Updated Literacy Essay

As this semester and this calendar year both draw to a close, I feel as if I've never been better poised to tackle a work of literature and think critically about it, or to tackle the tangled web of potential subject matter in my own head and sort it out into a cohesive statement which will carry to it a ring of truth. This class, the training I have received in it, and the literature I have read in it are no doubt invaluable in guiding me to better understanding of how to achieve those ends. Studying Elizabeth Bishop, specifically, more closely than I had when previously being introduced to her work was very much an enriching experience — delving deeper into Bishop's oeuvre served to remind me how truly great poets inspire me to write fiction (or to write anything, for that matter) more than the majority of prose writers do.

Having come through this class as a rite of passage for those on track to obtain a degree in English, I can say with confidence that there is no other field of study to which I would rather devote my time and energy. Great literature in any form captivates me, drives me to ingest it fully, to revel in it, to go and do likewise, so to speak. My strongest desire is to write until something comes out indelible, and will outlive me and mean something beyond the chronological and geographical boundaries of my own life. And to that end I will continue to document, in one form or another, my observations (imaginary or otherwise), my thoughts about the world and where I am situated in it. This does not, however, mean writing only about myself and my surroundings—though, I will say, I see little use in the largely escapist fantasy of writing about any world in which I could not, by some comparison or reasonable abstraction, imagine myself existing. This robs the art of the sense of communicative identification which, to me, is vital to any great work.

In summing up, I don't know that I was born to do anything, exactly, but I do know that writing is what I am living to do.

Curb Your Enthusiasm

Beyond being well-crafted and thoroughly funny entertainment, Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm deals with important and relevant topics and social concerns, often developing an intricate symbolic framework within the context of a single episode. For its subject matter, the “Christ Nail” episode takes on the specter of fundamentalist Christianity and the commercialization and marketing of related religious iconography which should be incongruous with such crass cash-grabbing moves. The episode also examines the line between cultural norms and taboos as they relate to gender roles and identity, spousal tensions, and childhood myths. Larry's foibles when confronted with these issues provide much of the episode's humor.
Larry David's portrayal of himself on the screen is fascinatingly nuanced. He is not particularly likable, yet the audience is (or, at least, this viewer was) led to the belief that his demeanor does not render him deserving of the trouble in which he finds himself. In other words, the problems in his life arise not from his own shortcomings but are visited upon him by forces largely outside of his control.
The theme of this implication — that of outside forces influencing our daily lives — pervades a great deal of the episode. When the angry Jesus is charging at Larry in the hallway wielding the small, wooden cross, he steps on errant, upward-pointing nail (the same one Larry had taken from his father-in-law) and is felled by it once it has lodged itself in his foot. Larry is thus quite miraculously saved by the same “Christ nail” he had previously made a mockery of.

As he said: “You never know when you're gonna need a nail.”

Or a tooth fairy, for that matter.

Geography III

Throughout the course of the poems which make up Geography III, Elizabeth Bishop demonstrates a mastery of many forms, articulating herself in verse both free and constrained in order to achieve her specific poetic ends. For instance, the variation on and appropriation of the villanelle (a rather strict poetic form) in “One Art” showcases Bishop's willingness to simultaneously utilize forms of verse and bend their rules somewhat in order to communicate an idea or feeling effectively. A typical villanelle has repeating end lines without changes in wording, but Bishop varies her syntax throughout, seeming to pay more attention to the meaning of the repeated phrases and insuring that that meaning be carried through the poem. (How that meaning might be affected by the existence of irony in the poem is a separate matter—a question of content, not diction.)
“Crusoe In England” provides an interesting example of the ways in which Bishop drew inspiration from events and circumstances in her personal life while not writing overtly or directly about those circumstances. The revealing, at the poem's conclusion, of Friday's death mirrors Bishop's loss of her own companion. The description preceding this, though— of certain items which had been of use to Crusoe during his time on the island coming into the possession of a museum and being put on display— seems to comment on the propagation of the craft of poetry itself. The speaker describes the various keepsakes in their states of dereliction and asks, “How can anyone want such things?” The items represent defense mechanisms and providers of comfort in times of personal crisis, and their exhibition is comparable to the poetry or other works of art which those personal crises give rise to. The effect is ironic, akin to asking the reader outright, “Why is it that you want to read this? The moth-eaten trousers, the makeshift parasol, the flute gone silent—these things have outlived their own usefulness. What makes you think they will protect or comfort you from beneath the glass case?”

