Well, gentle reader, we have read Grendel.
Whew!
So what did you think? And what do you think? Where do you place yourself on the Shaper-Dragon-Beowulf spectrum? We know all about poor Grendel's accident; how do we avoid our own?
And finally, what did you think of John Gardner's letter to those students? Let's pretend for a moment that Gardner is still alive... how would you respond to this letter? It's tone? It's content? It's anything?
Be brave, draft a response letter, and post it to the comments of this entry.
Dear John Gardner,
...
Friday, September 28, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
"Beowulf" the Clunky, Perfect Legend
What do we want out of our heroes? Unequaled prowess, check. Unachievable achievements, check. A conflicted soul that ultimately overcomes evil and demonstrates goodness, check and mate.
And what of the legends themselves? What of the stories? Don't the vehicles for these heroes require a certain glossy veneer, a level of direct forwardness by which to view the hero's deeds? Like a Michael Bay theatrical juggernaut, the stories we desire deliver their content with as much ease as possible, progressing ever forward and forward. No delays allowed, please. My popcorn will run out.
Which is why we exit such films admiring the effects and already forgetting the people involved in them by the time we reach our cars.
Consider Beowulf the story. It "lacks steady advance" as Klaeber states. This is true. The plot digresses. It stalls before moving again. To be clear, it lurches sideways and backwards like the story itself is sloshing on the whale-road. Which is what makes it awesome. Because every sideways step provides a layer, like winding fabric around the loom, one loop at a time. And the layers do not represent mere facts, subplots begetting subplots, as much as they stand for humanity. Beowulf the man does not truly exist until we see him arrive home and retell his story with his words, and endure Hygelac's gentle admonishments for leaving in the first place, and learn about the sordid family history--the pain and love endured by Hrethel and his offspring. And oh yeah, there's a dragon to be dealt with, too.
This is not some early artistic experiment of art imitating life. This is a skilled storyteller telling about a man worth knowing. Because he is a hero also, but only because he is an honorable man first. I argue that although it missteps the most, the final third of the poem is the best because it is this section that finally deserves the title Beowulf. We love watching him rip arms off of things and swim underwater all day with the fire-snakes and berate drunken idiots in their own homes. We love this action. But we finally get around to caring about Beowulf after enduring the imperfect, clunky family history that follows.
And I'm fine with that. I'm fine with clunky. Because that's what I am. And I like seeing a little of that in my heroes from time to time. And their stories.
And what of the legends themselves? What of the stories? Don't the vehicles for these heroes require a certain glossy veneer, a level of direct forwardness by which to view the hero's deeds? Like a Michael Bay theatrical juggernaut, the stories we desire deliver their content with as much ease as possible, progressing ever forward and forward. No delays allowed, please. My popcorn will run out.
Which is why we exit such films admiring the effects and already forgetting the people involved in them by the time we reach our cars.
Consider Beowulf the story. It "lacks steady advance" as Klaeber states. This is true. The plot digresses. It stalls before moving again. To be clear, it lurches sideways and backwards like the story itself is sloshing on the whale-road. Which is what makes it awesome. Because every sideways step provides a layer, like winding fabric around the loom, one loop at a time. And the layers do not represent mere facts, subplots begetting subplots, as much as they stand for humanity. Beowulf the man does not truly exist until we see him arrive home and retell his story with his words, and endure Hygelac's gentle admonishments for leaving in the first place, and learn about the sordid family history--the pain and love endured by Hrethel and his offspring. And oh yeah, there's a dragon to be dealt with, too.
This is not some early artistic experiment of art imitating life. This is a skilled storyteller telling about a man worth knowing. Because he is a hero also, but only because he is an honorable man first. I argue that although it missteps the most, the final third of the poem is the best because it is this section that finally deserves the title Beowulf. We love watching him rip arms off of things and swim underwater all day with the fire-snakes and berate drunken idiots in their own homes. We love this action. But we finally get around to caring about Beowulf after enduring the imperfect, clunky family history that follows.
And I'm fine with that. I'm fine with clunky. Because that's what I am. And I like seeing a little of that in my heroes from time to time. And their stories.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Crumbling like a Human Cookie
Aunt Emily tells us that "Crumbling is not an instant's act" and I think I believe her. After all, my own "organized decays" are true works of art; just ask Chipotle what it's doing to my blood pressure, one bite at a time. Like a cinder-blocked routine of devastation, I order out for pizza once a week, every week.
Organized, indeed.
Organized, indeed.
