Literature
Although I was an English literature major in college (Penn, class of 1993. Go Quakers!), I don't read that much fiction. I was in a book club in 2001 that got me reading, and I enjoyed it very much. My favorite book was Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt.
I received all four Harry Potter books for Christmas and have read the first three with great pleasure. I started the fourth one, but haven't finished it yet; it's as thick as the first three put together!
When I buy books, I usually just order from Amazon, because it is such a pleasant experience, but in looking for an out-of-print book, I discovered Powells. Amazon offers used books as well, but they act as a listing service of consignment items rather than a full-service middleman; you still have to get in touch with the owner. In that sense, it's no different than eBay. At Powells, you order the book just as if it were new. I have ordered one out-of-print book in used condition and one in-print book. The in-print book was not new, but it was in perfect condition, and the price was substantially less than new.
I stumbled on an interesting site that links you to the eight or so major online book stores. Its developer, Glenn Fleishman, writes:
Originally, it linked ISBNs to individual book pages. With the addition of a database of book information, you can search quickly - and without any promotional material, advertising, or publisher-funded results - through nearly three million in-print and just out-of-print books available in the U.S., and occasionally elsewhere.
The results link you directly, again without fuss or intermediate steps, to the page at the bookstore from which you want to place the order. The results show shipping if you choose, and can be sorted from fastest to slowest availability (from order placed through arrival at your doorstep), or lowest to highest price.
For customers outside the U.S., you can choose a variety of shipping methods and enter your current exchange rate to see the results in local currency with the full price of the order (for a single book).
The address is ISBN.nu.
Creative Writing
This will be a very short section, because I don't do any sort of "creative writing" actually, although I must admit that this entire web site serves as little more than an excuse to practice writing. And I'm told that practice--much practice--is required. Jerry Pournelle wrote, "...you should be prepared to write and throw away a million words of finished material..." to become a writer. He's probably right. Sigh. Well, I'm working on it...
The poem below represents my entire "creative" output so far. It's also the first (and probably last) poem I ever wrote. It was composed for a class I took in college in 1989 called "British Writers II." The assignment was to write a poem in heroic couplets in the style of Alexander Pope. I did the best I could.
Crime and Punishment
The golden prize, now freed from treasure chest,
To burglar's mind did foolish schemes suggest.
Imprudent plans of plunder soon were made
Without a thought to retribution paid.
For mad designs can never go astray
When injudicious villain's pride holds sway.
Too late for him the bitter lesson learned:
Temptation's siren song should e'er be spurned.
The precious prize, though gilded, was not gold,
But just a humble wedge all streaked with mold.
The prize was cheese, the battlefield, a house;
The hapless thief foredoomed was just a mouse.
His twitching nose this cheese sniffed on the air,
The yellow bullion's smell was quite unfair
Although his expert nose was quite refined,
He could not name the cheese for which he pined.
The scent was from a cheese veined through and through,
If not a Stilton, then some other Blue.
This food sublime, he craved the chance to eat,
And so resolved to snatch that tasty treat.
With that he hatched a plan in no time flat,
Too bad he did not reckon with the Cat.
This cat, Symplegades, was aptly named,
Her teeth, for catching mice, were justly famed.
To guard the cheese her master gave his trust,
He knew the faith he placed in her was just.
That night the master's table sat uncleared,
The mouse's hunger grew as midnight neared.
With stealth and care he padded 'cross the floor,
'Til finally he faced the kitchen door.
The prize was close at hand, his nose decried,
When suddenly Symplegades he spied.
Though fast asleep, the tabby cat now stirred,
And thus great fear to mouse's heart conferred.
But hunger and the thought of cheese so sweet,
Made satisfaction dearer than defeat.
So wary mouse on noiseless feet embarked,
With care he hoped to leave his path unmarked.
But feline instinct keen did mouse provoke,
Unknown to him, the sleeping sentry woke.
