A Toast to Litotes

There is a neat little rhetorical device known as litotes. (It is pronounced "lie-TOTE-eez.") In a pinch, you could call it hypobole. Remember my favorite moment in Mort D'arthur? If, for example, Sir Lancelot had succeeded in splattering himself on the ground below the lofty castle window, and if, in the awkward silence immediately following, Sir Gawain had ventured to look down and say something like: "Goodness. That wasn't the wisest decision," or "Oh dear. He wasn't the cleverest person, was he?" or even "My stars.  A flesh-wound." that would be litotes. File this information for later, if you will.

So. We come to toast. You might remember an earlier post on toast. It was a bit negative, due to the evanescent properties of perfect toast, and the traitorous traits of toasters. Today, I found myself reflecting on this theme again. I put two breads* in the toaster. I moved the dial to 5. I pushed the knobthing down. Then  I remembered that my sister owed me money. This was The First Mistake.

Murphy's law was in effect, of course, and I didn't have the right change for a twenty. I was scrounging around for toonies when I remembered my toast. I bellowed (with some degree of fear) and charged up the stairs to the toaster. Sure enough, the toasts were burnt. My sister demanded what the big deal was. I tried to explain that toasters are betrayers - they get you where it hurts most: right in the toast - and thus I made The Second Mistake.

Articulating raw emotions and making lunch are activities that require intense concentration, and never the twain shall meet. Flustered, I put chocolate spread instead of butter on my burnt raisin toast. Think boiled raisins, scorched spelt and sticky brown mess. I bit into it and thought, "This tastes bad." And I invented 'litoastes' on the spot. This was Deus Ex Machina, and it pretty much redeemed a terrible situation.

Hence, I present: Litoastes  n. A rhetorically magnificent subcategory of litotes that deals exclusively with toast, toasting and bad toast-related puns.




*Slices. Since we're talking rhetorical devices, we might as well use synecdoche.

The Finity Problem

Yesterday, I was thinking about infinity - specifically, how God always has been and always will be. The 'always has been' part boggles my mind. After death, we'll have eternal life, which is infinite in the sense that it never ends. But it has a beginning. I just couldn't imagine not having a beginning. It's more than infinity, if that makes sense. If beginning at year 1 and counting upwards forever is infinity, then to have always been counting upwards must encompass more time... I think... 

Then I started thinking spatially - what about the universe? If it is infinite, we are frighteningly small. In fact, if you think about a version of Google Maps that just keeps on zooming out and zooming out, we would vanish completely, except not really - we would just keep dwindling in size forever. Imagine looking for Earth on this cosmic map with the Hubble telescope and not being able to find even the Milky Way. And that's understatement when it comes to infinity. Again, it's mind boggling. 

But then I thought: how can it not be infinite? In a hypothetical situation where people could instantly travel as far as they wanted to, can you imagine coming up against some kind of blank "edge of the map"? (like in RTS games.) Mind = blown. I can't imagine it. I just can't picture a limited universe - I mean, automatically, I would think "what is outside the boundaries of the universe?" 

But a universe can't have spatial boundaries, can it? Can the laws of physics just stop at some point? 

Maybe they could if there were other universes with different laws of physics crowded in around us - but then we would have to quibble about the definition of the word, and at the end of the day, whatever word we chose to mean "everything that exists" would replace our definition of universe, and we would still have the boundaries problem. 

Bah. Infinity, you are vindicated. Finity, you are in a league of your own. People who are still reading, you almost rate a league of your own too, but if I said that, then we'd have another problem...

It's not only Monty Python that's funny

You know how you can love old writing and dislike it at the same time? I'm talking about that contrast between  "Ooh, it's good because it's a classic" and "Why would you ever write a sentence like that?"

Arthurian legend in Thomas Malory is like that. 'And' sometimes means 'if', 'or' means 'before', and 'maugre' means 'notwithstanding'. 'Passing' is sometimes an adverb meaning 'very', oddly enough. The syntax takes some getting used to, even if you've been broken in to  inversion by the Anglo-Genevan Psalter.

