This will hopefully explain my recent absence:
Oh my, oh me,
I've now found reading a luxury.
For what doth my wand'ring eye see,
but a babe--not a book--in my periphery.
The angel I love, that is for sure,
Though from the fatigue of his care there is no cure.
For when the chance presents the page to tour,
The need for shut-eye is much more pure.
And though I miss the story and its ties,
I know my reading will once again be on the rise,
Because, for now, when I see into my eyes,
There's nothing better than baby smiles, sounds, and cries.
So those who find reading a chore, take heed,
Enjoy your time with a book 'til a wee one becomes your creed.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Call me...humbled...
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my “teaching ethos” (mostly because the leader of my teaching mentor group has asked me to do so); and after reflecting on my first year teaching composition during my MA program, I’ve decided to publically apologize to my former students.
During the years between my programs, I worked as an assistant director at a learning center. Here, I worked with students (and their parents) from different backgrounds with different ability levels. Although these students had various learning (dis)abilities, they had one thing in common: they needed someone to tell them they could be good in school, not another person telling them exactly what they sucked at. [I also learned that many kids cannot comprehend what they are reading and nobody has cared (or noticed) that they couldn’t comprehend—but that is a different post.]
I think the biggest mistake I made as a pretend professor was forgetting that as freshman they were not college students or college writers yet. I had wrongly assumed that they could handle criticism without feeling hurt and that they should be able to do college level work and think at a college level (they were in college after all). I was angry and saddened by their lack of ability, and I interpreted this as apathy. However, what I discovered later was that none of my students had really ever been asked to think or express their opinions. I was also frustrated by my personal lack of support…I had no idea how to “fix” my class and I did not have the resources (nor did the university) to help me figure out a solution. After my experience, I was ready to give up teaching—basically because I thought I sucked.
After working at the learning center, and being able to help students, I realize I did not suck, but I did have the wrong perspective. I had these visions of what it mean to be a “Professor”—I thought I had to be tough, be intellectual, be…I don’t even know what I thought it meant. But really, being a professor is being a teacher and remembering that these are just kids trying desperately to be college students but who do not know what that means yet. I asked myself: what do I need from a professor? I am, after all, still a student—a reminder that I needed to humble myself.
A recent quote sums up my newfound teaching goal: “The writing teacher must not be a judge, but a physician. His [her] job is not to punish, but to heal.” –Donald Murray.
Although there are those students who are apathetic and don’t want to try, rarely do students try to write terribly on purpose... or because they hate me.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Looking out for the Ladies -- Jacqueline Kelly's The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly is a timeless ode to girls, especially those with an interest in science. Needless to say, I loved it. As the daughter of a science teacher (and the sibling of an honest-to-God rocket scientist), I have spent my life surrounded by the joys of discovery. While I can’t say that I know all the elements listed on the periodic table or understand all of what Stephen Hawking writes, I get the appeal of the scientific method – to discover something completely new and life-changing would be the greatest moment of one’s career.
Kelly frames each chapter with a brief excerpt from Darwin’s The Origin of Species to connect the action of the story – a look into the year of a twelve-year old girl named Calpurnia (or Callie) Tate at the turn of the 20th Century. Faced with a decision whether to follow her parents’ desires to be a typical lady or to learn from her eccentric grandfather – Civil War hero, retired pecan farmer, and naturalist – Calpurnia struggles to balance all of her family’s expectations. However, even in the midst of all the adventures with moth specimens, wine-making, and the discovery of what may be a new plant species, the book really isn’t just about science.
Instead, the story gently tries to reassure all girls who differ from society’s vision of femininity that, someday, they too may eventually be accepted with a little effort on their part. From Callie’s studies of the natural world, she sees everything has a role to play, no matter how odd or different from the other animals they may be. For Callie, her difference comes in the form of her tomboyish, nerdy scientific nature, which her mother, her girly best friend, and her other female mentors are painstakingly trying to eliminate from her personality. As much as Calpurnia’s grandfather encourages her to keep him company while traipsing around rural Texas backcountry, even he isn’t too confident she will make it as a scientist. By the end of the novel, the girl is starting to be deeply troubled about her future. To this reader, Callie would be well-placed in any time period – she’s a feminist waking up to the world.
Finally, to Kelly’s credit, she does not sugar-coat the ending, with Callie striding off into the sunset with a future clear of difficulty for the budding naturalist. Instead, the novel ends relatively soon after she gets a Christmas gift of the ironically titled nightmare The Science of Housewifery, making Callie feel as if she is condemned to knitting, cooking, and piano lessons for eternity. While I won’t give away much about the semi-ambiguous final chapter about New Year’s Day in 1900, I will say I was left thinking about a quotation offered a bit earlier by Calpurnia’s grandfather, “The lesson for today is this: It is better to travel with hope in one’s heart than to arrive in safety. Do you understand?” (233). Yes, we women do understand, and that’s what makes this novel a great example of historical fiction.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Birthday America!
I could post some Whitman, Sandburg, Emerson, Muir, or some other great American thinkers, but somehow I always go back to music for today.
So here's one of the greatest voices of America:
So here's one of the greatest voices of America:
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My life in books...
It’s been almost two months since I last posted, and my blog silence can mostly be attributed to the fact that I've been reading...and working and just too tired to write. I’ve read about eight since my last post: I am the Messenger by Markus Zusak (the author of The Book Thief), One of our Thursdays is Missing by Jasper Fforde, The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, and several young adult books. I am a devoted fan to the first two authors in this list, and my high expectations were, unfortunately, not met.
For those, like myself, who were transformed after reading Zusak’s The Book Thief, Messenger comes across shallow. Although the premise is interesting and different, the book’s progression felt unnatural. The story begins with the narrator, Ed an unmotivated 20-something, stopping a robbery, which he admits is out of his character. Then, he starts to receive playing cards with mysterious instructions. Ultimately, the different cards lead him to people throughout his community whom he must help in some way--from a woman who is raped by her alcoholic husband every night to an old woman who just needs company. The book progresses in much the same tone, and through much overdone self-reflection and many statements like “I just knew what I had to do,” the narrator calls the reader to question what we would do for a stranger in need. Although this “moral of the story” may sound cheesy, the book and it’s characters are in no way sentimental, which saves the book from being unenjoyable. Most of the book’s attraction lies with the outlying characters, the strangers in need. They are drawn with life, and as they are each saved in their own way, the reader is pulled into the main character’s mission. It’s an easy read if you like Zusak’s style.
Next, for those who were anxiously waiting those two years for the newest installment of the Thursday series, you may be a little disappointed. The book works more like an illustration of the workings of the Bookworld rather than a development in Thursday’s story. It’s clever and full of fun booky allusions just as his other books are fun and clever, but the story never develops into anything. Most of it seems to set up the groundwork for the next book’s major mystery. My favorite parts were when he makes fun of literary tropes. To Fforde’s credit though, he really tries to liven up our impression of books, and he explore what it means to create--to create characters, to create worlds, to create ourselves. And, if nothing else his books always inspire me to read and write more.
Finally, I get to my favorite: The Paris Wife. Let me begin by admitting that I am in no way a Hemingway scholar. In fact, despite many attempts, I just don’t like reading Hemingway. I have read several of his novels and have really tried to like his books, but most of the time I end up rolling my eyes at many of his characters...Despite this, I’ve always found his life and his persona fascinating. I’ve visited his childhood home in Chicago, I’ve sat in the back booth at Les Deux Magots in Paris (though it seems much changed since Hemingway was there), and I’ve watched the bulls run in Pampelona. My favorite read of his is A Moveable Feast. I’m drawn to the time period so often romanticized: the smoky cafes in Paris stuffed with struggling artists, the crowded bull fighting arenas in Pamplona.
The Paris Wife chronicles the relationship between him and his first wife, Hadley, and captures that time in Paris. However, more than that, the book focuses more on the creation of Hemingway’s persona through the eyes of a woman. At the book’s beginning Hemingway is no more than a romantic, lonely young man come back from war. He’s desperate to write and desperate to be in love. As the story progresses, he slowly creates the myth behind the man, and we meet Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound as we watch him struggle to place himself amongst the literary elite. It is very easy to hate him because he is really such an ass, but somehow the reader cannot help but be drawn to him, just as Hadley and every other woman in his life. It is hard not to admire his success and his talent and the way he gives himself to his art and life.
The book is also, probably even more so, about Hadley, and her struggle to find a place in the literary world, one that is much quicker and tumultuous than she ever wanted. Although at times the book threatens to become a book clubby book, I think it’s saved by its intelligent and unique portrayal of this famous couple. It is not over-stuffed with romance but a simple and realistic portrayal of a marriage the reader know is doomed from the beginning. It’s about the woman who is behind the myth that is behind the man...
There you have it...my past few months in books.
For those, like myself, who were transformed after reading Zusak’s The Book Thief, Messenger comes across shallow. Although the premise is interesting and different, the book’s progression felt unnatural. The story begins with the narrator, Ed an unmotivated 20-something, stopping a robbery, which he admits is out of his character. Then, he starts to receive playing cards with mysterious instructions. Ultimately, the different cards lead him to people throughout his community whom he must help in some way--from a woman who is raped by her alcoholic husband every night to an old woman who just needs company. The book progresses in much the same tone, and through much overdone self-reflection and many statements like “I just knew what I had to do,” the narrator calls the reader to question what we would do for a stranger in need. Although this “moral of the story” may sound cheesy, the book and it’s characters are in no way sentimental, which saves the book from being unenjoyable. Most of the book’s attraction lies with the outlying characters, the strangers in need. They are drawn with life, and as they are each saved in their own way, the reader is pulled into the main character’s mission. It’s an easy read if you like Zusak’s style.
Next, for those who were anxiously waiting those two years for the newest installment of the Thursday series, you may be a little disappointed. The book works more like an illustration of the workings of the Bookworld rather than a development in Thursday’s story. It’s clever and full of fun booky allusions just as his other books are fun and clever, but the story never develops into anything. Most of it seems to set up the groundwork for the next book’s major mystery. My favorite parts were when he makes fun of literary tropes. To Fforde’s credit though, he really tries to liven up our impression of books, and he explore what it means to create--to create characters, to create worlds, to create ourselves. And, if nothing else his books always inspire me to read and write more.
Finally, I get to my favorite: The Paris Wife. Let me begin by admitting that I am in no way a Hemingway scholar. In fact, despite many attempts, I just don’t like reading Hemingway. I have read several of his novels and have really tried to like his books, but most of the time I end up rolling my eyes at many of his characters...Despite this, I’ve always found his life and his persona fascinating. I’ve visited his childhood home in Chicago, I’ve sat in the back booth at Les Deux Magots in Paris (though it seems much changed since Hemingway was there), and I’ve watched the bulls run in Pampelona. My favorite read of his is A Moveable Feast. I’m drawn to the time period so often romanticized: the smoky cafes in Paris stuffed with struggling artists, the crowded bull fighting arenas in Pamplona.
The Paris Wife chronicles the relationship between him and his first wife, Hadley, and captures that time in Paris. However, more than that, the book focuses more on the creation of Hemingway’s persona through the eyes of a woman. At the book’s beginning Hemingway is no more than a romantic, lonely young man come back from war. He’s desperate to write and desperate to be in love. As the story progresses, he slowly creates the myth behind the man, and we meet Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound as we watch him struggle to place himself amongst the literary elite. It is very easy to hate him because he is really such an ass, but somehow the reader cannot help but be drawn to him, just as Hadley and every other woman in his life. It is hard not to admire his success and his talent and the way he gives himself to his art and life.
