Last year, when I turned 25 my sister sent me a copy of My Life in France by Julia Child with this inscription: “I thought you needed some light reading before school starts back up. Happy 25th. I hope this book inspires you!” I was endeared to the Meryl Streep version of Child she portrayed in Julie and Julia, and always meant to read her autobiography, but the school year did start up and so did teaching and applications. Thus, the book was lost to my “should read” pile, but I admit not to the “must read.” My sister is an amazing aspiring chef, so I knew why she found it inspiring, but I didn’t think that I could get anything out of it besides “a cute summer read.” Anyways, I didn’t think I needed inspiration a year ago.
This summer I did need that inspiration.
Determined to get through the ever-growing pile of books, I came upon Julia Child’s book and absent-mindedly opened to my sister’s inscription that I had forgotten was there. I am woman enough to admit that in my seemingly perpetual emotional state I had to wipe a few tears away while my romanticism convinced me that my sister’s note was a sign. It’s so interesting what affect a few well-timed lines can have on a person’s soul. So, I suggested the book to my two collaborators, and luckily they agreed for it to be our first Thrice Booked book club choice.
From the first chapter, Julia Child’s enthusiasm for life, food, new experiences, personal growth and friendship is truly inspirational. The book is infused with her lively spirit, which stays with the reader long after the book is finished. Even when she writes about her hardships, her letdowns, her rejections, her last days in France, she is not to be disheartened and neither is the reader. Disappointment is a part of life, and it does not do to dwell in despair; her most important lesson: keep living, keep doing what you love and keep discovering your “raison d’etre in life.”
She says in her final pages, “And the great lesson embedded in the book is that no one is born a great cook, one learns by doing. This is my invariable advice to people: Learn how to cook—try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!” How can you not apply this lesson and advice to life? In this impatient world, we want things now, we want to be good at something right away, we want every dream to be accomplished immediately and despair when plans need to be extended, when we need to start over, when we need to wait one more year (or two or three). But the good things come with patience. Julia Child did not become THE Julia Child until she was in her forties. She did not know that she wanted to be cook until her late 30s. It took 9 years to write Mastering the Art of French Cooking and yet another year to find a publisher. Above all, her life shows that patience and effort are both the keys to being great at anything. Often we do not know the importance of the time spent doing something until years later. She loved France most because the country taught her to slow down, and to enjoy every moment and every meal that came her way.
Her book also records the changing of an era. Peripherally, she discusses America’s “growth,” analyzing it from the French perspective, but through the eyes of an American. The French take the time to make something great, and she saw the sad devolution of the American kitchen that seems to represent the bigger picture of the American mindset. We want it all and we want it all now—even it if means sacrificing quality of ingredients and quality of life. Our chicken no longer tastes like chicken and we eat our vegetables out of cans. I think (and hope!) that our country is turning around in that there seems to be a movement back to fresh ingredients. I hope to one day be part of the home-farming and meatless Mondays movements! But I think this sacrifice in quality is evident not just in our foods but how we live our life, especially comparing ourselves to Europe. There are those that say “but we work harder and have more to show for it.” But do we? Statistics show that we are unhappier despite being richer than any other era. What does this mean? Doesn’t this show that this is the time to evaluate the American mindset? It’s literally making us fat and killing us!
Finally, her openness to new experiences, her emphasis that we need to be ready for anything and break out of our comfort zones is what really what impressed me the most. She achieved so much and lived such an amazing life because she hardly ever turned down an opportunity even if the change frightened her. She didn’t just live in or visit another country; she experienced the life of the people, from China to Norway to Germany to France… She made sure she experienced the people, the language, the culture and most importantly the food! She did not just go somewhere to tick it off her list or snap some pictures to show friends later. She traveled and saw and experienced and ate. I think today’s tourists could take a lesson from her, but I wonder if that kind of traveling is still possible. Even in her final days she saw her beloved Nice transform into the gaudy display that is the French Riviera it is today-- and the one that I visited (and not much impressed by). I would give anything to see Paris from her eyes. But, on my next vacation (fingers crossed for Germany), my goal is to travel with same intensity and depth that she did, not only with enthusiasm, but the will to really see the country.
So, I ask myself, “What would Julia Child do?” Her likely answer: “Ask yourself what you would do and do it with your whole self.” And, as she teaches, that answer should change as you change, which should be often.
[The full Thrice Booked round table discussion on My Life in France will be published on Sunday]
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tour de Greed? Artistic Integrity and Audience
In the past couple of weeks around dinnertime, Chopin and I tried to regularly watch replays of the Tour de France, probably the most famous professional bicycling race in the world. Despite owning a mountain bike and biking myself, and despite having a cyclist dad who belongs to a cycling club and relishes his time on two wheels, I have to admit that I don't quite understand the rules and strategy of the Tour. Well, I guess I haven't really sat down and studied it all, so it's not really that surprising I don't get it. Nevertheless, I comprehend enough to enjoy the competition; the beautiful scenery of France depicted throughout is enough entertainment in itself. From my limited experience as a bicyclist, I sat in wonder at these amazing athletes' abilities; what they're doing is extremely difficult...probably more mentally straining than anything. I also think it's safe to say they're the best conditioned athletes in the world, from a cardiovascular standpoint, anyway. To be at their level of strength, will, and commitment would be incredible!
Well, my admiration for these cyclists is sadly waning. With the coverage of the Tour comes the controversies of its players: numerous stories about riders "doping," or using illegal substances to enhance their athletic prowess, are in abundance, particularly ones focusing on Lance Armstrong, 7-time Tour winner, cancer survivor, and American "hero" (http://www.sbnation.com/2010/7/27/1590204/lance-armstrong-ped-doping-federal-prosecutors-probe, http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/cycling/news/story?id=5387363) He is currently being investigated by the feds, who are trying to figure out if he cheated by using performance enhancing drugs when winning the coveted yellow jersey. Sigh. I am not going to get into all of the details, but from what I've read and seen, and even though the media cannot ultimately be trusted, Lance's legacy seems tainted to me. I REALLY hope I'm wrong; I really hope the accuser (Floyd Landis) just has some jealous vendetta against his former teammate; I really hope that Lance did not use drugs when he displayed such athletic power, and I really hope that all of these amazing cyclists are in fact clean, but something tells me Lance and some others are guilty (multiple riders have already confessed). The feds probably won't uncover enough evidence to prove Lance's guilt, but with all of the hoopla, I think the damage is done, and the sport is somewhat scarred.
But Lance is the most drug tested cyclist out there, right? And he's tested clean every single time, right? So there's no way he's doping, you say. Well, that's where things get interesting. Apparently, the theory is that international cycling officials believe Lance is so important to the sport, has brought so much attention to it in a positive way, they're willing to look the other way (http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/floyd-landis-nightline-interview/story?id=11226456). In other words, these officials, who are in charge of testing for performance enhancing drugs, let Lance slide--basically let him cheat--in order to popularize the sport. Lance's defense isn't helped by the shady fact that he donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the UCI, cycling's governing body which overlooks testing, or that most of the cyclists who stood on the podium next to him have already admitted to doping.
So, how does this relate to reading, writing, literature, and the like? Well, what strikes me the most is the role the audience has played in this whole scenario. UCI has allegedly allowed Lance to cheat, maybe even encouraged him to, in order to greatly widen their audience, which essentially means those involved with the sport are greatly widening their pockets, as well. Unsurprisingly, money seems to be the motivating factor behind all of this. The more successful Lance is, the more famous he gets, which in turn garners more interest in the sport. With more interest comes more spending from cycling's audience (fan base), so there you go. Obviously, it's not a bad thing to develop and cater to your audience, or your customers, but at what price, and by what ethical standards?
As a writer, one must also be consider her audience, but to what degree? Creative writers constantly face the decision to cater to their audience--maybe write popular, more superficially inclined stuff--or write what they really want to, from the heart, whether it's popular or not. I'm sure some are lucky and don't have to choose between popularity/$$$ and artistic integrity; they are writing what they want to, and it just happens to be fluffier, or more popular in scope. Good for them. But what about the others? What about the writers who confront issues that are uncomfortable to deal with, are experimental, or are intellectually challenging? What about the writers who must decide between a paycheck (popular, more mainstream stuff) and staying true to themselves and their explorations? They must have audiences, too, they just haven't found them yet, or they are smaller, or they will exist after the writer has died. Some of the most respected artists' audiences have been created after they are long gone; what if all we are ever exposed to is the popular stuff? Yikes. No thank you. So, in a world where popularity reigns, to what degree should an artist/writer consider her audience? I guess I just want to emphasize that writers/artists have a choice; when it comes down to it, what would you do if money and choice of work don't really mesh (especially in a work that is so personal)? As for Lance and the sport of cycling, I hope I am wrong; I hope money, fame, and popularity haven't motivated their actions. I guess we can speculate about others, and only control the decisions we make in our own lives.
