Bad Romance

Good evening. It's Monday, and I'm sitting here, listening to Mumford and Sons, procrastinating any semblance of finals-preparation.

Good life choices start in college. Remember that.

So, to answer your question, must an artist be tortured to produce a quality piece of work?

My answer is yes and no. We writers do love being concrete, don't we?

It's kind of dreadful to think that we are doomed to a life of misery just to be able to create. There's gotta be some peppy writers out there, right? I'm sure Shakespeare loosened up a bit and had some fun, even if it was only on Sundays. But sometimes, the most exquisite, intimate writing comes through bad experiences. Does that mean you have to have a terrible life, or be a cynic for the rest of eternity?

Absolutely not!

Anne Lamott, a fabulous memoir-writer had a terrible childhood. She dealt with death. She dealt with drugs. She dealt with so many family issues, that horribly strict parents seem like birthday cake topped with loads of icing. Yet this woman is hilarious--and she now leads a normal, peaceful life. She has allowed herself to distance herself from the pain and see her unfortunate past from a humorous perspective.

Same goes with David Sedaris. He was teased mercilessly in his youth, and had to deal with coming out back when it wasn't as widely accepted. His mode of writing, however, is both observant and will make you hem, haw, and LOL.

So it seems to be a prerequisite to have a rough patch--such as a bad romance, or a paparazzi who just won't leave you alone (thank you, Lady Gaga), but in order to create, you must detach yourself from these negative experiences and view them in a new light. Just as the Wordsworthian method of poetry is to express your emotions recollected in tranquility, the expression of prose may be to take a difficult situation that the artist is no longer in the midst of.

If you'll notice, my examples are mainly memoir writers. While memoirs are studied closely in creative writing class, they seem to be forgotten in literature classes. Is this genre hopeless when it comes to "classics"? Or is perhaps perceived more writing than reading?--meaning, do we read memoirs in order to learn how to write, rather than to be entertained/troubled/engaged?

'Cause that would be a whole lot of engagement rings. Heh...heh....

So, do memoirs have "classic" potential?

Peace and Ponies,
Kira

The Tortured Artist

Dear Kira,

First of all, kudos on the new hair style.

Second of all, I have to say that I quite agree with you. The 'tortured' artist is a stereotype for a reason. My theory about this idea is this: if great artists (pick your person here) were just "normal" people, living "normal" lives, what would make them great artists? What would make them special? I think that the most gifted people are also the most "abnormal", because they see the world in a certain way and perceive things in a way others do not. That is to say, if Van Gogh was a family man with a spaniel, do you think he would have been able to paint Starry Night?

I don't.

And, if he could, then, what would stop the other 99.9% of the population from painting like Van Gogh  I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if Beethoven was a "normal" (I use this word liberally) person, he would do normal things. Writing the 9th symphony is not a normal thing. I think the reverse is also true. In order to create extraordinary things, you have to be something besides an ordinary person. You have to be sort of crazy to be gifted. Not crazy crazy, more like the Sheldon Cooper brand of psychosis. I would like to argue that the nature of being a talented person is being in possession of certain natural gifts that others do not have. Which, to me, means that talented people are intrinsically, genetically different. One can argue the definition of talented, but that's not really the point I'm trying to make. What I want to say is that, in order to be a truly great artist, you must have something that distinguishes you as a human being.

Whether or not this implies suffering is up to debate, but you are correct in saying that a lot of famous artists (painters, musicians, writers, etc.) seem to have live really depressing lives. Take Eric Clapton for instance (you know my proclivity to Eric Clapton; I think he's one of the best guitarist to have ever lived - right up there with Jimi Hendrix (also a tortured artist) and Jimmy Page), the Layla album, arguably his best work, came out of heart break and heroin abuse. It's the same thing with Francisco de Goya, in my opinion one of the best painters who has ever lived (after Klimt). The Black Paintings, The Third of May 1808, and The Second of May 1808, all came out of the incredibly dark period at the end of his life, by which time he had gone deaf and experienced the Peninsular wars. Sure, his earlier paintings are happier, but these are some of the most interesting, most fascinating paintings I have ever seen.

Of course, all of this raises the question I would like to ask you: is it possible for a great artist to be ever, truly happy? Is misery a pre-requisite to great work? And, if yes, how does this affect our reading of 'happy' works of literature?

