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

Sadness makes the heart grow fonder

Dear Maria,
Good morning, it's Saturday, and in my preparations for work I've been pondering the interesting question you posed. We do seem to be drawn towards sadness and tragedy. Are we all just so cynical that we can't stop to notice the positive (albeit small) things in life? Do the positive things even exist anymore?

We don't live in a world where we step out the door and proceed to only run across negativity. The trouble is, we live in a world where it's okay, encouraged even, to see things in a negative light. I can't remember the last time I heard someone tell me to "stop and smell the roses" in a non-sarcastic way. The hardships in life resonate with us way more than the things we take for granted. Take last night for instance. I went to a Christmas party with my father and we ran into a woman who had watched me and her daughter frolic about in an indoor playground and have a fantastic time. I barely remember this afternoon (granted, I was five years old). Yet I could give you a shot by shot analysis of the uncomfortable moments of my life. I don't know how many times I've recited the skiing story, but it seems to be a favorite at dinner parties. If I was, y'know, invited to dinner parties.

So not only do we dwell on tragedy, but we connect through it. Through something tragic, we take the time to put our daily lives aside and tell our family and friends how much we love them--and to hope and pray for those affected by the tragedy. 9/11 was one of the most horrific tragedies we've witnessed in our generation; at the time, I didn't really understand what was happening, but I remember sitting in meeting for worship that Friday morning in school, and I felt one of the strongest connections with those around me. I felt a vibe of understanding with people I'd never met before. As a second grader, I couldn't truly grasp why people were sad--all I really got is that they were sad, and that having fellow humans around you can be one of the most comforting things in the world.

Even as there are raging political debates in the face of tragedy--most recently, the shootings in Connecticut, people come together to mourn the lives lost and the families suffering. Through this suffering, we find common ground.

In the midst of tragedy, it seems we are more willing to set aside our differences and just relate to one another. And that's one thing that's on many of our top priority lists: To have people understand what it means to feel the way we do, to think the way we think, to view the world in our eyes. Why do you think depressing songs become so popular? It's not like Hinder's "Better than Me" lyrics are horribly original, nor do they evoke grand philosophical thought; rather, everyone can relate to that feeling when someone is "so much better than me." In a time when you think you're the only one with that feeling, it can be relieving to realize that actually, everyone and their brother has that feeling.

But what I wonder is, at what point is it acceptable to turn tragedy into comedy? There are a few "tragic moments" that are a common theme amongst comedians--adolescence, mainly. The teenage years certainly didn't seem like something to laugh at at the time, but since everyone's gone through it and eventually pulls out of it with only a few battle scars, it's nice to share the memories of hell-ish experiences. Crushes, test taking, and acne battle stories don't cause any resentment. We're all just relieved that it's finally over.

But if I hopped up onto a stage next to Ellen D and Tosh.0 (I love this imaginary me) and started joking about eating disorders, there would be many more mixed reactions. Is this because not everyone goes through it? Or perhaps the adolescence thing works so well in comedy because the jokes are geared towards an adult audience--not people who are in the throes of adolescence. With eating disorders, there is no specific age where you're unable to experience that illness. You're more likely to hurt one part of the audience while only making another small section laugh.

So do tragic moments only require a grace period and target audience to create comedy? Where is the line drawn? We are drawn to laughter--but at what point to we stop laughing?

Peace and Ponies,
Kira

Tragedy Sells

Dear Kira,

To answer your question, I think that literary humor can be just as quote-unquote serious as regular, serious literature. I mean, I don't think I've ever laughed so hard as when I read Shakespeare's Midsummer's Night Dream (but maybe that's just me being a nerd). I mean, whoever said literature couldn't be funny? But I tend to disagree with you when you say that only humorous literature gets any attention; I'd like to point your attention the numerous succesful superhero film franchises. I mean, there's nothing funny about Superman, certainly not about Captain America, and the list goes on. And yet, there is something so universal about superheros. I mean, there's a reason little boys dress up as Spiderman for Halloween.

Of course, the typical superhero story is the hero quest or something of the like. In the typical superhero story, the hero has some sort of tragedy in their past that compels them to take up the mantel of righteousness or what-have-you. This has been a theme in literature since like, forever, and it's not funny either. If anything, it's tragic. In fact, I'd venture the opinion that tragedy sells even better than humor.

