If you like literature, how do you like it? I mean, in what way? I'm curious to find out the range of ways that people enjoy it. Here's how I like it:
I read the book (War and Peace, maybe) and find many passages tiresome. Sometimes when no one is looking, I skip a few pages. But in spite of myself I get caught up in certain characters or images or sentences. Then I finish the book. At this point, I have twenty to thirty favorite bits of it pleasantly mucking about in my brain.
A week later, I think the book is amazing and it's my new favorite.
What happened in that week? I recreated the book mentally, but unconsciously, I only used the parts that appealed to me. So it is not the same book. That's wierd. Is it really literature I like? Yes, and no. I got most of the material from someone else - the author. Part of it came from me, though - I inevitably have preconceived notions about what is good reading. The book isn't read into a vacuum. It's read into a working mind.
Ever went to re-read a favorite book that you hadn't picked up for years? Was it disappointing? Your mental book didn't match the original. Of course, it doesn't always happen that way. If we really detest one part of a book, it will probably make it into our reconstructed book, too. And then the mental book isn't quite as satisfying. But that's fine - to some extent, we can be aware of this whole mental book thing, and we can actively choose to further distort our imaginary recreation of some original book by deleting things we don't like.
The only problem with active distortion is that mental books are awfully vague. I know I like the idea of Smaug of The Hobbit on a pile of treasure, but I can't remember what it was about the writing that made me like it. When we want specifics, we have to go to real books - and the originals are increasingly unsatisfying in proportion to the amount of distortion going on.
Which is a darn good thing, because I'm pretty sure that discontent with the discrepancies between idealized mental books and real books is what drives many people to write. "That book would've been my favorite, but..." Obviously, we don't usually want to create a mere distorted version of someone else's work (except in parody). But we don't have to. In my experience, mental books are focused on loose combinations of themes and scattered images and character traits, which are mostly uncopyrightable. So our "perfect story" can deal with revenge, for example, and still be quite different from Beowulf, even if Beowulf was part of the original inspiration.
The tough part is making the details relevant to the narrative and accurate to the story we have in our heads. But now I'm talking about writing, which is slightly off topic. *concludes*
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Hero
All at once,
a drawn sword!
It comes swinging in a slashing arc.
Dark blood springs where
the singing blade stings.
The porter meant to move,
but his feet would not.
I am half-sick of service,
thought Sir Lancelot.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Nitinaht, Vancouver Island
I know a place where the wind is unspooling always
tangling and untangling in the coastal firs,
streaming between the whitecaps and threading the bumblebees like beads
on and off of the wild roses.
Tents bloom in unlikely places.
Everyone is encamped in the thickets of things – caravans of windsurfers bring boards and bright sails to the beach (really a ruins of rocks and driftwood),
and Starboard pennants fly from shattered tree trunks.
The thin shore is a strange buffer between two worlds:
a van-crammed campground defined by narrow spaces, where bushes are shelves for wrens and jays and little berries,
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Dog Days II
Bursting forth involved much ado, but it was not, from the canine point of view, about nothing. It was about aventure, in the original sense of the word. Anything could happen beyond the Long Stair. Wicked Uncle and Swain galumphed with gusto up the steps to Euphoria, ears flying and jowls flapping. The Wicked Uncle reflected later that the name Long Stair was rather more symbolic than physically accurate - the journey had taken almost no time at all, and yet the metaphorical distance covered had been very near to infinite. The gap between misery and comfort is vast indeed, he thought.
At the top of the Long Stair, our doggy heroes suddenly realized their social awkwardness. (They'd never got out much.) Abruptly, there was much abashed snuffling and sneezing. Two FDCs were hurriedly throwing a cover over a sumptious couch. Another was directing traffic, so to speak, and they were ushered into a place of magical odors. The snuffling intensified, and for a moment, the Wicked Uncle suffered the agony of indecision: to search out the source of smells, or to stretch out on the couch? The sure comfort of the couch triumphed over the mere possibility of treats, but he kept one eye open in case food should appear. Meanwhile, the Swain had found his feet again and was frolicking about. Wicked Uncle smirked to himself as the FDCs scolded his adopted nephew for overenthusiasm. Ah, the innocence of youth. Swain would never understand the meaning of guile. And speaking of guile... Uncle screwed up his face and looked reproachfully over his shoulder at the nearest FDC. Instantly, he was the subject of lavish affection.
