I had a really nice weekend. A going-away birthday potluck on Thursday, an old U of Blank English alumni coming down for a dance night on Friday. (is alumni the plural? Should I be saying alumnium? alumnius? If only I took a year's worth of Latin classes at some point in the past. Oh, right. And it feels odd that I can actually know alumni from the program after only being here a grand total of three terms. ) Despite my aversion to dance and dance-related phenomena, it was a good time. And Saturday and Sunday were largely spent saving Gotham City from the Joker. I mean, studying for comps.
Speaking of studying for comps, remember how I resolved earlier not to speak about comps? Well, I'm sticking with that. But I still feel a need to talk about the latest book, so I'm going to talk about it without referring to its author, title, or subject matter.
What's left after you strip away all of that is the impact the book had on me, and this impact is crater-shaped. I was about a hundred pages into the book when I realised I'd read it before. My English undergraduate course work is a little spotty; not because I didn't do the work, but because I did a double major in Math and English, there were some holes left in my education. I've taken steps to fill these holes, but for the longest time, lit theory in general was one of the more gaping ones. Additionally, aside from the seminar courses, the courses at U of Someplace Else all went out of their way to tell me NOT to use secondary sources, but rely on my own ideas. (Maybe it was some sort of departmental edict?) This methodology created another set of holes, which also took time to fill--and, to its benefit, also forced me to never use secondary sources as a crutch and to build and construct my own arguments. I will note, though, that my 19th century ecocriticism professor nearly wore out a red pen trying to teach me how to properly do a works cited page.
All of this is to build to a single point: in my undergraduate career, I only had to read one book of lit theory from beginning to end. It was for a seminar course I took in my second year, and the book was 600 pages long. That's a lot of theory to inflict on an undergraduate sophomore. Though ridiculously long, the book was well-written, and as I read it again, some seven years later, what it left really stood out.
Because I've already dropped the Coleridge ball, I can mention that his theory of associativity may be at work here. Coleridge said that people associate ideas with other ideas through various associations, and, in this case, we've got a temporal association at work, with the book as the anchor. As I read through it more recently, I was reminded of who I was when I first read it. I think this holds for every book that affects someone greatly, and especially if there's been a lot of time between a small number of readings. And what struck me on this reading was how much of the book had sunk into my general literary philosophy, without me even realizing it. The author is big on a close reading followed by a historical situating. More importantly, the way he uses the texts in a way that doesn't come up in literary criticism as often as you might think. I'm going to give it the italics emphasis: he presents the texts in such a way that you actually want to read them. Now, I'm not saying that this should be the main focus for literary criticism, or even a focus, in some situations. But it's a nice change of pace to see someone who's that enthused about the work itself.
It's funny; I don't really agree with his actual literary theory now, and I don't think I even understood it enough to disagree then. But the style, the method, hell, I'll go as far as to say the ethos of his writing is something I instinctively agreed with, because it was the same way I looked at literature. Looking back, I can't begin to estimate how important this work has been for the direction my scholarly pursuits have gone in since. But I'm glad for the opportunity to look back at my critical roots.
Comps exams: a voyage of self-discovery.
Anyway, I might do a post tomorrow, but between internet problems (every internet application works at home EXCEPT the browsers. My computer hates me.) and an upcoming mini-vacation, I'm going to be in absentia till Friday. Try to last till then.
Later Days.
Showing posts with label Coleridge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coleridge. Show all posts
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Whine of the Ancient Grad Student Part III: The Long Awaited Conclusion
Incidentally, this post would have happened a lot sooner, but my keyboard at home is acting up again. So... technology. Yay.
Anyway, I finished Coleridge's Biographia Literaria a few days ago now, so it's gotten a little fuzzy in my mind. From what I recall, the content of the book can be divided into four broad categories: literary criticism, philosophy, Coleridge, and commentary on Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. These are by no means rigid categories. The commentary on LB is essentially an extension of the literary criticism theories he puts forth, as are the comments Coleridge makes concerning himself. The literary criticism slides into pihlosophy and back again at the drop of a hat as well. But I'll still try to address each of them in turn.
