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Today’s class discussion got me thinking.
Personally, I think that one of the highest forms of art is finding beauty or complexity or the sublime in the everyday. While I admit, I like lofty flowery literature — I’m a Shakespeare addict and I have a literary crush on Tennyson — I absolutely adore those writers who can capture the sublime in the everyday. Two words: Ernest. Hemingway. I love that he can strip his language down to the barest it can be, and still captures something that makes us feel that rush.
To dismiss the average person as undeserving of our efforts as writers is really upsetting to me. I feel that if you think that you as writer or artist in general are above the rest of the population, then you’re missing what art is about.
Yes, there are people who don’t understand literature, who aren’t interested in it, who just don’t care. I understand that. I don’t think the migrant worker who works all day, hunched over in a field, picking strawberries is any less valuable than an artist. He might not give a crap about writers, and could very well think we’re the ones who are ignorant as we “toil” away over a hot pen and paper. As writers, what are we writing about? Emotion, behavior, struggles… Humanity. In many ways, the general public is just as important to literature as the writers.
It’s noble to say that even if your work only reaches a handful of people, you’ll still be satisfied, but writing has such power it seems a shame to exclude the majority of the world by making your work inaccessible.
I think it’s fine to have your own specific audience, but I think there is something to be said for the people we are actually writing about.
While I like the ideas, themes, and motifs of the other books we’ve read so far for this course, Moby-Dick is the one I am enjoying reading the most. It’s pushing 200 years since this book was published, but still, the narrative is accessible and understandable.
In Chapter I (I have the Barnes&Noble Classics edition, so page 31 for me) Ishmael is describing one reason why he likes being at sea.
Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the forcastle deck. For as in this world, head winds are almost more present from winds from astern (that is if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailor’s on the forcastle.
At first I took this as some kind of fart joke, but now I am not so sure… I hope it’s a fart joke.
I also like Melville’s portrayal of Ishmael and Quequeg’s relationship. (“A cozy, loving pair.”) I know it was pointed out in class that this seems somewhat on the homoerotic side, and I realize it probably was scandalous for the first readers due to Melville’s cutesy wordings, but friends of the same gender often were close and it was seen as not unusual in the past. Men could write letters to other men expressing their love for male friends, etc., without it being gay. I’m probably wrong, but part of it could be cultural differences.
This is an excerpt from a nonfiction piece I wrote in my junior year.
General Anxieties and the Evolution of Style
When I was around eleven years old, I watched a Discovery channel[1] special on sudden overnight baldness.[2] The people interviewed on the program had always had full heads of hair, until one morning when they woke to find it was all gone. It strikes without warning and can affect anyone. Ever since, I have been afraid of losing my hair. When I go to bed at night, I sometimes think about what it would be like to wake up with my hair laying all around me on my pillow, my head smooth and bare. When I am in the shower rinsing the shampoo or conditioner from my hair, I run my hands through my hair until the soap is gone. The stray hairs that catch on my hand are a reminder to me that baldness can strike at any moment. I often imagine that all my hair dying escapades will come back to haunt me when I’m old, and I have to pull of a comb-over. You know, one of those puffed up old lady comb-overs that you see so often.
Now, this probably seems like an irrational fear. I have no bald relatives in my immediate family. I can’t think of a single one. Some people say bald is beautiful.[3] Not for me. I know for a fact that I have a lumpy head. There’s even a weird dent in my forehead from the time I fell off of a merry-go-round[4] in the church playground after my parent’s wedding. As my mom puts it, I cracked my head open. I can feel the crack go up into my scalp. It certainly would not look good exposed.
So, why do I worry about this? In the simplest terms, I am a worrier. Many people do not know this about me because I appear very cavalier and nonchalant about things. I make light of situations by joking about them, even when I really am seriously distressed about something. In reality, I lay awake every night just worrying.
A psychic came to my Horror Films class and gave readings to class. She pointed at me, calling me the girl with the red hair. She said I am a joker, and I don’t take things as seriously as I should. She said I need to get real serious, real fast. Whether or not she figured that out through her supernatural powers or just through observation, she was right that I am a bit of a class clown. I don’t think that the problem is that I don’t take things seriously enough. In fact, I probably take things too seriously. I just choose to hide this aspect of myself from my friends and those around me. I don’t want people to think I’m irrational. What they don’t know is that I worry about everything. I worry so much that I even worry I might have some kind of disorder, but I tell myself, if I had General Anxiety Disorder[5] I wouldn’t know it.
I worry about dentist appointments, and facing my orthodontist[6] when he sees that I haven’t been wearing my retainer.[7] (I left it at home during a one week vacation. After that I just couldn’t fit it on. It’s now one year later, and I’ve managed to weasel out of every orthodontist appointment since then. I can’t keep running from the truth forever. One day, I’m going to have to go back to have the permanent retainer removed from my lower teeth. Boy, will the shit hit the fan[8] then.)
I worry about the past, and relive terribly embarrassing moments in my life over and over, asking myself how I could ever be such an idiot. Once, I told my grandmother that my dad smoked crack.[9] That was completely untrue. I was about five years old then; I didn’t even know what crack was. To this day I think about that memory and cringe. I worry about the future, and how I’ll ever be able to afford food or get a real job.
[1] A popular American television channel that provided viewers with programming on science, history and technology.
[2] Also known as alopecia.
[3] Phrase that likely grew out of the “Black is beautiful” phrase.
[4] A circular playground ride that spins like a carousel. Riders must hold on while one person spins until it gains momentum.
