Fathers

A dark bedroom–a little light comes in from the hall, casting a golden trapezoid on the floor. The father sits in the rocking chair, holding his child, who cries softly into his shoulder from fear of the thunder. He is still in his dirty work clothes, having just come home without time for supper. He rocks back and forth, singing a quiet, monotonous song: “Don’t take me down upon that foggy river, foggy river far away.” Every now and then he says, “Hush now. Don’t cry. Daddy is here.” Then he resumes his song. The steady rocking and quiet singing gradually lull the child to sleep; the thunder diminishes and falls silent. There is only the gentle sound of rain pinging on an overturned pan in the yard. The father rises and carefully places the child in the crib. He pulls up the covers and kisses the child’s forehead one more time before tip-toeing out of the room.

Scenes like this are needed throughout the nation. The children of this country need fathers who are at home for the big and little crises of their lives. They need fathers who can be strong and firm when necessary but who also can be gentle and loving, respecting the fears of a small child, taking time to bring comfort. Mothers like this are, of course, also needed. All too often, though, the mother is present, but the father is absent, whether at home or living at a distance. Fathers need to be present in the lives of their children on a daily basis.

Sometimes fathers try to excuse their absence by spending quality time with their children, but this is a euphemism for not being present often enough. Nothing substitutes for actually being present in a child’s life each day. Dads need to take time to fly a kite with their children on a spring afternoon, to make silly faces with them at the breakfast table, to sit on their bed at night and tell them stories about their childhood, to take them on walks through the woods or the neighborhood, to stand at the window together to watch a cardinal in the pear tree, to walk to the bus stop together on a cold, cloudy morning, or to lie on the grass in the backyard with a pair of binoculars and take turns looking at the craters on the moon. Being present day after day says “I love you” more clearly than any number of words or things purchased.

 

Browsing

Browsing

 

On my cell phone

I have seen the changing of the

guard at Buckingham Palace,

the cloudy peak of Mt. Everest,

the radiance of moonlight

on the Tyrrhenian Sea,

polar bears swimming in

James Bay, and morning

sunlight on the roof of the Emerald

Buddha Temple in Bangkok.

Last night, while taking out the trash,

I saw the full moon rising behind

my neighbor’s pine trees.

–hps

Night Watch

Sometimes in the night as I lie in bed,

I almost expect to see a glowing angel

step out of the immaterial darkness into

the prosaic reality of this world and time,

a clear negation of the empty irony

and confident nothingness of this age.

The darkness holds steadfast, yet

in my heart this fearful hope glimmers.

–hps

The Vagaries of Being a Retired Part-time English Instructor

Lately, I have been reading essays by Joseph Epstein and have been inspired to try my hand at a light-hearted, semi-literary (I almost wrote “semi-literate”) essay. I suppose my desire is somewhat like the sudden inspiration one might have, after looking at a web site about chocolate, to rush out to the nearest Walgreen’s and buy a shiny bag of Ghirardelli chocolates filled with raspberry or caramel, probably an impulse that should be squelched. But I am a professor emeritus, or should I say professor defunctus, and sometimes think back nostalgically about my time in academia. Any teacher can, of course, fill a lengthy essay, perhaps even a book, about his or her adventures in the classroom, so I realize that what I am sharing here could be outmatched by many instructors.

Over the years I have read thousands of freshman and sophomore essays, as well as quite a few written by professional writers in books and magazines and on web sites. I could summarize in my sleep the traditional freshman male essay about “How I Shot My First Deer,” having read hundreds on this topic. Interestingly enough, this is often a student’s best essay since it is written on a subject about which he is passionate. I have been grateful for the occasional student, usually an older one, who wrote about how he botched shooting his first deer, having his shirt tail cut as a result, or the even rarer essay by a female student about how she outdid her husband on a turkey hunt, even though she did not have the slightest idea of how to use a turkey caller. There is also the essay on keeping and riding horses, almost invariably submitted by a female student. In fact, one of my former students who wrote on this subject, many years later, still focuses all of her Facebook photos on her horse with her boyfriend sometimes lurking in the background, upstaged by the palomino stallion.