I'll start with philosophy, as it's by far the most complicated. As Coleridge explains, his time in Germany had a great effect on him, and much of his philosophy is bound up with the ideas of the Germans, in particular, Immanuel Kant and the lesser known Friedrich Schelling. It gets very abstract and technical in places, and I'm not entirely sure I understand it even now. One of the key elements Coleridge extracts is an idea he traces back to ancient Greece: the law of associativity. Essentially, this law states every idea we have arises out of some association of either previous ideas or our physical environment. Coleridge explains that there are a few different types of association, including contrast, temporal, and spatial.
There's a lot more to the philosophical side than that, but I'll stop there because associativity is what links the philosophy to the literary criticism. I'm not going to go too far into how literary criticism works in this book, or any of the other books on my comp list, because somehow I don't think my professors will take too kindly to the comp list being summarized and annotated in online form. Suffice to say, the criticism is concerned with three main issues: exactness in terminology, where Coleridge's theory differs from that described in Wordsworth's Preface to LB, and the difference between imagination and fancy. (Associativity comes into play mainly in the last one; if I understand it right, and I'm not saying I do, imagination is the force that generates new associations, whereas fancy organizes and shifts the ones we've already made.)
Part of the literary criticism involves Coleridge's ideas on how literary critics should act, and this dwells heavily on both his own writing and the way critics have dealt with him. This area of Biographia Literaria is the one that really feels like Coleridge is letting his true feelings through. He honestly thinks that he's made a lot of enemies as a result of his literary work in poems and journals, and that he's been misinterpreted as a result. He also realizes the bind he's in--if he says nothing, then everyone gets the wrong idea about him, but the harder he tries to explain his work, the more defensive he seems. The resulting emotion can almost be called desperation, and it comes out in one chapter in particular, when Coleridge tries to defend himself against the accusation that he doesn't work very hard. (To be honest, I kind of held this opinion myself before reading the book. See Part II.) It's a very plaintive chapter, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for someone who was clearly so emotionally invested in his work.
Given his own feelings towards criticism, you'd think he'd be a little more circumspect himself. At least a quarter of the book is devoted to Wordsworth's LB. As I said last time, Wordsworth and Coleridge's friendship and subsequent falling out is famous--it's arguably the most interesting literary alliance in English history, at least, until the incestuous Bloomsbury group hits the scene. I'm not exactly sure where their relationship was at the time this book was published, but it certainly didn't survive long after it. And the fault is definitely not Wordsworth's. Yes, Coleridge ends up praising the book in the strongest manner possible, declaring that Wordsworth has the potential to write the first true philosophical poem (Oh, and I missed that in the literary criticism part. Coleridge thinks the ultimate expression of art would be its unification with philosophy. Remember that. It's kind of important.)--but given that it's still just potential, even that is essentially damning with faint praise. And this praise comes after 50 pages or so of tearing both the Preface and the poems to absolute shreds. Friends don't mercilessly eviserate other friends' books in publication.
What makes the whole thing so interesting to me is that it's very clear that Coleridge believes he's ultimately doing Wordsworth a favour. He did end up praising the poems, after all. And better these criticisms come from a friend than his enemies. Besides, who wouldn't want to know how to write better poetry? Keep in mind that Lyrical Ballads was originally going to be a collaboration between Coleridge and Wordsworth, in which Coleridge would write supernatural-based poems and Wordsworth nature poems, in equal number, but Coleridge failed to deliver more than a handful of poems.
The editor of my edition of Biographia Literaria tries to downplay the attack by going with the theory that the original Preface that Coleridge was attacking was actually written by Coleridge and not Wordsworth to begin with, and so it was Coleridge contesting his earlier ideas rather than Coleridge contesting Wordsworth. This theory doesn't quite work with me though; Coleridge spends at least as much time attacking the poems themeselves as the Preface. And even if we do accept that Coleridge wrote the Preface, he certainly doesn't say so in the Biographia Literaria, which, if he's going to be disagreeing with it so heavily, seems like the polite thing to do, rather than let Wordsworth take all the blame.