For his part, Swain was discovering that the Upper Realms were entrenched in limitations, boundaries, and rules. No biting, no chewing, no fighting, no spewing, no lightning quick dashes for the Fountain of Youth (which was a ceramic bowl in a room of its own) - he quickly grew tired of the list. But he found two benefits to the Upper Realms. 1) The FDCs were generous with treats, especially when plied with persistent begging techniques. 2) The FDCs prevented Wicked Uncle from murdering him for no reason, effectively allowing him to pest Wicked Uncle continuously over a period of several hours. It wasn't bliss, but it was All Right.
Since you ask, the Cat was doing nothing but radiating disgust from a lofty perch.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Dog Days
This is a story of two dogs who climbed the Long Stair between their habitual place of residence in the dungeons and the well-furnished (that is to say, provided with all manner of couches) Family Room, a place of unimaginable delights and innumerable treats. It happened in the winter of the year of the Ubiquitous Cat, which everyone later agreed was a remarkable year, barring the cat, who made of point of never appearing impressed.
The dogs had names, but names are only placemarkers, after all, and often tell us nothing of character and identity and idiosyncrasy (since they are given by those who are not us), and thus the two protagonists are best described in terms of their essential dogginess; though different, they each measured up to and exceeded the expectations associated with certain canine stereotypes. The older one was a Wicked Uncle, and what he lacked in dignity, he made up in irascibility - masked, of course, by the traditional "good dog" aura, soulful dark eyes and a thin layer of fat. He was a firm proponent of the philosophy, "All good things come to those who wait," except when some young pup had the impertinence to travel through his Territory uninvited; in such cases he delivered the good thing immediately: it was discipline, and it was sure and swift. Like so many wicked uncles, he was burdened with an unwanted charge on whom he took out his troubles from time to time.
His charge was the younger dog, and despite this ignominious position in Life, the uncle-afflicted pup bubbled with the enthusiasm, anxiety, and headstrong idiocy of youth. He was, in short, a Swain.
These two were languishing in the dark recesses of their cage, casting their mournful (the Swain) and baleful (the Wicked Uncle) eyes despondently about, until the elder companion spoke. He said,
If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd
From him, who in the happy Realms of Light
barked joyfully and occasioned rabbit flight;
If he whom mutual league, united woofs and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,
Joynd with me once (joyned now by misery in equal ruin!)
If he, I say, then give me that T-bone, for I would chew.
The Wicked Uncle prided himself on his ability to rise to any oratory occasion. But his magnificent adaption of a famous speech was entirely lost on the Swain, who understood only that he must give up his sole attachment to happiness. He cowered away to the corner. The Wicked Uncle chewed with dissatisfaction on the bone. It was a very old bone, and besides, the Swain had abandoned it up so quickly there hadn't been even the slightest pretext for a fight. Both dogs were thoroughly depressed.
To make matters worse, they were being watched. A cat, free to come and go as it chose, drifted silently from shadow to shadow, its alien eyes glittering at them strangely. There was no telling what it was thinking, but the way it sauntered along the top of the fence separating them from the free world was infuriating. The Swain grew more and more anxious. Though he tried, he could not contain his distress. It escaped at first in small whines that gave way to trembling moans, and the Wicked Uncle took no notice. But his charge was contracting a bad case of cabin fever, and the matter was far from over. The trembling moans became high pitched yips, which developed into full-throated woofs. There were shouts from the Upper Realms beyond the Long Stair, and the ceiling shook with threats of retribution and with pounding feet. Some fell creature roared down the furnace duct, Shut Up, but the Swain had gone mad. The Wicked Uncle saw his chance, and began to howl frightfully. Together, they made a dissonant symphony that would have had even Franz Liszt begging for quiet. It sounded a bit like this:
Young Dog: Whiiiine whiiine moan yip!
Old Dog: OOOoooooOOOOoooo.
Furnace Duct Creature: Shut up! Shut up!
Young Dog: Whine whine yip woof!
Abruptly, there was the sound of feet thundering down towards them, and the dogs ceased to raise their hue and cry. The cat melted into shadow.
