Wednesday, November 5, 2008

A little bit o' Frost

...and a lot of ignorance.
I was in a meeting last weekend. The subject of "life's paths" came up. Everyone was offering insights, endeavoring the profundity of sages.
I half-hoped that it wouldn't come up, the old "Robert Frost wrote a poem...."
But it did -brought up by the guy sitting next to me no less.
"Robert Frost wrote a poem, I think it's called The Road Less Travelled and he says in there that we should take the road that is less travelled in life."
The guy in charge queried, "And why should we?"
"Because it makes all the difference."
"That's right."
Are they serious?
And then I overheard from the row behind me, a guy saying, "That's a good point."
Wow. Am I the only one who's read the poem for what it is?
I know I probably rant a little much about this, but I suppose it's because it pops up so frequently. I wanted to protest and set them all straight, but I bit my tongue and saved the thought for another day, yet knowing how way leads on to way...
It's called "The Road Not Taken". Hello.
When one knows nothing of poetry, they shouldn't dabble in the realm. They're gonna look really dumb.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Odd's Fish M'dear!

I lied to you. All of you. I tried to read "Tom Sawyer", but I don't have my own copy, and I set out to reading it online. After three chapters and 29 headaches that left two permanent vertical indents between my eyebrows, I gave up. Quit. Threw ambition out the window and replaced it with chocolate cake. Okay, that's another lie. I didn't replace it with chocolate cake. I replaced it with something just as good: The Scarlet Pimpernel.

For my 23rd birthday, my gorgeous little sister gave me a copy of the book (and the DVD of the amazing 1982 masterpiece by the same name). I tore through the book in 3 days. I can't believe this book has been lounging around since the early 1900's and I'm barely getting to it! I feel like I've been locked in the back of an unknown cave for 23 years and I'm just now seeing the sunlight for the first time. It's like being born all over again. That demmed Pimpernel has me wrapped around his elusive lacy cravat.

What else does the Baroness have to offer? What an imagination! Sink me, if I'm not a fan for life.


Monday, July 28, 2008

Brief Hiatus

Gone reading "Tom Sawyer". Be back shortly.


Saturday, June 28, 2008

My Next Undertaking

I've heard a bit about Shakespeare's Othello, and I'm intruiged. I've heard that it has so many different aspects to it that it can appeal to almost anyone (who can understand the language).
So we shall see. To read, or not to read?

