Entry #1
Introduction
My first day of "Religion in Literature" -- COMLIT 141.
The reading list interested me (albeit a little intimidating -- as Professor McCarthy explained, I knew I would have to "read" in a different way). It is as follows:
Bacchae, Euripedes, and The Frogs, Aristophanes
Electra and Other Plays, Sophocles
Japanese No Dramas, ed. and transl. Royall Tyler
The River Between, Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
Collected Plays 1, Wole Soyinka
Sunset Limited, Cormac McCarthy
You've Got to Read This, ed. Ron Hansen and Jim Shepard
Holy Bible (with the notation: You don't have to buy this. Bring it from home or borrow from a library)
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, as anything written in a year succeeded by the initials B.C. has always been for me. I remember reading The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer in high school. We read it in the original Middle English, and though once into the rhythm of it, it was a hoot, finding that rhythm was near excruciating.
So, today was the first day of class, an introduction of sorts. As Professor McCarthy took roll, he asked each of us to tell him something about ourselves to help him remember us. One student said he was called "Crazy" because of his unruly hair. I didn't think his hair was all that crazy, but, hey, if he's fond of his sobriquet, good for him. There was a lover of Beat poetry, a New Jersey transplant, and I think I said something about liking nice canes (walking sticks) and that I have four teenagers and still possess a degree of sanity. I considered saying, "I can get away with wearing Harvard t-shirts on this campus because my oldest son is a first-year student there," but I didn't want to sound a) like a braggart or b) defined by my children's accomplishments. Maintaining sanity while raising four teenagers is, in my opinion, a strong statement about my mental fortitude.
Another young man made a statement that stiffened my spine. He said that the most remarkable thing about him was that he was in recovery for heroin addiction. I didn't quite catch if he used the word "recovered" heroin addict or "recovering" heroin addict, but I understood quite clearly that he was early on--in the first year or two, if that. How did I know? Because it's still a badge of pride. It's still defining. And it's a dangerous place to be. I had to make those decisions my first semester. Sometime in the second, I broke my anonymity with several people, and by now, it's common knowledge with anyone on campus who knows me, but I wanted...well, I wanted very badly to flag that young man down after class, tell him to guard his anonymity and prove himself as a student before he lodged in the minds of everyone he encountered that what made him him was his past. Granted, it can be used for much good...so very much good...but people have to see he's made of something more than used hypodermic needles and glazed-over eyes.
While I was having coffee this morning, I began reading Sunset Limited, the book by Cormac McCarthy, Professor McCarthy's brother. It is a "novel in dramatic form" (I believe that's what the front cover says. It's not right here beside me.). I read about a third, almost half of it while I had my coffee this morning. Two characters, one black, one white in the black man's apartment after he has rescued the white man from committing suicide by throwing himself in the path of a train (the Sunset Limited). The black man is religious; the white man, an atheist. The white man's "purpose" or "meaning," he says, is culture, and culture has disappeared for him; therefore, there is no reason left to live. Professor McCarthy mentioned today in class that literature is very often the result of religious expression. I think it is nearly always the result of spiritual expression. Religion, I believe, is merely the way in which those things most elusive, most resistant to capture by the written word, must be expressed. And in that way, I saw the white man as deluding himself. No one who appreciates culture can truly be atheist. If they believe in the aesthetic, they believe in a god. That god is not required to have a face.
Back to the class:
I paid particular attention to Professor McCarthy, his gestures and his demeanor. He's very soft-spoken, upbeat, and seems to have a rumbling passion for his subject hiding just below the surface. College courses, English especially, facinate me, not only because of the subject matter, the authors and times covered, but the ones who teach: why they teach, what drew them to their subject, the relationship they have with their subject, as well as their teaching philosophy (which can never remain hidden very long in the classroom). More on this later, I'm sure.
The only thing that makes me nervous so far in this class is the 50% of the grade comprised of exam scores. I would much rather write papers!
