One Woman, One Year, 200 Books
….the semester finds me buried under books with no time for blogging. If I showed you my to-do list, you would sincerely pity me.
I have much to write about but seriously no time. I am supposed to be preparing a presentation on Alexander Barclay’s The Shyppe of Fooles at this very moment.
I will start writing here again as soon as I may.
Cheers!
Yes. I finally watched the movie. Jared and I went and enjoyed an evening with our good friends David (Tirian, creator of NarniaWeb) and MB. All our enjoyment of the evening came from good times with friends (and amazing garlic toast) and none of it came from watching the pathetic, pathetic movie.
I cannot detail my distaste for the film; it would take volumes of analysis and raise my blood pressure past the tipping point. Suffice it to say (as has probably been said many times already), they altered it beyond recognition. The story is out of joint, disordered and unrecognizable. The characters are completely different people, of different ages and temperaments than their originals. I didn’t expect a good and faithful rendition, but it was far beneath the worst I had supposed. Just writing about it is making me feel the need for another shower!
“Behind every Neil Gaiman novel is a better Gene Wolfe novel. Everything I have read of his is great. Cerebral, subtle, linguistic gymnastics. The covers of the books are deceiving.” - Brent Towell
I’ve been reading N.D. Wilson’s writing, ever since he first started getting it published. I read his early short stories and poems in Credenda Agenda. I’ve also recommended his work before but having just finished the concluding volume of his 100 Cupboards trilogy (100 Cupboards, Dandelion Fire, The Chestnut King), I have much more to say.
Genius is rare. We all know that. Acheiving popularity as a writer is pretty rare too. Very rarely do the two coincide, and it is almost unheard of for genius and popularity to come together in the author’s own lifetime. I sincerely hope it happens for N.D. Wilson though. He’s got five kids to feed.
There is quite a lot going on in this trilogy and I really don’t have the time or the space to analyze everything. I do want to make a couple of comparisons though. We all know how I feel about Harry Potter. I don’t hate the kid, but I find his story dull and uninteresting. I don’t find the world Rowling created very magical, mysterious, or enchanting. I wouldn’t really want to visit there. The school politics and bereaucracy are alive and well in this world and their mind-numbing qualities are quite available outside the pages of a book. The idea that she is writing about wizardry is severely misguided. What she calls wizardry and magic, is really just scientific knowledge and method. The classes at Hogwarts are just classes. The wizard world is only a more technologically advanced version of Great Britain.
All of that to say, Wilson’s fantasy world is as homegrown American as Rowling’s is British, but it is truly fantastical. There exists within it references to things like mayors and bereaucracies, but the vision of it is transformative and deeply magical. Wilson’s hero-child, Henry, isn’t a wizard (though wizards do exist and are wizardish), he is a green-man. This distinction is important imaginatively and it deeply shapes the narrative. Harry Potter is basically a bright-boy with a high IQ. This means his spells work particularly well. He still has to memorize them though. He has to have technical knowledge to be a wizard. Wilson’s wizards have mysterious knowledge but they operate in a Merlinic fashion: they produce their effects by being themselves rather than by manipulating charms. Henry is a seventh son of a seventh son, branded by the fire of the dandelion. Further, Henry’s powers and knowledge as a green-man are acheived as wisdom is, by distilled experience and personal virtue. Birth and naming are more important than access to textbooks or library research (sorry Hermione). This means that the pull, the attraction, of Wilson’s world is that of the mythic, the poetic, the otherworldly. Rowling’s world is attractive as all success, fame, and ambition stories are; they stimulate the desires of pride and lust for power.
Another interesting aspect of the 100 Cupboards series is the orphan-status of the hero: Henry. Many (most?) children’s books feature an orphan for the hero. I have a very smart colleague at Boise State who is studying this phenomena in mythology and literature. Sometimes the child is an outright orphan, as is Harry Potter, and sometimes it is a child with orphan-status: some kind of parents exist but he is effectively abandoned and alone. Wilson takes this typical situation and uses it in some unique ways. I’ve never seen the joy and the primacy of a family so beautifully affirmed in a book. It is a joy to read.
