I love children’s books: always have, always will. However, so many people pass the age of 12 and think they must “grow up.” They somehow rationalize leaving behind the lovely rows of Newberry Medal winners for the cringe-worthy gratuitousness of the “teen paranormal romance” section. When did that even become a section?! Or rather, WHY?!
But I digress.
Upon entering high school, too often we leave Narnia and enter far nastier realms of either purely reality (that is, not reading at all) or cliche, poorly-written teen romance. Even for advanced readers, skipping over the teen literature for adult books is not usually easy or wise; these too are riddled with profanity, pornographic scenes, and – frankly- poor writing.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some absolutely wonderful teen and adult books out there. I’ve blogged on a few of them and am planning to publish a roundup of recommendations for later, but in general, I have been lately drawn more and more back to the children’s literature sections of the bookstore.
Not convinced that children’s literature is for every one?
Here are ten reasons why you should read more children’s books:
They are not just for kids! C.S. Lewis, who was a prolific writer for both children and grown-ups, once remarked that “a children’s story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children’s story in the slightest.” Well-written children’s tales grow with the reader, gaining deeper meaning as the reader ages.
They’re clean! Every time I pick up a book outside of the kids’ or classics sections, I stumble across something scandalous. I get it, sometimes a swear word or sexual scene is necessary, but usually they seem to be thrown in to attract an edgier audience rather than to enhance the story. Children’s books manage to convey real issues without having to be unnecessarily explicit!
They are not condescending. So many books geared toward teens are written in a dumbed-down style, overusing descriptions such as “the boy felt angry.” Don’t tell us he felt angry! Tell us that he “clenched his fists as his face turned red with pent up emotion.” Readers are smart enough to infer what the character is feeling! I’ve found that children’s books most often show rather than tell, preventing the reader from feeling as if he/she is being talked down to by the author.
They address real events and issues. So much of my understanding of the world comes from what I read as a child. They might be riddled with magic and fun, but so often children’s books are deeper than we give them credit for! They teach history, different perspectives, address serious issues, even demonstrate survival skills!
They offer comforters and encouragement. It’s as if, the older I become, the authors that nurtured me as a child become more important; instead of babysitters, they are mentors. Rereading them takes me back to a simpler time, when my biggest worry was how many chapters I could read before I’d have to practice piano. They also are full of sage advice, the depth of which I have only realized with age and experience.
They are brain candy and food for thought. Written for children, the writing style is not generally complicated; however, with such a vast spectrum of topics, these books are certainly not mere fluff! They are perfect for light reading, yet they also demand that you think, ensuring that time spent reading them is time well spent.
They are original! This should be a given. Actually, this should be a requirement for publication. Sadly, though, cliche is the new original for many books. However, you can always count on children’s books to bring lively new stories to the world! Just like kids are always imagining new things, children’s authors are constantly producing fresh tales.
They tell fantastic stories. Again, this should be a given for publication in the first place, but you’d be surprised how many books I start, thinking they look intriguing, and then set aside in my “Half-Price Books trade-in” pile. However, children’s books tell such a wide variety of gripping tales that I have lately found myself staying up late reading, just as I did when I was little.
They have pictures. Books do not need pictures; I’m not Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. But, let’s be honest, who doesn’t enjoy some well-drawn illustrations? The illustrator of The Mysterious Benedict Society did such delightful work that I have bought books by different authors simply because they are illustrated by her.
They promote bonding. I clearly don’t have kids yet, but I look forward to a day when I will read aloud from my favorite books to my kids. I remember fondly the times my parents would take my brother and I to the bookstore and let us pick out books. Even now, that is how my dad and I spend our time together and, even as a twenty-year-old, I usually make my pick from the Newberry Medal winners.
Are you convinced now? If not, I encourage you to visit the children’s literature section at your local bookstore anyway. Need recommendations? Just comment and I will send you millions. (Maybe not quite millions…)
While I will admit that I am sad to see some changes in the children’s literature section, with books such as Dork Diaries replacing the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary, I recognize that it is a place where wholesome storytelling thrives, fostering both imagination and education. In short, children’s literature gives me hope in the midst of a world that is increasingly drawn to darkness and – scarier still – poor writing.
