On the Sublime

Are we not, then, to hold that composition (being a harmony of that language which is implanted by nature in man and which appeals not to the hearing only but to the soul itself), since it calls forth manifold shapes of words, thoughts, deeds, beauty, melody, all of them born at our birth and growing with our growth, and since by means of the blending and variation of its own tones it seeks to introduce into the minds of those who are present the emotion which affects the speaker, and since it and by the building of phrase upon phrase raises a sublime and harmonious structure are we not, I say to hold that harmony by these selfsame means allures us and invariably disposes us to stateliness and dignity and elevation and every emotion which it contains within itself, gaining absolute mastery over our minds? (Longinus)

The sublime.  We've heard the term bandied about, and those of us who are familiar with underlying ideas of Romanticism will immediately think "Edmund Burke."  Well, Longinus thought it first.  My intent, however, is not to give a lesson but to urge you to think about what it that writing does to us.

What do words do?  When you read, what are the words stirring inside of you? If it sublime, it lifts and inspires heightened emotions.  If it's well-written, in inspires loftier things--it "seeks to introduce into the minds of those who are present the motion which affects the speaker."  And if it's successful, oh what can it do?  These words can create a work that "allures us and invariably disposes us to stateliness and dignity and elevation and every emotion which it contains within itself," and here's the rub: "gaining absolute mastery over our minds".

That, my friends, is why we read literature.  To feel that inspiration, that rush of emotion, the elevation of the mind and heart.  And why do we study writing and try to teach it?  I would hope it would be show our students that writing is powerful and that they too can grasp at least a measure of that power and wield it.

YA Lit: The Mysterious Benedict Society

If you look at my bookshelves, you will quickly realize I enjoy a range of literature--and I really like good "young adult" literature. I have everything from Anne of Green Gables to the series to Harry Potter. I frequently reread books from my childhood, The Secret Garden being a perennial favorite.

When I was last in Barnes and Noble, I wandered through the children's section to see what I could possibly pick up for my nieces. One book caught my eye because of its cover art: The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart*. I picked it up and read the first two chapters, and was instantly hooked--A is begging to borrow it because she did the same thing the other night at my apartment.

Without going into too much detail on the plot (A, after all, reads this blog), the story is compelling and empowering for young adult readers. Adults can also take delight in a story well told, as well as identify with the characters, who could contain shadows of our younger selves.

The Mysterious Benedict Society (the first in a series) has all the elements of a good narrative: compelling characters, a villain, mystery, secret agents, and a satisfying conclusion. I even teared up a couple of times. I definitely recommend it for adult readers who enjoy a good story and for older kids who want an adventure read.

*Who, incidentally, lives in Little Rock.

And Now For a "Read" Post

I obviously love good food*, but I also love good books. Yesterday, I found myself enthralled with Robin McKinley's newest, Chalice. So much, in fact, that I neglected to even look at my paper**.

I was sad when I closed the cover of Chalice last night: not because the book ended sadly but because I was finished. I did not want to finish. I wanted the story to go on forever and ever because I liked the world McKinley created, and I liked the characters, and I liked the story. She's good. She's really good--and she doesn't really write sequels, so you're left with the feeling of having finished a good story but also knowing that all the bits of story that are left unresolved will never come to anything.

McKinley's books are good because she sticks with Tolkien's style of storytelling. Tolkien knew that there's always more story to tell, and to create a rich story, full of depth and meaning, you (as the storyteller) had to hint that there are more stories to tell. You create the craving in the reader, but never fulfill it. It's like Scheherezade in The Arabian Nights' Entertainments: both delight and surprise, but stir up a desire that can never be satisfied. "More!" you want to shout, but more you'll never get. In the meantime, you are left with this splendid book, Chalice, and the hope that maybe McKinley will do what she did for Damar and make another story***.

I'm being purposely vague about the book because I think it best if the reader simply immerses herself into McKinley's beautiful world without knowing what's going on. McKinley reveals it slowly, throwing the reader into the narrative stream partway through and then reveals pieces of the tale (not the whole story, mind you) that pertain to the overall plot. There's this niggling sense all along that McKinley has several narrative threads in her hands, but merely shows you a flash of their color instead of spinning it out fully. It adds a three-dimensionality to her world without bogging it down with unnecessary explication. Like Tolkien, she assumes the reader is smart enough to get it, and the story is all the richer for it.

It's a delicate balance that many authors fail at (cough, Twilight, cough). McKinley succeeds, and I now have a new favorite book, at least until the next one comes along...

*I made the most delicious dinner last night: couscous with roasted vegetables^, seasoned with salt, pepper, and olive oil with a crumbling of the soft goat cheese. Oh. My. God. That (and a glass of wine) and Chalice, and I forgot about my paper entirely. I also sort of refused to share with my neighbor because I wanted it all for myself.

^Beets, turnips, butternut squash, apple, onion, garlic, cranberries, red bell pepper, and almonds. Toss lightly in olive oil and roast in a pan for a while (until vegetables are all tender). Sprinkle the almonds on toward the end or else they might burn before the veggies are cooked.

**And so much for that goal of 5 pages typed. Okay, so now the goal is to get to page 5 tonight, and finish it up tomorrow. Buckle down and work, do it now!