Whenever I ask students to write about a person, not a relative, who has done most to inspire them, often they choose their high school ag teacher, rather than their English, Spanish, chemistry, or economics teacher. Not surprising at an agricultural college. After all, raising a hog or calf for a stock show is much more exciting than studying figures of speech in Dylan Thomas’ poetry or hearing the instructor drone on about the law of supply and demand. But I was once astonished when a student informed me that she had chosen to write about her high school math teacher. When I raised my eyebrows in question about this, she explained that her teacher had a moonlighting job as a strip tease dancer. I could express only admiration for a teacher who could manage such a diverse career in small-town South Georgia. Needless to say, the student’s essay was one of the most interesting submitted that year.

I have been amused by the occasional Freudian slip in freshman essays. One student, for example, in writing about his study habits, stated that he preferred to “stud” in the dormitory rather than the library. I thought, “Thank goodness for such discretion!” A student for one of my online classes mentioned that she liked another student’s “analization” of a reading assignment. I considered making a comment on the discussion board but decided to let the remark stand on its own.

I recall a class one morning when a student pulled a hamburger, with everything on it, out of a bag, and propped his elbows on the desk ready to take the first bite. I informed him that the classroom was not a restaurant, that this was a place for mental, not physical, nourishment. He deposited the hamburger back in the bag, although with an ill grace. Recently, a student was picking cheese puffs out of a bag, and I asked her to put them away. She said that I had not previously complained about her eating in class, and I explained that I had not seen her eating anything until that moment. Then I dredged up that old instructor’s cliche about how, if she did not bring enough for everyone, she should put up her snack. Then to make the rebuke more convincing, I said that food attracted ants, pointing out that a student in that very classroom had been attacked by hordes of ants climbing the wall. And this was a true statement.

Sometimes to illustrate the importance of vivid details in writing, I describe a hocker lying in a water fountain, mentioning its yellow-green color with glossy highlights from the overhead fluorescent lights, shimmering in the water above the drain, a slight speck of red in the center, fringed with white tentacles waving back and forth, making the thing seem almost alive, like an oyster freshly scooped out of its shell, going on at length until even the male students are frowning and begging me to stop. Having conceived a vivid description, though, I do not know when to leave well enough alone, and my mind continues to build on the image. I am almost willing to credit classical Darwinian evolution (not punctuated equilibrium, mind you), as I imagine the hocker oozing over the edge of the water fountain, streaming down the side, flip flopping end over end down the wall, slithering across the carpet towards the bulletin board, hip hopping past the entrance to the faculty suite of offices, loping on all fours down the hall on the far side of the floor, emerging hunched over on the back hall in front of the faculty lounge, becoming upright and grabbing some knee-busted jeans and a tank top from an open student locker, and then, having come full circle, strolling nonchalantly into Room 322, baseball cap turned backwards, to sit in with gum-popping apathy on a PowerPoint about Ruskin’s pathetic fallacy, no one noticing anything unusual.

These kinds of illustrations are usually effective in rousing a lethargic class. Ms. Cheese Puffs even puts her bag away in disgust. Then I might exclaim to the class, “Better to gross your readers out than to bore them to death. Remember that your essay should be a hook on which the readers can hang memories.” Then I ask, “What’s green and wet and hangs on the wall and whistles?” Someone ventures that maybe it is one of those talking fish on a plaque. Another suggests a frog with flatulence (I am surprised the student knows the word), but I respond, “Nothing! I just wanted to make you wonder, but now you will never forget the illustration.” By this time the macho guys at the back of the classroom are rubbing their knuckles, and the women up front are perhaps pondering hanging or gagging me. But I change the mood of the class back to the mundane by introducing the efficacy of parallelism in sentences. Mr. Reversed Baseball Cap in the far corner, reassured, goes back to sleep.

