Lessons

Sitting in the airport waiting to board a plane to Philadelphia, I can’t help but think about some advice I gave to my students this morning. Mostly, it’s the lack of a Wi-Fi connection and the realization that computers are not that interesting without a network connection that precipitated these thoughts. It concerns an activity that I should practice more often, something that takes a Promethean effort for me to do anymore, but something that I know is beneficial, both personally and professionally. Something that only a lack of a network connection and the disappointment that the terminal bookstore did not have Dawkin’s The God Delusion and the fact that I must save my iPod’s battery for the flight and my lack of foresight to bring magazines that I haven’t already read… Yes, I’m talking about writing, one of the most painful activities I know of, more painful than a paper cut under my fingernail.

My advice to my students likened writing to any other skill that requires daily practice and devotion, like playing the piano. Like the piano, you might understand what all the keys are called, what your hands and feet are supposed to do, and even how to read music, but you will never actually play the piano unless you practice that theoretical knowledge. Daily.

Sadly, it was this very reason why I quite playing the trumpet. I like to tell people that I was a very good mediocre trumpet player. I had an excellent tone, pretty good power, and the theoretical skills to most jobs done. However, I think it was my second semester in college as a music major when I realized that I needed to practice more and that I just didn’t want to. Music had ceased being fun, something I related to hanging out with friends, and started to become more of a chore, like cleaning the bathtub. I give myself the credit for realizing this on my own — I had become the best trumpet player I could be. I could not devote the extra time that I needed to become better. I had, as those guys who never quite make it to the top of Everest say, but who realize they will never go any higher: “I have summitted.”

My point: writing take practice. Daily practice, if you ever hope to get any better, but also to maintain the altitude you’ve already climbed. Like the athlete who injures her ankle and isn’t able to run for two weeks, she falls and must work to bring herself back up to the level she was before she fell. The same is true for the writing muscle: the brain. If you don’t work it everyday, it become analogous to the runner’s muscles that have stopped exercising: it atrophies and loses its edge. Practice keeps the writing muscle honed. Daily practice.

This was the pith of my lesson today. Yet, it’s advice that I don’t follow. How can I expect my Freshmen to practice their writing everyday if I don’t myself? I’m lazy. It’s easier not to write, just like it’s easier not to run four miles a day, like I used to. It seems my mind is becoming as flabby as my waistline.

To continue this equally chubby metaphor, perhaps my writing is also suffering from lack of poignant input? To keep your stomach trim, it takes more than exercise, right? You also have to consider your diet. I used to be as devoted to my diet as I was to my exercise régime, but like my physical laziness, I have become culinarily lazy, too. I can only blame my homemade pizza so much. Finally, it just comes down to practicing what I know is good for me. What I know will make me more healthy, slimmer. This means I should be reading more. I can only blame cable teevee so much. I’m fond of saying that in order to be a strong writer, you must be a strong reader. I believe this. And I am a good reader, I just don’t read as much as I should. I find myself wondering if the consequences of not flexing my reading muscle is the same as not working my writing muscle. I have a suspicion it is.

These are things I know rationally are healthy for me, corresponding to the Greek logos. However, what seems to be lacking is the pathos, the feeling, or passion, for writing. I can only blame distractions so much. I have been interested in new media, photography, and other creative outlets. Surely, these activities work that writing muscle? Like reading/writing, surely photography is using similar skills: one must be able to analyze photographic compositions (reader) in order to be a good photographer (writer)? Maybe I’ve been writing more than I think?

As always, I can’t be sure my students heard anything I had to say today. However, maybe I was listening? At least I’m thinking about it, and it looks like I just wrote about 900 words. . . . I just heard that the plane is running “extremely late due to weather.” Crap. Maybe I’ll watch this big screen teevee for a while.

Lessons

Sitting in the airport waiting to board a plane to Philadelphia, I can’t help but think about some advice I gave to my students this morning. Mostly, it’s the lack of a Wi-Fi connection and the realization that computers are not that interesting without a network connection that precipitated these thoughts.

It concerns an activity that I should practice more often, something that takes a Promethean effort for me to do anymore, but something that I know is beneficial, both personally and professionally. Something that only a lack of a network connection and the disappointment that the terminal bookstore did not have Dawkin’s The God Delusion and the fact that I must save my iPod’s battery for the flight and my lack of foresight to bring magazines that I haven’t already read… Yes, I’m talking about writing, one of the most painful activities I know of, more painful than a paper cut under my fingernail.

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Lessons

The Heroic Couplet

The heroic, sometimes known as the closed, couplet dates back to Chaucer, who uses it in the Canterbury Tales (of course it is not the same couplet; its secondary characteristics differ, and it lacks the conciseness of Pope’s couplets). The heroic couplet achieved widespread usage, however, only after the Restoration, where one finds it both in poetry and drama. In fact, its adoption in the “heroic drama” of the 1660s and 1670s gave the closed couplet its better known name: the heroic couplet. The couplet held favor through the life of Pope, who employs it almost exclusively and in whose hands it reaches its highest perfection; thereafter, it declines in popularity. Except for Byron, the Romantics scorned the couplet, as they did other aspects of neoclassicism.

The two following couplets of Pope’s illustrate the typical characteristics of the heroic couplet:

Oh thoughtless Mortals: Ever blind to Fate;
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.

From furious Sappho scarce a milder Fate;
Poxed by her love, or libeled by her Hate.