The cat, though taut as bowstring, gave no sign,
She waited for the mouse to cross the line.
A few steps more, he saw the goal was nigh,
When suddenly he turned and gave a cry.
Symplegades attacked with mighty spring,
To mice a certain death she vowed to bring.
O'er top of him the massive hulk now loomed,
With whirling limbs in full retreat he zoomed.
The guardian's miscalculated pounce
Failed utterly her furry foe to trounce.
The cat's campaign seemed destined now to fail--
She leaped again and landed on his tail.
Blind panic foiled his struggle to get free,
Escape was hopeless, clearly he could see.
The yawning jaw found neck and closed to cut,
The mighty dental rocks came rushing shut.
Poor mouse! The golden treasure must forsake,
He found a sleep from which he'd never wake.
If asked, I'm sure, he surely would have said
Emphatically, he should have stayed in bed!
Posts in “Literature”
You Say Tomato, I Say Tomahto
The other night we were discussing the pronunciation of “illustrative” and wondering why just adding -ive changes the pronunciation to ill-US-truh-tiv from the more logical ILL-us-tray-tiv. Furthermore, is ILL-us-tray-tiv even considered correct? A modern dictionary did nothing to answer the question, as it included both pronunciations, but in such sudden-death overtime cases I turn to my antique Webster’s Second International, widely considered to be the last “prescriptive” dictionary, i.e., one that takes a stand on correct usage.
The unabridged dictionary in our library. In my dreams. “We shall be two for dinner in the library this evening, Jeeves.”
That settled nothing—both prounciations were listed. Thanks for nothing, Webster. A day or two later, while watching Robert Reich’s first video podcast, I noticed he pronounced “indicative” IN-di-kay-tiv, not in-DIK-uh-tiv. That was a surprise. Since I depend on highly-educated speakers such as Mr. Reich to guide my ear, I’m more confused than ever. Whadda youse think?
Adventure Paper!
Are you a writer craving real adventure, yet you can’t bear to leave the couch? If this sounds like you, have I got something for you! It’s a terrific new product called Adventure Paper from National Geographic. Finally, there’s a paper that can handle your insatiable thirst for adventure. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, Adventure Paper is right there for you in the thick of the action. Just think what heights Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac, Hunter Thompson, J.D. Salinger (how did he get in there?) could have achieved if they had Adventure Paper!
Adventure Paper can help even if you never have any real adventures. In fact, you’ll never again need to experience the inconvenience of real adventure. Anything you write using Adventure Paper—no matter how boring—will be transformed into Real Adventure.
Let’s face it. Writing is an adventure. At least it is for me—I never know what's going to happen next when I sit down to write. So, no matter what kind of writer you are, switch to the only paper that can handle your unquenchable lust for life—Adventure Paper!
Available in standard letter as well as legal size for lawyers seeking adventure. Adventure Pen sold separately.
New Writing Software Expedites Procrastination
This started out as a post about word processors, but it’s really about writing and the fine art of avoiding it; hence it is not filed under Computers.
Let’s go back to the early days of computer-assisted composition to the first word processors. Here’s a screenshot of Christopher Smart composing “My Cat Jeoffry” c. 1760:
Note that Smart is using vi. It was the only tool available on the 18th-century steam-powered hardware he was using.1
Those were simpler times. The text was green, the screen was black, and there was little or nothing superfluous on screen to distract the writer from the task of writing—just you and your words. Today, things are different. Here is a screenshot of Smart’s poem in a 21st-century version of Microsoft Word:
You can hardly see the poem for all the toolbars. Would Smart have been more productive and creative in this environment? Would anybody be?
Of course I’m exaggerating. You don’t need any toolbars visible to write in Word, but the program is chock full of features that don’t support creative composition. While you can disable all of these features, to me Word always feels “heavy.” If not Word (or another conventional word processor), then what? If I could peer over the shoulder of some hipster in film-school glasses pecking away frantically at Panera Bread, what program would I see?
