, but I found myself really caring for Dmitri, even though he's sort of a scumbag for most of the book.
The book gave me a lot to chew on. I liked it quite a bit, certainly more than both One Hundred Years of Solitude and Moby-Dick. However, did I enjoy it? Not always.
I found myself wishing I was reading something else about half way through, or wishing that I wouldn't have to finish it. Mostly, I think this is because I started it a week after finishing Moby-Dick, another densely philosophical epic. I had an ambitious plan for the summer to be full of "important" books, but this simply was not realistic, not if I wanted to enjoy my summer vacation reading. These sorts of books are great to read occasionally, but not back-to-back. Probably no more than four or five should be read in an entire year, much less in a single summer. It's a shame really, because I'm pretty sure my long and challenging readings of Moby-Dick and One Hundred Years of Solitude really put a damper on my enjoyment of Karamazov. At the very least, I needed a palate-cleansing book or two in between.
This is not to say that I'm done with lengthy, complicated, philosophical books. I liked Karamazov enough to put War and Peace on my to-read list, and the approaching graduate coursework will undoubtedly be intellectually challenging, but I'm taking the rest of the summer off. Sorry Faulkner and Dickens, but I need to reclaim my love of literature with something a bit more fun. Since Bros. K, I've read some Kelly Link short stories, which I love (I'll have to write about her at some point). I started yesterday and am already halfway through Never Let Me Go, which is fascinating. Took a trip to Subterranean Books last week and picked up zombie/steampunk Boneshaker and, most excitingly of all, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet by one of my faves, David Mitchell. It's not to say that these books have no intellectual value (quite the contrary), they're just plain more engaging.
Here's what I've discovered about myself in reading these last three books: reading long books easily turns into a chore for me. I go through the same cycle every time. I fall completely in love with the book in the first 100 pages or so. The characters and style completely click with me. However, after the newness wears off and the authors start getting into some juicy themes, my interest wanes. Reading is not fun anymore. I read about other books online that sound like fun and get depressed. In the last 100 pages, finishing the book becomes an obsession. I do enjoy the end more than the middle, but I'm in such a hurry to finish that I don't take the time to stop and think about what's happening.
Above all else, when I'm in the middle of reading these sorts of books, I have no desire to write anything. I become creatively constipated. Maybe it's because I have no desire to write lengthy philosophical works. I just don't feel inspired, just intimidated, if anything. However, going back to reading contemporary fiction and sci-fi gets me excited about my own ideas again.
Next time I pick up one of The Great Works, I need to make an active effort to have fun while doing so. Maybe that means writing about it more as I'm reading it, maybe it means reading some fluffy stuff concurrently so I have someplace to turn when I can't pick up the dang thing. That way, I can read what I want to when I feel like it and take my time with the patience-trying intellectual heavy lifting. That at least sounds like less of a chore.
Like life, the book is a real roller coaster. There are moments of anger, passion, joy, grief, and confusion. Somehow, despite the many tragic moments in the book, I find the whole novel rather uplifting. Dostoevsky is somehow able to bring out the beauty in ugly character relationships. For instance, the final scene, in which a child dies, is among the most uplifting for me. I think Dostoevsky is being very true to life here: very rarely are the events of our lives completely hopeless or 100% awesome. We want our books to have nice and neat resolutions, but Dostoevsky does not let his readers off so easily. Some questions remain unanswered.
It's almost comical just how many philosophical discussions occur throughout the many pages of Brothers Karamazov. It's almost as if characters never make small talk. My friends and I quote movies and make broad jokes when we get together. It's not often that we discuss whether or not free will is actually good for humanity. The climax of the novel revolves around a murder trial, and the prosecuting and defense attorneys spend their closing arguments speaking about whether or not a neglectful parent can truly be considered a parent, sparking a philosophical debate, almost as much as focusing on actual evidence. This sort of dialogue, where characters mostly spoke in monologues that stretched across several pages without even so much as a paragraph break, did become a bit tiresome, but that's not to say I found no value in it. Ivan's treatise about how he could not believe in God because of the suffering of children was particularly powerful, as were many of the teachings of the elder monk Zosima.
The real treasure in Brothers Karamazov are the brothers themselves. Ivan, Dmitri, and Alyosha are fascinating throughout the entire book, even though they're not exactly realistic. The three are extreme character types: Ivan is the intellectual, Dmitri is passionate and reckless, and Alyosha as so faithful he's practically messianic. While they don't feel like real people because of this, it does open the door for some incredible conversation. Also, I'm not sure how, but I found myself really caring for Dmitri, even though he's sort of a scumbag for most of the book.
The book gave me a lot to chew on. I liked it quite a bit, certainly more than both One Hundred Years of Solitude and Moby-Dick. However, did I enjoy it? Not always.
I found myself wishing I was reading something else about half way through, or wishing that I wouldn't have to finish it. Mostly, I think this is because I started it a week after finishing Moby-Dick, another densely philosophical epic. I had an ambitious plan for the summer to be full of "important" books, but this simply was not realistic, not if I wanted to enjoy my summer vacation reading. These sorts of books are great to read occasionally, but not back-to-back. Probably no more than four or five should be read in an entire year, much less in a single summer. It's a shame really, because I'm pretty sure my long and challenging readings of Moby-Dick and One Hundred Years of Solitude really put a damper on my enjoyment of Karamazov. At the very least, I needed a palate-cleansing book or two in between.
This is not to say that I'm done with lengthy, complicated, philosophical books. I liked Karamazov enough to put War and Peace on my to-read list, and the approaching graduate coursework will undoubtedly be intellectually challenging, but I'm taking the rest of the summer off. Sorry Faulkner and Dickens, but I need to reclaim my love of literature with something a bit more fun. Since Bros. K, I've read some Kelly Link short stories, which I love (I'll have to write about her at some point). I started yesterday and am already halfway through Never Let Me Go, which is fascinating. Took a trip to Subterranean Books last week and picked up zombie/steampunk Boneshaker and, most excitingly of all, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet by one of my faves, David Mitchell. It's not to say that these books have no intellectual value (quite the contrary), they're just plain more engaging.
Here's what I've discovered about myself in reading these last three books: reading long books easily turns into a chore for me. I go through the same cycle every time. I fall completely in love with the book in the first 100 pages or so. The characters and style completely click with me. However, after the newness wears off and the authors start getting into some juicy themes, my interest wanes. Reading is not fun anymore. I read about other books online that sound like fun and get depressed. In the last 100 pages, finishing the book becomes an obsession. I do enjoy the end more than the middle, but I'm in such a hurry to finish that I don't take the time to stop and think about what's happening.
Above all else, when I'm in the middle of reading these sorts of books, I have no desire to write anything. I become creatively constipated. Maybe it's because I have no desire to write lengthy philosophical works. I just don't feel inspired, just intimidated, if anything. However, going back to reading contemporary fiction and sci-fi gets me excited about my own ideas again.
Next time I pick up one of The Great Works, I need to make an active effort to have fun while doing so. Maybe that means writing about it more as I'm reading it, maybe it means reading some fluffy stuff concurrently so I have someplace to turn when I can't pick up the dang thing. That way, I can read what I want to when I feel like it and take my time with the patience-trying intellectual heavy lifting. That at least sounds like less of a chore.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Best Man
I know it's mid-July, but I feel like summer is just starting for me. I am completely recovered from my surgery, summer school teaching is over, and I'm finished with sprawling philosophical epic literature (more on that in my next post). Completely unburdened, I'm ready to begin my relaxing. In celebration, I had this giant party. There were about 200 people there!
Okay, it wasn't actually a "Steve's Belated Summer Start" party. It was actually the wedding of two great people: my brother Pete and his now-wife Kaylen. It was an exhaustingly great time this past weekend, filled with friends from out of town, open bars, and party buses. Rather than recount everything that happened throughout the weekend, I'm just going to publish my best man speech here (to the best of my memory):
"How I first met Pete was a funny story. You see, we were womb-mates *uproarious applause, obviously*. Seriously, I grew up with Pete, quite literally. In our little childhood two-man communism, we shared everything: toys, rooms, Christmas presents, memories. Everything. Now that childhood is over, I couldn't be more proud of the way Pete's adulthood is going so far, especially since he's found Kaylen.
While the wedding ceremony was beautiful, I almost feel like it was a bit redundant. It only made legal what we in the Wissinger family have already felt for years: that Kaylen is a part of the family. She fit right in immediately with the first visit to Cairo. We're glad to have you sharing our name. As people have already mentioned today, Pete and Kaylen are perfect for each other. Anyone who's spent even five minutes with them has to think, "Yeah, they make sense together." The two of them complement each other in every way.