Friend: “No, you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend any money.”
Me: “But…George Eliot!”
Friend: “No.”
Me: “Treat yo self?”
Friend: “Nope.”
Me: *buys it when she isn’t looking*
I am willing to admit I have an addiction to literature…but when it’s half price for beautiful editions of classics, I can hardly be expected to leave the bookstore empty-handed!
It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Unless you’re in college. Still, though, Christmas serves as the light at the end of the dark tunnel of finals and juries. While the adult world is out shopping for gifts at the mall, we are on our laptops ordering them through Amazon during lectures. If you happen to be shopping for a college student and need ideas, I shall provide a few that are sure to be hits:
Ask a college student what he/she wants for Christmas and they will answer with a laugh, “Sleep.” You cannot wrap sleep itself up in a box, but you can give your college student some new PJs, a pillow pet (they’re not just for kids!), a fuzzy blanket, etc.
Mugs are the most versatile of dishes. For reals! We use them for oatmeal, soup, cereal, coffee, water, holding flowers, trapping spiders, catching water that drips mysteriously from the ceiling, decorating empty shelves, holding pencils. You name it! Plus, doing dishes is a chore we often neglect, so the more mugs we have the better.
Coffee gift cards. Food gift cards. Amazon gift cards. Straight up cash. We burn through funds faster than America. I am pretty sure I am singlehandedly allowing Starbucks to expand their empire. Not the most exciting gift, but certainly useful.
School supplies. Sure, we started the year with loaded backpacks, but at this point we are lucky to find a spare pencil on the ground somewhere just in time for our last final. Journals, pens, tape, staples, all are acceptable gifts. (Especially for education majors!)
Clothes, especially comfy ones, are in demand. Laundry is the literal worst in college; we have to deal with finicky laundry cards, broken machines, and lugging three weeks of dirty clothes down to the basement. The more clothes we have, the longer we can go without washing them. Plus, the freshmen fifteen (and sophomore sixteen?) is real and yoga pants and sweatshirts are a blessing.
Textbooks. I get low key excited when I receive books for Christmas. Granted, my books are not really textbooks (#ThanksTorreyHonorsInstitute), but getting them as gifts saves me having to purchase 20 books at once. Plus, nothing beats the smell of new books.
Anything fuzzy is sure to be a winner. During stressful times, I revert to acting like a five-year-old, meaning that I literally buried myself in a pile of teddy bears at the store. No joke. But something about coziness and fluffiness is so wonderfully comforting, even to a somewhat adult such as myself.
Headbands and beanies and other headwear are amazing because they can save up to a half an hour of time spent on hair care! Seriously, I can get up at 7:50 and make it to my 8am class because of the magic of throwing on a headband to hide messy hair.
Well, I wrote this post in a final effort to procrastinate studying for my music history final, so I should probably end it here. Hope these help! 🙂
I have already blogged a series of writers’ confessions, but find I must once more come clean about some things…
I (somewhat) enjoyed my term papers. Yes, they were torturous and I singlehandedly contributed to deforestation when it came time to print them (all 40 pages of them….), but there is something so satisfying about thumping down a stack of papers on a desk and knowing that they are your own work. Granted, I would have enjoyed them less if I had procrastinated and had to pull all-nighters.
I am currently laughing aloud like an evil mastermind because I found a dark moment for one of my characters and it made me ridiculously happy. I feel only slightly terrified of myself right now.
I forget about 80% of what I write. When it comes time to reread what I’ve written, I tend to be pleasantly surprised. For instance, I just reread part of my current novel draft and found myself shocked and amused by some of the twists because I actually forgot them.
Sometimes the weirdest ideas end up being the best. I just wrote a story about mars, biblical end times, and some zany stuff like magnetic wine glasses. I did not expect it to make any sense or to work, but ended up happy with how it turned out. (You can read it below as it is my most recent post: “The Same Sun”)
Words happen and I can’t stop them. Ideas and writing happens at the most inopportune times. For instance, I may or may not have been creating characters in the middle of a music theory class.