María

Lana Del Rey Sings one Strange Body Electric

Dear Maria,
So, as you know, I'm kind of a Pandora addict. I've discovered some of my favorite artists there, such as Foster the People, Florence and the Machine, and Lana Del Rey. Yet lately, I've had a love/hate relationship with the latter artist, especially after coming across this gem:

Now, I don't know about you, but a song that starts with "Elvis is my father, Marilyn's my mother, Jesus is my bestest friend," is bound to gain some attention. I'm not one to question song lyrics too often--I normally just hop around to a lively beat--but I couldn't help but pull an Alex Day here and analyze Lana Del Rey's song. So, I've come up with a little plot to help make sense of these words.

So Elvis and Marilyn Monroe decided to get nice and steamy one night, because as we are aware, Elvis loves 'dem hound dogs. Apparently he liked them older as well. But after their little bout of shinnanigans, a little Lana Del Rey was born. She grew up, ate Cheerios, and hung with her BFF Jesus, just like any little girl would. Jesus was quite the positive influence on little Lana, but his insight didn't quite get to Elvis and Marilyn, who decided it would be a fine time to go clubbing and thus, Lana explains, "We get down every Friday night, dancin’ and grindin’ in the pale moonlight." So there's Lana, Elvis and Marilyn, all gettin' wild in da club. Presumably, Jesus had to stay home that night, but that didn't stop word from getting out to Mary.

Well. That wreaked some havoc, now didn't it? But Mary, in typical non-violent fashion, did little to accuse Marilyn and Elvis of immoral behavior. She just simply prays the rosary for Lana's broken mind, because obviously, that's what a best friend's mother does. Lana's all "thanks but no thank," and continues to high tail it over to the club. She's all in the zone, claiming that her body is on fire and whatnot, and that she can be the next Walt Whitman, which is totally ridiculous since I didn't see Lana writing any Leaves of Grass.

The family clubbing goes well for a while, but Elvis' drug abuse really starts to take its toll on Marilyn. She uproots herself out of the family situation, and decides to go for Whitman instead, seeing as her daughter was already singing this dude's song. Lana was all "okay, guess I have a new Daddy now, woohooo." It probably didn't matter much, since Whitman could use all his book royalties on money on which Lana could sustain her partying lifestyle. Elvis, not too happy with this slap in the face, decided to marry Monaco. I have no idea who that is, so let's just say she's some faceless revenge wife, because really, who can top Walt Whitman?

Marilyn Monroe, that's who. Ooooh, burn.

So Mary, miraculously (and people say lightening doesn't strike twice!) is still in the loop, and she decides that Lana's rough lifestyle is just too terrible an influence for her son. So Mary forbids Jesus from chillin' with Lana, which hits Lana harder than we all expected, as she starts befriending inanimate objects such as diamonds. The girl really misses Jesus, but that doesn't make her want to prove to Mary that she can come clean. So, Lana keeps partying, and Mary keeps praying. I don't know what Jesus is doing, probably off doing something cool with fish, I don't know. But at this party, Lana meets this really hot guy named suicide, and they decide to go at it in some god-awful club bathroom. Lana, being all un-employed and whatnot, can't afford protection, so she gets preggers and suicide is all "not my fault, you should've known I destroy people." So Lana has this baby named Heaven, which, if you ask me, is kinda strange to name a baby, but this is post "Apple" and "Blanket" generation.

But just because Lana has this new life doesn't mean she's stopped missing Jesus. She still looks at those silly photos they took together, reminiscing about the times they had. It's the only reminder of youth she has. Here, Lana admits she is really in need of a washing machine because her clothes still smell like Jesus, who she hasn't run into in like, forever. Or maybe she's just soooo sentimental, which is just not practical for personal hygiene matters. Jesus' sudden abandonment does kinda hurt Lana, but she's not going to be the first to admit it, even if it was Mary being all overprotective and such.

But then Mary has this "aha" moment, where she realizes maybe she was being the party pooper after all, and that Jesus is this grown savior and all that. So why can't she have a little fun in da' club? Lana, jumping at the opportunity, get Suicide to watch her baby, and she and Mary get down and funky in the club, and everything is all fine and good.