I started the speech talking about our childhood. Pete and I grew up on a pretty strict diet of comic books and science fiction movies. In our minds, adulthood must have looked like a strange amalgamation of space travel, crime fighting, and narrowly escaping giant rolling boulders. While life may not be quite so bizarre, there's still adventure to be found in the world, and, Pete and Kaylen, you are so lucky to have each other to share that journey. A toast to Pete and Kalyen Wissinger, the new dynamic duo!"
It pretty much sums up my feelings on the new addition to the family. More writing about books soon.
Okay, it wasn't actually a "Steve's Belated Summer Start" party. It was actually the wedding of two great people: my brother Pete and his now-wife Kaylen. It was an exhaustingly great time this past weekend, filled with friends from out of town, open bars, and party buses. Rather than recount everything that happened throughout the weekend, I'm just going to publish my best man speech here (to the best of my memory):
"How I first met Pete was a funny story. You see, we were womb-mates *uproarious applause, obviously*. Seriously, I grew up with Pete, quite literally. In our little childhood two-man communism, we shared everything: toys, rooms, Christmas presents, memories. Everything. Now that childhood is over, I couldn't be more proud of the way Pete's adulthood is going so far, especially since he's found Kaylen.
While the wedding ceremony was beautiful, I almost feel like it was a bit redundant. It only made legal what we in the Wissinger family have already felt for years: that Kaylen is a part of the family. She fit right in immediately with the first visit to Cairo. We're glad to have you sharing our name. As people have already mentioned today, Pete and Kaylen are perfect for each other. Anyone who's spent even five minutes with them has to think, "Yeah, they make sense together." The two of them complement each other in every way.
I started the speech talking about our childhood. Pete and I grew up on a pretty strict diet of comic books and science fiction movies. In our minds, adulthood must have looked like a strange amalgamation of space travel, crime fighting, and narrowly escaping giant rolling boulders. While life may not be quite so bizarre, there's still adventure to be found in the world, and, Pete and Kaylen, you are so lucky to have each other to share that journey. A toast to Pete and Kalyen Wissinger, the new dynamic duo!"
It pretty much sums up my feelings on the new addition to the family. More writing about books soon.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
To Be a Human Being Among Human Beings
Several updates for my friends and family (unless I'm mistaken about the readership of this blog, mostly just family):
Pain In My Butt
I got some stitches out from my pilonidal cyst surgery. Not all of them. Just the sutures that were holding a giant wad of gauze to the wound. I thought all of them were coming out, but I'm supposed to keep the little stitches from the surgery on for another week and a half. Unfortunately, my surgeon is going to be out all next week, so I have to have my stitches on for an additional half a week (apparently this is not something a nurse can do because he must see me). They're coming off on the 21st. My birthday. Yay. I found myself vaguely annoyed, as if whatever my doctor is doing next week could not possibly be more important than having my stitches out sooner, but then I felt selfish. Things are looking up, though. I can lay on my back with only some discomfort, and I can sit with my shiny new Tush Cush. Also, I'm glad this procedure was around the tailbone. I can talk to a casual acquaintance at work about surgery on my tailbone, but there is no non-awkward way to talk about butt surgery.
Southern Gothic
As a brief interlude between two behemoth-sized novels, I read some Flannery O'Connor short stories. Previously, I'd only read "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and thoroughly enjoyed it. Of the ones I read, "The River" is a clear favorite. Like all of her stories, it involves damaged (physically or mentally) characters in search of some type of salvation and a downbeat ending. This one is about a neglected boy whose babysitter exposes him for the first time to Christianity in the form of a traveling preacher who stands in a river healing people. While I could certainly relate to the whole small-town religion aspect, what really stood out in "The River" is the humor. O'Connor's stories are often filled with little snippets of dark humor, but this one made me laugh out loud several times. The young boy protagonist is startled that real pigs don't look like Porky Pig, assumes that religious people are swearing when saying "Jesus Christ" because it's the only context in which he's heard it used, and asks the preacher to cure his mother of her hangover. Hilarious.
My First Trip to Russia(n Literature)
I've decided to finally see what all of the hoopla is about Russian literature. After being recommended it by many people, I've started with the classic Brothers Karamazov. So far, I'm in love. I'm not sure what it is about Dostoevsky's prose and his characters that I already find so inviting after only fifty pages. I think it largely has to do with the almost conversational tone of the narrator. Whatever it is, the book has me hooked, even after pages upon pages of philosophical musings about whether or not religion should completely take over the governments of the world. Very interesting stuff. One section I found particularly appealing was in the introduction. In the introduction to my edition, Richard Pevear includes an excerpt from a letter Dostoevsky wrote to his brother after narrowly escaping execution (he luckily got away with exile to Siberia. Crazy Russians...). Dostoevsky writes about his new outlook on life after this near-death experience: "Life everywhere is life, life is in ourselves and not in the external. There will be people near me, and to be a human being among human beings, and remain one forever, no matter what misfortunes befall, not to become depressed, not to falter- this is what life is, herein lies the task." Inspiring words that I can totally connect to, especially as someone whose mood is soured because his doctor is taking a vacation and he has to put up with stitches for a couple of extra days. It's not like I'm facing exile or anything. Things could be worse. His words pretty much sum up how I feel about staying positive when the everyday gets me down. Reading this book makes me excited about the Russian Festival happening with the SLSO next season. жизнь хороша!
Pain In My Butt
I got some stitches out from my pilonidal cyst surgery. Not all of them. Just the sutures that were holding a giant wad of gauze to the wound. I thought all of them were coming out, but I'm supposed to keep the little stitches from the surgery on for another week and a half. Unfortunately, my surgeon is going to be out all next week, so I have to have my stitches on for an additional half a week (apparently this is not something a nurse can do because he must see me). They're coming off on the 21st. My birthday. Yay. I found myself vaguely annoyed, as if whatever my doctor is doing next week could not possibly be more important than having my stitches out sooner, but then I felt selfish. Things are looking up, though. I can lay on my back with only some discomfort, and I can sit with my shiny new Tush Cush. Also, I'm glad this procedure was around the tailbone. I can talk to a casual acquaintance at work about surgery on my tailbone, but there is no non-awkward way to talk about butt surgery.
Southern Gothic
As a brief interlude between two behemoth-sized novels, I read some Flannery O'Connor short stories. Previously, I'd only read "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and thoroughly enjoyed it. Of the ones I read, "The River" is a clear favorite. Like all of her stories, it involves damaged (physically or mentally) characters in search of some type of salvation and a downbeat ending. This one is about a neglected boy whose babysitter exposes him for the first time to Christianity in the form of a traveling preacher who stands in a river healing people. While I could certainly relate to the whole small-town religion aspect, what really stood out in "The River" is the humor. O'Connor's stories are often filled with little snippets of dark humor, but this one made me laugh out loud several times. The young boy protagonist is startled that real pigs don't look like Porky Pig, assumes that religious people are swearing when saying "Jesus Christ" because it's the only context in which he's heard it used, and asks the preacher to cure his mother of her hangover. Hilarious.
My First Trip to Russia(n Literature)
I've decided to finally see what all of the hoopla is about Russian literature. After being recommended it by many people, I've started with the classic Brothers Karamazov. So far, I'm in love. I'm not sure what it is about Dostoevsky's prose and his characters that I already find so inviting after only fifty pages. I think it largely has to do with the almost conversational tone of the narrator. Whatever it is, the book has me hooked, even after pages upon pages of philosophical musings about whether or not religion should completely take over the governments of the world. Very interesting stuff. One section I found particularly appealing was in the introduction. In the introduction to my edition, Richard Pevear includes an excerpt from a letter Dostoevsky wrote to his brother after narrowly escaping execution (he luckily got away with exile to Siberia. Crazy Russians...). Dostoevsky writes about his new outlook on life after this near-death experience: "Life everywhere is life, life is in ourselves and not in the external. There will be people near me, and to be a human being among human beings, and remain one forever, no matter what misfortunes befall, not to become depressed, not to falter- this is what life is, herein lies the task." Inspiring words that I can totally connect to, especially as someone whose mood is soured because his doctor is taking a vacation and he has to put up with stitches for a couple of extra days. It's not like I'm facing exile or anything. Things could be worse. His words pretty much sum up how I feel about staying positive when the everyday gets me down. Reading this book makes me excited about the Russian Festival happening with the SLSO next season. жизнь хороша!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Whales
I finished Moby-Dick. It only took me a month, which is pretty good. It was helping me keep my mind off of my surgery recovery, so it was certainly a helpful book for me. Was it the Greatest American Novel that it has often been called? While I found parts of it to be a whale of a good time, it was, on the whole, rather taxing. I just completed my reading yesterday, so I've certainly not studied the book or written extensively about it. These are just my initial opinions as a reader.