The book is also, probably even more so, about Hadley, and her struggle to find a place in the literary world, one that is much quicker and tumultuous than she ever wanted. Although at times the book threatens to become a book clubby book, I think it’s saved by its intelligent and unique portrayal of this famous couple. It is not over-stuffed with romance but a simple and realistic portrayal of a marriage the reader know is doomed from the beginning. It’s about the woman who is behind the myth that is behind the man...
There you have it...my past few months in books.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Just Give Me That Ol' Time America....
I've always had a deep fascination with what is quintessentially "American" -- that pull yourself up by your bootstraps, god-fearing, adventuring spirit that used to be represented so frequently in pop culture. (In my opinion, today's American spirit is a little harder to define as we have become so fragmented in our views / beliefs). I also wonder why the appeal of this American image – a lone cowboy standing tall in his dusty jeans and boots, his hat at a rakish angle as he squints off into a distant horizon – has lasted so long. After all, didn’t we create a world of office buildings and air conditioning to prevent all that effort? While I’ve talked before about probably not being able to make the grade in frontier agrarian society, I still find the whole concept wildly appealing and so do the writers Jeannette Walls and Wendy McClure.
Jeannette Walls, more famous for her memoir The Glass Castle, also wrote a true-life novel about her grandmother called Half-Broke Horses. Lily Casey Smith had a wild ride in the American frontier, from living in a mud dugout in Texas and learning to break horses, teaching in rural schools, and working a big ranch with her second husband in Arizona. She was not a woman to look back at her mistakes or to whine about her situation – Lily just packed up her stuff when the going got impossible and got back on her horse thinking of new ways to make her life work, no matter what the effort required. It is obvious that Walls deeply respects her grandmother and sets up her story as a model for what Americans could achieve with a lot more elbow grease.
And yet, rather than make Lily seem like a grunt suited only for work, Walls also gives in to the chance to romanticize the time, to the point where I felt about ready to join in on the long range rides. When Lily does briefly move to town, Walls specifically emphasizes her distaste of the confined world of the ‘burbs and the dissatisfaction that comes from an office job that leaves a worker without a worn body or a satisfied mind at the end of the day.
To get a real sense of Walls’ interpretation and glorification of her forbearers, you need go no further than a reflection “Big Jim” (Lily’s second husband) has about the water he’s collected in his manmade pond:
The water you kids were playing in, he said, had probably been to Africa and the North Pole. Genghis Khan or Saint Peter or even Jesus himself might have drunk it. Cleopatra might have bathed in it. Crazy Horse might have watered his pony with it. Sometimes water was liquid. Sometimes it was rock hard - ice. Sometimes it was soft - snow. Sometimes it was visible but weightless - clouds. And sometimes it was completely invisible - vapor - floating up into the sky like the souls of dead people. There was nothing like water in the world, Jim said. It made the desert bloom but also turned rich bottomland into swamp. Without it we'd die, but it could also kill us, and that was why we loved it, even craved it, but also feared it. Never take water for granted, Jim said. Always cherish it. Always beware of it. (148-9)
Now, granted, I’ve never known a real “cowboy” but somehow I think at the end of a long day they aren’t exactly waxing poetic about their water supply. However, for Walls in a way, that’s the point. Looking back, we can see the beauty of a simpler life where people focused only on the literal “big picture” – survival and sustenance – and found it to be enough.
This “back to the basics” approach is certainly attracting interest in our time. Granted, going green in America has been more about lining the pockets of savvy companies who know how to confuse consumers with all sorts of hippie-sounding labels, but this longing for a simpler lifestyle certainly comes from somewhere.
And that’s where Wendy McClure steps in. Her book, The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie, explores her utter obsession with Laura Ingalls Wilder’s life, books, and the world that her writing represents. McClure, along with her incredibly patient husband, spend a year travelling around in “Laura World” and seeing what insights can be culled from seeing the places Wilder lived. Along the way, McClure churns butter, stays in a covered wagon, and buys enough prairie bonnets to show a fresh accessory every day for at least a month.
As McClure sees it, her longing is not necessarily for Laura’s situation itself, but more of what it represents. As she explains:
Sometimes, Laura's World wasn't a realm of log cabins or prairies, it was a way of being. Really, a way of being happy. I wasn't into the flowery sayings, but I was nonetheless in love with the idea of serene rooms full of endless quiet and time, of sky in the windows, of a life comfortably cluttered and yet in some kind of perfect feng shui equilibrium, where all the day were capacious enough to bake bread and write novels and perambulate the wooded hills deep in thought (though truthfully, I'd allow for the occasional Rose - [Wilder’s daughter] style cocktail party as well). All of it was the stuff of my imaginary Laura lifestyle magazine, my own rendition of sweet and simple.
Probably most people who came to visit Mansfield had some version in mind, too. While we could all certainly appreciate the pioneer ordeals, the covered wagons, and the long winters, somehow Sweet and Simple had become our own dream frontier, our Oregon that we'd like to reach someday, always just beyond the horizon. We were looking for it wherever we could. Most of us had no use for someone like Rose, whose Bitter and Complicated life was at least as imperfect as our own. (172)
Probably most people who came to visit Mansfield had some version in mind, too. While we could all certainly appreciate the pioneer ordeals, the covered wagons, and the long winters, somehow Sweet and Simple had become our own dream frontier, our Oregon that we'd like to reach someday, always just beyond the horizon. We were looking for it wherever we could. Most of us had no use for someone like Rose, whose Bitter and Complicated life was at least as imperfect as our own. (172)
In the end, McClure experiences a sort of emotional exhaustion from chasing after this lifestyle. She searches so deeply to find meaning in these houses out in the middle of nowhere that she leaves the last few frontier festivals early because she is simply overwhelmed. However, as in all good books about journeys, in the end she feels Laura has provided her a taste of her own “sweeter” world.
For me, these dreams of a different life, become just that: dreams. We may be able to change our external situation to match the description of the book, but the real “pioneer spirit” is something that must be found not in a historical reproduction or bought off a shelf. Instead, it is discovered, as McClure realizes, in an evaluation of what the American spirit means to each one of us, even if those thoughts are not written out longhand in a cramped little cabin, but typed in a condo in a big city. Both of these books gave me something to think about, but maybe that’s not the point either. To find that spirit, one doesn’t need to analyze or evaluate, but just look with fresh eyes, over yet another horizon confident that a different (perhaps better) life will always be out there.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Life's Surprises in Kerouac's On the Road
Okay, I’ll admit it: I prejudged the “Beat” Generation and all of its related literature before reading any of it, and before really knowing too much about it. This is kind of embarrassing to divulge, but I honestly associated them with the’60s hippie subculture; I didn’t really dislike any of it. It was more of an indifference, or the belief that “I know that ‘Beat’ writers and individuals greatly impacted the social, cultural, and literary scene of America during the mid 20th century, but I’m not really interested, so I’m just not going to go there. There are too many other works and movements that I would rather spend my time exploring.” I’ve even visited the Beat Museum in San Francisco with my family, and while I took it all in, I still wasn’t inspired enough to really explore it.
My hesitancy and disinterest was directly associated with some sort of image of the Beat players—Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, etc.—that I had somehow formed in my mind. I saw them clad in all black, in tight black turtlenecks and shades, smoking cigarettes, and spouting off some incoherent poetry. Don’t ask me how this impression of Beats took shape in my mind, but for whatever reason, it did. Obviously, my notion of the Beat Generation was off, which became ever so clear to me when I recently picked up and read Kerouac’s 1957 work On the Road. Now, this is my first foray into Beat literature, so I am by no means any scholar, but I am happy to explain how wrong I was about the Beats, or at least about Jack Kerouac and his 1957 piece.
Like all works of meaningful literature, there are many components that make it important and relevant. In this post, I am just going to focus on one aspect of On the Road that not only touched me, but that also enlightened me about what it means to be “Beat.” Instead of the abstract, alternative text I was expecting, I was pleasantly surprised by the energetic hope and genuine pleasure Sal (the character Kerouac is based on) seeks and has for the experiences his country offers. Whether these experiences involve jazz performances, long, intellectual discussions with Dean (or Cassady), or relishing the beauty and simplicity of the land, Kerouac essentially embraces the genuine and pure moments of life in On the Road. Sal reminds me that all experiences, particularly new experiences, make life more meaningful. Like in life, moments of sadness and pain intermix with moments joy and happiness; there are definitely sad and painful undertones in On the Road, but ultimately, the text is so much more hopeful than I expected it to be. Its excitement in the simplicities of life makes me excited just to be alive, especially with all the freedom I am so lucky to have.
So, I ask you, readers: what text pleasantly surprised you, and why? Also, what about life excites you? Kerouac shared his feelings; what are yours?
My hesitancy and disinterest was directly associated with some sort of image of the Beat players—Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, etc.—that I had somehow formed in my mind. I saw them clad in all black, in tight black turtlenecks and shades, smoking cigarettes, and spouting off some incoherent poetry. Don’t ask me how this impression of Beats took shape in my mind, but for whatever reason, it did. Obviously, my notion of the Beat Generation was off, which became ever so clear to me when I recently picked up and read Kerouac’s 1957 work On the Road. Now, this is my first foray into Beat literature, so I am by no means any scholar, but I am happy to explain how wrong I was about the Beats, or at least about Jack Kerouac and his 1957 piece.
Like all works of meaningful literature, there are many components that make it important and relevant. In this post, I am just going to focus on one aspect of On the Road that not only touched me, but that also enlightened me about what it means to be “Beat.” Instead of the abstract, alternative text I was expecting, I was pleasantly surprised by the energetic hope and genuine pleasure Sal (the character Kerouac is based on) seeks and has for the experiences his country offers. Whether these experiences involve jazz performances, long, intellectual discussions with Dean (or Cassady), or relishing the beauty and simplicity of the land, Kerouac essentially embraces the genuine and pure moments of life in On the Road. Sal reminds me that all experiences, particularly new experiences, make life more meaningful. Like in life, moments of sadness and pain intermix with moments joy and happiness; there are definitely sad and painful undertones in On the Road, but ultimately, the text is so much more hopeful than I expected it to be. Its excitement in the simplicities of life makes me excited just to be alive, especially with all the freedom I am so lucky to have.
So, I ask you, readers: what text pleasantly surprised you, and why? Also, what about life excites you? Kerouac shared his feelings; what are yours?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Old MacMelville has a farm? Eee-aye-eee-aye-OH?
April is normally known in literary circles as National Poetry Month but unofficially in my mind it has a second, even better title – Read and Grade Outside Month. I always find that I am less productive in the spring but much more poetic / drowsy (which is not necessarily a bad thing).
During those tentative spring weekends, at the first sign of glorious Bay Area weather, I sprint outdoors, laden with piles of paper, my trusty colorful felt pens and a tall glass of apple juice, vowing that the time away from my computer will turn me into a lean-mean grading machine. Instead, I morph into some suburban sighing Wordsworth who spends all her time marveling at the flowers blooming, the sound of her neighbor’s wind-chimes tinkling softly in the distance, and the sweet-smelling breeze gently playing with her hair, knocking her long-forgotten papers to the ground. It takes a good ten minutes of watching a spider crawl up a wall or staring down a squirrel trying to plant a peanut into a flowerbox to realize that my mind has wandered entirely away from my students’ own efforts at creation.