Finally, one character when faced with death, comments that he ought to have eaten more of his wife’s pies. And that is just good philosophy.
Yes, it is school time again, and I am so busy with classes, homework, and teaching that I haven’t posted here in three weeks. I’m loving my work though, and am happy to be back in the thick of things again. I got so bored over the break that I scrubbed our toaster oven, inside and out. I know. Craziness.
I have been joking about feeling my age a lot lately, not only because of the many gray hairs I’m seeing sprinkled about my head, but also because of back and foot pain. It seems that my lower back is angry with me for all the tension I’ve been carrying around in it, and for failing to develop any core muscle strength after destroying it with Alex and Luc. Likewise, my left foot is rebelling against years of high-heel wearing and threatens to develop a bunion. A freaking bunion. I might as well start drawing a pension now.
I have been slowly working my ab muscles with a sit-up here, and a sit-up there, and plan to reboot my rock-climbing hobby as soon as possible. My back is making no promises but I have hopes of a truce soon. As for my foot? Well, I’ve taken drastic measures. Some might have gone for a partial solution, or tried a half-measure of cure. I’ve gone all out (as usual).
I have, despite my predilection for very high heels, always preferred being barefoot to being shod. I kick of my shoes the second I step in the house, and spend most of the summer in flip-flops. All winter long I hate the necessity of wearing closed shoes and try to get away with sandals at the slightest hint of sunshine. I had heard about a shoe called the Vibram Five-Finger some time ago and loved the concept of a glove for the foot. The shoe self-consciously mimics the sensation of being barefoot while providing puncture protection and a microbe barrier. They look freaky though. Really freaky. No really, check this out.
Told ya.
They are good for the foot though. My left foot is happy. Very, very happy. I could have taken the half-measures. I could have switched to flats and/or sneakers. But then I wouldn’t be having all this fun freaking my students out, would I?
So ya’all know I like to read. If you’ve thought about it, you probably guessed that I liked to read as a child. Well, I liked to read so much when I was a kid that I would get in trouble for it: when I should have been doing something else mostly. One of the taboos for my parents was reading at the table. They regarded it as unmannerly and inappropriate. And while I can understand where they were coming from, I’m kind of ridiculously happy and proud that Alex took a book to the breakfast table this morning and “read” it while he ate his oatmeal.
My boys and I have been suffering from severe winter colds. Jared is teetering on the brink: sure to come down with one tonight or tomorrow. We don’t often get sick and for that I’m grateful. This is such a waste of time. I haven’t felt up to reading much and haven’t gotten any work done. Ugh. An entire weekend spent tired, ill, and in bed.
I very occasionally participate in the online community at Dooce.com. I enjoy Heather Armstrong’s rants and some of the discussions over there are quite interesting. Today someone posted a question asking if anyone waited for sex until marriage. The typical response was along the lines of “no way”, “would you buy a car without test-driving it” and “that’s a crazy/stupid idea.” I posted this response:
“My husband and I were both virgins and waited, even to kiss, until our wedding.
I find the idea that you would actually have sex with someone you were not married to absurd. I simply don’t understand how anyone can live that way. I also think that it would be incredibly difficult to deal with having had multiple sexual relationships.
I also think that the “test drive” concept is a ridiculous, reductive analogy.”
The original poster replied with a semi-serious, semi-sarcastic, request for some explanation in which she emphasized the following risks of not taking your future spouse for a “test drive”: not knowing if your husband might be a bad kisser and/or bad at sex, and not knowing about orgasms. The original poster also pre-apologized for her sarcasm. My extended answer was as follows:
“I’m nearly un-offendable so so don’t worry 
I find sex to be an incredibly intimate, vulnerable act. My understanding is that this is the general consensus of history also, although not the consensus of our culture. I can’t imagine engaging in it with someone with whom I had not made vows of fidelity. Not only is it intimate and vulnerable for the immediate participants, sex also makes children: new human lives. That is huge. Amazing. Earth-shattering. And not something to be done lightly or by strangers.
