Karen complained about having to make collages in English class in tenth grade, and other insults to her intelligence that she endured in high school. Steven: "You turned out all right in spite of that." Karen: "But for years I was filled with rage. I had nightmares about not graduating from high school because I had to fulfill the kindergarten requirement."
I asked them (as I've been asking everyone) what happened to the revolutionary* fervor that animated so many Texans in the 1890s (how can a political tradition vanish without a trace?), & Matthew mentioned the discovery of oil. That's very plausible!
*I didn't know what word to use here. "Populist" has a debased meaning, except as a proper adjective, and Goodwyn (rather perversely) redefines "Progressive" to mean "reactionary." Maybe I should call it "socialist," as their enemies did. (But they can't have objected, since they allied themselves with Eugene Debs!)
In spite of its jargon-filled introduction, The Populist Moment is very good.
I wish I could say the same of Georges Mounin's Storia della Linguistica. In spite of the title, and the publisher (Feltrinelli), this is not a book for the general reader. Mounin seems to think that the point of his book is to suggest directions for future research, and he's pathetically eager to prove that he's done his reading:
Si facevano ricerche qua e là su molti problemi dello stesso tipo: per esempio, quello dell'a indoeuropea, dove appare chiaro l'immobilismo rappresentato dalla teoria schleicheriana dell'antichità del sanscrito. Lo stesso Curtius aveva proposto un principio di soluzione, scartato da Schleicher. Esattamente in questo clima si debbono situare gli articoli di Brugmann e di Osthoff sulle sonore; il primo, nella prefazione, si riferisce, con elogi, del resto, a Scherer e a Leskien.
It sounds like a parody, but it's not. Does it have to be that boring? I don't think so. The first sentence refers to Sanskrit's tendency to turn every vowel into "a," but does he explain that? Of course not! "Then would be some stooping, and I choose never to stoop." He's constantly alluding to things that sound interesting, but he never explains.
I was quite excited about this book at first, because it has a long section on the ancients, the premise being that writing systems tell us a great deal about how people thought about language. It sounds like an obvious point, but so often people date the birth of linguistics to the nineteenth century, or worse, to Saussure. So I was delighted to see an acknowledgement that people had ideas on the subject thousands of years ago, even though they failed to put their ideas into scholarly format. But even this part of the book was a disappointment, because it wasn't illustrated.
Enough. If you know a good book on the history of linguistics, tell me about it.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
From Edith Wharton's Glimpses of the Moon
She had taken Clarissa, as usual, to the Giardino Pubblico, where that obliging child had politely but indifferently "played" — Clarissa joined in the diversions of her age as if conforming to an obsolete tradition — and had brought her back for a music lesson, echoes of which now drifted down from a distant window.
I've been savouring that parenthetic remark all day — it's so sad and funny, and quick.
Books:
January
The Black Cauldron (Alexander)
The Hunters (Messud)
The Castle of Llyr (Alexander)
Taran Wanderer (Alexander)
The High King (Alexander)
The Populist Moment: A History of the Agrarian Revolt in America (Goodwyn)
The Hunters (two novellas) was very good indeed. Messud works on a small canvas, or maybe I should say in negative space, for how many novellas are there about the relationship between a cleaning lady and her employer, or between a summer boarder and her neighbor? But these relationships fill the hearts of Messud's characters, and it seemed presumptuous to feel sorry for them, especially after one had been persuaded that what seemed like emptiness was pullulating with life... or with the shadow of life. You can't get away from the sadness of it.
I started reading the Prydain Chronicles back when I was eight. I got through The Book of Three and The Black Cauldron, and I must have read at least part of Taran Wanderer, because I remembered one episode from it. I remember very vividly learning the word "mesh," from Gwydion's first appearance, and "bauble," from Eilonwy's. I'd been meaning to read the whole thing for years, and now I finally have. It's wonderful. I especially liked the growing seriousness of the books, as if Alexander expected the reader to grow up along with Taran. His sense of humor is really fine, and I was actually moved to tears by two death scenes in The High King. One was of a comic character, and his death had the pointlessness of humor. (That's not the whole truth: part of what made it so poignant was that this ridiculous character, who gradually comes to realize how ridiculous he is, without losing his good humor, puts his silliness to good use and actually manages to save his companions at the cost of his own life. It's hard to kill off a boob without verging on the grotesque,* but Alexander pulls it off.)