Glengarry Glen Ross

It is not for no reason that all of the cast of characters in Glengarry Glen Ross is male.
The play uses the male psyche as a canvas on which to portray a number of the ills of the human condition: egotism and deceitfulness (as exemplified by the majority of salesmen in the play) on the one hand; the impotence and depressive servility of Jim Lingk on the other. Though the play admittedly covers a broader range of emotions than that simplified dichotomy -- the weariness of Aaronow, the office's odd man out, comes to mind -- those two extremes are what the play contrasts the most overtly.
It seems to me that the target of Mamet's scorn, rather than being simply the businessmen in and of themselves, is the culture which gave birth to them. Part of this comes through in Aaronow's last statement in the play: "I hate this job." His hatred is not for his co-workers, but for their profession, for the rat race and its treachery. The line that follows it -- Roma's statement that he will be "at the restaurant," his hunting grounds where he can sell so well -- suggests that even after the ransacking of the office, Roma will still continue to do what he always does best: closing, taking advantage of those with weak defenses. In other words, the salesmen's work does not end with the play.

King Lear

King Lear is my third academic encounter with Shakespeare, coming at me after Julius Caesar in my sophomore year of high school and Othello in my senior. (I wrote a decent paper in ENGL1102 last year on Antony & Cleopatra but, I confess, did not actually read the play.)
Personally, I've always been on good terms with the Bard. The literature of his era is not, generally speaking, what really piques my interest (though I certainly do not consider myself a time-period-specific reader), but Shakespeare -- both his drama and his poetry -- still intrigue me. I think this is the case for the same reason that he has endured so well and is taught (with varying degrees of reluctance or enthusiasm from those on the receiving end) so widely across the board, on so many levels in the world of academia.
King Lear the character seems to be very polarizing. The reader either sympathizes with him, or hates him. I would say something similar to a comment I remember making in class about The Moviegoer -- that it is precisely that ambiguity and that ability to make the reader feel strongly in one of a number of ways that is Shakespeare's strength. It's not a sign of weak writing. That ambiguity is more true to life, then as it is now.
Also, it's interesting in the fact that, besides being the achievement of Shakespeare, the feelings of the reader towards Lear often says more about the reader than Lear or Shakespeare.
And, really, that is what [enduring] literature does: it shows us ourselves.

Persepolis

First and foremost, a disclaimer: Any and all polemical scribblings contained herein are very strictly non-antipathetic. i.e., The author would like to state that, for all intents and purposes, he attacks ideas, not people.
Thank you for your time.

-The Management (c/o Y.S.R.)

One thing I found interesting -- surprising, even -- about Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis, beyond my own immediate reaction(s) to it, was the kind of reactions it aroused in others, the broad spectrum which they covered. These responses ranged from warm appreciation for the author/artist's achievement in her attempt to communicate across multiple cultural boundaries and call attention to the common ground shared by the many sides to, conversely, sentiments bordering on knee-jerk aversion to that same attempt. It's in this line of thought that a misguidedly and blindly insular, uniquely American mentality so unfortunately apparent in so many other places comes to light. The story deals with a time and place in which those who were in power did not think too kindly of the United States or its interventionism, and in portraying the presence of these ideas, in spite of the book's distinctly neutral stance, it offends the delicate sensibilities of a number of people.
However, the suggestion that these depictions should be removed from the novel is not only a malignant strain of censorship, but is tantamount to a falsification of the history portrayed in the book. This attitude towards the text showcases not only a callous disrespect towards the difficult circumstances and traumatic experiences through which Ms. Satrapi lived, but also a very fundamental misunderstanding of the book's message and subject matter.
And that message, no matter how simplistic in its presentation -- if its depths be properly plumbed, rightly understood -- is so rich and resonant, so alive! So tragic, yet somehow triumphant!
Simply stated: by refusing to acknowledge the humanity we share with Ms. Satrapi and those close to her as seen in the novel, we, to a degree, negate our own.