Although I am a retired faculty member, I still keep office hours, but no one ever comes. I can hear younger colleagues in the office suite cheerily greeting one another on Monday mornings, enquiring about their weekend. No one one cares how a sexagenarian spends the weekend. If they bother, perhaps they envision me asleep in my easy chair with a TV show from the eighties on Netflix. But, for all they know, I could run around in country cemeteries at night, dressed like Batman, tossing ice cubes from a champagne bucket at tombstones. [It is interesting, by the way, how the word sexagenarian simultaneously suggests vitality and senescence.] Occasionally, a student pops his head around the doorpost, but he is looking for Professor C_______, not the old dude muttering to himself at his desk.

On Friday afternoons, the staff member who locks the classrooms, along with the outer doors to the office suite, turns out the lights and leaves everything, except my office, in darkness, not noticing I am still there. I could be sitting in my desk chair, a skeleton cocooned in spider webs, and no one would take notice. “But ah! “ I think, “That is the price of being the old fossil (Yes, I know this is redundant), who refuses to strike his tent and depart silently, the superannuated professor still sitting long after the curtain has closed on the drama.” “But, you see,” I plead to the empty chair in front of the desk, “I have sons who are still to some extent financially dependent on me, and I cannot afford to stop working. Moreover, as crazy as it may sound, I actually enjoy teaching. In what other profession could I stand in front of a group of people, speaking as I do on all kinds of arcane subjects, without being jailed or locked away in a padded room?”

Whenever I rehash all of this with my wife, she claims I enjoy teaching too much but concedes that I should still teach another three to four years because we need the money to supplement our Social Security and teacher’s retirement benefit.

I occasionally have a disturbing vision of standing before a writing class, explaining the importance of leaving a hanging indent after the first line of a works cited entry, and keeling over in mid-sentence, with the students, aroused from their lethargy, discussing what to do, whether to call 911, the school infirmary, or the campus police, or just leave quietly and turn out the lights. I envision myself as an elderly Klingon, choosing to die in combat rather than in bed (Yes, I love Star Trek, and I know the analogy is absurd). In China, university officials are very sensible about sexagenarians. They do not allow them to teach any longer, unless their research is vital to the national economy and they are concerned about losing face. That reminds me that a young Chinese friend once exclaimed to other Chinese friends, “Lose face. Get over it!” Sage advice also for an aging American professor still clinging tenuously to the academic tree (Yes, indeed. The metaphors are mixed, something I advise my students not to do, but sometimes, especially when you are older, it is fun to color outside the lines).

(Written September 12, 2014, when I was sixty-nine)

 

 

 

My Teaching Philosophy

[I wrote this essay several years ago for a teaching portfolio that I was required to submit at my college as part of the promotion and tenure process.  Although some things have changed in the way I teach today, the essay still expresses my essential views about teaching at the college level.]

In Greek mythology Sisyphus was condemned endlessly to roll a ponderous rock uphill, only to have it roll back downhill and nullify all his labor. This myth is a perfect illustration of meaningless work. When I chose a profession, I did not want to be condemned, like Sisyphus, to work that was mere drudgery. I wanted to combine vocation and avocation. Teaching English offered me this combination of meaningful work and pleasure. I enjoyed reading literature, thanks to the influence of certain teachers and friends. I enjoyed writing and studying grammar. The idea of continuing to learn throughout my life and then sharing that learning with others was immensely appealing. I could think of no other career that I would enjoy more.

At first I planned to become an English teacher in high school, a teacher in some ways similar to Mr. Billy Bragg, my eleventh grade English teacher at Albany High School, Albany, Georgia. He had an obvious love for teaching, reading, and working with students. He was always enthusiastic in class, and he challenged us to appreciate the written word. Even though he taught American literature, he encouraged us to read Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels and many other books. After reading excerpts from Thoreau’s Walden in his class, I resolved to read the entire book when summer vacation arrived. I still remember that June. My mother wanted me to weed the flowerbeds. To relieve the tedium of this chore, I placed the radio in the open living room window and pulled out the tough roots of Bermuda grass to the heart-wrenching tunes of country music. But when I became too hot, I rested in the rocking chair on the front porch and read Walden. Often I was slow in returning to my weeding. Reading Walden that summer changed the way I looked at nature and filled my mind with many imaginative possibilities. I converted the drainage pond in the woods near our house into Walden Pond and took long pensive walks through the fields and swamps, trying to be an observer on whom nothing was lost. Now I smile when I recall those days, but I have Mr. Bragg to thank for encouraging me to read and for simply serving as a model of what a good teacher could be. He did what any skilled teacher should do: he opened the doors of the imagination, helping his students realize that there were “more things in heaven and earth” than were dreamt of in their philosophy.