So to sum up, I imagine Wordworth's reaction to Biographia Literaria to be something like this:
"What are you doing, man? First, we agree to do this book of poems. Then you can't come through with your share, so you beg me to let you write the Preface for me. Now, seventeen friggin' years later, you decide you didn't like either, and the first I hear about it is in this d---mned book? (That's how they talked back then, in dashes.) Don't give me that "potential to write the first philosophical poem" bull plop. If you didn't like the poems, you know what you could have done, seventeen years ago? Walked next door and told me. But hey, waiting a decade or two then printing your complaints for the world to see... that's a way to go too.
"You know what? I'm done with this, man. I put up with the opium for as long as I could, but this? No. I got my own problems. I've got bills to pay, a family to support, and a sister who really, really doesn't get the concept of personal space. I don't have time to deal with this passive-aggressive-dope fiend nonsense. I'd give voice to my natural sentiment, but saying "raised middle finger" just lacks some of the punch. Smell you later, jerk."
Truly, it was the age of eloquence.
Later Days.
Anyway, I finished Coleridge's Biographia Literaria a few days ago now, so it's gotten a little fuzzy in my mind. From what I recall, the content of the book can be divided into four broad categories: literary criticism, philosophy, Coleridge, and commentary on Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. These are by no means rigid categories. The commentary on LB is essentially an extension of the literary criticism theories he puts forth, as are the comments Coleridge makes concerning himself. The literary criticism slides into pihlosophy and back again at the drop of a hat as well. But I'll still try to address each of them in turn.
I'll start with philosophy, as it's by far the most complicated. As Coleridge explains, his time in Germany had a great effect on him, and much of his philosophy is bound up with the ideas of the Germans, in particular, Immanuel Kant and the lesser known Friedrich Schelling. It gets very abstract and technical in places, and I'm not entirely sure I understand it even now. One of the key elements Coleridge extracts is an idea he traces back to ancient Greece: the law of associativity. Essentially, this law states every idea we have arises out of some association of either previous ideas or our physical environment. Coleridge explains that there are a few different types of association, including contrast, temporal, and spatial.
There's a lot more to the philosophical side than that, but I'll stop there because associativity is what links the philosophy to the literary criticism. I'm not going to go too far into how literary criticism works in this book, or any of the other books on my comp list, because somehow I don't think my professors will take too kindly to the comp list being summarized and annotated in online form. Suffice to say, the criticism is concerned with three main issues: exactness in terminology, where Coleridge's theory differs from that described in Wordsworth's Preface to LB, and the difference between imagination and fancy. (Associativity comes into play mainly in the last one; if I understand it right, and I'm not saying I do, imagination is the force that generates new associations, whereas fancy organizes and shifts the ones we've already made.)
Part of the literary criticism involves Coleridge's ideas on how literary critics should act, and this dwells heavily on both his own writing and the way critics have dealt with him. This area of Biographia Literaria is the one that really feels like Coleridge is letting his true feelings through. He honestly thinks that he's made a lot of enemies as a result of his literary work in poems and journals, and that he's been misinterpreted as a result. He also realizes the bind he's in--if he says nothing, then everyone gets the wrong idea about him, but the harder he tries to explain his work, the more defensive he seems. The resulting emotion can almost be called desperation, and it comes out in one chapter in particular, when Coleridge tries to defend himself against the accusation that he doesn't work very hard. (To be honest, I kind of held this opinion myself before reading the book. See Part II.) It's a very plaintive chapter, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for someone who was clearly so emotionally invested in his work.
Given his own feelings towards criticism, you'd think he'd be a little more circumspect himself. At least a quarter of the book is devoted to Wordsworth's LB. As I said last time, Wordsworth and Coleridge's friendship and subsequent falling out is famous--it's arguably the most interesting literary alliance in English history, at least, until the incestuous Bloomsbury group hits the scene. I'm not exactly sure where their relationship was at the time this book was published, but it certainly didn't survive long after it. And the fault is definitely not Wordsworth's. Yes, Coleridge ends up praising the book in the strongest manner possible, declaring that Wordsworth has the potential to write the first true philosophical poem (Oh, and I missed that in the literary criticism part. Coleridge thinks the ultimate expression of art would be its unification with philosophy. Remember that. It's kind of important.)--but given that it's still just potential, even that is essentially damning with faint praise. And this praise comes after 50 pages or so of tearing both the Preface and the poems to absolute shreds. Friends don't mercilessly eviserate other friends' books in publication.