I collect people and things from real life. Every writer does this, so I will confess on behalf of us all. I write character sketches of people I know. I write down quotes that real people say to me. I describe real places. I really ought to put a disclaimer in each of my stories saying something along the lines of *any resemblance to real people/places is purely coincidental. Of course, though, this would be a total lie.
There you have it! More writers’ confessions. I’m sure there will be more, but these will ease my conscience for now. 😉
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman having read or seen Pride and Prejudice, must be in want of a Mr. Darcy.” – Jane Austen and Ryanne McLaren*
*Note: The above quote does not actually represent the entirety of this post, but I did think it rather apt in capturing the feelings of Austenites everywhere.
Rereading Pride and Prejudice is probably the most fun summer homework I have ever had. I find myself procrastinating my other work as I continue to become absorbed into Jane Austen’s Regency world of country lanes, stuffy dinner parties, heartfelt letters, and- of course- the universally-beloved romance between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.
In beginning to read this book for the second (or is it third?) time, I was determined to figure out which leading lady I am the most like. My mother used to tell me to “put on my Jane face” whenever I needed to act sweet and politely charming. But, others have mentioned that my sass is more in line with Elizabeth. I hope that I have never been a Lydia or Kitty, though I fear I may occasionally be Mary.
But…the more I read, the more I come to realize that I am not completely like any of these characters. And, while most girls will argue that Elizabeth is their spirit animal, I am afraid that I am, instead, Mr. Darcy.
Granted, I am obviously not a “young man in possession of a good fortune,” but I cannot avoid acknowledging the incredible similarities I have discovered between Darcy’s character and my own.
First of all, according to internet searches, which we all know are always accurate, both Darcy and I are INTJ personalities, commonly considered to be the “architects” archetype. INTJs are characterized by planning, introversion, and analysis. Of course, the Meyers-Briggs indicator does not capture the whole of our natures, so I will continue to delve deeper, using Darcy’s pursuit of Elizabeth as my primary evidence.
Rudeness and cluelessness:
“I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men” (Austen 7-8).
I do not think that Darcy meant any overt meanness here, but was simply being blunt with his thoughts. If I had a nickel for every time I said something insensitive simply because I thought it obvious, I would be able to buy Pemberley. He was also clueless that the woman he slighted at first will become attractive to him within the next few chapters. I’ll admit this has happened to me too; upon meeting someone, I might not give him a second thought at first, even if he becomes important to me later.
2. Eye love intelligence:
“No sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes” (16).
Pardon the terrible pun, but Darcy comes to admire Elizabeth’s whole figure upon finding he admires the witty sparkle in her eyes. This is usually the first thing I see in a person too; a good-humored and intelligent expression in someone’s eyes is the most attractive thing to me and gives that entire person a handsomeness that cannot be matched.
3. Knowledge is power, but also love:
“He began to wish to know more of her” (16).
It might sound horrible, but people like Darcy and myself don’t care that much about learning about others unless we have a genuine affection for them. It goes right along with our detest of small talk. We don’t give two pence about someone’s thoughts on the weather,his/her favorite dinner course, or where he/she buys tea biscuits. Unless we care for this person deeply. In that case, we will not only want to know everything about him/her, but we will make a clear effort to ask and observe in order to gather information.
4. Falseness if futile:
“‘Nothing is more deceitful,’ said Darcy, ‘than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast'” (35).
When Miss Bingley copies and compliments everything Darcy does, he does not hide his annoyance, but expresses it in wise sayings she is sure to misinterpret but still allow him to speak his mind. He is aware of and despises all ploys of manipulation. Similarly, nothing bothers me more than falseness or deception and when I am aware of these manipulations, I speak my mind. And, though I usually believe I am correct, I also generally regret it.
5. Slow to form opinions, slow to discard them:
“My good opinion, once lost is lost forever” (43).