What works for me in the book? The actual story of the novel is pretty great. It's a fairly simple story, really: Ahab wants to kill the White Whale for revenge. That's about it. What makes it so engaging is Melville's characterization and style. Ahab, Stubb, Queequeg, and Starbuck are all very different and complex characters, and Melville takes his time allowing us to get into their heads (you have time for this sort of thing with such a long novel). For the most part, the characterization is developed through extended scenes of dialogue (except for Queequeg, a savage who doesn't really say much). It's often really more like Shakespearian monologues, where the characters talk to themselves at length, moving along the plot and revealing their inner motivations and thoughts. My favorite example of this is a scene towards the end in which Starbuck, the moral first mate, contemplates killing Ahab to save the crew from the monomaniacal captain's destructive mission. It's as dramatic as Hamlet's great soliloquies. Another favorite speech comes in the beginning of the book, before the Pequod even ships out. A preacher named Father Mapple delivers a sermon tying whaling and seafaring to the Bible in a church where his pulpit is designed to look like the forecastle of a ship. I suppose that this is what I liked best about Moby-Dick; it's really a Shakespearian tragedy. Ahab is clearly the tragic hero, whose hell-bent thirst for revenge brings about his own demise. The story tucked away in Melville's massive text really is a classic tale of obsession and adventure.
What didn't work for me? Well, that story and characterization that was so rich only took up about 40% of the book. The rest was, essentially, factual information about whales and the business of whaling. That's about 350 pages of reference material and Melville's editorializing. At first, it was interesting. I was intrigued by the history of whaling and Melville's musings on why whaling should be considered a noble enterprise. However, after days and days of reading without any mention of Ahab or his crew, I cared less and less about entire chapters about the dimensions of a whale's skeleton. Chapters about how blubber is harvested from whale carcasses. Chapters about the laws governing who legally possesses a whale if one ship kills it and another finds the body. It's seems that Melville did a ton of research to write this book and decided to include EVERYTHING he found. Our narrator "Ishmael" disappears as a character, as the common sailor is replaced by a gifted writer far too obsessed with whales. That's not to say these chapters are all a lost cause. Even when writing about blubber, Melville manages to write symbolically and with poetic insight. Still, he just about killed my longing for the sea.
I can appreciate novels that include information that is not exactly relevant to the plot (these sections are some of my favorite bits in Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel, for instance), but this was a bit much for me. There's a classic tale of nautical adventure and Shakespearian tragedy in this 600+ page novel. However, that tale is only about 300 pages long. I know that this is a common criticism of Moby-Dick by people who "don't get it." I don't think I'm missing anything here, I just think that Melville is asking a bit too much of his readers. Reading it became a chore in the middle, and this soiled my focus on and enjoyment of the final riveting chapters. I was on board at the beginning, Melville. You had me in your nets, but you lost me.
Lots of other things have happened this month as well, of course. School is out. I had surgery. The first season of Lost has been devoured. There are tomatoes and zucchini at the market. It's summer.
Still deciding about the next book. Either Dostoevsky or Faulkner, probably.
What works for me in the book? The actual story of the novel is pretty great. It's a fairly simple story, really: Ahab wants to kill the White Whale for revenge. That's about it. What makes it so engaging is Melville's characterization and style. Ahab, Stubb, Queequeg, and Starbuck are all very different and complex characters, and Melville takes his time allowing us to get into their heads (you have time for this sort of thing with such a long novel). For the most part, the characterization is developed through extended scenes of dialogue (except for Queequeg, a savage who doesn't really say much). It's often really more like Shakespearian monologues, where the characters talk to themselves at length, moving along the plot and revealing their inner motivations and thoughts. My favorite example of this is a scene towards the end in which Starbuck, the moral first mate, contemplates killing Ahab to save the crew from the monomaniacal captain's destructive mission. It's as dramatic as Hamlet's great soliloquies. Another favorite speech comes in the beginning of the book, before the Pequod even ships out. A preacher named Father Mapple delivers a sermon tying whaling and seafaring to the Bible in a church where his pulpit is designed to look like the forecastle of a ship. I suppose that this is what I liked best about Moby-Dick; it's really a Shakespearian tragedy. Ahab is clearly the tragic hero, whose hell-bent thirst for revenge brings about his own demise. The story tucked away in Melville's massive text really is a classic tale of obsession and adventure.
What didn't work for me? Well, that story and characterization that was so rich only took up about 40% of the book. The rest was, essentially, factual information about whales and the business of whaling. That's about 350 pages of reference material and Melville's editorializing. At first, it was interesting. I was intrigued by the history of whaling and Melville's musings on why whaling should be considered a noble enterprise. However, after days and days of reading without any mention of Ahab or his crew, I cared less and less about entire chapters about the dimensions of a whale's skeleton. Chapters about how blubber is harvested from whale carcasses. Chapters about the laws governing who legally possesses a whale if one ship kills it and another finds the body. It's seems that Melville did a ton of research to write this book and decided to include EVERYTHING he found. Our narrator "Ishmael" disappears as a character, as the common sailor is replaced by a gifted writer far too obsessed with whales. That's not to say these chapters are all a lost cause. Even when writing about blubber, Melville manages to write symbolically and with poetic insight. Still, he just about killed my longing for the sea.
I can appreciate novels that include information that is not exactly relevant to the plot (these sections are some of my favorite bits in Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel, for instance), but this was a bit much for me. There's a classic tale of nautical adventure and Shakespearian tragedy in this 600+ page novel. However, that tale is only about 300 pages long. I know that this is a common criticism of Moby-Dick by people who "don't get it." I don't think I'm missing anything here, I just think that Melville is asking a bit too much of his readers. Reading it became a chore in the middle, and this soiled my focus on and enjoyment of the final riveting chapters. I was on board at the beginning, Melville. You had me in your nets, but you lost me.
Lots of other things have happened this month as well, of course. School is out. I had surgery. The first season of Lost has been devoured. There are tomatoes and zucchini at the market. It's summer.
Still deciding about the next book. Either Dostoevsky or Faulkner, probably.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Macondo Musings, In Which Our Hero Tries to Make His Thoughts Coherent
In many ways, Gabriel Garcia Marquez rewrote the Bible. Harold Bloom called One Hundred Years of Solitude "The Bible of Macondo," which is the city in which the book takes place.
It's got a lot in common with The Good Book. It opens on Macondo's creation, where chaos rules and not everything even has a name yet. The book ends in a whirlwind of apocalypse in which everything falls into pieces. Between these bookend events are characters who live for hundreds of years, family histories, and a lot of stuff that doesn't make much narrative sense. Yep, sounds like the Bible to me. Too broad and ambitious to simply call it a story.
This is one of the things that is so difficult about OHYOS: the book covers so much time and five generations of a family, so I never felt really connected to any of them. They were certainly fascinating, however, especially considering how they changed over time. Take, for instance, Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who started the book as an artistic little boy who crafted little fishes out of gold. In the middle, he takes charge of a rebel force fighting against the conservative government. In the end, after living a life as a ruthless warrior, he dies sad and alone of old age. This is life as written by Marquez: it's filled with wonders and changes, but it ends for everyone in the same way.
Life in the Buendia family is cyclical; events repeat themselves. The couple who begin the book starting a family fear the repercussions of incest, and incest pops up generation after generation. At first glance, this seems like a strange motif to have resurface over and over again in the book, but it makes sense after reflection. Incest further establishes the solitude of the family, keeping them from intermingling with others. More than anything, this is the major theme of the book, as the title suggests. The Buendia family is isolated from the rest of the town - they are constantly marrying within the family and the entire family lives in one big house. The town of Macondo, too, is isolated from the rest of the world. A rough and primitive place, it falls into conflict when an authoritarian government takes over, and life is further disrupted when a train rolls into town bringing along with it modern technology.
It's hard to write about this book in an organized way because the book is simply too big. I don't mean that it's big physically. I've read longer books. It's big thematically. There are dozens of themes I could write about here. For instance, fatalism is apparently something Marquez thought an awful lot about. Characters are often introduced by saying "He would think of this moment when he stood before a firing squad later in life." It's laid out for the reader already how life will end for this character. As the book concludes, prophecies become important as characters begin to see that their future has already been predicted.
See? There I go. I can't casually write about everything this book makes me contemplate. It would take way too long. To sum up my thoughts on OHYOS in an organized and detailed way, I'm afraid I'd have to write a 20 page essay, and I just did not enjoy it enough to spend my free time doing that. It's not that I didn't like the book; if a teacher made me write a paper about it, I'd be excited to do so. However, I have other things to do right now that are more important than writing recreational literary analysis**. I would love to talk about it, though. I think a novel this meandering would be more appropriate for conversation than composition anyway. Who's read it? Let's chat!
**More important things include reading Moby Dick. I'm through about forty pages and completely sucked in. It opens with Ishmael telling us that he sometimes feels the need to abandon society and take to the sea, the "watery part of the world." Did Melville travel to the future and read my previous post?
