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