Literature

George Orwell was an intelligent man, and after reading this essay (link courtesy of Jon) I don’t think any further evidence of that fact need be presented. (Read the article in context.) Orwell, in 1946, was writing about what he saw as the decline of the English language. To a certain extent I agree with him, and not simply because his logic is sound and his argument convincing. I agree with him because when he cites certain passages as meaningless (or as containing less meaning, such as his re-writing of the passage from Ecclesiastes), I can say, with just a hint of shame, that I actually understand them. This seems like a paradox, since I am saying that I understand passages that are devoid of meaning, but it isn’t. I understand those passages because I have encountered those phrases before, and have memorized their meanings. This kind of language is… Continue Reading →

Julianne (should I use Dean Allen’s interesting, but ultimately annoying word “herself” to maintain a certain level of her privacy? Should I use any sort of quaint, but ultimately diminutive name? I haven’t decided yet.) is training to be an historian, in the same sense that I am training to be a literary critic. Last night we discussed biography and autobiography, and I mentioned how much fun it would be to write an autobiography. It’s the sort of thing I can see myself doing, and it offers some interesting opportunities to be creative. First, I think I would have to take certain liberties with my life story. I’m a creative person and creative people like to make things up (Robertson Davies once said something like, “If you ask a writer enough questions, you will start to get answers you cannot wholly trust.”), and that’s exactly what I would do. I… Continue Reading →

From Julian Barnes’ Flaubert’s Parrot, on the subject of Flaubert’s work not promoting positive virtues, in the form of a trial for obscenity: Is this book sexy? M’Lud, we bloody well hope so. Does it encourage adultery and attack marriage? Spot on, M’Lud, that’s exactly what my client is trying to do. Is this book blasphemous? For Christ’s sake, M’Lud, the matter’s as clear as the loincloth on the Crusifixion. Put it this way, M’Lud: my client thinks that most of the values of the society in which he lives stink, and he hopes with this book to promote fornication, masturbation, adultery, the stoning of priests and, since we’ve temporarily got your attention, M’Lud, the suspension of corrupt judges by their earlobes. The defence rests its case. Great stuff.

I’ve recently found myself embroiled in a rather lengthy discussion on feminism. The discussion focused on feminism in general, defining it, and defining terms like “the patriarchy”. I argued mostly for the sake of arguing, often taking stances I don’t genuinely believe just to stir the pot (but I am not a troll; I never stepped across that boundary), but it got me thinking. One person suggested that my definition of subjectivity, rights based on selfish transactions, and non-transcendent ethics “devolved” to power. And he was right, but I don’t think it’s necessarily a devolution. So I got to thinking how definitions of subjectivity are currently both the most influential and highly contested factors influencing contemporary literary criticism. Which also got me thinking about power, transactions, and human interaction. So here we go, with my completely under-developed theory concerning human relationships as transactions in which power is the prime currency… Continue Reading →

My book list this term is hideously long. It’s so long the far side of it lives in Manitoba. Here is a sample of said list: A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne About a Boy, Nick Hornby Flaubert’s Parrot, Julian Barnes Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray Love in Excess, Eliza Haywood Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett The Frence Lieutenant’s Woman, John Fowles This is just a sampling, of course, but it should be noted that while several of the works (Flaubert’s Parrot, Waiting for Godot) are quite short, many of them are quite long. I cannot, at this point, fathom how I will manage to read all of these books (including, of course, the bulk of my texts, which are not listed above) between now and early April. But I will. I’ve already read Waiting for Godot, which I commented on below,… Continue Reading →

Time has stopped. – Samuel Becket, Waiting for Godot Was I sleeping while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be? He’ll know nothing. He’ll tell me about the blows he received and I’ll give him a carrot. Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener. At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on.… Continue Reading →