It could be one of several. Lately I’ve been seeing concrete signs of a backlash against bloated word processors and evidence of a desire to get back to basics by creating a streamlined tool just for writing. Khoi Vinh conceived of a program he calls Blockwriter that would emulate a typewriter. He makes a good case for software that doesn’t let you edit or even backspace in order to prevent what he calls “authorial dawdling... that propensity to continually re-edit a sentence or a paragraph.” Gee, I’ve never done that. Blockwriter would also mute sounds, hide other apps, and disable network access to lock out distractions. Sounds good; too bad you can’t buy it.
Jesse Grosjean of Hog Bay Software actually implemented many of these ideas in the new program WriteRoom, which looks a lot like that vi screenshot above. It’s free and it’s cool, so check it out. Another editor, Ulysses, also offers a minimalist full-screen mode as well as a host of features to aid the writing process, as opposed to the typesetting process. Often-overlooked plain-text editors by their nature offer a no-nonsense environment for composition. You probably already have one of those.
Cutting out distractions is more challenging. One way is to simply pull the plug. The science-fiction writer Jerry Pournelle installed a computer with no network connection in a room he calls the Monk’s Cell. You needn’t go that far, just yank out the Ethernet cable for a while.
Software solutions and strategies can help you concentrate on writing, but I don’t have a remedy for just plain old lack of inspiration and procrastination. In fact, evaluating software and strategies to improve one’s writing efficiency or whatever are for me just another distraction itself. I’m not really improving my productivity; I’m just treading water while waiting for those rare moments of inspiration. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I actually enjoy it. There are times when I would rather just sharpen my chisels instead of actually building something in the workshop, and it’s good to know that at least I’m not alone.
1 This is actually GLTerminal running vi. GLTerminal slavishly emulates an old CRT terminal, flaws and all, including screen curvature, scan lines, and flicker. I imagine one of those standalone Wang word processors from the 1970s looked like this although I’ve never seen one.
Speech by David Sedaris [nanoblog]
This week’s New Yorker contains the funniest David Sedaris story I’ve read, his commencement address to the Princeton class of 2006.
Alert the Grammar Police
As artless as the directions and legalese on gas pumps usually are, the language is usually grammatically correct. Not so at this truck stop somewhere in Lancaster County where we stopped Friday night:
I count two typos and a missing apostrophe. Everybody makes mistakes, and I don’t hold gas-station owners to a high standard. If this were a hand-lettered sign, I wouldn't even have mentioned it, but I assume this was created by “Corporate.” They should know better.
This reminds me of a common sight: signs with gratuitous quotation marks. The change in meaning is usually inadvertently humorous. Example: A roadside sign advertising “Fresh” Vegetables. Enjoy the many examples at the Gallery of “Misused” Quotation Marks. Even funnier (to me) than misheard lyrics.
Bedtime [nanoblog]
Crews chose last night to resume their ongoing project of enlarging the potholes and roughening the pavement of the “helix,” a stretch of washboard pavement linking the New Jersey Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel. That delayed my departure from New York over an hour as all traffic was diverted through Hoboken. I only got about three hours’ sleep, so I’m heading to bed early with a good book: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I started this book a while ago and inexplicably put it down. The bookmark is on page 264, but I don’t remember a word of it, so I’m planning to start over. I wonder how far I’ll get before I... before I... fall... uh... asleep. ZZZzzzzzzzzz.
Encore Edition
Due to a weekend of non-stop (but nevertheless tasteful and restrained) partying, mere cat is presenting a special encore edition.
I unearthed this chestnut from the archives not long after our trip to the Franklin Institute two weeks ago. It was written during the first year of my final (and ultimately successful) attempt at college in 1989. At seventeen years’ distance, I can clearly detect an attempt (and only an attempt) at imitating Jean Shepherd’s style. About a year ago, Dan Rubin attended one of the blogger meetups and asked the other bloggers in so many words why they blog. I remember mumbling something about writing to “find my voice.” Haven’t found it yet, but this an example of an inauthentic one. Despite that, it doesn’t make me cringe, either. That’s how much I still like Jean Shepherd. I wonder what I’ll think of this blog in seventeen years...