Shelley
Well, my admiration for these cyclists is sadly waning. With the coverage of the Tour comes the controversies of its players: numerous stories about riders "doping," or using illegal substances to enhance their athletic prowess, are in abundance, particularly ones focusing on Lance Armstrong, 7-time Tour winner, cancer survivor, and American "hero" (http://www.sbnation.com/2010/7/27/1590204/lance-armstrong-ped-doping-federal-prosecutors-probe, http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/cycling/news/story?id=5387363) He is currently being investigated by the feds, who are trying to figure out if he cheated by using performance enhancing drugs when winning the coveted yellow jersey. Sigh. I am not going to get into all of the details, but from what I've read and seen, and even though the media cannot ultimately be trusted, Lance's legacy seems tainted to me. I REALLY hope I'm wrong; I really hope the accuser (Floyd Landis) just has some jealous vendetta against his former teammate; I really hope that Lance did not use drugs when he displayed such athletic power, and I really hope that all of these amazing cyclists are in fact clean, but something tells me Lance and some others are guilty (multiple riders have already confessed). The feds probably won't uncover enough evidence to prove Lance's guilt, but with all of the hoopla, I think the damage is done, and the sport is somewhat scarred.
But Lance is the most drug tested cyclist out there, right? And he's tested clean every single time, right? So there's no way he's doping, you say. Well, that's where things get interesting. Apparently, the theory is that international cycling officials believe Lance is so important to the sport, has brought so much attention to it in a positive way, they're willing to look the other way (http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/floyd-landis-nightline-interview/story?id=11226456). In other words, these officials, who are in charge of testing for performance enhancing drugs, let Lance slide--basically let him cheat--in order to popularize the sport. Lance's defense isn't helped by the shady fact that he donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the UCI, cycling's governing body which overlooks testing, or that most of the cyclists who stood on the podium next to him have already admitted to doping.
So, how does this relate to reading, writing, literature, and the like? Well, what strikes me the most is the role the audience has played in this whole scenario. UCI has allegedly allowed Lance to cheat, maybe even encouraged him to, in order to greatly widen their audience, which essentially means those involved with the sport are greatly widening their pockets, as well. Unsurprisingly, money seems to be the motivating factor behind all of this. The more successful Lance is, the more famous he gets, which in turn garners more interest in the sport. With more interest comes more spending from cycling's audience (fan base), so there you go. Obviously, it's not a bad thing to develop and cater to your audience, or your customers, but at what price, and by what ethical standards?
As a writer, one must also be consider her audience, but to what degree? Creative writers constantly face the decision to cater to their audience--maybe write popular, more superficially inclined stuff--or write what they really want to, from the heart, whether it's popular or not. I'm sure some are lucky and don't have to choose between popularity/$$$ and artistic integrity; they are writing what they want to, and it just happens to be fluffier, or more popular in scope. Good for them. But what about the others? What about the writers who confront issues that are uncomfortable to deal with, are experimental, or are intellectually challenging? What about the writers who must decide between a paycheck (popular, more mainstream stuff) and staying true to themselves and their explorations? They must have audiences, too, they just haven't found them yet, or they are smaller, or they will exist after the writer has died. Some of the most respected artists' audiences have been created after they are long gone; what if all we are ever exposed to is the popular stuff? Yikes. No thank you. So, in a world where popularity reigns, to what degree should an artist/writer consider her audience? I guess I just want to emphasize that writers/artists have a choice; when it comes down to it, what would you do if money and choice of work don't really mesh (especially in a work that is so personal)? As for Lance and the sport of cycling, I hope I am wrong; I hope money, fame, and popularity haven't motivated their actions. I guess we can speculate about others, and only control the decisions we make in our own lives.
Shelley
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
This is California Part II
After taking that picture, I couldn’t help but think it shed some light on my state – both collectively and personally.
I think that California is not a place that someone can ever be ambivalent about – California
Of course, the detractors of California
a) We are home to the first McD’s.
b) We exacerbate our poor air quality through long commutes and big ag crop production and stress our dwindling water supplies.
c) While there are many people who live the laid back, surfer lifestyle, there are workers who work long hours for minimum pay, some of which involves back-breaking labor.
I could go on with this list, but I think you get the idea. So, in many ways, California
We also can be confident in change, because California California is a place of reinvention – from Hollywood
More importantly, California America Monterey in California
And finally, if you understand and accept California California
So, thanks, California
Monday, July 26, 2010
California
 |
This is Is this Cue a light tapping on the bongo drums, a few snaps, and a soothing announcer saying “Photo and Caption by Melville” -- end scene -- |
Friday, July 23, 2010
“I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted”
The following passage from The Picture of Dorian Gray has haunted me since I read it a few months back. Now I haven’t actually finished the novel because I became bored with Dorian’s laments, mistakes, and apathy, but something in his story resonates with those of us who are in that place of fear that comes with graduating from our “youthful” desires (or at least that place where we think we should):
“’Because you have the most marvelous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having. […] No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? [. . .] Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it […] Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. [. . .] The world belongs to you for a season. [. . .] For there is such a little time that your youth will last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’”
It is after Lord Henry tells this to Dorian Gray that his tragedy truly begins. (I took out the bits wherein Henry expounds upon the glories of Gray’s beauty—though that is a key point in the text and the text’s goals concerning aestheticism, it is not exactly relevant to my discussion.)
Whenever I begin to think about how I feel old at 25 (soon to be 26 and officially in my late twenties), I hear Lucinda Matlock’s voice from Edgar Lee Masters poem scolding me (What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,/ Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?/ Degenerate sons and daughters,/ Life is too strong for you— / It takes life to love Life.) But it is not that I physically feel old, it’s more this feeling that I am wasting time. I want every day to be extraordinary; haven’t we been told by Ferris Bueller that we need to smell the roses? Live life to the fullest? Live like we were dying? But what does that even mean if we have responsibilities, work, relationships and errands? I can’t steal a float in Chicago and sing “Twist and Shout”! What does it mean to “Live the wonderful life that is in you”? And, more importantly, how do we live that life without becoming selfish? How can we follow every impulse and want without hurting people just as Dorian Gray does? The problem with the novel too is that it emphasizes going after all the physical pleasures in life…and that is mostly what leads to his downfall. But the point is that he does follow his heart and his senses, trying to feel alive everyday only to be destroyed by it. So, can we live our lives to fullest? Or, must we put qualifiers on what that means? Obviously this problem is nothing really new seeing that Oscar Wilde seemed to suffer from these questions 100 years ago and Andrew Marvel 150 years before him (Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime).
I have had this very conversation with a few of my close friends, and before I discuss their and my conclusions, I want to explore why so many of us are experiencing an existential crisis of sorts right now. Partly, it has to do with the fact that most of my friends have just graduated from a graduate program and we are trying to find our way in this economy. Partly, it has to do with the fact that I have many motivated artistic friends who want so much more out of life because (1) we are romantics and (2) we probably over-think life. Also, we long to be perpetual students, but know that this does not put food on the table nor do these dabbles help our significant others…
I had my last day of work yesterday, a break that may last a month or more (a long story as to why), and I feel much nervous energy about having no place of work to go to. When I called August my “black hole,” a friend laughed at me and said I was the only one she knows who would consider a “break” a “black hole” and said that instead I should insist on calling it a “sunny place where good things happen.” Touché. It’s not that I have nothing to do. I have plenty I need to do for the next round of grad applications, etc. It’s the fact that I do not know where my life will end up in a month and whether it will slake this crisis: Will I finally feel more fulfilled then I feel now? Will it finally heal that gaping wound all those rejection letters caused? I know it many sound silly and melodramatic, but getting my dreams rejected felt like a death of sorts and changed me in major ways, leading me to question every aspect of my life. I came away with a shadow that’s only now being lifted with the help of some essential friends. When the world tells you that you can’t do what you want, how do you live life to the fullest?
I know there are many out there, especially in this time and economy, who feel this way. The twenties seem to be the new “inbetweener” phase. We want to make something great of ourselves but lack the ability to do it. Society is allowing and encouraging us to explore our options, and in fact, it seems to discourage “settling down.” “Youth” seems to be getting longer (40s are the new 30s?) The media and a lot of American culture promote having great experiences before we “settle” into a cubicle or a nice house with a white picket fence. Where is there a positive image of commitment? We seem to be bred to be perpetually dissatisfied…or at least fear whatever feels too permanent. But it never answers what it means to live the wonderful life that is in you.
So conclusions…a couple of my friends have suggested to make long term goals, such as expanding “day” to living a “year” to the fullest and that means constructing goals to accomplish. Creating a “bucket list” of sorts and soul searching and asking, what is it that I need to do in order to feel as if I didn’t waste it? Really there is no sense in fearing time, as it will always win. But we can feel better about the way we spend our time, making sure we don’t let our lives get sucked into Facebook or TV, and finding the things that not only brings pleasure but brings true satisfaction. Unlike Dorian Gray we can move beyond beauty and the senses and find the deeper goals that will make our lives feel complete (hopefully that way we won’t bring about our own destruction).
So here is my “bucket list” and I encourage you to post your own in the comment space:
1. Write a book
2. Get an article published
3. Get into grad school
4. Become a fluent reader of Latin
5. Become fluent in German
6. Live in Italy for a year (or semester)
7. Teach Paradise Lost
8. Eat 3 meals of a lifetime in my 3 favorite countries: Germany, France, and Italy
9. Do a lot of traveling
10. Read every book on the MA reading list
11. Watch less TV
12. Find really good people with whom I can share it all. (I have a start)
[I am sure the list will expand as I do] So for the next month off I plan to work on the first 5 and hopefully get somewhere. I will keep you posted on my progress.
