Rowan Oak

Continuing the theme from last week, I have decided to write about another strange Southern author whose house I have visited: William Faulkner. I admit that I haven’t actually read anything by Faulkner, but I never pass up an opportunity to visit a famous author’s house. Since my sister’s college is only a couple of minutes from Faulkner’s home Rowan Oak, it was inevitable that I would eventually tour it. Despite knowing nearly nothing about Faulkner, I enjoyed seeing his house. From the outside, Rowan Oak is a stately, antebellum home set back on a quiet residential street. On the inside, however, it is far more visibly eccentric than Flannery O’Connor’s house could ever hope to be. It bears the marks of either a literary genius or a man who did not own paper. In the kitchen, visitors can still see the phone numbers Faulkner scrawled messily on the wall above his telephone, and his office walls are covered with outlines of his books. Faulkner sadly lived in an era before the sticky note. In comparison, the rest of the wall decorations in Rowan Oak are relatively sane. I particularly liked the watercolors painted by Faulkner’s mother (or some other relative, I don’t really remember.) I also thought the yard surrounding the house was nice, though the caretaker informed me that it’s full of snakes, all of whom Faulkner named Penelope.

 

Flannery O’Connor

Since Easter vacation is coming up, I’ve decided to write about my trip to Savannah, Georgia that I took during last year’s break. My favorite part of that trip was undoubtedly the visit to the home of Southern Gothic writer Flannery O’Connor. From the outside, the Flannery O’Connor Childhood Home, a narrow gray stone building across the square from the cathedral, is not particularly noteworthy. However, I can honestly say that the tour of the house was the most interesting tour I’ve ever taken. Admittedly, I knew very little about Flannery O’Connor’s life before I went on the tour, so all the fun facts were completely new and surprising to me.

I will never forget, for example, the story of Flannery O’Connor’s pet chicken. As a child, Flannery trained a chicken how to walk backwards. Unfortunately, though, when the cameramen showed up to film said chicken for the news, it completely refused to repeat its trick. They ultimately had to rewind a film of the chicken walking forward, and so this faked stunt became Flannery’s first introduction to fame. Another interesting fact I learned was that a painting of her great-aunt as an incredibly creepy baby hung on the living room wall for the duration of Flannery’s childhood. (After seeing this painting in person, I believe it to be the root source of all the most disturbing elements of O’Connor’s fiction.)

Most importantly, however, I discovered that Flannery O’Connor was the editor of her college’s literary magazine. As the co-president of our school’s Literary Club, I only had to glance at the photo of Flannery O’Connor staring gravely ahead, surrounded by the smiling magazine staff, to know that she was taking her responsibilities as deadly seriously as I do. Furthermore, as a child, Flannery wrote reviews of her books inside the front cover. These tend to be damning, written decisively in crayon and reading something like “not a very good book.” While I was not intense enough or precocious enough as a child to do that, I still feel that Flannery O’Connor is a kindred spirit.

I now realize that I’ve said very little about the actual house, and that’s because there’s very little to say about the house. It’s pretty, but not too interesting. The tour’s main attraction is the weird stories that offer a glimpse into the life and personality of Flannery O’Connor.

Parasang

During the quarantine, my family has started to occasionally read P.G. Wodehouse stories aloud. These stories chronicle the comic adventures of Bertie Wooster, a hapless aristocrat in inter-war Britain, and his omniscient valet, Jeeves. Before, I had only ever seen the television series from the 90s, but now I know that the stories themselves are just as funny. I am particularly enjoying them right now because they’re very light-hearted. Also, the narrator Bertie has such an idiosyncratic way of phrasing things that truly is inimitable. For example, in tonight’s story, Bertie referred to something as being a couple parasangs away.

A parasang, apparently, is an ancient Persian unit of measurement. However, what makes it interesting is that a parasang is not an actual distance at all. Instead, it is the distance a person can walk in a certain amount of time, so the actual length of it varies depending on the terrain. I thought that this was an interesting way to measure how far away something is, essentially in terms of time instead of distance. Of course, people say that places are a five-minute walk or a two hour drive, but I think it’s nice to have an actual word just for that. In short, I believe that the word parasang needs to be revived.

Simeon Stylites’ Guide to Social Distancing

 

The inspiration for my time in isolation is Saint Simeon Stylites. Simeon Stylites the Elder, not to be confused with Simeon Stylites the Younger, Simeon Stylites III, or Simeon Stylites of Lesbos, was an early Christian ascetic who lived on top of a pillar for 37 years. You might ask yourself how a person could spend nearly four decades on a one square meter platform atop a column when you have already gone insane after just a week in your air-conditioned house. It’s a valid question, and perhaps the answer is that Simeon did not remain idle atop his perch. Instead, he prayed, wrote letters, preached, and counseled the Emperor. I would like to add that I am not the first person to draw inspiration from the famous ascetic. In fact, Simeon started something of a trend in the fifth century, and for a while all the best ascetics in the region lived on top of pillars. So, if you’ve run out of stuff to do, be a stylite and embrace the contemplative life.

