Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Sadness that Follows Eager Reading
I devour books. It's true. And when I've finally finished my favorites, I feel slightly melancholy. Like I've left friends for good. The joy of books deepens as you reread them (but I can only do this with the best; an unfortunate habit), but you can never replicate the experience of savoring a book for the first time. Thoroughly basking in the details and uncertainty--that only happens on the initial interaction with a text.
I just closed the cover of Les Miserables. I've been reading it on and off for almost a month; but I wanted to just sit down and read through the days until I had memorized each word as I compared translations. (Note to translators: yes, the original language will probably be superior, but still attempt to translate the verse included: otherwise you aggravate the reader. Thank goodness for the multiple translations on my desk.) I loved Jean Valjean even more than anticipated. I giggled at M. Gillenormand. I groaned over the Thendardiers. I balked at Marius and Cosette. I mourned for little Gavroche. I concluded that I would like to have lunch with Victor Hugo. What fiction writer can drench his prose with so many asides--to the extent of calling one section "A Parenthetical" and going off on the parallel of convents and the galleys? Again, great texts convince me that genre is not the medium but a categorical status that means nothing. Great texts, regardless of form, are lasting and resonate as true. There is my abstract answer to the question of what determines literature. Lasting + True.
Some lines:
"But, by wishing to sit down, we may stop the progress even of the human race" (717).
"What love begins can be finished only by God.
....
What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one's soul!" (808).
"The true division of humanity is this: the luminous and the dark.
To diminish the number of the dark, to increase the number of the luminous, behold the aim. This is why we cry: education, knowledge! to learn is to read is to kindle a fire; every syllable spelled sparkles.
But he who says light does not necessarily say joy. There is suffering in the light; in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius" (854).
"A people, like a star, has the right of eclipse. And all is well, provided the light return and the eclipse do not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonyms" (1073).
And thus, a life goal to read Les Miserables was even more enjoyable than anticipated.
I just closed the cover of Les Miserables. I've been reading it on and off for almost a month; but I wanted to just sit down and read through the days until I had memorized each word as I compared translations. (Note to translators: yes, the original language will probably be superior, but still attempt to translate the verse included: otherwise you aggravate the reader. Thank goodness for the multiple translations on my desk.) I loved Jean Valjean even more than anticipated. I giggled at M. Gillenormand. I groaned over the Thendardiers. I balked at Marius and Cosette. I mourned for little Gavroche. I concluded that I would like to have lunch with Victor Hugo. What fiction writer can drench his prose with so many asides--to the extent of calling one section "A Parenthetical" and going off on the parallel of convents and the galleys? Again, great texts convince me that genre is not the medium but a categorical status that means nothing. Great texts, regardless of form, are lasting and resonate as true. There is my abstract answer to the question of what determines literature. Lasting + True.
Some lines:
"But, by wishing to sit down, we may stop the progress even of the human race" (717).
"What love begins can be finished only by God.
....
What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one's soul!" (808).
"The true division of humanity is this: the luminous and the dark.
To diminish the number of the dark, to increase the number of the luminous, behold the aim. This is why we cry: education, knowledge! to learn is to read is to kindle a fire; every syllable spelled sparkles.
But he who says light does not necessarily say joy. There is suffering in the light; in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius" (854).
"A people, like a star, has the right of eclipse. And all is well, provided the light return and the eclipse do not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonyms" (1073).
And thus, a life goal to read Les Miserables was even more enjoyable than anticipated.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Afternoon
Everyday I aim to at least make the bed and wash the dishes. Then I've done something. The problem is that I also have back-of-the-brain demands, things that are givens--I don't have to write them on a list because they must be done for my sanity. Scripture study. Writing. Working out. Going on our daily walk. Maintaining clean floors and a clean toilet. These things do not always happen anymore (or they don't happen consistently or efficiently) and I'm learning that that's okay. I'm a list budgeter. I like to write down more to do than should be humanly possible then challenge human limitations. Gives me a rush, like leaving the grocery store with everything we need for the week and money left over.
Silly: I know.
Christine told me the week Levi was born that if all I "get done" is loving, feeding, and changing the baby then I'm doing everything that needs to be done. Later that week I read an article in the Ensign about a woman who has cut her list down to one or two urgent items a day so that she can be flexible with herself and her children. My attempts at doing that have been strained, but I'm trying. My dad and I agree that being tired never really ends. It just grows--perhaps, though, we add to it sometimes.
In two weeks from today I'll be at the annual teacher training, tying the last bits of my class together. Summer is officially ending; as usual, I'm buzzed about school but this year I feel a little melancholy. The beginning of school marks the close of my slow warm months learning to be a mother. Never again will I battle the anxiety of a first time birth, waiting for labor to begin each day, then finally embracing my first baby and memorizing all his parts without any other demands. For our next baby I'll have a toddler (ish), we'll be farther from family (most likely), and forcing time to allow me to write will be more difficult. I don't expect much quiet or slow moments for the next...oh...forty years. Which is great, I welcome those forty years. I have loved these sweet slow months, though.
Levi snores in his sleep. Our kitchen faucet that has been running constantly for a week (the plumber contracted for our rented basement is on vacation until Monday) trickles like a fountain. Thunder brews outside. I gaze at the dear little bubbles forming around my son's lips and wonder how two months stretched and filled him. The leaves on our vine shift colors. Life changes millisecond by millisecond. How did I not notice that before? Is it possible to cherish each breath forever?