*Is this true? I'm not sure.
Then I read Willa Cather's Lucy Gayheart. I read My Antonia in seventh grade, for school, and it left me cold. I was persuaded only recently to try Cather again. (By Jennie!) Since then I've read The Professor's House, Death Comes for the Archbishop, O Pioneers!, and now Lucy Gayheart. I've come to think that Cather can't write badly, even though I have no fine quotations to prove it — she's the least flashy of writers, and the most consistently graceful.
All her protagonists are people who are in love with the world and yet feel irredeemably alienated from it. There are so many warm, solid descriptions of landscapes, cityscapes, weather, music — all the good things one can always count on — and yet a fatal sense of separation. (In one way or another, people usually fail the protagonist.) The calm, gentle narration at first lulls me, and then seduces me so that I can't stop reading, and then in the end I'm devastated.
The same day I wrote that I read this, in Lucy Gayheart:
He had missed the deepest of all companionships, a relation with the earth itself, with a countryside and a people. That relationship, he knew, cannot be gone after and found; it must be long and deliberate, and conscious. It must, indeed, be a way of living. Well, he had missed it, whatever it was, and he had begun to believe it the most satisfying tie men can have.
I read Goodwyn's The Populist Moment right before Lucy Gayheart. One of the Populists' grievances was the rapacious lending practices of banks, and one of the main characters in Lucy Gayheart (set ten years after the Populist moment) is just such a banker who bankrupts farmers and buys them out. Cather doesn't gloss over this, but she does make it impossible for us to hate him.
She had taken Clarissa, as usual, to the Giardino Pubblico, where that obliging child had politely but indifferently "played" — Clarissa joined in the diversions of her age as if conforming to an obsolete tradition — and had brought her back for a music lesson, echoes of which now drifted down from a distant window.
I've been savouring that parenthetic remark all day — it's so sad and funny, and quick.
Books:
January
The Black Cauldron (Alexander)
The Hunters (Messud)
The Castle of Llyr (Alexander)
Taran Wanderer (Alexander)
The High King (Alexander)
The Populist Moment: A History of the Agrarian Revolt in America (Goodwyn)
The Hunters (two novellas) was very good indeed. Messud works on a small canvas, or maybe I should say in negative space, for how many novellas are there about the relationship between a cleaning lady and her employer, or between a summer boarder and her neighbor? But these relationships fill the hearts of Messud's characters, and it seemed presumptuous to feel sorry for them, especially after one had been persuaded that what seemed like emptiness was pullulating with life... or with the shadow of life. You can't get away from the sadness of it.
I started reading the Prydain Chronicles back when I was eight. I got through The Book of Three and The Black Cauldron, and I must have read at least part of Taran Wanderer, because I remembered one episode from it. I remember very vividly learning the word "mesh," from Gwydion's first appearance, and "bauble," from Eilonwy's. I'd been meaning to read the whole thing for years, and now I finally have. It's wonderful. I especially liked the growing seriousness of the books, as if Alexander expected the reader to grow up along with Taran. His sense of humor is really fine, and I was actually moved to tears by two death scenes in The High King. One was of a comic character, and his death had the pointlessness of humor. (That's not the whole truth: part of what made it so poignant was that this ridiculous character, who gradually comes to realize how ridiculous he is, without losing his good humor, puts his silliness to good use and actually manages to save his companions at the cost of his own life. It's hard to kill off a boob without verging on the grotesque,* but Alexander pulls it off.)
*Is this true? I'm not sure.
Then I read Willa Cather's Lucy Gayheart. I read My Antonia in seventh grade, for school, and it left me cold. I was persuaded only recently to try Cather again. (By Jennie!) Since then I've read The Professor's House, Death Comes for the Archbishop, O Pioneers!, and now Lucy Gayheart. I've come to think that Cather can't write badly, even though I have no fine quotations to prove it — she's the least flashy of writers, and the most consistently graceful.
All her protagonists are people who are in love with the world and yet feel irredeemably alienated from it. There are so many warm, solid descriptions of landscapes, cityscapes, weather, music — all the good things one can always count on — and yet a fatal sense of separation. (In one way or another, people usually fail the protagonist.) The calm, gentle narration at first lulls me, and then seduces me so that I can't stop reading, and then in the end I'm devastated.
