"The bees didn't do nothing to me, it's true. Actually I think they're pretty neat--buzzing around, stopping on a dime in midair in front of me, scanning my insides, wondering what I am."
I think sentences like this one ground this essay in childhood. There's a lot of heavy stuff going on here--bee cadavers for money, welcomed strangers dropping children, parents reacting violently--and this brings us back into that child mindset after reading all of that. It's that idea that we know it's maybe not so good to kill things--even bugs--but that it's grampa-sanctioned and at least fairly lucrative, so we do it anyway. There are sort of a lot ideas going on here--we've got the commentary on grandpa, on dad, on the stranger, on mom, on killing bees, on making money, on feeling out of place in class...it's a lot. I actually wonder how much the perfume section is needed, or how it really adds to the others. I understand how it ties in, but I think taking it out would add more emphasis on the bigger issues at work in the text.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
William Beeson's Childhood Essay
"I find myself slashing vehemently and tumbling over the side of the pool out of the water."
I love this line because it is a perfect description of how children deal with fear. The essay lingers over the idea of something at the bottom of the pool--which is, I think, something that every kid with access to a pool obsesses over. Children dwell on these thoughts. They try to explain to themselves how something so scary could come about. They actually talk themselves into fearing the thing. Here is the final manifestation of childhood fear--the breathless and frantic escape from the thing that we've created. It's true to life.
I love this line because it is a perfect description of how children deal with fear. The essay lingers over the idea of something at the bottom of the pool--which is, I think, something that every kid with access to a pool obsesses over. Children dwell on these thoughts. They try to explain to themselves how something so scary could come about. They actually talk themselves into fearing the thing. Here is the final manifestation of childhood fear--the breathless and frantic escape from the thing that we've created. It's true to life.
Tara Lee Abernathy's childhood essay
"It looks like the sun has exploded. Nothing but white everywhere."
This is a beautiful description of snow. I like how Tara went with the brightness of snow (which, I'm sure was her first impression) rather than the whole "fluffy" image. I really like this language, but I think the image is not quite right. The image that popped into my mind when I read this line was golden sunlight, but seeing as it's nighttime, I think the imagery should be blue-er if I can say that. What about saying, "It looks like the moon has exploded"? That would be just as powerful, and it would also give it a dreamier feel.
This is a beautiful description of snow. I like how Tara went with the brightness of snow (which, I'm sure was her first impression) rather than the whole "fluffy" image. I really like this language, but I think the image is not quite right. The image that popped into my mind when I read this line was golden sunlight, but seeing as it's nighttime, I think the imagery should be blue-er if I can say that. What about saying, "It looks like the moon has exploded"? That would be just as powerful, and it would also give it a dreamier feel.
"Games of Cuts and Bruises," chapter 5 in Hemchand Gossai's, River Crossings
"I, of course, was wrong as I assumed that the brief interlude in which I saw him and where typically he was involved in teaching, was what gave final shape to his life" (74).
I love this portrayal of how a student views the life of his teacher. It's something that I remember from my own youth--when I saw a teacher of mine out in "the real world" I was always shocked to see a husband with them or children, or the fact that teachers need groceries too. It's really a very strange idea, but I think it's universal, this idea that for children--people exist only in the form the children can see. My mother, a teacher at an elementary school, fears ordering an alcoholic drink when she's in public, just in case one of her students comes into the restaurant. I think this is a great example of the kinds of things that most people forget about when they grow older (when they finally understand that teaching is a JOB, not a personality), but that Dr. Gossai has included in his writing.
I love this portrayal of how a student views the life of his teacher. It's something that I remember from my own youth--when I saw a teacher of mine out in "the real world" I was always shocked to see a husband with them or children, or the fact that teachers need groceries too. It's really a very strange idea, but I think it's universal, this idea that for children--people exist only in the form the children can see. My mother, a teacher at an elementary school, fears ordering an alcoholic drink when she's in public, just in case one of her students comes into the restaurant. I think this is a great example of the kinds of things that most people forget about when they grow older (when they finally understand that teaching is a JOB, not a personality), but that Dr. Gossai has included in his writing.
