On My Style
(Ed's note: Since high school, I've kept notebooks which I jot down any thoughts I get from time to time. Today I was sitting in a cafe in the bookstore in town, and wrote this. Since it has a lot of bearing of my mindset since coming to Oxford, I thought you might be interested in reading it. If you don't recognize someone I mention, either go out and read them, or just forget about it. I think I put enough information about them so that you can figure out enough about them.)
Most if the time, in fact, I don't think I have a style. I write essays, yes, and those essays just seem to me to be an outlining of the facts. I don't imagine how anyone could distinguish my writing from any other. I suppose one could proceed negatively. I try not to use jargon and restrict my use of technical terms to a minimum. If there is a question, I err on the side of readability, even if it costs me technical accuracy. On the other hand, I do not believe that my writing is marked by any sort of poetic beauty. This seems unjustifiably unfair because I write an unfair share of poetry. I believe writing poetry does improve prose. It has certainly helped me notice rhythm and the way words sound, but when I write essays or fiction it doesn't seem to come across.
All of my dabbling, of course, might be part of the problem. I write these essays, essays for credit in the university, poems, and so far several short stories, and half of a novel that I realized that I couldn't finish because it was merely background for the novel I am currently writing. In the back of my mind I also have ideas for longer works of philosophy and history, for which I currently have only notes. All of these require different voices; unfortunately, it seems to me that I sound pretty much the same in all of them. For someone less stubborn, the obvious answer would be to figure out which one I am best at, or prefer the most, and focus on that. I cannot. I cannot abide the thought of becoming a specialist. My curiosity gets the better of me, and when it allies itself with my ambition I find I am caught. It goes beyond writing. Not only do I want to be a philosopher, historian, poet, novelist, and essayist, I also want to be a world-renowned classical guitarist, composer, athlete, mathematician, chef, juggler, yogi, and lover to the extent that Tribolet will replace Casanova as the common designation for the profession. However, it is perhaps in writing where I still have furthest to go, so I worry about it the moist.
It is interesting who I model my ideal writer(s) on. Using the list above, I want to write philosophy like Bertrand Russell (his style, not his mentality or approach), to write history like Gibbon, poetry like T.S. Eliot (or, on some days, like Milton), novels like Umberto Eco, and essays like Barthes. Sometimes I think I would be better off defining what I want by who I don't want to imitate; in that case, it would be: Hegel, Suetonius, Donne (though I love him), Hugo, and Montaigne. I fear that the only way I could come close to achieving that kind of diversity of style is to be struck with dissociative personality disorder.
There are questions that come up naturally here, too. Why would I hope to write in the style of Russell when I disagree with so much of his thought? Isn't there a connection between style and message? Is it reasonable to want to write history like an eighteenth century historian? Then there is the problem of Eco. I find his novels read very much like his philosophy and his essays. They have similar sentence structure and similar pattern of reasoning. Yet, I don't want to imitate his philosophy or his essays. Moreover, his style is tinged with post-modern irony. He has an incredible way of using intertextual methods in his work. As a result, his works are less clear, less in the 'realist' tradition than Russell, certainly, and even Barthes when compared to say, Lacan or Derrida. If I had to pick a novelist who I could imitate in the 'realist' tradition, I could choose Dostoevski, or any other Russian novelist. This is one of the hardest things for me to overcome, should I achieve what I am hoping, because so far I have written fiction the way I write essays, and at this point I am unclear about how I would incorporate what I like of Eco's style into my own. I suppose I could just credit it to a level of maturity in his writing: he was decades older and a far more experienced writer when he first worked on The Name of the Rose. Not to mention that he was far more well read. Perhaps I should read more Joyce, whom Eco cites as being the source of his style. Of course, Joyce was a published author at my age.