[*note: my original bucket list had things like “dance a tango in Argentina,” “work on a winery in Australia,” “backpack through eastern Europe,” “be knighted by the Queen” but that is just too much isn’t it? ;)]
“’Because you have the most marvelous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having. […] No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? [. . .] Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it […] Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. [. . .] The world belongs to you for a season. [. . .] For there is such a little time that your youth will last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’”
It is after Lord Henry tells this to Dorian Gray that his tragedy truly begins. (I took out the bits wherein Henry expounds upon the glories of Gray’s beauty—though that is a key point in the text and the text’s goals concerning aestheticism, it is not exactly relevant to my discussion.)
Whenever I begin to think about how I feel old at 25 (soon to be 26 and officially in my late twenties), I hear Lucinda Matlock’s voice from Edgar Lee Masters poem scolding me (What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,/ Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?/ Degenerate sons and daughters,/ Life is too strong for you— / It takes life to love Life.) But it is not that I physically feel old, it’s more this feeling that I am wasting time. I want every day to be extraordinary; haven’t we been told by Ferris Bueller that we need to smell the roses? Live life to the fullest? Live like we were dying? But what does that even mean if we have responsibilities, work, relationships and errands? I can’t steal a float in Chicago and sing “Twist and Shout”! What does it mean to “Live the wonderful life that is in you”? And, more importantly, how do we live that life without becoming selfish? How can we follow every impulse and want without hurting people just as Dorian Gray does? The problem with the novel too is that it emphasizes going after all the physical pleasures in life…and that is mostly what leads to his downfall. But the point is that he does follow his heart and his senses, trying to feel alive everyday only to be destroyed by it. So, can we live our lives to fullest? Or, must we put qualifiers on what that means? Obviously this problem is nothing really new seeing that Oscar Wilde seemed to suffer from these questions 100 years ago and Andrew Marvel 150 years before him (Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime).
I have had this very conversation with a few of my close friends, and before I discuss their and my conclusions, I want to explore why so many of us are experiencing an existential crisis of sorts right now. Partly, it has to do with the fact that most of my friends have just graduated from a graduate program and we are trying to find our way in this economy. Partly, it has to do with the fact that I have many motivated artistic friends who want so much more out of life because (1) we are romantics and (2) we probably over-think life. Also, we long to be perpetual students, but know that this does not put food on the table nor do these dabbles help our significant others…
I had my last day of work yesterday, a break that may last a month or more (a long story as to why), and I feel much nervous energy about having no place of work to go to. When I called August my “black hole,” a friend laughed at me and said I was the only one she knows who would consider a “break” a “black hole” and said that instead I should insist on calling it a “sunny place where good things happen.” Touché. It’s not that I have nothing to do. I have plenty I need to do for the next round of grad applications, etc. It’s the fact that I do not know where my life will end up in a month and whether it will slake this crisis: Will I finally feel more fulfilled then I feel now? Will it finally heal that gaping wound all those rejection letters caused? I know it many sound silly and melodramatic, but getting my dreams rejected felt like a death of sorts and changed me in major ways, leading me to question every aspect of my life. I came away with a shadow that’s only now being lifted with the help of some essential friends. When the world tells you that you can’t do what you want, how do you live life to the fullest?
I know there are many out there, especially in this time and economy, who feel this way. The twenties seem to be the new “inbetweener” phase. We want to make something great of ourselves but lack the ability to do it. Society is allowing and encouraging us to explore our options, and in fact, it seems to discourage “settling down.” “Youth” seems to be getting longer (40s are the new 30s?) The media and a lot of American culture promote having great experiences before we “settle” into a cubicle or a nice house with a white picket fence. Where is there a positive image of commitment? We seem to be bred to be perpetually dissatisfied…or at least fear whatever feels too permanent. But it never answers what it means to live the wonderful life that is in you.
So conclusions…a couple of my friends have suggested to make long term goals, such as expanding “day” to living a “year” to the fullest and that means constructing goals to accomplish. Creating a “bucket list” of sorts and soul searching and asking, what is it that I need to do in order to feel as if I didn’t waste it? Really there is no sense in fearing time, as it will always win. But we can feel better about the way we spend our time, making sure we don’t let our lives get sucked into Facebook or TV, and finding the things that not only brings pleasure but brings true satisfaction. Unlike Dorian Gray we can move beyond beauty and the senses and find the deeper goals that will make our lives feel complete (hopefully that way we won’t bring about our own destruction).
So here is my “bucket list” and I encourage you to post your own in the comment space:
1. Write a book
2. Get an article published
3. Get into grad school
4. Become a fluent reader of Latin
5. Become fluent in German
6. Live in Italy for a year (or semester)
7. Teach Paradise Lost
8. Eat 3 meals of a lifetime in my 3 favorite countries: Germany, France, and Italy
9. Do a lot of traveling
10. Read every book on the MA reading list
11. Watch less TV
12. Find really good people with whom I can share it all. (I have a start)
[I am sure the list will expand as I do] So for the next month off I plan to work on the first 5 and hopefully get somewhere. I will keep you posted on my progress.
[*note: my original bucket list had things like “dance a tango in Argentina,” “work on a winery in Australia,” “backpack through eastern Europe,” “be knighted by the Queen” but that is just too much isn’t it? ;)]
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Violent Laughter in McDonagh's The Lieutenant of Inishmore
If you have a chance to get down to L.A. in the next month, I recommend seeing the Mark Taper Forum’s production of Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore (2001) www.centertheatregroup.org/ Here’s a summary from the website:
“Padraic (Chris Pine), a hard-boiled terrorist, has been away in Northern Ireland with his busy schedule of torture and assorted nationalist mayhem, but he is lured home to Inishmore by the news that his beloved cat, Wee Thomas, is doing poorly. When Padraic finds out Wee Thomas has been murdered, he initiates a cycle of revenge-killing that threatens everyone in his path, except perhaps the love-struck Mairead (Zoe Perry), a 16-year-old terrorist groupie with a BB gun.”
I enjoyed this play because it is laugh-out-loud funny—a feat that’s pretty difficult to accomplish these days (I remember laughing out loud during one of McDonagh’s other works, In Bruges, as well). Yes, this black comedy involves a mad Irish terrorist (so mad, he was rejected by the I.R.A.) willing to kill his own father for letting his pet cat die, and yes, the gore and twisted moral universe are extreme, but, instead of having a knee-jerk reaction which might deem the work gratuitously violent, I think McDonagh is carefully purposeful. In fact, incorporating such bloody disregard makes the play even funnier, just as much as it makes it “black”; that’s how black comedies work, right? To hold back on the absurdity would make the play less comedic and more black, which might then yield the performance unwatchable (for some, at least) as a dark, depressing work of art.
The Lieutenant of Inishmore also succeeds because of the truth underlying its humor. In other words, we find aspects of the play hilarious because the playwright effectively confronts his audience with realities of situations, cultures, and human nature that we are familiar with and can relate to because we’ve experienced them in our own lives. Many of us probably do not personally know an Irish terrorist or (hopefully) a torturous murderer, but we more likely have come into contact with irrational, short-tempered family members, frustrated, love-sick teenagers, or unfairly accusatory individuals. At the very least, we are aware of the seemingly endless violence taking place in Northern Ireland, which seems strongly attached to its historical identity. McDonagh exposes these truths with witty banter and circumstances that are so ridiculous, they leave us chuckling aloud with amusement.
Like all real comedies, though, disaster and heartbreak lurk just beneath the surface; categorizing this play as a kind of tragicomedy would also be accurate. On one level, we laugh at the horrors McDonagh addresses—the violence, the indifference—because of the extreme and clever way they are presented, but on another level, we are laughing because we recognize what McDonagh speaks of—we know that these horrors exist; the playwright’s twisted humor when exploring these horrors makes us laugh, though, instead of cry. So, after enjoying the performance, I wonder: would this play be as successful as it is—would it have the same impact—if the tone was different, or if it was not comedic? Would McDonagh’s vision of the world— in this case, his observations regarding the endless and senseless violence of terrorism—influence his audience as effectively if it was, let’s say, a straightforward, serious drama? Obviously, we wouldn’t be laughing, but would we be as willing to listen to his take, or as willing to consider the reasons motivating the characters’ words and actions? Or would the majority of viewers/readers shut down because, if seriously contemplated, it’s just all too depressing?
Regardless, the play provoked some significant thought in me (I don’t know if it’s just my personality, which is always trying to find, or at least hope for, some meaning in experience, or if it’s the play itself; probably both): is violence endless in our world? Even if most people really try to give peace a chance, is it inevitable that violence will persist? I hate to ask it, but is hoping for world peace pointless? Should we just laugh, as The Lieutenant of Inishmore and McDonagh do, at the absurdity of it all? Should we just laugh at the fact that, despite what history tells us—that senseless violence pretty much gets us nowhere, and ends badly—certain people and entities still believe in and utilize its force?