Vladimir Nabokov, chapter 3 from Speak, Memory
It was really difficult for me to decide on a quotation in chapter 3 of Speak, Memory. I think that's because the English major in me likes for these quotations to link back to the entire theme of the chapter--which is going to be difficult in this situation. So, here goes:
"Aunt Pasha's last words were: 'That's interesting. Now I understand. Everything is water, vsyo-voda" (68).
The reason this particular passage stands out to me is, first of all, that the thought is intriguing. Why would a dying woman say, "Now I understand. Everything is water"? It's just curious (yes, I just used the word curious like a British person would-Americans really just use it as a description of a person's mental state). It's odd. It makes us stop and think about it. Which leads me into my second point: Nabokov basically floods us with names and family history in this chapter. But what I do like is that while he does this he gives us interesting little stories about each one to keep our attention. Some might argue that there aren't enough stories to compensate for the tiresome length of the list of names, but I think it's at least a redeeming quality in this rather heavy chapter.
"Aunt Pasha's last words were: 'That's interesting. Now I understand. Everything is water, vsyo-voda" (68).
The reason this particular passage stands out to me is, first of all, that the thought is intriguing. Why would a dying woman say, "Now I understand. Everything is water"? It's just curious (yes, I just used the word curious like a British person would-Americans really just use it as a description of a person's mental state). It's odd. It makes us stop and think about it. Which leads me into my second point: Nabokov basically floods us with names and family history in this chapter. But what I do like is that while he does this he gives us interesting little stories about each one to keep our attention. Some might argue that there aren't enough stories to compensate for the tiresome length of the list of names, but I think it's at least a redeeming quality in this rather heavy chapter.
Vladimir Nabokov, chapter 2 Speak, Memory
"For a moment, before they [the mushrooms she'd collected] were bundled away by a servant to a place she knew nothing about, to a doom that did not interest her, she would stand there admiring them, in a glow of quiet contentment" (44).
I selected this passage because it is a beautiful portrayal of human life. Rather than describing what his mother's dress looked like or the way she wore her hair, Nabokov shows us how she spent damp afternoons. This is just so much more careful--it's so much more personal. We see who she is and we fall in love with her through the eyes of her own child. She is beautiful, poetic, whimsical.
I selected this passage because it is a beautiful portrayal of human life. Rather than describing what his mother's dress looked like or the way she wore her hair, Nabokov shows us how she spent damp afternoons. This is just so much more careful--it's so much more personal. We see who she is and we fall in love with her through the eyes of her own child. She is beautiful, poetic, whimsical.
Vladimir Nabokov, chapter 1 from Speak, Memory
There is such beautiful writing in this memoir! Here's a good quote:
"Nothing is sweeter or stranger than to ponder those first thrills. They belong to the harmonious world of a perfect childhood and, as such, possess a naturally plastic form in one's memory, which can be set down with hardly any effort" (24-25)
It is odd--how we remember certain things about our childhood. What is truly bizarre for me is the sorts of details one can remember. For example, from a family vacation I remember the smell of burning leaves and the red leash and harness on my stuffed animal. I remember that my parents brought with them a hotplate--how it was so strange to see a stove in a singualr format. But for me at least, it's not as easy as Nabokov lets us believe. For me it's not plastic. I cannot remember how we spent our days or the types of clothing that any of my family members wore. I have no idea how old I was. For me, though a few joyous details are there, writing down these memories is nothing like Nabokov says. The memory I chose to write about in my childhood essay is from when I was nearly nine--not nearly as impressive as Naokov's recollections from when he was four!
"Nothing is sweeter or stranger than to ponder those first thrills. They belong to the harmonious world of a perfect childhood and, as such, possess a naturally plastic form in one's memory, which can be set down with hardly any effort" (24-25)
It is odd--how we remember certain things about our childhood. What is truly bizarre for me is the sorts of details one can remember. For example, from a family vacation I remember the smell of burning leaves and the red leash and harness on my stuffed animal. I remember that my parents brought with them a hotplate--how it was so strange to see a stove in a singualr format. But for me at least, it's not as easy as Nabokov lets us believe. For me it's not plastic. I cannot remember how we spent our days or the types of clothing that any of my family members wore. I have no idea how old I was. For me, though a few joyous details are there, writing down these memories is nothing like Nabokov says. The memory I chose to write about in my childhood essay is from when I was nearly nine--not nearly as impressive as Naokov's recollections from when he was four!