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Two Roads

It's time that I answer Alicia's challenge:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken, penned by Robert Frost, has proved an inspiriation to the succeeding generations since the time it was first published.
Now, I'm no expert on poetry, but I do believe that anyone has the right to their own insights and can interpret the poem into whatever they think it is saying.
Many people take this particular poem and pull something vastly wise and inspirational. And for that, I cannot blame them. And yet, I have to ask, are they reading it with their eyes closed? Dr. Suess taught us long ago that reading with our eyes closed is not nearly as effective as when we read with them wide open. Let me explicate what my open eyes found:
I memorized this poem for an assignment in my English 102 class (thank you Mrs. Schruer), an easy task since we'd performed it set to music in Symphonic Choir a few semesters before that.
People have tagged a meaning onto it so firmly, a meaning so deeply profound, full of age old wisdom, that anyone who dare to chisel at its meaning with a questioning aim is dismissed as a heretic and a fun-wrecker. And yet, here I go with my chisel. The publicly praised meaning, "take the road less travelled by the world, and it will make all the difference."
Scores of stories can be fitted to this moral, and rightly so when we live in a world of swift moral decay, but just because it's true doesn't mean that Frost was saying it.
And now, my insights:
The more I examine this poem, the more I see of a regretful tone, and hesitancy to choose rather than the tone of triumph and confidence.
First, the color in this poem adds to the tone of it. The wood is desribed as being "yellow", an indication of fall, age, and decay. The narrator also mentions the roads covered "in leaves no step had trodden black". Black, darkness, evil, the traveler was looking for which might be the darker path to help in his decision.
Next, notice the tone created by the wording: "sorry I could not travel both" "I doubted if I should ever come back" "I shall be telling this with a sigh" (an ambiguous phrase- a sigh of relief, despair, or weariness of a tired traveler?).
Our wood-faring traveler is hesitant to choose. He stood a long time, longing for forsight as to what lay ahead on each road. He is daunted by the fact that his decision is not quite clear- shrouded in mystery, hidden in leaves, indiscernable. And yet with all his careful comparison and observation, he concludes that the two roads were "really about the same". This idea is repeated in the next line: "And both that morning equally lay".
The triviality of the long-pondered decision is shown in the traveler's admission that the roads were pretty much "about the same".
So why does he say in the final stanza that taking "the road less-traveled... has made all the difference"? The phrase, "made all the difference" carries a positive indication in our speech today. But taking it at face value, we could ask, "Made all the difference, for BETTER or for WORSE?" Is it possible that he is forseeing himself agonizing over his choice? This would follow his hesitant attitude toward the choice to start with. How could he, with his admitted lack of discernment or foresight, possibly be thinking that his choice would prove a triumph in making all the difference for the better in his life? There is nothing in the poem to suggest that; it was our society that made that suggestion. In view of the traveler's thought that the choice between one forest path and another would make "all the difference" later, it's easy to see how he has a tendency to turn the trivial into something paramount. Keep this in mind as you consider Frost's own commentary on the poem:
"One stanza of The Road Not Taken was written while I was sitting on a sofa in the middle of England, was found three or four years later, and I couldn't bear not to finish it. I wasn't thinking about myself there, but about a friend who'd gone off to war, a person who, whichever road he went, would be sorry he didn't go the other. He was hard on himself that way."
So what was written as a sort of jab at a friend was taken by the world and blown so completely out of proportion that the real meaning at the heart of the poem now lays shrouded in yellow leaves. I think Frost must've enjoyed seeing what people derived from his work.
There is one phrase in Frost's comment that I find particularly useful when undertaking a study of any of his works: "I wasn't thinking about myself". I think it's natural to approach the poem thinking that the narrator is the poet speaking. It was Frost writing it, and so it is natural to conclude that what the narrator says is what Frost thinks. There is more clarity in keeping an objective neutrality in view of the narrator while navigating through the text.
It makes sense that the poem is not titled, "The Road Less-Traveled". It is called, "The Road Not Taken". Yet another regretful look back at the choice, agonizing (with a sigh?) that he didn't go the other way.

Monday, June 23, 2008

I Have a Dream read a classic American novel. Any suggestions?


Tuesday, June 3, 2008


Aunt Julie sent us this article this morning:

I don't know how I feel about it. I think the group should have been really punished for what they did -made to pay money, all that jazz. I find studying Frost a privilege and an enjoyment, and they're dishing him up as punishment. For those kids, maybe this punishment is worse than forking over cold hard cash. Little impudent imps.

This article shed some light on my feelings. Steve told me to challenge him with a poem, and I have yet to do it. And so here it is. Let's delve into the Road Less Traveled. I really want to take a second look at it. He says the woods are yellow, and I think he means something by that. I want to rip this poem apart and wring a new meaning out of it so I don't spend the rest of my life with a perpetual eye roll.

I hope you find it extremely diverting.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Did I read that right?

The yahoo link this evening caught my eye:
Robert Frost house vandals punished with "The Road Not Taken"
And here's the story:
From bad to verse: Vandals get classroom penance
MIDDLEBURY, Vt. - Call it poetic justice: More than two dozen young people who broke into Robert Frost's former home for a beer party and trashed the place are being required to take classes in his poetry as part of their punishment.

Using "The Road Not Taken" and another poem as jumping-off points, Frost biographer Jay Parini hopes to show the vandals the error of their ways — and the redemptive power of poetry.
"I guess I was thinking that if these teens had a better understanding of who Robert Frost was and his contribution to our society, that they would be more respectful of other people's property in the future and would also learn something from the experience," said prosecutor John Quinn.
The vandalism occurred at the Homer Noble Farm in Ripton, where Frost spent more than 20 summers before his death in 1963. Now owned by Middlebury College, the unheated farmhouse on a dead-end road is used occasionally by the college and is open in the warmer months.
On Dec. 28, a 17-year-old former Middlebury College employee decided to hold a party and gave a friend $100 to buy beer. Word spread. Up to 50 people descended on the farm, the revelry turning destructive after a chair broke and someone threw it into the fireplace.