The Furnace Duct Creature said, "Oh all right. Come upstairs. It's rotten outside anyway." And the impassable gates, no doubt forged of legendary Damascus steel and bound with adamant, were flung open. There was a pause. The Swain looked incredulously from freedom to the FDC. It said, "go on." And then the dogs burst forth.
Intermission: Another Installment Will Arrive In Good Time
The dogs had names, but names are only placemarkers, after all, and often tell us nothing of character and identity and idiosyncrasy (since they are given by those who are not us), and thus the two protagonists are best described in terms of their essential dogginess; though different, they each measured up to and exceeded the expectations associated with certain canine stereotypes. The older one was a Wicked Uncle, and what he lacked in dignity, he made up in irascibility - masked, of course, by the traditional "good dog" aura, soulful dark eyes and a thin layer of fat. He was a firm proponent of the philosophy, "All good things come to those who wait," except when some young pup had the impertinence to travel through his Territory uninvited; in such cases he delivered the good thing immediately: it was discipline, and it was sure and swift. Like so many wicked uncles, he was burdened with an unwanted charge on whom he took out his troubles from time to time.
His charge was the younger dog, and despite this ignominious position in Life, the uncle-afflicted pup bubbled with the enthusiasm, anxiety, and headstrong idiocy of youth. He was, in short, a Swain.
These two were languishing in the dark recesses of their cage, casting their mournful (the Swain) and baleful (the Wicked Uncle) eyes despondently about, until the elder companion spoke. He said,
If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd
From him, who in the happy Realms of Light
barked joyfully and occasioned rabbit flight;
If he whom mutual league, united woofs and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,
Joynd with me once (joyned now by misery in equal ruin!)
If he, I say, then give me that T-bone, for I would chew.
The Wicked Uncle prided himself on his ability to rise to any oratory occasion. But his magnificent adaption of a famous speech was entirely lost on the Swain, who understood only that he must give up his sole attachment to happiness. He cowered away to the corner. The Wicked Uncle chewed with dissatisfaction on the bone. It was a very old bone, and besides, the Swain had abandoned it up so quickly there hadn't been even the slightest pretext for a fight. Both dogs were thoroughly depressed.
To make matters worse, they were being watched. A cat, free to come and go as it chose, drifted silently from shadow to shadow, its alien eyes glittering at them strangely. There was no telling what it was thinking, but the way it sauntered along the top of the fence separating them from the free world was infuriating. The Swain grew more and more anxious. Though he tried, he could not contain his distress. It escaped at first in small whines that gave way to trembling moans, and the Wicked Uncle took no notice. But his charge was contracting a bad case of cabin fever, and the matter was far from over. The trembling moans became high pitched yips, which developed into full-throated woofs. There were shouts from the Upper Realms beyond the Long Stair, and the ceiling shook with threats of retribution and with pounding feet. Some fell creature roared down the furnace duct, Shut Up, but the Swain had gone mad. The Wicked Uncle saw his chance, and began to howl frightfully. Together, they made a dissonant symphony that would have had even Franz Liszt begging for quiet. It sounded a bit like this:
Young Dog: Whiiiine whiiine moan yip!
Old Dog: OOOoooooOOOOoooo.
Furnace Duct Creature: Shut up! Shut up!
Young Dog: Whine whine yip woof!
Abruptly, there was the sound of feet thundering down towards them, and the dogs ceased to raise their hue and cry. The cat melted into shadow.
The Furnace Duct Creature said, "Oh all right. Come upstairs. It's rotten outside anyway." And the impassable gates, no doubt forged of legendary Damascus steel and bound with adamant, were flung open. There was a pause. The Swain looked incredulously from freedom to the FDC. It said, "go on." And then the dogs burst forth.
Intermission: Another Installment Will Arrive In Good Time
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Where now the mango?
I don't know how many university students are exposed to Old English, even in the English department, but some of them must be with me in thinking it weird that people ever talked that way. Recitations are one thing, but actual conversations just don't seem to fit with what I've heard so far. For example, this line from The Wanderer:
Between Old English and Japanese, this should be an interesting semester. (I've already been thinking about forming a group in Japanese 101 called "the Knights who say に")
"Hwǣr cwōm mearg? Hwǣr cwōm mago? Hwǣr cwōm māþþumgyfa?"It roughly means "Where now the horse? Where now the rider? Where now the hoard-sharer/ring-giver/giver of treasure?" and is pronounced with scottishy vowels and a lot of rolling Rs. Allow me to indulge for a minute in imagining a conversation...