And it's all nice and good when we, gentle reader, can apply such literary analysis to our own lives. After all, isn't this the very type of enrichment that great literature begs of us? I believe so. But how in the world do we apply it elsewhere? Is reading great literature only to be an isolated journey of the self, only applying inward? Sounds lonely. The most enlightened man is only still a man if he cannot point his flame outward, right? But then, how in the world are you supposed to take Dickinson's wisdom and make use of it, for someone else? Quote her? Are we supposed to quote poetry at people?
"You know, you should rest easy; your entire relationship didn't just collapse around this one argument. It's been crumbling for years. Methodically, slowly. Slipping, after all, is Crash's Law, just like Emily Dickinson said. Don't get too hung up on today's latest entanglement. You've been doomed for a while now."
Uh huh.
So the question becomes, now that I am wiser for reading Dickinson, do I do anything with it? What do I do with it? Who cares what a weird, introverted poet has to say on the matter. She's dead and poetry is whatever you want it to be.
Right?
Well, it doesn't much matter for me. I am a non-doer, so quoting poetry is right up my actionless alley. You, gentle reader, are probably a different story. You have the opportunity here. You are the one with mountains to climb, with places to go, with people to influence. All the while better equipped for the mountain, the places, the people because you will be aware of the cuticles of dust forming along the edges, and you may have the chance to stop them, or at least to know about them and not be surprised. If Crash's Law is a law -- like gravity and love and inertia -- then I want to be informed on that one as well.
Squeezing poetry into a busy life is dangerous. You risk squeezing something else out.
Squeezing poetry into a busy life is dangerous. You risk squeezing something else out.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Hunger Games: Book or Movie?
Alright you literary movie-goers, The Hunger Games opens tonight. So which is better, the book or the movie? Go see it, gentle reader, and then drop us a comment...
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Limits of Hope and of Meanness
I was recently researching some commentary on Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winner, The Road, and I came across a quote by McCarthy regarding hope. The context of the quote dealt with McCarthy's harsh, violent characters living in a seemingly meaningless and unfeeling world -- basically how most of his writing isn't easily redemptive and, a lot of times, doesn't end well -- when I stumbled across this really powerful hammer-stroke:
"I don't think goodness is something that you learn. If you're left adrift in the world to learn goodness from it, you would be in trouble... There's not much you can do to try to make a child into something that he's not. But whatever he is, you can sure destroy it. Just be mean and cruel and you can destroy the best person."
Hmm.
It's not that I disagree with this; I think McCarthy has hit on something very real and very fundamental. What I've been turning over in my mind is the implication behind this idea: that evil has the advantage. To be clear, I don't want to slip into naivety or an over-romanticized version of the world; evil exists, it persists, it does doom some. However, I would like to suppose that the power of evil is equally balanced by the power of good, and if McCarthy is right (and I am understanding him correctly...), evil knows no limits, and goodness does. We are born with a finite amount of goodness -- like champagne in a crystal flute, perhaps just a few drops, perhaps threatening to overflow -- and that's it. No more, forever. But apply enough cruelty, enough meanness, enough cracks to the flute, and the entire portion is capable of being drained out. Meanness can overcome any amount of goodness.
Hmm.
Can goodness be replenished? Am I reading too much into the word "destroyed"? I suppose we may rebuild what is destroyed. But then, it isn't quite the same as the original. It has potential to be great again, just not the same. And maybe therein lies the beauty. If I am only capable of a little goodness, and I lose it, then it wouldn't take me that long to regain it. After all, it was only a small amount to begin with, and if I can't recoup it, then I am probably not trying hard enough. Likewise, if I am capable of a deep level of goodness and lose it all, it will take me much longer to recapture all of it. Perhaps I would not be able to recapture every last drop, but then I started with a lot more than others and should still find myself well ahead of the game.
So, gentle reader, evil doesn't win. Or at least, it doesn't have to. It is still a very real player in the game, but ultimately it has no unfair advantage. And the best part, I think (if I'm still understanding the quote correctly...), is that we ultimately have control over the meanness and the cruelty. Don't like it? Don't do it! Those are better odds still.
"I don't think goodness is something that you learn. If you're left adrift in the world to learn goodness from it, you would be in trouble... There's not much you can do to try to make a child into something that he's not. But whatever he is, you can sure destroy it. Just be mean and cruel and you can destroy the best person."
Hmm.