Still don't know where Jesus is. Maybe he and Suicide are drinking some whiskey or something.

So this is what modern day music has come to.

Peace and Ponies,
Kira

U-G-L-Y, that Story You've Got there is Really Fly

Dear Maria Cristina,
I've heard this rumor floating around that humans desire closeness. While I myself must have failed to receive that gene, it is an everyday trait in many of us (silly humans!) have. So when we finally come across a concept we can relate to, we automatically cling to the perceive that introduced that concept. To have the revelation that "ohmigosh someone finally understands me!" is a relieving one, and it can be difficult to separate the notion from the person. I mean, not every author necessarily agrees with what he's saying. Did Thoreau really believe that eating children would be a modest proposal? Did Alex Day really fall in love with a ghost? Does John Green believe that pain demands to be felt? Last I checked, pain didn't walk up to me and go all "I demand you feel me!" because that would be wildly inappropriate.

In our tendencies to be attached to something, we ultimately become attached to the face we associate with that thing. It's natural, in our society, to say something innocent like "I really like dialogue," only to proceed to hear the 5 most horrible words a person could hear: "oh so you like Hemmingway?"

Yeah. Because I like conversational books, it's totally logical to assume I enjoy watching two depressing lovers battle out an abortion battle.

So anyway. I think we should detach our book/author associations, but that could just be the formalist in me talking.

Ironically, however, I have been noticing a pattern amongst artists in general. It all started at an extra credit assignment, as things tend to start at. First off, I'd just like to point out that I was in a room filled with grad students.

Grad students. There I was, the little freshman, around people who threw around Nietzsche references like they were no problem and used "ostentatious" and "perfunctory" in casual sentences. I basically felt like this:

During this discussion with the scary smart people, we examined the idea of the influence Eastern philosophy had on Beethoven's music. Apparently the Bhagavad Gita taught Beethoven to accept things as they are. To prove this point, the professor brought along a string quartet to play Beethoven's works. They were all very talented and the sounds were quite beautiful. Yet I noticed something: The more beautiful and intense the music got, the more the musicians convulsed and twitched and made unpleasant expressions. By the time it got to the really dramatic sections, they were practically thrashing their violins around. I was afraid they'd start falling off their chairs and flying cellos would start invading campus.

But this "ugly creator" trend also occurs in writing. While there aren't exactly "writing performances," I know I furrow my brow in a not so attractive way while I'm lost in thought, and my hair goes all "woohoo" on me when I'm writing. But it's not so much physical disfiguration that makes for beautiful writing: it's mental disfiguration.
Now, I'm not saying that if we all became schizophrenics we'd all be fantastic writers, but the "tortured author" deal is actually legit. It helps to come from an unpleasant background in order to perceive things that a blissed out kid might totally miss. For one thing, people who talk about having a rough childhood talk about living in books and being isolated. Isolation is the only time we can truly be introspective and think about the world. Plus, alcoholic fathers or mothers who work too much makes for great writing material.

Even in comedy, it takes knowing the other side to truly reach people's triggers in stand-up routines. Robin Williams had a terrible history with drugs, yet his routines give us escape. Eddie Izzard got rejected from the army and beaten up because of his sexuality. Yet he took that opportunity to turn his tumultuous experiences into comedy:

This pattern has lasted centuries. The most widely noted "classical" authors are also some of the most tortured. Edith Wharton had some pretty screwed up marriage issues, but through that turmoil she created Ethan Frome, one of the most beautiful, heart wrenching novels. You have to be aware of pain to transcend it onto a page.

So is there a reason the most pained artists are the most world renowned? It certainly helps to have the whole "brooding, tortured artist" look going on, but is it absolutely necessary? I know plenty of good authors who didn't live in a box during their childhood. Would they have been "great" if they'd gotten less fluff during their teen years? What even is great?

I'm all for having a nice life, but what if it's at the expense of ever achieving literary greatness?

Peace and Ponies,
Kira

Byron was a Weird Guy

Dear Kira,

I am able to sympathize deeply with your struggles. Personally, knowing something unflattering about an author often ruins entire books for me. I'm with the formalists in that I try really hard not to let what I know about an author influence my opinion of their books.

