Reflection

This term seems to have began and ended in one swift currant. As I reflect on the term, I must acknowledge that this class has, as any good class should do, broadened my "bookworm" horizon, raised my intellectual awareness, and dispelled some of my ignorance. In all honestly, I really am not sure that, before this class, I had ever read any non-Western writings, and I probably never would have. I suppose I had previously ignorantly assumed that because the cultures would be so different from my own, I obviously wouldn't be able to relate to the writings. However, that just illustrates a small-minded and ignorant approach fueling my lack of respect for non-Western writers. While it is true that the cultures vary from one side of the globe to the other, and that is evident in most of the stories, at the core, the same emotions and mental processes that their characters exhibit are the very same as those of Western writers, and as those of my own.

Poetry Day

I, like many others who have already voiced their enjoyment of poetry day, feel the necessity to extend my own appreciation of it. The intimacy of the circled setting relaxes the defensive need to withhold personal reflections on the poems of our choice, and I felt, in some small way, connected to each of my fellow classmates as they shared and expressed their poems and the reasons behind the poems they chose. Poetry, more so than most other forms of writing, seems to express more of a rawness, revealing nothing less than the "dirty truth" of reflection.

"The Waking" has always been my favorite poem, probably because I did form such an attachment to it during my adolescence, which we all know is a crucial time in the development of our beings. However, I consider it to be mine; like Roethke wrote it specifically for my own reflection and consideration, and because of this, I briefly thought about changing my selection to my second favorite poem : "George Gray" by Edgar Lee Masters. Had I known we were going to be afforded more than one poem, I would have brought it along with "The Waking"... ah well, perhaps some other time.

I particularly enjoyed hearing the personal poetic musings of a few of my classmates. Poetry is a meticulous art requiring either a natural tendency toward it, or a patient forger, and I truly appreciate hearing an artist read their own work. I, on the other hand, having neither the natural tendency, nor the patience, will stick to simply reading it from others, and writing only my prose. :)

Measuring Life with Coffee Spoons

I have always been very fond of T.S. Eliot's writing and "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" is no exception to my fascination. Particularly ponderous for me are the lines:

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.


My interpretation of the entire text of the poem is of an internal monologue of Prufrock with himself. Mimicking a conversation with a separate entity, almost unsure of him self from one side of a circumstance to another. When he considers the fates and the destiny those fates have laid out for humanity, it's easy for the reader to sympathize with his need for persuasion to "dare" to "disturb the universe?" And even when the universe and its fates are disturbed, and even when,  for a minute, it is able to be altered, all it takes is one more minute to undo the previous minutes progress. It's the irony of it all; one step forward, three steps back. Not to mention that it is easier just to let fate have the final word after having spent youth struggling against the burden of attempting to challenge the fates. Ultimately, at Prufrock's age, there were ample occasions to which he could have seized every opportunity imaginable. It's the unspoken, but often acknowledged blessing of youth, and the curse of time against age. Every opportunity has been "known" at one time or another, and after having passed them by, his life can easily be measured in the mundane coffee spoon.

Snow Country

Kawabata Yasunari's Snow Country is one of my newfound favorites. I found it initially to be a smooth, fluid read with a strange softness that compelled me to read a little further. Kawabata's metaphoric parallels and soft-spoken , straightforward descriptions remind me of the pastels of a watercolor painting.

Though there is confusion in the character relationships, unlike Pedro Paramo where I struggled in frustration with the character connections, in Snow Country it is amusing and intriguingly compelling to mix and match and squish together relationships as concocted in my own mind. Whether two-by-two, "menage a trois", or individually considered, Kawabata allows the reader to intimately "peek" into their lives. His characters are complex, but brilliantly crafted so as not to be frustrating.

While looking at the text through the lens of gender comparison, it strikes me as very ruggedly manly; strange, considering the gentility with which Kawabata uses his words. Shimamura is incredibly the epitome of the classic, evolutionary male figure in regards to sexuality. Interesting also because he seems to lack the drive and ambition that most men, stereotypically, find so crucial to their very being. A psychological consideration of Shimamura propels me to wonder in curiosity what his backstory is, and why he is so repelled at intimate interconnectedness.

The relationship he does allow himself to experience with Komako is so purely true, even wrapped up in all it's hidden sensuality, secret sexuality, and flirty interaction. I love, love, love that it's not the same ole, sometimes all too commonplace, icky, sappy love story. Instead,  Kawabata captures the complexities, uncertainties, and awkwardness of the play between two lovers who bound aimlessly toward desire, but tiptoe gracefully on the precipice between avoiding and accepting the steep, point-of-no-return that is love. As I read the interactions between the two it is easy to see it unfolding right before my eyes because it seems just so real.

Let's Talk Stage

I have to confess, shameful as it is, that I did not read the entirety of Death and the King's Horseman. It may have been obvious by my lack of comments in class, or even more so by my complete failure at correctly answering the quiz today, to which I answered that they were all dead with the exception of Elesin. *facepalm* Yikes. 

