(a little long but worth it, I think. If you are gonna read the passage, read it to the end.)
The thermometer outside the offices of the daily Banner read eighty-nine degrees when I walked past it on my way uptown. Few people were on the streets. At the curb in front of a large funeral parlour a black hearse was parked, its loading door closed, and several mourners, along with the black suited employees of the establishment, stood quietly about in the yard. As I approached, an aged Chesapeke Bay retriever bitch loped from a hydrangea bush out onto the sidewalk and up onto the undertaker's porch, followed closely by a prancing, sniffing young mongrel setter. I saw the Chesapeke Bay dog stop to shake herself in front of the door; the setter clambered upon her at once, his long tounge lolling. Just then the door opened and the pallbearers came out with a casket. Their path was blocked by the dogs. Some of the bearers smiled guiltily; an employee caught the setter on his haunches with an unfuneral kick. The bitch trundled off the porch, her lover still half on her, and took a position in the middle of the sidewalk, near the hearse. The pair then resumed their amours in the glaring sun, to the embarrassment of the company, who pretended not to notice them while the hearse's door was opened and the casket gently loaded aboard.
I smiled and walked on. Nature, coincidence, can be a heavy handed symbolizer. She seems at times fairly to club one over the head with significances such as this clumsy "life-in-the-face-of-death" scenario, so obvious that it is embarrassing. One is constantly being confronted with a sun that burst from behind the clouds just as the home team takes the ball; ominous rumblings of thunder when one is brooding desultorily at home; magnificent dawns on days when one has resolved to mend one's ways; hurricanes that demolish a bad man's house and leave his good neighbor's untouched, or vice-versa; Race Streets marked SLOW; Cemetary Avenues marked ONE WAY. The man whose perceptions are not so rudimentary, whose palate is attuned to subtler dishes, can only smile uncomfortably and walk away reminding himself that good taste is a human invention.
But it's not easy to keep one's patience in the face of the world's abundant ingenuousness. For instance, when I came to the corner of High and Poplar Streets and stopped to chat awhile with Capt. Osborne and two of his cronies, installed on their loafers' bench in front of George Melvin's store, I had to put up with a prominent MEN WORKING sign near an open manhole in the street before them; a senile clock in the store window, which, like the store and the old men, had ceased to mark the passage of time; a movie theater poster directly behind Capt. Osborne's head, advertising a double bill- Life Begins at Forty and Captians Courageous; a pigeon perched restlessly on a NO PARKING sign- I could go on for a page. Really, to resist the temptation to use such ponderous, ready made symbols taxes one's integrity, and I'm certain that if I were writing stories for my bread and butter, my resistance would weaken. I recall once reading a story that ended with the hero dead on the floor-was he a suicide or a homicide?-beneath a cash register announcing: THIS REGISTERS THE AMOUNT OF YOUR PURCHASE. The machine, as one familiar with life's elephantine ironies might have anticipated, registered zero, and I for one take it as a mark of the author's lack of acumen that he couldn't ignore the cash register, or make it read $4.37 or some other meanigless figure. It's too easy otherwise, like using cliches.
So, reader, should you ever find yourself writing about the world, take care not to nibble at the many tempting symbols she set squarely in your path, or you'll be baited into saying things you really don't mean, and offending the people you want most to entertain. Develop, if you can, the technique of the pallbearers and myself: smile, to be sure-for fucking dogs are truly funny-but walk on and say nothing, as though you hadn't noticed.
John Barth- The Floating Opera
I was cleaning my room and, looking for a decent distraction, came acroos this book. It was an assigned reading in one of my college classes. As I leafed through the chapters I started stumbling across certain passages that I had underlined. It was interesting to see the things I found important in a book years ago and see if the still kept their worth. How can you not love a chapter that ends with,"smile, to be sure..." I'm almost tempted to put this at the top of my stack to reread it (eventhough my stack is already prety sizeable.)
The one thing I really liked about the book is the way the author dleiberately walks the reader through it. He is constantly addressing the reader and even makes comments about how his digressions either help or slow down the story. It was when I read this novel, it was when I was actually entertaining the idea of being a writer so it was fun to use as,both an enjoyable read, and a guide. ( I have long since discovered that I enjoy reading a lot more than writing.)
Anyhow, I'm pretty tired. Sorry if this was more like a book report than a blog entry. It's just that I like literature and sharing things that I find good. (I just hope someone is reading it for all the time it took me to type out.)
