Hello from Mumbai–& from a blogger who says of his previous life: “I may have been a dog.” RT
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This is the fact: you could be long dead before people appreciate your writing. It’s happened plenty to writers of the first rank: jealousy, stupidity, war–in other words, plain old politics–obscured their talent and contributions. So, if fame and fortune are hard to find, just why are you writing?
From personal experience, RT can tell you that this is not a popular question at cocktail parties. Even less popular is quoting the Elements of Style: Writing is an act of faith. To help you (and me) answer this little demon of a question, here are some answers:
1) I have to write. To confirm the truth of this motivation, go to a new or small poetry reading. Chances are you’re not going to meet successful people there. Folks are doing OK; they’re getting by; they’re dealing with their issues–but nobody owns a BMW.
2) I’m in love with writing. You can’t get more corn pone than this, but at least it saves you from discussing the eviction notice you recently received. Getting your words out there feels great.
3) My writing is important. This one will really steam your interlocutor. But think about it: are you telling me that Shakespeare, Du Fu, Charlotte Bronte, Leo Tolstoy didn’t know that what they were doing mattered? Of course, no one in our generation has the right to exist on their artistic level, but you can always hope.
4) Because I’m a romantic. So what if people think you’re a wastrel sipping absinthe every night? Notoriety gets attention.
5) Because what I do matters. This is the dirty little secret that the contemporary world prefers to ignore. We are responsible. We have an obligation to make the world a better place. We must not cheat the gifts we have been given.
Writers are entitled to a full life like everyone else: community, acknowledgement, pleasure are as important to us as to anyone. But we keep one eye on the far horizon of history. RT
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Art: Mental Reactions; A.E. Meyer; WikiCmns; Public Domain.
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The concept of terraforming Mars has pursued me, in a leisurely kind of way, ever since I read Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars Trilogy back in the mid-1990s. I’ve already recommended this excellent near-future science fiction novel set during the settlement and terraforming of the Red Planet. But, as I noted in my last post, getting there is not going to be so easy.
So what do we do? Turn to history, of course! Specifically, I’m thinking of the race to reach the South Pole, which Roald Amundsen won, planting Norway’s flag on the spot on December 14, 1911. Happy 100th Anniversary, Mr. Amundsen and his team!
Let’s not kid ourselves: anyone trying to reach the South Pole in 1911 was taking his chances, pushing the envelop of that era’s technology really hard, and totally committed to the idea of exploration for exploration’s sake. Just to get an idea of how dangerous the enterprise was, let’s consider Amundsen’s competition, the team of Robert Falcon Scott, which reached the South Pole only 34 days after Amundsen. Slightly over a month may not seem like a huge margin in terms of safety, but then we’re talking about the Antarctic. Scott was handicapped by faulty equipment, an unwise choice of ponies over sled dogs, and the encroaching winter. On March 29, 1912, he perished with his men on the Ross Ice Shelf. They were 11 miles from a supply depot. Be that as it may, RT salutes their courage and spirit of adventure!
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I cannot continue without mentioning Ernest Shackleton’s mind-boggling escape from the jaws of death (1914-1917); his ship, the Endurance, trapped and then crushed by pack ice, Shackleton led his men across the ice, then across the ocean in open boats to land on Elephant Island, and finally captained one of the boats in a journey to South Georgia Island, where the local whaling colony was able to mount a successful rescue of the remaining men on Elephant Island. Not a single life was lost during the voyage. Wow! WOW! This is the stuff of epic!
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So why did Amundsen survive, where Scott failed to return? Careful planning and knowledge of arctic conditions lay at the root of Amundsen’s successful (and at moments, ridiculously easy–they enjoyed a jury-rigged sauna on the way back!) expedition.
Which leads to RT’s suggestion for reaching Mars: place supply depots and at least a couple of rest stations (with saunas, of course!) along the way. Assembling the expedition spacecraft in orbit or at a moon base would also lighten the load.