The Foucault pendulum in the Franklin Institute makes an elegant and subtle demonstration of the daily rotation of the earth on its axis. The device, a heavy steel ball suspended from the roof by a long cable, is set in motion above a circle of upright sticks. As the earth turns slowly beneath it, the swinging pendulum knocks over each stick in turn until, at the end of twenty-four hours, all the sticks have fallen. The entire planet had been drafted by the Institute to humbly offer each little stick to the relentless pendulum. Rendering such enormous forces and obscure concepts comprehensible to the layman are the Institute’s specialty and pride.
When I was eleven I didn’t know a concept from a peanut butter sandwich, I just liked to watch the big ball swing back and forth. “Wouldn’t it be neat if the cable broke and the ball rolled all over the place and smashed up everything,” I thought, rifling my pockets for a Clark bar. I inhabited that eerie twilight zone behind childhood and adolescence, and now, poised on the brink of puberty, I would soon trade baseball cards and comic books for pimples and girls. Even though I was only dimly aware of imminent developments, adult interests gradually became more important to me and claimed my attention.
I was interested in electronics and astronomy, and I became a member of the Franklin Institute in order to take a course on Saturday mornings. The class disappointed me for some reason, and I always looked forward to browsing in the library afterward. As I walked from class through the exhibit areas of the museum I remember looking with condescension on the kids pushing and shoving each other, their high-pitched voices grating. I felt I was not one of them any more, those creatures with sticky hands and runny noses. I was a member of the Institute, and the library allowed only members through its doors.
I enjoyed the time I spent in the library reading science magazines and books and looking up interesting bits of information. I felt safe there, in my own world, away from responsibilities and the taunts of regular kids who yelled in museums and hated to read. Here I could exercise my intellectual curiosity in ways that were unappreciated in school.
But the library represented in microcosm everything that was wrong with my life at that time. The library was an escape. Because I was shy, I hid myself away in the library. The course at the Franklin Institute bored me; school bored me, too. I preferred to pursue independent study rather than conform to a rigid academic program. But instead of deepening my knowledge, this meant following detours that only led to dead ends. Later, these problems would give me trouble in school. The time I spent in the library was relaxing and fun, however, and I did learn how to use the card catalog.
At the end of the year I let my membership lapse and moved on to bigger and better libraries. The Franklin Institute grew and changed with the times, to keep pace with the mercurial nature of scientific progress. I haven’t visited the library in many years, although in some ways I never left. I still seek out islands of tranquility and reason whenever I’ve been at sea too long. I hope that there will always be someone to set up the little sticks and give the pendulum a push for the next generation of shortstops and bookworms.
National Poetry Month [nanoblog]
Last year I celebrated NPM by posting a poem I wrote back in 1989. That exhausted my stock of poems right there (lucky you!), but let me point you to Matt’s archive. Matt is how I learned about NPM last April. I tried to coax him into posting something this year, but he is having none of that, as he is keeping his nose to the grindstone working on his dissertation. Can’t argue with that. April is half over already, so I encourage you to devote some time to reading poetry. You could do verse.
Bon mot du jour
Just because I can occasionally pass for articulate doesn’t mean I am all the time. Not a day goes by that I don’t utter some incomprehensible nonsense, seemingly channeling my late father after his first stroke which short-circuited Broca’s area, causing him occasional frustration when trying to express himself. Word salad sometimes ensued.
Today we were painting the dining room, and Anne mentioned that her jeans were not the most comfortable to paint in, but she was stuck wearing them after getting some paint on them a while ago. I hadn’t chosen my pants for painting either, but they also became dedicated for painting after they got “paint messed up.”
Eloquent, no? This could become a regular feature...
Pencils Down!