What makes the whole thing so interesting to me is that it's very clear that Coleridge believes he's ultimately doing Wordsworth a favour. He did end up praising the poems, after all. And better these criticisms come from a friend than his enemies. Besides, who wouldn't want to know how to write better poetry? Keep in mind that Lyrical Ballads was originally going to be a collaboration between Coleridge and Wordsworth, in which Coleridge would write supernatural-based poems and Wordsworth nature poems, in equal number, but Coleridge failed to deliver more than a handful of poems.
The editor of my edition of Biographia Literaria tries to downplay the attack by going with the theory that the original Preface that Coleridge was attacking was actually written by Coleridge and not Wordsworth to begin with, and so it was Coleridge contesting his earlier ideas rather than Coleridge contesting Wordsworth. This theory doesn't quite work with me though; Coleridge spends at least as much time attacking the poems themeselves as the Preface. And even if we do accept that Coleridge wrote the Preface, he certainly doesn't say so in the Biographia Literaria, which, if he's going to be disagreeing with it so heavily, seems like the polite thing to do, rather than let Wordsworth take all the blame.
So to sum up, I imagine Wordworth's reaction to Biographia Literaria to be something like this:
"What are you doing, man? First, we agree to do this book of poems. Then you can't come through with your share, so you beg me to let you write the Preface for me. Now, seventeen friggin' years later, you decide you didn't like either, and the first I hear about it is in this d---mned book? (That's how they talked back then, in dashes.) Don't give me that "potential to write the first philosophical poem" bull plop. If you didn't like the poems, you know what you could have done, seventeen years ago? Walked next door and told me. But hey, waiting a decade or two then printing your complaints for the world to see... that's a way to go too.
"You know what? I'm done with this, man. I put up with the opium for as long as I could, but this? No. I got my own problems. I've got bills to pay, a family to support, and a sister who really, really doesn't get the concept of personal space. I don't have time to deal with this passive-aggressive-dope fiend nonsense. I'd give voice to my natural sentiment, but saying "raised middle finger" just lacks some of the punch. Smell you later, jerk."
Truly, it was the age of eloquence.
Later Days.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Whine of the Ancient Grad Student Part II: 4 Things I Hate About Coleridge
I finished Coleridge's Biographia Literaria last night. As to its quality, I'll admit that it's a long way from the most interesting thing I've done after 2 am. In order to see how much of this large, bounteous book I've actually retained, I'm going to do this post without actually consulting the book. I'm off to a good start, since this is the first time I've gotten the title right without having to look it up.
When I looked at my comp list, this is one of the works I was not really looking forward to. I have numbered reasons:
1. Pettiness. So far, since August started, I've been averaging a book on the list per day. When the books are 48 pages and written in large, 17th century font, this is not particularly difficult. But Biographia Literaria clocks in at 289 pages of teeny, tiny font, which makes it the first, though certainly not the last, of my longer comp readings. It's slowing me down, and I don't care for that.
2. The drugs. Coleridge had a long standing opium addiction that played both a part in his writing and a part in his death. This may be the puritanical streak in me, or at the very least, the streak in me that doesn't like poetry very much, but I honestly think that taking drugs then writing poetry is cheating. It's like taking steroids, then going on to be MVP. All writing should be done with a clear, pure mind. (Anyone who says I've ever posted after drinking is an utter, utter liar. Very utter.)