The Moviegoer

My initial reaction to Walker Percy's The Moviegoer was one of remote appreciation. The more I really began to get a feel, though, for the story and for Percy's prose, that appreciation became less guarded. I started to see in his writing much of what I've loved in that of Flannery O'Connor — the eye for detail, the mind that knew which details were important; the ear for voice; the coexistence of the seemingly dichotomous realms of high-minded literary craftsmanship and uniquely southern mannerisms (“No'm,” a colloquial shortened form of “No ma'am,” comes to mind).
The more I've learned about Percy — his underlying religious conviction, and his being a religious writer but not one whose target audience is necessarily religious — the more this comparison made sense.
I identified with the novel on a few different levels: with Binx at several points in his search, and with Percy in some aspects of the novel's composition and his approach to it.
I found it particularly interesting how, beyond the major events that occurred in Binx's life and undoubtedly influenced him as he was growing up, it was his aunt that seemed to hold great sway over his early development, and his aunt who was so frustrated by who he became. She told him all he had to do was be a soldier, and then later in his life, when he is an actual soldier rather than a figurative one, he is wounded. This, of course, is the jump-off point of sorts for his 'search'.
Some of the characters, the names (i.e. the celebrities, for most readers today), and the terms (“Negress,” for example) have certainly dated, but the novel is still, I think, a work for the ages.

archaic faces frenzy ceramic fists

Faulkner-- As I Lay Dying
Don DeLillo-- Libra
Tim O'Brien-- If I Die In A Combat Zone

= best bag o' Goodwill book-section swag I ever come across. Seriously, $1.50 each for paperbacks? Can't beat that.

I've been itching some recently to write about political things (GERALDINE FERRARO IS A HAG, etc.), but have been loath to enter so soon the blog-body politic.

Also, lazy.

I've been trying to write songs based around loops and samples (somewhat similar to parts of Person Pitch, in a structural sense), but it's really difficult for me to get arrangements down pat. My mind flits to and from thoughts of one sound or another coming from this instrument or that. I'm an instrumentalist, a noisemaker... I've yet to cut my teeth as a songwriter.

Look at me, answering questions nobody's asked. A-ha ha ha.

first off

Eh, I wrote this sort of basing it around some of the contents of my spam folder.

Of the millions of people across the world:

"Daggum!"
"Indeed I'd say so, Susie."
"Mister, why, I oughtta..." she begins with phony affect; for a moment or two she trails off incoherently.
"Exactly."
Somehow, she thinks, it would be more pleasant would he never forgive me.
"I'm not really running away anyway," she says. She grabs his hand with both of hers and is fascinated by the evidence of a wristwatch's prior residency--the pale circle of skin in its absence.
"Reproached not for nothin' about goin' over flowerbeds and grass plats..." he laughs a little at himself for saying it. "Lord, I won't give the world such a free spirit."
Which reminds him: When I was five or six I saw a stag in the forest out of the window in my room... He had been sitting on a book on the marble countertop later that day telling the story of what he had seen to the people gathered around him--mostly relatives now dead--when his mother told him from the living room to get down from there this (or that) instant and he replied defiantly but I don't got a kitchen chair. For some reason he still remembered that. He fell off the countertop flat on his face, immediately wailing as only children can, prompting the nearer house-guests to exchange looks suggesting of both sympathy and an acute aural discomfort as his mother hustled to lift him in her arms and relocate him to a couch, chiding but soothing his newly goose-egged head.
He had not realized the extent to which the event had made an impression on him, not thought that a little one could maneuver a dagger into the heart of an armor-encased gentleman himself just an overgrown child...
He chokes up like the last droplets of a boyhood reserve finally being lifted from a well with no discernible end--having never dried up, his wails had pooled instead into dark circles underneath his eyes in their disuse
...

I don't really think of it as indicative of my writing style necessarily. I mean, yeah, I wrote it, but I was working with pre-existing elements, giving a story to the randomly-generated nonsense verse.