Simeon Stylites’ Guide to Social-Distancing:

  1. Locate the nearest unoccupied, free-standing pillar (This, I admit, will be the most difficult step. Alas, we live in an age sadly insensible to the beauty of free-standing Byzantine columns. However, you could, depending on your level of experience with ancient stone masonry, construct a pillar in your backyard. I advise beginners to look into Doric Columns for Dummies. )
  2. Enlist children from the local village to deliver food daily (They’re out of school, so they will have an infinite amount of time to perfect a pulley system. Bonus points if you eat nothing but bread and goat’s milk)
  3. Shout advice to the Emperor from your perch (you may preach to the sightseers who will inevitably gather beneath you, but make sure they are standing an adequate distance apart)
  4. Stay there- forever.

My sources for this blog were the Wikipedia pages for St. Simeon Stylites the Elder and Stylites.

Speech and Debate Tournament

I just finished volunteering at the annual Speech and Debate Tournament. While I myself am not a member of the Speech and Debate team, (I went to one tournament in ninth grade- it did not go well) I like volunteering at our school’s tournament. I’ve been to our tournament a couple times, and it’s always a fun way to get service hours. For example, most of what I did today involved managing the gym and picking up concessions. I did have to carry several palettes of water bottles from the gym to the COI, but I also got to help make signs for the speech and debate events.                                                    It is, however, strange to see so many people from different schools in our gym since our school is so small and I’m used to recognizing everyone. I was also very impressed that there were so many teenagers willing to spend their weekend doing public speaking. Though, that may just be because I have an intense hatred of every form of public speaking and would rather do anything than give an extemporaneous speech in front of judges. However, some people, I assume, must enjoy public speaking. Overall, the Speech and Debate Tournament was a great way to get service hours. After today, I will have eleven service hours, meaning that I will be completely done until next year.

Egret

I didn’t know that egrets could be domesticated. They’ve always seemed too aloof and independent for that. When I think of egrets, I think of tall white birds standing stoically in ditches by the side of the road. I do not think of pets, waiting patiently to be fed. Yet, every time I drive past Madisonville, I see an egret standing by a truck that sells shrimp. When I first noticed this egret, it maintained its distance from the truck, watching the shrimp from afar. Gradually, however, the egret moved closer and closer to the truck, and today it was within a few feet of the shrimp. It was standing right behind a man who was buying shrimp, as if it were in line. Personally, I think this egret must be a genius. While all the other egrets are in ditches, hunting for food, this egret has discovered the perfect plan: it just stands by an endless supply of shrimp, waiting to be fed. I hope that this egret becomes a permanent part of Madisonville, because, in my opinion, there is nothing that improves driving along the highway more than seeing a perfectly tame, domesticated egret, patiently waiting in line for its shrimp.

Dostoyevsky

Today is the one hundred and thirty-eighth anniversary of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s death. Born on November 11, 1821, in Moscow, Dostoyevksy was one of the greatest novelists of the nineteenth century, known for his psychological realism and unwavering examinations of evil. Over the span of his fifty-nine year life, he wrote many books, the most notable being Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, The Possessed and The Idiot. In these novels, Dostoyevsky depicted some of the darkest aspects of humanity, such as murder, patricide, and extremism. Yet, his novels are imbued with the hope of  his strong Christian faith and a love for his native Russia and its people. In the end, The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment (both novels about murder) are, without sacrificing realism, hopeful and redemptive.

Currently, I am reading his somewhat cynical novel, The Idiot. The Idiot tells the story of a young prince who, due to his goodness, is considered to be an idiot by the morally corrupt Russian aristocracy. Like in all his novels, Dostoyevksy is fearless in his depiction of humanity and examines the minds of his characters with psychological poignancy. It is his ability to make irrational and unhinged characters believable, however, that is his true gift. As his characters swing back and forth between extremes, from hysterical to thoughtful, from happy to angry, the reader accepts each change not as an unreality but as a heightened version of reality.

With his ability to create so many different personalities, Dostoyevsky creates characters with opposing viewpoints, each as convincing as the other. A devoted Christian, he creates characters who argue believably and effectively against religion. He allows characters to justify their opinions, whether they’re Christians, nihilists, or atheists. This may be one of the reasons why his novels are so great: he presents contradictory perspectives fairly and is unafraid to outline the arguments against his beliefs. Through his psychological realism and complex depictions of issues such as the existence of God and the cause of evil, he creates multilayered novels that are simultaneously grotesque and hopeful, cynical and redemptive.

“Realists do not fear the results of their study.”-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Multitasking

Due to the fact that I put off doing homework until today and now have approximately fifteen hours of work to do, I decided that I didn’t have time to eat lunch today. Instead, I planned on flipping pages of textbooks and typing furiously with one hand while eating gumbo with the other. Unfortunately, I am not as good at multitasking as I think I am, and within five seconds of starting homework/lunch, I spilled gumbo all over an existential Spanish poem (Sorry to whoever has my textbook next year.) After wiping up as much as I could, I realized that my multitasking plan was not going to work, so, trying not to worry about my homework, I cleared the table of all school related things and sat down to eat my gumbo in peace.