I agree with Elizabeth that this tendency is “a failing indeed,” but it is a failing I share with Darcy. Wickham wronged Mr. Darcy and deserved to lose his favor, but was it wrong of Darcy to renounce forgiveness? This is a fault of mine as well, for I am guilty of remaining cold toward people who have “lost my good opinion” for unreasonably long periods of time. But, I will add, the trust and friendship of such characters as Darcy and myself are not easily won, so it is understandable that breaks in these bonds are also not easily forgotten.
6. Desire is danger:
“He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention” (44).
This is an exaggeration, but I am right when I say that Darcy feared his attachment to Elizabeth. Feelings of any kind are discomfiting to natures such as his, for they not only contradict reason but are at risk of being found out by others. The fear of a person discovering where Darcy’s (or my own…) affections lie is all too real for him (and me.) We know from experience that secrets relating to the heart are best kept in complete privacy because it allows for protection of our own egos as well as make the likelihood of getting over such affections greater.
7. Reason > Romance:
“Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her…and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her” (43).
As I said before, if Darcy could forget his admiration of Elizabeth, he would likely congratulate himself on avoiding ridiculousness. It is the first instinct of people such as him and me to try and adhere to reason rather than romance, especially when there is a risk of the romantic feelings not being returned.
8. A matter of company:
“We neither of us perform to strangers” (135).
Although this scene centered around a piano, Darcy is not talking about musical performance, but rather social interaction. He makes it clear that he does not do well in many common social situations. This is crazy relatable for me. Dentist appointments, customer service lines, and ice breaker activities are torture because they require me to chat lightly with people I don’t generally connect with. (And, in the case of the dentist, I have to chat with sharp objects prodding my gums, which I think must literally be a punishment from hell.) However, when we find a place or group in which we meet people with shared interests or natures, we perform our social duties admirably enough to be mistaken for extroverts!
9. The gift of time:
“More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble…unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy…on these occasions it was not merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her” (140).
Darcy has made it clear up until this point in the novel that he does not enjoy spending much time chatting or idling. However, this is exactly what he keeps doing! In talking and walking with Elizabeth, he is showing that he cares for her enough to make time with her a priority. This is perhaps the greatest gift he can give her at this moment and, in the same way, I express my love by making time for people I love greatly.
10. When all else fails, GET TO THE POINT!
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you” (145).
Here is where Darcy and I differ; when Elizabeth fails to catch all of his hints, he straight up tells her “Hey, I like like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no.” I wish I were this bold. It would probably save me lots of overthinking. Maybe someday I’ll give it a shot… I do, however, share Darcy’s appreciation of straightforwardness and wish more people were like him in this way.
11. Service speaks:
“He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper, that he had done it for her” (248).
When his profession of love was not returned, Darcy continued to show determined care in his actions, taking on the shame of the Bennets and doing all he could to restore their propriety. It is such selfless service that speaks Darcy’s love the loudest. I only hope I serve those I care about, even if they do not always share my feelings, in the same quiet and generous manner. Let’s also take a moment to celebrate that his determination and patience prove totally worth it in the end! 🙂
So there you have it. Again, I am not the tragically romantic figure that Darcy is, nor am I so reserved and skeptical as he is. Still, while I may not be as much like our dear Mrs. Darcy as I had hoped, there is nothing wrong with being a sort of Miss Darcy, as long as I don’t go about earning a reputation of being “proud…above [my] company…and above being pleased” (6).
Works Cited
Austen, Jane, James Kinsley, and Fiona J. Stafford. Pride and Prejudice. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.
In reading through Mark, I was struck by the recurring use of the word “immediately.” It is used to characterize many aspects of Christ’s ministry on Earth, but I was especially drawn to its use in relation to instances of healing. As I pondered this motif and these stories, I found myself understanding them with new clarity. In order to delve deeper into this idea of immediacy in Jesus’ miracles, I wrote a set of eight free verse poems exploring what the experiences of the individuals affected may have been like based on the details gleaned from the Gospel According to Mark.