When I went to Georgia Southern College, Dr. Fielding Russell, my freshman composition instructor, realized that I planned to teach English in high school. He asked me one day if I had considered college teaching. His suggestion turned on a light in my mind, and I knew that teaching English in college was what I wanted to do. Although I have experienced many setbacks and frustrations in preparing for my chosen career, I have not regretted my decision. I look forward to going to class each day. Being with my students in class is, most of the time, a genuine pleasure. I have enjoyed teaching so much that I have often forgotten about payday and been surprised at the end of the month to find a check in my box. I sometimes jokingly say, “I teach just for fun.” Although my wife complains when I forget the check, there is some truth to my claim. Teaching English in college permits me to combine vocation and avocation, as I desired.

When I was in graduate school at the University of South Carolina, I was a teaching fellow. One of the courses I was assigned was developmental English. At that time, even though I could write fairly well, there were still many fine points of English grammar that I did not know. By teaching that class, I finally gained a thorough knowledge of grammar. Afterwards, I realized that one of the best ways to learn is to teach. This is a truth that I have repeatedly acknowledged over the years, and this realization is one of the reasons why I love to teach. Teaching gives me the opportunity never to stop learning. By teaching, I avoid becoming intellectually stagnant. As a result, life is an ongoing process of growing and becoming.

Teaching and learning are inseparably linked. The teacher must always keep in mind what students need to learn. Students must have priority since they are the raison d’etre for the profession. But the teacher’s needs and desires must not be neglected; otherwise, he or she may become discouraged and leave the profession. Professional development is crucial so that the faculty member will continue to be challenged and to grow. In this area I have been limited since I have not had the financial means to attend many workshops and seminars located at a distance. But the library and the Internet are readily available, so through the years I have tried to be reading and learning, whether the material relates to English or not. During the past year, for example, I have been reading widely in astronomy and have spent much time looking through binoculars trying to learn the names of the principal stars and the constellations in which they are located. Although this study has little relation to English, I sometimes find that I can use my new knowledge to illustrate a point I am making in a writing class. Also, I believe that some of the enthusiasm for learning that is associated with this new pursuit transfers over to my teaching of writing and literature. Whatever the field may be, newly acquired knowledge and the process of gaining it are beneficial to the teacher.

But what do students need to know? Every teacher, regardless of his or her subject area, is teaching students the importance of discipline and concentration. Sometimes I think that the need for self-discipline among my students is the most important subject I teach. Students need to know how to be in class on time with whatever preparations are required. They also must learn to allocate their time so that they can complete their assignments. To achieve this goal, they must be able to sit and concentrate for extended periods. Teachers need to insist that students be punctual and that they finish their assigned tasks. In short, every teacher should sustain high academic standards so students will have the opportunity to learn self-discipline and concentration. Without these two essential qualities, no important work can be achieved.            Whenever I ask my students to write an essay about the purpose of a college education, most of them state that attending college enables them to prepare for a good-paying job. From a practical viewpoint, their response is understandable. They want, as most people do, to enjoy their work and be able to make a decent living. To achieve these goals, students need good writing skills, whether they appreciate this need or not. Consequently, I try to teach my students how to write in a competent way. If they can also write with imaginativeness and creativity, I am pleased. Basically, I want my students to be literate citizens capable of expressing their ideas in a clear, concise, logical way in writing.