The same day I wrote that I read this, in Lucy Gayheart:
He had missed the deepest of all companionships, a relation with the earth itself, with a countryside and a people. That relationship, he knew, cannot be gone after and found; it must be long and deliberate, and conscious. It must, indeed, be a way of living. Well, he had missed it, whatever it was, and he had begun to believe it the most satisfying tie men can have.
I read Goodwyn's The Populist Moment right before Lucy Gayheart. One of the Populists' grievances was the rapacious lending practices of banks, and one of the main characters in Lucy Gayheart (set ten years after the Populist moment) is just such a banker who bankrupts farmers and buys them out. Cather doesn't gloss over this, but she does make it impossible for us to hate him.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Books:
October
O Pioneers! (Cather)
Adam Bede (George Eliot)
November
The Mayor of Casterbridge (Hardy)
Austerlitz (Sebald)
The Giver (Lois Lowry)
The Civilization of Italy in the Renaissance (Burckhardt)
December
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Haddon)
Sartor Resartus (Carlyle)
The Book of Three (Alexander)
October
O Pioneers! (Cather)
Adam Bede (George Eliot)
November
The Mayor of Casterbridge (Hardy)
Austerlitz (Sebald)
The Giver (Lois Lowry)
The Civilization of Italy in the Renaissance (Burckhardt)
December
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Haddon)
Sartor Resartus (Carlyle)
The Book of Three (Alexander)
Coincidence: When I was in college I heard Frank Wilkinson speak, and he made a big impression on me. Still, he doesn't come up often in conversation. But two weeks ago I told Cary and Joey about him, and the next day I read his obituary.
Lots of student stories:
from last year's sixth grade:
Me: "What's a word that means 'not letting go'?"
Royce's hand shot up. "Royce?" "Tenacious!" "That's right! Very good!" I must have sounded surprised, because someone, I think Angela, said, "You didn't think anyone would get it, did you?"
From an essay of Royce's, on "An exchange student from China has just entered your school. What will you tell this student about student life at your school?" "…I would introduce the student to all my friends hoping that my peers would be friendly toward him. Truthfully, I will tell the student about how dull the classes really are. He may agree or disagree, but I wouldn't change my mind."
A senior at the academy just got into Harvard early, and the place was festooned with banners proclaiming, "Congratulations Daniel X— on winning early admission to Harvard! —— Academy awards you a $4000 scholarship!" I happen to have an eighth grader named Daniel X—, and he said to me, "I just got into Harvard early." Me: "Congratulations! Talk about 'early admissions' — four years early!" Later on, he said, in a bewildered tone, "Why am I even here? I got into Harvard!"
Some of the eighth graders have been going through a pretty serious slump, and I've been exasperated with them. But on the last day of the semester — I hope this isn't wishful thinking — they seemed to snap out of it. I said, "Underline any words in the poem that you don't know." And Jae, who's one of the smartest students in the class, and who's been slacking off more than anyone, said, "I'll just underline the whole thing." But I didn't have to rebuke him, because Josh teased him: "You don't know what 'me' means? Or 'coughing'? Man, that's sad. You gotta go back to pre-school."
We talked about chewing the cud, and I asked them what the connection was between "ruminant" (the term in zoology) and "to ruminate." And Jae ("I was forced to read Anne of Green Gables") elaborated the whole thought-as-digestion metaphor.
My sixth-graders continue to impress me. The other day, we strayed into early modern history, and Viren talked indulgences and predestination & Luther's 95 Theses, & the Society of Jesus, & knew who Henry VIII's children and first three wives were. When I said that Mary Tudor persecuted Protestants, he said, "a bit like her grandparents Ferdinand and Isabella, with the Inquisition" (which I'd never noticed). Viren, by the way, is the only non-Christian in the class. Then someone asked, "Did she burn witches too?" and Patrick said, "No, that was more in the seventeenth century." I almost wasn't sure I had heard him right, and had to ask him to repeat. I hadn't imagined it. Anyway, it was great fun, and when we came back to our sample sentences I looked at my watch and said, "Oh my goodness, we have only twenty minutes left!" Patrick: "That's OK — it was interesting."