3. And then I woke up. If you've ever taught Coleridge to first year undergraduates, then you've probably taught Kubla Kahn. It's a good poem for teaching vivid imagery, rhyme scheme, rhythm, and a few other poetic devices. It's also got the infamous note, in which Coleridge tells us the poem came to him in a dream, after he'd taken drugs (see point 2). He sat down to write it, but was distracted by a visit by the infamous Person from Porlock, and when he returned, he found that he could not remember how the poem ended. Given what I now know about Coleridge, there's a high chance that this anecdote is really an allegory for how reality interposes itself on creative genius and dream. Even the name "Porlock" can be seen as a thinly disguised version of "Poor Luck." Coleridge certainly wasn't above inventing such incidents if they served his purpose. In that sense, it makes an interesting complementary with his comments on the nature of genius, the use of fancy, and how to integrate a life and family with being a poet. Either way, we've got two options: the dream story is a highly artificial construct or this poem is the result of a fever dream. And either option kind of rubs me the wrong way.
4. Chivalry. Coleridge was famously friends with William Wordsworth, and, just as famously, they felt out over a number of issues, including Coleridge's drug habit and, more than likely, the Biographia Literaria itself. (More on that later.) I'm far more familiar with Wordsworth's poetry over Coleridge's; in the last year of my undergraduate, I took a seminar course on 19th century ecocriticism in which poems such as Wordsworth's "Michael" featured predominantly. We also had to read the collected journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Wordsworth's sister. Dorothy is... how do I say this kindly... a simple soul. (Okay, so much for kindness.) She is, in fact, pretty boring, and while Wordsworth was traipsing around England, she was confined to their estate, as was the 19th century role for society's middle class unmarried women. Reading her journals was like watching a race between grass growing and paint drying, but... without ever actually seeing the movie or reading the book, I think of Dorothy as bland version of Bridget Jones. Yes, she's embarrassing and annoying and any compliment you give her involves the words, "in spite of herself," but... well, in spite of herself, you can't help but like Dorothy, because NOT liking her is like picking on a kid whose parents just got divorced. You could do it, but what's the point? Aren't things already bad enough for them? I mean, she's afraid of cows, for God's sake. Cows. This woman is clearly not a threat to anyone but herself. Anyway, from the journals, she clearly had a soft spot for Coleridge. Thus, in leaving Wordsworth, Coleridge was hurting Dorothy. And that, the romantic in me holds against him.
I'm quite ignoring certain facts here, like Coleridge was either married and interested in other women for most of the time he was close to the Wordsworths, and Dorothy herself was far, far more interested in her brother than any other man--which is a long story. A long, kind of creepy story. But a part of me still believes that Dorothy Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge should have gotten married, which would have led to Coleridge beating his addiction, he and Wordworth would have been BFFs and, most likely, both would have written even more poetry than they already did, which I would have had to learn and... and now that I think about it, why did I want them to get together again? (Seriously, though, it would have been a good thing. Really. "Michael" is a good poem.)
So that's why I went into the book not liking Coleridge. The reasons, I acknowledge, are both long and irrational. But as unkind critics would tell you, a spirit of long irrationality is the perfect beginning for a study of the Bibliographica Literaria.
It's actually not that bad, and I can definitely see why it deserves a place on the comp list, although certain chapters are more useful than others. But this list went on for longer than I intended, so I'll finish up the Ancient Grad Student series tomorrow with a quick sketch of the book.
Later Days.
When I looked at my comp list, this is one of the works I was not really looking forward to. I have numbered reasons:
1. Pettiness. So far, since August started, I've been averaging a book on the list per day. When the books are 48 pages and written in large, 17th century font, this is not particularly difficult. But Biographia Literaria clocks in at 289 pages of teeny, tiny font, which makes it the first, though certainly not the last, of my longer comp readings. It's slowing me down, and I don't care for that.
2. The drugs. Coleridge had a long standing opium addiction that played both a part in his writing and a part in his death. This may be the puritanical streak in me, or at the very least, the streak in me that doesn't like poetry very much, but I honestly think that taking drugs then writing poetry is cheating. It's like taking steroids, then going on to be MVP. All writing should be done with a clear, pure mind. (Anyone who says I've ever posted after drinking is an utter, utter liar. Very utter.)