But more than just grading outside, spring is the time when my reading habits change. Just as I peel off my thick knitted sweaters to expose my luminescent arms and skim off the serious comments on their essays; once I see that first hint of green, I start searching for that perfect farming / outdoorsy work book to read. In this mood over the past few years I’ve polished off works like Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (Kingsolver); Little Heathens (Kalish); The Maine Woods (Thoreau), and well, you get the general picture. This year it’s been two books for me – The Blueberry Years by Jim Minick (recently finished) and The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball (just arrived today in the mail).
Now, as much as I love to say my emphasis is eco. lit., anyone who knows me relatively well also realizes that I am not the world’s greatest expert on flora, fauna, camping, or farming, so obviously I’m not looking to brush up on my areas of expertise. The biggest kitchen garden I’ve worked on so far fit into my parents’ cramped suburban backyard and the most exotic vegetable we ever planted was a string bean. My idea of hiking is puffing along a beaten dirt path with clearly labeled signs and my favorite stories of “roughing it” involve going to a camp-ground that featured whirlpool tubs in the “rustic” heated cabins. I couldn’t tell you how to use a fancy piece of farming equipment if my life depended on it, and yet, I can tell you plenty about the wonderful world of farming memoirs.
I just can’t get enough of these stories of people who have turned their backs on the bland, season-suffering cities to dig their fingers, toes, and souls into the dirt to uncover a more satisfying and meaningful life. I love to hear about the brush they clear, the acres they plant, the hours and hours of pruning / picking / cleaning / shelling / canning / cooking and selling that they devote to their produce. The technical details are easily ignorable – the farming jargon, diagrams, and schematics roll past my eyes without even a blink – but I find something so comforting in the telling of these utterly different lives. I see myself identifying with these “gentlemen farmers” (as one of these memoirists once called he and his fellow farmer-writers) even though I have never once tried one of the recipes so lovingly typed out in the final chapter.
I think my “spring” love for this very specific genre can be summed up in a very specific story. Jim Minick in The Blueberry Years reflects about the many people who came to his pick-your-own organic blueberry farm and what the bushes mean to the masses. In one of his many short chapters, Minick writes about (what seems to be his favorite story) a mother who shows up early one day in the family sedan, breathing in the country air with eager lungs. She explains to Jim that she drove her young daughter from several states away to his rural Virginia farm so she could have the chance to live out her favorite book – Blueberries for Sal. He expected them to last quite a while but was surprised when they simply delighted in spending a few minutes losing themselves into this sweet little acreage. It was enough for them to have a few blueberries, take a few pictures (sans bears), and head back home enriched by the “farm life” with their imagination to fill in the rest.
Just like that little girl, it’s enough for me to head outside, read a few chapters about rich farmland, grade a few papers, listen to a few birds chirp and be enriched. Right now, I don’t have the time or the inclination to fully grasp at this lifestyle, but my creativity can push me out of the suburban landscape into the world of bountiful acres and open sky. After all, in the first signs of spring, what could be better than having the best of the natural / thinking world to fill in my own green space? As long as I don’t get a farmer’s tan from my lounge-chair plowing, I’ll be perfectly happy; right after I finish this grading…
Monday, March 28, 2011
Nothing ruins a book like a bad ending
I am very particular about the way a book ends. It has nothing to do with whether the ending is happy or sad, uplifting or cynical, but whether it is natural to the story, whether it is believable in the context of the world created by the author, and whether it feels complete. Melville discussed this idea of completeness in our round blog on Incarceron-- whether a book is part of a series or not, the book should feel whole. Although not ALL answers have to be answered and every mystery explained, there should be enough development for the reader to feel as if the story said something. If an author finishes the book with “the wrap-up,” I feel a little disappointed that the characters do not have an interesting life beyond this one story, which deflates the character for me--they end up a little one-dimensional (this is a fault in much young adult fiction). There is also the abrupt ending, which feels as if the book just sort of stops, leaving the reader wondering what the point was. Then, there is the WTF ending. The story is very interesting, but then the author doesn’t really know how to end it, so he or she writes a rather absurd climax that just tumbles into a conclusion, ending the book in a rush. This brings me to Little Bee.
First off, the first 75% of Little Bee was worth reading. Chris Cleave captures the characters’ voices and details the life of a girl refugee with compassion and thoughtfulness but without sentimentalizing her experience or satisfying white guilt with a perfect conclusion. The story is told from the point of view of Little Bee, a Nigerian refugee whose village was caught in the middle of an oil war, and Sarah, a white British woman who takes Bee in. The story’s shifting narrators remind the reader that what it means to suffer depends on one’s perspective.
The story begins by addressing a white, western audience in the same vein as A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid--not so much with Kincaid’s anger, but with an underlying dejected acceptance of how globalization works to destroy for the sake of a British pound (or dollar). Little Bee calls out this white “you” throughout the book’s entirety, again not necessarily to reprimand, but in an attempt to bridge the gap of difference (maybe to reprimand a little). However, at the same time, she also seems aware that there is no such bridge--our understanding of each other is essentially limited.
What is both startling and expected is the British people’s responses to Bee and other refugees. (The only likable British person is a little boy who won’t change out of a Batman costume.) Bee exposes the horrible mistreatment of those who seek refuge in the very country that is responsible for the violence they try to escape. The book essentially seeks to point out the ignored racism of places like London that try to claim an acceptance of diversity. Western society has a very “hear no evil, see no evil” position concerning the state of refugees, and the author does not hold back on his depiction of our apathy and resignation to an evil world. Cleave continually points to and laments this modern cynicism about racism and corruption in Africa.
I don’t really know if it matters that the author is a white male, but it might have something to do with his WTF ending. I usually try not to read with the image of the author in mind because the book’s characters are well-developed and the story is nonetheless interesting or truthful because of his color. However, the ending fizzles in such a way that I can’t help but wonder if it has to do with his underlying awareness of his own difference from a Nigerian refugee girl. Although mostly everything about Bee’s story--up until the end--is interesting and thought-provoking and important in the sense that, as a bestseller, the book has brought a usually ignored set of people to popular culture, the book’s terrible ending shifts the focus back to fiction. In other words, because the ending is so unnatural in the context of the story and so very incomplete, one feels it is only just a story after all, which, to me, undermines the book’s otherwise powerful message and Bee’s horrifying experience. The ending image of a naked blonde boy happily playing amongst the African children seems to be an unnatural sugary coating to an otherwise honest story.
I end with some questions that I don’t seem to have an answer to: does the author’s race or color matter even if the story is about race and color? Is it something to be acknowledged? Or, does his bad ending speak more to his (in)ability as an author?
First off, the first 75% of Little Bee was worth reading. Chris Cleave captures the characters’ voices and details the life of a girl refugee with compassion and thoughtfulness but without sentimentalizing her experience or satisfying white guilt with a perfect conclusion. The story is told from the point of view of Little Bee, a Nigerian refugee whose village was caught in the middle of an oil war, and Sarah, a white British woman who takes Bee in. The story’s shifting narrators remind the reader that what it means to suffer depends on one’s perspective.
The story begins by addressing a white, western audience in the same vein as A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid--not so much with Kincaid’s anger, but with an underlying dejected acceptance of how globalization works to destroy for the sake of a British pound (or dollar). Little Bee calls out this white “you” throughout the book’s entirety, again not necessarily to reprimand, but in an attempt to bridge the gap of difference (maybe to reprimand a little). However, at the same time, she also seems aware that there is no such bridge--our understanding of each other is essentially limited.
What is both startling and expected is the British people’s responses to Bee and other refugees. (The only likable British person is a little boy who won’t change out of a Batman costume.) Bee exposes the horrible mistreatment of those who seek refuge in the very country that is responsible for the violence they try to escape. The book essentially seeks to point out the ignored racism of places like London that try to claim an acceptance of diversity. Western society has a very “hear no evil, see no evil” position concerning the state of refugees, and the author does not hold back on his depiction of our apathy and resignation to an evil world. Cleave continually points to and laments this modern cynicism about racism and corruption in Africa.
I don’t really know if it matters that the author is a white male, but it might have something to do with his WTF ending. I usually try not to read with the image of the author in mind because the book’s characters are well-developed and the story is nonetheless interesting or truthful because of his color. However, the ending fizzles in such a way that I can’t help but wonder if it has to do with his underlying awareness of his own difference from a Nigerian refugee girl. Although mostly everything about Bee’s story--up until the end--is interesting and thought-provoking and important in the sense that, as a bestseller, the book has brought a usually ignored set of people to popular culture, the book’s terrible ending shifts the focus back to fiction. In other words, because the ending is so unnatural in the context of the story and so very incomplete, one feels it is only just a story after all, which, to me, undermines the book’s otherwise powerful message and Bee’s horrifying experience. The ending image of a naked blonde boy happily playing amongst the African children seems to be an unnatural sugary coating to an otherwise honest story.
I end with some questions that I don’t seem to have an answer to: does the author’s race or color matter even if the story is about race and color? Is it something to be acknowledged? Or, does his bad ending speak more to his (in)ability as an author?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
RoundBlog Take 3 -- Melville on The Cellist of Sarajevo
The Cellist of Sarajevo was a deeply affecting novel for me. It was not a book I wanted to read quickly -- and, as you can tell, my schedule certainly ensured that I would follow through on that wish. It was also not a book I could reflect on immediately as I wanted to see what ideas or images would stay with me even now, almost two weeks after I finished it. As someone with Yugoslavian relatives, I picked this novel since it was a rare opportunity to learn something beyond the minor details my grandparents mentioned or the dry facts that I've read in history books.
I think what struck me most about the plot was the focus on seeing things through a new or a different perspective. Each of the characters, by the end of the novel, changes something in their view -- whether about themselves or Sarajevo or both. There are also constant references to observing others as they go about their daily business of survival while being watched by the eyes of the snipers in the hills, ready to change their fates forever with a twitch of their trigger finger or the tossing of a bomb.
While these instances of "seeing" may seem small at first, they begin to hint at what I believe is the overall question and purpose of this novel: How often do we observers "see" what happens in a war-torn nation? How often do we pause to consider the human toll? Have we become immune to others' suffering?
Of course, if we do learn to empathize with those who are suffering, the next question would be: How would we see or understand ourselves in this situation? Would we lose our own humanity?
With that idea in mind, I started to realize that it is on these two levels that this novel operates -- with the characters constantly considering the outside world and the luxuries others enjoy while they remain oblivious to Sarajevo's plight. It is made even more poignant that as these characters ponder the uncaring nature of others, they too become almost indifferent to their "daily war routines" which involve creating elaborate routes around the blasted-out city to procure water for their family that may end up costing them their lives.
I also found it particularly poignant that besides the Cellist's playing to memorialize the fallen he saw from his window, many of the characters are also moved by the plight of the dogs struggling to survive. When the characters are particularly raw, Galloway brings in an animal who also seems to mimic their pain, but in an even more pitiful way. Do they see their own crawl or ragged jogs between protective buildings similar to animals trapped in a cage? While it is unclear how deeply this siege will ultimately affect all the characters in the long run, it is certainly clear that they have more and more trouble remembering the Sarajavo they once knew and loved.
I was struck most by the following passage towards the end of Cellist. (It's a bit long so bear with me...Here, Dragan, an older man who has witnessed several people wounded/killed by snipers notices one of the dead bodies is still in the street.)