They are asking hard questions too:
sixth grade: How did James I feel about being chosen to succeed to the throne of the queen who had ordered his mother executed?
eighth grade (in spite of the slump): If massacring civilians is a war crime, why is aerial bombardment of cities not prosecuted?
and
Since Japan hadn't signed the Geneva Convention [which I hadn't known], how could its leaders be prosecuted for war crimes after World War II?
One of the sample paragraphs I read with my sixth graders was from Woodward and Bernstein's The Final Days, so I told them about the Watergate scandal. And when I said "obstruction of justice" (or maybe it was in the paragraph), Viren exclaimed, "That's what Scooter Libby was indicted for!" Later, I had to confiscate a note that was being passed around. I was surprised to see that it began, "We, the undersigned." What's this? I read further; it was a petition to impeach Bush, listing all his misdeeds. Viren had drafted it, and everyone had signed. I gave it back at the end of class.
Another paragraph had "poor unity," and they commented that it was like a brainstorm. "Or like that exercise that Ms P. has us do — looping." Me: "What's that?" They explained. Richard: "It's so helpful." Me: "Are you being sarcastic?!" He grinned.
Toward the end of last semester we had a new boy. His first day he took the vocabulary quiz at the beginning of class, like everybody else, but I told him not to worry about getting things wrong, because I knew he hadn't had a chance to study the words. Even so, by the time he handed in the quiz he was nearly in tears; Richard, who is not a particularly gentle person, asked him, "Are you all right?" Ten minutes later he was fine. I hoped that was a sign of a conscientious student, and I think it was, but he was with us for only a few weeks, unfortunately.
Last year I wanted to tell my eighth graders about Littlefield's "parable on populism" interpretation of The Wizard of Oz. I explained what "oz" stood for, and the lion, the tinman, and the scarecrow, and I thought they could figure out the Emerald City for themselves. "Emerald stands for green, the color of the dollar bill, so the Emerald City is the financial capital of Oz." They look blank. "A rich, powerful city, with tall buildings." No response. (They were not a very good class; or maybe things look different from a Queens perspective.) So I told them.
I taught a few intensive courses over the winter break, and I was getting sad because the fifth grade seemed so inferior to my beloved sixth grade, which I will soon lose. But I shouldn't jump to conclusions. One of the fifth grade students was the younger sister of Maris Moon, who asked the question about Japan and the Geneva Convention. Her name is Salina. After class I looked over the roster, and when I saw "Salina Moon" my heart skipped a beat. Selene Moon?! Are her parents fans of classical mythology?! The next day after class I called her over. "Do you know what your name means?" I asked excitedly. "Yes. My sister and I, when we came to America, chose names that have to do with the English meaning of our last name." Maris? Maristella — star of the sea! And they chose their own names, not their parents! I can just see them, aged 7 and 10, knowing little English and less Greek mythology,* putting their heads together to come up with Maris and Salina!
*Though who knows: Patrick first read the Greek myths in Korean.
On the last day of class before the new year my sixth graders asked if I would teach them in the new semester, and I said I didn't know. Viren: "Probably not, because you're the best teacher, so you're only assigned to important classes, and after the Hunter test we won't be an important class." But I requested to teach them, and Dr. K said to me, "Do whatever you like with the sixth grade and the eighth grade — they love being with you." I'm so grateful he assigned them to me — the afterglow I get from teaching them lasts several days.
Richard, who is good at grammar, and has read five books on classical mythology, asked me the other day if he should choose Latin as an elective. He wanted to, but he'd heard it was hard. Me: "Oh Richard, don't be a wimp. It'll be hard, but you'll do fine, I'm sure." When I said the word "wimp" the whole class burst out laughing, and Richard blushed and made a fist: "I'll do it! I'll sign up!"
After Nina subbed with that class she said, "If I had to take one of them home with me it would be Patrick." I can see why: he's not only very intelligent and well-read, he's also sweet, mild, and reasonable. In the essay on a favorite age between 5 and 10 he wrote that his childhood was a succession of joyful moments, and I can believe it. In contrast, Richard wrote that there are memories he cherishes, and other times he wishes he could forget. He's complicated: an excellent student, a voracious reader, and one capable of pretty bad behavior. Last year I had to send him to the office several times. I felt sorry for him because it was clear that his high spirits were caused by enthusiasm; something would interest or amuse him beyond all measure, and pretty soon he would be acting like a chimpanzee. He's much improved this year.
