Greetings, fellow readers! At some point in your reading lives, I'm sure you've encountered some statements similar to these:
"Isn't reading just a form of escapism and wishful thinking?"
"Shouldn't books focus on, you know, serious issues?"
"We shouldn't read fairy tales to kids because it keeps them from living in the Real World."
Even the great Jane Austen had to deal with the attitude that novels did not count as Serious Literature. In fact, her novel Northanger Abbey has an entire chapter devoted to Austen's own apologia for novel reading. In her day, Cultured People read poetry, and novels were seen as trashy and frivolous. Austen argued that novels are worthy; in fact, her heroine, Catherine, uses her vast experience reading novels to uncover the mystery of Northanger Abbey. Far from being a form of escapism, novels can teach us and comfort us when our circumstances are miserable and inescapable, which brings me to my theme for this post.
Over the weekend, I went camping at Skidaway Island in Georga with some friends from the Honors Program Ambassadors club at my school. This trip was supposed to be a fun experience for us to bond and honor the graduating seniors, but the reality was not nearly so rosy. By the time we arrived at the campsite, it was pitch black and raining buckets. Everything was so wet we were unable to start a fire; all we could do was huddle inside a small shelter and eat our s'more ingredients raw as we tried to keep warm. To make matters worse, we had no tarps laid down under our tents. Not only was the floor of my tent one giant lake, but all my gear was waterlogged, and the tent roof leaked.
Now, let me pause for a moment to say I've survived many a bad camping trip in my day. I've slogged through rain, eaten food covered in onion juice because someone forgot to keep the pungent food off the rest of our meals, gotten lost in the woods, and my personal favorite, huddled under a tarp on an airfield in Canada amidst the wildest thunderstorm ever, but I have never lost my faith that things would be ok. This camping trip was entirely without hope or succor. I slept not a wink, and around 2 AM, thoroughly disheartened by my situation, I decided to pick up a book in the hopes of making myself feel at least a little bit better.
The soft light of my Kindle paperwhite illuminated the tent as my eyes drank in the familiar words of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. (Yes, I know you're supposed to be in the wilderness and commune with nature when you're out camping, but at this point, I didn't give a sh!t. I just wanted to be happy, and we live in the 21st century, dammit! I wasn't about to deprive myself of a good book just because I happened to be out in the woods.) Little Women is a book that never fails to remind me of home, perhaps because growing up, my mom, my sisters, and I were known as "the little women" among our friends. Also, when my mom was really sick after I was born, my dad took her to see the movie with Winona Ryder as Jo when she got out of the hospital--he was the only man in the theater, and it's a mark of his love and respect for my mom that he didn't care a bit. When I was little, Dad and I made our own version of the March girls' Pickwick Society (I still have our little handmade newspapers), and on our way to Canada (of rain-lashed airfield fame mentioned above), we stopped at Orchard House, the real life home of Alcott and her family and the inspiration for the Marches' house in the novel.
I read until just before sunrise, which was around 7 AM. Though I was exhausted, soaked, and sore by the time I stumbled out of the tent, my heart and mind were happy, still filled with visions of the girls and Marmee sitting around the fire, reading letters from Father, of Laurie and Jo dancing at the Gardners' Christmas party, of Amy losing her limes to the little Irish children, of Meg's tender courtship with John Brooke. The book didn't make my situation go away, but it did make me feel better, and that's a powerful thing. You may call reading books escapism if you want, but you cannot deny the power of literature to improve our state of mind and affect our emotions. I will always be glad I had Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy there to help me get through that horrible camping trip.
Until next time,
Anna
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The Roundup
Greetings, fellow readers! This blog doesn't have a specific theme; it's more of a general roundup of all the books I've read and the bookish things I've done lately.
I haven't actually read too many novels recently, though I did finish A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, which was really good. I've been reading Carol Ann Duffy's The Bees, which is the first collection of poetry she's published since becoming the Poet Laureate of the UK. (Fun facts about Duffy: in my Modern British Poetry class, I learned that she is the first woman, the first Scottish person, and the first LGBTQ person to hold the title of Poet Laureate--is that cool or what?) I haven't gotten past Part One of the book yet, mostly because Duffy's language is so good I want to savor it like it's orange blossom honey. She has this fantastic rendition of Ariel's "Where the bee sucks there suck I" speech from The Tempest that I am obsessed with. Some of my other favorites are "Mrs. Schofield's GCSE" and "Scheherazade." This is definitely a collection I'll take my time with.