I believe that having sex permanently alters your relationship with someone: makes you connected to them forever in a really transformative way. Once again, this is something that our culture doesn’t really believe but I think that it is true nonetheless and that we can see the effects, acknowledged or not. Therefore having that relationship with more than one living person would be highly problematic. That many people do live with this difficulty, and incorporate it into their lives doesn’t make it a good thing.
I think the car thing is ridiculous and reductive because another human being is an incredibly rich and awe-inspiring complex of emotions, needs, abilities, and potentialities. Engaging in an intimate relationship with them is even more rich and fraught. The idea that sex is a static experience that can, should, and will stay the same is a shallow and impossible view. The sex a couple has on their wedding night, is not the same as the sex a couple has on their tenth anniversary, is not the same sex a couple has after the birth of their first child, is not the same as they have on their 30th anniversary. Not only that, but the sex eventually stops; sometimes when a couple is in their 50s, sometimes when they are in their 80s, sometimes much earlier due to accidents or medical issues. But it is finite, and while important, not everything.
Virgins don’t always know what they can should get out of sex, but that knowledge shouldn’t have to come from multiple partners. You’ve known virgins that didn’t learn about orgasms until years after getting married and I’ve known virgins that enjoyed them on their wedding night. Better communication between parents and children and between husbands and wives can help immensely. I learned a lot about sex from medical books, my mother, and my older sister. I learn more about it from my relationship with my husband all the time.
I too wanted to know that the sex would be great. I also wanted to know that I would always be happy, or that we would always have enough money. It turns out that sometimes the sex is great, sometimes it’s just ok, and that it is always a little mysterious and wonderful. I’m mostly happy and so far we’ve always had enough (at least just enough) money. There are no guarantees in life for any of these things and having sex before you get married in no way guarantees (or even improves your chances of) having a satisfying sex life.”
The original poster thanked me for my response.
I know I do. I happen to have the most talented and amazing group of friends, and getting to be a part of the awesome things they do is such a privilege.
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One of my sweetest friends is the sort to write you an extended thank you note, on a handmade card, closed with sealing wax, just because you invite her to a little party. Not only is she kind and thoughtful and impeccably mannered, she is also quite knowledgeable about letter writing etiquette and traditions. She recently launched a lovely website devoted to reviving a love for, and knowledge of, writing letters. It is at MyFelicitations.com and I highly recommend checking it out!
If you are on Facebook you may have noticed the women posting colors as their status updates yesterday. There was a little message going around, telling us all to post the color of our bra in order to “raise awareness for breast cancer.” Now, in addition to the ambiguous wording which seems to be encouraging support of actual breast cancer (a vile disease), this little meme is part of a larger cultural issue which I felt needed to be addressed.
Awareness campaigns have a legitimate function: primarily to let people know of the existence and dangers of a disease and, how and when they should get screened for it; and secondarily to raise money for research into treatments for that disease. They also have an illegitimate function. Inoculating people against the need for real charity: self-sacrificing love of others. Effortless, meaningless actions create a small warm glow of satisfaction and, while it is relatively short-lived, it is also real and much easier to achieve than genuine good works. Loving people is hard, messy work. Posting your bra color in your Facebook status is cute, a little sexy, and absolutely meaningless.
Today I conducted a small experiment. I called every single woman in my cell phone directory (except my mother-in-law who works for St. Luke’s in breast cancer screening) and polled every woman I met while out running errands. I asked them all three questions.
1. Are you aware of breast cancer? (Duh. I know. But that is kind of the point.)
2. What is the main screening test for breast cancer called? (Mammogram.)
3. At what age should a woman start getting a mammogram regularly? (I accepted anything between 40 and 50 as a correct answer.)
Of course, everyone was aware of the existence of breast cancer. All but one knew what a mammogram was called. And all but a handful were aware of the recommended age to start screening. Anyone who didn’t know the correct age, thought that it was a younger age: meaning that they would be likely to check with their doctor before they actually needed to. At this point in our society, we are sufficiently educated about and “aware” of breast cancer and breast cancer screening.
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All of this to say: enjoy the mildly thrilling little joke about the color of your undergarments if you like, but please don’t mistake a stunt for a good and charitable work.