Recently, one of my students mentioned that he is getting a two-year degree and then returning home to manage the family hog farm. He did not see why it is necessary to spend so much time learning to write. I admitted that he may not use writing very often in his daily work on the farm, but I pointed out that he may one day return to college to get a four-year degree. He will then need to have good writing skills. I mentioned to him and the rest of the class that people need to be versatile today because the job for which they train may change. If they have a good educational background, they will be prepared for the changing nature of the job market. Also, I said that, even if their initial jobs do not require much writing, they may hope to rise in their fields and become managers. Then they will have more responsibilities. They will need to write evaluations of employees under them, and they will need to write business letters and reports. So writing has great practical value.

I hope that my students will also develop some appreciation for the humanities. In teaching one of the literature or humanities courses, I want to give students some idea of the best that has been thought, said, and done through the ages. I want to expose them to Plato’s concept of ideas; Dante’s imaginative journey through hell, purgatory, and heaven; the flamboyance of the high Gothic style of architecture; and the inspired beauty of an oratorio by Handel. But how do I cover such breadth of material, and how do I show students the relevance of the humanities? Indeed, the impossibility of covering the best that has been created by the human imagination sometimes makes me want to laugh maniacally. The task seems futile. But I realize that it is not my duty to be comprehensive. If I can inspire at least some interest in the students, then they can continue learning and enjoying on their own. It is my duty, in other words, to open a door to the imaginative possibilities. The student who then goes through that door can explore the country beyond for a lifetime. Whether teaching courses in literature, humanities, or writing, I want my students to be able to see the relevance of what they study to their own lives, to see that such learning prepares them, not just for a particular job, but for life.

To reach students in a meaningful way, teaching must instruct and delight. Overall, it should not be boring to the student. I have sat in classes where the professor stood before us and read in a monotonous tone from dog-eared notes. We would have welcomed a distraction–a chart falling from the wall, the roof caving in, the bomb dropping–anything to escape the monotony.   The teacher who bores kills the desire to learn. Admittedly, the teacher cannot strive to amuse students all the time, as though the class were a television variety show or a video game. Sometimes learning requires close application that may be tedious. But the teacher should try to make learning as interesting as possible. Doing this requires imagination and flexibility.

The teacher should be innovative and willing to use a variety of teaching strategies. In doing this, the teacher is less likely to bore. Furthermore, students who do not learn readily under one approach may learn easily under another.

My favorite teaching technique is the Socratic method. I enjoy the give and take of this approach. It is boring to me to stand and do all of the talking. A class is much more alive and energetic if there is a good discussion between teacher and students.   This method also permits everyone to participate. It implies that everyone has something valuable to contribute. If the right questions are asked and students have freedom to respond, their comprehension of complex topics may be revealed. Indeed, students may be excited to realize that they have an innate understanding of many difficult concepts. Through the Socratic method, they have an opportunity to display their brilliance and enjoy the learning process.

In the past few years, I have used peer review sessions in my writing classes. Most of the time, the students find these sessions useful. I have to be careful, though, that the various peer review groups–usually composed of three students each–do not descend into mere conversation. To help structure the review, I distribute peer review sheets that serve as checklists to ensure that the students’ essays meet certain criteria. Recently, I have also begun to use planning sheets when I assign an essay in English 1101. These sheets give students some helpful hints on the way to begin developing their papers.

Such varied techniques as the Socratic method, peer review, planning sheets, computer lab work, group discussions, and use of audio-visual materials can be helpful in sustaining class interest. These methods, though, do not preclude the traditional lecture when it is needed. Then humor and imagination can make this mode of teaching fresh and interesting to the students.

Regardless, of the method used, though, a college education should emphasize the importance of the written word. Students must realize that learning at this level requires thoughtful reading. The best that has been thought, said, and done has been passed down through the written word. Civilization arose when human beings developed writing. Teachers today must realize that, without reading and writing, a civilized way of life is not possible. To the extent that teachers neglect their responsibility in these areas, to that extent the level of civilized life declines. A number of my students have told me over the years that the novel I required in English 1101 was the first complete book they had ever read. It is a shame that these students had not read entire books before reaching college. The educational system failed them. The cornerstone upon which my teaching philosophy rests is the conviction that students must read and write a great deal.