This past weekend, I made a trip with my friend Jordan to Wild Iris, a small feminist bookstore in downtown Gainesville. After accidentally going to their old location and stopping at the public library to ask directions (I know, how nerdy is that?!), we finally made it, I with quarter-size blisters on the balls of my feet. The bookstore was eclectic: it's run entirely by volunteers, and they host regular art shows and open mic nights. The selection was a little narrow for my taste (even though I do consider myself a feminist FOR LIFE), but it was definitely a neat little place. I did end up buying some notebooks from there (because you can never have too many notebooks.)
It seems Shakespeare in the Park is not quite finished yet: my scenemates and I are going to perform in a local European festival sometime next month. It'll be a fun way to keep the excitement going now that the mainstage production is over.
That's all I have for now! Take care, and happy reading!
Until next time,
Anna
I haven't actually read too many novels recently, though I did finish A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, which was really good. I've been reading Carol Ann Duffy's The Bees, which is the first collection of poetry she's published since becoming the Poet Laureate of the UK. (Fun facts about Duffy: in my Modern British Poetry class, I learned that she is the first woman, the first Scottish person, and the first LGBTQ person to hold the title of Poet Laureate--is that cool or what?) I haven't gotten past Part One of the book yet, mostly because Duffy's language is so good I want to savor it like it's orange blossom honey. She has this fantastic rendition of Ariel's "Where the bee sucks there suck I" speech from The Tempest that I am obsessed with. Some of my other favorites are "Mrs. Schofield's GCSE" and "Scheherazade." This is definitely a collection I'll take my time with.
This past weekend, I made a trip with my friend Jordan to Wild Iris, a small feminist bookstore in downtown Gainesville. After accidentally going to their old location and stopping at the public library to ask directions (I know, how nerdy is that?!), we finally made it, I with quarter-size blisters on the balls of my feet. The bookstore was eclectic: it's run entirely by volunteers, and they host regular art shows and open mic nights. The selection was a little narrow for my taste (even though I do consider myself a feminist FOR LIFE), but it was definitely a neat little place. I did end up buying some notebooks from there (because you can never have too many notebooks.)
It seems Shakespeare in the Park is not quite finished yet: my scenemates and I are going to perform in a local European festival sometime next month. It'll be a fun way to keep the excitement going now that the mainstage production is over.
That's all I have for now! Take care, and happy reading!
Until next time,
Anna
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
In Lieu of Mr. Darcy
Greetings, fellow readers! I have survived the Hell Week that is Shakespeare in the Park dress rehearsals and performances. After a solid week of going straight to the park from class, then staying until after ten o'clock at night, I am ready for some sleep! Alas, my professors have other plans: I have two exams and a computer science project due this week. (We're coding Breakout this week. If you thought that game was simple, boy, are you wrong!)
Anyway, I thought I'd alleviate some of the post-Shakespeare slump by writing about (what else?) Shakespeare. Specifically, I'd like to write about my first love: the bard's own King Henry V. This was the first Shakespeare play I saw adapted for film, and my little eight grade self fell head over heels in love with the eloquent, heroic Plantagenet. He could spend the wee hours of the morning expounding on the difficulties of leading men to their deaths, fight with the best of them throughout the day, then come home at night and say those three magic words--"Kiss me, Kate"--that made my little heart swell with joy.
I know a lot of readers have their literary loves--for a great many women, that love is Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy, but I've never loved any drawing room gentleman as much as I loved the man who fought on St. Crispin's Day. There's something endearing about Prince Hal, who was both beloved and admired by his friends and respected by his enemies. No matter how many fictional worthies I encounter in the books to come, he'll always have a special place in my Shakespeare-loving heart.
Until next time,
Anna
Anyway, I thought I'd alleviate some of the post-Shakespeare slump by writing about (what else?) Shakespeare. Specifically, I'd like to write about my first love: the bard's own King Henry V. This was the first Shakespeare play I saw adapted for film, and my little eight grade self fell head over heels in love with the eloquent, heroic Plantagenet. He could spend the wee hours of the morning expounding on the difficulties of leading men to their deaths, fight with the best of them throughout the day, then come home at night and say those three magic words--"Kiss me, Kate"--that made my little heart swell with joy.
I know a lot of readers have their literary loves--for a great many women, that love is Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy, but I've never loved any drawing room gentleman as much as I loved the man who fought on St. Crispin's Day. There's something endearing about Prince Hal, who was both beloved and admired by his friends and respected by his enemies. No matter how many fictional worthies I encounter in the books to come, he'll always have a special place in my Shakespeare-loving heart.
Until next time,
Anna
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Confessions of an Accidental Poetry Reader
Greetings, fellow readers! For those of you coming back from spring break, welcome! I hope all your vacations were restful and fun. For those of you yet to reach your reprieve, I feel your pain; hang in there! For me, it's back to the usual round of literature and computer science: I have a paper on Coleridge's "Christabel" due this Friday, and I just finished making a game of Flappy Bird for my Java class, so if you're in need of some head-banging frustration and futility that would make Sisyphus turn green with envy, hit me up!