Well, even with the overwhelming logic favoring continual violence, I am not ready to give up on peace. And although forms of hate, hostility, injustice, and bloodshed will probably exist to some degree, I think we should all strive for peace, so that it at least outweighs the cruelty, the vehemence, the carnage. As my following words about nature reflect, my faith in beauty and hopeful possibility has to outweigh my doubt in the goodness of humans; otherwise, it’s all just too depressing, and unwatchable.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be
But for such faith with nature reconciled; (76-9, “Mont Blanc”)
--Shelley
“Padraic (Chris Pine), a hard-boiled terrorist, has been away in Northern Ireland with his busy schedule of torture and assorted nationalist mayhem, but he is lured home to Inishmore by the news that his beloved cat, Wee Thomas, is doing poorly. When Padraic finds out Wee Thomas has been murdered, he initiates a cycle of revenge-killing that threatens everyone in his path, except perhaps the love-struck Mairead (Zoe Perry), a 16-year-old terrorist groupie with a BB gun.”
I enjoyed this play because it is laugh-out-loud funny—a feat that’s pretty difficult to accomplish these days (I remember laughing out loud during one of McDonagh’s other works, In Bruges, as well). Yes, this black comedy involves a mad Irish terrorist (so mad, he was rejected by the I.R.A.) willing to kill his own father for letting his pet cat die, and yes, the gore and twisted moral universe are extreme, but, instead of having a knee-jerk reaction which might deem the work gratuitously violent, I think McDonagh is carefully purposeful. In fact, incorporating such bloody disregard makes the play even funnier, just as much as it makes it “black”; that’s how black comedies work, right? To hold back on the absurdity would make the play less comedic and more black, which might then yield the performance unwatchable (for some, at least) as a dark, depressing work of art.
The Lieutenant of Inishmore also succeeds because of the truth underlying its humor. In other words, we find aspects of the play hilarious because the playwright effectively confronts his audience with realities of situations, cultures, and human nature that we are familiar with and can relate to because we’ve experienced them in our own lives. Many of us probably do not personally know an Irish terrorist or (hopefully) a torturous murderer, but we more likely have come into contact with irrational, short-tempered family members, frustrated, love-sick teenagers, or unfairly accusatory individuals. At the very least, we are aware of the seemingly endless violence taking place in Northern Ireland, which seems strongly attached to its historical identity. McDonagh exposes these truths with witty banter and circumstances that are so ridiculous, they leave us chuckling aloud with amusement.
Like all real comedies, though, disaster and heartbreak lurk just beneath the surface; categorizing this play as a kind of tragicomedy would also be accurate. On one level, we laugh at the horrors McDonagh addresses—the violence, the indifference—because of the extreme and clever way they are presented, but on another level, we are laughing because we recognize what McDonagh speaks of—we know that these horrors exist; the playwright’s twisted humor when exploring these horrors makes us laugh, though, instead of cry. So, after enjoying the performance, I wonder: would this play be as successful as it is—would it have the same impact—if the tone was different, or if it was not comedic? Would McDonagh’s vision of the world— in this case, his observations regarding the endless and senseless violence of terrorism—influence his audience as effectively if it was, let’s say, a straightforward, serious drama? Obviously, we wouldn’t be laughing, but would we be as willing to listen to his take, or as willing to consider the reasons motivating the characters’ words and actions? Or would the majority of viewers/readers shut down because, if seriously contemplated, it’s just all too depressing?
Regardless, the play provoked some significant thought in me (I don’t know if it’s just my personality, which is always trying to find, or at least hope for, some meaning in experience, or if it’s the play itself; probably both): is violence endless in our world? Even if most people really try to give peace a chance, is it inevitable that violence will persist? I hate to ask it, but is hoping for world peace pointless? Should we just laugh, as The Lieutenant of Inishmore and McDonagh do, at the absurdity of it all? Should we just laugh at the fact that, despite what history tells us—that senseless violence pretty much gets us nowhere, and ends badly—certain people and entities still believe in and utilize its force?
Well, even with the overwhelming logic favoring continual violence, I am not ready to give up on peace. And although forms of hate, hostility, injustice, and bloodshed will probably exist to some degree, I think we should all strive for peace, so that it at least outweighs the cruelty, the vehemence, the carnage. As my following words about nature reflect, my faith in beauty and hopeful possibility has to outweigh my doubt in the goodness of humans; otherwise, it’s all just too depressing, and unwatchable.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be
But for such faith with nature reconciled; (76-9, “Mont Blanc”)
--Shelley
Monday, July 19, 2010
On a Winter's Day...
I know our motto here at “Thrice Booked” is basically “all books, all the time” but for today’s post let me tell you a quick story I heard recently.
First, take a look at this fabulous painting:
Claude Monet’s “The Magpie” – created sometime between 1868-1869
Here’s the story:
Monet decided that he needed to focus on capturing the essence of winter in his paintings in these unusually cold winters of the late 1860s. Other painters were devoted to creating little “sonnets of snow” on their canvases and Monet was inspired by their works.
So. Monet went out in all weather to see what he could see. On one particular occasion sometime in 1868-9, his startled neighbor, writing to a friend, described how he was walking along his property line to check on some trees. Instead, he found the painter, in the dead of winter, painting outside with three greatcoats wrapped on top of each other, a thick scarf, several pairs of (fingerless?) gloves, and a tiny little heater trained on his feet. The neighbor wrote it was “cold enough to split rocks” but still Monet painted on, seemingly oblivious to the conditions, casually wiping off the snow that fell on his canvas.
Why was he out there? Certainly not for the acclaim. Monet, at the time, was still considered a lunatic and his work rejected for salon exhibitions, so paintings like “The Magpie” would not fetch a high price or help gain him acceptance in the art world.
I like to think of Monet as purely inspired in all that he sketched or painted – brilliant artists have always had a vision that extends far beyond the petty limitations of popular society and instead speaks to something far more essential inside all of us. If it wasn’t for his artistic zeal which permitted him to withstand all conditions, criticisms, and those moments of great doubt, would we be able to have such a tangible understanding of the world that once was? Of the country slowly changing from ‘sonnets of snow’ to plumes of railroad smoke? His art was not just for him, but to mark a moment, a lifestyle, a land that is now precious to so many people – dreamers and historians alike.
We certainly want to believe that all artists are as devoted to their craft and surely the great ones still are. But, are there as many dreamers, as many Claude Monets today? Have we become so spoiled that this same painting could be created today from a digital photograph? Does it matter that the sacrifice is not the same? Who is Claude Monet in 2010? I may not have the answers to these questions, but I do have a renewed appreciation for this little bird perched on a gate between the wild countryside and a quiet estate.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Reading Walt Whitman on a Park Bench on a Beautiful Summer Day
“It isn’t enough for poems to be things of beauty: Let them stun the hearer and lead his heart where they will”-- Horace
Whenever I read poetry to my students or to myself I feel like I should be reading it outside among daffodils or on an English countryside in the rain (perhaps afterwards whispering Willoughby over and over) or looking over the white cliffs of Dover. No matter the poem, no matter the era in which it was written, no matter the author’s descent, no matter the tone or images, I feel I must be outside, reading the poem aloud enthusiastically. (This could be due to the fact that I study a lot of English romantic poetry).
This morning Melville and I grabbed a park bench in the beautiful California sunshine and read aloud a few lines from Whitman (Since it was her birthday, we read an American). Although we only recited a few poems before we were distracted by another conversation on the various existential crises that have been plaguing our lives the past few months, the poetry lightened my mood and reminded me of the special power of poetry. Because (usually) poems are shorter, they have a precise control of language and image as well as an emotional intensity that exceeds many forms of writing. Select poems read aloud can work on me like a good glass of wine: I feel refreshed, relaxed and fuzzy.
This week I started teaching my unit on poetry and I always find my students’ opposition to this literary form disheartening. Although I know it can be quite intimidating, they also do not seem to know why at the very least it’s beautiful and important. They can appreciate why they must read Frankenstein and Shakespeare and Dickens, but they do not get the importance of poetry. I wonder why it is lost to the younger generations—or just most people today in general. Mostly it seems that they know no adults who appreciate it besides a few eccentric English teachers, but it also is even less appealing to them then any book. Is it too hard because the story is not narrated for them and they have to work out the “plot” on their own? Is it too metaphorical? Is it a lost art? Is beautiful writing no longer appreciated? Or has it always only been a small group of people who truly appreciate poetry for what it can do?
In Fahrenheit 451, Montag reads aloud “Dover Beach” to his fatuous wife and friends. When he finishes, one woman begins to cry, not knowing exactly what stirred her pain. The last lines read:
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
The women get angry, claiming that poetry is horrible because it hurts. She hates that the poem forced her to feel, that it forced her to confront an inner pain that she did not want to see; it forced the women to look at themselves. (Not that all poetry is painful of course, but the good stuff does offer a thrilling sort of Catharsis).