Silly: I know.
Christine told me the week Levi was born that if all I "get done" is loving, feeding, and changing the baby then I'm doing everything that needs to be done. Later that week I read an article in the Ensign about a woman who has cut her list down to one or two urgent items a day so that she can be flexible with herself and her children. My attempts at doing that have been strained, but I'm trying. My dad and I agree that being tired never really ends. It just grows--perhaps, though, we add to it sometimes.
In two weeks from today I'll be at the annual teacher training, tying the last bits of my class together. Summer is officially ending; as usual, I'm buzzed about school but this year I feel a little melancholy. The beginning of school marks the close of my slow warm months learning to be a mother. Never again will I battle the anxiety of a first time birth, waiting for labor to begin each day, then finally embracing my first baby and memorizing all his parts without any other demands. For our next baby I'll have a toddler (ish), we'll be farther from family (most likely), and forcing time to allow me to write will be more difficult. I don't expect much quiet or slow moments for the next...oh...forty years. Which is great, I welcome those forty years. I have loved these sweet slow months, though.
Levi snores in his sleep. Our kitchen faucet that has been running constantly for a week (the plumber contracted for our rented basement is on vacation until Monday) trickles like a fountain. Thunder brews outside. I gaze at the dear little bubbles forming around my son's lips and wonder how two months stretched and filled him. The leaves on our vine shift colors. Life changes millisecond by millisecond. How did I not notice that before? Is it possible to cherish each breath forever?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
A big adventure!
Levi is a state traveler. In the last two weeks we drove to Preston, Lava, Kuna, Seattle (and around), back to Kuna, back to Provo. Plus he survived the car breaking down twice in 105 degree weather! His giggles helped this mom keep perspective. Next week we're going to Paradise, Utah for more fun. I'm daily grateful that his temperment usually mirrors his dad! We are a very blessed trio; I don't deserve it, but we'll keep trying.
School starts the last day of August. I'm excited to teach again and to workshop more, but where did this summer go? How is my baby boy almost two months old?
Always looking for good writing. If you have a favorite book or author, please share.
School starts the last day of August. I'm excited to teach again and to workshop more, but where did this summer go? How is my baby boy almost two months old?
Always looking for good writing. If you have a favorite book or author, please share.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
While the boy sleeps...Les Mis and LibraVox
This is what I'm doing right now. Yes. My life rocks.
We've been listening to Victor Hugo's Les Miserables from LibriVox.org. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that only the first two books were recorded and currently available online. Three more to go! And I'm completely hooked. In my dream world, I would write like Victor Hugo, Marilynne Robinson, and Kimberly Johnson blended. Who can I read that writes mostly about family? (I'm up for suggestions) I don't have much to argue in my writing--mostly I celebrate.
Les Miserables is gorgeous. I love it. Oh so much. Since I was about ten I've been meaning to read it--one of those life goal things I hoped to get to before 30, so here we are. My family went to the play and listened to the music a lot while growing up; yes, I pretended to be Cosette, then I pretended to be Eponine (who may have been less beautiful, but was more dramatic and had better songs). And I love Jean Valjean and Marius. I love Hugo's thought process through the novel: not linear, not circular, something else--is this cultural or otherwise? How do you choose a translation? (I currently have three on my desk plus the one I've been listening to. Isabel Florence Hapgood did a nice job. How will she compare to Charles Wilbur?) The book examines a life in context of humanity--so multiple lives intertwining. Much of it feels essayistic; awesome. The poetic style engages, the commentary interests, and the story carries me through.
The first time I realized the book existed was when my uncle stayed at our house in his early twenties reading it. I remember him sitting next to our piano in a blue wingbacked chair completely absorbed. Peaceful. And I thought, "That's how I want to spend my life," with words, with books, with my family around. This is the uncle that I supposedly look like and who encouraged me to write and who I unabashedly adored in childhood. I adore them all now, but amazing how somone's belief in you can inspire such affection and veneration.
A note on LibriVox.org. Wow. Have I written about how awesome it is? Public domain books on the internet because of willing volunteers. Support it. Love it. Listen.
Les Miserables is gorgeous. I love it. Oh so much. Since I was about ten I've been meaning to read it--one of those life goal things I hoped to get to before 30, so here we are. My family went to the play and listened to the music a lot while growing up; yes, I pretended to be Cosette, then I pretended to be Eponine (who may have been less beautiful, but was more dramatic and had better songs). And I love Jean Valjean and Marius. I love Hugo's thought process through the novel: not linear, not circular, something else--is this cultural or otherwise? How do you choose a translation? (I currently have three on my desk plus the one I've been listening to. Isabel Florence Hapgood did a nice job. How will she compare to Charles Wilbur?) The book examines a life in context of humanity--so multiple lives intertwining. Much of it feels essayistic; awesome. The poetic style engages, the commentary interests, and the story carries me through.
The first time I realized the book existed was when my uncle stayed at our house in his early twenties reading it. I remember him sitting next to our piano in a blue wingbacked chair completely absorbed. Peaceful. And I thought, "That's how I want to spend my life," with words, with books, with my family around. This is the uncle that I supposedly look like and who encouraged me to write and who I unabashedly adored in childhood. I adore them all now, but amazing how somone's belief in you can inspire such affection and veneration.
A note on LibriVox.org. Wow. Have I written about how awesome it is? Public domain books on the internet because of willing volunteers. Support it. Love it. Listen.
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