Thankfully, spring break was a restorative time for me: some of my friends came to visit me in Jacksonville, and I went to the bookstore three times! This brings me to the theme of today's post: poetry. I've never been anti-poetry, but until coming to college, I've never been a big fan either. Sure, I could recognize quotes from Emily Dickinson or Shakespeare's sonnets, but I never considered myself a Poetry Reader. All that changed spring of my freshman year when I took a class called Modern British Poetry. That class really opened my horizons and made me realize just how diverse poetry is as a genre. We read everything from T.S. Eliot's long, abstruse poem "The Waste Land" to Stevie Smith's sassy lyrics complete with her own line drawings. We read classic authors like Yeats and Auden, but we also studied contemporary voices like Grace Nichols and Carol Ann Duffy, the Poet Laureate of the UK. Since then, I have taken a poetry class every semester.
I didn't realize I was a Poetry Reader until this spring break, however. I went with my friends Rachel and Haley to Chamblin's Bookmine, which is a used bookstore in Jacksonville. This place is Narnia for book lovers. It's a shabby little shoebox of a building on the outside, but on the inside, it's a forest. Books shoot up to the ceiling like trees; they crouch in corners like foxes; they spring up beneath your feet like violets. You would never guess based on its unassuming interior that Chamblin's is crammed with over a million books.
I'm happy to say that quite a few of those million books now reside on my shelves in Gainesville. As soon as we got to Chamblin's, I made a beeline for the poetry section. I was looking for Szymborska's Poems New and Collected (see my previous entries for more on her), but I found infinitely more riches as well. I ended up having a bonding moment with three other students over Adrienne Rich (they recommended three of her best volumes) and Rumi. I said, "Wouldn't it be ironic if Rumi had claustrophobia?" We were cackling madly over that one!
In addition to the Szymborska and Rich, I found good translations of Sappho and Catullus (thanks to Allison, my Classicist-in-residence, for teaching me how to spot them), complete works of A.E. Houseman and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, sonnets and lyrics of Edna St. Vincent Millay, a guide to writing poetry by Mary Oliver, and for some variety, A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. I can't believe I didn't have my own copy before!
There were many more books to be had in my successive trips, and I will write about them all as I read them, but it should suffice for now to proclaim that I, for better or for worse, am a bona fide Poetry Reader!
Until next time,
Anna
Thankfully, spring break was a restorative time for me: some of my friends came to visit me in Jacksonville, and I went to the bookstore three times! This brings me to the theme of today's post: poetry. I've never been anti-poetry, but until coming to college, I've never been a big fan either. Sure, I could recognize quotes from Emily Dickinson or Shakespeare's sonnets, but I never considered myself a Poetry Reader. All that changed spring of my freshman year when I took a class called Modern British Poetry. That class really opened my horizons and made me realize just how diverse poetry is as a genre. We read everything from T.S. Eliot's long, abstruse poem "The Waste Land" to Stevie Smith's sassy lyrics complete with her own line drawings. We read classic authors like Yeats and Auden, but we also studied contemporary voices like Grace Nichols and Carol Ann Duffy, the Poet Laureate of the UK. Since then, I have taken a poetry class every semester.
I didn't realize I was a Poetry Reader until this spring break, however. I went with my friends Rachel and Haley to Chamblin's Bookmine, which is a used bookstore in Jacksonville. This place is Narnia for book lovers. It's a shabby little shoebox of a building on the outside, but on the inside, it's a forest. Books shoot up to the ceiling like trees; they crouch in corners like foxes; they spring up beneath your feet like violets. You would never guess based on its unassuming interior that Chamblin's is crammed with over a million books.
I'm happy to say that quite a few of those million books now reside on my shelves in Gainesville. As soon as we got to Chamblin's, I made a beeline for the poetry section. I was looking for Szymborska's Poems New and Collected (see my previous entries for more on her), but I found infinitely more riches as well. I ended up having a bonding moment with three other students over Adrienne Rich (they recommended three of her best volumes) and Rumi. I said, "Wouldn't it be ironic if Rumi had claustrophobia?" We were cackling madly over that one!
In addition to the Szymborska and Rich, I found good translations of Sappho and Catullus (thanks to Allison, my Classicist-in-residence, for teaching me how to spot them), complete works of A.E. Houseman and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, sonnets and lyrics of Edna St. Vincent Millay, a guide to writing poetry by Mary Oliver, and for some variety, A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. I can't believe I didn't have my own copy before!
There were many more books to be had in my successive trips, and I will write about them all as I read them, but it should suffice for now to proclaim that I, for better or for worse, am a bona fide Poetry Reader!
Until next time,
Anna
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)