In June of this past year, Dr. William (Bill) McCarthy passed away after a long bout with cancer.
Less than a month before, he sent me an e-mail to congratulate me on graduation and the success I'd had at Penn State, as well as that which he was sure awaited me at the University of Pittsburgh.
I miss you, Dr. McCarthy, and I'm grateful for the time we had together.
(...)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Friday, November 16, 2007
A Brief Update
Dr. McCarthy has moved up north. He has taught his last Religion in Lit class at Penn State. I hear he has a beautiful view of the ocean from his new house. There will be no more Shrove Tuesday breakfasts in this part of the Northeast, though I hope he has enough of his wife's family and makes enough new friends to consume all the buckwheat cakes coming off his griddle.
His brother, Cormac, is riding high, though according to a recent interview in -- was it Poets & Writers? The New Yorker? -- he's quoted as saying he doesn't much care. About the money. About the fame. About readership. His care is in the writing. And, with a movie on the horizon based upon one of his books ("No Country for Old Men"), he should be quite comfortable while executing that care.
Spring is my last semester as an undergrad. I only need two courses to graduate, so I'm filling up my schedule with things I want to take (when did I ever not?). The American Renaissance. An honors writing course. Perhaps "The Hero in Literature" -- but it's offered at a very inconvenient time. I've requested the syllabus and I already have the text. Perhaps it's time to return to self-teaching.
I've spent time defending Joseph Campbell in my Women's Studies courses. Campbell, in agreement with Jung, says we have no relevant myths. Some students taking the intro mythology course feel he would have endorsed the male supremacy movement (most notably the "Promise Keepers") as a new mythology. I argue that the issue is in changing society, which invalidates old myths. It's not a matter of telling old stories in a new way. It's in telling new stories. That's what we are lacking. The same questions are asked of the universe, but the answers have changed.
I'm reading Jung now, so perhaps this blog won't like as dormant as I thought it would
His brother, Cormac, is riding high, though according to a recent interview in -- was it Poets & Writers? The New Yorker? -- he's quoted as saying he doesn't much care. About the money. About the fame. About readership. His care is in the writing. And, with a movie on the horizon based upon one of his books ("No Country for Old Men"), he should be quite comfortable while executing that care.
Spring is my last semester as an undergrad. I only need two courses to graduate, so I'm filling up my schedule with things I want to take (when did I ever not?). The American Renaissance. An honors writing course. Perhaps "The Hero in Literature" -- but it's offered at a very inconvenient time. I've requested the syllabus and I already have the text. Perhaps it's time to return to self-teaching.
I've spent time defending Joseph Campbell in my Women's Studies courses. Campbell, in agreement with Jung, says we have no relevant myths. Some students taking the intro mythology course feel he would have endorsed the male supremacy movement (most notably the "Promise Keepers") as a new mythology. I argue that the issue is in changing society, which invalidates old myths. It's not a matter of telling old stories in a new way. It's in telling new stories. That's what we are lacking. The same questions are asked of the universe, but the answers have changed.
I'm reading Jung now, so perhaps this blog won't like as dormant as I thought it would
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I Passed...
...with an A.
On the day of the final, Dr. McCarthy handed us each slips of paper with our grades up to that point. On my "journal" (all the posts here so far), he wrote: "very strong A."
And here, I thought it sucked, all these raw thoughts and observations.
So until I decide what to do with this space, it will remain as a homage to Dr. McCarthy and Religion in Literature, COMLIT 141.
Then again, I just finished The Accidental Buddhist a few days ago. I suppose I need a place to record my thoughts, eh?
Till later....
On the day of the final, Dr. McCarthy handed us each slips of paper with our grades up to that point. On my "journal" (all the posts here so far), he wrote: "very strong A."
And here, I thought it sucked, all these raw thoughts and observations.
So until I decide what to do with this space, it will remain as a homage to Dr. McCarthy and Religion in Literature, COMLIT 141.
Then again, I just finished The Accidental Buddhist a few days ago. I suppose I need a place to record my thoughts, eh?
Till later....
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Last Thoughts…For Now
Entry #30
Work: Tolstly, Master and Man
Some thoughts:
The scene shift that describes Vassili facing all of his (for want of a better term) character defects is very effective. If not for this journey, perhaps he’d never reach the point of sacrifice he makes at the end with Nikita.
And what of the blessing of life that Nikita receives? He receives a gift more precious than life. He makes decisions that require sacrifice to his family. Losing a few fingers seems a small price to pay for the peace he receives upon his death. I don’t think it’s all that much different from the peace that visits Vassili. He has another twenty years to try to make things right. He leaves the wife whom we may not look kindly upon, but to him, it’s the right thing to do. With death, he removes the burden he feels he’s placed upon his son and grandchildren. He is gifted with the wish of having a lighted candle in his hand (of that, I know not the significance). One blessing follows another. A sort of retrospective “paying it forward.”