Where I live, it’s almost midnight so it’s time for all of you writers in the Eastern time zone (GMT-5) working on your novel for National Novel Writing Month to put your novels to bed.
Now.
I said stop! Don’t make me come up there.
::mutters:: Overachievers.
Hey, if you wrote anything at all this month, I just want to say I salute you. You proved you had an idea, and you got started. Me? I didn’t do diddly. I don’t even have an idea for a novel. If I were to have an idea (it could happen), I did find some valuable advice: How to Write a Novel in 100 Days or Less. Um, shouldn’t that be 100 Days or Fewer?
Calling All Cats
Well, I didn’t really expect to be able to post until later this week, but sometimes things just fall into your lap... I had dinner with my old friend Keith and just generally caught up on things. One thing about him: My obsession with lobster rolls is nothing compared to his interest in the Broadway show Cats. You would think that someone who likes cats as much as I do would like the show, too, but that’s one interest we don’t share. In any case, his interest has led to many interesting experiences over the years. For example, in 1993 he hosted a Halloween party and invited not only his own friends, but also the entire cast of Cats. I had completely forgotten about my contribution to the party, which was writing the invitation; Keith still had a copy of it. Since the show is based mainly on a collection of poems by T.S. Eliot, I wrote the invitation in verse.
O CAT!
We beg your pardon, Jellicle cat.
Forgot our manners, imagine that.
We swoon in the vicinity
Of such divine felinity.
So, risking fresh indignity
By gross familiarity,
We follow form, take off our hat,
We bow and re-address: O CAT!
We dare address you in this way
To give ourselves the chance to say
What any fool can plainly see,
That Jellicle cats we wish to be.
We long to dance under Jellicle moon,
But our best hour happens to be noon.
Three Hundred sixty nights and four
We toss and turn and loudly snore.
But once a year, Allhallows Eve,
What happens then, you won’t believe.
We sing and dance and caterwaul
In tribute to the Jellicle Ball.
Of course, such tribute cannot claim
The right to call you by your NAME.
We know before you’ll condescend
To treat us as a trusted friend,
“Some little token of esteem
Is needed, like a dish of cream.”
To pay our “evidences of respect”
(That Jellicles all, by right, expect),
At half-past six, when night’s begun,
The date, October thirty-one,
When the Jellicle moon is waning
(That’s even if it’s raining!),
Tout Vas Bien will host a feast
In honor of all Jellicle beasts.
Although writing the invitation slipped my mind, I did remember the party fondly. About ten or so members of the cast attended. They were easy to recognize because they were the only guests not in costume. So now I have two poems to my credit. It’s fitting that in both cases my muse was a mere cat or, ahem, Cats.
A Play in One Act
The other day, BeatnikPad pointed to a Dale Carnegie cheat sheet, a summary of techniques outlined in his 1936 book How to Win Friends and Influence People. I hadn’t thought of Dale Carnegie in years, but that page reminded me of my own Dale Carnegie experience years ago.
A friend urged me to try Dale Carnegie training back when I was free-lancing. He knew I was painfully shy, and he thought it would help me work more effectively with clients. The training is really meant for management types, not worker bees like myself; most of the people in my class were managers sent there by their companies. The class was very difficult for me—I even dropped out at one point—but I persevered. Eventually they worked their magic, which consists of getting students to do enough speaking in class that they finally relax and realize it’s not terrifying at all. By the end of the course, I was enjoying it.
As a team-building exercise, we had to put on a play based on a fragment of text we pulled out of a hat. The text was a little bit of nonsense about fleas, flies, flaws and flues. I volunteered to write the play and played one of the fleas. Here it is in its entirety (it’s very short).
Narrator: Valerie
Flea 1: Tony
Flea 2: Daniel
Fly 1: Carol
Fly 2: Dave
Narrator: (center stage) The Fleameister players are proud to present “Cooperation,” a play in one act.
(exit to offstage)
Once upon a time, there was a house.