1. End rhyme.
2. Caesura. Pause at, or near, the center of each line.
3. Grammatic parallelism and antithesis. Expresses equality or opposition.
4. Alliteration. Notice especially in second couplet.
5. Each line is end stopped, with full closed at the end of the second line.
6. Each couplet expresses a single, complete thought.
7. Epigrammatic, concise, easy expression.

Of course, not every couplet will manifest these traits. Pope continually strives for variety in his couplets, in terms of sound and syntax.

The couplet, one notes, is brilliantly concise. In one couplet, in one line—the second—Pope has dismembered his foe. In fact, so satiric is the effect of the antithesis and concision of the second line that Sappho, a prominent poet of Pope’s day, went to Sir Robert Walpole, the Prime Minister, and sought to have him command Pope to omit the couplet from forthcoming editions of the poem. The nineteenth-century critic J. W. Croker called this couplet “the most scurrilous couplet ever written.”

Keeping Up Appearances

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t seems the overriding concern of Molière’s Tartuffe is not one of religion directly, but of that age-old concern of comme il faut, propriety, and appearance versus reality. The problem is not with Tartuffe’s being a religious hypocrite (though, don’t we all just love those?), but with the fact that he uses his powers to manipulate others and that his hypocrisy becomes known. Duping people is not evil; duping people to the point that it threatens their well-being may just be. But duping people and getting found out in the end is the height of all evil, even in our culture.

People lie. I don’t think there’s anyone so naive as to think that everyone is honest all of the time. Honesty is an ideal — one, I think, that people don’t really want to live up to. Yes, I know we give it plenty of lip-service, but when it comes down to it, people want to be deceived — I know I do every time I login to do my banking, when I try on a new pair of slacks, or when I write something new. However, this is not what I’m talking about. I think the problem goes even deeper: it’s, perhaps, not that we want to be deceived, but that we don’t want to learn to question in the first place. If we can remain blissfully naive, unaware of alternatives, then we do not need to question our values as being correct or even harmful. If we remain focused — moral, good, upright, etc. — then it becomes easier for us to be controlled by those who also espouse the same beliefs and values. I know, I’m being all abstract. Let’s use Tartuffe as an illustrative text.

As I said above: it’s not the fact that Tartuffe lies to Orgon and his family that makes him a scoundrel (indeed, one could question the outcome of his deception as as morally dubious and relevant, but more on that below), but that Tartuffe is caught in a lie that makes his actions intolerable. For, being caught in a lie shakes the foundation of decorum, something which seems much more important than morality itself.

Decorum suggests that one should speak only in certain situations and only about certain topics. Tartuffe himself voices what we don’t want voiced, not outright, but by his actions. Tartuffe knows the rhetoric of morality, but his intent and actions contradict what he espouses. Ironically, when Tartuffe gives advice, it’s often very decorous and frequently pragmatic. For example, before Orgon disinherits Damis, Tartuffe confesses to Orgon:

[quote]Believe his story; the boy deserves your trust.
Why, after all, should you have faith in me?
How can you know what I might do, or be?
Is it on my good actions that you base
Your favor? Do you trust my pious face?
Ah, no, don’t be deceived by hollow shows;
I’m far, alas, from being what men suppose;
Though the world takes me for a man of worth,
I’m truly the most worthless man on earth. (3.6.28)[/quote]

At face value, Tartuffe is right, but part of the dramatic irony is that Orgon cannot see that Tartuffe is a scam artist when the rest of his family can. Orgon seems blinded by his desire for power, but it’s his very actions, especially those that banish Damis and make Tartuffe a rightful heir, that damn him socially. Orgon’s perceptions of truth are blinded by his desire to maintain his superiority: “I shall defy you all, and make it clear / That I’m the one who gives the orders here” (3.6.57-58). If Orgon had listened to Tartuffe here, then he would not have been vulnerable. One could suggest that Orgon got what he deserved, ignoring the speeches of moderation from Cléante, dismissing the words of Dorine as out-of-line, and not seeming to care one whit about anything else other then his diminishing dominance. At this point, while everyone can see Tartuffe for what he really is, he is not in a position to be a threat, only a nuisance.

It’s only after act three that Taruffe gains the power to act with impunity, or so he thinks. He keeps up the act, but becomes more bold. The problem arises when Tartuffe actually says what he believes that causes the scandal and discomfort. For example, when he’s trying to persuade Elmire to prove her love for him physically, he states:

[quote]No one shall know our joys, save us alone,
And there’s no evil till the act is known;
It’s scandal, Madam, which makes it an offense,
And it’s no sin to sin in confidence. (4.5.117-120)[/quote]

Sin is not something done to one’s self. Like morality, it must be shared to be sinful. While I’m aware that religion suggests otherwise, the notion of “sin” and subsequent moral positions are all based on our relationships to others. If two consenting adults keep their actions with each other a secret, is there really sin? Tartuffe makes us uneasy because he questions the foundation of morality: here, adultery is not a sin, if no one else finds out. It only becomes sinful if someone else is hurt, like a cuckolded husband. What makes Tartuffe immoral is his blasé response to someone else’s pain, pain usually precipitated by the same. Tartuffe has no remorse or compassion, just desires. His actions, decorous or not, cannot be allowed to operate with impunity.

Tartuffe does seem to be a bit sociopathic. That is, he has no regard for others, only his is own desires. Just this diagnosis makes us feel better by suggesting that Tartuffe is an anomaly, that he is the twisted exception, not the rule. However, the end of the play suggests that reason and goodness might need help of a higher power in order to combat those who might use the semblance of reason and goodness for their own selfish ends. Perhaps the king’s intervention represents that of law: for what are laws but to officially mediate between passion and what aught to be?