When it was over, windows, antique furniture and china had been broken, fire extinguishers discharged, and carpeting soiled with vomit and urine. Empty beer cans and drug paraphernalia were left behind. The damage was put at $10,600.

Twenty-eight people — all but two of them teenagers — were charged, mostly with trespassing.
About 25 ultimately entered pleas — or were accepted into a program that allows them to wipe their records clean — provided they underwent the Frost instruction. Some will also have to pay for some of the damage, and most were ordered to perform community service in addition to the classroom sessions. The man who bought the beer is the only one who went to jail; he got three days behind bars.

Parini, 60, a Middlebury College professor who has stayed at the house before, was eager to oblige when Quinn asked him to teach the classes. He donated his time for the two sessions.
On Wednesday, 11 turned out for the first, with Parini giving line-by-line interpretations of "The Road Not Taken" and "Out, Out-," seizing on parts with particular relevance to draw parallels to their case.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood," he thundered, reciting the opening line of the first poem, which he called symbolic of the need to make choices in life.
"This is where Frost is relevant. This is the irony of this whole thing. You come to a path in the woods where you can say, `Shall I go to this party and get drunk out of my mind?'" he said. "Everything in life is choices."
Even the setting had parallels, he said: "Believe me, if you're a teenager, you're always in the damned woods. Literally, you're in the woods — probably too much you're in the woods. And metaphorically you're in the woods, in your life. Look at you here, in court diversion! If that isn't `in the woods,' what the hell is `in the woods'? You're in the woods!"
Dressed casually, one with his skateboard propped up against his desk, the young people listened to Parini and answered questions when he pressed. Then a court official asked them to describe how their arrests and the publicity affected them.
"I was worried about my family," said one boy, whose name was withheld because the so-called diversion program in which took part is confidential. "I'll be carrying on the family name and all that. And with this kind of thing tied to me, it doesn't look very good."
Another said: "After this, I'm thinking about staying out of trouble, because this is my last chance."
"My parents' business in town was affected," said a girl.
When the session ended, the vandals were offered snacks — apple cider, muffins, sliced fruit — but none partook. They went straight for the door, several declining comment as they walked out of the building. The next session is Tuesday.
"It's a lesson learned, that's for sure," said one of them, 22-year-old Ryan Kenyon, whose grandmother worked as hairdresser in the 1960s and knew Frost. "It did bring some insight. People do many things that they don't realize the consequences of. It shined a light, at least to me."

Saturday, May 31, 2008

A Sad Tale

I just moved into a new apartment where I won't have internet access, and so my blog posts will be non-existant for a bit -except for the few times I might be able to make it to the library to access the internet there.
So for the most part of June and July, I bid you all a very fond farewell.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

They Shall Twain Be (of more than) One (meaning)

Here is Twain (picture compliments of I love him. There's something remarkable about sarcasm.

Oh Lord, Our Father

O Lord, our father

Our young patriots, idols of our hearts,

Go forth to battle - be Thou near them!

With them, in spirit, we also go forth

From the sweet peace of our beloved firesides To smite the foe.

O Lord, our God,

Help us to tear their soldiers

To bloody shreds with our shells;

Help us to cover their smiling fields

With the pale forms of their patriot dead; Help us to drown the thunder of

the guns With the shrieks of their wounded,

Writhing in pain.

Help us to lay waste their humble homes

With a hurricane of fire;

Help us to wring the hearts of their

Unoffending widows with unavailing grief;

Help us to turn them out roofless

With their little children to wander unfriended The wastes of their

desolated land

In rags and hunger and thirst,

Sports of the sun flames of summer

And the icy winds of winter,

Burdened in spirit, worn with travail,

Imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,

Blast their hopes,

Blight their lives,

Protract their bitter pilgrimage,

Make heavy their steps,

Water their way with their tears,

Stain the white snow with the blood

Of their wounded feet!

We ask it in the spirit of love -

Of Him who is the source of love,

And Who is the ever-faithful

Refuge and Friend of all that are sore beset And seek His aid with humble

and contrite hearts.



Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Snow Sense at All, Frost!