It's got a lot in common with The Good Book. It opens on Macondo's creation, where chaos rules and not everything even has a name yet. The book ends in a whirlwind of apocalypse in which everything falls into pieces. Between these bookend events are characters who live for hundreds of years, family histories, and a lot of stuff that doesn't make much narrative sense. Yep, sounds like the Bible to me. Too broad and ambitious to simply call it a story.
This is one of the things that is so difficult about OHYOS: the book covers so much time and five generations of a family, so I never felt really connected to any of them. They were certainly fascinating, however, especially considering how they changed over time. Take, for instance, Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who started the book as an artistic little boy who crafted little fishes out of gold. In the middle, he takes charge of a rebel force fighting against the conservative government. In the end, after living a life as a ruthless warrior, he dies sad and alone of old age. This is life as written by Marquez: it's filled with wonders and changes, but it ends for everyone in the same way.
Life in the Buendia family is cyclical; events repeat themselves. The couple who begin the book starting a family fear the repercussions of incest, and incest pops up generation after generation. At first glance, this seems like a strange motif to have resurface over and over again in the book, but it makes sense after reflection. Incest further establishes the solitude of the family, keeping them from intermingling with others. More than anything, this is the major theme of the book, as the title suggests. The Buendia family is isolated from the rest of the town - they are constantly marrying within the family and the entire family lives in one big house. The town of Macondo, too, is isolated from the rest of the world. A rough and primitive place, it falls into conflict when an authoritarian government takes over, and life is further disrupted when a train rolls into town bringing along with it modern technology.
It's hard to write about this book in an organized way because the book is simply too big. I don't mean that it's big physically. I've read longer books. It's big thematically. There are dozens of themes I could write about here. For instance, fatalism is apparently something Marquez thought an awful lot about. Characters are often introduced by saying "He would think of this moment when he stood before a firing squad later in life." It's laid out for the reader already how life will end for this character. As the book concludes, prophecies become important as characters begin to see that their future has already been predicted.
See? There I go. I can't casually write about everything this book makes me contemplate. It would take way too long. To sum up my thoughts on OHYOS in an organized and detailed way, I'm afraid I'd have to write a 20 page essay, and I just did not enjoy it enough to spend my free time doing that. It's not that I didn't like the book; if a teacher made me write a paper about it, I'd be excited to do so. However, I have other things to do right now that are more important than writing recreational literary analysis**. I would love to talk about it, though. I think a novel this meandering would be more appropriate for conversation than composition anyway. Who's read it? Let's chat!
**More important things include reading Moby Dick. I'm through about forty pages and completely sucked in. It opens with Ishmael telling us that he sometimes feels the need to abandon society and take to the sea, the "watery part of the world." Did Melville travel to the future and read my previous post?
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Yawping
Still gathering my thoughts on Marquez, so I thought I'd share my thoughts on a conversation I had with Mary recently.
For some reason, I began musing yesterday about what sort of a tattoo I would get if I ever felt the desire to get one. Let me make clear that I will never get a tattoo. I change my mind far too often, and I can just see myself regretfully trying to wash one off with water as I used to be able to do with my childhood tats from cereal boxes. That being said, were I the type of person to get ink, what would it be? My first instinct was something nautical themed, like a boat or an anchor or something. I'm drawn to that classic romantic calling of the sea (even though I've never been on a ship on the ocean...). That may make me feel a bit like Popeye, though, and not in a good way.
I decided that I would most likely get a quote tattooed on me, probably from a poem (Mary said that this would be an acceptable choice in the alternate reality where I took my spendin' money over to Trader Bob's). After thinking about Tennyson and Dylan Thomas, I decided that I would most like to have something by Whitman etched into me, probably this quote:
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.
It's from "Song of Myself" and was made famous in THIS clip from Dead Poet's Society, a movie I never liked much. It is, by the way, completely my fifth grade teacher's fault that I do not care for this movie, as she is the woman who almost ruined poetry for me. I know it's not the Hipster Way, but this bit of poetry would be my choice even though it is popular and well known. It is everything I love about Whitman, how he is somehow able to be inspiring while still feeling very familiar and rough.
However, I'm not sure I fit this quote. It's either a line for a tough guy or a rebel, and I don't think I'm either of these things. Spending my time reading or playing board games with my friends, I often feel very much tamed. Were I in a position to sound something over the roofs of the world, I'm not sure I could find my yawp. This poem makes me want to run off and do crazy things, just drop everything and see the world. If this were branded onto me, I would not be able to keep my cozy little job. I'd make a dash for the coast and jump aboard a ship bound for the horizon!
Of course, if I were the type of person who would get a tattoo, maybe I'd be a more barbaric chap. Instead, I am who I am. Instead of wishing I were more untranslatable, I should be content with celebrating and singing myself.
PS Speaking of Whitman, this is the current front-runner for the epitaph on my tombstone:
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
PPS Did you know Rip Torn starred in a movie as Whitman? Check it out!
PPPS Speaking of the lure of the ocean, Moby Dick is calling to me from the coffee table ... Daring me to crack it open ... See? A big adventure for me is reading a book about being out at sea.
For some reason, I began musing yesterday about what sort of a tattoo I would get if I ever felt the desire to get one. Let me make clear that I will never get a tattoo. I change my mind far too often, and I can just see myself regretfully trying to wash one off with water as I used to be able to do with my childhood tats from cereal boxes. That being said, were I the type of person to get ink, what would it be? My first instinct was something nautical themed, like a boat or an anchor or something. I'm drawn to that classic romantic calling of the sea (even though I've never been on a ship on the ocean...). That may make me feel a bit like Popeye, though, and not in a good way.
I decided that I would most likely get a quote tattooed on me, probably from a poem (Mary said that this would be an acceptable choice in the alternate reality where I took my spendin' money over to Trader Bob's). After thinking about Tennyson and Dylan Thomas, I decided that I would most like to have something by Whitman etched into me, probably this quote:
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.
It's from "Song of Myself" and was made famous in THIS clip from Dead Poet's Society, a movie I never liked much. It is, by the way, completely my fifth grade teacher's fault that I do not care for this movie, as she is the woman who almost ruined poetry for me. I know it's not the Hipster Way, but this bit of poetry would be my choice even though it is popular and well known. It is everything I love about Whitman, how he is somehow able to be inspiring while still feeling very familiar and rough.
However, I'm not sure I fit this quote. It's either a line for a tough guy or a rebel, and I don't think I'm either of these things. Spending my time reading or playing board games with my friends, I often feel very much tamed. Were I in a position to sound something over the roofs of the world, I'm not sure I could find my yawp. This poem makes me want to run off and do crazy things, just drop everything and see the world. If this were branded onto me, I would not be able to keep my cozy little job. I'd make a dash for the coast and jump aboard a ship bound for the horizon!
Of course, if I were the type of person who would get a tattoo, maybe I'd be a more barbaric chap. Instead, I am who I am. Instead of wishing I were more untranslatable, I should be content with celebrating and singing myself.
PS Speaking of Whitman, this is the current front-runner for the epitaph on my tombstone:
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
PPS Did you know Rip Torn starred in a movie as Whitman? Check it out!
PPPS Speaking of the lure of the ocean, Moby Dick is calling to me from the coffee table ... Daring me to crack it open ... See? A big adventure for me is reading a book about being out at sea.
Monday, May 3, 2010
One Hundred Years of Solitude: Favorite Passages
I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude the other day. It was a slow, complex, and ultimately tragic book, but I found it enjoyable and certainly fulfilling. It's an epic unlike any that I have ever read. I intend to write a post about my general feelings and contemplations on the book as a whole, but I really feel the need to do some more reflecting on it now that it's over. In the meantime, I want to point out some favorite passages of mine from the second half of the book. Some are touching, others are just plain fun.
"He soon acquired the forlorn look one sees in vegetarians."
This quote makes me think of Aaron, who recommended this book to me. As a vegan, I wonder how he feels about this. If I ever became vegetarian, this is how I would look at a 4th of July barbecue when faced with the forbidden bratwurst.
"On awakening each one had the juice of forty oranges, eight quarts of coffee, and thirty raw eggs. On the second morning, after many hours without sleep and having put away two pigs, a bunch of bananas, and thirty cases of champagne . . ."
In this scene, a gluttonous character gets in an eating contest with a giant woman named The Elephant, obviously. I grinned madly reading the hyperbolic description of their battle of appetites. People are still fascinated with this sort of thing; just look at the various competitions restaurants around the city have for their customers: Eat a giant pizza or so much ice cream that you'll puke! I've never had the balls to take one of those establishments up on the challenge, but this passage inspires me to do so when I feel the desire to die young.