"Hrrrrothbob, thou goat! Wherrre now the horrrse?"Awesome, right? But awesomer still is a thing called "cognitive hooks," which in this context seems to mean "changing Old English phrases to similar sounding Modern English phrases." This concept resulted in our class interpreting the quoted line as "Where comes mare? Where comes mango? Where comes math and gouda?"
"I could do nothing, my fatherrr. It was taken by a scylding-thief underrr the helm of night."
"Well then, wherrre now the rrrider?"
"Overrr the land-bump, forrrsooth."
"Eala! How that the horrrse has passed away! How that the steed-trrreasure has vanished, as if it had neverrr been."
Between Old English and Japanese, this should be an interesting semester. (I've already been thinking about forming a group in Japanese 101 called "the Knights who say に")
Monday, January 9, 2012
Hajimemashite, Surname First Name
The first day of the semester always defies expectation. Creative writing looked interesting and stimulating in the golden olden days of registration, but the requisite anthology of Canadian poetry turned out to be depressingly avant-garde. Japanese 101, in contrast, sparked my attention even during the doldrum hours that usually begin after 6:00 pm. It is a credit-filler course for me, chosen only after it was clear that Russian, Spanish and German were at impossible times, but even so...
On the long walk back to my vehicle, I said "Hajimemashite, Surname First Name. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu" over and over. I am still hazy on whether or not my own name is supposed to go after Hajimemamgawehgetcetera or not. Perhaps it is supposed to be the name of the person I am addressing? The professor is a nice lady who explained that kanji tattoos are risky. She said a certain symbol for 'peace' can mean 'cheap,' too. "It makes me laugh," she said. "Some people think Japanese people always go like this," she added, and steepled her hands. "Not true!"
On the long walk back to my vehicle, I said "Hajimemashite, Surname First Name. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu" over and over. I am still hazy on whether or not my own name is supposed to go after Hajimemamgawehgetcetera or not. Perhaps it is supposed to be the name of the person I am addressing? The professor is a nice lady who explained that kanji tattoos are risky. She said a certain symbol for 'peace' can mean 'cheap,' too. "It makes me laugh," she said. "Some people think Japanese people always go like this," she added, and steepled her hands. "Not true!"
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Happy New Year, Said The Poem
Listen to me.
A bad night's sleep and a sky the colour of tombstones,
and the monotony of the morning, the now, the chill rain and the dull day,
and the crushing fear of the future
must seem pressing -
but look, have you ever seen a man paddling so happy in such
an abundance of wet?
How do the ducks do it?
The rain and the run-off rise underneath that Mallard,
and he bobs on the swell and thinks
How grand is my private canal!
This is a neat chap capped with a glorious green.
(let the rain slash if it likes!)
The cold wind is skimming
the brown-brimming channel,
but the unsinkable duck is quacking and swimming,
and the scowling sky thins,
and cracks,
and grins.
Hercules couldn't lift the spirit, but a duck in a ditch is a fine thing.
A bad night's sleep and a sky the colour of tombstones,
and the monotony of the morning, the now, the chill rain and the dull day,
and the crushing fear of the future
must seem pressing -
but look, have you ever seen a man paddling so happy in such
an abundance of wet?
How do the ducks do it?
The rain and the run-off rise underneath that Mallard,
and he bobs on the swell and thinks
How grand is my private canal!
This is a neat chap capped with a glorious green.
(let the rain slash if it likes!)
The cold wind is skimming
the brown-brimming channel,
but the unsinkable duck is quacking and swimming,
and the scowling sky thins,
and cracks,
and grins.
Hercules couldn't lift the spirit, but a duck in a ditch is a fine thing.
(90% of this poem is written by me. I borrowed the phrase "Hercules couldn't lift the spirit" because it was a title prompt for a contest on the site AllPoetry. And I just wanted to write a poem about a duck for a contest.)
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