I Despise The Rain King

Not the song. I actually like the song. I was hoping it would play in my head as background to the novel Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow. Instead, I've been unable to drown out the metaphorical noises of my banging my head against the wall. I'm doing it, however, to the tune of The Rain King, so that's something.

Ever been caught in a book you can't get out of? One you have to finish only because it's required by some person or class? This is where I'm at. I love reading. Love to open a book, sit down, shut-up and read. I dream about reading at work. Looking forward to going home, when everything is over for the day, and beginning a new book, finishing one I've started or re-reading that last chapter because something struck my fancy. But not this book. Not this horrible, horrible book.

It won the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point in the 60s or 70s (I don't even care about when it did; I don't care about being factually correct about this terrible book). I can see why, given context of the social and literary situations of that era. It's a book about discovery; about finding oneself. But the lead character is a misanthrope; an unlovable Falstaff. One who is subject to haughty prose about nothing really, no fluid thoughts or developments of ideas, just ramblings that occasionally make sense, but not so much sense that you remember it after you close the book.

It's taken me two weeks (of course, it's the playoffs and I rarely get much done anyway) to finally see the end. Of course, the end is more like a desert oasis because in no way am I finished with this book when I finish it. Then I must write a paper, and explore the deeper significances of this terrible, meaningless work. One that takes itself much to seriously, much to important. There's humor in it, meaning in it, but it's ultimately humorless and without meaning. And that sentence is indicative of every sentence in the book.

Sorry for the rant. It's just that "When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers". None of which could ever be used to write this book.

Read: Close Call

The latest book I've gone through: Howard's End. I'm still digesting it. Fantastic novel. But I was disturbed. Because I've had to read it at a furious clip (read: less than two days) to get my paper in reasonably late. In order to accomplish that, I've had to read whenever and wherever I could. As it's not always fashionable or appropriate to pull out a book and start reading, I discovered another option I swore I'd never institute: reading on the computer.

There's a lot to be said for the intangible tangible quality of reading a book. Of holding the words in your hand. Connecting to them physically as you attach yourself to them mentally. There's certainly a transitive property conveyed by the words through holding them in your hands. But as I soon discovered, I was reading more efficiently on the computer. I was distraught.

Until last night. With some 80+ pages to plow through (mind you this is not fun reading per say, this is active reading, having to memorize sections, make notes, leave myself opportunity to effectively write a 30pg paper. In other words, I'm not reading Harry Potter) I was worried. Would I have to use the computer to be assure that I'd get it finished? That I wouldn't fall asleep?

A cup of coffee in hand, I got through it in less than 3 hrs. Not only did I get through it, but I felt like I actually finished it. That I physically and mentally conquered it. I was awake and alive and energized. So much so that I began writing the paper immediately. Reading on a computer screen doesn't give you that important sense of physical accomplishment. I spend a good deal of time on the computer, reading and writing.

But with books, it's different. I can't do to them what I've done to my music.

And for now, I don't have to. Until I procrastinate another paper. Another book.

A Moment To Brag

By nature, I'm not a proud person. Not one prone fits of grandeur. Quite aware, under normal circumstances, of my limitations. No self-delusions. Not necessarily humble. But not proud either. So indulge me for a moment.

I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.

It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.

Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.

All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.

I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".

On Reading Faulkner

For those of you unaware, I'm back in school. Accepted to the University of Dayton to begin work on a Masters in English, emphasis in Creative Writing. Of course, it's conditional enrollment meaning I've got to get 3.0's in two upper-level English courses to be officially enrolled this fall (or whenever I should complete them). So I'm in the midst of my first class at the moment, courtesy of the Internet and Ohio University: American Literature 1918-present.

It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.

There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.

Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.

I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.

Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.