Jesus Healing the Bleeding Woman, Roman Catacombs 300-350
Immediately
I. The Woman (Mark 5:21-34)
The crowd is throbbing
As my pain is
throbbing.
I have not come this far in years.
Twelve years.
Tears-
I cannot help them-
Begin to flow…
Flow as blood has
For twelve years.
I am so close.
But still feel so far and fears
Overcome me
As the people surround me.
They know.
They all know.
I see their glances:
Quick, horrified, averted.
I want to scream:
“Yes! See! See my shame!
Tell me, you proud, healthy,
Is it my fault?”
But instead I fall.
To my knees I am bent.
Beneath the weight of despair
I am kept.
But my eyes remain fixed
Before me, ahead.
I am fallen
And aching
But I am not yet dead.
My eyes catch
On a figure weaving
Through this throbbing, living sea.
As I rise to walk,
My vision fades.
I stretch my hand and fumble feebly forward…
A hem.
All I seek.
A hem to hem me behind and before
In healing safety.
My finger brushes
The rough cloth,
Not even for a breath,
But mine returns.
Immediately,
Blood dries and sight clears.
Love and hope and peace
Are all that flow
Not from, but over me.
Immediately,
I am again on my knees,
Not for lack of strength
But faith.
I tremble.
Yet this fear is new,
As I am made new
Immediately.
I cannot help
But want to sing,
“Oh, see! See! My shame undone!
See and know!
The saving One!”
Immediately.
.
II. The Man with the Withered Hand(3:1-6)
My bones lament
With hunger.
My eyes grow dim
From waiting.
Waiting for nothing,
Since who would help me today?
The sad irony of the Lord’s Day.
Synagogues and pockets full,
But hearts empty.
Even more empty than my hand.
At least I would to fill mine.
Another sad irony.
For I cannot.
I cannot even reach out
To work or to beg.
Why bother anyway?
You cannot pour from empty jars
And a broken pot like me-
A withered hand like mine-
Holds nothing.
Yet here I am,
Still waiting.
Waiting for someone
To heal and fill
And then,
“Come here.”
I lift my head.
A hand, not mine, reaches
As I cannot.
An order next:
“Stretch out your hand.”
Will the cruelty ever end?
Why does he mock me?
But then,
Immediately.
I watch fingers uncurl, lengthen.
Nails harden.
Palm fattens.
Muscles strengthen.
And it is my hand,
Yet not my hand
That is,
Immediately,
Opened and held out
For me.
The skin is softened,
Like my heart.
Immediately,
As limb is healed,
I am no longer empty.
Hardened hearts are whole jars,
Yet easily shattered.
Mine bends as my knuckles,
To take in life.
Immediately,
Hand restored, hope fulfilled.
I am sustained
And can sustain.
Oh, happy day!
Oh, sad irony cured
Immediately.
.
III. Jairus’s Daughter(5:35-43)
“Daughter, your faith has made you well,”
I hear the man say
To a woman kneeling.
Dealing with these commoners
Must be tiresome.
Some are calling him Teacher, after all.
He could be as me,
Lofty, a ruler.
I turn away,
But hear it again,
The word I hold dear.
“Daughter.”
Someone clutches my arm;
I am clutched by fear.
Dead.
In her bed.
Not sleeping?
No, nor breathing.
I stagger.
A gasp as one struck
Escapes my throat.
A wordless cry,
Yet I know he will hear.
Common or not,
I have to try.
My girl cannot just…die.
A man holds me back.
“Why trouble the Teacher?”
But I cannot just leave her.
And He heard,
And He knew
What had happened
And what I felt.
And He came.
“Do not fear.
Only believe.”
But can words alone dry
A father’s tears?
I know it is not sleep.
But then,
He spoke again.
His voice a lullaby.
“Talitha cumi,”
Commanding gently to rise.
Immediately,
Quicker even than on holiday mornings,
She did.
Eyes bright, arms outstretched
To wrap in embrace around
My once-stiff neck.
Immediately,
My daughter
Is born to me a second time
Of the water I wept.