It is in these moments of clarity and new vision that Galloway sweeps me away. When the character risks his own life in the line of sniper fire to move the body away from the newsjournalist watching across the street, he is doing it not just for himself and his re-awakening sense of humanity, but also for the Sarajevo of before, a place so beautiful in their memories that even I can see it for what it once was.
If nothing else, for me, this book was an invitation to rethink our reactions to others' suffering and to imagine our world as a better, more amiable place where these realities do not have to exist. In the midst of this bleak novel, I also recognize a sense that if we can actually SEE and not just glaze over atrocity, we would find a way to peace, just as the Cellist sees a way to offer comfort and dignity in the hearts of great darkness.
I think what struck me most about the plot was the focus on seeing things through a new or a different perspective. Each of the characters, by the end of the novel, changes something in their view -- whether about themselves or Sarajevo or both. There are also constant references to observing others as they go about their daily business of survival while being watched by the eyes of the snipers in the hills, ready to change their fates forever with a twitch of their trigger finger or the tossing of a bomb.
While these instances of "seeing" may seem small at first, they begin to hint at what I believe is the overall question and purpose of this novel: How often do we observers "see" what happens in a war-torn nation? How often do we pause to consider the human toll? Have we become immune to others' suffering?
Of course, if we do learn to empathize with those who are suffering, the next question would be: How would we see or understand ourselves in this situation? Would we lose our own humanity?
With that idea in mind, I started to realize that it is on these two levels that this novel operates -- with the characters constantly considering the outside world and the luxuries others enjoy while they remain oblivious to Sarajevo's plight. It is made even more poignant that as these characters ponder the uncaring nature of others, they too become almost indifferent to their "daily war routines" which involve creating elaborate routes around the blasted-out city to procure water for their family that may end up costing them their lives.
I also found it particularly poignant that besides the Cellist's playing to memorialize the fallen he saw from his window, many of the characters are also moved by the plight of the dogs struggling to survive. When the characters are particularly raw, Galloway brings in an animal who also seems to mimic their pain, but in an even more pitiful way. Do they see their own crawl or ragged jogs between protective buildings similar to animals trapped in a cage? While it is unclear how deeply this siege will ultimately affect all the characters in the long run, it is certainly clear that they have more and more trouble remembering the Sarajavo they once knew and loved.
I was struck most by the following passage towards the end of Cellist. (It's a bit long so bear with me...Here, Dragan, an older man who has witnessed several people wounded/killed by snipers notices one of the dead bodies is still in the street.)
[....] A dead body won't bother anyone. It will be a curiosity, but unless some viewer knew the hatless man it will mean nothing. There's nothing in a dead body that suggests what it was like to be alive. No one will know if the man had unusually large feet, which his friends used to tease him about when he was a child. No will know about [all these things that make us ourselves ...]
[...] But these are the things that make a death something to be mourned. It's not just a disappearance of flesh. This, in and of itself, is easily shrugged off. When the body of the hatless man is shown on the evening news to people all over the world, they will do exactly that. They may remark on the horror, but they will, most likely, think nothing of it at all, like a dog with somewhere else to be. [...]
He won't allow this man's body to be filmed. He remembers what he told [another character who was wounded earlier] about the cellist, why he thinks he plays. To stop something from happening. To prevent a worsening. To do what he can.
As he looks at the cameraman, however, Dragan realizes that he's missed the point. It doesn't matter what the world thinks of his city. All that matters is what he thinks. In the Sarajevo of his memory, it was completely unacceptable to have a dead man lying in the street. In the Sarajevo of today it's normal. He has been living in neither, has tried to live in a city that no longer exists, refusing to participate in the one that does . (208-9)
[...] But these are the things that make a death something to be mourned. It's not just a disappearance of flesh. This, in and of itself, is easily shrugged off. When the body of the hatless man is shown on the evening news to people all over the world, they will do exactly that. They may remark on the horror, but they will, most likely, think nothing of it at all, like a dog with somewhere else to be. [...]
He won't allow this man's body to be filmed. He remembers what he told [another character who was wounded earlier] about the cellist, why he thinks he plays. To stop something from happening. To prevent a worsening. To do what he can.
As he looks at the cameraman, however, Dragan realizes that he's missed the point. It doesn't matter what the world thinks of his city. All that matters is what he thinks. In the Sarajevo of his memory, it was completely unacceptable to have a dead man lying in the street. In the Sarajevo of today it's normal. He has been living in neither, has tried to live in a city that no longer exists, refusing to participate in the one that does . (208-9)
It is in these moments of clarity and new vision that Galloway sweeps me away. When the character risks his own life in the line of sniper fire to move the body away from the newsjournalist watching across the street, he is doing it not just for himself and his re-awakening sense of humanity, but also for the Sarajevo of before, a place so beautiful in their memories that even I can see it for what it once was.
If nothing else, for me, this book was an invitation to rethink our reactions to others' suffering and to imagine our world as a better, more amiable place where these realities do not have to exist. In the midst of this bleak novel, I also recognize a sense that if we can actually SEE and not just glaze over atrocity, we would find a way to peace, just as the Cellist sees a way to offer comfort and dignity in the hearts of great darkness.
Friday, March 4, 2011
"You don't choose what to believe. Belief chooses you"
Wollstonecraft's take on The Cellist of Sarajevo:
I want to pick up with Shelley’s questions about how the characters maintain their sanity and how they prevent themselves from breaking down. It was this theme that intrigued me those most: the idea that almost anything can become “normal.” I do think that these characters are strong and brave, but I wonder if we think that because the world of war-torn Sarajevo is so unbelievable and removed from our own. It is important to note that these characters do not feel strong. They constantly question their own resolve, and a few do not remain in Sarajevo out of choice. Many remain in the city because they have no where to go. Others realized the reality of the war too late, and by that time, the gates to the city had been closed.
I am not by any means dismissing their strength to survive; in fact, I think that this book is about how people survive: not out of bravery or any heroic impulse other than the basic need to survive and to survive with their humanity intact. What I found fascinating was the idea that humans can survive so much pain, and we can convince ourselves of normalcy no matter how awful the reality. The ability to adapt and to change one’s perception in order to keep living is at the heart of the characters’ struggles.
This is represented by the Cellist and his desire to play despite the obvious dangers he faces by being out in the open. He wanted to create hope by convincing himself that there is humanity in his art and music that can still be touched.
I think this story is more about trying to remain “human” while at the same time deeply concerned with what that even means. Life is made up of thousands of tiny moments that don’t seem to represent anything important other than the importance we want to give it.
In Arrow, the young girl soldier, we see this the most: “This is how she now believes life happens. One small thing at a time. A series of inconsequential junctions, any or none of which can lead to salvation or disaster. There are no grand moments where a person does or does not perform the act that defines their humanity. There are only moments that appear, briefly, to be this way.”
I don’t think these characters want to be examples or heroes. They second guess their accepting attitudes. While I do think they have hope that there is a future for their city, and they are attached to the lives they used to live, they wonder why they can’t do more, or even if there is something they should be doing besides trying to survive. And, they wonder what it means to be right or wrong, good or evil. What is happening to them seems so evil, but the people fighting in Sarajevo are just as corrupt as those attacking the city. These questions about survival and humanity transcend war because they are questions that we all struggle with, yet only become truly obvious in the worst moments. And, we are then left asking ourselves what we believe in.
I want to pick up with Shelley’s questions about how the characters maintain their sanity and how they prevent themselves from breaking down. It was this theme that intrigued me those most: the idea that almost anything can become “normal.” I do think that these characters are strong and brave, but I wonder if we think that because the world of war-torn Sarajevo is so unbelievable and removed from our own. It is important to note that these characters do not feel strong. They constantly question their own resolve, and a few do not remain in Sarajevo out of choice. Many remain in the city because they have no where to go. Others realized the reality of the war too late, and by that time, the gates to the city had been closed.
I am not by any means dismissing their strength to survive; in fact, I think that this book is about how people survive: not out of bravery or any heroic impulse other than the basic need to survive and to survive with their humanity intact. What I found fascinating was the idea that humans can survive so much pain, and we can convince ourselves of normalcy no matter how awful the reality. The ability to adapt and to change one’s perception in order to keep living is at the heart of the characters’ struggles.
This is represented by the Cellist and his desire to play despite the obvious dangers he faces by being out in the open. He wanted to create hope by convincing himself that there is humanity in his art and music that can still be touched.
I think this story is more about trying to remain “human” while at the same time deeply concerned with what that even means. Life is made up of thousands of tiny moments that don’t seem to represent anything important other than the importance we want to give it.
In Arrow, the young girl soldier, we see this the most: “This is how she now believes life happens. One small thing at a time. A series of inconsequential junctions, any or none of which can lead to salvation or disaster. There are no grand moments where a person does or does not perform the act that defines their humanity. There are only moments that appear, briefly, to be this way.”
I don’t think these characters want to be examples or heroes. They second guess their accepting attitudes. While I do think they have hope that there is a future for their city, and they are attached to the lives they used to live, they wonder why they can’t do more, or even if there is something they should be doing besides trying to survive. And, they wonder what it means to be right or wrong, good or evil. What is happening to them seems so evil, but the people fighting in Sarajevo are just as corrupt as those attacking the city. These questions about survival and humanity transcend war because they are questions that we all struggle with, yet only become truly obvious in the worst moments. And, we are then left asking ourselves what we believe in.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Galloway's The Cellist of Sarajevo: War in Your Home and in Your Identity
The following is the first post of our latest roundblog; more intriguing thoughts from Wollstonecraft and Melville are coming soon! For now, here's Shelley's impression:
In Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, all three main characters in war-torn Sarajevo maintain a deep connection with and pride for their city—for their home and identity. Despite the fear, anger, and doubt that constantly pervade their internal thoughts and actions—feelings understandably arising from trying to survive in a violent and uncertain setting—Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan act with much resolve and conviction (however subtle such behavior is displayed) because of the love and honor they have for Sarajevo. Whether they are nostalgically contemplating the pre-war Sarajevo of old, or reflecting upon the decisive meaning of remaining in or fleeing the city, it’s clear the characters have much difficulty witnessing and experiencing their beloved home and all that it represents being destroyed and brutally altered. At the same time, an undying hope of a beautiful Sarajevo rising from the ashes still persists.
Kenan: “How do you build it all up again? Do the people who destroyed the city also rebuild it…if a city is made anew by men of questionable character, what will it be?” (48-9)
Arrow: “Is there a difference between disappearing and going into a grave…There is, of course, the question of survival. She doesn’t want to die…But the young girl who was overcome by what it means to be alive…doesn’t want to die either. That girl may be gone for now, may have no place in the city of today, but Arrow believes it’s possible that someday she might return. And if Arrow disappears, she knows she’s killing that girl” (173).
Dragan: “Dragan is terrified, has never been so afraid. But he can’t force himself to move any faster. After a while he stops trying. He keeps his eyes on the safe area he’s heading toward, and he tries not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He begins to understand why he isn’t running. If he doesn’t run, then he’s alive again. The Sarajevo he wants to live in is alive again” (224).