Michael Pearson, "Researching Your Own Life" (pg45)
"What I didn't realize until I was far into the story was that...my memory was stimulated by my research into my own past, that the story of the past came alive for me as I engaged in the adventure of going back, of once again searching for what had seemingly been lost" (Pearson 47).
I've heard a lot of stuff just like this from my creative writing courses--that once you start the process of delving into your own memory, things come to you out of the blue. It's weird, actually, I've noticed a similar thing this semester. When I began working on my autobiography, an image of my brother and me running around and catching fireflies in the expansive back yard of our great aunt and uncle's house just sort of popped into my head. I remember it clearly, but it had just slipped away from me up until that point. So, because I had a newly found memory to work with, the work in my childhood essay was exciting--fresh. It felt like experiencing the magic all over again. Similarly, through talking to my mother, I was able to make connections between this vacation to West Virginia and Ohio to a really well-defined memory I still have--that of Hurricane Andrew. I just love how all of these things seem to play together in the mind.
I've heard a lot of stuff just like this from my creative writing courses--that once you start the process of delving into your own memory, things come to you out of the blue. It's weird, actually, I've noticed a similar thing this semester. When I began working on my autobiography, an image of my brother and me running around and catching fireflies in the expansive back yard of our great aunt and uncle's house just sort of popped into my head. I remember it clearly, but it had just slipped away from me up until that point. So, because I had a newly found memory to work with, the work in my childhood essay was exciting--fresh. It felt like experiencing the magic all over again. Similarly, through talking to my mother, I was able to make connections between this vacation to West Virginia and Ohio to a really well-defined memory I still have--that of Hurricane Andrew. I just love how all of these things seem to play together in the mind.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Phillip Lopate, "Writing Personal Essays: On the Necessity of Turning Oneself Into a Character" (38)
Good essay! Lopate brings up things about turning yourself (as the narrator of an essay) into a character that I have never thought about before. He talks about how self-curiosity is a quality that will allow readers to connect with the narrator in a way that self-hate or self-hate cannot. My favorite line (and this might be cheating, because it's the concluding sentence of the essay) is:
Turning oneself into a character "means you have achieved sufficient distance to begin to see yourself in the round: a necessary precondition to transcending the ego--or at least writing personal essays that can touch other people." (44)
Lopate talks a lot about what makes a good "I"/narrator. But here is where he really gets down to it. A narrator that readers can connect with is the only type of narrator that is going to mean anything in the long run. This "sufficient distance" is how you make a lasting piece of literature and not just a self-involved rant, tirade, or Psalm of contentment--which-ever it may be.
Turning oneself into a character "means you have achieved sufficient distance to begin to see yourself in the round: a necessary precondition to transcending the ego--or at least writing personal essays that can touch other people." (44)
Lopate talks a lot about what makes a good "I"/narrator. But here is where he really gets down to it. A narrator that readers can connect with is the only type of narrator that is going to mean anything in the long run. This "sufficient distance" is how you make a lasting piece of literature and not just a self-involved rant, tirade, or Psalm of contentment--which-ever it may be.
Philip Gerard, Chapter 6, "What Form Will It Take?"