I know that these stories are necessary to contrast the extremes of humanity, though some would say they’re not so extreme: Vassili begins as a member of the greedy upper-crust and Nikita is a drunk, plain and simple. But it’s not. It’s not plain and simple. Tolstoy managed, in the story he considered just a little tale, to draw out the nuances and show that the synthesis is not so difficult, but it requires something more than just an ethical discourse. It requires GOD. And, gee, what better topic for “Religion in Literature?”
Till later…
Work: Tolstly, Master and Man
Some thoughts:
The scene shift that describes Vassili facing all of his (for want of a better term) character defects is very effective. If not for this journey, perhaps he’d never reach the point of sacrifice he makes at the end with Nikita.
And what of the blessing of life that Nikita receives? He receives a gift more precious than life. He makes decisions that require sacrifice to his family. Losing a few fingers seems a small price to pay for the peace he receives upon his death. I don’t think it’s all that much different from the peace that visits Vassili. He has another twenty years to try to make things right. He leaves the wife whom we may not look kindly upon, but to him, it’s the right thing to do. With death, he removes the burden he feels he’s placed upon his son and grandchildren. He is gifted with the wish of having a lighted candle in his hand (of that, I know not the significance). One blessing follows another. A sort of retrospective “paying it forward.”
I know that these stories are necessary to contrast the extremes of humanity, though some would say they’re not so extreme: Vassili begins as a member of the greedy upper-crust and Nikita is a drunk, plain and simple. But it’s not. It’s not plain and simple. Tolstoy managed, in the story he considered just a little tale, to draw out the nuances and show that the synthesis is not so difficult, but it requires something more than just an ethical discourse. It requires GOD. And, gee, what better topic for “Religion in Literature?”
Till later…
Spiritual Awakenings
Entry #29
Work: Tolstoy, Master and Man
My first thought with Master and Man was “Oh, God, please, don’t make me read a Russian writer.” I don’t have anything against Russian writers. They produce very tight, very good literature. It’s the feeling I’m left with after reading them. Everything is cold (this is no exception), stark and booze-saturated.
Putting to the side most of what we talked about in class, I’d like to just plain muse on the characters of Nikita and Vassili. I think if you combine them, blend their respective character traits, you’d probably come pretty close to something resembling the average person in today’s society. We all want to/need to make a living, yet we also want to show some care for our environment. We want to be thought of as ethical/empathetic creatures (and some of us actually are that way), but we also have our own agendas. There’s the “American Dream” which drives us to strive for the three bedroom house and the white picket fence, the two-car garage and something to put in it, and at the same time, a little recycling bin in the corner to catch our discarded newspapers and aluminum soda cans so that as we’re gaining all of the materialistic concerns of life, we’re not cluttering up the earth with our out-grown castoffs.
But that’s not what we have in Nikita and Vassili. They have not yet synthesized; they remain the thesis and antithesis. And, though Vassili becomes, in the end, the savior of his humble servant (and perhaps his humble servant becomes much more than just a servant, but a teacher as well), it’s not hard to slip Vassili right into that “anti” slot. Against. Against the good. And, of course, Nikita, for all his faults, occupies the other slot. Yes, he’s a drunk. Yes, his behavior has put him in a position of neglecting his family, but it’s never insinuated that it’s due to lack of love. He’s sick. Tolstoy conveys that, and though we know today that drunkards are sick (albeit with more choices than in the time when the story was written), he understood that and treated it almost tenderly. Nikita is not a bad guy, no matter how far down he’s “allowed” alcohol to take him. And the amazing thing, when stopping by the village, is that Nikita calls upon his will (my guess is that it’s not all his will) to forgo the vodka for the tea.
Vassili is the prime example of having it all and having nothing. He cares nothing for the horse except in what it can offer him. He’d much rather cut it loose. All throughout, Nikita shows compassion and love for the animals. Vassili doesn’t even treat Nikita like a human being, at least until the end. Is this a sign that, even without such a bottoming out that occurs with alcoholism, Vassili suffers from a disease of the soul that is beyond his control, requires a spiritual awakening to draw light into the darkness (often darkness that one doesn’t even realize exists), in order to experience that psychic change, that shift of perspective, that changes all that came before it? Vassili had to face death in order to reach this point. With so many things going on in the world that bring to mind the current teenage/cyber expression, WTF??, I wonder…do we all have to reach that point? I like to think I’ve reached mine, but something tells me there are many more steps to climb on that ladder propped up against the great transcendence.
Till later…
Work: Tolstoy, Master and Man
My first thought with Master and Man was “Oh, God, please, don’t make me read a Russian writer.” I don’t have anything against Russian writers. They produce very tight, very good literature. It’s the feeling I’m left with after reading them. Everything is cold (this is no exception), stark and booze-saturated.