I think poetry (and appreciating it) is important because of most of the same reasons I think literature is important: it is part of our intellectual history and philosophy, and it is art (and we still need art for its own sake!). When I first decided to write a post on poetry I reached for Shelley’s “Defence of Poetry” to help me verbalize the magic of poetry, which I couldn’t put into my own words as effectively as I wanted to. But all that he says that “A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth”; that “poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure: all spirits on which it falls, open themselves to receive the wisdom which is mingled with its delight”; that “poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were familiar”; and that “poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge”—all of that does not really explain why poetry should still be read aloud with others enthusiastically.
Really all I keep coming back to is that it simply makes a beautiful day on a park bench even better.
Here is a gem from our random reading today:
Part 1 of “Passage to India”
Singing my days,
Singing the great achievements of the present,
Singing the strong light works of engineers,
Our modern wonders, (the antique ponderous Seven outvied,)
In the Old World the east the Suez canal,
The New by its mighty railroad spann'd,
The seas inlaid with eloquent gentle wires;
Yet first to sound, and ever sound, the cry with thee O soul,
The Past! the Past! the Past!
The Past--the dark unfathom'd retrospect!
The teeming gulf--the sleepers and the shadows!
The past--the infinite greatness of the past!
For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
(As a projectile form'd, impell'd, passing a certain line, still keeps on,
So the present, utterly form'd, impell'd by the past.)
~Walt Whitman
[I want to point out that not ALL my students have refused to be touched by poetry. My favorite student said to me after we had been studying “Dover Beach” for a few weeks that the last few lines would often “get stuck in her head” and together we recited the last lines from our memories. And, I thought, “ah, my job is done here.”]
Whenever I read poetry to my students or to myself I feel like I should be reading it outside among daffodils or on an English countryside in the rain (perhaps afterwards whispering Willoughby over and over) or looking over the white cliffs of Dover. No matter the poem, no matter the era in which it was written, no matter the author’s descent, no matter the tone or images, I feel I must be outside, reading the poem aloud enthusiastically. (This could be due to the fact that I study a lot of English romantic poetry).
This morning Melville and I grabbed a park bench in the beautiful California sunshine and read aloud a few lines from Whitman (Since it was her birthday, we read an American). Although we only recited a few poems before we were distracted by another conversation on the various existential crises that have been plaguing our lives the past few months, the poetry lightened my mood and reminded me of the special power of poetry. Because (usually) poems are shorter, they have a precise control of language and image as well as an emotional intensity that exceeds many forms of writing. Select poems read aloud can work on me like a good glass of wine: I feel refreshed, relaxed and fuzzy.
This week I started teaching my unit on poetry and I always find my students’ opposition to this literary form disheartening. Although I know it can be quite intimidating, they also do not seem to know why at the very least it’s beautiful and important. They can appreciate why they must read Frankenstein and Shakespeare and Dickens, but they do not get the importance of poetry. I wonder why it is lost to the younger generations—or just most people today in general. Mostly it seems that they know no adults who appreciate it besides a few eccentric English teachers, but it also is even less appealing to them then any book. Is it too hard because the story is not narrated for them and they have to work out the “plot” on their own? Is it too metaphorical? Is it a lost art? Is beautiful writing no longer appreciated? Or has it always only been a small group of people who truly appreciate poetry for what it can do?
In Fahrenheit 451, Montag reads aloud “Dover Beach” to his fatuous wife and friends. When he finishes, one woman begins to cry, not knowing exactly what stirred her pain. The last lines read:
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
The women get angry, claiming that poetry is horrible because it hurts. She hates that the poem forced her to feel, that it forced her to confront an inner pain that she did not want to see; it forced the women to look at themselves. (Not that all poetry is painful of course, but the good stuff does offer a thrilling sort of Catharsis).
I think poetry (and appreciating it) is important because of most of the same reasons I think literature is important: it is part of our intellectual history and philosophy, and it is art (and we still need art for its own sake!). When I first decided to write a post on poetry I reached for Shelley’s “Defence of Poetry” to help me verbalize the magic of poetry, which I couldn’t put into my own words as effectively as I wanted to. But all that he says that “A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth”; that “poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure: all spirits on which it falls, open themselves to receive the wisdom which is mingled with its delight”; that “poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were familiar”; and that “poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge”—all of that does not really explain why poetry should still be read aloud with others enthusiastically.
Really all I keep coming back to is that it simply makes a beautiful day on a park bench even better.
Here is a gem from our random reading today:
Part 1 of “Passage to India”
Singing my days,
Singing the great achievements of the present,
Singing the strong light works of engineers,
Our modern wonders, (the antique ponderous Seven outvied,)
In the Old World the east the Suez canal,
The New by its mighty railroad spann'd,
The seas inlaid with eloquent gentle wires;
Yet first to sound, and ever sound, the cry with thee O soul,
The Past! the Past! the Past!
The Past--the dark unfathom'd retrospect!
The teeming gulf--the sleepers and the shadows!
The past--the infinite greatness of the past!
For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
(As a projectile form'd, impell'd, passing a certain line, still keeps on,
So the present, utterly form'd, impell'd by the past.)
~Walt Whitman
[I want to point out that not ALL my students have refused to be touched by poetry. My favorite student said to me after we had been studying “Dover Beach” for a few weeks that the last few lines would often “get stuck in her head” and together we recited the last lines from our memories. And, I thought, “ah, my job is done here.”]
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Shakespeare in the Summer
First of all, we of thrice booked would like to apologize for not having the comment button enabled for Melville’s last post. We are working on fixing it, and hope to have it enabled soon so we can continue her intriguing discussion on summer reading.
That being said, this post will entail a response to Melville’s inquiries regarding summer reading, just because it’s a fun/wonderful topic that definitely warrants a reply, even in the form of a post
Soooooo, on one level, even years later, mandatory high school reading reminds me of the summertime (I’m so glad it was required, though, because I probably wouldn’t have read certain texts at that age if it wasn’t). I still remember experiencing Great Expectations on my parents’ living room couch in Southern California, and Crime and Punishment while vacationing in the Rocky Mountains—strange environmental associations, I know, but existent correlations, nonetheless.
Most of all, though, when I imagine the warm, relaxing summertime, who so courteously lengthens the days’ promises, Shakespeare naturally appears, mostly in the park, among the trees, and under the sunny or starry sky. Summertime is the perfect time for some Shakespeare in the park! Yes, one can argue that Shakespeare isn’t exactly lighter fare, but I don’t think one has to fully comprehend his work to enjoy the atmosphere and tone he creates: his foreign lands, unforgettably engaging characters, and beautiful language. I mean, I must have been 10 or 11 when my parents took me to my first Shakespearean performance, and I guarantee I wasn’t accurately following the plot, or completely aware of the complexities occurring, but it didn’t really matter. I was hooked, and I have my parents to thank for it. I was transported in time and space, maybe to an English countryside, a Roman street, or a Scottish kingdom, but essentially, to a world created by Shakespeare’s captivating words and artful structure. Now, many Shakespeare in the Parks later, reading one of his plays before its production (which sometimes qualifies as a reread!) is one of my favorite and most meaningful summer pastimes. Last year it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I anxiously await this year’s selection. There’s just something that’s so alluring and ethereal about Shakespeare and the summer—a space that, whether comic, tragic, or both, offers something bigger than our personal world, something other-worldly that entertains, engages, and inspires, both in text and in performance. This is why Shakespeare is my favorite summer read!
That being said, this post will entail a response to Melville’s inquiries regarding summer reading, just because it’s a fun/wonderful topic that definitely warrants a reply, even in the form of a post
Soooooo, on one level, even years later, mandatory high school reading reminds me of the summertime (I’m so glad it was required, though, because I probably wouldn’t have read certain texts at that age if it wasn’t). I still remember experiencing Great Expectations on my parents’ living room couch in Southern California, and Crime and Punishment while vacationing in the Rocky Mountains—strange environmental associations, I know, but existent correlations, nonetheless.
Most of all, though, when I imagine the warm, relaxing summertime, who so courteously lengthens the days’ promises, Shakespeare naturally appears, mostly in the park, among the trees, and under the sunny or starry sky. Summertime is the perfect time for some Shakespeare in the park! Yes, one can argue that Shakespeare isn’t exactly lighter fare, but I don’t think one has to fully comprehend his work to enjoy the atmosphere and tone he creates: his foreign lands, unforgettably engaging characters, and beautiful language. I mean, I must have been 10 or 11 when my parents took me to my first Shakespearean performance, and I guarantee I wasn’t accurately following the plot, or completely aware of the complexities occurring, but it didn’t really matter. I was hooked, and I have my parents to thank for it. I was transported in time and space, maybe to an English countryside, a Roman street, or a Scottish kingdom, but essentially, to a world created by Shakespeare’s captivating words and artful structure. Now, many Shakespeare in the Parks later, reading one of his plays before its production (which sometimes qualifies as a reread!) is one of my favorite and most meaningful summer pastimes. Last year it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I anxiously await this year’s selection. There’s just something that’s so alluring and ethereal about Shakespeare and the summer—a space that, whether comic, tragic, or both, offers something bigger than our personal world, something other-worldly that entertains, engages, and inspires, both in text and in performance. This is why Shakespeare is my favorite summer read!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Summer Lovin'
Now, I read those kinds of books in June, so I feel productive. It’s like I’ve fulfilled my basic quota of books that I can cross off the ol’ life list. But then July comes around and the lull sets in. I stop wearing a watch, I stay up late watching my DVD collection, I don't even bother to comb my hair every morning. And…as I loll about, I reread.