The other day I walked into the room during break, and they (the sixth graders) were in an uproar. Apparently Richard had said (confidentially, I hope) to someone (Patrick?) that it was hard to find "smart hot girls"; this was bruited about, and by the time I came in the five boys were chuckling and the two girls were looking sour, especially Diana. I had to say something, but I could hardly say "I'm shocked that you should think such a thing," because I wasn't. So I said, "How can you say such a thing in the presence of two such intelligent young ladies as Joanne and Diana?" Diana*, who was already in a bad mood for another reason, harrumphed, and Richard said, "But it's true! Some girls can hardly even spell their own names —" I had to cut him off.
*Diana: "With my six-year-old body, I trudged through the vast halls of my new school... Now we are studying Egypt and Mesopotamia, and all the interesting facts leave me in a daze… With grateful eyes, I said yes... I would rather have gotten something else [not a make-up set], but the gift was more than enough." She's tiny, and very cute, so it's hard to picture her harrumphing, but that's what she did. She was sad because three days before the Hunter test her mother announced that they were moving to Long Island, so she didn't take the test.
I often don't sleep the day before I teach in Queens, partly because I have trouble falling asleep when I know I have to get up early (performance anxiety: I think, "I'd better fall asleep right now," so of course I don't), and partly because of excitement. (I could never be a regular teacher! I'd never get any sleep!) My exhaustion lends a strange, wrestling-with-the-angel quality to the whole long day. Some of the teaching doesn't take much effort, but often I hit a snag: "Now I have to be really subtle, or really tactful," and my mind goes blank. They all look at me expectantly. "OK, I have to finish this sentence somehow." And I do, but lamely. I've changed my schedule this semester, so I hope to get more sleep that night, but who knows.
Yesterday we were scanning a poem by Tennyson. It was in iambic tetrameter, but there were two trochees in parallel spots. I had no idea why, but wanted to let them know that this was something one should think about. "Here we should try to figure out why he breaks the pattern in those places." Edward: "Do you know why, Ms —?" "No, I don't. But if you can think of anything, don't keep it to yourself." Later a possible reason occurred to me, but I forgot to tell them.
from last year's sixth grade:
Me: "What's a word that means 'not letting go'?"
Royce's hand shot up. "Royce?" "Tenacious!" "That's right! Very good!" I must have sounded surprised, because someone, I think Angela, said, "You didn't think anyone would get it, did you?"
From an essay of Royce's, on "An exchange student from China has just entered your school. What will you tell this student about student life at your school?" "…I would introduce the student to all my friends hoping that my peers would be friendly toward him. Truthfully, I will tell the student about how dull the classes really are. He may agree or disagree, but I wouldn't change my mind."
A senior at the academy just got into Harvard early, and the place was festooned with banners proclaiming, "Congratulations Daniel X— on winning early admission to Harvard! —— Academy awards you a $4000 scholarship!" I happen to have an eighth grader named Daniel X—, and he said to me, "I just got into Harvard early." Me: "Congratulations! Talk about 'early admissions' — four years early!" Later on, he said, in a bewildered tone, "Why am I even here? I got into Harvard!"
Some of the eighth graders have been going through a pretty serious slump, and I've been exasperated with them. But on the last day of the semester — I hope this isn't wishful thinking — they seemed to snap out of it. I said, "Underline any words in the poem that you don't know." And Jae, who's one of the smartest students in the class, and who's been slacking off more than anyone, said, "I'll just underline the whole thing." But I didn't have to rebuke him, because Josh teased him: "You don't know what 'me' means? Or 'coughing'? Man, that's sad. You gotta go back to pre-school."
We talked about chewing the cud, and I asked them what the connection was between "ruminant" (the term in zoology) and "to ruminate." And Jae ("I was forced to read Anne of Green Gables") elaborated the whole thought-as-digestion metaphor.