Chretien de Troyes is odd too, if you use the English translated version. Somehow the niceties of twelfth century medieval French poetry have failed to make it into English prose. Take this example from the Penguin Classics edition: "The fact that his lady had been consoled, and this was the news that the lady brought him, made him suddenly very happy. The king himself was happy about it; he had been very joyful before, but now his joy was even greater." The way it's put, I just can't help being skeptical about this supremely happy king's happiness.

On the other hand, the plots are fascinating once you start understanding the cultural context. Though they are sometimes hilariously implausible (In Malory for example, Sir Tristram, the famous french flower of chivalry and knightly pwnage, poses as Sir Tramtrist when he wants to hide his true identity. Obviously, he was a master of the subtle art of disguise.) they almost always provide interesting insights into human nature and the culture of the time.

There's a great scene in Chretien's Lancelot story where Lancelot and Gawain are at the window in a castle. The window has a nice view of the nearby meadow, and it so happens that Queen Guenevere passes right by. Lancelot is immediately infatuated at the sight of her. At this point, Gawain barely knows Lancelot, so he's completely unprepared for Lancelot's abrupt decision to defenestrate himself. The queen had kept right on passing till she was out of our hero's line of vision, you see, and this was very upsetting to him.

Nevertheless, Gawain's years of experience with saving those in distress serve him well. Lancelot is only half way out of the window before Gawain hauls him back inside. I think he then says something to the effect of, "Are you mad? Don't ever do that again." Probably an understandable reaction.          

Anyway, the image of Gawain grabbing Lancelot (who would have been struggling mightily to dash himself to pieces) bodily around the waist and dragging him back inside is uproariously funny to me. The melodramatics are wonderful. Arthurian lit in general is just so good. Read it if you get the chance!

Sorry, Another One About Night

Aldergrove:
      
        a bright light cluster at night,
        
a modest solar system tucked between Galaxies,
      
        a western constellation visible with the naked eye
         from a certain gas station on Fraser Highway.

As I fuel there,
 the stink of gas and the winter air
do not damp my answering glow.

          I love this evening orbit
                                      around my incandescent home.

                             ------------

I'm not sure why I organized it like this. It looked interesting. Thoughts? 

Geography Profs Are Usually Excellent

While I was reading an inspiring post on my friend Heidi's blog, I was struck by an interesting pattern in good teachers. My sample population is pretty small and in no way useful for a research study, but I've found that Geography professors are usually excellent. There is no doubt about it. Two out of three of my Geography experiences have been inspiring, thanks largely to the influence (and estimable character) of the professors involved. The other experience, I feel, is only limited by virtue of its internet setting - online classes are the worst. But that is another rant story.

In case anyone does want to undertake a research project regarding the whys and wherefores of this claim, I have drawn up a few hypotheses to help you apply for grants:

Geography professors are usually excellent because:

1. They study everything. Geography is the broadest discipline that ever was. It covers everything from mushrooms to skyscrapers. It is a discipline which provides scope for a healthy thirst for knowledge.

2. They're a perfect mix of Arts and Sciences. They're not always entrenched in their labs with beakers of nitroglycerin and scribbling chalkboard sized equations, nor are they always torturing the written word in order to wrench grand abstractions from it. What follows is an obviously logical syllogism: well balanced people are usually excellent, and geographers are always well balanced people. Therefore, geographers are usually excellent.

3.They often do field work. Literally. Maybe it's just because I'm an English major, but there must be something strongly bucolic about digging holes for soil samples in the grassy wilderness, with the animals frolicking around you and the smell of honest dirt. If you prefer the city, fear not. As per hypothesis number one, geographers work in the city as well, right in the middle of the bustling, hustling, rustling crowds.They know the world from first hand experience, and that's where the good stories in class come from.

4.  A handful of weather geographers do tornado chasing. I think the outright coolness of this is self-explanatory.


Note that these hypotheses may be interconnected factors in the usual excellence of Geography professors. In the course of your research, you may also find that I have been exaggerating shamelessly all along, but there are a few grains of truth sprinkled here and there. In the meantime, happy researching!