I'm posting this poem of Robert Frost's here for the benefit of all who wish to enjoy it, most especially Alicia.
It's a favorite of mine and, as "lovely, dark, and deep" as the woods described in the text. Oh, and the photo above was taken by my sister-in-law Brittany.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Another Layer of Frosting

In response to Alicia's last post, I have to say a bit about one of my favorite of Frost's poems, Mending Wall:

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it

Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father's saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."

Now, this version is taken from the Literature Netwrok website, so it isn't quite as Frost laid it down. It's not separated into stanzas, but I believe the wording is right.

People come away from this poem with scores of deep meanings about governments, war and peace, and even anarchy. Now I don't claim to be an expert on Frost, but I hardly find evidence enough in a Formalist look at this piece to go so far as to suggest any of these meanings. I offer here a bit of an essay I wrote about Mending Wall.

"The title of the poem helps give light to a deeper understanding of the poem’s theme. The title suggests a meaning of more than a chore of mending a fallen wall. Mending can be viewed as an adjective describing the wall as a means of mending friendships. Frost does not attach the two words with an article (Mending a Wall, or Mending the Wall) which allows the title to serve a more suggestive purpose. Indeed, in examination of the neighbor’s old family saying “Good fences make good neighbors,” it might be suggested that it is not the separation that a wall provides to distance people that makes them “good neighbors.” It could be the opportunity provided to spend time working together which serves to strengthen a friendship and draws neighbors together."

This take on the poem shows a certain irony in the narrator's observation of his neighbor, "He moves in darness as it seems to me". The whole time, his neighbor repeats the saying hoping that the narrator will finally understand. It is really the narrator who could be said to be "in the dark" about the notion of what makes good neighbors. People usually read through it siding with the narrator thinking how daft is the "old-stone savage" neighbor. Now when I read it, I see so much of youthful inexperience in the narrator, and so much of age-earned wisdom in the neighbor.

I find more in the structure and elements found in the text to support this sort of a take on the poem. It's a lot more interesting than an essay on politics.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Frost This!

In carrying on with poetry, I'd like to list one of my favorites: Robert Frost. Like Emily, I did not care for him at first. I had had the poem "The Road Not Taken" shoved down my throat by well-meaning English teachers and even choir directors. They would sit near tears and say to the class, "Do you understand the beauty of the words? Can you comprehend the wisdom in the words?" For the last time, YES! Or maybe, no. Because I wasn't near tears. I was thinking, "What a nice poem. What nice words. They have great meaning. Okay. What else ya got?" And I felt stuck on that poem, like Frost had nothing better to say. Anytime I heard his name mentioned, I would take a breath, count to three and then vehemently hiss through clenched teeth, "I hate him." He had been shoved down my inexperienced throat. My teachers had led a horse to water and then shoved her head into the trough until she perished. At least, that's what I had thought. It turns out, I wasn't all dead. I was only mostly dead. I was revived a few years ago, and then I fell in something like love with Robert Frost's poetry. I still have unsuppressed feelings when someone blubbers out "...and I -I took the one less traveled by..." I'm not saying it's not good work. It is! I'm just burned out on the goodness of it all, I guess.

Then there is that poem. The one that runs through my head all day long. I can feel it every time I look at my daughter. I feel it every time I have a minute to savor watching my husband working alone a few yards away. Frost titled his poem, "The Pasture", but the poem means so much more than that. He speaks of Love: Young Love, Seasoned Love, Unconditional Love. Here, in two stanzas, is everything I feel:

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha'n't be gone long. --You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf

That's standing by the mother. It's so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I sha'n't be gone long. --You come too.

Frost used this poem as an invitation in his books. He invited his readers to join him as he laid his innermost self bare for the world to see. He published his thoughts, his words, his lifeblood (as it were) and invited everyone to see the world through his eyes. A better invitation was never given. I've heard this poem interpreted in this way: He loves his companion (be that who it may) so much that he wants them to be with him always -even when he is doing simple meaningless tasks. In a sense, he is saying, "I only have to do this. I won't be gone long, but I can't live without you for even that one little minute. Come with me."