The only solution to my problem, I know, is just to continue to read and to continue to write. That way, I will learn what works and what doesn't. It already has, in fact; I can't help but wince at some of the things I wrote even three years ago. Sometimes, though, it brings pitfalls. I'm reading Lacan's Ecrits, and am overwhelmed by his broad knowledge. I suppose I should be excited, to realize that it is still possible to be a generalist (of sorts) today. After all, that's what I want, right? Instead, I felt buried by the weight of all I still want to learn, discover, and write, and I feel, even now, that I don't have enough time to do it all. I suppose, though, I should just add one to my list: I want to write lectures like Lacan. As for the rest? I suppose I should cheer up. After all, Rimbaud had only written about half of his poetry before he was my age. I still have time to catch up.
a day in the half-life
This is an account of one of the more surreal days I've had in Oxford.
I was sick, and had been for several days. I was also running out of cash so I thought I would force myself out of the house and to the bank in order to get some. I barely remember the walk down; my head was fuzzy and my breathing was about the same. Every three steps or so I was reduced to hacking coughs. That, plus the fact that I was wearing one of my heavier jackets in order to retain some semblance of warmth, probably was the reason several people stopped me and offered to buy any copies I had of Big Issue, which is the magazine homeless people sell around here.
Most of the walk to my bank is generic English town. There are lots of little grocery stores, cafes, newsagents, and bicyclists. It could even be some place in America, somewhere on the east coast but without the massive snobbishness, and with a far more diverse selection at the farmers market. Still, there is not much that makes you think you're in the city that grew up around the oldest University in the English speaking world.
Oh, except the Clarendon printing house of Oxford University Press (go look at any books you have which are OUP: if they say Clarendon St., then that's the one near me), which is about two minutes walk from my house. But that hardly counts.
About fifteen minutes walk, I've gotten to the part of the city which actually looks like a University, probably because it is. My bank, however, takes me away from the beautiful Bodleian library and Trinity college, my own. Instead, I turn down the market street, which is typically English. It is the widest street I've seen in Oxford, but it's closed off to traffic. It is full of actual stores: a couple of bookstores, music shops, and a department store, but also several banks. Today, though, it is particularly crowded. There are usually several street musicians plying their trade around this area, including a guy on the bagpipes whom is the best I've ever heard. Today, near the end of the street, by my bank, there is a full salsa band. I cursed the fact that I was sick, because at that moment I had a wild urge to ask the next passing woman for a dance, but it would have taken too much energy.
Actually, perhaps it was just as well I was sick.
I withdraw my money and I start heading back. Instead of pushing through the crowd this time, I stay close to the edges and try to sneak past them. I notice, however, that there are people there set up with stands, looking like they have things to give away. As I never pass down something free to read, I head over there. The first one turns out to be a stand for the local communist party. I laugh, and start to move on, but I notice the title of one of the pamphlets: "Communism: The Only Viable Future." Feeling like I needed some amusement and actually being somewhat interested in how they sweet coated a "Scientific expression of History" I took it and started to move on. I was stopped mid-step by one of the communists taking my arm.
"It's seventy pence," he said.
The wracking coughs that I produced signified for him to repeat his statement.
I was astonished. The communist party was reduced to selling its pamphlets: it was making money on production, it was betraying its proletariat ideals, it was gouging the price of cheap literature. I had to buy it. I would have paid pounds for that experience. As I took out my
money, he asked me where I was from, and what I was doing in Oxford. I told him I came from Utah, and he said it was "One of the more exotic parts of the States." I told him I was studying in Oxford for the year, and he insisted that I sign up for their e-mail list. I really couldn't think of any reason to refuse. Now, of course, I think: If I ever run for office in the U.S., this would probably work against me. On the other hand, I'd really like to see one of their meetings.
Anyway, after that, the next stand was a Muslim proselytizing. I didn't get into nearly as long a conversation with him, probably because I mentioned I needed to just pop round the corner and buy some whiskey, but I would love to come back to talk to him. I did take his pamphlet, though, and I'm proud to say that Christian tracts are much, much worse. I don't believe it's an art form meant to be perfected.
After that, I decided that the previous events had cheered me up so much I was up for a little studying, so I went to Trinity college's gardens (absolutely gorgeous, by the way) to read the book I had brought in case of such an eventuality. I read for perhaps an hour when I was overshadowed by two men who were waving a camera at me. I wondered at what kind of shot that would produce before I realized that they wanted me to take a picture of them. I did, they thanked me ("shih-shu, shih-shu") and I got up to leave. On my way out I realized I was at a university, at a college within that University, that regularly had tourists show up and want to see the sights that were the grounds where I am studying. It gave me a little shiver down my spine.