Putting to the side most of what we talked about in class, I’d like to just plain muse on the characters of Nikita and Vassili. I think if you combine them, blend their respective character traits, you’d probably come pretty close to something resembling the average person in today’s society. We all want to/need to make a living, yet we also want to show some care for our environment. We want to be thought of as ethical/empathetic creatures (and some of us actually are that way), but we also have our own agendas. There’s the “American Dream” which drives us to strive for the three bedroom house and the white picket fence, the two-car garage and something to put in it, and at the same time, a little recycling bin in the corner to catch our discarded newspapers and aluminum soda cans so that as we’re gaining all of the materialistic concerns of life, we’re not cluttering up the earth with our out-grown castoffs.
But that’s not what we have in Nikita and Vassili. They have not yet synthesized; they remain the thesis and antithesis. And, though Vassili becomes, in the end, the savior of his humble servant (and perhaps his humble servant becomes much more than just a servant, but a teacher as well), it’s not hard to slip Vassili right into that “anti” slot. Against. Against the good. And, of course, Nikita, for all his faults, occupies the other slot. Yes, he’s a drunk. Yes, his behavior has put him in a position of neglecting his family, but it’s never insinuated that it’s due to lack of love. He’s sick. Tolstoy conveys that, and though we know today that drunkards are sick (albeit with more choices than in the time when the story was written), he understood that and treated it almost tenderly. Nikita is not a bad guy, no matter how far down he’s “allowed” alcohol to take him. And the amazing thing, when stopping by the village, is that Nikita calls upon his will (my guess is that it’s not all his will) to forgo the vodka for the tea.
Vassili is the prime example of having it all and having nothing. He cares nothing for the horse except in what it can offer him. He’d much rather cut it loose. All throughout, Nikita shows compassion and love for the animals. Vassili doesn’t even treat Nikita like a human being, at least until the end. Is this a sign that, even without such a bottoming out that occurs with alcoholism, Vassili suffers from a disease of the soul that is beyond his control, requires a spiritual awakening to draw light into the darkness (often darkness that one doesn’t even realize exists), in order to experience that psychic change, that shift of perspective, that changes all that came before it? Vassili had to face death in order to reach this point. With so many things going on in the world that bring to mind the current teenage/cyber expression, WTF??, I wonder…do we all have to reach that point? I like to think I’ve reached mine, but something tells me there are many more steps to climb on that ladder propped up against the great transcendence.
Till later…
Extracurricular Reading
Entry #28
Work: Various Unassigned
I neglected to comment on the other reading I was able to enjoy while on my trip over the weekend. I had opened my book, searching for the bookmarks for the assigned reading and realized I only had three. After poring over the table of contents, Tolstoy’s Master and Man did not jump out at me. So, while my husband drove and I was left with long stretches of highway (my camera inaccessible for “road pics”), I decided to leaf through and read at will. For pleasure. What a concept! Though I love reading at anytime, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve read just for the sake of reading that I felt as though I were being indulged in a guilty pleasure.
The first story I stumbled across was Reflections by Angela Carter. I was not familiar with her work, though I had heard her name. After reading Reflections and having carried on a long, drawn out love with science fiction and horror, not to mention a fairly recent relationship with feminist/womanist literature, I’m sorry I didn’t find her sooner.
Reflections shook me in many ways. It drew attention to those things that I feel must exist—a doorway to another consciousness as well as a mother-figure giving birth to it all—and it also gave rise to the possibility that the male psyche could assume the role, make amends, even in light of oppression.
The other story I read, mainly because it was so short and I wasn’t sure how quickly our exit was approaching, was Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. The introduction is nearly as long as the piece itself. I’d hesitate to call it a short story and lean more towards calling it prose poetry. It’s beautiful, shocking, bitter, every-day, hard-hearted. It makes one want to slather lotion on ones hands, makes one want to stand up and shout NO!, makes one want to gather up the girl-becoming-a-woman and guide her away from the washing, show her the way out...those things and so much more. But now, I must finish Master and Man, and perhaps find some more of her works to read over the summer. She is another example of that which draws black writers close to my heart. There’s so much soul, so much of the earth god underneath it all. It smells like loam, feels like velvet and sounds like the softest of lullabies, even when the topic is not so soothing.
On to Master and Man.
Till later…
Work: Various Unassigned
I neglected to comment on the other reading I was able to enjoy while on my trip over the weekend. I had opened my book, searching for the bookmarks for the assigned reading and realized I only had three. After poring over the table of contents, Tolstoy’s Master and Man did not jump out at me. So, while my husband drove and I was left with long stretches of highway (my camera inaccessible for “road pics”), I decided to leaf through and read at will. For pleasure. What a concept! Though I love reading at anytime, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve read just for the sake of reading that I felt as though I were being indulged in a guilty pleasure.