Although innovation and varied teaching methods are essential, learning is not likely to occur unless there is civility in the classroom. I want to treat my students courteously as partners in pursuing knowledge. Consequently, I do not wish to be rude or sarcastic when addressing them. I know from my own experience that a sharp response from a teacher can quench a student’s desire to learn. When I was in elementary school, I dreaded doing arithmetic, especially if we had to go to the board to solve problems. One of my first-grade teachers shook us by the shoulders if we gave wrong answers. She also dug her fingernails into our scalps if we did not answer properly. When I went to the board, I often did not have the slightest idea of how to do the problem assigned. I would stand there stalling for time, pretending to notice stray marks on the board that needed to be erased. I waited in panic for the inevitable confrontation. I learned in that class, but I did not learn readily. There was no joy in the process. Today, I still do not have good skills in mathematics, and I sometimes wonder if this teacher’s methods helped me to form a mental block towards the subject. I have also seen college professors make sarcastic remarks and humiliate their students before the entire class. I recall in one case hearing an English professor say to a young woman who was stumbling over a passage he had asked her to read, “Sweetie, why don’t you return to the first grade and learn how to read?” I do not wish to treat my students in this manner. I regard them as fellow human beings who should be treated with courtesy and respect. My Christian viewpoint informs every aspect of my teaching. I should treat others the way I wish to be treated. Whenever my students show deficiencies in a subject, I should not berate them but patiently attempt to help them improve. I should try to realize that in certain subjects they have far more knowledge than I do and could serve as my teachers.

One of my favorite passages to teach is Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave.” In this excerpt from Plato’s The Republic, Socrates describes how the soul, through the help of an enlightened guide, can move upwards from darkness to light. In a sense, every dedicated teacher is, by choice, in Plato’s cave. Those who have received a good education try to show their students how they too can benefit, if only they will move upwards from the darkness of ignorance to the light of knowledge. Thus, education at its best is redemptive. Perhaps this realization is the basis of my love for teaching. I like the idea that I may have some long-lasting beneficial influence on my students’ lives. I certainly enjoy teaching them. I also enjoy the ongoing process of learning. In being a teacher, I am not condemned to the fate of Sisyphus, and I have the privilege of showing my students that they too need not suffer that fate.

Stars: Fall 1997

[This post was written during the fall of 1997 when I was avidly learning the names of constellations and stars by going out each night in our front yard with binoculars around my neck and a book with star charts in my hands.  I still enjoy looking at the sky on a clear night to see which stars and constellations I can recognize.  The night sky speaks of the order and beauty of God’s creation.]

Just before daybreak I like to go outside to enjoy the beauty of the stars before the light of the rising sun obscures them.  Now that it is autumn, Orion is prominent in the predawn sky.  This constellation is filled with bright, beautiful stars.  The three stars of Orion’s belt are Alnitake, Alnilam, and Mintaka.  The stars that form the sword are clearly visible.  Through binoculars one of these stars is plainly a patch of glowing light–the great nebula.  Slightly to the left of the belt is the red super-giant, Betelgeuse, one of the stars that I first learned to identify by name.  Below the belt and to the right, is the blue-white star Rigel, which shines with a steady clear light.   I have recently learned that the name for this star in Arabic means “foot.”  To the west and slightly above Orion, is Taurus, the Bull, with the resplendent red star Aldeberan forming the creature’s right eye, as though he were glaring at me in a bellicose way.  A sprinkle of diamond-like stars forms the bull’s muzzle.  To the east of Orion is Sirius, the most brilliant star in the heavens, shimmering in pure white light against the blackness, and further east is the yellow star Procyon, an old friend from last spring.