I ate my Knights of Columbus gumbo in its styrofoam cup in complete silence without once looking at the clock. I chose not to think about the mountains of homework that were pressing in on me as I ate and instead focused on how spicy and warm the gumbo was. Instead of going over and over the list of things I need to do and worrying about the future, I concentrated on the present and ate my gumbo unhurriedly. I took as much time as I wanted and consciously avoided thinking about anything besides my lunch. While this might seem like just another manifestation of my insane procrastination, it was infinitely superior to multitasking. Gumbo was exactly what I needed on this bleak February day.

Happy Birthday Mozart

Let me preface this blog by saying that I am not in the least bit musical. In fact, the entirety of my musical knowledge stems from an ill-fated and somewhat torturous year of piano lessons in second grade. During that year, I attempted to learn how to read sheet music tens of times, carefully counting the lines and spaces, reciting the alphabet to myself as I went, only to forget every time five minutes later. I can say with perfect truth that the only thing I learned that entire year was the location of middle C on my piano, and on my piano alone. Now, whenever I am confronted with a piano, all I can do is recall those lessons, my hands fumbling across the keys, choosing notes at random, trying desperately to hold back tears. It doesn’t help that I have absolutely no ear for music. I can listen to a song hundreds of times and still not be able to pick its tune out. Yet, I still like Mozart. True, I can’t tell you a single piece he composed. But, in fifth grade, I wrote a report about him, and I feel connected to him in the way that I feel connected to all things I’ve written reports about.

Even though I’ve spent the first half of this blog talking about myself, this blog is really about Mozart. Today, after all, is his birthday. He would have been two hundred and sixty-three years old today, but unfortunately he was poisoned by his musical rival and arch nemesis, Salieri (This isn’t really true- but it might be.) Considered to be one of the greatest musical geniuses of all time, he composed influential and popular pieces such as the Marriage of Figaro and the Magic Flute and worked in several royal courts. So, today I would just like to say happy birthday to the greatest, possibly murdered, Aquarius composer of eighteenth century Austrian classical music: Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart. Happy Birthday Mozart!

Sky Burial

Over Christmas break, I read the novel Sky Burial by Xue Xinran. Published in 2004, it is based on the life of Shu Wen, a Chinese woman whose husband, a doctor, disappears several weeks after their marriage on a military expedition to Tibet. Skeptical of the official story of her husband’s disappearance, she travels to Tibet herself and spends the next thirty years searching for her husband. From reading her novel, it is clear that Xinran was a journalist; she writes with a precise and straightforward style, describing the desolate and wild Himalayan landscape clearly and simply. Having only met Shu Wen once, Xinran extrapolates and infers, creating conversations that Shu Wen couldn’t possibly have remembered word for word for decades.

However, Xinran also omits large portions of Shu Wen’s life, and years pass in pages. In the end, Sky Burial takes on a mythic quality. The novel, set in the shadow of the Himalayas, is strangely untethered to reality. Time seems not to exist. Shu Wen spends years living with a nomadic Tibetan family, where her life is measured by changes in fields and weather, not by hours or months. At one point, when she encounters other Chinese people at a Buddhist monastery, she is shocked to learn that it is the 1970s- nearly twenty years after her journey began. Shu Wen spends thirty years of her life with no concept of time and minimal contact with the modern world. This timelessness gives the novel a dreamlike atmosphere. The novel in terms of writing style is simple and clear cut. The story, however, is epic, and the bleakness of both the landscape and Shu Wen’s search is only magnified by the minimalist style.

     Sky Burial is a unique book that offers an interesting window into the culture and traditions of Tibet. Through Shu Wen’s experiences, the reader learns about the nomadic lifestyle of Tibetans and the practice of sky burial, a type of funeral where the body is allowed to be devoured by birds. This tradition reflects the importance of nature in Tibetan culture, and this harmony between humans and nature forms the core of the novel. This theme is embodied by a monk in the story who says, “Life starts in nature and returns to nature.” While Sky Burial has the potential to be an unremittingly bleak story of one woman’s loss and undying love, this theme and the emphasis on the endless and redemptive cycle of nature gives the novel a hopeful edge. While Shu Wen at first is disgusted by the notion of a sky burial, she ultimately, after abandoning civilization and living as a nomad for decades, comes to understand the beauty of becoming a part of nature in that way. Similarly, on a larger scale, the novel takes some of the most brutal aspects of Shu Wen’s story and transforms them, revealing beauty in some of the harshest conditions.

Overall, Sky Burial, with its understated writing and powerful story, not only captivates the reader but shows them the renewing force of nature and how even death and being devoured by birds can be life-giving and hopeful.