And the owners of this house were very proud of their house.
And so they kept their house very, very, very clean.
But in spite of their diligence, this fortress of cleanliness was constantly under siege...
Flea 1: (enters jumping) Puhtoooi! Flea collars! I hate those things!
Flea 2: (enters jumping) Yecch! Me, too!
Flea 1: (still hopping) Why did we come here, anyway? We had it great at that house with the eighteen cats.
Flea 2: (still hopping) I was stifled there.
Flea 1: I know, I know. But I guess you’re right. It’s hard to stand out when you have 700 brothers and sisters. But Mom always liked you best.
Flea 2: Did not!
Flea 1: Did too!
Flea 2: Did not!
Flea 1: Did too! She was so impressed that you were always trying to improve yourself. Always taking courses. Anyway, we can’t stay here. Let’s get outta here.(fleas hop over to the flue)
Flea 1: I see a flaw in the flue up there... (tries jumping as high as he can) ...but I can’t reach it.
(the fleas stand in the flue looking up at the flaw)
Narrator: The fleas were trapped in the clean house, and feeling sick from the flea collars. It looked hopeless. But this house was being invaded not only by disgruntled fleas. There were other intruders as well...
(both flies enter, flapping their wings)
Fly 1: I hate this place! Why did we come here?
Fly 2: Hey, I saw this house profiled in Martha Stewart Living. Who knew they were such good housekeepers.
Fly 1: You read Martha Stewart Living?
Fly 2: Nah, I can’t read. I’m a fly. I’ve got compound eyes. I just look at the pictures. And the food sure looked good!
Fly 1: Well, there’s no sign of any food around here. Not a crumb. Let’s get outta here.
(the flies fly over to the flue)
Fly 2: I’ll bet there’s a flaw in this flue somewhere. Every flue has a flaw, but I’ll be darned if I can see it. Curse these compound eyes.
(The fleas and flies are now together in the flue)
Flea 1: (looking up) Hey, look. Those flies are flying right past the flaw in the flue! I wish we could fly.
Flea 2: The flies can’t see the flaw in the flue. They have compound eyes.
Flea 1: I suppose you learned that in one of your courses. Now what do we do?
Narrator: The smart flea, who had taken Dale Carnegie training as one of his many courses, knew that teamwork would be their only hope.
Flea 2: Oh, flies! Excuse me! Hello! If we work together we can all escape this wretched place. We fleas can see that there’s a flaw in the flue, but it’s too high for us to jump to. If you will fly us up there, we can guide you through it.
Narrator: The flies quickly realized that they could all escape the clean house if they worked together with the fleas as a team. (flies look at each other, shrug shoulders and stop flapping their wings to land) So they took off with the fleas hanging onto their backs and flew through the flaw in the flue to freedom! (fleas hold onto flies’ shoulders and all exit through the flaw)
And they lived happily ever after. The End.
National Novel Reading Month
I read my fair share of newspapers, magazines, and, of course, blogs and yet I felt like something was missing. What I needed was a real challenge, something to really exercise those flabby eye muscles. Then I heard about National Novel Reading Month, better known as NaNoReaMo. It's where ordinary people like you and me commit to reading a novel during the month of November. That's right, a whole novel! If that sounds impossible to you (and I'm sure it does), all they really ask is that you read 50,000 words. Sure, it's a daunting task, but it sounds like a great idea—and I wanted a challenge, didn't I? I only have one problem: an entire week has gone by, and I haven't selected my novel yet. Yikes!
Book Meme
What is the total number of books I've owned?
No idea, really, but probably pushing a thousand, although I got rid of a lot when I moved in 2003. Before I got my first computer (in 1988), books and records were my principal diversion and entertainment. I returned to college in 1988 as an English major specifically because I wanted a liberal-arts education and to become “well-read.” Four years of reading great novels won't make you well-read, of course, but it was a life-changing experience nevertheless.