Even though the characters worry about the future of their city, and essentially, the life of their personal and cultural identity, they all act as Dragan does as he attempts to cross the road amidst targeted gunfire: with a calm, brave determination, echoed in the tone of the language throughout the novel. Subsequently, not only does the old Sarajevo become “alive again,” but the individuals themselves actively live in a city ravaged by violence and death. By vigorously living in such a hostile environment, even if much of this “living” exists within the characters’ mindset, or appears to be understated, Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan illustrate their intense pride as natives of Sarajevo.
Understanding this makes me wonder, how culturally connected am I to my hometown, where I have long-since moved from? If my hometown was being destroyed in war, with defenseless citizens being killed in the streets, would I stay or would I go, if I had the choice? To be honest, for better or worse, I think my desire for survival outweighs any cultural connection or identity to a specific place, however meaningful that place might be, and has been in my life. So why is it different for me than it is for these inhabitants of Sarajevo? Perhaps their relationship with their city is stronger because their families have lived there for much longer, for generations. Consequently, they are more attached to Sarajevo—to a physical place—than I, an American descendant of pioneers, could ever be. But maybe I would be if it came down to it, if my “home” was ever confronted with war, though there’s no way to ever be sure until it happens. In the same vein, it’s extremely difficult (perhaps even futile) to compare the Bosnian Sarajevo to the American California; they are so different, it’s tough to completely understand or identify with the nature of the characters, especially in terms of their relationship with their culture and city.
This text also makes me wonder, how would I behave in such conflictive times? I kept waiting for one of the characters to start sobbing, to scream in fear or anger, or to completely break down and panic, but none of them do. At his worst, Kenan is immobilized by his fear, but even this depiction emphasizes a certain level of composure—a composure highlighted by the courage of the cellist and his beautiful music. From the point of view of the novel, it’s obvious that the characters experience mental and emotional anguish, but none of this angst clearly reveals itself in their actions. Why might this be? How and why do they maintain such a level of control? Is it the means of survival, or are they showing that they will not be overtly intimidated in their beloved city and home? Regardless, Galloway’s account of civilians living in war makes readers consider their own cultural identity, specifically in reference to place. The novel also works to provoke readers’ thoughts concerning their own supposed behavior in times of strife and battle: would you “live” through acts of courage and conviction, or would you act otherwise?
In Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, all three main characters in war-torn Sarajevo maintain a deep connection with and pride for their city—for their home and identity. Despite the fear, anger, and doubt that constantly pervade their internal thoughts and actions—feelings understandably arising from trying to survive in a violent and uncertain setting—Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan act with much resolve and conviction (however subtle such behavior is displayed) because of the love and honor they have for Sarajevo. Whether they are nostalgically contemplating the pre-war Sarajevo of old, or reflecting upon the decisive meaning of remaining in or fleeing the city, it’s clear the characters have much difficulty witnessing and experiencing their beloved home and all that it represents being destroyed and brutally altered. At the same time, an undying hope of a beautiful Sarajevo rising from the ashes still persists.
Kenan: “How do you build it all up again? Do the people who destroyed the city also rebuild it…if a city is made anew by men of questionable character, what will it be?” (48-9)
Arrow: “Is there a difference between disappearing and going into a grave…There is, of course, the question of survival. She doesn’t want to die…But the young girl who was overcome by what it means to be alive…doesn’t want to die either. That girl may be gone for now, may have no place in the city of today, but Arrow believes it’s possible that someday she might return. And if Arrow disappears, she knows she’s killing that girl” (173).
Dragan: “Dragan is terrified, has never been so afraid. But he can’t force himself to move any faster. After a while he stops trying. He keeps his eyes on the safe area he’s heading toward, and he tries not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He begins to understand why he isn’t running. If he doesn’t run, then he’s alive again. The Sarajevo he wants to live in is alive again” (224).
Even though the characters worry about the future of their city, and essentially, the life of their personal and cultural identity, they all act as Dragan does as he attempts to cross the road amidst targeted gunfire: with a calm, brave determination, echoed in the tone of the language throughout the novel. Subsequently, not only does the old Sarajevo become “alive again,” but the individuals themselves actively live in a city ravaged by violence and death. By vigorously living in such a hostile environment, even if much of this “living” exists within the characters’ mindset, or appears to be understated, Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan illustrate their intense pride as natives of Sarajevo.
Understanding this makes me wonder, how culturally connected am I to my hometown, where I have long-since moved from? If my hometown was being destroyed in war, with defenseless citizens being killed in the streets, would I stay or would I go, if I had the choice? To be honest, for better or worse, I think my desire for survival outweighs any cultural connection or identity to a specific place, however meaningful that place might be, and has been in my life. So why is it different for me than it is for these inhabitants of Sarajevo? Perhaps their relationship with their city is stronger because their families have lived there for much longer, for generations. Consequently, they are more attached to Sarajevo—to a physical place—than I, an American descendant of pioneers, could ever be. But maybe I would be if it came down to it, if my “home” was ever confronted with war, though there’s no way to ever be sure until it happens. In the same vein, it’s extremely difficult (perhaps even futile) to compare the Bosnian Sarajevo to the American California; they are so different, it’s tough to completely understand or identify with the nature of the characters, especially in terms of their relationship with their culture and city.
This text also makes me wonder, how would I behave in such conflictive times? I kept waiting for one of the characters to start sobbing, to scream in fear or anger, or to completely break down and panic, but none of them do. At his worst, Kenan is immobilized by his fear, but even this depiction emphasizes a certain level of composure—a composure highlighted by the courage of the cellist and his beautiful music. From the point of view of the novel, it’s obvious that the characters experience mental and emotional anguish, but none of this angst clearly reveals itself in their actions. Why might this be? How and why do they maintain such a level of control? Is it the means of survival, or are they showing that they will not be overtly intimidated in their beloved city and home? Regardless, Galloway’s account of civilians living in war makes readers consider their own cultural identity, specifically in reference to place. The novel also works to provoke readers’ thoughts concerning their own supposed behavior in times of strife and battle: would you “live” through acts of courage and conviction, or would you act otherwise?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Don't judge a book by its movie commericials
For a gift several years ago, a friend gave me Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson. I hadn’t read it because I thought that (based on commercials I had seen for the movie) it was just a tragic romance. Since, she’s continually asked me if I had read it yet, and every time I said no I could sense she was disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for a book she really loved and a gift she spent time in choosing. Finally, after feeling a little guilty, I picked it up during a very snowy few days (my first blizzard). I’d been so sick of all the snow, and I was in the mood for something a little depressing. Also, now that I had experienced a real winter, I felt that I could truly understand the wintry, damp landscape on which the story is written. Just a few pages into the story, I realized how wrong I had been and was reminded of the old adage: never judge a book by its movie.
Beautifully written, the story is not just about lost love and time, but about a secluded town off the coast of Washington struggling with racism, war, and change. In America, it seems that our race problems are only black and white, and Guterson reminds us of an all-too-often forgotten moment in our history when we destroyed the lives of thousands of Japanese. But though this thread is important, the story is about people and how we often fail to cope with pain, and the ripple affect singular moments can have on us and the people around us.
The story’s main plot involves a Japanese man accused of murdering a white fisherman, and as the past unfolds and the present is examined, the central mystery unravels. But this is not the only reason the story is “gripping.” There are so many lives wrapped up in this moment--people who are forced to see the past for what it was, and try (though some fail) to learn and heal.
Because I’ve always grown up in the busy suburbs of California, I could never entirely understand the idea that there are/were places where everyone tries to know, watch, and judge your every move. But in this story, Guterson does not make this idea foreign or old fashioned nor does he write with nostalgia; it is merely a natural occurrence on a small island, born of a place and a time. And, that is just how he writes the story, as if every character is living and breathing, and their actions natural. The story is not overly emotional or heart-wrenching nor is the ending is perfectly wrapped up. The reader is satisfied, but it is not as if the characters’ lives end where the story ends. It feels like the characters have gone on living and growing.
Above all the story reminds us that no man is island. We need people, we are part of each other, but despite our need, what’s truly hard, is that we cannot and will never really know each other.
“The heart of any other, because it had a will, would remain forever mysterious.”
Beautifully written, the story is not just about lost love and time, but about a secluded town off the coast of Washington struggling with racism, war, and change. In America, it seems that our race problems are only black and white, and Guterson reminds us of an all-too-often forgotten moment in our history when we destroyed the lives of thousands of Japanese. But though this thread is important, the story is about people and how we often fail to cope with pain, and the ripple affect singular moments can have on us and the people around us.
The story’s main plot involves a Japanese man accused of murdering a white fisherman, and as the past unfolds and the present is examined, the central mystery unravels. But this is not the only reason the story is “gripping.” There are so many lives wrapped up in this moment--people who are forced to see the past for what it was, and try (though some fail) to learn and heal.
Because I’ve always grown up in the busy suburbs of California, I could never entirely understand the idea that there are/were places where everyone tries to know, watch, and judge your every move. But in this story, Guterson does not make this idea foreign or old fashioned nor does he write with nostalgia; it is merely a natural occurrence on a small island, born of a place and a time. And, that is just how he writes the story, as if every character is living and breathing, and their actions natural. The story is not overly emotional or heart-wrenching nor is the ending is perfectly wrapped up. The reader is satisfied, but it is not as if the characters’ lives end where the story ends. It feels like the characters have gone on living and growing.
Above all the story reminds us that no man is island. We need people, we are part of each other, but despite our need, what’s truly hard, is that we cannot and will never really know each other.
“The heart of any other, because it had a will, would remain forever mysterious.”
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Place to Call My Own
I'm always surprised by what my students find interesting, for even though there is only little over a a decade between the youngest of them and me, things that I find fascinating (classic films, graphic novels, Etsy, indie music, etc.) are met with a yawn, or, worse yet, an eye-roll. But this week has me particularly scratching my head.
When I was in high school, I distinctively remember feeling like I was a person lost in time. I didn't feel like a child of the millennium -- I didn't want to get jiggy with it, or have anything to do with whatever "it" was. If I had to articulate what I wanted -- I would have given some heartfelt but entirely convoluted explanation of how I felt like I belonged in a quiet small town, somewhere in rural California, hearkening back to a world where things were hand-made and small wonders were still a way of life. I have no idea what time period I was precisely longing for (I was, after all, a raging feminist / tomboy who wasn't afraid to announce that Rochester should have died in Jane Eyre so she could be free) but I just felt that the past was far more interesting than anything this generation was going to come up with.
And I wasn't alone. One of my friends in high school had a family ranch that had been passed down for generations, a place so authentically OLD that you'd have thought Anthropologie adapted their kitschy throw-back style from their white-washed walls and rusted, once-brightly painted, useful tools strewn about. She loved that place and was proud of her family's ties to rural California, and, by God, our whole group jealously fantasized about the sort of life that ranch represented -- especially after it had graced the pages of Martha Stewart Living as an homage to a better time, a better style.
So what I don't get is -- why don't my students feel that same sense of disconnectedness and longing for a different, quieter, gentler life?
This week as my students work on descriptive pieces, I assigned them to write about a house. (Now, keep in mind, I've had many of these students before and have heard their expressions of dissatisfaction about the way technology consumes their lives.) Out of all the thrilling, creative, and opportunity-laden options they had to write about, the most popular choice was an office.
Yes, you read that right -- an office.
While I'm praying that commenting on homogeneous furniture and cubicles is the hipster thing to do now, I was even more surprised by their least favorite choices -- a tie between a rural farmhouse and an English estate.