Yes, with full attention to detail & logistics, the trip to Mars is doable. And here’s to the spirit of discovery!
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Photos: Top: Roald Amundsen; Bottom: Robert Falcon Scott. WikiCmns. Public Domain.
Tea Time with the Dragons of Grammar
(A Romantical Comedy in Three Acts)
Just when you thought the Dragons of Grammar couldn’t get any sillier, here we are to prove you wrong. To be sure, there will be a certain element of competition (and perhaps even a little back-scratching) in the conversation that follows, but all the dragons have promised to be on their best manners, so we can expect to see more cucumber sandwiches perched precariously on claws than dead-dragon looks (and if you don’t know what a DDL is, how lucky for you! 
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A. Our Mise-en-Scene
So where were we? Ah yes, imagine we’re inside a large, airy cave with a view–a dramatic one, of the ocean and exotic lands far away. Next, let’s reintroduce our company of grammarian daredevils: 1) Morphology (the Chocoholic Dragon); 2) Syntax (the Aviator Dragon); 3) Phonology (the Absent-Minded Dragon); 4) Phonetics (the Dragon with a Tape-Recorder); 5) Semantics (the Acupuncturist); and 6) Pragmatics (the Fuzzy Dragon).
And lest any of our readers have (gasp!) forgotten the Dragons’ respective bailiwicks, here they are: a) Morphology: the classification of word- and language-types; b) Syntax: the construction of sentences and languages; c) Phonology: the link between sound and meaning; d) Phonetics: the mechanics of language; e) Semantics: the shades of meaning; and f) Pragmatics: the real-world approach to language, or the poetry of language).
B. Act One: A Critical Question!
Our dragons are all seated in a circle, each holding his (or her!) cup of tea. A large, elaborate oak coffee-table sits in the center of the circle; on the table is an ornate Victorian tea-service, including scones, frittatas (a modern concession), six very large porcelain pots of tea, and enough cookies to give even an active sweet-tooth second thoughts. Morphology (or Morfilene) is wearing PJs and a bathrobe, with curlers in her hair and a large box of Godiva chocolates on her lap; Syntax (or Capt. Sopwith) is wearing a leather aviator jacket, a white silk scarf, and a pair of goggles; Phonology (or Prof. GrumpyChuckle) is wearing a tweed jacket, a large pair of round glasses, a rumpled white shirt with a rather natty plaid bow-tie, and has red string tied around one finger–he is supposed to be our process monitor!!); Phonetics (or Ranger Eagle-Ear) is dressed in a no-nonsense khaki uniform and dark-brown field-hat; Semantics (or Dr. Silverneedle) is wearing light-blue scrubs, sandals, and a yellow ribbon in her dark hair); and Pragmatics (or Ms. CoolStuff) is wearing designer jeans, a mohair sweater, and bangle earrings. (Next to GrumpyChuckle is an enormous standing gong).
1. RT starts the ball rolling by asking: How are the Dragons of Grammar related to each other? A sensitive question this, and accompanied by many an arched eyebrow, many a set of pursed lips. No one wants to be the first to make a comment, and some minutes pass before Ranger Eagle-Ear pipes up and says: “It all starts with a sound! The important thing is to have a tape-recorder with you.” Capt. Sopwith snorts at the remark and says, “Hogwash! You must have a plan first, a plan!” Things look like they might degenerate into a shouting match, but Ms. Coolstuff intervenes with a bright smile and “Get over yourselves! The man didn’t ask us who was first; he wanted to know how we’re related.” Sopwith and Eagle-Ear momentarily look indisposed (having failed to think of a sharp retort), and then the group sinks back into silence.
2. At length, Prof. GrumpyChuckle restarts the conversation with “By gosh and golly, there is no real distinction between us; we exist as a team, a department, everyone acting in harmony.” Several Bronx cheers greet this remark, and GrumpyChuckle reminds the dragons that this is supposed to be a polite conversation. More Bronx cheers.