3. And then I woke up. If you've ever taught Coleridge to first year undergraduates, then you've probably taught Kubla Kahn. It's a good poem for teaching vivid imagery, rhyme scheme, rhythm, and a few other poetic devices. It's also got the infamous note, in which Coleridge tells us the poem came to him in a dream, after he'd taken drugs (see point 2). He sat down to write it, but was distracted by a visit by the infamous Person from Porlock, and when he returned, he found that he could not remember how the poem ended. Given what I now know about Coleridge, there's a high chance that this anecdote is really an allegory for how reality interposes itself on creative genius and dream. Even the name "Porlock" can be seen as a thinly disguised version of "Poor Luck." Coleridge certainly wasn't above inventing such incidents if they served his purpose. In that sense, it makes an interesting complementary with his comments on the nature of genius, the use of fancy, and how to integrate a life and family with being a poet. Either way, we've got two options: the dream story is a highly artificial construct or this poem is the result of a fever dream. And either option kind of rubs me the wrong way.
4. Chivalry. Coleridge was famously friends with William Wordsworth, and, just as famously, they felt out over a number of issues, including Coleridge's drug habit and, more than likely, the Biographia Literaria itself. (More on that later.) I'm far more familiar with Wordsworth's poetry over Coleridge's; in the last year of my undergraduate, I took a seminar course on 19th century ecocriticism in which poems such as Wordsworth's "Michael" featured predominantly. We also had to read the collected journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Wordsworth's sister. Dorothy is... how do I say this kindly... a simple soul. (Okay, so much for kindness.) She is, in fact, pretty boring, and while Wordsworth was traipsing around England, she was confined to their estate, as was the 19th century role for society's middle class unmarried women. Reading her journals was like watching a race between grass growing and paint drying, but... without ever actually seeing the movie or reading the book, I think of Dorothy as bland version of Bridget Jones. Yes, she's embarrassing and annoying and any compliment you give her involves the words, "in spite of herself," but... well, in spite of herself, you can't help but like Dorothy, because NOT liking her is like picking on a kid whose parents just got divorced. You could do it, but what's the point? Aren't things already bad enough for them? I mean, she's afraid of cows, for God's sake. Cows. This woman is clearly not a threat to anyone but herself. Anyway, from the journals, she clearly had a soft spot for Coleridge. Thus, in leaving Wordsworth, Coleridge was hurting Dorothy. And that, the romantic in me holds against him.
I'm quite ignoring certain facts here, like Coleridge was either married and interested in other women for most of the time he was close to the Wordsworths, and Dorothy herself was far, far more interested in her brother than any other man--which is a long story. A long, kind of creepy story. But a part of me still believes that Dorothy Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge should have gotten married, which would have led to Coleridge beating his addiction, he and Wordworth would have been BFFs and, most likely, both would have written even more poetry than they already did, which I would have had to learn and... and now that I think about it, why did I want them to get together again? (Seriously, though, it would have been a good thing. Really. "Michael" is a good poem.)
So that's why I went into the book not liking Coleridge. The reasons, I acknowledge, are both long and irrational. But as unkind critics would tell you, a spirit of long irrationality is the perfect beginning for a study of the Bibliographica Literaria.
It's actually not that bad, and I can definitely see why it deserves a place on the comp list, although certain chapters are more useful than others. But this list went on for longer than I intended, so I'll finish up the Ancient Grad Student series tomorrow with a quick sketch of the book.
Later Days.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Whine of the Ancient Grad Student Part I: Coffee Shop
Coleridge's Advice to Aspiring Writers: "never pursue literature as a trade."
My Comp readings have reached Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, and I'll have more to say about that when I actually finish the book. One of the reasons I didn't manage to finish it today is that I chose to do most of my reading in a coffee shop. About a half hour into my work, a girl comes down and sits at a spot two seats away. A friend of hers shows up, and they spend about twenty minutes talking about the first girl's problems: she just lost the lease on the house she shares with her roommate, and her weekend getaway with the boyfriend ended prematurely when the boyfriend pushed her too far and she broke up with him. So the friend--male friend--she's talking to decides that this is a good moment to toss his hat in the ring as a contender for next boyfriend, and takes the seat right next to me. They proceed to have a very heated, yet very whispered conversation. I am, at this point, insanely uncomfortable, but I refuse to leave, or even acknowledge I can hear them, because I was there first, damn it.