The first story I stumbled across was Reflections by Angela Carter. I was not familiar with her work, though I had heard her name. After reading Reflections and having carried on a long, drawn out love with science fiction and horror, not to mention a fairly recent relationship with feminist/womanist literature, I’m sorry I didn’t find her sooner.
Reflections shook me in many ways. It drew attention to those things that I feel must exist—a doorway to another consciousness as well as a mother-figure giving birth to it all—and it also gave rise to the possibility that the male psyche could assume the role, make amends, even in light of oppression.
The other story I read, mainly because it was so short and I wasn’t sure how quickly our exit was approaching, was Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. The introduction is nearly as long as the piece itself. I’d hesitate to call it a short story and lean more towards calling it prose poetry. It’s beautiful, shocking, bitter, every-day, hard-hearted. It makes one want to slather lotion on ones hands, makes one want to stand up and shout NO!, makes one want to gather up the girl-becoming-a-woman and guide her away from the washing, show her the way out...those things and so much more. But now, I must finish Master and Man, and perhaps find some more of her works to read over the summer. She is another example of that which draws black writers close to my heart. There’s so much soul, so much of the earth god underneath it all. It smells like loam, feels like velvet and sounds like the softest of lullabies, even when the topic is not so soothing.
On to Master and Man.
Till later…
Monday, April 30, 2007
Romantic, if Not Believable
Entry #27
Work: James Baldwin, Sonny's Blues
I don’t know what it is about black writers and their style that draws me to them, but I loved this story, though I again had some moments of discomfort. It flows, rolls, seeps through me as I read. The imagery is perfect. The flashbacks are not abrupt. They’re seamless, something I’ve attempted and failed to accomplish in my own writing.
Maybe I’ll come back to that later. The story itself is what held me after the style grabbed me. Sonny is another one of those tragic, yet not tragic, figures that strike fear in me. Being much like Sonny, I want to cheer him on, though I also want to caution anyone who is predisposed to addiction not the take cues from him. It’s like reading The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test and wanting to feel that way. It’s dangerous. The allure of the artists life has turned many a non-artist into a run of the mill junkie just by the romanticism of it.
I do think that there’s a soul that is missing something, for which art can be the thumb that plugs the dike, a kind of god, if you will, but that’s not everyone. The search for bigger and better and more vital art has sent many down that road when a simple spiritual journey, apart from art but in cooperation with art, is all that it really takes to escape the bottom. No, it wasn’t necessary that Sonny hit bottom (though each is self-defined, I know many who would consider a couple-year hitch in the pokey and a communal living situation to be “the good days”), and if he was a real addict, the ending was realistic. I take his musings on the street preachers’ singing and how it made him feel to be an indication that he’s still partaking of the poppy…and one doesn’t take addiction and turn it into something good. It just doesn’t work that way. Oh, there are rare exceptions (Jerry Garcia comes to mind), but for the most part, it’s a romantic, unrealistic notion.
I’ll need to think on this a little more. Perhaps after class discussion, I’ll have some borrowed thoughts to add.
Till later…
Work: James Baldwin, Sonny's Blues
I don’t know what it is about black writers and their style that draws me to them, but I loved this story, though I again had some moments of discomfort. It flows, rolls, seeps through me as I read. The imagery is perfect. The flashbacks are not abrupt. They’re seamless, something I’ve attempted and failed to accomplish in my own writing.
Maybe I’ll come back to that later. The story itself is what held me after the style grabbed me. Sonny is another one of those tragic, yet not tragic, figures that strike fear in me. Being much like Sonny, I want to cheer him on, though I also want to caution anyone who is predisposed to addiction not the take cues from him. It’s like reading The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test and wanting to feel that way. It’s dangerous. The allure of the artists life has turned many a non-artist into a run of the mill junkie just by the romanticism of it.
I do think that there’s a soul that is missing something, for which art can be the thumb that plugs the dike, a kind of god, if you will, but that’s not everyone. The search for bigger and better and more vital art has sent many down that road when a simple spiritual journey, apart from art but in cooperation with art, is all that it really takes to escape the bottom. No, it wasn’t necessary that Sonny hit bottom (though each is self-defined, I know many who would consider a couple-year hitch in the pokey and a communal living situation to be “the good days”), and if he was a real addict, the ending was realistic. I take his musings on the street preachers’ singing and how it made him feel to be an indication that he’s still partaking of the poppy…and one doesn’t take addiction and turn it into something good. It just doesn’t work that way. Oh, there are rare exceptions (Jerry Garcia comes to mind), but for the most part, it’s a romantic, unrealistic notion.
I’ll need to think on this a little more. Perhaps after class discussion, I’ll have some borrowed thoughts to add.
Till later…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