Fair enough. But I feel it much differently. When he uses the word, "spring" he is referencing a small stream in a pasture. I feel that he speaks of love. Think of the pasture as a family, and think of the stream as the flowing vein of life running smack dab in the middle of it all. He says, "I'll only stop to rake the leaves away". Often, love becomes muddled. It is clouded over with family duties, work, spit-up, and commitments to others. Frost has invited the companion he shares love with (child? spouse? sibling? mother? friend?) to come with him and simply clear the spring and start again fresh, "(And wait to watch the water clear, I may)". I love that he uses the word "spring" as opposed to "stream" or "creek". Spring implies a freshness -a new start. And the next stanza elaborates. It tells of a young calf -a new love. It is fresh. It "totters". It is ready to grow. This stanza, of course, brings me to think of my children (the first makes me think mostly of Danny Dearest). I love them. I love the brand new innocence that looks to me in the first minute of life for signs of love. What do I think of when I see them looking at me for comfort? hope? courage? "You come too."

Perhaps all Frost was really trying to say was that he wanted his readers to clear their thoughts for a few moments to experience his poetry with a fresh mind -join him on a very personal journey. That makes more sense than all I've rambled on about. My mind is made up, still, to hold fast to my sentimentality. Perhaps my children will hate Frost because their eccentric mother was always saying things like, "totters" and "I sha'n't be gone long". And when an emotional English teacher reads "I shall be telling this with a sigh" their little hearts will burst at the seams, and they will come home, hug me, and tell me that they have finally found the true meaning in life. I'll let them think my tears are tears of joy.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

What in the Dickinson?

I must say that I greatly admire Ms. Emily, that I highly esteem her, that I like her.

Upon thumbing through a Dickinson book of poems, one might think that all she ever wrote about was death, nature, and Wild Nights!, whatever that means.

For anyone who cares an iota for literature, it is worth taking some time and looking into Dickinson's history. (I've made it easy with the "Literature Network" link over to the left)

Here was a woman who never married, grieved much over the death of some of those closest to her, and lived out the majority of her years confined to a solitary bedroom -the window of which was her only visual portal to the world, her letters, her main link to humanity.

Her window over-looked the garden, and from it she could see the nearby cemetary.

Dickinson's choice of subject matter is much easier to understand viewed in this light. She wrote about her world. And when her poems are considered carefully, the genius of the reclusive Emily shines forth. She truly mastered the medium of poetry. There is so much to be found in even the shortest of her verses. She was amazingly concise -her poems so short, and yet so dense and rich. Now that I've officially out-geeked my sister in this post, I'll end here.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Dear Steve,

You've hit the nail square on the head. I read "Jane Eyre" in High School. My feelings at the time were, 'Now, at least, I can say I've read it. Daft idea, though, putting a wacko in the attic. And what kind of girl would fall in love with an older man?' I'll let you imagine what kind of grossed-out teenage girl face I made at all the courting. Uh, sick? Fortunately, I kept that copy (wherever I got it from...). I found it at the bottom of my book collection. I turned it over and thought, 'What is all the fuss about?' I read it again. What an amazing book!! There's so many things that I love about it. She refuses to run off with Mr. R. She defies self-love and passion for principle's sake. I still get a "yeah right, sure" feeling when she is saved from near-death by complete strangers that become her best friends and (gasp) turn out to be her cousins! What a bosom idea. While most of the plot is so fictitious you can scrunch up your nose, I do love that her characters are so real. It's almost hard to believe that Bronte would put such grounded individuals in a roller coaster of a made-up story.
Point being: It means so much more to me now than it did then. I learned a lot from reading it this time around. Plain Jane has become Prestigious Jane, by all means.

Also, I'm going to give Hawthorne another try for the same reason that I picked Jane back up, and to please you, Young Goodman.

You can thank me whenever it is convenient,

The Facets of a Gem

I went back and looked through some of the essays and analyses I wrote while I was at EAC. One thing came to mind that I gained from all of it -the value of perspective.
When you take in a piece of Literature, you experience it through the eyes of your own life's view. Later in life, you view it through different eyes, at a different angle. And there's also the value found in the insights others offer. Each person has unique insights into an artist's work. There is so much value in perspective. I see this more all the time.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Pride & Preferences

Steve's got a point. He's given you his list of literary preferences before really delving into the subject matter of things. Since we're in this together, I'll do the same. I'm not copying his idea -I'm complimenting it.