So the guy storms off, the girl sits there awkwardly for a few minutes, and then another, female, friend of hers shows up, and they talk about how the first girl's life seems to be spontaneously combusting, and agree to wait for a third (fourth?) friend before going out for drinks. And just as they reach the end of the story, the girl's mother phones, and she gets the whole story minus the boy scene I witnessed, and apparently, judging by the girl's end of the conversation, the mother is indignant on the girl's behalf for losing the house, since the landlord was being sneaky, yet somewhat sympathetic to the boyfriend. And as soon as the phone call ends, the other friend, also male shows up, and immediately asks what's wrong. The girl starts the story, and he says, yeah, he just ran into the most recently rejected guy, and he wouldn't say what's wrong, but he looked rough. Then, after hearing the whole story, he makes this statement: "You know, the only common element in all these situations is you."
Neither girl judges this as a helpful contribution, and the party storms off to discuss things further elsewhere.
I know eavesdropping is not polite behaviour, and that these are real people, and their problems should be taken seriously. And even though I'm preserving their anonymity on this post, by describing the event in this level of detail, I'm definitely edging towards the "uncool" in terms of maintaining internet privacy. But in my defense, they kept sitting next to me and having conversations that really shouldn't be happening in public areas (a point which, to be fair, the girl made repeatedly, albeit without actually moving).
How does all this relate to not finishing Biographia Literaria? Put it this way: try as hard as I might, Coleridge's dissection of David Hartley's mid-eighteenth century philosophical treatise on the oscillating ether of nervous systems just couldn't compete with some well-acted live theater.
Okay, that was kind of mean. Kind of true, but mean.
Later Days.
My Comp readings have reached Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, and I'll have more to say about that when I actually finish the book. One of the reasons I didn't manage to finish it today is that I chose to do most of my reading in a coffee shop. About a half hour into my work, a girl comes down and sits at a spot two seats away. A friend of hers shows up, and they spend about twenty minutes talking about the first girl's problems: she just lost the lease on the house she shares with her roommate, and her weekend getaway with the boyfriend ended prematurely when the boyfriend pushed her too far and she broke up with him. So the friend--male friend--she's talking to decides that this is a good moment to toss his hat in the ring as a contender for next boyfriend, and takes the seat right next to me. They proceed to have a very heated, yet very whispered conversation. I am, at this point, insanely uncomfortable, but I refuse to leave, or even acknowledge I can hear them, because I was there first, damn it.
So the guy storms off, the girl sits there awkwardly for a few minutes, and then another, female, friend of hers shows up, and they talk about how the first girl's life seems to be spontaneously combusting, and agree to wait for a third (fourth?) friend before going out for drinks. And just as they reach the end of the story, the girl's mother phones, and she gets the whole story minus the boy scene I witnessed, and apparently, judging by the girl's end of the conversation, the mother is indignant on the girl's behalf for losing the house, since the landlord was being sneaky, yet somewhat sympathetic to the boyfriend. And as soon as the phone call ends, the other friend, also male shows up, and immediately asks what's wrong. The girl starts the story, and he says, yeah, he just ran into the most recently rejected guy, and he wouldn't say what's wrong, but he looked rough. Then, after hearing the whole story, he makes this statement: "You know, the only common element in all these situations is you."
Neither girl judges this as a helpful contribution, and the party storms off to discuss things further elsewhere.
I know eavesdropping is not polite behaviour, and that these are real people, and their problems should be taken seriously. And even though I'm preserving their anonymity on this post, by describing the event in this level of detail, I'm definitely edging towards the "uncool" in terms of maintaining internet privacy. But in my defense, they kept sitting next to me and having conversations that really shouldn't be happening in public areas (a point which, to be fair, the girl made repeatedly, albeit without actually moving).
How does all this relate to not finishing Biographia Literaria? Put it this way: try as hard as I might, Coleridge's dissection of David Hartley's mid-eighteenth century philosophical treatise on the oscillating ether of nervous systems just couldn't compete with some well-acted live theater.
Okay, that was kind of mean. Kind of true, but mean.
Later Days.
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