My sixth-graders continue to impress me. The other day, we strayed into early modern history, and Viren talked indulgences and predestination & Luther's 95 Theses, & the Society of Jesus, & knew who Henry VIII's children and first three wives were. When I said that Mary Tudor persecuted Protestants, he said, "a bit like her grandparents Ferdinand and Isabella, with the Inquisition" (which I'd never noticed). Viren, by the way, is the only non-Christian in the class. Then someone asked, "Did she burn witches too?" and Patrick said, "No, that was more in the seventeenth century." I almost wasn't sure I had heard him right, and had to ask him to repeat. I hadn't imagined it. Anyway, it was great fun, and when we came back to our sample sentences I looked at my watch and said, "Oh my goodness, we have only twenty minutes left!" Patrick: "That's OK — it was interesting."
They are asking hard questions too:
sixth grade: How did James I feel about being chosen to succeed to the throne of the queen who had ordered his mother executed?
eighth grade (in spite of the slump): If massacring civilians is a war crime, why is aerial bombardment of cities not prosecuted?
and
Since Japan hadn't signed the Geneva Convention [which I hadn't known], how could its leaders be prosecuted for war crimes after World War II?
One of the sample paragraphs I read with my sixth graders was from Woodward and Bernstein's The Final Days, so I told them about the Watergate scandal. And when I said "obstruction of justice" (or maybe it was in the paragraph), Viren exclaimed, "That's what Scooter Libby was indicted for!" Later, I had to confiscate a note that was being passed around. I was surprised to see that it began, "We, the undersigned." What's this? I read further; it was a petition to impeach Bush, listing all his misdeeds. Viren had drafted it, and everyone had signed. I gave it back at the end of class.
Another paragraph had "poor unity," and they commented that it was like a brainstorm. "Or like that exercise that Ms P. has us do — looping." Me: "What's that?" They explained. Richard: "It's so helpful." Me: "Are you being sarcastic?!" He grinned.
Toward the end of last semester we had a new boy. His first day he took the vocabulary quiz at the beginning of class, like everybody else, but I told him not to worry about getting things wrong, because I knew he hadn't had a chance to study the words. Even so, by the time he handed in the quiz he was nearly in tears; Richard, who is not a particularly gentle person, asked him, "Are you all right?" Ten minutes later he was fine. I hoped that was a sign of a conscientious student, and I think it was, but he was with us for only a few weeks, unfortunately.
Last year I wanted to tell my eighth graders about Littlefield's "parable on populism" interpretation of The Wizard of Oz. I explained what "oz" stood for, and the lion, the tinman, and the scarecrow, and I thought they could figure out the Emerald City for themselves. "Emerald stands for green, the color of the dollar bill, so the Emerald City is the financial capital of Oz." They look blank. "A rich, powerful city, with tall buildings." No response. (They were not a very good class; or maybe things look different from a Queens perspective.) So I told them.
I taught a few intensive courses over the winter break, and I was getting sad because the fifth grade seemed so inferior to my beloved sixth grade, which I will soon lose. But I shouldn't jump to conclusions. One of the fifth grade students was the younger sister of Maris Moon, who asked the question about Japan and the Geneva Convention. Her name is Salina. After class I looked over the roster, and when I saw "Salina Moon" my heart skipped a beat. Selene Moon?! Are her parents fans of classical mythology?! The next day after class I called her over. "Do you know what your name means?" I asked excitedly. "Yes. My sister and I, when we came to America, chose names that have to do with the English meaning of our last name." Maris? Maristella — star of the sea! And they chose their own names, not their parents! I can just see them, aged 7 and 10, knowing little English and less Greek mythology,* putting their heads together to come up with Maris and Salina!
*Though who knows: Patrick first read the Greek myths in Korean.
On the last day of class before the new year my sixth graders asked if I would teach them in the new semester, and I said I didn't know. Viren: "Probably not, because you're the best teacher, so you're only assigned to important classes, and after the Hunter test we won't be an important class." But I requested to teach them, and Dr. K said to me, "Do whatever you like with the sixth grade and the eighth grade — they love being with you." I'm so grateful he assigned them to me — the afterglow I get from teaching them lasts several days.
Richard, who is good at grammar, and has read five books on classical mythology, asked me the other day if he should choose Latin as an elective. He wanted to, but he'd heard it was hard. Me: "Oh Richard, don't be a wimp. It'll be hard, but you'll do fine, I'm sure." When I said the word "wimp" the whole class burst out laughing, and Richard blushed and made a fist: "I'll do it! I'll sign up!"