 

Every evening before bedtime, I step outside for a few moments to see which stars are visible.  I wear binoculars around my neck. Our cat sometimes keeps me company, rubbing affectionately against my legs while I attempt to bring Jupiter’s four largest moons into focus through the binoculars.  Sometimes it is difficult to identify the stars if I go out later than usual since they are not in the sector of the sky where I have been accustomed to seeing them.  I especially have difficulty if a constellation is setting.  Then the whole pattern that I have learned to recognize is turned on end, plunging toward the horizon, and I must stare in bewilderment for a while until I can see the stars in relationship to each other.  The other night, for example, I was attempting to identify a constellation in the southwest, wondering how I could have failed to learn the names of such prominent stars in that part of the sky.  But slowly they coalesced into a recognizable pattern, and I could say, “It’s Scorpio, and that reddish-orange star is Antares.  I should have known it instantly.”

 

 

Evelyn Waugh on Literary Style

“It is a a matter for thankfulness that the modern school of critics are unable or unwilling to compose a pleasurable sentence.  It greatly limits the harm they do.”–Evelyn Waugh

Although the article from which Waugh’s quote is taken was written in 1955, not much has changed in literary criticism.  By and large academic criticism is not pleasant to read.  Several years ago I ceased subscribing to PMLA because many of the articles were so arcane and filled with pedantic jargon that I found them unreadable.  I marveled that English professors could write such cumbersome and convoluted sentences.  It would have been more enjoyable  to fill out an income tax return than to read the articles.  Whenever I scan  bibliographies of critical articles, the off switch engages if I encounter titles with such phrases as “The Hermeneutics of . . .” or “Towards an Understanding of . . . .”  These are trigger words warning that boredom lies ahead.  Such articles have all the charm of literary style found in the small print of a real estate contract.  So the question arises:   Can literary criticism also be literary in style?

According to Waugh in “Literary Style in England and America,” the essential elements of style are lucidity, elegance, and individuality.   Almost none of the academic criticism that I have read over the years has these qualities.  To find these traits, one has to turn to the critics who have written or now write for the general public.  These writers, although sometimes highly opinionated, serve as guides through the labyrinth of published books for what is worth reading, and they usually refrain from the cardinal sin of writing:  boring the reader.  Waugh himself was such a critic.  Others that I have enjoyed include Matthew Arnold, H. L. Mencken, Edmund Wilson, Harold Bloom, Randall Jarrell, and Joseph Epstein.  They oftentimes have strange ideas and fixations, but they are witty and both inform and delight.  Among young critics today I would include William Giraldi, whose articles and reviews are pungent but never boring.  He is not loath to condemn a book that he regards as beyond the pale of literary competence.    He rants against bloggers, Amazon reviewers, and social media critics who serve as a mutual admiration society.  In “The Critic’s Credentials,” he writes:  “A world with no deservedly antagonistic reviews would be a literary Disneyland: a wretched uniformity of pleasantness.”  In “The Age of Criticism,” Randall Jarrell, while acknowledging that the magazines of his time included some good and intelligent criticism, wrote, 

“But a great deal of this criticism might just as well have been written by a syndicate of encyclopedias for an audience of International Business Machines.  It is not only bad or mediocre, it is dull; it is, often, an astonishingly graceless, joyless, humorless, long-winded, niggling, blinkered, methodical, self-important, cliche-ridden, prestige-obsessed, almost-autonomous criticism.”

I would add a hearty “amen” to Jarrell’s observation, applying it as well to much of the criticism in scholarly periodicals.

 

 

 

Planting Impatiens in My Garden

Yesterday I worked in our yard for a while, setting out purple New Guinea impatiens on the side flower bed in the front yard.  I like impatiens as a border since the plants eventually merge and produce an abundance of blossoms throughout the summer and into the fall.  A few weeks ago I planted an electric orange impatiens in the large pot that sits on the brick courtyard wall in front of the house.  In addition, I set out some vinca vine in the pot, and it is now trailing down the brick wall in a pleasing way, complementing the burst of flame-colored blossoms and dark-green leaves in the center of the pot.