[5] An unnatural and excessive worrying about everyday things, causing the sufferer to be unable to complete simple, everyday tasks.
[6] A specific kind of dentist who applies corrective braces onto his patients teeth.
[7] When a patient’s teeth have become sufficiently straightened by the corrective braces, they are removed, and the patient is instructed to wear a mouthpiece called a retainer to keep their teeth from going back to the original configuration.
[8] A brilliant idiom used to describe a situation which has lost control and has become disastrous.
[9] A drug derived from cocaine. It is cheaper and more damaging. Users are called “crack-heads.”
This is how Friday would write had he been fluent in English… Modern English. Well, just pretend this was in his language and translated into English.
With Robinson’s attitude towards Friday, I think Defoe is very aware of what he’s doing. Robinson’s treatment of Friday is shown for a reason. It’s clear, as this has been a pattern. Defoe had to have known that we would question his treatment of the slave boy when he himself was a slave. Same, too, with Friday. We are meant to think about his treating Friday as a subordinate. Friday is just like that little boy, and indeed Crusoe feels he must teach Friday as he knows nothing about morals or right and wrong. (Not what I think, but in the context of Crusoe’s world.) I think it would be interesting if Friday saw Crusoe as being part of HIS god’s providence.
Entry One.
I am very blessed. My god has sent me a protector. I was condemned to death by my enemies to be eaten, and by my god’s doing, I escaped and ran into a dark cave. To my surprise a very strange looking man was already in the cave. He didn’t look like anyone from my village and at first I didn’t know what to do… He looked like one of the men who came from the sea. Pale and strange. I was worried, but what could I do? What choice did I have? If the others found me, I was dead. What could I really lose?
It seems my god was smiling at me and has decided to spare me and send me a savior. This man helped fight off my attackers. He had some kind of stick that blew fire and a blade. Why would he do that? He didn’t need to save me. I knew this was some kind of miracle, and I know I must be loyal to him as he saved my life. If he is sent by god I must honor him. I owe it to him. I will do what I can to help him. It was providence.
This man speaks in some kind of dialect I have never encountered. When he attacked them, I tried to thank him. He clearly didn’t understand me, but seemed somehow pleased that I spoke to him. I am sleeping in his camp tonight. I think he is going to let me stay with him.
Entry Two.
I have showed my new friend that because he has saved my life, I owe it to him to do as he pleases. After all, I beleive it to be what god wants. He does not understand my words so I must try and act out my intentions for him. I acted like a dog and tried to show that I am vowing to serve him. I placed my body beneath him like a submissive animal, as this was the only way to show him my gratitude. This seems to be pleasing to him.
Entry Three.
I wanted to dig up the enemies we had killed but he became very angry at my suggestion. He even acted like he was going to throw up. I see that he does not like something about eating your enemies. To us, it’s the most sensible way of dealing with enemies and the dead. I don’t understand it, but I must be patient, this man is from god, and must know Benamuckee’s will.
We went to the battle grounds where many remains of the fallen are scattered. Master looked on with expressions that told me he was very displeased with what he saw. The scene was not surprising to me. This was all I knew. Enemies are to be consumed. Nothing can afford to be wasted and it assures the enemy’s spirit is killed. God must want me to see that this is no longer good. I must try and obey what master shows me. I was hungry and my actions must have hinted at what was on my mind as it made master very, very angry. I felt that acting upon my hunger would cause him to punish me.
Entry Four.
I have begun to understand some of the master’s language. I want to know what Robinson knows. He calls me “Friday,” says this is the day he found me. I am able to communicate well enough with him now that I don’t have to act everything out.
He has given me clothing to wear. At first I felt very weird and uncomfortable. I did not understand the nature of the clothes, but master says it is best to cover oneself.
He is taking the time to teach me all that I have been ignorant of. He seems to know about Benamuckee, but calls him by different names. He teaches me what god must want. Eating enemies or any person is wrong. An even more surprising revelation is that there is not only the good God, but a bad one too. I don’t quite understand. If God is the most powerful, why can’t he just destroy this bad god? Maybe the bad god is there for a reason. Robinson wouldn’t tell me why this is. Maybe it is not for me to know. Sin happens when you do something that is not pleasing to the good god, and disobeying master is not pleasing to him. I must follow his teachings.
I am not good at these imitation things. This is probably the most painful thing you’ll read today, but here goes. I just can’t make myself use more than one semi-colon or have faith that people will be able to discern what is being said amongst five hundred commas. Mine isn’t even grammatically correct as not all of these clauses need to be together but I don’t understand why you’d keep it all in one sentence anyway.
I had been obliged to fill my bookshelf with various treasures from my conquests, having placed empty cans from my shipwreck, which before had been filthy things to look upon, that i polished with silver polish so that they were fit for a king; nay I wish they were gold, and in them I have rings from my travels to Mexico when I was a boy of some five years; also on my shelf were pictures of jewels and baubles, which I had been obliged to clip from magazines, having pasted them to cardboard, I propped them upright on the shelf; I possessed one spoon which my grandmother had been obliged to give to my parents during their years of marriage and which they had given unto me; the spoon, having been made of silver, was not much to the liking of my mother who forewarned me of the dangers of what she called “God-awful-tackiness”; below those were my meager collection of nickels I didn’t want to take as money is not of importance to me, but with prudence, I took anyway and boiled each to ensure no illness might be transferred from the owners, which could have been cannibals, to me; I shined my nickels with silver polish while watching Donnie and Marie or Tony Orlando and Dawn.
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