It's not that I disagree with this; I think McCarthy has hit on something very real and very fundamental. What I've been turning over in my mind is the implication behind this idea: that evil has the advantage. To be clear, I don't want to slip into naivety or an over-romanticized version of the world; evil exists, it persists, it does doom some. However, I would like to suppose that the power of evil is equally balanced by the power of good, and if McCarthy is right (and I am understanding him correctly...), evil knows no limits, and goodness does. We are born with a finite amount of goodness -- like champagne in a crystal flute, perhaps just a few drops, perhaps threatening to overflow -- and that's it. No more, forever. But apply enough cruelty, enough meanness, enough cracks to the flute, and the entire portion is capable of being drained out. Meanness can overcome any amount of goodness.
Hmm.
Can goodness be replenished? Am I reading too much into the word "destroyed"? I suppose we may rebuild what is destroyed. But then, it isn't quite the same as the original. It has potential to be great again, just not the same. And maybe therein lies the beauty. If I am only capable of a little goodness, and I lose it, then it wouldn't take me that long to regain it. After all, it was only a small amount to begin with, and if I can't recoup it, then I am probably not trying hard enough. Likewise, if I am capable of a deep level of goodness and lose it all, it will take me much longer to recapture all of it. Perhaps I would not be able to recapture every last drop, but then I started with a lot more than others and should still find myself well ahead of the game.
So, gentle reader, evil doesn't win. Or at least, it doesn't have to. It is still a very real player in the game, but ultimately it has no unfair advantage. And the best part, I think (if I'm still understanding the quote correctly...), is that we ultimately have control over the meanness and the cruelty. Don't like it? Don't do it! Those are better odds still.
Monday, January 9, 2012
2012 New Year's Resolutions
1. Jay Gatsby says he will "try to steer clear of dangerous women who cry over men's apparel."
2. Beowulf resolves nothing. For there is nothing to resolve. (Enter Chuck Norris joke here only substitute "Beowulf" for "Chuck Norris")
3. Ma Joad says she plans to feed her family "less carbs and more proteins" this coming year.
4. Boo Radley would have said "to get out more" had he actually been contacted for this list.
5. Rosencrantz resolves to "ask more questions" especially in the presence of insane royal people.
6. Daisy Buchanan says she wants to cry less around men and their shirts. To which Holden Caulfield replies"stop being so damn phony" at which Daisy starts to cry. Holden gets depressed and goes off to find the ducks.
7. Beowulf changes his mind and decides to kill a dragon and leave his country defenseless this year.
8. Montag says he will come up with a nickname to avoid further confusion over long and short vowel sounds.
9. Victor Frankenstein resolves to tamper with the natural order of life and death "just one more time."
10. Ophelia decides to "not worry" about those swimming lessons.
2. Beowulf resolves nothing. For there is nothing to resolve. (Enter Chuck Norris joke here only substitute "Beowulf" for "Chuck Norris")
3. Ma Joad says she plans to feed her family "less carbs and more proteins" this coming year.
4. Boo Radley would have said "to get out more" had he actually been contacted for this list.
5. Rosencrantz resolves to "ask more questions" especially in the presence of insane royal people.
6. Daisy Buchanan says she wants to cry less around men and their shirts. To which Holden Caulfield replies"stop being so damn phony" at which Daisy starts to cry. Holden gets depressed and goes off to find the ducks.
7. Beowulf changes his mind and decides to kill a dragon and leave his country defenseless this year.
8. Montag says he will come up with a nickname to avoid further confusion over long and short vowel sounds.
9. Victor Frankenstein resolves to tamper with the natural order of life and death "just one more time."
10. Ophelia decides to "not worry" about those swimming lessons.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Top 5 Things Hamlet Can Learn From Beowulf
This is a quick list. Very self-explanatory. After all, without Beowulf there may not even be an Elsinore for Hamlet to mope around...
1. Avoid the pool. People like to bring up swimming at the Danish royal table.
2. Don't look the Queen directly in the eye. She's liable to adopt you as grand protector of her wimpy adolescent children. Except when you're already related to the Queen. In that case, have your mother invite a big, bad Geatish warrior to come visit from across the sea to become your new grand protector. It'll be worth your time, trust me.
3. Swords optional.
4. Get that front door checked.
5. I am your (great-great-great-great-great grand) father!
Go Hamlet, go.
1. Avoid the pool. People like to bring up swimming at the Danish royal table.
2. Don't look the Queen directly in the eye. She's liable to adopt you as grand protector of her wimpy adolescent children. Except when you're already related to the Queen. In that case, have your mother invite a big, bad Geatish warrior to come visit from across the sea to become your new grand protector. It'll be worth your time, trust me.
3. Swords optional.
4. Get that front door checked.
5. I am your (great-great-great-great-great grand) father!
Go Hamlet, go.
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