3. A fragile silence follows, soon broken by Morfilene, who says, “What you are obviously failing to see is that grammar is An Art, involving taste and the ability to understand distinctions, say, the difference between a Royal Coconut Bon-Bon and a Cherry Explosion Truffle.” Morfilene temporarily disappears behind puffs of steam blown at her by the others (who want some of the chocolates she is so zealously hoarding).
Indeed, tempers are beginning to fray, so RT thinks it the better part of valor to call a time-out. The curtain descends.
C. Act Two: A Desperate Duel!
The curtain rises on our dragons engrossed in an appalling spectacle: Eagle-Eye and Sopwith are dueling with sabres; they have offended each other’s honor, and as gentlemen dragons, they must fight to the death! All eyes are rivetted on the pair as they dance around each other, assuming threatening poses and exchanging DDLs. Then Eagle-Eye dashes in and scores a direct hit! Green dragon blood dribbles out from Sopwith circles round and slashes EE’s arm. But it is too late; EE takes his sabre in his left hand and rushes at Sopwith, slashing away. Sopwith is overwhelmed, hit multiple times, and crys out “Forsooth! I am struck a grievious blow!” before falling to the ground. But GrumpyChuckle saves the day, banging on his gong so loud that EE’s ears explode with ringing, he loses balance, and falls to the floor, unconscious. Silverneedle (who has always had a crush on Sopwith) rushes to his side, and before long her magic needles have revived him. Morfilene (who has always had passionate feelings for EE), feeds him her secret hemp-and-soybean bon-bons, which heal his ears of all hurt.
Bravo, GrumpyChuckle! The curtain descends.
D. Act Three: All is Fair in Love and Food!
Our curtain rises on a tragical scene–our dragons are divided into two camps, one on either side of the stage. The tea table and service are gone, as are Morfilene’s chocolates.
RT’s final question: If you had a choice, which would you rather do: go to a lavish banquet or read a book on grammar?
An uproar ensures, as dragons raise their hands, jump up and down, and make faces at the opposing side–the sole exception being Morfilene, who rolls her eyeballs. At last she jumps up and shouts down everyone else. “Where are my chocolates! I want my chocolates!”
In response, Eagle-Eye roars out: “Balderdash! Why are you worried about food when more important matters are at stake?”
But now CoolStuff is getting angry: “Why do dragons waste time on duels? If we change grammar, we can change the way people think and get rid of this nonsense !” To which Eagle-Eye huffs and puffs and says: “And how are we going to do that?” GrumpyChuckle then proceeds to bang on his gong, an enormous sound, and everyone sits down.
By way of reward, GC waves to unseen lizard helpers, and they run onto the stage with the table, service, and a new supply of tea, sandwiches, cookies–and chocolates! A few satisfied minutes follow as the dragons sip and munch away. Then Silverneedle gets bored and starts throwing crumbs at Sopwith (he never does pay any attention to her!). Sopwith responds with a volley of strawberries, and before GrumpyChuckle can do anything, the tea party has degenerated into a food fight. As four of the dragons chase each other around the room, Morfilene holds on tightly to her chocolates and GrumpyChuckle bangs on his gong. Exeunt the four dragons stage left, followed by GrumpyChuckle and Morfilene.
Finis
(and the Dragons of Grammar will be back to provide further insights–and settle their differences)
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Photos: Top: Tea Colors; WikiCmns; User, Haneburger; Public Domain. Bottom: Tea Cup With Dragon Motif; WikiCmns; User: Yunomi; Public Domain.
Figuring out what happened to Uranus’s moon Miranda is going to keep astrogeologists busy for some time. A close encounter with another moon? Some cataclysm early in the moon’s history? A cold and battered moon, a distant planet, something to ponder in the quiet of winter… RT
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A ferrofluid is a carrier fluid in which magnetically sensitive particles have been suspended. This image was selected as a Wikimedia Picture of the Day on 9 November 2006. Author: Gregory F. Maxwell. Licence: GNU Free Documentation Licence 1.2 only.