I used to buy books more quickly than I could read them; there are some books I own that I have never read. The accumulation created storage problems, and I eventually decided that I would simply stop buying shelves. If I wanted to add a book, I had to get rid of one first to make room.
What was the last book that I bought?
Getting Things Done by David Allen.
What was the last book that I read?
Getting Things Done by David Allen. I haven't finished reading it, nor started implementing the principles, but his philosophy looks promising.
Name 5 books that mean a lot to you.
My favorite question. I'm not sure I can stop at five. Let's see...
The Hobbit by JRR Tolkein. I was given this book around my 10th birthday by erudite and astute friends. At the time I thought books were the most uncool present, especially this one, but it was an inspired gift. I didn't read it until years later, but it became one of my favorites, much more so than The Fellowship of the Ring.
The Boundary Riders by Joan Phipson (1963). Easily my favorite children's book, also a gift. First runner-up would probably be Arnie, the Doughnut by Laurie Keller, which I just read last year. You're never too old for stuff like that!
When I was a kid, I devoured most of the books in the Hardy Boys series and a handful of Tom Swift. A few years ago, I was going through my holdings looking for dead wood and rediscovered my Hardy Boys collection. As I opened one at random I was expecting to be catapulted back to my childhood. Wow, was I disappointed. I mean those books were terrible!
Mainstreams of Modern Art by John Canaday. The book that helped me finally start to “get” art. Runner-up on this topic, The Painted Word by Tom Wolfe. Although I was an English major, my favorite course was the art history survey. Unlike a lot of the students who may have been tempted to doze off in the darkened auditorium as masterpieces flickered across the screen, I was wide awake, enthralled.
In high school, I was absolutely mad for JD Salinger, so some mention of his work should be made. I read everything I could find by him (which wasn't much) I especially liked Nine Stories. I wonder if anyone reads Catcher in the Rye anymore...
I've always been interested in humor. Ring Lardner, Jean Shepherd, and Woody Allen are all favorites. There are a few authors (if not books), I'd like to single out. PG Wodehouse is best known for the Jeeves books, although my favorite work of his is a short story called “Uncle Fred Flits By.” Although Wodehouse is sublime, SJ Perelman is the only author who can consistently make milk come out of my nose. Check out “No Starch in the The Dhoti, S'il Vous Plait.” I should also mention a comic strip that I have only read in “book” form, Bill Griffith's Zippy the Pinhead.
I like books about books and books about words. I have the compact edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, but my most treasured dictionary is a Webster's New International Unabridged Second Edition. This is regarded as the last “prescriptive” dictionary; it took a stand on definitions and usage, rather than merely describing how words are used—and often misused. I'm looking at you, irregardless.
Dictionaries are important, but my favorite word book of all would have to be Henry Fowler's Modern English Usage, especially the first edition, which I don't own.
I really should pick a novel from my four years as an English major. I'll go with a rather obvious choice, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.
A few years ago we joined a short-lived book discussion group. We read some terrific mostly-recent fiction. I would have to say that my favorite of that group was Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt.
Was that five?
Thanks to Michael for tagging me. As fun as this was, someone has to stop the insanity, so the meme stops here. After all, how is anybody supposed to Get Things Done?
Tagged
Well, it's happened. My first tagging, by Michael for the book meme. I found out kind of by accident, too. I read Michael's feed regularly, but since it's truncated, I make occasional visits to the site to catch up; hence the delay. Was I surprised to find my name there. It's always been my private conceit that no one reads this stuff, but I'm starting to suspect that my readership is way up in the single digits now.
But I digress. If you think you can get me to reveal all my deep, dark secrets by merely “tagging” me, well, uh, you’re right. The deep, dark secret I’m trying to hide is that I don’t read much, so I’ll need some time to work up some spin.