Personally, I go out of my way to avoid learning anything about the authors of the books I read; I try not even to look at their pictures. Now, I realize that this is all a little ridiculous, but it's why I enjoy reading things written by dead people so much. Historical ambiguity is a beautiful thing. Anonymous or possibly non-existent authors are the best. For example, quite a few historians agree that Homer (Iliad and Odyssey dude) didn't actually exist. This is common of the great foundational texts of world literature such as the Ramayana, the Epic of Gilgamesh, Enuma Elish, and the Old Testament. Even though I know that, at some point, someone sat down and wrote them, the absence of a clearly defined author gives the text a sort of genuineness that we don't get a lot in modern writing.

I personally have a lot of respect for people who write anonymously, to me, when you write/read something from an anonymous source, it's not being produced by any one person, it is coming directly from the culture.

Anyway, I'm getting off my soap box now. I don't mean to say that taking ownership of your writing is a bad thing. Actually (as you suggested), sometimes writing is made more interesting by your knowledge of the author's back story. For example, I'm pretty sure I would never have read any of John Green's books if I didn't watch his youtube videos. But I do have some issues with that, my concern, and my question to you, is that I like books because I like the author (or vice-versa). You and I both know a certain person who is absolutely obsessed with Lord Byron. But, sometimes I wonder if he likes Byron because he likes Byron or because he's just kind of a weird dude with an interesting biography (BUT ACTUALLY, BYRON WAS SUCH A WEIRD GUY). Also, the Penn State Library has a lock of Byron's hair in its collection, so that can't help the odd, fan boy culture.


I guess this is where I come back to your original question. I guess it's sort of a dangerous thing to think that you know an author personally. I mean, you know you have a problem when you consider stealing hair from the University in a half-baked attempt to clone your own Lord Byron. I'm not saying that weird authors aren't fun, but (and this could apply to rock stars and actors and politicians as well) do you think we like/dislike their work because we like them or because it's deserving of being liked?

Maria

Chillin' With Your Favorite Author

Dear Maria,
I'm not even in your poetry class, and I'm just as angry that your prof doesn't consider him a poet. Dr. Suess is a prime example of someone who plays with language and defamiliarizes the familiar in order to give it a new angle. That's part of the brilliance of his work--instead of preaching to children to "try new things," he gives us "Green Eggs and Ham." How the Grinch Stole Christmas teaches about love and the impermanence of material goods. All grand themes, presented in a delightful way.

So why it's not considered worth studying, I don't know. Perhaps people look at children's literature and Pshaw it as something they could easily write in five minutes. Or, if at first glance, it doesn't make them question the universe, it's deemed completely useless. Things that are written in a joyous manner often seem less sophisticated because joy is more closely related to naivté. That in itself is a naive assumption, but one that many people take.

But the joke's on everyone else, because Dr. Suess knows his audience, and is able to call up his childhood self and find ways to convey large themes to children. That is absolutely brilliant. This idea came to me while I was struggling through some Derrida deconstruction theory, and as I lamented "bad writing" to my father, my dad negated my claim by saying "Derrida's is writing to people with a philosophical background, to people whose thinking is already elevated enough to understand his points. It would be like if you or I had to talk about love...we could express it in terms a five year old would understand, or we could write to our peers." Oftentimes, it is easier to write to your peers because you're already in their mindset. It takes great psychological understanding and patience to explain big concepts to small people.

And remember, "a person's a person, no matter how small."

So now that we've debunked the claim that Dr. Suess is not a poet, I'd like to discuss something that the formalists would cringe at, but that I've been struggling with nonetheless: the author himself (or herself!). While I see the genius in Dr. Suess' (or Theodore Geisel) work, I wouldn't necessarily want to grab a burger with him. He was un-motivated in school, and blunt to the point of brutality. He was a bit of a recluse, and brushed off having children, claiming "you have 'em, I'll amuse em" (Harper). He threw out most of his writing, and in his everyday life, he acted a bit unstable. Obviously this has no effect on the light hearted books we know and love, but it still sucks out some of the magic of innocence his stories brought me. To know that a curmudgeonly old man was scribbling out my childhood is bit of a disappointment.

Holden Caulfield, another literary favorite, claims "What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it." There's something about knowing an author that makes that story that much more special, like they're speaking directly to you. There are some authors that remain faceless after I finish book, and that's alright because I can just let my imagination tell me that so and so "likes long walks on the beach and all things chocolate." But once you get some concrete background that suggests the author is a bit of a dick, that's when you start to feel betrayed.