Amazing!
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It’s odd how things can come together. I read the Odyssey my first year in college, and what with the translation’s 7-beat line (following the original material), the story made a powerful impression on me, and then was forgotten.
Maybe that’s how our fates are set–I’ve done some considerable wandering of my own over the (yikes!) decades since, and now, struggling to finish a poem, the great trickster himself has guided (or been guiding) me home. A long-delayed homecoming & happy… enjoy!
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Ni L’un, Ni L’autre
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You will have to get rid
of everything
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First, the elegant blue suit with
its tie soft as butter
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Next, the house with its
chinoiserie, the pain of
butterflies
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Then, the car late at night
its rage,
the banshee scream
of the violated wind.
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& everyone
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you thought
you were—all of them
leader, wanderer, warrior
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But that is the least of it—the words
must go too
not just the writing, but
memory also
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abandon yourself–naked
marked
like cattle & the sun but
not
alone.
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You can’t even know her
Crashed & strewn out,
lotus-blood, the sirens singing the
luscious term;
Swim
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you two, and feel the sand,
your scattered
shore.
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© 2011 The Rag Tree
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Image: The Island of the Lotus-Eaters, French illustration, 18th C., WikiCmns, Public Domain.
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DNA evidence suggests that mankind’s exodus out of Africa began 70,000 years ago. We are still at it, and in the next couple of centuries may settle Mars. Then someone or another will overturn (or more likely, complete) Einstein, and we will be hopping from star to star…
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Photo: Buzz Aldrin on the Surface; WikiCmns; NASA; Public Domain.
The Rag Tree has spent a fair amount of its time offering examples of poetry & discussing the art that makes a poem. But so far, prose has been off limits. In fact, one could do worse when answering the question, What makes a poem a poem?, by saying, “Whatever else it is, it’s not an essay!”
Poetry is a state of mind, and so if it were to appear on a menu, I might compare it to a kick-in-the-rear-of-the-pants cup of coffee, a dollop of superb ice-cream, or caviar on buttered toast–it’s in the moment and it had better be fresh and satisfying. But prose challenges our digestion more than it does our need for novelty or taste, and we expect long-term sustenance from it. Not that it shouldn’t taste like something (especially if it aspires to the status of a fine steak or wild-caught salmon), but it had better keep the animal spirit in us alive and kicking, rejuvenate our plans and hopes, and send us out into the world with a keener purpose and an ability to reach the next milestone.
Everything is grist for the mill. Roast goose, calves’ feet jelly, pigeons, blancmange (not to mention such modern challenges as Ox-tail soup–a delicacy that the author has had occasion to sample), so our digestions require instruction and fortification. I think it best to approach this topic, then, with a sample essay presented as a menu, divided into appetizer, first and second courses, dessert, and digestif (for the sake of simplicity ).