National Poetry Month
I learned from Matt (of The Tattered Coat) that April is National Poetry Month. He's been sharing some poems and personal reminiscences over the last few weeks. Although I was an English major, poetry classes were always the hardest for me. With an attention span seriously attenuated by years of watching TV (that's my excuse, anyway), poetry always seemed like such work. It's not something to be skimmed, the way I would read a newspaper, it's something to be savored and lingered over. I was always richly rewarded when I spent time reading a poem carefully, however. Some of my favorite poets include Edna St. Vincent Millay, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Emily Dickinson.
I actually wrote a poem once for a class I took in college in 1989 called “British Writers II.” The assignment was to write a poem in heroic couplets in the style of Alexander Pope. Since April is also National Recycling Month, I thought I would post it here. As you might have guessed, it's about cats.
Crime and Punishment
The golden prize, now freed from treasure chest,
To burglar's mind did foolish schemes suggest.
Imprudent plans of plunder soon were made
Without a thought to retribution paid.
For mad designs can never go astray
When injudicious villain's pride holds sway.
Too late for him the bitter lesson learned:
Temptation's siren song should e'er be spurned.
The precious prize, though gilded, was not gold,
But just a humble wedge all streaked with mold.
The prize was cheese, the battlefield, a house;
The hapless thief foredoomed was just a mouse.
His twitching nose this cheese sniffed on the air,
The yellow bullion's smell was quite unfair
Although his expert nose was quite refined,
He could not name the cheese for which he pined.
The scent was from a cheese veined through and through,
If not a Stilton, then some other Blue.
This food sublime, he craved the chance to eat,
And so resolved to snatch that tasty treat.
With that he hatched a plan in no time flat,
Too bad he did not reckon with the Cat.
This cat, Symplegades, was aptly named,
Her teeth, for catching mice, were justly famed.
To guard the cheese her master gave his trust,
He knew the faith he placed in her was just.
That night the master's table sat uncleared,
The mouse's hunger grew as midnight neared.
With stealth and care he padded 'cross the floor,
'Til finally he faced the kitchen door.
The prize was close at hand, his nose decried,
When suddenly Symplegades he spied.
Though fast asleep, the tabby cat now stirred,
And thus great fear to mouse's heart conferred.
But hunger and the thought of cheese so sweet,
Made satisfaction dearer than defeat.
So wary mouse on noiseless feet embarked,
With care he hoped to leave his path unmarked.
But feline instinct keen did mouse provoke,
Unknown to him, the sleeping sentry woke.
The cat, though taut as bowstring, gave no sign,
She waited for the mouse to cross the line.
A few steps more, he saw the goal was nigh,
When suddenly he turned and gave a cry.
Symplegades attacked with mighty spring,
To mice a certain death she vowed to bring.
O'er top of him the massive hulk now loomed,
With whirling limbs in full retreat he zoomed.
The guardian's miscalculated pounce
Failed utterly her furry foe to trounce.
The cat's campaign seemed destined now to fail--
She leaped again and landed on his tail.
Blind panic foiled his struggle to get free,
Escape was hopeless, clearly he could see.
The yawning jaw found neck and closed to cut,
The mighty dental rocks came rushing shut.
Poor mouse! The golden treasure must forsake,
He found a sleep from which he'd never wake.
If asked, I'm sure, he surely would have said
Emphatically, he should have stayed in bed!
Comments
Well, that was...illustrative. ;-) Eether/eyether, ant/awnt, etc. Fun to hear...I'm still old enough to say Care-uh-bee-un instead of Cuh-rib-ee-un. I never did get used to the news anchors pronouncing Nicaragua like they were in the Managua barrio....Nee-hah-rah-waw.
Posted by Frank on March 31, 2007 at 10:00 PM
Is Zyzzogeton the last word in your dictionary? It was in the only unabridged version I have come in contact with. Zyzzogeton is a genus of South American leaf hoppers.
Posted by Rick on April 27, 2007 at 11:14 PM
Rick, yes Zyzzogeton is also the last word in my dictionary.
Posted by Tony on April 28, 2007 at 9:24 AM