Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Struggling to Read
“Reading, done properly, is every bit as tough as writing….what I’m saying is, a reader must have talent…because even the most talented reader will find much of the land of literature tricky terrain…..the skills that it takes to write…are required to read. Readers fail writers just as often as writers fail readers. Readers fail when they allow themselves to believe the old mantra that fiction is a thing you relate to and writers the amenable people you seek out when you want to have your own version of the world confirmed and reinforced….To become better readers and writers we have to ask of each other a little bit more.”--Zadie Smith in "Fail Better"
My students are preparing to debate on this quote from an essay on writing fiction. I didn't intend to give it to them, but it shouted at me to pay attention. Is reading as difficult as writing? How do you read "properly"? Admittedly: on a first reading, I usually don't analyze sentences, line breaks, or parallelisms. I read to enjoy; I underline so that I can refer to the reading later. All that I read does not soak into my skin and change my perception--but it should! I'm trying to gain the talent of a reader.
Writing often involves creativity, gathering resources/references, organization, revision, time, and thoughtful consideration of a topic. Smith argues that these same skills are required for deep reading. I'm beginning to agree with her. To truly appreciate a piece, a reader must jump into the mind of the writer (as far as he or she is allowed/invited in). As one reads, ideas enter the mind that are new resources, which bring reference points as well as the allusions that are made as built-in references. A reader needs clarity of mind to understand the organization of another's ideas. A reader allows for revision of thought on the writer's part while opening his or her mind to revision. Reading is a way of expanding who we are and recreating ourselves. Reading demands time, time, time. Then more time.
I write this blog with specific purposes (some currently unknown). I want a commonplace book. I want to respond to the writing around me. I want to become a skilled reader. These thoughts on commonplace are an attempt (an essay, if you will) to synthesize, absorb, and give a "little bit more." I am a failed reader and writer, but I am improving.
Is reading more difficult than writing, though? Perhaps my students will convince me one way or the other.
My students are preparing to debate on this quote from an essay on writing fiction. I didn't intend to give it to them, but it shouted at me to pay attention. Is reading as difficult as writing? How do you read "properly"? Admittedly: on a first reading, I usually don't analyze sentences, line breaks, or parallelisms. I read to enjoy; I underline so that I can refer to the reading later. All that I read does not soak into my skin and change my perception--but it should! I'm trying to gain the talent of a reader.
Writing often involves creativity, gathering resources/references, organization, revision, time, and thoughtful consideration of a topic. Smith argues that these same skills are required for deep reading. I'm beginning to agree with her. To truly appreciate a piece, a reader must jump into the mind of the writer (as far as he or she is allowed/invited in). As one reads, ideas enter the mind that are new resources, which bring reference points as well as the allusions that are made as built-in references. A reader needs clarity of mind to understand the organization of another's ideas. A reader allows for revision of thought on the writer's part while opening his or her mind to revision. Reading is a way of expanding who we are and recreating ourselves. Reading demands time, time, time. Then more time.
I write this blog with specific purposes (some currently unknown). I want a commonplace book. I want to respond to the writing around me. I want to become a skilled reader. These thoughts on commonplace are an attempt (an essay, if you will) to synthesize, absorb, and give a "little bit more." I am a failed reader and writer, but I am improving.
Is reading more difficult than writing, though? Perhaps my students will convince me one way or the other.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Beauty
...I ask you, how much beauty
can a person bear? It is
heavier than ugliness, even the burden
of emptiness is nothing beside it
.... I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy
to want so much, to walk
with such a heavy basket, either
bent reed, or willow.
--Louise Gluck, from "Baskets, 4"
When I awoke this morning, my husband asked me how I was--even thought it was three a.m. Snow torpedoes to the ground, tangling in the pine branches outside of my window. Three girls walked by me today, smiling and giggling. I felt Charles Lamb wiggling today as I sat in class beaming over syllabi. How much beauty can a person bear? I don't know, but each day the endurance level must increase or we would all burst. How do you carry the weight of beauty? How do you communicate it? Daily I claim, "I am not a strong woman" and yet at the same time I am not willing to let go of this immense and wonderful burden.
I love the idea that beauty has more weight than ugliness or emptiness. The shape of a child's hand is more substantial than the anger of nations. An embrace is more significant than the loneliness of years. Granted, these small beauties surround us and add to us just as the pains do--the fact that both are intensely real could be part of their reality. Can beauty exist without ugliness or emptiness? Perhaps that is the wrong question. Can human eyes recognize beauty without contrast?