I know some people think rereading is pointless – why reread if there are still so many books out there to cross off your “good” list? – but I’ve always found pleasure in these revisits. I’ve probably read The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood at least five times (in my defense, my favorite elementary teacher of all time recommended it to me) and that book is never going to make any NYT critic’s list. But when it’s hot and I’m curled up in a lounge chair by the pool sipping a Coke, I want something that I can sort of drift over, absorbing some of the page and filling in the skimmed words from hazy memory. Nothing in the world is better than those lazy afternoons because I know that for the next few hours, I’ll be visiting an old, loved friend.
Right now, I’m living in Civil War
And so, dear readers, I open the forum up to you.
What is your perfect summer pleasure read (or reread, as the case may be)?
Is it one of those flashy, gold-embossed covers filled with images of Fabio-wannabes from the Costco book tables whose title is interchangeable with all the other ones about forbidden love?
Or is it something more personal?
Or, better still, is it Moby-Dick? If so, I’m waiting for those royalty checks to come pouring in…
Happy skimming,
Melville
Friday, July 9, 2010
As she writes the post, she smirks at her inner life….
I often narrate my own life as it happens.
For one, it makes my life seem more exciting and profound as I include fantastic adjectives and witty asides. It also helps me focus on the details of the experience, good practice for a hopeful writer. (Often, my inner dialogue will also expand on the moment, adding a little more of the theatrics or what I wish would happen next). What I’ve noticed is that this narrative style changes depending on the author with whom I’ve recently spent time--especially after reading those with more distinctive styles. For instance after reading Jane Austen, I find that people are “amiable” or “disagreeable” and I long for walks through estate gardens and writing long romantic/ extravagant letters--and am extremely disappointed there are no estates nearby or anyone who would appreciate a long extravagant letter. (Of course it is all spoken in an English accent because everything is more romantic with an English accent).
Not only do I narrate according to author, but I find that the emotions of a book stay with me for days, almost becoming my own. After reading Middlemarch, for instance, Will’s and Dorothea’s unrequited love kept entertaining thoughts in my head for days; I even reread their climactic moment several times--no one does unrequited love or sexual tension like the Victorians. But it is Like Water for Chocolate that could really take anyone’s inner life and light it afire. I don’t think anyone wants to know my inner thoughts after devouring that book in a night….
I am telling you this not because I want to expand on any of these inner narratives; really what I want to think about is what makes people good readers? I don’t think everyone can read books with the same thrilling intensity or pleasure as others. My brother, for instance, just couldn’t “get” Harry Potter (even when I said “it’s magic,” his response was “but why?”), and I have students who refuse to be moved by even the most shaking of books. And, it is these kids who can’t “feel” the books who also don’t understand it. So what makes a good reader?
I often tell my students that it is the responsibility of the reader to be manipulated by the author. Even the most intellectual (fiction) book still seeks more than just to make you think. And, I find too that the emotions books are trying to produce more often than not can lead to meaning. Empathy is an important key to being a critical reader. How can you see Shelley’s point if you don’t have any sympathy for Frankenstein’s monster? How can you understand Dorian’s choice if you can’t feel his fear? How can you comprehend the ending to Like Water for Chocolate if you can’t feel her pain and confusion throughout the book?
But of course, this ability to evoke feelings is why people have considered books dangerous for centuries. When you let them, books can have amazing power over people They stir up deep emotions that often impact our interaction with the “real” world in good and bad ways or create expectations, which again can be good or bad [The Female Quixote anyone?] ---just as Dorian Gray terrified me for a week (good and bad) or as Uncle Tom’s Cabin “started the war” (good) or as Twilight had tapped into the teenage girl’s desire for ridiculous romance (very bad)-- I think the list can go on and on. This idea obviously leads to many different avenues for discussion: How important is it to emphasize this aspect of reading to students? How dangerous is this element of fiction? Is Captain Beatty in Fahrenheit 451 right in his frustration with the fact that books make us confront ourselves in painful ways? Etc.. But my question, for those of us who can be stirred: can being a good, interactive reader be taught or were we born this way?
In other words, is it that books cause my romanticism or is it that my romanticism just makes me an amazing reader?
[An aside: sometimes my ability to become completely involved in a book can be my downfall. When I was 10 I really wanted to be Harry Potter and was completely disappointed when I came to grips with the fact that I was not really adopted and that I didn’t secretly belong to a wizarding family. This has happened more recently with other books, but I’ll stop here. It's already getting to personal.]
For one, it makes my life seem more exciting and profound as I include fantastic adjectives and witty asides. It also helps me focus on the details of the experience, good practice for a hopeful writer. (Often, my inner dialogue will also expand on the moment, adding a little more of the theatrics or what I wish would happen next). What I’ve noticed is that this narrative style changes depending on the author with whom I’ve recently spent time--especially after reading those with more distinctive styles. For instance after reading Jane Austen, I find that people are “amiable” or “disagreeable” and I long for walks through estate gardens and writing long romantic/ extravagant letters--and am extremely disappointed there are no estates nearby or anyone who would appreciate a long extravagant letter. (Of course it is all spoken in an English accent because everything is more romantic with an English accent).
Not only do I narrate according to author, but I find that the emotions of a book stay with me for days, almost becoming my own. After reading Middlemarch, for instance, Will’s and Dorothea’s unrequited love kept entertaining thoughts in my head for days; I even reread their climactic moment several times--no one does unrequited love or sexual tension like the Victorians. But it is Like Water for Chocolate that could really take anyone’s inner life and light it afire. I don’t think anyone wants to know my inner thoughts after devouring that book in a night….
I am telling you this not because I want to expand on any of these inner narratives; really what I want to think about is what makes people good readers? I don’t think everyone can read books with the same thrilling intensity or pleasure as others. My brother, for instance, just couldn’t “get” Harry Potter (even when I said “it’s magic,” his response was “but why?”), and I have students who refuse to be moved by even the most shaking of books. And, it is these kids who can’t “feel” the books who also don’t understand it. So what makes a good reader?
I often tell my students that it is the responsibility of the reader to be manipulated by the author. Even the most intellectual (fiction) book still seeks more than just to make you think. And, I find too that the emotions books are trying to produce more often than not can lead to meaning. Empathy is an important key to being a critical reader. How can you see Shelley’s point if you don’t have any sympathy for Frankenstein’s monster? How can you understand Dorian’s choice if you can’t feel his fear? How can you comprehend the ending to Like Water for Chocolate if you can’t feel her pain and confusion throughout the book?
But of course, this ability to evoke feelings is why people have considered books dangerous for centuries. When you let them, books can have amazing power over people They stir up deep emotions that often impact our interaction with the “real” world in good and bad ways or create expectations, which again can be good or bad [The Female Quixote anyone?] ---just as Dorian Gray terrified me for a week (good and bad) or as Uncle Tom’s Cabin “started the war” (good) or as Twilight had tapped into the teenage girl’s desire for ridiculous romance (very bad)-- I think the list can go on and on. This idea obviously leads to many different avenues for discussion: How important is it to emphasize this aspect of reading to students? How dangerous is this element of fiction? Is Captain Beatty in Fahrenheit 451 right in his frustration with the fact that books make us confront ourselves in painful ways? Etc.. But my question, for those of us who can be stirred: can being a good, interactive reader be taught or were we born this way?
In other words, is it that books cause my romanticism or is it that my romanticism just makes me an amazing reader?
[An aside: sometimes my ability to become completely involved in a book can be my downfall. When I was 10 I really wanted to be Harry Potter and was completely disappointed when I came to grips with the fact that I was not really adopted and that I didn’t secretly belong to a wizarding family. This has happened more recently with other books, but I’ll stop here. It's already getting to personal.]
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Musings on The Road: My Story of Sadness and Beauty
Several nights ago, my husband and I were sorting through the Video On Demand movie options, trying to predict which film would best entertain us. I have several on my short list (Alice in Wonderland, The Blind Side, Broken Embraces, etc.), but, as I expected, they aren’t really “guy” material, or at the very least, they weren’t my hubby’s first choices. The last time we sat down together to watch a new movie, my husband, Chopin, had the privilege of making the final decision (The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day), so I knew I slightly held the upper hand for this night’s pick.
“How about The Road?” I suggested. “I think you’ll like it.” I had finished Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel back in January, and was anxious to see its interpretation on screen, especially with Viggo Mortenson (Strider!) as the leading man. And, despite the self-interest imbibed within my proposition, I really did think Chopin would enjoy the film. He had enjoyed watching No Country for Old Men, however much it unsettled him, so I figured this flick would be right up his alley. Chopin went with it.