"He saw a woman dressed in gold sitting on the head of an elephant. He saw a sad dromedary. He saw a bear dressed as a dutch girl keeping time to the music with a soup spoon and a pan. He saw the clowns doing cartwheels at the end of the parade and once more he saw the face of his miserable solitude . . ."
Just before one character dies after living a miserable and lonely life, he walks out to the street for the first time in years to watch the circus pass. It was a passage filled with poignancy and wonder. One of the many death scenes Marquez handles beautifully. Another character actually ascends body and soul into heaven, Jesus style.
"The air was so damp that fish could have come in through the doors and swum out through the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms."
Here, because of a complex mishap with a banana company, it rains in the town where the book is set for years. How wet does that make the place? Wet enough for fish to swim in the air. Surreal.
"They enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs."
This is just a heartwarming story of a man and his concubine. One of the very few relationships in the entire book that is actually sweet and genuine. The description here is exactly how I see Mary and I (except for the part about them being old and about one of them being a concubine...).
"What do you expect? Time passes."
This could very well be the motto of the book, as one hundred years passes. Five generations of the family pass between the book's opening and thundering conclusion. Characters move from carefree childhood to an old age full of pain and solitude. It brings the book full of fantasy into the harsh realities of mortality and the dark moments life inevitably holds for us all.
While it is hard and largely bleak, there was a lot to enjoy, especially when it comes to Marquez's writing style. Certainly a nice change of pace.
Up Next: Thoughts on themes and characters in Marquez and the start of the next book in my journey: MOBY DICK!!!!
"He soon acquired the forlorn look one sees in vegetarians."
This quote makes me think of Aaron, who recommended this book to me. As a vegan, I wonder how he feels about this. If I ever became vegetarian, this is how I would look at a 4th of July barbecue when faced with the forbidden bratwurst.
"On awakening each one had the juice of forty oranges, eight quarts of coffee, and thirty raw eggs. On the second morning, after many hours without sleep and having put away two pigs, a bunch of bananas, and thirty cases of champagne . . ."
In this scene, a gluttonous character gets in an eating contest with a giant woman named The Elephant, obviously. I grinned madly reading the hyperbolic description of their battle of appetites. People are still fascinated with this sort of thing; just look at the various competitions restaurants around the city have for their customers: Eat a giant pizza or so much ice cream that you'll puke! I've never had the balls to take one of those establishments up on the challenge, but this passage inspires me to do so when I feel the desire to die young.
"He saw a woman dressed in gold sitting on the head of an elephant. He saw a sad dromedary. He saw a bear dressed as a dutch girl keeping time to the music with a soup spoon and a pan. He saw the clowns doing cartwheels at the end of the parade and once more he saw the face of his miserable solitude . . ."
Just before one character dies after living a miserable and lonely life, he walks out to the street for the first time in years to watch the circus pass. It was a passage filled with poignancy and wonder. One of the many death scenes Marquez handles beautifully. Another character actually ascends body and soul into heaven, Jesus style.
"The air was so damp that fish could have come in through the doors and swum out through the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms."
Here, because of a complex mishap with a banana company, it rains in the town where the book is set for years. How wet does that make the place? Wet enough for fish to swim in the air. Surreal.
"They enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs."
This is just a heartwarming story of a man and his concubine. One of the very few relationships in the entire book that is actually sweet and genuine. The description here is exactly how I see Mary and I (except for the part about them being old and about one of them being a concubine...).
"What do you expect? Time passes."
This could very well be the motto of the book, as one hundred years passes. Five generations of the family pass between the book's opening and thundering conclusion. Characters move from carefree childhood to an old age full of pain and solitude. It brings the book full of fantasy into the harsh realities of mortality and the dark moments life inevitably holds for us all.
While it is hard and largely bleak, there was a lot to enjoy, especially when it comes to Marquez's writing style. Certainly a nice change of pace.
Up Next: Thoughts on themes and characters in Marquez and the start of the next book in my journey: MOBY DICK!!!!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Oh, The Suphering
As a note to yesterday's post about students submitting some disturbing and violent creative writing, I feel the need to recount my own history of such behavior. A couple of years ago, while rummaging through old Childhood Stuff at my folks' place, Mary and I unearthed a treasure: a collection of stories written and illustrated with care by my kindergarten-aged self. Many of these stories were about the X-Men or Power Rangers. All of them involved characters fighting. Now, they were hardly troubling; my inability to spell or color within the lines made them hilarious, actually. Still, one story was about "Rock Man" who killed people with rocks, making them "supher" (what can I say, I was a young poet).
So I drew pictures of people dying, scribbling all over the page with a red crayon, and described mass amounts of suphering. Does that mean I needed counseling at that age? Absolutely not. To this day, I have never been in an actual fight. I just liked comic books and Star Wars. I had an imagination. Had an adult told me that what I was doing was wrong or inappropriate in any way, I would not have taken it well. It would be like telling me that I couldn't eat pizza or watch Saturday Morning Cartoons. Children can have twisted imaginations, but I am living proof that such a thing does not necessarily mean the child will grow up deranged.
PS I also touched on the depressing nature of high school literature yesterday. One such universally read bleak and gloomy classic is Great Gatsby. If you've read it, you may find THIS funny.
So I drew pictures of people dying, scribbling all over the page with a red crayon, and described mass amounts of suphering. Does that mean I needed counseling at that age? Absolutely not. To this day, I have never been in an actual fight. I just liked comic books and Star Wars. I had an imagination. Had an adult told me that what I was doing was wrong or inappropriate in any way, I would not have taken it well. It would be like telling me that I couldn't eat pizza or watch Saturday Morning Cartoons. Children can have twisted imaginations, but I am living proof that such a thing does not necessarily mean the child will grow up deranged.
PS I also touched on the depressing nature of high school literature yesterday. One such universally read bleak and gloomy classic is Great Gatsby. If you've read it, you may find THIS funny.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Teaching Teens to be Troubled
It's fun teaching honors students. This is my first year doing so, and it has been really rewarding. These are honors freshmen, the perfect demographic: smart enough to hold a sophisticated discussion on literature, but young enough to still be eager to learn. It's one time in my week where I know for certain I will have a good time in class, which is certainly not something many teachers are able to say. Considering this, imagine my excitement in assigning my students to write short stories. Many of these students actually enjoy creative writing in their free time and certainly read for fun, so I expected them to have more original ideas and a better grasp on narrative logic than my other students (not to knock on my other students, they can come up with some very creative stuff, too). I left the assignment open ended intentionally, allowing my students to write something they would enjoy.
I have now finished grading these stories (And all of the other essays I had to grade. You can't see it over the interwebs, but I am smiling about this). Some of these stories were real gems: poignant, suspenseful, or fun. I had one student write from the perspective of a mathematician trying to decide whether or not to ask a girl out on a date who solved his predicament using the same logic used to solve a geometric proof. It's these sort of stories that made me excited (yes!) to grade an assignment. Other unimpressive stories covered topics I expected; stories about relationships and prom and other mushy stuff. No less than six involved being asked out by a boy with "piercing blue eyes."
However, almost half of the stories submitted to me involved something I did not expect: violence. Now, I knew that I would have some stories with a little bit of violence, but this bordered on disturbing. Here's the general plot outline of one of these stories: A teen and his girlfriend accidentally allows his younger brother to drown while he was supposed to be watching him. Out of anger, the teen's father attempts to murder him for his negligence. In the ensuing scuffle, the teen accidentally kills his father. When the teen returns home, he and his girlfriend are murdered by his mother in anger. THE END. Another involves a teen who is obsessed with a girl in his class, seemingly romantically. In an ironic turn, once he gets her alone, the boy kills the object of his obsession and skins her. That one made me light headed. It did not help that I had been grading for hours when I stumbled upon it.
Teacher instincts said to talk to these students in private to make sure they did not need counseling. That was my plan until I finished, violently disturbing stories numbering in double digits. That means that this is a far reaching problem, not an individual one. Sharing this with Mary and friends, they reminded me that these kids are surrounded by violent media. They all go home and watch marathons of CSI. I have to admit, I can relate. At that age, I was a huge fan of Braveheart and Boondock Saints. These are the stories many adolescents are surrounded by, so it makes sense that these are the narrative they would weave themselves.
Part of me wonders if I, as an English teacher, am partially to blame. It's not that I make my students write about violence, but let's face it, literature read in high school is always depressing and often violent. I am concerned about my students writing about teenage violence, yet we are currently reading a play about two teenagers who commit suicide in the end. After reading Of Mice and Men, Lord of the Flies, and 1984 next year, I'd be surprised if they could write an optimistic story if paid to do so. "Great literature," on the whole, is full of books that are total bummers.