Not to be insensitive, but take a look at the average news channel. Whenever something horrible happens, it's plastered all over the television and everyone watches it. It's like a car accident, you can't look away. So, I pose a question to you. What is it that is so appealing about tragedy, in literature or otherwise. What makes a man in spandex tights such a cultural icon?

Merry Christmas,
Maria

Your Horse was so High, it was up in the Sky

Dear Maria,
good evening, it's Wednesday, and I must admit, I'm slacking on the reading front. I open up Atonement with this grand intention to indulge myself in intellectual thought, when one of two things happens:
1) I realize my stomach is growling very loudly at me, and I must go and hunt for pudding. Except, wait, there is not pudding left at the convenience store. So then I have to drag my feet ALL the way downtown to buy an insatiable amount of dessert at Mclanahan's and everyone just looks at me like they know I'm wasting my life away in calories and sugar. Or...
2) How I met your Mother looks ever so tempting on Netflix, and my evening turns into a black hole of television.

Perhaps this is why I didn't accomplish as much as I'd have liked in high school. And while I agree that you were on your high horse whils't reading Shakespeare and Dickens while the rest of us subjected our friends to long and painful rants about boys (my humblest apologies), I realize it's not an entirely bad thing to be on your high horse. It just means you were past all the petty arguments and obsessions that most immature teenagers are in the midst of, and put your time to better use. And for that, I admire you.

However, as any good revelation tends to be complex, there are two parts to my epiphany: There is absolutely a necessity to catch up on the classics (in which I am sorely lacking knowledge of). So that is the answer to why I'm putting so many classics on my reading list. I mean, I'm fairly certain I'll enjoy them (thus far, Jane Eyre has been a quality read), but it also serves the purpose of being educated and thinking about the world. But I also know my taste in reading: I enjoy modern literature about people and their lives far more than older literature, and because of that, I am not totally depriving myself from John Green and Jodi Picoult. There is a time and place for modern literature, but it can't always be waved off as unimportant or "easy reading." There are many complex themes in John Green's books, and my understanding of humankind has been immensely wider after reading The Fault in Our Stars. So after much thought, I've created this lovely little reading list that may or may not be fully checked off after many nights playing Angry Birds:

1) Jane Eyre
2) Pride and Prejudice
3) Sense and Sensibility
4) Looking for Alaska
5) An Abundance of Catherines
6) The Vampire Lestat
7) Oliver Twist
8) Great Expectations
9) Slaughterhouse Five
10) Candide
11) Wuthering Heights
12) Midsummer Night’s Dream
13) The Sun Also Rises
14) The Member of the Wedding
15) The Scarlet Letter
16) Uncle Tom’s Cabin
17) Emma
18) Anna Karenina
19) Les Misérables
20) Tuck Everlasting
21) The Casual Vacancy
22) Persuasion 

 Wow. Not gonna lie, that looks slightly intimidating. My attention span better start kicking itself into high gear. 

Speaking of avoiding work, I took a lovely yoga class yesterday in attempts to ignore my finals, and I stumbled upon this lovely little poster:

At first, I was all, "why would they spend all that time creating a poster with a made up chart?" After sharing this picture on facebook, I got my answer. A lot of people think to share more humorous things, stuff that will make people giggle--maybe because it's easy to comprehend, maybe because people need in their lives, but whatever the case, it's more smart advertising. So that got me thinking. What is it about humor that is so striking? Obviously tragedy evokes plenty of emotion too, but in the busy-ness of our day to day lives, something funny seems to stop us in our tracks more than something sad. Does the kind of effect this poster has on us work in writing as well? When I'm browsing through books, trying to decide what to read next, I'm more likely to pick up a book that begins with something amusing, or witty. This could just be due to personal taste, but it seems that humor brings a strong resonance in our lives.

But then again, laugh-out-loud books are regarded less as fine literature and more as casual, easy reads. A lot of the memoirs I've been reading, such as David Sedaris' Naked and Tina Fey's Bossypants are enjoyable, but they aren't serious literature.

So would it be smart to sacrifice one's reputation in order to catch the common reader's eye? Or is serious literature just as catchy?

Peace and Ponies,
Kira