Take Daniel Handler, for instance. He wrote A Series of Unfortunate Events under the alias Lemony Snicket. Like Dr. Suess' works, Handler's series made up my childhood. I lived through the Baudelaire siblings, and felt their despair as if it were my own. Handler always presented Lemony Snicket as being very mysterious, so my second grade self could revel in filling in the personality traits I wanted him to have. But as I grew up and realized that Lemony Snicket was also a character, I investigated further on Daniel Handler. After I read Why We Broke Up, I concluded that the author was, in fact, me; there just wasn't any other way this book could be published if he wasn't actively spying on my life. I was so excited, I wanted to hug him, and talk about everything ranging from childhood woes to adolescent heartbreak. Then I saw this:

I mean, he goes from brash to simply rude to self-righteous and back again. And I don't know why, but it felt like a personal attack. I understand the rule of separating the author from the text, but sometimes it's like "why did you trick me like this, why???"

Then you go eat a pint of ice cream and pretend the interview never happened. 

Don't get me wrong, I still love Handler's books. And I still read them with the utmost enthusiasm. But there's still that nagging thought in the back of my mind that maybe the author really doesn't believe what he's writing; maybe he's messing with all of our heads.

Writers are the best tricksters of all. 

It's especially hard in the world of social media. As a nerdfighter, I see how closely this huge community watches John Green's life. We feel like we can identify with him, and like with any youtube video, we feel as though the vlogbrothers are speaking directly to us. When I read John Green's books, I could hear his voice saying "I go to seek a great perhaps," and it personalized what was already an emotional book. Green seems so outgoing and friendly on the internet, but he has said countless times that he is an introvert and that the touring events intimidate him. My summer roommate once told me that she met John Green in real life (completely jealous here), but that he was actually kind of rude. Now, I wasn't there to defend or deny this statement, but often introversion is mistaken as rudeness or lack of caring. Still, when you think an author has poured their entire heart out to you and you alone, the poignancy of a less-than-emotional encounter can hurt a bit.

So my question to you is, how might you suggest better separating the text from the author? Should we just go in with the assumption that they're complete assholes? Or should we do some background research on the author before reading? 

I've never met John Green. So I can still pretend that upon our encounter he'll tell me "DFTBA" and let me rant a little about Hazel and Augustus.

Peace and Ponies,

Kira

Dr. Seuss is Tottally a Poet!

Dear Kira,

In response to your question, while it certainly is fun to make fun of adolescences for obvious reasons, I think we need to be very careful about turning tragedy in comedy. I mean, tragedies, true tragedys any way, are tragedies for a reason. My personal, too-lazy-to-go-to-Dictionary.com, definition to tragedy is something that has a profound and negative impact on the life of any one person or any group of people. For example, while there are some parts of adolescences that no one can talk about with a straight face, the number of teenage suicides rises every year. My general rule of thumb is that, if it's a serious issue to someone, you probably shouldn't be joking about it.

Now, to a pressing issue that has been bothering me for some time. So, as you know, I'm taking a poetry class this semester (I'm on the strugglebus) and, on the first day of class, the professor asked us our favorite poets. One girl said that her favorite poet was Dr. Seuss and his response that was Dr. Seuss is not a poet.

Now, I'm with you that reading Dr. Seuss isn't quite the same thing as reading Shakespeare but, come on, he purveys some pretty profound messages if you bother to look for them. Like, for example

Yertle the Turtle is Mean!

, did you know that Yertle the Turtle is actually about Hitler? Did you know that the line from Horton Hears a Who, "a person's a person, no matter how small", is actually in reference to the dropping of the atom bomb on Japan? Did you know that there are only 50 different words used in Green Eggs and Ham? I could go on.

My point is, that Dr. Seuss is just as worthy of the title of poet as Frost or Whitman. So my question to you becomes, why are only "serious" poets considered worth reading? It seems to me that writing of all kinds is full of arbitrary designations of genre and what is and is not "sophisticated" or "worthwhile" writing. It doesn't seem fair to me that, just because Seuss wrote for children he is considered less of a write.What makes a poet and, does the literary genius of Dr. Seuss fit into that category?

Maria