"But Ms. Melville, I don't know HOW to describe those places...I wanna switch" was the story I heard all class, no matter how many different ways I tried to make those places sound interesting. For the farmhouse, I can understand their confusion -- it's not something they would be familiar with in their suburban environment. Few, if any of them, have ever been on a working farm and if they have, I'm sure their main memory would be the smell of the manure or too-close encounters with animals, but not the homey details.
But that still leaves me with the estate conundrum. Besides my bucolic California fantasies, the other world I was utterly obsessed with was Europe. I went through several reading phases as a teen -- one year I read every single Agatha Christie mystery the library system had, another was spent lost in the world of Russian novels, but finally, the one that still lingers in my imagination is that of the English estate.
Frankly, if you take them at face value (trying to ignore the class, women, environmental, etc. concerns), there is something about these estate stories that appeals to every generation. I've read them all -- from the classy Austen to the incredibly dramatic (and citified) Foresyte novels by Galsworthy. My students at my school have been subjected to many of them as well. So why aren't they interested? Who wouldn't want to live in one of these worlds, where you can spend your days wandering through the gardens, playing the piano, writing reflective letters, and falling in love with dashing young Byronic heroes? And according to the new PBS show, Downton Abbey, that world also involves a lot of sexual situations, intrigue, and gossip -- which is pretty much any teens' three favorite topics. So that leaves me wondering -- is it just not cool anymore to admit you like what you read? Have they not noticed every delicious morsel of Colin Firth when he was Mr. Darcy? Have they lost their ability to transport themselves into the world of fantasies?
I don't have a simple answer to these questions, but I may start asking in class about their reading habits and encouraging a healthy dose of BBC miniseries as an antidote.
When I was in high school, I distinctively remember feeling like I was a person lost in time. I didn't feel like a child of the millennium -- I didn't want to get jiggy with it, or have anything to do with whatever "it" was. If I had to articulate what I wanted -- I would have given some heartfelt but entirely convoluted explanation of how I felt like I belonged in a quiet small town, somewhere in rural California, hearkening back to a world where things were hand-made and small wonders were still a way of life. I have no idea what time period I was precisely longing for (I was, after all, a raging feminist / tomboy who wasn't afraid to announce that Rochester should have died in Jane Eyre so she could be free) but I just felt that the past was far more interesting than anything this generation was going to come up with.
And I wasn't alone. One of my friends in high school had a family ranch that had been passed down for generations, a place so authentically OLD that you'd have thought Anthropologie adapted their kitschy throw-back style from their white-washed walls and rusted, once-brightly painted, useful tools strewn about. She loved that place and was proud of her family's ties to rural California, and, by God, our whole group jealously fantasized about the sort of life that ranch represented -- especially after it had graced the pages of Martha Stewart Living as an homage to a better time, a better style.
So what I don't get is -- why don't my students feel that same sense of disconnectedness and longing for a different, quieter, gentler life?
This week as my students work on descriptive pieces, I assigned them to write about a house. (Now, keep in mind, I've had many of these students before and have heard their expressions of dissatisfaction about the way technology consumes their lives.) Out of all the thrilling, creative, and opportunity-laden options they had to write about, the most popular choice was an office.
Yes, you read that right -- an office.
While I'm praying that commenting on homogeneous furniture and cubicles is the hipster thing to do now, I was even more surprised by their least favorite choices -- a tie between a rural farmhouse and an English estate.
"But Ms. Melville, I don't know HOW to describe those places...I wanna switch" was the story I heard all class, no matter how many different ways I tried to make those places sound interesting. For the farmhouse, I can understand their confusion -- it's not something they would be familiar with in their suburban environment. Few, if any of them, have ever been on a working farm and if they have, I'm sure their main memory would be the smell of the manure or too-close encounters with animals, but not the homey details.
But that still leaves me with the estate conundrum. Besides my bucolic California fantasies, the other world I was utterly obsessed with was Europe. I went through several reading phases as a teen -- one year I read every single Agatha Christie mystery the library system had, another was spent lost in the world of Russian novels, but finally, the one that still lingers in my imagination is that of the English estate.
Frankly, if you take them at face value (trying to ignore the class, women, environmental, etc. concerns), there is something about these estate stories that appeals to every generation. I've read them all -- from the classy Austen to the incredibly dramatic (and citified) Foresyte novels by Galsworthy. My students at my school have been subjected to many of them as well. So why aren't they interested? Who wouldn't want to live in one of these worlds, where you can spend your days wandering through the gardens, playing the piano, writing reflective letters, and falling in love with dashing young Byronic heroes? And according to the new PBS show, Downton Abbey, that world also involves a lot of sexual situations, intrigue, and gossip -- which is pretty much any teens' three favorite topics. So that leaves me wondering -- is it just not cool anymore to admit you like what you read? Have they not noticed every delicious morsel of Colin Firth when he was Mr. Darcy? Have they lost their ability to transport themselves into the world of fantasies?
I don't have a simple answer to these questions, but I may start asking in class about their reading habits and encouraging a healthy dose of BBC miniseries as an antidote.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
If you are looking for a new author, try Fforde and his fantastical worlds
There are few (modern) authors to whom I am truly devoted and will read anything they write. Geraldine Brooks is one [http://geraldinebrooks.com]; her newest book will be released in May and will probably be my next book club suggestion. She is a “historical fiction” novelist who weaves the most beautiful stories from overlooked moments and places in the past. Her book March tells the story of Mr. March--the father of the Little Women--and received the Pulitzer. My favorite, Year of Wonders, is about a small 16th century English town that quarantined itself after the citizens discovered the outbreak of the plague. Her stories are about the past and about people, and they explore how we deal with heartbreak and catastrophe.
My other favorite is Jasper Fforde [http://www.jasperfforde.com/]. Completely unique, his books are part fantasy, part comedy, part science fiction--basically, they are a clever and fun mix of all genres defying any sort of definition. I was first introduced to his brilliance in my masters program when we were assigned The Eyre Affair, the first in his Thursday Next series. Thursday is an agent of SpecOps 27--a whole group devoted to all things fiction, its fraud, its misuse, etc. These stories take place in a parallel world where people actually care about books, Swindon is a cool pace to live, and, if you have the ability, you can live in books and hang out with the greatest characters of fiction like Miss Havisham and Hamlet. Besides his amazing creativity and imagination, what makes his books so enjoyable is that he writes for readers. He writes for and to those who are completely devoted to their identities as readers-to those who as nerdy and clever as he is. His books are fantastic lessons in word play and allusions.
His latest series, Shades of Grey, tells about a world wherein each person can only see one color. And, this color determines everything about his/her life: whom they marry, what job they will do, and even what social class they are part of. Though you must be prepared to suspend disbelief, the story is a fascinating reinvention of the dystopian genre. It never takes itself too seriously and remains as comic and creative as his other novels. But, despite the lightness of the story, Fforde still subtly explores the seeming inevitability of hierarchy and of people’s lust for power. The book calls us to question our own capacity to make change. Can one person really change anything? What are those sacrifices? Would you have the strength to overcome your own apathy?
In his newest novel--I had to order it from a used bookstore in the UK, Abebooks.com-- Dragonslayer, Fforde ventures into young adult fiction. Although all of his books are playful, and he writes for the youthful spirit in the adult, this book is for kids. But, you know how I feel about young adult fiction, so for me this was the best of both worlds. He didn’t “talk down” to his reader nor did he get caught up in the overly dramatic trend that seems to be invading the young adult genre. With his usual playful imagination, he creates a world where society is no longer amazed by magicians, and witches and wizards must resort to plumbing work in order to stay relevant. Hilarious and unique, the book narrates the coming of age of a young orphan girl, unsure of her role in the not so distant “big magic” that will change her world. The book is fast-paced, sometimes too fast, and at times seems to skip through some character development. The ending was a bit rushed--I’m not a fan of the end-of-book wrap-ups. But, overall, it was a fun, short entertaining read--a pleasant way to spend a snowy afternoon.
My other favorite is Jasper Fforde [http://www.jasperfforde.com/]. Completely unique, his books are part fantasy, part comedy, part science fiction--basically, they are a clever and fun mix of all genres defying any sort of definition. I was first introduced to his brilliance in my masters program when we were assigned The Eyre Affair, the first in his Thursday Next series. Thursday is an agent of SpecOps 27--a whole group devoted to all things fiction, its fraud, its misuse, etc. These stories take place in a parallel world where people actually care about books, Swindon is a cool pace to live, and, if you have the ability, you can live in books and hang out with the greatest characters of fiction like Miss Havisham and Hamlet. Besides his amazing creativity and imagination, what makes his books so enjoyable is that he writes for readers. He writes for and to those who are completely devoted to their identities as readers-to those who as nerdy and clever as he is. His books are fantastic lessons in word play and allusions.
His latest series, Shades of Grey, tells about a world wherein each person can only see one color. And, this color determines everything about his/her life: whom they marry, what job they will do, and even what social class they are part of. Though you must be prepared to suspend disbelief, the story is a fascinating reinvention of the dystopian genre. It never takes itself too seriously and remains as comic and creative as his other novels. But, despite the lightness of the story, Fforde still subtly explores the seeming inevitability of hierarchy and of people’s lust for power. The book calls us to question our own capacity to make change. Can one person really change anything? What are those sacrifices? Would you have the strength to overcome your own apathy?
In his newest novel--I had to order it from a used bookstore in the UK, Abebooks.com-- Dragonslayer, Fforde ventures into young adult fiction. Although all of his books are playful, and he writes for the youthful spirit in the adult, this book is for kids. But, you know how I feel about young adult fiction, so for me this was the best of both worlds. He didn’t “talk down” to his reader nor did he get caught up in the overly dramatic trend that seems to be invading the young adult genre. With his usual playful imagination, he creates a world where society is no longer amazed by magicians, and witches and wizards must resort to plumbing work in order to stay relevant. Hilarious and unique, the book narrates the coming of age of a young orphan girl, unsure of her role in the not so distant “big magic” that will change her world. The book is fast-paced, sometimes too fast, and at times seems to skip through some character development. The ending was a bit rushed--I’m not a fan of the end-of-book wrap-ups. But, overall, it was a fun, short entertaining read--a pleasant way to spend a snowy afternoon.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Ode to Mary
After viewing my life from another perspective—a view created by Daisy Hay’s Young Romantics—I have come to realize that I, Percy Bysshe Shelley, have left many things unsaid to my brilliant wife, Mary. Because my life ended so drastically and much too soon, I fear that Mary and I parted ways with many unresolved issues. In short, the deep connection with my wife that was essential to my well-being was momentarily bent when I left her. I want to take this opportunity to express what I should have expressed during my time on earth:
Dear Mary,
There is no doubt that my love for you is immersed in the depths of my soul; anyone who knows us would say the same. You are my one true love, my other half, more than my equal. Whether inspiring, supporting, or promoting my work, I am forever indebted to your intellect, imagination, and genuine devotion. I am certain that without you, my work would not have been so admired. I know I have reciprocated such affection and care to your spirit and work, but during the times when you needed me most, I was more concerned with my own self—my work, my friendships, other female attention, etc. For this, I am truly sorry; no amount of immaturity or false idealism can account for such selfish behavior, particularly when you, my wife and soul, were experiencing such despair at the loss of our three young children, one right after the other. Instead of patiently comforting you during your understandable melancholy, I sometimes believed you were wearing me away, and were being selfish yourself. Perhaps I was ill equipped to help you, but I still could have made you my main priority, as you did me. Upon reflection, you, as a mere teenager, handled yourself quite well, considering the awful pain you must have had to bear as a mother. It severely pains me that directly after my unfortunate death, you worried that you should have been a better wife or a more loyal champion of my work, as others have since suggested. I know now that you were grieving in your own way, and such behavior is only natural. Regardless, as your loving counterpart, please understand that you and all who you are, including your supposed coldness and melancholic ways, make me whole as an individual. We are the ultimate team, so when one claims Shelley, they claim Percy and Mary, not one or the other.