Let's get the eye rolls over with all at once: I love Jane Austen. Probably not in the same way that Hollywood loves Jane Austen, but I hold her literature in high esteem. There's not much to say for her plots, but her characters keep you hanging on every word. Everyone knows their own Mrs. Elton and Lydia Bennet. You hate them; you love them. You know them. Austen understood human nature so well that her novels are timeless. They will always attract readers, and they will never go out of fashion because they speak so well of emotion. I have my own Austen persona: I have always felt that I am Miss Bates, mostly. Talking incessantly -annoying, but endearing in my own way. My headstone will read: A very good sort of person. People will talk about me kindly, but behind their words will always be a hint of unspoken criticism. I've always wanted to be Fanny Price (minus the ugly first name). I am, I guess, in the way that I married a cousin (VERY distant, and we didn't realize it -honest). My favorite novel by Austen is "Mansfield Park."

Who do I love more than Austen? No one. Who do I love just as much as Austen, but in a different way? F. Scott Fitzgerald. Have you seen the way the man arranges sentences? His elegant word choice and arrangement thereof? It isn't literature! It is the most eloquent picturesque masterpiece that ever set foot in the Jazz Age! He put so much of himself into his work that it literally killed him. Smart? Oh, no. Admirable? Oh, definitely. I'm currently reading "This Side of Paradise" for the second time. His heroes are so awful. You love them to the point of hating them. And in turn, you hate them to the point of loving them. I just can't get enough.

My other loves include Dickens and Charlotte Bronte. My next goal is to venture out into the world of Earnest Hemingway.

There you have it.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Much Ado About Steven

I thought it best that I share a bit about my literary preferences before proceeding to post. I am stuck on the classics. Formula fiction is a bore (though some is noteworthy -Louis L'amour, my hat is off to you). I confess that I do have a favorite among all my favorites, and that is Nathaniel Hawthorne. And, of course, favorites are subject to change with time as other authors are newly discovered. Other favorites include: Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Charles Dickens, and the Great Shakespeare. This list may seem a bit antique, like it was pulled out of an old attic and had the dust wiped off of it, but you just can't beat a classic. These people were writers. There are others that I'm leaving out: Jane Austen, Baroness Orczy, Charlotte Bronte, and others -but these aren't as favorite as the previous list of favorites, so I probably won't talk about them as much.
Having said that, I feel I can now proceed to post all manner of boring things that I find exciting. If you don't share our enthusiasm, you've come to the wrong blog.

Friday, May 9, 2008

I'm Sorry, Charlotte.

I was searching Google for any information on the Bronte sisters. The first link that was listed was:

ブロンテ:The Bronte Sisters Web: The Brontë Sisters Web ...
Extensive online resource for all three Brontë sisters and there - 19k - Cached - Similar pages - Note this

And there writings?

I agree, ladies. Vastly annoying.

Thursday, May 8, 2008


Since we've been kiddos, Steve and I have always had a lot in common: same house, same parents, a love of Disney, same piano teachers, a tendency to squabble, and a devotion to the written word. As concerns the last in the list, we've always been very comfortable with one another. But we've run into a problem. Distance. That one tiny problem created more and more problems until we found ourselves glaring at a gosh darn conglomerate of issues! We found pacification of sorts in our phone calls and e mails, but we found the problem itself, well, unsolvable. While we can e mail and call all we like, the problem is like a cancer that grows and grows until the relationship just can't take it anymore. What's to be done when life gets in the way? When there's no time for a phone call and no way to put all of our literary discussions into words in an e mail because we get distracted with little formalities ("How are you?" "You'll never guess what the lady at the post office said today"...and the like)? Our little literary chats became rare, and then almost suddenly they were practically gone. Enter Blogger. No matter where we are, we are here. We have our outlet. Here's our link to span the miles. Did you read something great today? Did you read something drab? Have you read...? and so it goes. We're back online. We're tearin' it up. We're reading and chatting like old times. Minus the squabbles. That is, until he brings up how hideous my vintage country french decorative wall hanging is.