Till later...
Introduction
My first day of "Religion in Literature" -- COMLIT 141.
The reading list interested me (albeit a little intimidating -- as Professor McCarthy explained, I knew I would have to "read" in a different way). It is as follows:
Bacchae, Euripedes, and The Frogs, Aristophanes
Electra and Other Plays, Sophocles
Japanese No Dramas, ed. and transl. Royall Tyler
The River Between, Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
Collected Plays 1, Wole Soyinka
Sunset Limited, Cormac McCarthy
You've Got to Read This, ed. Ron Hansen and Jim Shepard
Holy Bible (with the notation: You don't have to buy this. Bring it from home or borrow from a library)
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, as anything written in a year succeeded by the initials B.C. has always been for me. I remember reading The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer in high school. We read it in the original Middle English, and though once into the rhythm of it, it was a hoot, finding that rhythm was near excruciating.
So, today was the first day of class, an introduction of sorts. As Professor McCarthy took roll, he asked each of us to tell him something about ourselves to help him remember us. One student said he was called "Crazy" because of his unruly hair. I didn't think his hair was all that crazy, but, hey, if he's fond of his sobriquet, good for him. There was a lover of Beat poetry, a New Jersey transplant, and I think I said something about liking nice canes (walking sticks) and that I have four teenagers and still possess a degree of sanity. I considered saying, "I can get away with wearing Harvard t-shirts on this campus because my oldest son is a first-year student there," but I didn't want to sound a) like a braggart or b) defined by my children's accomplishments. Maintaining sanity while raising four teenagers is, in my opinion, a strong statement about my mental fortitude.
Another young man made a statement that stiffened my spine. He said that the most remarkable thing about him was that he was in recovery for heroin addiction. I didn't quite catch if he used the word "recovered" heroin addict or "recovering" heroin addict, but I understood quite clearly that he was early on--in the first year or two, if that. How did I know? Because it's still a badge of pride. It's still defining. And it's a dangerous place to be. I had to make those decisions my first semester. Sometime in the second, I broke my anonymity with several people, and by now, it's common knowledge with anyone on campus who knows me, but I wanted...well, I wanted very badly to flag that young man down after class, tell him to guard his anonymity and prove himself as a student before he lodged in the minds of everyone he encountered that what made him him was his past. Granted, it can be used for much good...so very much good...but people have to see he's made of something more than used hypodermic needles and glazed-over eyes.
While I was having coffee this morning, I began reading Sunset Limited, the book by Cormac McCarthy, Professor McCarthy's brother. It is a "novel in dramatic form" (I believe that's what the front cover says. It's not right here beside me.). I read about a third, almost half of it while I had my coffee this morning. Two characters, one black, one white in the black man's apartment after he has rescued the white man from committing suicide by throwing himself in the path of a train (the Sunset Limited). The black man is religious; the white man, an atheist. The white man's "purpose" or "meaning," he says, is culture, and culture has disappeared for him; therefore, there is no reason left to live. Professor McCarthy mentioned today in class that literature is very often the result of religious expression. I think it is nearly always the result of spiritual expression. Religion, I believe, is merely the way in which those things most elusive, most resistant to capture by the written word, must be expressed. And in that way, I saw the white man as deluding himself. No one who appreciates culture can truly be atheist. If they believe in the aesthetic, they believe in a god. That god is not required to have a face.
Back to the class:
I paid particular attention to Professor McCarthy, his gestures and his demeanor. He's very soft-spoken, upbeat, and seems to have a rumbling passion for his subject hiding just below the surface. College courses, English especially, facinate me, not only because of the subject matter, the authors and times covered, but the ones who teach: why they teach, what drew them to their subject, the relationship they have with their subject, as well as their teaching philosophy (which can never remain hidden very long in the classroom). More on this later, I'm sure.
The only thing that makes me nervous so far in this class is the 50% of the grade comprised of exam scores. I would much rather write papers!
Till later...
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