I am, forever yours,
Shelley
Dear Mary,
There is no doubt that my love for you is immersed in the depths of my soul; anyone who knows us would say the same. You are my one true love, my other half, more than my equal. Whether inspiring, supporting, or promoting my work, I am forever indebted to your intellect, imagination, and genuine devotion. I am certain that without you, my work would not have been so admired. I know I have reciprocated such affection and care to your spirit and work, but during the times when you needed me most, I was more concerned with my own self—my work, my friendships, other female attention, etc. For this, I am truly sorry; no amount of immaturity or false idealism can account for such selfish behavior, particularly when you, my wife and soul, were experiencing such despair at the loss of our three young children, one right after the other. Instead of patiently comforting you during your understandable melancholy, I sometimes believed you were wearing me away, and were being selfish yourself. Perhaps I was ill equipped to help you, but I still could have made you my main priority, as you did me. Upon reflection, you, as a mere teenager, handled yourself quite well, considering the awful pain you must have had to bear as a mother. It severely pains me that directly after my unfortunate death, you worried that you should have been a better wife or a more loyal champion of my work, as others have since suggested. I know now that you were grieving in your own way, and such behavior is only natural. Regardless, as your loving counterpart, please understand that you and all who you are, including your supposed coldness and melancholic ways, make me whole as an individual. We are the ultimate team, so when one claims Shelley, they claim Percy and Mary, not one or the other.
I am, forever yours,
Shelley
Monday, January 17, 2011
News getting you down? Let these stories lift you back up!
I, Herman Melville, am addicted to the news. I read The New York Times, my local paper, and often check other news websites each day for the latest tidbits. I post articles that truly intrigue me on Facebook and that’s nearly a daily occurrence. I read Time Magazine every week and find myself watching the evening news, even when their top story consists of viewer submitted photos of the latest snow storm. Although I can’t say I’ve read every front page article in the last year by any means, I am deeply attracted to what makes a story – what others find interesting or trendy or newsworthy. Many of these human-interest stories often wind up in some form in my own writing – sometimes in obvious ways or even just in the mind-set I’ve adopted after reading a feature article.
But I’ve found that lately, I’m burnt out on the news. I don’t want to know who wore what to the Golden Globes or what new technology will change my life forever or the 50 places I need to go in 2011. I especially don’t want to read the front page articles highlighting all the sorrow that’s happening in our world today. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s hugely important to stay informed, but I’ve reached information overload. I don’t want to hear another stat or fact or expert telling us that the world is falling apart. It’s not that I care any less; it’s that I care too much. Sometimes I just need to read something good and without a thick layer of sarcasm or bias to break through.
I’ve found my antidote, however, in my recent pleasure reading. (Note to self: Never read about environmental catastrophe again before going to bed!) Two series in the last few months have been a soothing escape from the questions too large for us to answer in compartmentalized reporting. When you need that time-out, here are the series for you:
-- The Penderwicks Series by Jeanne Birdsall. While there are only two books in the series thus far, they are delightful. The plot follows the adventures of four sisters, their friends, and their mischievous pets. As a sort of update of Little Women, these four sisters slowly grow up under the not-so-careful watch of their absent-minded Professor/Father. I was already charmed on page 1. While you can see every plot development coming a mile away and the girls each embody their own “classic” female stereotype (the wanna-be writer, the dramatic/angsty one, the clever but young one, and the macho girl who finds her feminine side), I didn’t mind. Instead, I was rooting on the happy ending and for the girls to continue to live in their world of rambunctious, innocent fun.
-- The Sisters Grimm by Michael Buckley. I’ve recommended these books to just about everyone I’ve met over the last few weeks. I got started on the series during my students’ finals and have already gotten through Book 7 (of 9 planned I believe). The plot -- a fantasy world where fairy tale characters (and Shakespeare’s Puck) are real, immortal, and bent on committing petty crimes in the small town of Ferryport, New Jersey while being investigated by various members of the Grimm family -- is even loonier than it sounds. Fast-paced, clever, and not afraid to tackle the real feelings of teens, I’ve literally laughed out loud at their capers. It doesn’t hurt that Buckley takes none of those fairy tale plots too seriously and can mix them with aplomb for intriguing results.
Now, I’m not suggesting that these books will change your life forever, but they will certainly still please you for a few days after your reading. In fact, the plots in their series can seem interchangeable and I had to confirm on Wikipedia to make sure I’m not checking out the same book again from the library. Can I read these books forever? Hardly. But they are helpful when you need some perspective to realize that the sky isn’t quite going to fall today so you might as well enjoy a few quiet moments before entering back into the fray.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Joys and Foolishness of Indulgence, and the Prosperity of Restraint in Shelley and Jane's Life
As my two fellow bloggers have emphasized in their recent posts, I (obviously) find literature to be absolutely rewarding, mostly because it’s such an amazing, engaging way for me to learn. After finally completing Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, I’ve once again made many discoveries about culture, history, psychology, etc. One of the biggest discoveries I made directly has to do with my own life experience and truths; such a connection between story and reader is what makes many forms of literature appealing/successful, and, on many levels, I found this to be the case in this novel. For the sake of everyone’s time and interest, I’ll just focus on one aspect of Jane Eyre that helped me learn more about life, and particularly, more about my own life.
When in college and in my early twenties, I had a lot of freedom to experience life in a sort of indulgent, carefree way without the harsh judgment attached to such behavior. In other words, since I was still a teenager or in my early twenties, on some occasions, I was pretty much allowed to “find myself” without much consequence, or basically, to act like an idiot if no one got hurt in the process; it is natural to behave in such a way at such a time, and so, my actions weren’t taken too seriously, and were generally accepted. Since I was always a good student, responsible, and mostly sensible, my young age afforded moments of senselessness, which can also be considered moments of fun. I won’t go into detail, but most of these moments were pretty harmless, even though the very thought of them sometimes makes me cringe. As embarrassing, stupid, and crazy as some of these experiences were, I don’t regret them at all, mostly because they were fun, and a part of the process of maturation. If anything, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had acted MORE indulgent like some of my friends and peers did. Would I have experienced life in a deeper way? Would my life have changed in some positive, intriguing way? See, however carefree I was during this time in my life, upon reflection, I was never so carefree and indulgent to permanently plague my life (though there were some close calls; I’m not trying to be heroic or condescending here), which was definitely a conscious decision; I always had the big picture of my life in mind, and didn’t want one moment to have lasting negative effects.
Whenever I think I might have missed out on something because of my sensibility, I always remind myself of the horrible and humiliating consequences that might have resulted from extreme acts of impulsivity. In Bronte’s work, there are several times when Jane acts as such a reminder for me—she makes certain decisions that reassure the ones I’ve made in my own life. Such choices are determined by her propensity to consider the value and respect of her future; instead of being indulgent, which would be a much easier path to take, Jane restrains herself in a mature way that is extremely difficult to do during the moment of her decision-making. Two of these instances directly involve her relationship with men, and more specifically, her choice of whether or not to accept their marriage proposals, and become a wife.
Because of the novel’s first-person narration, it’s clear that Jane’s initial inclination is to attach herself to both Rochester and then St. John, regardless of the dangers that come with such acceptances—dangers that Jane is fully aware of [a life of insubordination (financial and otherwise), lovelessness (in the case of St. John), etc.]. She considers staying with Rochester (the first go-around) and being his mistress even though he has lied to her and is still married because of their strong connection—because they are soul mates. With St. John, Jane considers a loveless marriage and rough life as a missionary’s wife in India because she deeply respects St. John’s abilities, and views him with much awe. Instead of bowing to such desires, Jane is able to control her initial impulses because she contemplates the repercussions of such actions, and keeps in mind the big picture of her life. After St. John nearly persuades her to be his wife for Christ’s work, Jane reveals how her future is always at the forefront of her thoughts. She knows that a previous disagreement with St. John will eventually come back to haunt her, even if he is presently showing her much gentleness and kindness “Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated” (357). However difficult in the moment, and despite the frustration and disappointment her refusals create in these two men, Jane’s restraint eventually pays off in the end (I won’t spoil it for readers who have not read the novel).
So, after reading this work of literature (which I mostly enjoyed and did not find depressing at all, counter to its dominant reputation) and considering this particular subject, I am more reassured about aspects of my own life. Don’t get me wrong: thankfully, my life contains many moments of indulgence and fun, but like Jane, I am careful about the degree of such indulgence, and make sure they don’t negatively scar my future. Some may think such a life is ultimately dull, but I don’t think so; I think if people generally considered the impact of extreme bouts of impulsive pleasure, and instead showed more restraint by considering the big picture, they could avoid much strife and harm in their lives.
When in college and in my early twenties, I had a lot of freedom to experience life in a sort of indulgent, carefree way without the harsh judgment attached to such behavior. In other words, since I was still a teenager or in my early twenties, on some occasions, I was pretty much allowed to “find myself” without much consequence, or basically, to act like an idiot if no one got hurt in the process; it is natural to behave in such a way at such a time, and so, my actions weren’t taken too seriously, and were generally accepted. Since I was always a good student, responsible, and mostly sensible, my young age afforded moments of senselessness, which can also be considered moments of fun. I won’t go into detail, but most of these moments were pretty harmless, even though the very thought of them sometimes makes me cringe. As embarrassing, stupid, and crazy as some of these experiences were, I don’t regret them at all, mostly because they were fun, and a part of the process of maturation. If anything, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had acted MORE indulgent like some of my friends and peers did. Would I have experienced life in a deeper way? Would my life have changed in some positive, intriguing way? See, however carefree I was during this time in my life, upon reflection, I was never so carefree and indulgent to permanently plague my life (though there were some close calls; I’m not trying to be heroic or condescending here), which was definitely a conscious decision; I always had the big picture of my life in mind, and didn’t want one moment to have lasting negative effects.
Whenever I think I might have missed out on something because of my sensibility, I always remind myself of the horrible and humiliating consequences that might have resulted from extreme acts of impulsivity. In Bronte’s work, there are several times when Jane acts as such a reminder for me—she makes certain decisions that reassure the ones I’ve made in my own life. Such choices are determined by her propensity to consider the value and respect of her future; instead of being indulgent, which would be a much easier path to take, Jane restrains herself in a mature way that is extremely difficult to do during the moment of her decision-making. Two of these instances directly involve her relationship with men, and more specifically, her choice of whether or not to accept their marriage proposals, and become a wife.