Daily, I surprise myself with my desires--even in my bounteous lifestyle! How could I want more? Despite marrying the person who fits me best, carrying his child, celebrating health, safety, freedom, truth, learning...how can i find room to want more? Even silly things: spring, ice cream, brown shoes, more energy, a giving spirit. Simultaneously, these desires increase my awareness of the beauty: language, water, warmth, sticky notes.
What is the basket that can carry beauty?
can a person bear? It is
heavier than ugliness, even the burden
of emptiness is nothing beside it
.... I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy
to want so much, to walk
with such a heavy basket, either
bent reed, or willow.
--Louise Gluck, from "Baskets, 4"
When I awoke this morning, my husband asked me how I was--even thought it was three a.m. Snow torpedoes to the ground, tangling in the pine branches outside of my window. Three girls walked by me today, smiling and giggling. I felt Charles Lamb wiggling today as I sat in class beaming over syllabi. How much beauty can a person bear? I don't know, but each day the endurance level must increase or we would all burst. How do you carry the weight of beauty? How do you communicate it? Daily I claim, "I am not a strong woman" and yet at the same time I am not willing to let go of this immense and wonderful burden.
I love the idea that beauty has more weight than ugliness or emptiness. The shape of a child's hand is more substantial than the anger of nations. An embrace is more significant than the loneliness of years. Granted, these small beauties surround us and add to us just as the pains do--the fact that both are intensely real could be part of their reality. Can beauty exist without ugliness or emptiness? Perhaps that is the wrong question. Can human eyes recognize beauty without contrast?
Daily, I surprise myself with my desires--even in my bounteous lifestyle! How could I want more? Despite marrying the person who fits me best, carrying his child, celebrating health, safety, freedom, truth, learning...how can i find room to want more? Even silly things: spring, ice cream, brown shoes, more energy, a giving spirit. Simultaneously, these desires increase my awareness of the beauty: language, water, warmth, sticky notes.
What is the basket that can carry beauty?
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Year's Day
"I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here." --Charles Lamb, "New Year's Eve"
What keeps us from establishing our tabernacles where we are? Do we fear permanence because it can soon dissolve? Or do we disregard things that seem permanent because we realize that nothing around us will remain as it is? As I finished laundry today I wondered what I would do if I knew death awaited me tomorrow: clean the house, spend the day with Wesley, make his favorite dinner, and try not to think about how lonely any state would be without him and little burgeoning Char Cole. Extremely pleasant thoughts for the new year, I know, but there is a sense of comfort in not knowing the exact time of our mortal departure; the uncertainty and inevitability allow me peace and joy in each breath. A new flickering flame and a fading one may be the same size, but one greets the world eagerly while the other caves into itself and casts more shadows than light.
I wonder about Char Cole banging around in me, still unfelt, his little heartbeat pattering a double-timed rhythm against my own pumping melody. Already, his presence adds a glistening perspective to my own. I cherished life before pregnancy, but now it seems so much more miraculous and delicate--like pollen covered wings: you never really know where they have been, but you recognize the power and potentiality of them. You want to touch the fluttering transparencies--but will they be able to function if handled?
What keeps us from establishing our tabernacles where we are? Do we fear permanence because it can soon dissolve? Or do we disregard things that seem permanent because we realize that nothing around us will remain as it is? As I finished laundry today I wondered what I would do if I knew death awaited me tomorrow: clean the house, spend the day with Wesley, make his favorite dinner, and try not to think about how lonely any state would be without him and little burgeoning Char Cole. Extremely pleasant thoughts for the new year, I know, but there is a sense of comfort in not knowing the exact time of our mortal departure; the uncertainty and inevitability allow me peace and joy in each breath. A new flickering flame and a fading one may be the same size, but one greets the world eagerly while the other caves into itself and casts more shadows than light.
I wonder about Char Cole banging around in me, still unfelt, his little heartbeat pattering a double-timed rhythm against my own pumping melody. Already, his presence adds a glistening perspective to my own. I cherished life before pregnancy, but now it seems so much more miraculous and delicate--like pollen covered wings: you never really know where they have been, but you recognize the power and potentiality of them. You want to touch the fluttering transparencies--but will they be able to function if handled?
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