Admittedly, my horticultural skills are small, but it has been pleasant this spring to dig my fingers down into the dirt and be reminded of the vital connection that all of us have to the soil.  It is good for the body and soul occasionally to get down on hands and knees and dig in the earth.  Yesterday, I sat on a towel that I spread on the grass and leaned sideways to dig holes for the impatiens plants.  I saw how dry the soil was, almost powdery in texture, and was reminded how much we need rain in South Georgia.  I also had to cut my way through a number of small roots to clear out a place for the plants.  I was amazed that the soil beneath the surface was a network of so many roots, some from the Virginia creeper that has entangled itself in the bordering shrubs and some from the nearby tulip poplar tree that shades the flower bed for part of the day.

The roots were a reminder that so much of the natural world lies hidden beneath the surface, a concept that we tend to forget in our daily lives.  This in turn is a reminder that to understand any subject, whether it be horticulture, politics, educational methods, or religious issues, one must go deep rather than be satisfied with superficial analysis.  The three-minute sound bites on TV are inadequate to bring true understanding.  One has to make an effort to comprehend complex subjects and not settle for hasty generalizations and stereotypes that result from a failure to devote enough time and effort to them.  Today, we tend to flit from one topic to another.  Advertisements on TV are this way.  It as if the creators of these ads think that viewers lack the patience to focus on anything for more than fifteen to thirty seconds at the time.  I know that the cost of these ads makes it imperative that they be short, but the flitting from one ad to another contributes to the overall tendency in the media to avoid prolonged attention or thought to any subject.

Oh well, I am being sententious, imposing too much moralizing on planting impatiens.  But it was fulfilling to be out for a while on a pleasant morning digging in the earth.  I am reminded of what Voltaire had Candide say: “Il faut cultiver notre jardin.”  It does all of us good to dig in the dirt occasionally.

Monism or Dualism?

Is the universe a monism or a dualism? I am reluctant to choose either of these terms to describe the creation since unwanted connotations may accompany it. I would argue that there is an empirically objective reality and an unseen spiritual reality. It would seem, therefore, that I am asserting that reality is a dualism. But I consider that there is one order created by God that embraces the two aspects. In that sense the universe may be considered a monism. Whatever exists in either realm is God’s creation. Human beings are a convergence of the two realms, having both a physical and spiritual nature. The supreme example, of course, is Jesus Christ, who is both God and man.

Aphorisms and Musings

Occasionally, I like to dabble in writing aphorisms or random musings.  I suppose that this is a privilege of old age.  Here are a few. —The bigger the salary, the more aloof they become. —People tend to equate being hard of hearing with lack of intelligence or senility. —When I could hear well, I was not a good listener. When I became a good listener, I could not hear well. —When you are young and have little to say, everyone is willing to talk with you. When you are old and have much to say, no one is willing to talk with you. —When you need something, you cannot find it. When you finally find it, you no longer need it. —In college the faculty and administrators who spend much time with students have small salaries. Those who spend a small amount of time with students have big salaries. Go figure. —Some people spend their lives hurrying from place to place. When they die, their bodies should be driven in the hearse to the cemetery at a hundred miles per hour. The coffin should be dumped in the grave and hurriedly covered up. Then all mourners should leave rubber on the highway as they depart. We should honor the memory of a man by the way he lived. —If a man loved practical jokes, every seat at his funeral should have a whoopee cushion, and the flowers should squirt water. The biggest joke of all is that the coffin should be empty with a note in it: “Out to lunch.” —Forced compliance is not harmony. —You know you are out of touch when the only one that seems to love you is your cat. But thank goodness for the cat! —You also know you are out of touch when you post what you think is an interesting comment on Facebook, but no one gives you a “Like.”–We often criticize public figures we dislike for not being perfect while we excuse the faults of those we admire.—People who never visit you while you are living will, nevertheless, attend your funeral.  It could be that they attend to confirm that you are dead so they no longer have to feel guilty about not visiting.  Adversely, it could be that they regard your dying as the most interesting thing you have ever done.–Of what use would it be if a man knew everything in the world but did not know God?  That lack of knowledge would make him an educated fool dumber than a fence post.–Or what would it matter if a man had been everywhere but had never come to God?  That failure would mean he that he had never arrived at the most important destination of all and that all of his travels were just useless wandering.