I'm not writing this post to say that I am against that. I certainly don't think that William Golding should have gone to see a psychiatrist because he wrote about some little kids who murder a fat nerdy boy (though it might have done the guy some good). There's some good in writing about the dark parts of the world, and literature helps us come to terms with it. In reading these depressing stories, students are able to confront life's ugliness and process it through discussion in a safe environment. After reading these stories, though, I do worry that they are failing to see the parts of life that aren't all that bad. Oh well, maybe they go to church for that.
Now that I'm caught up on grading, I'll return to Marquez, who surely won't write about anything disturbing like war or incest.
I have now finished grading these stories (And all of the other essays I had to grade. You can't see it over the interwebs, but I am smiling about this). Some of these stories were real gems: poignant, suspenseful, or fun. I had one student write from the perspective of a mathematician trying to decide whether or not to ask a girl out on a date who solved his predicament using the same logic used to solve a geometric proof. It's these sort of stories that made me excited (yes!) to grade an assignment. Other unimpressive stories covered topics I expected; stories about relationships and prom and other mushy stuff. No less than six involved being asked out by a boy with "piercing blue eyes."
However, almost half of the stories submitted to me involved something I did not expect: violence. Now, I knew that I would have some stories with a little bit of violence, but this bordered on disturbing. Here's the general plot outline of one of these stories: A teen and his girlfriend accidentally allows his younger brother to drown while he was supposed to be watching him. Out of anger, the teen's father attempts to murder him for his negligence. In the ensuing scuffle, the teen accidentally kills his father. When the teen returns home, he and his girlfriend are murdered by his mother in anger. THE END. Another involves a teen who is obsessed with a girl in his class, seemingly romantically. In an ironic turn, once he gets her alone, the boy kills the object of his obsession and skins her. That one made me light headed. It did not help that I had been grading for hours when I stumbled upon it.
Teacher instincts said to talk to these students in private to make sure they did not need counseling. That was my plan until I finished, violently disturbing stories numbering in double digits. That means that this is a far reaching problem, not an individual one. Sharing this with Mary and friends, they reminded me that these kids are surrounded by violent media. They all go home and watch marathons of CSI. I have to admit, I can relate. At that age, I was a huge fan of Braveheart and Boondock Saints. These are the stories many adolescents are surrounded by, so it makes sense that these are the narrative they would weave themselves.
Part of me wonders if I, as an English teacher, am partially to blame. It's not that I make my students write about violence, but let's face it, literature read in high school is always depressing and often violent. I am concerned about my students writing about teenage violence, yet we are currently reading a play about two teenagers who commit suicide in the end. After reading Of Mice and Men, Lord of the Flies, and 1984 next year, I'd be surprised if they could write an optimistic story if paid to do so. "Great literature," on the whole, is full of books that are total bummers.
I'm not writing this post to say that I am against that. I certainly don't think that William Golding should have gone to see a psychiatrist because he wrote about some little kids who murder a fat nerdy boy (though it might have done the guy some good). There's some good in writing about the dark parts of the world, and literature helps us come to terms with it. In reading these depressing stories, students are able to confront life's ugliness and process it through discussion in a safe environment. After reading these stories, though, I do worry that they are failing to see the parts of life that aren't all that bad. Oh well, maybe they go to church for that.
Now that I'm caught up on grading, I'll return to Marquez, who surely won't write about anything disturbing like war or incest.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Dang Technology
I woke up fairly early today to grade papers. I have many many essays and short stories to grade, and I was looking forward to getting them off my plate. Trying to be green and tech-savvy this year, I have decided to use turnitin.com to grade all of my papers. Instead of collecting physical copies, my students submit their papers online, I grade them online, and they get feedback and peer edit online. It allows me to make more substantive comments on their papers without spending the entire class after papers are returned translating my handwriting. For the most part, it's worked like a charm. I get to essentially bring home 100 papers without carrying a heavy bag full of paper cuts waiting to happen.
Today, when I logged on to turnitin.com to get my grading done, this message:
Turnitin is currently down for routine system maintenance and upgrades. The service will be available again at 11:00 AM Pacific Standard Time (6:00 PM Coordinated Universal Time).
Looks like I have a leisurely morning ahead of me. Hey, I tried.
Today, when I logged on to turnitin.com to get my grading done, this message:
Turnitin is currently down for routine system maintenance and upgrades. The service will be available again at 11:00 AM Pacific Standard Time (6:00 PM Coordinated Universal Time).
Looks like I have a leisurely morning ahead of me. Hey, I tried.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Shaking the Spear
I am tired. It's been a busy year. I have a stack of papers to grade stalking me. I am very much in need of some extra enthusiasm and energy. Wizard needs food badly.
Today, I got just what The Doctor (the one with the TARDIS, not a stethoscope) ordered: my Shakespeare unit started today. Oh, teaching Shakespeare to freshmen. It's why I got into this biz. We have so much fun performing in class with fake swords, biting our thumbs at each other. Romeo and Juliet! The passion! The tragedy! The sexual innuendo! The crappy DiCaprio movie! Epic. This is the stuff book nerds' dreams are made of. I hope every year to hook someone the way I got hooked on this stuff when I was their age. At the very least, I know that I'll be having a good time.
Have 80 minutes to spare and looking for some entertainment? If you've not seen it, watch THIS VIDEO. It's the complete works of Shakespeare in one performance. Still remember all of the jokes from watching it in Ms. King's class. Genuinely funny.
Today, I got just what The Doctor (the one with the TARDIS, not a stethoscope) ordered: my Shakespeare unit started today. Oh, teaching Shakespeare to freshmen. It's why I got into this biz. We have so much fun performing in class with fake swords, biting our thumbs at each other. Romeo and Juliet! The passion! The tragedy! The sexual innuendo! The crappy DiCaprio movie! Epic. This is the stuff book nerds' dreams are made of. I hope every year to hook someone the way I got hooked on this stuff when I was their age. At the very least, I know that I'll be having a good time.
Have 80 minutes to spare and looking for some entertainment? If you've not seen it, watch THIS VIDEO. It's the complete works of Shakespeare in one performance. Still remember all of the jokes from watching it in Ms. King's class. Genuinely funny.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
First Thoughts on Marquez
As I mentioned yesterday, I'm three days into One Hundred Years of Solitude and thought I could give some first impressions. It may be a while before I write about the book again because my reading is about to be interrupted by about 110 essays that will need grading starting tomorrow. I mean, what genius scheduled papers due from ALL of his classes on the same day? This leisure time for reading and writing is about to get cut a tad short.
I'm enjoying it. It's certainly not a page turner. Like Bolano's 2666, another Latin American novel I recently read (most of), Marquez has a thing for drawing out his story with detailed descriptions of seemingly not-so-important events. This is not a complaint - I actually like it when authors fully develop the world of the novel, unafraid of details that do not explicitly move the plot forward. This is a book about a family, and the only real stumbling block so far is getting the names straight. For instance, so far there are three characters all named Jose Arcadio. It's realistic that traditional families would pass down names like this, just not super-convenient for the reader.
What sets this novel apart from 2666 is that it's not all about gritty realism. Marquez is the most famous example of an author who writes in "magical realism," which, from what I can tell, translates into awesome. In otherwise realistic stories, elements of the fantastic are thrown in without explanation. In my favorite part of the novel so far, an entire village catches the "disease" of forgetfulness. Nobody can remember what anything is, so labels are attached to everything. For instance, that unfamiliar mooing quadruped chewing grass out in the field is labeled with a nice helpful sheet of paper explaining that it is, in fact, a cow, and that it needs milking every day. A gypsy comes to town with a tonic to cure the forgetfulness. No other explanation is given, and the story of this very real family continues. I love it. Growing up on fantasy literature, I have always had a fascination with these sorts of stories, and I'm already in love with the way Marquez weaves these magical elements seamlessly into the deeply emotional lives of this family. Unlike many fantasy novelists, Marquez does not feel the need to explain exactly how/why all of these fantastical events work; the effect is mysterious and subtle. Makes me want to look into more magical realism books.
Some favorite lines so far:
-The way this book talks about sex is great, hilarious at times. Marquez describes one boy's first sexual encounter by telling the reader that the boy now "understands why men are afraid of death." When the boy's younger brother asks him what sex feels like, he responds, "It's like an earthquake." It's just such a serious and dramatic way of talking about sex that I can't help but smile, even if that's not the desired effect.
- This book covers 100 years, so we begin quite some time ago, probably in the mid 1800s. The invention of the daguerreotype, a precursor to photography, comes into the village (when thinking about daguerreotypes, my mind always pictures THIS famous daguerreotype of Poe). The mother in the story refuses to have her picture taken. Her reasoning? She "did not want to survive as a laughingstock to her grandchildren." Ha. So true. I'm reminded of the Ghosts of School Picture Day Past that haunted my aunts and uncles from my grandparents' fireplace mantle. Embarrassing 70s eyeglasses and haircuts. Laughingstock indeed.