Well, I just loved the movie. Obviously, it rearranged and edited aspects of the novel, but I think it brilliantly captured the desperately haunting atmosphere, the characters’ intensely honest emotions, and the beautiful love families are capable of sharing. These are just a couple of leaves from the entire tree; I could go on and on about how successful I think the movie is. It actually makes me like the book even more because I think it helped me better understand McCarthy’s intentions on a deeper lever (though most aspects of the work(s) are still floating around in my brain, unable to completely take shape). I love it when separate art forms can help each other out, when they make each other shine brighter. A big thumbs up for me, including the countless crying episodes and all.
Unlike his wife, Chopin had not read The Road before viewing it in its film form, so, unsurprisingly, he was a bit unnerved after being lambasted with it. “That was the saddest movie I’ve ever seen.” Huh? Really? I mean, you’ve seen a ton of war movies; this was sadder than Platoon? “Really?” I asked. “It was a great movie,” Chopin reassured me, “but it was just really depressing.” Well, yes, I had to agree; part of the movie is sad and depressing, which is why I had a little sobfest throughout it. But, at the same time, I think it distresses us because it moves us so deeply. In other words, because The Road addresses the love and goodness existent within dire, catastrophic circumstances, the work can definitely be described as sad and depressing, but also beautifully hopeful. Yes, the world’s environment has gone to hell, families are viciously torn a part, and children are left frightened without their parents, but at the same time, the goodness, love, courtesy, and generosity that persist create a higher level of magnificence and meaning. I know some don’t see it this way; I think Chopin does more so, though, after time allowed his initial reaction to settle. Regardless, McCarthy gives us a story that is ultimately real: one that is tortured as much as it is splendid. This excerpt from the novel, one that depicts one of the many conversations shared between the boy and his father, helps expound upon this point:
“[Man] Why dont you tell me a story?
[Boy] I dont want to.
Okay.
I dont have any stories to tell.
You could tell me a story about yourself.
You already know all the stories about me. You were there.
You have stories inside I dont know about.
You mean like dreams?
Like dreams. Or just things that you think about.
Yeah, but stories are supposed to be happy.
They dont have to be.
You always tell happy stories.
You dont have any happy ones?
They’re more like real life.
But my stories are not.
Your stories are not. No.
The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?
What do you think?
Well, I think we’re still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here.
Yeah.
You dont think that’s so great.
It’s okay.”
McCarthy illustrates that “real life” stories need to be told, even if they aren’t initially perceived as “happy ones.” So, maybe this story isn’t happy, but it’s definitely beautiful. Must beauty coexist with happiness, or can they operate separately? I think they can exist separately from each other, despite all of the “bad things” surrounding beauty. Okay, I’m going to stop the philosophizing right now, before I become completely incoherent. Anyway, after reading and viewing The Road, I am confronted with my own story—something I think McCarthy aims to do to his audience with his text. How am I existing within the world right now, with all of the good and bad within it? How am I preparing for the future of my story, and of my children’s (the future’s) story? For indeed, sadness, destruction, and violence—all things that are “bad”—pervade our world, but in order to temper it, it is our job to recognize, encourage, and create beauty—the love and goodness that’s definitely possible within us, so that our world is more than just “okay.”
“How about The Road?” I suggested. “I think you’ll like it.” I had finished Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel back in January, and was anxious to see its interpretation on screen, especially with Viggo Mortenson (Strider!) as the leading man. And, despite the self-interest imbibed within my proposition, I really did think Chopin would enjoy the film. He had enjoyed watching No Country for Old Men, however much it unsettled him, so I figured this flick would be right up his alley. Chopin went with it.
Well, I just loved the movie. Obviously, it rearranged and edited aspects of the novel, but I think it brilliantly captured the desperately haunting atmosphere, the characters’ intensely honest emotions, and the beautiful love families are capable of sharing. These are just a couple of leaves from the entire tree; I could go on and on about how successful I think the movie is. It actually makes me like the book even more because I think it helped me better understand McCarthy’s intentions on a deeper lever (though most aspects of the work(s) are still floating around in my brain, unable to completely take shape). I love it when separate art forms can help each other out, when they make each other shine brighter. A big thumbs up for me, including the countless crying episodes and all.
Unlike his wife, Chopin had not read The Road before viewing it in its film form, so, unsurprisingly, he was a bit unnerved after being lambasted with it. “That was the saddest movie I’ve ever seen.” Huh? Really? I mean, you’ve seen a ton of war movies; this was sadder than Platoon? “Really?” I asked. “It was a great movie,” Chopin reassured me, “but it was just really depressing.” Well, yes, I had to agree; part of the movie is sad and depressing, which is why I had a little sobfest throughout it. But, at the same time, I think it distresses us because it moves us so deeply. In other words, because The Road addresses the love and goodness existent within dire, catastrophic circumstances, the work can definitely be described as sad and depressing, but also beautifully hopeful. Yes, the world’s environment has gone to hell, families are viciously torn a part, and children are left frightened without their parents, but at the same time, the goodness, love, courtesy, and generosity that persist create a higher level of magnificence and meaning. I know some don’t see it this way; I think Chopin does more so, though, after time allowed his initial reaction to settle. Regardless, McCarthy gives us a story that is ultimately real: one that is tortured as much as it is splendid. This excerpt from the novel, one that depicts one of the many conversations shared between the boy and his father, helps expound upon this point:
“[Man] Why dont you tell me a story?
[Boy] I dont want to.
Okay.
I dont have any stories to tell.
You could tell me a story about yourself.
You already know all the stories about me. You were there.
You have stories inside I dont know about.
You mean like dreams?
Like dreams. Or just things that you think about.
Yeah, but stories are supposed to be happy.
They dont have to be.
You always tell happy stories.
You dont have any happy ones?
They’re more like real life.
But my stories are not.
Your stories are not. No.
The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?
What do you think?
Well, I think we’re still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here.
Yeah.
You dont think that’s so great.
It’s okay.”
McCarthy illustrates that “real life” stories need to be told, even if they aren’t initially perceived as “happy ones.” So, maybe this story isn’t happy, but it’s definitely beautiful. Must beauty coexist with happiness, or can they operate separately? I think they can exist separately from each other, despite all of the “bad things” surrounding beauty. Okay, I’m going to stop the philosophizing right now, before I become completely incoherent. Anyway, after reading and viewing The Road, I am confronted with my own story—something I think McCarthy aims to do to his audience with his text. How am I existing within the world right now, with all of the good and bad within it? How am I preparing for the future of my story, and of my children’s (the future’s) story? For indeed, sadness, destruction, and violence—all things that are “bad”—pervade our world, but in order to temper it, it is our job to recognize, encourage, and create beauty—the love and goodness that’s definitely possible within us, so that our world is more than just “okay.”
Monday, July 5, 2010
Bird by Bird
"Knit on, with confidence and hope, through all crises."
-Elizabeth Zimmerman
First of all, dear readers, I hope ya’ll had a Happy Fourth of July.
I spent last night, as I do each 4th of July and January 1st, with my best friend, Elgar (in case you can’t guess by her moniker -- she’s a musician). After completing all the usual festivities, like watching the illegal fireworks from her backyard and chowing down on some yummy BBQ, we got down to the business at hand – hours and hours and hours of knitting (with some TV watching –hey, even English majors need their downtime). So we stretched out our wrists, cracked our fingers, and started knitting as we always do – taking it line by line and, in this case, bird by bird.
We were lucky enough, by following the instructions in the pattern to make two very adorable bluebirds for a friend of mine having her second child (one bird per girl). After those many hours of cursing the yarn, struggling to not lose my patience as I misread the directions, and deciding what type of bird eye looked best, I was greatly satisfied with the final product.
I also realized how long it has been since I made such a seemingly complicated and complex project a tangible reality. In grad school, one has the luxury (and also necessity) of taking each book, each essay line by line, crafting one’s response in such a way to create a hopefully articulate piece worthy of handing in.
But in my new profession, teaching, that same end result is not always easy to discover. I found myself, as all teachers do, at times wondering if I was making any progress – if my attempts to teach ever really helped my students. At first, I spent way too much time focusing on the big moment -- waiting for a (to use an incredibly corny image) fledgling bird to unfurl her academic wings and soar under my guidance. But, over time, I’ve realized that the point is to find the smaller victories -- the slower student who finally grasped a book’s main theme, the girl who wrote a great line in her essay, or the shy freshman who overcame her fright to give a speech in front of the class. And so, last night was simply another reminder to just do as I’ve always done – make something of each moment, patiently put the project together, reach the end and start another with fresh energy.
So, you may be thinking to yourself, “Geez Melville, way to overthink a little yarn project here!” But, appropriately enough, this morning I also finished a book that applies to the topic well – Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. She, too, advocates taking things one “bird” at a time which offers a valuable lens in which to examine any aspect of one’s life. After all, creating anything – whether a yarn project, a book, or even a memorable moment in the classroom – takes time, creativity, and a little bit of patience when one’s efforts may not succeed on the first go-round.
So, here’s to just taking things as they come ---
Bird by Bird
Melville
-Elizabeth Zimmerman
First of all, dear readers, I hope ya’ll had a Happy Fourth of July.