***The Blue Sword and The Hero and the Crown are longtime favorites. I read them in high school and have reread them over and over again. (Beauty is also really delightful.)

Milton, In Translation

Just in case you didn't know, Milton's Paradise Lost is a masterpiece of the English language. It's also really difficult to slog through, which is why it is infrequently taught outside of an college English classroom. What if there was a way to translate the epic from English...well, from hard English to easier English? Would that betray the project of the poem, or make the work more accessible to the everyday, non-English major reader?

Stanley Fish wrote today in the NY Times about a new "translation" of Milton: a prose interpretation alongside the original work. It makes a great work of English literature accessible to those who want it.

My initial impulse is to dislike it (why don't we just get students to use ClifNotes?), but after a bit of thought, I realized something like this could be a great teaching tool for high school teachers, or in an introductory English course in college. Milton's epic is worth experiencing, even if you need a bit of help translating/interpreting.

I think I'm going to order it and check it out. Maybe I'll even try to read the whole work--I've read parts of it, but that epic is long!--to experiment with how it will read for a student. For me, works like this have to strike a balance between getting folks to read Great Books and simplifying it for readers. I think Danielson's translation doesn't reduce it down (like ClifNotes might), but instead illuminates it. And that is a worthy project.

Note Spoilers

I don't like having endings spoiled for me. When I read a story, I want to savor it, to follow the dips and twists and turns, and finally come to that satisfying conclusion when everything is resolved. It's part of reading/hearing a story--or least a successful story.

However, apparently in academia, we no longer read for enjoyment. Frequently, endings are spoiled by well-meaning editors. The site of the crime? Footnotes and endnotes. These editors put in the notes with the good intention of explaining bits of the narrative that might get lost because of antiquated language or conventions that are lost.

However, occasionally editors have the urge to insert interpretive material in their notes. Sometimes that interpretive material gives away a major plot point. I'm barely a third through Cleland's Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, and now (because of a damned note), I think I know how it's going to end. I don't like having ends ruined, especially when I'm really getting into the story. Why do they assume that we read for information and not enjoyment? I may be studying this text for class, but I also enjoy reading a good story. And this is a good story*.

*With sex. Lots and lots of sex. In fact, this novel is also considered one of the most famous English erotic novels. For all the pornography, it also has a good story. More about this later.

Literary Comic

If you get this comic, you get 10 points.




















For more fun comics, click here.

"It's Complicated"

When you live in a black and white world, you have black and white thoughts and split the world into black and white things, even if they really aren't. When confronted with an idea or a person who doesn't fit into an either-or category, the black-&-white thinker will either moralize the issue or somehow find a way to rationalize stuffing the colorful bit into one of the two modes of being.

It would be nice if the world were so simple. Honestly, it's easier to live and know what to believe when you don't have to wrestle with the complexities of any situation, if the world can be reduced so easily. If literature has taught me one thing, however, it is that the world is complicated. The simplest interpretation is rarely the only one, or even the best one.* Maybe I'm just defending my discipline, but there are reasons that we keep reading Milton, Keats, Byron, Donne, Shakespeare.** When a writer's life and circumstances are complex, then (reasonably) their writing (if it's any good) should also be complex. I like unanswered questions in books. Does Hamlet love Ophelia? I don't know, but we can discuss it!***

I don't mind disagreeing with fellow students, or having them disagree with me. It's all part of the messy, fun, complicated world of literary studies.

All of this discussion of literature is just a segue into a deeper topic: my mother. As someone grounded firmly in the world of literary studies and who doesn't mind having unanswered questions, I am baffled to discover that my own mother thinks in such stark, boxy terms. Things are wrong, or they're right, and there is no middle ground. In her mind, there is no room for possible complex interpretations: perhaps so-and-so meant this, but it ended up like that.

I, however, dislike simple interpretations (except where warranted). Thus, I cannot agree totally with conservative politics, which often label ideas, peoples, and events as "good" versus "evil" (*ahem, Bush*). My mind does not allow me to make things out so simply. My mother, on the other hand, reduces the world to simplistic terms and refuses to acknowledge that it could be more than what she thinks. With the introduction of "faith", we add a new level to her perspective. When she says, "I follow what my morality and faith lead and that's it...if God wouldn't approve then neither do I...", she makes sure I know that my political leanings place me on the opposing side, and I am caught once more in the world of duality.

I realize that I'll never be able to convince her otherwise. I hate that she reduces my own beliefs, faith, and perspectives to her simplistic world-view, but what can I do? I think that if she'd just affirm that while she does not agree with me, she still feels my perspective is valid, then perhaps I'd not feel so defensive and trapped around her. But that validation would require her to see the world in wider terms, which I'm uncertain will ever happen. Such is life.****


*Though, sometimes it is.

**Besides the fact that they are damn fine books. Oh, and the words sound so nice.

***Most of the time, I think he does. Occasionally, and when viewing a really good production, I have to wonder though. Perhaps he's too absorbed in his own mind to really love anyone. Or perhaps he only puts that front on because he loves too much and wishes to protect Ophelia from his tortured mind...

****I foolishly cling to hope that she'll one day wake up and notice other colors besides black and white. It can't be helped. We must always believe that the ones we love can learn and grow. Meanwhile, I remain frustrated by her fundamentalism and reductionism.