The man is against the wall of 1234 South Michigan Avenue, every Wednesday, with a book. He is not precisely leaning--no--perhaps standing, slanted as if the wall may move. His book is always open, and he is intently reading, almost casually. The book is not flimsy; it is dense with words and pages. He has a beard and his hair is blonde, almost brown. He is in the shade and looking down, one leg crossed over the other so that the tip of his shoe touches the ground.
This is how much I know of him, how much I remember from last summer. I asked him what book he was reading those Wednesday afternoons? Waiting for someone, a bus? Of course, he never told me. I never asked.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Reviving Ophelia
Thursday, F-day. Reid hall by the green stairs. 1PM break. Three feminists intent on discussing women's equality and identity.
DASHA: (with her Ukrainian accent) Because women are multitaskular.
ME: Yeah, and guys are just muscular.
EMILY: (laughs)
DASHA: (with her Ukrainian accent) Because women are multitaskular.
ME: Yeah, and guys are just muscular.
EMILY: (laughs)
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
"A personal reflection unrelated to literature"
The boy's father was blind. He met the boy's mother, or really, she met him when she was volunteering. They fell in love. Despite her family's crossed arms and shaking heads, they happily married. And they had a baby boy, healthy and sighted.
The boy grows up. His father reads to him every day, or really, every night. Even in the blackening darkness the boy is not afraid. His father reads on, page after page, braille after braille, into the inky blankness. The boy later says, this is how I imagined, through my father's voice. This is his love.
I wish I were the boy. To have a father like his.
Daddy never read to me. He was either away or too busy or sleeping in. But he always read on his own. Books on computer science, on economics, on English grammar, the Bible. When we were in Minnesota, I found the most creative book ever: Invisible Man. I wondered how you could see and be unseen at the same time. A childish curiosity. I asked him, can I read it? His answer, to my shock was: “Oh, that. That’ll be boring for you.” Of course I was dumbfounded. My favorite person in the world had just rejected the greatest proposal a child could make. So I did not read it. I later understood why he had said that, because Ellison was a mastermind and I was just a child then. But I wish daddy read to me nevertheless. I wish I had asked instead, can you read this for me? A children's book, an impression on a soap bar, a label on a milk carton.
I wish I were the boy. To be a fearless child.
So I thought this would be unrelated to literature, and I tried. But it is, it became to be.
The boy grows up. His father reads to him every day, or really, every night. Even in the blackening darkness the boy is not afraid. His father reads on, page after page, braille after braille, into the inky blankness. The boy later says, this is how I imagined, through my father's voice. This is his love.
I wish I were the boy. To have a father like his.
Daddy never read to me. He was either away or too busy or sleeping in. But he always read on his own. Books on computer science, on economics, on English grammar, the Bible. When we were in Minnesota, I found the most creative book ever: Invisible Man. I wondered how you could see and be unseen at the same time. A childish curiosity. I asked him, can I read it? His answer, to my shock was: “Oh, that. That’ll be boring for you.” Of course I was dumbfounded. My favorite person in the world had just rejected the greatest proposal a child could make. So I did not read it. I later understood why he had said that, because Ellison was a mastermind and I was just a child then. But I wish daddy read to me nevertheless. I wish I had asked instead, can you read this for me? A children's book, an impression on a soap bar, a label on a milk carton.
I wish I were the boy. To be a fearless child.
So I thought this would be unrelated to literature, and I tried. But it is, it became to be.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Great Gatsby
I don't think so. I had thought it was just a sad romance, but it's so much more than that. It's about a man chasing after a dream, a lost dream called Daisy. He does not know that time cannot be unwound.
His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock... Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set it back in place (86).
--F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby
When Gatsby uneasily rests his head on the wall, he inadvertently leans on the clock, and accidentally drops it only to catch it riskily the last moment. Time for Gatsby is no longer functioning properly because of his strife to compensate the time lost in search of Daisy, in search of wealth, in search of his American Dream. And in this moment when he finally meets Daisy after five years, Gatsby is out of his time zone. What is even more striking is that the broken old clock is not Gatsby's nor Daisy's, but Nick's. It is also Nick's time that Gatsby attempts to rewind, and time is thus suspended.
We overlook some things. Like a word misspelt. For Gatsby, he wanted Daisy so much he overlooked time. For me, it is not a matter of overlooking, but choosing to forgo instead.
His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock... Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set it back in place (86).
--F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby
When Gatsby uneasily rests his head on the wall, he inadvertently leans on the clock, and accidentally drops it only to catch it riskily the last moment. Time for Gatsby is no longer functioning properly because of his strife to compensate the time lost in search of Daisy, in search of wealth, in search of his American Dream. And in this moment when he finally meets Daisy after five years, Gatsby is out of his time zone. What is even more striking is that the broken old clock is not Gatsby's nor Daisy's, but Nick's. It is also Nick's time that Gatsby attempts to rewind, and time is thus suspended.
We overlook some things. Like a word misspelt. For Gatsby, he wanted Daisy so much he overlooked time. For me, it is not a matter of overlooking, but choosing to forgo instead.