I think Gerard brings up some important stuff in this chapter. I especially like the lines:
"It is not the great writers but the amateurs who hide behind a gauze of complexity, whose writing is deliberately difficult and unnecessarily obscure... The art of the craft of writing is to make it seem effortless, transparent as window glass, to make the difficult look easy." (97)
And to that I say: ain't that the truth. How many times have I restated the same thing over and over again in slightly different and overly flowery language when I have absolutely no purpose in writing a paper? Way too many times. I don't do that anymore--at least, I don't think I do that anymore. Maybe only when I'm tired. Anyway--It's something that a lot of people do--they try to cover up the fact that they don't actually have anything substantial to stand on with pretty words and convoluted, tri-part thesis statements. It's not good--but it happens. A lot. So, Gerard is basically calling us out--he's saying: Listen, that's not good writing. There's really no excuse for it because it comes from either laziness or directionlessness--both of which cloud the writing process. Thanks for the tip, Gerard. Concise writing is the way to go! I'll try to keep that in mind. I should probably try to keep that in mind when it comes to these blog postings...
"It is not the great writers but the amateurs who hide behind a gauze of complexity, whose writing is deliberately difficult and unnecessarily obscure... The art of the craft of writing is to make it seem effortless, transparent as window glass, to make the difficult look easy." (97)
And to that I say: ain't that the truth. How many times have I restated the same thing over and over again in slightly different and overly flowery language when I have absolutely no purpose in writing a paper? Way too many times. I don't do that anymore--at least, I don't think I do that anymore. Maybe only when I'm tired. Anyway--It's something that a lot of people do--they try to cover up the fact that they don't actually have anything substantial to stand on with pretty words and convoluted, tri-part thesis statements. It's not good--but it happens. A lot. So, Gerard is basically calling us out--he's saying: Listen, that's not good writing. There's really no excuse for it because it comes from either laziness or directionlessness--both of which cloud the writing process. Thanks for the tip, Gerard. Concise writing is the way to go! I'll try to keep that in mind. I should probably try to keep that in mind when it comes to these blog postings...
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Gerard, Chapter 5, "On Assignment"
This chapter was a fun one--I always like it when writers teach the reader through their own stories, so reading about Gerard's search for Hemingway's Paris was good. It's interesting, personal, and insightful. And, the idea of going on assignment, and especially to a large European city, builds vivid images in my head of the London I was just pulled away from. So, here's the quote:
"It's exactly the unexpected, the thing you never counted on, the problem that inspires an inventive solution, than can carry a fairly predictable piece to a new level."
This is the same thing I seem to keep getting from the readings so far this semester: we start out in one direction, but personal experience and the text itself force us to find new ways of looking at things. Gerard says here that if we listen and are flexible, then we can find the story.
"It's exactly the unexpected, the thing you never counted on, the problem that inspires an inventive solution, than can carry a fairly predictable piece to a new level."
This is the same thing I seem to keep getting from the readings so far this semester: we start out in one direction, but personal experience and the text itself force us to find new ways of looking at things. Gerard says here that if we listen and are flexible, then we can find the story.
Gerard, Chapter 4, "The Art of the Interview"
I guess this is an important chapter seeing as we're about to actually start on (some of my peers may have already taken the initial steps--ghasp!) our immersion projects and interviewing people is an important part of that. Okay, so here's my quote:
To "fashion a piece of artistic truth, a true story [,]...requires sound judgement and the craft to capture truth in the exact words of another person--exact, but not entire and not verbatim. Not the whole truth, but at least nothing but the truth." (75)
Using the words of someone you've talked to is a lot different than using direct literary quotations in an academic paper. All of a sudden, the focus is away from some non-feeling text and on a living, breathing person. A person who may or may not read your work. That's pretty scary if you ask me. Just from my experience of writing about my family, I've been terrified that my mom or dad would get ahold of my essay and get their feelings hurt. Not always, of course, but sometimes. When I'm getting deeper than just talking about how my cast smelled when I went to Jeckyll Island in the fifth grade. So I can only imagine how stressful it can be to incorporate the words of someone who doesn't already love you into your writing...although, now that I'm thinking about it: it might just be easier. I'm not sure; I'll let you know later. Either way, I think Gerard's words are important ones to keep in mind--as the writers, we're responsible for the way we make people look and it's necessary to tell the truth, to be kind and honest.