Immediately,
She stands and,
Laughing and crying of joy,
We dance.
Immediately,
The Teacher, True Ruler,
Awakes daughter and father both
from death
And mourning dawns as morning
Immediately.
.
IV. The Leper(1:40-45)
Unclean,
I hide myself.
Lest I am seen
And sent away,
Purged from the city
While dogs and rats are allowed
To stay.
But they say
I am unclean.
I do not argue;
I am one of the unlucky ones
Who cannot hide his sins
Beneath a cloak of
Smooth, clear skin.
I am as unclean
Outside as others are within.
So I conceal my body,
But my spirit I’ll bear
An offering.
The sacrifice of Psalmist’s praise
Is not made up of lovely face
But a contrite heart,
Such a heart as mine.
Perhaps the only organ spared
But even it is broken.
Its pieces cry out
With my failing limbs.
Unclean,
But yearning.
I step out-
Painfully, timidly,
From where I’ve been
Hiding, waiting, dying…
Decaying though still living.
To my knees
I sink before You
To present my pitiful lot
Before You.
Its package fails, unclean.
But if you will…
You will?
Can it be?
At your word,
At your touch-
Ah, how long since I’ve been touched!
Oh fearful joy!
Immediately,
I am clean.
From that gentle press of the fingertips,
Life springs.
Immediately,
I feel it.
I feel it in nerves revived.
Shivering, pulsing,
Skin reforms before my eyes.
But even more,
Immediately,
My mangled heart
Laid at Your feet
Is touched too,
Molded and cradled
By hands invisible.
Immediately,
I stand humbled without shame,
Purified shell, Sanctified soul.
I am wonderfully remade
And run to present my whole self
Immediately.
.
V. The Paralytic (2:1-12)
People just keep going
Around, across, any way they can.
Stepping over me even.
But what can I do?
Nothing but what I am doing.
Lying here.
Still, in one piece
Yet shattered,
Feeling the full weight of despair
And at the same time
Feeling nothing.
Lying here, I can recall
When lying was pleasant
If it was with words to fool
Or women to love
In secrecy.
I fight the urge to laugh,
Bitterly.
Is it not funny how desires
So frequently
Turn to damnation
In a single, fateful
Instant?
The crowd is thick.
I watch as someone trips
Over the legs I no longer
Think of as my own.
As I am carried to the roof,
Still in my bed,
The thought crosses my mind
That maybe falling would not be so bad.
Yet even that end
Is not in my power.
They lower
Me down.
A face comes into view
Looking down but not in pride.
His eyes are sad
As if he sees
The past I wish to hide.
“Son,” he says,
Claiming me.
“Your sins are forgiven.”
Immediately,
Though my body remains still,
My heart leaps
And my soul is moved.
Immediately,
Outrage erupts around,
But I hear only one voice:
The Authority
Who speaks again.
Immediately,
I obey.
Could I ignore
The One who says,
“Rise and walk”?
Immediately,
I stand and take my bed.
No more lying for me.
Walking even
Is not enough
If it is not with Thee.
In your movements
I will follow
Immediately.
.
VI. The Deaf Man(7:31-37)
I cannot tell
What these gestures mean.
Why do you all wave
Your hands at me?
I can only guess at
The words on your lips.
And can only make
Vain attempts
To do as you do,
To speak as you speak.
By your wrinkled brows
And worried looks,
I know I am failing.
Where are you taking me?
Who is this man?
Oh, do not leave me!
I cannot understand
Your mute tongues,
But do not forsake me!
Where is he taking me?
I try to shout
But fall into silence,
Not that I am ever not
In that painful, ringing
Silence.
We stop.
The crowd is out of sight.
The man reaches out.
I flinch,
Expecting a blow
As from the cruel youths
Who saw me as a game,
An object of fun for them,
Confused torment for me.
But no blow comes,
Just a soft warmth
As He covers the sides of my head
And the tip of my tongue
With His hands.
Eyes wide, bewildered,
I watch.
He sighs.
I feel His breath on my face
And see Him mouth a word.