Without further ado, then, I invite you to a supper of essay fare and techniques, an inspiration for the next time you dig through words, however well prepared they may be:
1) The Appetizer. Beginning (or tired) essayists invariably offer an undercooked and somewhat troublesome item called the introduction. This is the moment when the essay is most likely to remind us that its very name comes from a French word meaning “an attempt.” If well done, the introduction bears some other name (hopefully savoring of the main body’s interests and idiosyncracies); points out the main attractions to be encountered further along–for instance, an unusual interpretation of the causes of the French Revolution; explains why the topic is important; and offers a sample of the author’s style and wit. From the culinary perspective, introductions can vary from teeth-cracking breadsticks to fiery buffalo wings to perfect dumplings to wilted iceburg lettuce. Get it right and people will start shouting and snapping their fingers for the entree…
2) The First Course. Readers of course look for rib-sticking, belly-filling material here, but the secret to satisfying them lies elsewhere–in an odd item known as the Thesis Statement. The TS is the heart of the essay, what the author has to say boiled down into a brief and compelling sentence or two. Or, if you prefer, you can think of the TS as the chef’s secret ingredient–the ultra-fresh lobster or outstanding, family-recipe chutney–that sets his or her cooking apart from the mediocre. This is what the gourmand/jaded reader comes looking for. For instance, our TS might be: “In contrast to the many, overly familiar explanations for the French Revolution–the desperation of the poor, the corruption of the monarchy and aristocracy, the stifling of scholarship and scientific research–this essay proposes a simpler reason behind the collapse of the Old Regime: namely, the need for better instruction in language skills.” (with pardons to RT’s readers–you are welcome to suggest a more plausible cause, such as “the political radicalization of the Intelligentsia” or ”a lack of innovation on the part of chefs across the nation“).
Once the TS has been sampled, the reader expects arguments and evidence in its support. Brief, eloquent, or witty language is also part of the experience–the spicing of the meal, in other words. No style, no fun, no spice, and people will stop eating.
For instance, we could include the following argument in support of our TS: “The lack of an effective educational system, the overweening power of France’s political institutions, and the refusal to recognize the great strides being made in the practical arts and sciences elsewhere all discouraged the pursuit of new methods and applications in France.” Or again, “The clear lack of inspiration in food choices among the elite, the use of high-cholesterol and other unhealthy ingredients, and the preference for large meals all lead to the stultification of original thought among the aristocracy and educated class.” Needless to say, some arguments are tougher to make than others, so beware! You don’t want to overstuff your patrons.
3) The Second Course. This is where the exceptional essayist pulls away from the pack. A good essay will provide an unexpected, persuasive TS and argument; an excellent essay will go farther afield, offering connections to developments and theories that might not immediately suggest themselves. Once again pursuing the French revolution, we might write: “The American Revolution, inspired in part by the constitution of the Iroquois Confederation in New York State, made the revolution in Paris inevitable. In particular, we should consider the effect of native American polities on the constitutional deliberations in Philadelphia and thus on the development of political theory in Europe.” Or, on a saucier note, “The descent into a flat and uninspired cuisine on the part of those charged with the feeding of the most acute French minds, and especially the overemphasis on serving truffles and spun-sugar wedding cakes, is a principle culprit in the decline that lead to the revolution.” Examine your ingredients closely, all you aspiring essayists out there!
4) Dessert. And you thought we were never going to get to the best part! Any essayist worth his sugar knows that without the extra oomph of a little sweet and the yumminess of lemon, or orange, or chocolate at the end of his thoughts, he has left his readers dangling. And in fact, there is no reason why dessert should only be offered at the end–some unexpected flashes of genius and taste, perhaps even a digression into a seemingly irrelevant topic, can build suspense and a grander finale at the close of the meal. For the French Revolution, consider the following: “And in fact, the political and fashion contribution of Marie Antoinette to her husband’s style and decisions (just think of those hairdos!) is often overlooked.” Or, for the chefs out there, “I can state unequivocally that the lack of proper training of truffle-snuffling pigs lead to the revolution.” There’s more in a pig’s snout than you might think.
5) The digestif. I prefer pear liqueur myself–but never overlook the importance of foot and endnotes. Footnote style isn’t that important–but offering unexpected readings and overlooked authors adds tremendously to any word meal! Scholarship (or a good farmer’s market) is after all the heart of the enterprise.
So there it is folks, a meal that should help you tackle all manner of surprising and odd essays and arguments–and enjoy yourself in the process. RT
* P.S. & thank you to the chef who inspired this post!
* P.P.S. & of course, Margo: we would miss many a feast without your blog, Wordgathering.
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Image: Menu for Dinner in Honor of General Lafayette, 1824; WikiCmns; Public Domain.