The thermometer outside the offices of the daily Banner read eighty-nine degrees when I walked past it on my way uptown. Few people were on the streets. At the curb in front of a large funeral parlour a black hearse was parked, its loading door closed, and several mourners, along with the black suited employees of the establishment, stood quietly about in the yard. As I approached, an aged Chesapeke Bay retriever bitch loped from a hydrangea bush out onto the sidewalk and up onto the undertaker's porch, followed closely by a prancing, sniffing young mongrel setter. I saw the Chesapeke Bay dog stop to shake herself in front of the door; the setter clambered upon her at once, his long tounge lolling. Just then the door opened and the pallbearers came out with a casket. Their path was blocked by the dogs. Some of the bearers smiled guiltily; an employee caught the setter on his haunches with an unfuneral kick. The bitch trundled off the porch, her lover still half on her, and took a position in the middle of the sidewalk, near the hearse. The pair then resumed their amours in the glaring sun, to the embarrassment of the company, who pretended not to notice them while the hearse's door was opened and the casket gently loaded aboard.
I smiled and walked on. Nature, coincidence, can be a heavy handed symbolizer. She seems at times fairly to club one over the head with significances such as this clumsy "life-in-the-face-of-death" scenario, so obvious that it is embarrassing. One is constantly being confronted with a sun that burst from behind the clouds just as the home team takes the ball; ominous rumblings of thunder when one is brooding desultorily at home; magnificent dawns on days when one has resolved to mend one's ways; hurricanes that demolish a bad man's house and leave his good neighbor's untouched, or vice-versa; Race Streets marked SLOW; Cemetary Avenues marked ONE WAY. The man whose perceptions are not so rudimentary, whose palate is attuned to subtler dishes, can only smile uncomfortably and walk away reminding himself that good taste is a human invention.
But it's not easy to keep one's patience in the face of the world's abundant ingenuousness. For instance, when I came to the corner of High and Poplar Streets and stopped to chat awhile with Capt. Osborne and two of his cronies, installed on their loafers' bench in front of George Melvin's store, I had to put up with a prominent MEN WORKING sign near an open manhole in the street before them; a senile clock in the store window, which, like the store and the old men, had ceased to mark the passage of time; a movie theater poster directly behind Capt. Osborne's head, advertising a double bill- Life Begins at Forty and Captians Courageous; a pigeon perched restlessly on a NO PARKING sign- I could go on for a page. Really, to resist the temptation to use such ponderous, ready made symbols taxes one's integrity, and I'm certain that if I were writing stories for my bread and butter, my resistance would weaken. I recall once reading a story that ended with the hero dead on the floor-was he a suicide or a homicide?-beneath a cash register announcing: THIS REGISTERS THE AMOUNT OF YOUR PURCHASE. The machine, as one familiar with life's elephantine ironies might have anticipated, registered zero, and I for one take it as a mark of the author's lack of acumen that he couldn't ignore the cash register, or make it read $4.37 or some other meanigless figure. It's too easy otherwise, like using cliches.
So, reader, should you ever find yourself writing about the world, take care not to nibble at the many tempting symbols she set squarely in your path, or you'll be baited into saying things you really don't mean, and offending the people you want most to entertain. Develop, if you can, the technique of the pallbearers and myself: smile, to be sure-for fucking dogs are truly funny-but walk on and say nothing, as though you hadn't noticed.
John Barth- The Floating Opera
I was cleaning my room and, looking for a decent distraction, came acroos this book. It was an assigned reading in one of my college classes. As I leafed through the chapters I started stumbling across certain passages that I had underlined. It was interesting to see the things I found important in a book years ago and see if the still kept their worth. How can you not love a chapter that ends with,"smile, to be sure..." I'm almost tempted to put this at the top of my stack to reread it (eventhough my stack is already prety sizeable.)
The one thing I really liked about the book is the way the author dleiberately walks the reader through it. He is constantly addressing the reader and even makes comments about how his digressions either help or slow down the story. It was when I read this novel, it was when I was actually entertaining the idea of being a writer so it was fun to use as,both an enjoyable read, and a guide. ( I have long since discovered that I enjoy reading a lot more than writing.)
Anyhow, I'm pretty tired. Sorry if this was more like a book report than a blog entry. It's just that I like literature and sharing things that I find good. (I just hope someone is reading it for all the time it took me to type out.)
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
salome:
Both!
salome:
Only if you reply to me in comments on my blog instead of messages. 