Anyway, I look forward to reading more, even if my pace will be slowed by my mound of student writing. Possible venting in the forecast. Stay tuned.
I'm enjoying it. It's certainly not a page turner. Like Bolano's 2666, another Latin American novel I recently read (most of), Marquez has a thing for drawing out his story with detailed descriptions of seemingly not-so-important events. This is not a complaint - I actually like it when authors fully develop the world of the novel, unafraid of details that do not explicitly move the plot forward. This is a book about a family, and the only real stumbling block so far is getting the names straight. For instance, so far there are three characters all named Jose Arcadio. It's realistic that traditional families would pass down names like this, just not super-convenient for the reader.
What sets this novel apart from 2666 is that it's not all about gritty realism. Marquez is the most famous example of an author who writes in "magical realism," which, from what I can tell, translates into awesome. In otherwise realistic stories, elements of the fantastic are thrown in without explanation. In my favorite part of the novel so far, an entire village catches the "disease" of forgetfulness. Nobody can remember what anything is, so labels are attached to everything. For instance, that unfamiliar mooing quadruped chewing grass out in the field is labeled with a nice helpful sheet of paper explaining that it is, in fact, a cow, and that it needs milking every day. A gypsy comes to town with a tonic to cure the forgetfulness. No other explanation is given, and the story of this very real family continues. I love it. Growing up on fantasy literature, I have always had a fascination with these sorts of stories, and I'm already in love with the way Marquez weaves these magical elements seamlessly into the deeply emotional lives of this family. Unlike many fantasy novelists, Marquez does not feel the need to explain exactly how/why all of these fantastical events work; the effect is mysterious and subtle. Makes me want to look into more magical realism books.
Some favorite lines so far:
-The way this book talks about sex is great, hilarious at times. Marquez describes one boy's first sexual encounter by telling the reader that the boy now "understands why men are afraid of death." When the boy's younger brother asks him what sex feels like, he responds, "It's like an earthquake." It's just such a serious and dramatic way of talking about sex that I can't help but smile, even if that's not the desired effect.
- This book covers 100 years, so we begin quite some time ago, probably in the mid 1800s. The invention of the daguerreotype, a precursor to photography, comes into the village (when thinking about daguerreotypes, my mind always pictures THIS famous daguerreotype of Poe). The mother in the story refuses to have her picture taken. Her reasoning? She "did not want to survive as a laughingstock to her grandchildren." Ha. So true. I'm reminded of the Ghosts of School Picture Day Past that haunted my aunts and uncles from my grandparents' fireplace mantle. Embarrassing 70s eyeglasses and haircuts. Laughingstock indeed.
Anyway, I look forward to reading more, even if my pace will be slowed by my mound of student writing. Possible venting in the forecast. Stay tuned.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Page Turner
Just started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude yesterday. I've started here in my quest to be better read for a few reasons: 1) It is regarded by many (including some coworkers) as the best novel written by a living author. 2) My experience with literature written anywhere other than America and Britain is severely lacking. 3) I already owned a copy.
I first heard the title mentioned my freshman year at SLU. I was in the course all honors students were required to take called "Crossroads," a vague name for a vague class. The room was filled with adolescents fresh from their respective private high schools. Being in the honors program, even if everyone there was not eager to learn, they were eager to please the instructor and get an A at all costs. This was where I first met Frank, the class where he notoriously ruined a group project (in which I was a group member) and got in a shouting match with the instructor.
The professor in question was Dr. Smith, a man who was my first favorite college professor (he left the university soon after my taking this class). He was a classic wimpy dude: short in height, hair neatly combed, squeaky voice, an English teacher whose specialty was in women's literature. Fighting against this effeminate demeanor: his goatee. He was the sort of man whose facial hair made no room for lips, where his mouth was unframed by the usual pink skin. When he spoke, his mouth came from seemingly nowhere between his mustache and goatee.
On this particular day, Dr. Smith was attempting (unsuccessfully) to lead us in an engaging discussion about the personal writings of Ignatius of Loyola. Frustrated by his unenthusiastic "honors students," he asked us why we were so bored with the book. One student sarcastically spoke up, "Well, it's not exactly a page turner." Smith, with genuine curiosity, asked the class, "What kind of books would you consider a so-called page turner?"
My mind turned to the books that employ the quality of page turners. Books like early installments of the Harry Potter series and The Da Vinci Code fit the mold: simple descriptions, the plot always shifting to new and exciting moments in quick succession. My response was the Amber series by Roger Zelazney. I'd quickly devoured all five books in a weekend the previous school year. One classmate responded that they had read One Hundred Years of Solitude and found it to be a real page turner. Dr. Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, come on," he said, "It's a good book, sure, but not exactly a page turner."
It seemed that several students in the room, all freshmen in college like me, had read the book in school and enjoyed it. Though I enjoyed my high school English classes at the time (and have that enjoyment to thank for my current profession), I look back on it now as insufficient in many ways. Yes, I certainly came out a better writer, very adept at reading short stories. However, I was taught high school English out of anthologies and read only a handful of novels the entire four years. I teach each class a minimum of six novels per school year now. Starting college, I felt self-conscious as an English major who had not read many books in his high school classes. One Hundred Years of Solitude was put on my mental list of "Stuff I Feel Like I Should Have Read by Now." I've read many books on that list since that afternoon in my Crossroads class. Not sure how I made it through high school without reading The Great Gatsby or To Kill a Mockingbird, but I've read them now (and am glad I did).
Now, still on that mission to have read all those "important books," I've finally started One Hundred Years of Solitude, the book adored by my former classmates. 50 pages in, I'm certainly enjoying it, but I must side with Dr. Smith here. Fascinating? Yes. A page turner? Well, certainly not in the traditional sense.
I first heard the title mentioned my freshman year at SLU. I was in the course all honors students were required to take called "Crossroads," a vague name for a vague class. The room was filled with adolescents fresh from their respective private high schools. Being in the honors program, even if everyone there was not eager to learn, they were eager to please the instructor and get an A at all costs. This was where I first met Frank, the class where he notoriously ruined a group project (in which I was a group member) and got in a shouting match with the instructor.
The professor in question was Dr. Smith, a man who was my first favorite college professor (he left the university soon after my taking this class). He was a classic wimpy dude: short in height, hair neatly combed, squeaky voice, an English teacher whose specialty was in women's literature. Fighting against this effeminate demeanor: his goatee. He was the sort of man whose facial hair made no room for lips, where his mouth was unframed by the usual pink skin. When he spoke, his mouth came from seemingly nowhere between his mustache and goatee.
On this particular day, Dr. Smith was attempting (unsuccessfully) to lead us in an engaging discussion about the personal writings of Ignatius of Loyola. Frustrated by his unenthusiastic "honors students," he asked us why we were so bored with the book. One student sarcastically spoke up, "Well, it's not exactly a page turner." Smith, with genuine curiosity, asked the class, "What kind of books would you consider a so-called page turner?"
My mind turned to the books that employ the quality of page turners. Books like early installments of the Harry Potter series and The Da Vinci Code fit the mold: simple descriptions, the plot always shifting to new and exciting moments in quick succession. My response was the Amber series by Roger Zelazney. I'd quickly devoured all five books in a weekend the previous school year. One classmate responded that they had read One Hundred Years of Solitude and found it to be a real page turner. Dr. Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, come on," he said, "It's a good book, sure, but not exactly a page turner."
It seemed that several students in the room, all freshmen in college like me, had read the book in school and enjoyed it. Though I enjoyed my high school English classes at the time (and have that enjoyment to thank for my current profession), I look back on it now as insufficient in many ways. Yes, I certainly came out a better writer, very adept at reading short stories. However, I was taught high school English out of anthologies and read only a handful of novels the entire four years. I teach each class a minimum of six novels per school year now. Starting college, I felt self-conscious as an English major who had not read many books in his high school classes. One Hundred Years of Solitude was put on my mental list of "Stuff I Feel Like I Should Have Read by Now." I've read many books on that list since that afternoon in my Crossroads class. Not sure how I made it through high school without reading The Great Gatsby or To Kill a Mockingbird, but I've read them now (and am glad I did).
Now, still on that mission to have read all those "important books," I've finally started One Hundred Years of Solitude, the book adored by my former classmates. 50 pages in, I'm certainly enjoying it, but I must side with Dr. Smith here. Fascinating? Yes. A page turner? Well, certainly not in the traditional sense.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Frog Season
The Missouri Botanical Garden is one of the best places in the city. One of the best places in that best place is what Mary and I affectionately refer to as the Frog Spot. It's located in the English Woodland Garden, just over a little bridge. This spot consists of a tiny pond (almost a glorified puddle) whose only real defining feature is a statue of three skinny naked women. Most people look at it, shrug, and walk on. Those people are missing out. This is where all of the toads like to hang out in the Garden. Amphibian Party Central.