No- more!
More than see!
Immediately,
before the word
Has flown from His lips,
I hear.
I heart it!
Immediately,
As He speaks,
“Ephphatha”
“Be opened,”
I hear!
And realize the crowd
Is out of earshot
As well as sight.
Immediately,
My newborn ears
Are tuned to one voice,
The voice of my Healer
And Master.
Immediately,
I do what is now natural,
Though moments ago,
Impossible.
I shout and proclaim
Of hearing and healing
Immediately.
.
VII. The Blind Man (8:22-26)
“Touch me, someone!
So I might know you are there!”
Greet me, anyone!
So I am not alone,
Isolated in my own darkness.
I’m begging,
Begging for more than food
Or loose coins you can spare.
It is light that I am starving for-
A light to show me out,
Out of this eternal, internal,
Personal night.
My heart yearns
Morning and evening,
Though both are to me
The same.
Oh, I shudder.
The chill of winter
And aches of hunger
Are nothing
To this ceaseless imprisonment
Within myself.
I cry out again…
Perhaps someone will reply.
“Oh, stranger friend,
Whoever among you, passersby,
Has any pity,
I entreat you
To touch me,
Hear me,
See me.
But what’s this?
I start suddenly
As a hand descends
And makes to guide me.
My pleading fades.
I follow in silence,
Trusting,
Though I know not
Who leads me.
Then a pressure
Against my eyes,
Those shutter windows
To my lonely soul.
Next a voice asks,
“Do you see?”
Immediately,
I am blinded
No longer by darkness,
But by light,
Dazzling and radiant.
Immediately,
I answer,
“I see, people?
Or are those trees?”
I blink and try again.
Immediately,
The man’s hands
Descend once more,
Unfogging the glass,
This time completely.
Immediately,
I see and am seen.
I am freed,
Released from my prison
Where I grieved
In midnight black.
The Son is shining and I see,
Immediately.
.
VIII. The Demon-Possessed Boy (9:14-29)
Horrors.
There is no other name
For the things I have seen,
And sat helplessly by…
Useless.
My son, ripped from my arms
By a force I could not fight.
I am his father!
Guilt stabs like a knife.
But how can I defend when
The enemy, invader
Makes war from within?
My own flesh and blood,
My beloved,
My son,
Cast into the flames
I was too slow to quench,
Then plunged into the water
Kept for the fire.
I am but man
And as such but dust.
How could I conquer a spirit
When my own is worn and weary
And losing hope?
Alas! Why do you come,
you crowd, seeking spectacle?
You do not want to see
What daily seeks-
Through my son-
To destroy me:
Demon Doubt
Grapples for my soul
As the other strangles my son’s life
With his own fingers.
His demon casts him down,
Frothing, convulsing.
Mine pulls on me too,
But before it succeeds,
I cast myself down
In desperation
At Your feet.
Before the growing crowd,
Before You, my Lord.
“I believe, but oh!
Help my unbelief!”
Immediately,
Stillness falls.
Has death come?
Merciful relief?
Dare I hope for better?
It seems beyond belief and yet…
Don’t be a tourist. I don’t mean don’t travel; by all means, see the world and explore new places! But don’t be a tourist, defined as “a person who travels for pleasure, especially sight-seeing and staying in hotels.”
That doesn’t sound so bad, but can one really experience a place through simply seeing sights and staying in hotels? No! To truly travel, one cannot be a basic tourist; one must be an explorer, investigating unfamiliar places and actually living in them, even if just for a few days. In France, a tourist might see the Eiffel Tower, but an explorer bicycles around Paris in search of tiny bakeries and the perfect macarons. In London, a tourist will stay safe and dry inside the red double-decker buses, but an explorer would wander the rainy streets alongside the locals until breaking for a steaming cup of tea.