After Nina subbed with that class she said, "If I had to take one of them home with me it would be Patrick." I can see why: he's not only very intelligent and well-read, he's also sweet, mild, and reasonable. In the essay on a favorite age between 5 and 10 he wrote that his childhood was a succession of joyful moments, and I can believe it. In contrast, Richard wrote that there are memories he cherishes, and other times he wishes he could forget. He's complicated: an excellent student, a voracious reader, and one capable of pretty bad behavior. Last year I had to send him to the office several times. I felt sorry for him because it was clear that his high spirits were caused by enthusiasm; something would interest or amuse him beyond all measure, and pretty soon he would be acting like a chimpanzee. He's much improved this year.
The other day I walked into the room during break, and they (the sixth graders) were in an uproar. Apparently Richard had said (confidentially, I hope) to someone (Patrick?) that it was hard to find "smart hot girls"; this was bruited about, and by the time I came in the five boys were chuckling and the two girls were looking sour, especially Diana. I had to say something, but I could hardly say "I'm shocked that you should think such a thing," because I wasn't. So I said, "How can you say such a thing in the presence of two such intelligent young ladies as Joanne and Diana?" Diana*, who was already in a bad mood for another reason, harrumphed, and Richard said, "But it's true! Some girls can hardly even spell their own names —" I had to cut him off.
*Diana: "With my six-year-old body, I trudged through the vast halls of my new school... Now we are studying Egypt and Mesopotamia, and all the interesting facts leave me in a daze… With grateful eyes, I said yes... I would rather have gotten something else [not a make-up set], but the gift was more than enough." She's tiny, and very cute, so it's hard to picture her harrumphing, but that's what she did. She was sad because three days before the Hunter test her mother announced that they were moving to Long Island, so she didn't take the test.
I often don't sleep the day before I teach in Queens, partly because I have trouble falling asleep when I know I have to get up early (performance anxiety: I think, "I'd better fall asleep right now," so of course I don't), and partly because of excitement. (I could never be a regular teacher! I'd never get any sleep!) My exhaustion lends a strange, wrestling-with-the-angel quality to the whole long day. Some of the teaching doesn't take much effort, but often I hit a snag: "Now I have to be really subtle, or really tactful," and my mind goes blank. They all look at me expectantly. "OK, I have to finish this sentence somehow." And I do, but lamely. I've changed my schedule this semester, so I hope to get more sleep that night, but who knows.
Yesterday we were scanning a poem by Tennyson. It was in iambic tetrameter, but there were two trochees in parallel spots. I had no idea why, but wanted to let them know that this was something one should think about. "Here we should try to figure out why he breaks the pattern in those places." Edward: "Do you know why, Ms —?" "No, I don't. But if you can think of anything, don't keep it to yourself." Later a possible reason occurred to me, but I forgot to tell them.
The Closing of the Western Mind — it made me appreciate Aristotle; his worldliness and even humility. Not that I'm about to go back and read him, but at least now I understand why he's important. It was a shock to find out how quickly Christians changed, from a harshly persecuted minority, into a powerful, power-hungry, greedy engine of oppression. (I was going to say "instrument," but that would be an understatement.) It hardly took twenty years! The Closing of the Western Mind reminded me of another anti-Platonist polemic, From Plato to Derrida, Literature against Philosophy, A Defense of Poetry, by Mark Edmundson. (An excellent book!) Plato to Derrida is about critical theory in universities, Freeman's book is about a state religion that imposed itself by fire and by the sword, but, well, there are similarities. ("Once as tragedy, then again as farce.")
I'm especially interested in intelligent defenses of paganism by people like Symmachus. (Aren't they like defenses of poetry?) There was a very short chapter on Symmachus in Freeman, but he mentions another book entirely devoted to the subject.
Another excellent book was Austerlitz. In fact I can't praise it highly enough; I read it in one gulp, like a diver, and when I lifted my eyes from the page felt disoriented and uncomfortable.
One small point: the owner of the Antikos Bazaar in Terezin, which Austerlitz visits toward the end of the book, is Augustyn Nemecek. (I don't know how to do Czech diacritical marks.) "Nemetzki" means "German" in Russian, so "Nemecek" must mean the same in Czech.