The truth is that while I found it to be a fascinating story, my brain refuses to fully process stage plays. I worry too much about setting the stage: the costumes, the painted cardboard backdrops, stage props... I worry over what kind of accent to properly hear the characters speaking in; who I will cast as characters. Eventually I finish getting the stage set and the costumes designed and I bark orders to an actor to the right, similar to the way a director of a movie would. I begin reading. It's a conversation between two people and I'm okay for the most part, pausing slightly to make a few minor adjustments to setting and such. Once a third character chimes in though, forget it. I don't want to continually read each name before each section of dialogue, so I skip them. It is not a good thing to skip the names of the speakers because at some point it occurs to me that I have no clue who's saying what. Now I'm irritated. I begin again at the beginning in hopes that this time I get a little further along.

To be fair, while I repeat this same scenario with all plays, there are some that I don't get quite so hung up on. Perhaps it is the Shakespearean influence that I have trouble grasping. As an English major, it is sacrilegious and I'm probably going to literary hell for saying so, but I loathe reading Shakespeare. Granted, his tales are fascinating, with impressive psychological force, and huge, brilliant characters. Maybe I dislike that he is often regarded as the single-most important literary figure. ever. Maybe I hate that his works are put on a pedestal where other works are forced in comparison and never really allowed to measure up. Or, maybe it's nothing more than the shallow dislike of the painful reading and interpretation of "ye olde English". 

All I know is that my grade is thankful that Death and the King's Horseman is the only play for this term.

Agreeing to Disagree

Ahhh, Virginia Woolfe. I am so very fond of her, though I disagree with much of what she says. It is such a pleasure to read her work, with its stabbing sarcasm and clenching dry humor. She is witty and clever and amusing and I am not even certain that she ever knew it, which is really quite the shame. I find that as I am reading A Room of One's Own my lip is permanently placed in slight raise at my amusement with her humor. I wish, at times, to stand up and yell, "You go girl!," and sometimes I glance at my husband, unaware that he is, and think how it would serve him right if I could display just a small bit of her feminist strength. This thought, too, makes me smile. But then... there are three points Woolfe is quite steadfast about, and I am not quite so sure she is justified in them.

The first of which being that a woman must have a room of her own in which to write. Often while writing my own words, I consider how nice it would be to have my own space, far away from husband and kids, where no one is asking "where is my hammer?," or "where is my goldfish and why is it not in its tank?". Where there are no shouts of, "Mo-om! The cat puked on Alex's truck and then he wiped it on my Barbie's hair!" How nice it would be to seclude myself from these things and just immerse myself in my writing... but then, I am reminded that it is these things that influence the creation of my writing. It is these things that periodically bring me back to the reality, away from my wandering thoughts and the world I'm creating within  my head; a world unshared by the people I love until it is placed on page and I allow it to be read. Yes, Virginia, a room of my own would be nice at times, but the loss of the things of reality could prove detrimental to the actual writings supposed to be taking place in those rooms.

Secondly, Woolfe is insistent that to be a successful writer, a woman must have money of her own. It would certainly be nice to have a continuous and plentiful flow of money to pay the bills so that I might not have to worry over it. (Is that not, in fact, why I got married? Ha! Just kidding... some slight humor to stab at the feminist notion there for a moment. We now return to more serious matters.) The truth though is that it is unrealistic, and to suggest such a thing as a necessary requirement to successful writing is discouraging and uncalled for. It is easy, Virginia, to write such a ridiculous notion from your place of privilege; had you not had the financial means that you did, I doubt your view would have been the same.

Finally, and perhaps most controversial for me, is Woolfe's notion of things written in anger. I disagree with her on this in a few ways. First, she implies that truth cannot be told when written in anger. I think she has gotten this wrong. One of the great and unforgiveable traits of writing in anger is that the filter is removed, consideration of other people and other views is disregarded, and the words that are written are true to the very core of the writer. This is, of course, crucial to be read with the understanding that there is no absolute truth; truth is true based on perspective. (Interject philosophical discussion here.) Secondly, it is in anger that our passions for a particular subject are ignited and blaze across a page like a declaration in blood. What the writer depicts on his/her page will be felt as it resonates within the reader, prompting action (particularly useful in political pieces).

Tagore, Ta"bore"

I mean no disrespect to the great literary voices that be, but I cannot take a liking to Tagore. I have tried. I have read, reread, and read again his works as represented in our textbooks and I just cannot have a single attachment to his work. Much of what I struggle with in regards to the poetry of Tagore is his apparent indecision of whether or not to write poetry... or...prose. His writing style feels awkward to me as I I feel like he waivers uncertainly between whether he's writing a poem or stepping over the line into prose. His words are certainly probably mainly poetic, in a sense, but his structure leans strongly to being not.

But then... maybe it is his more relaxed and peaceful approach to things that I do not prefer. Maybe I am drawn to the more compelling passions of the distraught political themes written by the people disturbed by things. Maybe it's the Machiavelli in everyone that I want to see. I tend to be of the thinking that anybody can sit down and write a pretty, flowery, happy piece about...what? I'm really not sure; but it is the job of the writer to write about those things that no one else can or will. Maybe I'm not getting a sense of purpose from Tagore's writing. Maybe I expect too much of writers and poets to convey something that forces me to examine myself and my thoughts and my ideals.  Maybe I just simply don't like his work, and that is ok.