Now I’ll digress into not practicing what I preach.
English education has its problems. I remember rolling my eyes at the 5-sentence paragraph and the 5-paragraph essay when I learned that “real writers don’t write like that”. And how many times have I heard my peers laughing at the notion of analyzing small – trivial, even – details?
Image result for the curtains are blue english teacher A caricature of [most students’ opinions of] most high school English classes
Still, in retrospect (and only tentatively at that), I wonder if English classes aren’t doing something right after all. Simplicity and organization are rapidly deteriorating in my own writing; maybe those basics were important to teach on their own. I’ve met a couple professional writers who stop me from deriding the SAT essay’s requirements, and find myself increasingly unhappy with my own results (read as: find them worse than a well-written 5-paragraph…). Granted, simple syntax isn’t the only way to write well. I’m a proponent of the “more reading begets better writing” school of thought. Then again, I’ve always loved to read, but it’s not getting me much further…
On another note, I’ve not really been certain as to why I read. What was the point of devouring the canon? None of those books were all that enjoyable, but I still trudged forward. Some works brought a knowing smile to the corners of my mouth (e.g. the whole postmodern endeavor, Stoppard). But others came off as extremely tiresome the first time through – only to be revived by a great English teacher (e.g. Waiting for Godot, Hamlet). At the same time, I defend my favorite titles (e.g. East of Eden) from analytic scrutiny. I came to love the stylistic (e.g. Faulkner) and the meta-elements of writing, but less so the substance itself. After all, it was just a bunch of reworked tropes each time, right?
Once again, I come back to When Breath Becomes Air. Though I think somewhat far from the point of the work, I rediscovered one of the points of reading. The way the author speaks of literature resonates with me deeply, and I recalled the thrill of slowly uncovering and refining a well-crafted argument. A thesis can be more than a page or essay requirement. A thesis can be more than manipulating random lines of the text to reiterate some trope you already understand. A thesis can be the path to internal clarity. Literature is a medium through which we can discover new ideas in ourselves, and argue for new beliefs as we articulate the thoughts that the book engenders. And over time, these ideas will mature; eventually, you might find yourself with a new worldview altogether. I want to be good at making ideas again, want to rediscover/retain that skill. And maybe I’ll remember what it’s like to want to create along the way.
[Actionable/goal: write an essay in response to a text before the end of summer.]
Satius est supervacua scire quam nihil: it is better to know useless things than nothing. Once a lighthearted motto of sorts, I now look upon the phrase sadly. What is better than knowing supervacua? And why haven’t I sought it out?
They say the point of knowledge is to put it to use. They say that theory alone is no sustenance; that in the end, we must put our hands to work too. I’ve felt it grappling the bouldering wall or across the black and white of a piano. But as much as I wrinkle my S1 nose at the notion of “specialist”, I cannot stand to think of myself as an engineer. The sheer practicality of it! I do not agree with “them”; until I do, this can hardly be a maxim to strive towards.
Yet nonetheless… memorizing facts was only fun when I had science or quiz bowl to play. Transcribing sheets is only interesting if there’s a piano on hand. Reading literature, I think, is worthwhile as a means to better understanding and new ideas. I think the next big question for me might have shifted from what is a long term goal to what do I want to do with all these supervacua I’ve attained?