Walking through the Garden in the summer, Mary and I would always go out of our way to visit the Frog Spot, getting into a competition of who could see the most frogs. You must understand, it's harder than it looks. The water in this pond is a dark reflective green, and the frogs (which are huge, by the way) are approximately the same color, camouflaged so that nobody can gig them and deep fry their legs, I suppose.
Summer turned to winter eventually, and the pond froze over. The three naked statuesque women were not only surely freezing, but also lonely for their usual croaking company. I know nothing about amphibian biology, so I have no idea where frogs go during the winter. Do they hibernate under the ice? Do they do a migratory hop south? Do they all die off? Whatever the case, quiet Garden walks in the crunching snow ensured that our frog spotting game always ended with the tie score 0-0.
Today, the Garden was alive like it hadn't been since all of the leaves fell off of the trees. Green is sprouting everywhere. Tulips and flowering dogwoods have taken over. The parking lot is full. It was a pleasant stroll through the new warm season. I knew to expect the new bright colors and crowds that come with 76 degree weather in the Garden.
What I did not expect? We spotted frogs for the fist time in the Spot. 8 total. Welcome home. Welcome to Spring.
Walking through the Garden in the summer, Mary and I would always go out of our way to visit the Frog Spot, getting into a competition of who could see the most frogs. You must understand, it's harder than it looks. The water in this pond is a dark reflective green, and the frogs (which are huge, by the way) are approximately the same color, camouflaged so that nobody can gig them and deep fry their legs, I suppose.
Summer turned to winter eventually, and the pond froze over. The three naked statuesque women were not only surely freezing, but also lonely for their usual croaking company. I know nothing about amphibian biology, so I have no idea where frogs go during the winter. Do they hibernate under the ice? Do they do a migratory hop south? Do they all die off? Whatever the case, quiet Garden walks in the crunching snow ensured that our frog spotting game always ended with the tie score 0-0.
Today, the Garden was alive like it hadn't been since all of the leaves fell off of the trees. Green is sprouting everywhere. Tulips and flowering dogwoods have taken over. The parking lot is full. It was a pleasant stroll through the new warm season. I knew to expect the new bright colors and crowds that come with 76 degree weather in the Garden.
What I did not expect? We spotted frogs for the fist time in the Spot. 8 total. Welcome home. Welcome to Spring.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
In Which We Meet Our Hero
Being a high school English teacher, one lesson that I am forced to reteach every few weeks is the definition of a thesis statement. My students inevitably forget between each essay, so I find myself saying at the start of each writing assignment: "A thesis statement is the main idea of your essay. You need to let your readers know what they should expect from the rest of the paper. Why are you writing the paper? What are the major topics that you'll be covering? Your audience should know the answers to these questions before they continue on to your second paragraph." This is good advice to budding writers, many of whom struggle with focus and organization in their writing.
Beginning this blog, I felt a need to provide answers to these very questions with my first post. Why is this blog here? What will this blogger be writing about? There's so much junk out there on the internet I could be looking at to better waste my time, why should I waste my time reading this?
This blog is a place for me to write. Sound simple enough? I like the idea of journaling, of writing down my thoughts and ideas. I even love actual physical journals. Beautiful and unused Moleskines lie around my apartment becoming unhealthy in their slothlike existence. Here's the thing about writing in those wonderful books: I don't write all that much by hand. Actually, I write much slower and much less legibly with a pen. There's no chance to do a quick search of a journal to find something I vaguely remember writing months ago. There's nobody reading my journal, which gives me no incentive to make my written reflection coherent, polished, or entertaining. While I'm not sure that this is a blog that will be of particular interest to others, it certainly serves my own purposes well.
Okay, so I'm just here to write. But what will I be writing about? In the fall, I'll be starting a MA in Literature program at UMSL. This means that I intend to take my reading and writing to the next level. Because of that, I need someplace to simply write. Write. About anything. To be a better writer (a personal goal)I need to write more. I intend to write for at least 30 minutes per day about anything that comes to mind. Some days, I'll write about something I heard on the radio. Other days, I'll write about interesting conversations I had with my students. This summer, I'll probably write an awful lot about seasonal vegetables and walks in the Botanical Gardens.
Primarily, though, this will be a blog about books. The title of this blog is actually a quote from Richard Burton. He's an actor I remember fondly from movies viewed in various high school classes (Anne of A Thousand Days in World History and Taming of the Shrew in English Lit). My favorite project of his is the BBC recording of Dylan Thomas' enchanting radio play, Under Milk Wood (I have an MP3 of it, should you like a listen). The quote has a lot of truth to it. This May will be the first in five years where I will not be moving to a new place. Moving is a painful process that I look forward to not taking part in anytime soon. The only fun part of that process? Unpacking boxes of books. I am the sort of person who doesn't like having lots of "stuff," but I love having so many books. Taking stacks of them out of boxes and shelving them in alphabetical order immediately turns a structure full of blank walls into a home.
Since I'm starting grad school soon, my current project is to fill in my reading gaps. I've been on a real contemporary fiction kick lately, and been very much enjoying it. Highlights have included Atwood's Blind Assassin, McCarthy's The Road, and MacLeod's Island. However, now it's time to start jumping into classic literature that I've missed out on over the years. Faulkner, Hemingway, Melville, O'Connor, Marquez, Dostoevsky,and Dickens, here I come! I'll be reflecting about my reading often. I won't take it personally if you find those bits boring, I just need to get back into the habit of writing about what I read. Feel free to skip those bits.
In The Maltese Falcon, the notoriously plump and appropriately named Mr. Gutman tells the hero Sam Spade, "I like talking to a man who likes to talk." This will be the writings of a man who likes to write. Feel free to drop in. Don't worry, one way I hope to improve my writing in the coming months is to be more economical with my writing.
Beginning this blog, I felt a need to provide answers to these very questions with my first post. Why is this blog here? What will this blogger be writing about? There's so much junk out there on the internet I could be looking at to better waste my time, why should I waste my time reading this?
This blog is a place for me to write. Sound simple enough? I like the idea of journaling, of writing down my thoughts and ideas. I even love actual physical journals. Beautiful and unused Moleskines lie around my apartment becoming unhealthy in their slothlike existence. Here's the thing about writing in those wonderful books: I don't write all that much by hand. Actually, I write much slower and much less legibly with a pen. There's no chance to do a quick search of a journal to find something I vaguely remember writing months ago. There's nobody reading my journal, which gives me no incentive to make my written reflection coherent, polished, or entertaining. While I'm not sure that this is a blog that will be of particular interest to others, it certainly serves my own purposes well.
Okay, so I'm just here to write. But what will I be writing about? In the fall, I'll be starting a MA in Literature program at UMSL. This means that I intend to take my reading and writing to the next level. Because of that, I need someplace to simply write. Write. About anything. To be a better writer (a personal goal)I need to write more. I intend to write for at least 30 minutes per day about anything that comes to mind. Some days, I'll write about something I heard on the radio. Other days, I'll write about interesting conversations I had with my students. This summer, I'll probably write an awful lot about seasonal vegetables and walks in the Botanical Gardens.
Primarily, though, this will be a blog about books. The title of this blog is actually a quote from Richard Burton. He's an actor I remember fondly from movies viewed in various high school classes (Anne of A Thousand Days in World History and Taming of the Shrew in English Lit). My favorite project of his is the BBC recording of Dylan Thomas' enchanting radio play, Under Milk Wood (I have an MP3 of it, should you like a listen). The quote has a lot of truth to it. This May will be the first in five years where I will not be moving to a new place. Moving is a painful process that I look forward to not taking part in anytime soon. The only fun part of that process? Unpacking boxes of books. I am the sort of person who doesn't like having lots of "stuff," but I love having so many books. Taking stacks of them out of boxes and shelving them in alphabetical order immediately turns a structure full of blank walls into a home.
Since I'm starting grad school soon, my current project is to fill in my reading gaps. I've been on a real contemporary fiction kick lately, and been very much enjoying it. Highlights have included Atwood's Blind Assassin, McCarthy's The Road, and MacLeod's Island. However, now it's time to start jumping into classic literature that I've missed out on over the years. Faulkner, Hemingway, Melville, O'Connor, Marquez, Dostoevsky,and Dickens, here I come! I'll be reflecting about my reading often. I won't take it personally if you find those bits boring, I just need to get back into the habit of writing about what I read. Feel free to skip those bits.
In The Maltese Falcon, the notoriously plump and appropriately named Mr. Gutman tells the hero Sam Spade, "I like talking to a man who likes to talk." This will be the writings of a man who likes to write. Feel free to drop in. Don't worry, one way I hope to improve my writing in the coming months is to be more economical with my writing.
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