To "fashion a piece of artistic truth, a true story [,]...requires sound judgement and the craft to capture truth in the exact words of another person--exact, but not entire and not verbatim. Not the whole truth, but at least nothing but the truth." (75)
Using the words of someone you've talked to is a lot different than using direct literary quotations in an academic paper. All of a sudden, the focus is away from some non-feeling text and on a living, breathing person. A person who may or may not read your work. That's pretty scary if you ask me. Just from my experience of writing about my family, I've been terrified that my mom or dad would get ahold of my essay and get their feelings hurt. Not always, of course, but sometimes. When I'm getting deeper than just talking about how my cast smelled when I went to Jeckyll Island in the fifth grade. So I can only imagine how stressful it can be to incorporate the words of someone who doesn't already love you into your writing...although, now that I'm thinking about it: it might just be easier. I'm not sure; I'll let you know later. Either way, I think Gerard's words are important ones to keep in mind--as the writers, we're responsible for the way we make people look and it's necessary to tell the truth, to be kind and honest.
Beverly Lowry, "The Shadow Knows"
Woah, this is a really intense essay. I was totally sucked into it--I didn't even stop to make notes in the margin (and that's weird for me!). Such powerful writing! Compelling language. Great pace. She keeps us constantly involved through her wonderful use of characterization, her attention to dialogue, her blending of description with the things she imagines. It's beautiful, well organized, horrifying. The quotation I've chosen to use here is an example of Lowry's use of characterization:
This is a much more effective way to show the reader what Luther is like rather than just saying, "Luther says some weird things about his son." Reading it, we get an idea of just how the conversation flows between the writer and this man in addition to the words that they said. Lowry's words make this character pop up off the page--we can almost see him, watch his "potato face" as he speaks indirectly about his boy. Awesome writing. The characters, including the narrator herself, are dynamic.
"Luther makes statements like this, statements that clearly--to him--have some
kind of resonance. And then he will pause, waiting for a
response, I can't tell to what. After a beat, he goes on."
(259)
This is a much more effective way to show the reader what Luther is like rather than just saying, "Luther says some weird things about his son." Reading it, we get an idea of just how the conversation flows between the writer and this man in addition to the words that they said. Lowry's words make this character pop up off the page--we can almost see him, watch his "potato face" as he speaks indirectly about his boy. Awesome writing. The characters, including the narrator herself, are dynamic.
Carolyn Forche, "Emergence"
I really enjoyed reading this essay. Forche has some beautiful sentences, and I have tons of places in my book that are starred, underlined, or bracketed. I find myself often in awe in the midst of all of this--reading writers writing about creating creative nonfiction (yikes). I'm in awe not only from seeing the style and skill of each writer independently, but also from seeing time and again the same sorts of observations from many of the essays I've read. This passage is an example of one such recurring idea:
"This was a work happening with me which was not about me, having to do with attention rather than intention, a work which would eventually disclose itself as self-altering rather than self-expressive." (306)
The idea of the writer who learns from her own writing is not a new one. Gerrard talks about how sometimes we think we know where something is going, only to learn that we've got to abandon that plan and let the text speak for itself. It is a strange notion: that a text works on another level--one of paying attention to the world and letting it form rather than making it come about through force. It's definitely something to think about. It also seems like an insurmountable obstacle for people who have to have things finshed by a deadline. How does one get past this? By starting work earlier than usual? I guess that would be the only plausible solution, but even then, how can we be sure that the time will be right for what we are doing? How do we know how much distance we should put between the experience and the draft?
"This was a work happening with me which was not about me, having to do with attention rather than intention, a work which would eventually disclose itself as self-altering rather than self-expressive." (306)
The idea of the writer who learns from her own writing is not a new one. Gerrard talks about how sometimes we think we know where something is going, only to learn that we've got to abandon that plan and let the text speak for itself. It is a strange notion: that a text works on another level--one of paying attention to the world and letting it form rather than making it come about through force. It's definitely something to think about. It also seems like an insurmountable obstacle for people who have to have things finshed by a deadline. How does one get past this? By starting work earlier than usual? I guess that would be the only plausible solution, but even then, how can we be sure that the time will be right for what we are doing? How do we know how much distance we should put between the experience and the draft?
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