In the same way, a tourist visiting my home state of Arizona will pick up a postcard with a stereotypical desert scene (tumbleweeds, mountains, and a few saguaro cacti thrown in for good measure) but will not realize that there is so much more to this state. Sure, we have the Grand Canyon (all tourists know that) but as majestic as the desert and canyon are, Arizona has so much more to offer! We have haboobs (its not a naughty word, I promise; they are massive dust storms), the most colorful sunsets I’ve ever seen, cities full of attractions, and even snowy mountains! Just the other day I posted a video of myself throwing snow into the air on Instagram and a college friend of mine commented “I thought you lived in Arizona!” Well, I do, but to anyone who just looks at AZ from a tourist perspective, the snow and pine trees are inconsistent with the dusty and hot images portrayed in media and even on our license plates. However, Arizona is more than just “gila monsters and tarantulas”, as some Maine resident so eloquently put it and it is easy to discover this if one puts out the necessary effort as an explorer.
Snow between the desert and the mountains… Arizona is full of surprises!
How does this relate to literature? Well, just as one cannot fully experience a place from a few cheap postcards and a couple bus rides past the most famous monuments, one cannot grasp the full significance of a novel from its labels and, I venture to say, its misconceptions.
Take Tolstoy’s self-proclaimed masterpiece Anna Karenina for example. On the cover of a film adaption of the book, it was described as “Tolstoy’s tragic story of star-crossed lovers.” NO. NO NO NO NO NO. THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY!!!
Alternate Title: Gone with the Wind, Russian Edition
I’m not sure if the cover designer for this film adaption did not read the book or was just stupid, but either way, he completely missed the point. In zeroing in on the obvious story of the lust-affair (I refuse to recognize it as love) between Anna and Vronsky, the cover designer and potentially the reader/viewer is acting as a tourist, reducing a great work of literature to a mere soap opera, thus doing Tolstoy and him or herself a disservice in failing to grasp the more essential messages of the novel.
For instance, in gasping over the central scandal of A.K., the reader might miss the search for spiritual peace that serves as Levin’s motivation even more so than his desire for a family. Similarly, the conflict between the traditional Russian ways and the industrializing Western practices might be forgotten, erasing any true comprehension of the context of the novel within history and society. More concerning, however, is that in overlooking such essential themes, the reader forgoes the opportunity to make connections between these ideas and those within other works of literature and even within his or her own life. Questions raised by an analytical reading of the text such as “what is the role of desire?” and “is everything motivated by a sense of self-service?” cannot be answered if one is relying solely on the most basic understanding of plot. Certainly the deterioration of morality and the struggle of desires found directly within the affair between Anna and Vronsky is significant, but in mislabelling this as a romance or love between “star-crossed lovers”, the reader runs the risk of missing even these most obvious themes and becoming a literary tourist who is concerned only with the surface. This provides entertainment, just as looking at a postcard or snapping a selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower provides entertainment and perhaps even a sense of accomplishment, but ultimately it is not as rewarding as truly dedicating oneself to analyzing and drawing less obvious insights from the novel through literary exploration.
To be a literary explorer is to abandon the beaten path of skimming and summarizing, to delve into a book and search for underlying themes and hidden details. It means to live within the novel, making connections and pondering implications, rather than simply to take snapshots of quotes without understanding their context or characters without examining their motivations. Just as to have a more accurate and full knowledge of the world, one must act as an explorer rather than a tourist, to be a genuinely good reader, one must abandon the shallows of literary tourism and explore the greater depths of analysis.
This is me in Salzburg, Austria. Tourists would never dare ride unicorns, but an explorer like myself would. 😉
To close, consider this: If you were to travel to London, what would you most remember: seeing Buckingham Palace or finding the yummiest meat pie in a hole-in-the-wall pub? Or in Paris, would you value seeing the Mona Lisa with thousands of other people in the Louvre or finding a piece of brilliant art for sale by a local? In Arizona, would you remember the scorching sun or the many different climates? In the same way, as a reader, when you finish a novel, will you remember only the most prominent story or will you choose to explore beyond what can be learned from SparkNotes summaries? Ultimately, it is your choice, but as both a traveler and bookworm, I can assure you that playing the explorer is always the most rewarding (and most exciting) role.