I spent last night, as I do each 4th of July and January 1st, with my best friend, Elgar (in case you can’t guess by her moniker -- she’s a musician). After completing all the usual festivities, like watching the illegal fireworks from her backyard and chowing down on some yummy BBQ, we got down to the business at hand – hours and hours and hours of knitting (with some TV watching –hey, even English majors need their downtime). So we stretched out our wrists, cracked our fingers, and started knitting as we always do – taking it line by line and, in this case, bird by bird.
We were lucky enough, by following the instructions in the pattern to make two very adorable bluebirds for a friend of mine having her second child (one bird per girl). After those many hours of cursing the yarn, struggling to not lose my patience as I misread the directions, and deciding what type of bird eye looked best, I was greatly satisfied with the final product.
I also realized how long it has been since I made such a seemingly complicated and complex project a tangible reality. In grad school, one has the luxury (and also necessity) of taking each book, each essay line by line, crafting one’s response in such a way to create a hopefully articulate piece worthy of handing in.
But in my new profession, teaching, that same end result is not always easy to discover. I found myself, as all teachers do, at times wondering if I was making any progress – if my attempts to teach ever really helped my students. At first, I spent way too much time focusing on the big moment -- waiting for a (to use an incredibly corny image) fledgling bird to unfurl her academic wings and soar under my guidance. But, over time, I’ve realized that the point is to find the smaller victories -- the slower student who finally grasped a book’s main theme, the girl who wrote a great line in her essay, or the shy freshman who overcame her fright to give a speech in front of the class. And so, last night was simply another reminder to just do as I’ve always done – make something of each moment, patiently put the project together, reach the end and start another with fresh energy.
So, you may be thinking to yourself, “Geez Melville, way to overthink a little yarn project here!” But, appropriately enough, this morning I also finished a book that applies to the topic well – Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. She, too, advocates taking things one “bird” at a time which offers a valuable lens in which to examine any aspect of one’s life. After all, creating anything – whether a yarn project, a book, or even a memorable moment in the classroom – takes time, creativity, and a little bit of patience when one’s efforts may not succeed on the first go-round.
So, here’s to just taking things as they come ---
Bird by Bird
Melville
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Dangers of Reading Books in a Car Wash
Over the last year, I have had to become acquainted with “young adult” fiction. I realized the hard way (teaching is just really trial and error) that my younger students are not quite ready for some of the classics. For instance, I tried reading Emma with a 7th grader and showed her a Marxist reading of the text (I know, I was rather ambitious). In the end, I did all the talking while she looked at me eyes glazed over, head nodding, etc. But I truly believed she could do it! And, it was not her fault that she couldn’t. Their teachers have told them it is too hard, they don’t have the vocabulary or the emotional maturity, and they don’t have any confidence in themselves. They think it’s above them, so they don’t try. They also don’t know how to search for ideas on their own---but enough about the failings of our school system…
Because of all this, I have had to search for challenging yet “age-appropriate” texts. While I have come to realize that the “young adult” title is rather superfluous, I think it makes students feel safe. It’s made for them, so they have more confidence that they can figure it out, even if they always don’t. And, I think the good books can be the door to more challenging books later on. I do want to qualify this with I don’t agree with any reading is good reading. There are some really awful YA books, just like there are really bad “adult” books. So, ultimately, I have decided I can remain an elitist even while reading YA fiction, which is really what this has been about.
It has been hard not letting this year feel like a waste because I haven’t spent it reading Dante and Shakespeare like I feel I should have been. Instead I sobbed through Bridge to Terabithia and sped through Fever 1793 in a day. I haven’t read a text from before 1900 in almost 5 months. My new favorite authors are Nancy Farmer and Markus Zusak; I bought all their novels, and now I am forcing my students to read them with me, just because I feel I need the excuse. Now, I seem to be in the most ridiculous existential crisis: am I still a scholar? I know, I know, I am being dramatic, but I still wonder, did Greenblatt ever read The Secret Garden? And what did he think? (Were Mary’s subversive outings in the garden and friendship with the servant boy really about containing her and making her a polite, good little girl? Is Fever really a study on how epidemics affect the class system? Is Terabithia really about the unfair binaries established by our culturally constructed gender roles? )
To say the least, I decided to read these books the way I was taught and try to teach my students to do the same while also teaching them how to evaluate what they read. In other words, I am creating a little a elitist army-- so far it has only worked with one, but I feel that is still a victory. [She and I have created our own evaluating system. I told her once reading a good book was like having the most amazing 6 course meal. Not only does it taste good, but it’s good for you and your soul. She has taken it a step further and created this system:
Soda: the easy, sugary books with which you can wash down the others. Having too much, however, will rot your teeth and make you sick.
Appetizer: More substantial books, but are usually fattened with cliché themes. Only a taste of a real meal.
Cabbage: The books we have to read and we know are good for us, but aren’t that pleasant going down.
Steak dinner with broccoli: These books are not only pleasant to devour, but also leave you with satisfaction.
And, it goes on and on. The analogy has helped her and my other students understand there is a rating system beyond what they read in school and what they want to read. For the most part, it has helped some to choose books to read on their own more successfully]
Anyways, it’s been fascinating teaching students how to read these texts with a critical eye. I do have to change the jargon, but when they are done reading and I tell them the “official” label, they feel accomplished--even my ten year olds.
For myself, I have found YA to be, well, fun. These books can be serious, yet they seem to have more hope for the world and humanity--they represent the time of life when we have become intelligent to the world around us, but have not yet become cynical. These books, even if they explore death and loss and pain, they still have a redemptive ending. I noticed that the older kids, after they have read Fountainhead and Lord of Flies, they are apathetic and skeptical to everyone and about everything. When exactly is that shift and how can we prevent it?
To end, I leave you with a suggested reading: The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. It is about a young German girl’s life during WW2 told from the point of Death:
“I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race--that rarely do I simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.”
[Just a note: Do not read the last 30 pages in the waiting area of the car wash. Other customers will turn and stare while you can’t stop crying. Then the man who gives you back you car will ask you if you are okay. Actually, just don‘t read it in public.]
Wollstonecraft
Because of all this, I have had to search for challenging yet “age-appropriate” texts. While I have come to realize that the “young adult” title is rather superfluous, I think it makes students feel safe. It’s made for them, so they have more confidence that they can figure it out, even if they always don’t. And, I think the good books can be the door to more challenging books later on. I do want to qualify this with I don’t agree with any reading is good reading. There are some really awful YA books, just like there are really bad “adult” books. So, ultimately, I have decided I can remain an elitist even while reading YA fiction, which is really what this has been about.
It has been hard not letting this year feel like a waste because I haven’t spent it reading Dante and Shakespeare like I feel I should have been. Instead I sobbed through Bridge to Terabithia and sped through Fever 1793 in a day. I haven’t read a text from before 1900 in almost 5 months. My new favorite authors are Nancy Farmer and Markus Zusak; I bought all their novels, and now I am forcing my students to read them with me, just because I feel I need the excuse. Now, I seem to be in the most ridiculous existential crisis: am I still a scholar? I know, I know, I am being dramatic, but I still wonder, did Greenblatt ever read The Secret Garden? And what did he think? (Were Mary’s subversive outings in the garden and friendship with the servant boy really about containing her and making her a polite, good little girl? Is Fever really a study on how epidemics affect the class system? Is Terabithia really about the unfair binaries established by our culturally constructed gender roles? )
To say the least, I decided to read these books the way I was taught and try to teach my students to do the same while also teaching them how to evaluate what they read. In other words, I am creating a little a elitist army-- so far it has only worked with one, but I feel that is still a victory. [She and I have created our own evaluating system. I told her once reading a good book was like having the most amazing 6 course meal. Not only does it taste good, but it’s good for you and your soul. She has taken it a step further and created this system:
Soda: the easy, sugary books with which you can wash down the others. Having too much, however, will rot your teeth and make you sick.
Appetizer: More substantial books, but are usually fattened with cliché themes. Only a taste of a real meal.
Cabbage: The books we have to read and we know are good for us, but aren’t that pleasant going down.
Steak dinner with broccoli: These books are not only pleasant to devour, but also leave you with satisfaction.
And, it goes on and on. The analogy has helped her and my other students understand there is a rating system beyond what they read in school and what they want to read. For the most part, it has helped some to choose books to read on their own more successfully]
Anyways, it’s been fascinating teaching students how to read these texts with a critical eye. I do have to change the jargon, but when they are done reading and I tell them the “official” label, they feel accomplished--even my ten year olds.
For myself, I have found YA to be, well, fun. These books can be serious, yet they seem to have more hope for the world and humanity--they represent the time of life when we have become intelligent to the world around us, but have not yet become cynical. These books, even if they explore death and loss and pain, they still have a redemptive ending. I noticed that the older kids, after they have read Fountainhead and Lord of Flies, they are apathetic and skeptical to everyone and about everything. When exactly is that shift and how can we prevent it?
To end, I leave you with a suggested reading: The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. It is about a young German girl’s life during WW2 told from the point of Death:
“I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race--that rarely do I simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.”
[Just a note: Do not read the last 30 pages in the waiting area of the car wash. Other customers will turn and stare while you can’t stop crying. Then the man who gives you back you car will ask you if you are okay. Actually, just don‘t read it in public.]
Wollstonecraft
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