After that, I walked back and took a nap. All in all, a good day.
Long Overdue
This post is going to come in three parts. In case you want to skip any of them, here is the table of contents:
1. Description of England
2. A Reply to Chris Heinrich
3. A Personal note for Paul Astin
1.
Oxford is rather crazy right now. The first reason it is crazy is that I only have one or two classes a week. Why one or two? Because one of my classes is once a week and the other is once every two weeks. What these classes consist of is the tutor reading an essay that I have written during the week, critiquing it, and then giving me a reading list. I then toddle off to write an essay based on the new books I have read/am reading. This sounds perfect for me, and it really is, but it is still difficult to keep focused when I don't have the class every day or even every other day. The fact is, I haven't actually had a class yet, just the introductory meeting of my tutors. I have to turn in an essay in my first class! There are only eight (or four) classes in a term! As you may imagine, the pressure to get each essay exactly right is tremendous. Besides which, my tutors know the subjects like they've been studying them for thirty years. Oh, that's right, they have been. So, no matter how much I read the book, they are going to know it better than I am. An example: I came to one of them with only a very broad topic in mind. Between the two of us, we hammered it down to a certain period. Then, off the top of his head and with no warning, he mentioned seven books, some of which only certain sections were relevant to my essay. I was blown away. Both of them have books out on their favored subjects. It's intimidating, but also fairly exhilarating. It fulfills my sense of ambition.
Getting used to living here was interesting. Obviously, I had less of a transition than some people, so people often came to me for advice on how to act, speak, etc. On the other hand, I've never actually lived in a town in England before, so it was still somewhat of an adjustment. I'm always surprised when people treat me differently because I'm an American. I don't remember them doing that before.
Other than that, it is very cold and drizzly and there are lots and lots of gorgeous buildings that are very inspirational, so I'm loving nearly every minute of it.
2.
First, I apologize, Chris, if you're reading this, because you've heard a lot of it before from me. Others of you might be interested in what he has to say, so if you don't know, click here: http://lifesspice.blogspot.com/2007/10/argument-in-favor-of-facebook.html This is my friend Chris' blog, and he and I, when we're in the same country, often have conversations regarding things that most people would consider unspeakably boring. He's now studying in Germany and hopefully drinking nearly as much good German beer as I am good English beer.
Chris,
You point out quite distinctly the advantages of facebook, and yes, I have to admit that, in some ways, communicating on facebook is the same as communicating in other ways. It is distinctly beneficial for long range communication, especially when e-mail is too much of a hassle. It is great for keeping track of people in lots of different areas. In the end, yes, they are all simply ways of exchanging information. From there, however, our distinctions must differ. You mention that face-to-face communication is the most intrusive, with phone calls being next most and finally via the internet. I have to ask at this point, what do you mean by being intrusive? You say "telling someone they have no time to talk when they are looking into the other's eyes is highly impolite," and while this is certainly true, I don't think most people would mind talking to another person - I think it would be very unlikely that many people would simply say that. In some ways, it certainly is intrusive. Certainly, talking to someone takes up time, time that might be better spent, oh, I don't know, composing e-mails and facebook messages. The reason why it is intrusive is because it is more personal; it makes the people involved more vulnerable towards each other. With e-mail and facebook, you can craft the response that will make you sound cool, or make you sound the way you would like, or make you sound happy and upbeat all of the time. With talking, you can hardly keep that up. It requires honesty, if not in words than at least in body language or tone of voice. You mention that you would never ask someone who broke into tears why over facebook. That is because facebook fosters relationships that are an inch deep. People have contests to see how many friends they can get on facebook, but how many of these "friendships" involve emotional commitment? How many of your facebook friends would you be willing to call when you needed real help? I submit that if it is a small percentage, then there is something wrong. Facebook takes out all of the emotional context behind a message; this makes it a convenient mode of communication that produces friends of convenience.
3.
Paul, despite what I've said in #2, why haven't you friended me yet?