My father nearly got blown up in the 1980 terrorist attack on the Bologna train station. My mother takes credit for saving his life, because she insisted that he leave the city to join us a day before the bombing, which was their wedding anniversary. My father couldn't understand her insistence (he has a terrible memory), and would have liked to stay in the city a day longer to work, but she won him over in the end. Anyway, a few weeks later we were in the station café. I was sitting at a table, and my parents had gone to the counter to get coffees and pastries. Behind me was a red velvet curtain, and I peeked through an opening. I saw a vast, unlit hall, filled with dust and rubble. I let the curtain fall and never said a word about it to my parents. I was convinced that I had seen the bombed waiting room. I know it seems unlikely that it would be separated from the café just by drapery, and that it would ever be neglected by workers or guards, but it seems even less likely that I would have imagined something like that, and the café (which doesn't exist any more) was right next to the waiting room (which does). So it must have been that.
It was such a contrast: on this side the flourescent lights, the clatter of teaspoons on saucers; stillness, dust, and death on the other.
Journey by Moonlight: a turning point in the novel takes place in the train station of Terontola, a train station I know well! (It's a place I never in a million years expected to come across in a book.)
A conversation:
Friend of a friend: "I never read just for pleasure."
Me: "Really? I always read for pleasure."
We soon figured out that we read for the same reasons, and were saying the same thing; different definitions of pleasure.
I spent much of December dragging myself through Carlyle's Sartor Resartus, which counts as a magnificent failure. At first I really liked it, but it goes nowhere and is avowedly about nothing, so I soon got impatient (and it's over 300 pages long). The prose style is its great virtue. It's a parody of (nineteenth-century German) academic pedantry that somehow magically turns turgid into baroque; and it was often very very funny. It reminded me of Moby Dick. I think Melville was a fan of Carlyle.
The 1898 illustrations by Edmund J. Sullivan are wonderful.
I'm especially interested in intelligent defenses of paganism by people like Symmachus. (Aren't they like defenses of poetry?) There was a very short chapter on Symmachus in Freeman, but he mentions another book entirely devoted to the subject.
Another excellent book was Austerlitz. In fact I can't praise it highly enough; I read it in one gulp, like a diver, and when I lifted my eyes from the page felt disoriented and uncomfortable.
One small point: the owner of the Antikos Bazaar in Terezin, which Austerlitz visits toward the end of the book, is Augustyn Nemecek. (I don't know how to do Czech diacritical marks.) "Nemetzki" means "German" in Russian, so "Nemecek" must mean the same in Czech.
My father nearly got blown up in the 1980 terrorist attack on the Bologna train station. My mother takes credit for saving his life, because she insisted that he leave the city to join us a day before the bombing, which was their wedding anniversary. My father couldn't understand her insistence (he has a terrible memory), and would have liked to stay in the city a day longer to work, but she won him over in the end. Anyway, a few weeks later we were in the station café. I was sitting at a table, and my parents had gone to the counter to get coffees and pastries. Behind me was a red velvet curtain, and I peeked through an opening. I saw a vast, unlit hall, filled with dust and rubble. I let the curtain fall and never said a word about it to my parents. I was convinced that I had seen the bombed waiting room. I know it seems unlikely that it would be separated from the café just by drapery, and that it would ever be neglected by workers or guards, but it seems even less likely that I would have imagined something like that, and the café (which doesn't exist any more) was right next to the waiting room (which does). So it must have been that.
It was such a contrast: on this side the flourescent lights, the clatter of teaspoons on saucers; stillness, dust, and death on the other.
Journey by Moonlight: a turning point in the novel takes place in the train station of Terontola, a train station I know well! (It's a place I never in a million years expected to come across in a book.)
A conversation:
Friend of a friend: "I never read just for pleasure."
Me: "Really? I always read for pleasure."
We soon figured out that we read for the same reasons, and were saying the same thing; different definitions of pleasure.
I spent much of December dragging myself through Carlyle's Sartor Resartus, which counts as a magnificent failure. At first I really liked it, but it goes nowhere and is avowedly about nothing, so I soon got impatient (and it's over 300 pages long). The prose style is its great virtue. It's a parody of (nineteenth-century German) academic pedantry that somehow magically turns turgid into baroque; and it was often very very funny. It reminded me of Moby Dick. I think Melville was a fan of Carlyle.
The 1898 illustrations by Edmund J. Sullivan are wonderful.
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