Because of the novel’s first-person narration, it’s clear that Jane’s initial inclination is to attach herself to both Rochester and then St. John, regardless of the dangers that come with such acceptances—dangers that Jane is fully aware of [a life of insubordination (financial and otherwise), lovelessness (in the case of St. John), etc.]. She considers staying with Rochester (the first go-around) and being his mistress even though he has lied to her and is still married because of their strong connection—because they are soul mates. With St. John, Jane considers a loveless marriage and rough life as a missionary’s wife in India because she deeply respects St. John’s abilities, and views him with much awe. Instead of bowing to such desires, Jane is able to control her initial impulses because she contemplates the repercussions of such actions, and keeps in mind the big picture of her life. After St. John nearly persuades her to be his wife for Christ’s work, Jane reveals how her future is always at the forefront of her thoughts. She knows that a previous disagreement with St. John will eventually come back to haunt her, even if he is presently showing her much gentleness and kindness “Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated” (357). However difficult in the moment, and despite the frustration and disappointment her refusals create in these two men, Jane’s restraint eventually pays off in the end (I won’t spoil it for readers who have not read the novel).
So, after reading this work of literature (which I mostly enjoyed and did not find depressing at all, counter to its dominant reputation) and considering this particular subject, I am more reassured about aspects of my own life. Don’t get me wrong: thankfully, my life contains many moments of indulgence and fun, but like Jane, I am careful about the degree of such indulgence, and make sure they don’t negatively scar my future. Some may think such a life is ultimately dull, but I don’t think so; I think if people generally considered the impact of extreme bouts of impulsive pleasure, and instead showed more restraint by considering the big picture, they could avoid much strife and harm in their lives.
Friday, January 7, 2011
What a blessing it is to love books as I love them, to be able to converse with the dead, and to live amidst the unreal
When I got married, I, like most brides, had a bridal shower (mostly because my mom threw it for me). However, I think it’s weird and a little self-indulgent (aren’t all weddings these days?) to invite everyone to throw you a party and bring you presents to celebrate another party you will have where they will have to bring you another present. So--here is where I reveal my great nerdiness at which my mom still continues to laugh when she tells the story--I told my friends instead to bring a book that meant something to them with a little note explaining why they wanted to give me this book. In this exchange, I learned more about each of my friends as well as what she thought about our friendship and me. One friend, who thought I needed to take a break from my “school” reading, bought me a mystery novel (much appreciated on the honeymoon); one of my non-English major but still literary friends gave me Snow Falling on Cedars (the best part was her thoughtful note explaining why she chose the book); Shelley bought me a beautiful edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, which I couldn’t stop myself from marking up while reading it (only evidence it is well-loved); and Melville (here is the point of this anecdote) gave me two collections of Anne Fadiman’s amazing essays.
[Needless to say, I've lost touch with the person who bought me Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus].
This morning, while grasping for a topic to write about--I didn’t think anyone wanted to read about my application adventure that seized my time for the last two months--I picked up my well-thumbed copy of Ex Libris, Anne Fadiman’s “Confessions of a Common Reader.” Whenever I read the collection, I intend to read and perfectly digest one essay at a time--each essay deserving of its own written reflection. However, drawn in by her easy storytelling and the feeling that we are kindred spirits, I inevitably read the whole collection in a sitting.
If you love books or love books about books, then you too will probably be captivated by her personal essays. A self-proclaimed bibliophile, she more than loves books--they are indeed part of her very being. And, in this culture that seems to be proud of its illiteracy and its impatience for reading, as Melville described in her previous post, or that seems to ignore its failing bookstores and libraries, Fadiman’s voice and passion instill hope that there will always be us crazy nerds, instinctively correcting other people’s bad grammar and preferring to buy books instead of food.
Every essay is about reading or books in some capacity, but each essay is also always about something else--because books are always more than books. When you read, the story becomes part of you, it has revealed something to you, it has uncovered that little bit more about the world, it has built another connection. Her essays demonstrate how a book or a poem or a story can become so much more than something written on the page. For instance, In “Scorn not the Sonnet” she begins by discussing why she tends to favor the sonnet, telling about her own failed attempt at poetry and also relating why she cherishes the form: “You could fit the whole world in there if you shoved hard enough.” At the end of the essay, however, she narrates her father’s descent into blindness. He--as another bibliophile and writer--could not see a life without reading. Blindness was his death. Then, she reminds her father that Milton wrote Paradise Lost blind. Together they read Milton’s sonnet “On His Blindness” (posted in my previous post), and his hope is restored just enough to help him continue: “Milton’s sonnet provided the first glimmer of the persistent intellectual curiosity that was to prove his saving grace.” The essay is not one of my favorites because she discusses Milton but because it shows how powerful words are--they can have an impact on our imagination and our selves if we just give ourselves the time and space to let them.
[My other favorites include an essay comparing reading to eating and another playful essay on plagiarism and the many great kleptomaniac writers (like Shakespeare).]
[The quote in the title of this blog is not Fadiman’s but Macaulay’s]
[Needless to say, I've lost touch with the person who bought me Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus].
This morning, while grasping for a topic to write about--I didn’t think anyone wanted to read about my application adventure that seized my time for the last two months--I picked up my well-thumbed copy of Ex Libris, Anne Fadiman’s “Confessions of a Common Reader.” Whenever I read the collection, I intend to read and perfectly digest one essay at a time--each essay deserving of its own written reflection. However, drawn in by her easy storytelling and the feeling that we are kindred spirits, I inevitably read the whole collection in a sitting.
If you love books or love books about books, then you too will probably be captivated by her personal essays. A self-proclaimed bibliophile, she more than loves books--they are indeed part of her very being. And, in this culture that seems to be proud of its illiteracy and its impatience for reading, as Melville described in her previous post, or that seems to ignore its failing bookstores and libraries, Fadiman’s voice and passion instill hope that there will always be us crazy nerds, instinctively correcting other people’s bad grammar and preferring to buy books instead of food.
Every essay is about reading or books in some capacity, but each essay is also always about something else--because books are always more than books. When you read, the story becomes part of you, it has revealed something to you, it has uncovered that little bit more about the world, it has built another connection. Her essays demonstrate how a book or a poem or a story can become so much more than something written on the page. For instance, In “Scorn not the Sonnet” she begins by discussing why she tends to favor the sonnet, telling about her own failed attempt at poetry and also relating why she cherishes the form: “You could fit the whole world in there if you shoved hard enough.” At the end of the essay, however, she narrates her father’s descent into blindness. He--as another bibliophile and writer--could not see a life without reading. Blindness was his death. Then, she reminds her father that Milton wrote Paradise Lost blind. Together they read Milton’s sonnet “On His Blindness” (posted in my previous post), and his hope is restored just enough to help him continue: “Milton’s sonnet provided the first glimmer of the persistent intellectual curiosity that was to prove his saving grace.” The essay is not one of my favorites because she discusses Milton but because it shows how powerful words are--they can have an impact on our imagination and our selves if we just give ourselves the time and space to let them.
[My other favorites include an essay comparing reading to eating and another playful essay on plagiarism and the many great kleptomaniac writers (like Shakespeare).]
[The quote in the title of this blog is not Fadiman’s but Macaulay’s]
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
New Year -- New Post
[Reading in our world is] an act of resistance in a landscape of distraction, a matter of engagement in a society that seems to want nothing more than for us to disengage. It connects us at the deepest levels; it is slow, rather than fast. That is its beauty and its challenge: in a culture of instant information, it requires us to pace ourselves. What does it mean, this notion of slow reading? Most fundamentally, it returns us to a reckoning with time. In the midst of a book, we have no choice but to be patient, to take each thing in its moment, to let the narrative prevail. Even more, we are reminded of all we need to savor – this instant, this scene, this line. We regain the world by withdrawing from it just a little, by stepping back from the noise, the tumult, to discover our reflections in another mind. As we do, we join a broader conversation, by which we both transcend ourselves and are enlarged.
-- David Ulin
I haven’t read David Ulin’s new book yet, but this excerpt on one of my favorite blogs caught my eye.
As I write these words, I am deep in the heart of the Santa Cruz Mountains on a two day faculty retreat. It’s the perfect time to reflect on the meaning of reading/teaching and how it has become a form of resistance against the constant social desire to keep up by throwing out the old “iThis” in favor of the new “iThat.”
It also seems that just as Ulin is thinking about a need to slow down and rebel against the prevailing culture, this movement has been going on for quite some time. This morning a woman spoke who spent the last forty years in missionary work around the world. She was not afraid of the conditions she lived in but was truly frightened (her word) by the extreme culture shock she encountered when returning back home to the U.S. She argued that we move so quickly now that something as simple as a daily greeting has become a mere formality and not the most basic form of human connection. So I ask, do we really want to know how anyone is doing, much less take the time to learn about the lives of imaginary people? While this woman’s reaction may seem like an exaggeration, no matter where one lives, “progress” and all the extra stuff that comes with that slippery concept invariably creeps in. How much time do we save in new methods of productivity? Where does our time go?
I think that’s why the concept of this blog and the responses we’ve gotten are such a comfort and support to we three bookers. I am not a seasoned teaching veteran, by any means, but even I see a marked difference between my reading habits as a teenager and that of my students. These students may never have the attention span for a Trollope novel, much less Dickens at his most verbose. What’s the point? Why should I care about it when you can’t even explain it in less than a paragraph? Can’t you summarize it for me? I hear those complaints all the time. Now, I could go on all day about their need to focus or the broken state of the educational system, but I wouldn’t be adding anything new to the white noise of ideas that fall in and out of fashion like waves. Instead of discussing more ways to test their deficiencies, I think my most effective “weapon” against a lack of motivation is my own passion for the subject, exhibited each and every day in the classroom. Ultimately, my students know that my deepest frustration is not out born out of anger at my seemingly futile task but because I want so desperately for them to see the beauty or the concept despite their own blinders.
Therefore, my goal this semester (and beyond) is much simpler: I will teach every student that I love to read because I want to learn about the world. My soul is refreshed when I realize that I am not the center of the universe. I can learn from the characters populating my favorite novels that I can be nobler, more caring, and more thoughtful if only I take the time to consider their positive (or negative) examples. I am hopeful about humans when I realize that we can connect across time, across cultures, and across political lines by celebrating the same breath-taking, life-changing, wondrous piece of art. The joy of reading for me is not necessarily about the overall story line anymore, but it is about the discoveries along the way.
As Thoreau once said in Walden, “We should come home from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day with new experience and character.” While Thoreau was waxing poetic about these large grandiose changes we can make to our lives, I’ve taken his lesson to a much smaller place in mine. A beautiful sentence can make me pause for days. A great final paragraph can change my life forever. Opening oneself up to the thought that a book or a writer can transform you brings so many different possibilities to one’s own life. After all, as William Carlos Williams so quietly pointed out in his poetry, “so much depends / upon / a red wheel / barrow / glazed with rain / water / beside the white / chickens.” Simple adventures in reading equal simple adventures in living.
So, why go in greater depth than what Ulin so beautifully expressed?
New years are a time of great reflection. It is the only time of the year when every person, no matter if they read or not, takes a quiet moment to think about their goals for the next year or next phase of life.
For me, I am going to continue to look at those little stitches in time and instead of despairing about the big picture, focus on those quiet flashes of joy. Besides trying to feed my reading habit as much as humanly possible, I’m going to start using some of my favorite quotes as springboards for my yoga meditations this year.
For all of us at Thrice Booked, we’ve been so grateful for the chance to share our own experiences and thoughts with a larger audience. We’ve been forced to sit down and really think about what we are reading and why it has mattered to us. And while we may not have been the most faithful bloggers during our most frenzied teaching times, you have our firm reassurance that we aren’t going anywhere. We’re still reading and we’re still contemplating what is important to us, one book at a time.
So, you fellow rebels out there, won’t you join us for another great year here at Thrice Booked?
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