Saturday, September 5, 2009

The Void

Vladimir Nabokov's autobiography "Speak, Memory" opens up with a memorable quote; "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." This quote, with the intense focus on the concepts of an "abyss" (void) and "light", reminds me of the writings of two other authors writing in the 20th century, albeit one is about 20 years previous and the other about 20 years later-- Franz Kafka & Italo Calvino.




In Italo Calvino's work "Invisible Cities" he often flirts with the ideas of places suspended above the nothingness, cities built on nothingness, and cities that define the space they are given, even if it is only points of light in nothingness-- the brief crack of light in the darkness. In this work Calvino imagines every city there could possibly be as he explores the depths of possibilities. However, as the book progresses Khan begins to understand that perhaps Marco Polo hasn't traveled to all these places but he may be explaining the depths, focusing the intricate rays of light of his native Venice.

Franz Kafka's "The Castle" begins with an intense description of place that evokes much of the same imagery of Navokov; "It was late in the evening when K. arrived. The village was deep in snow. The Castle hill was hidden, veiled in mist and darkness, nor was there even a glimmer of light to show that a castle was there. On the wooden bridge leading from the main road to the village, K. stood for a long time gazing into the illusory emptiness above him." An intriguing difference between Nabokov's and Kafka's understanding of the void the void's relation to the subject. Nabokov imagines hanging over the void, suspended, something to beware of falling into. Kafka however envisions the void above the subject as something to get to, something to investigate and attain, as is true of many of Kafka's works perhaps most notable in the short story "Before the Law".




The most notable similarity between the two is Nabokov's and Kafka's supreme interest in investigation. Each author pursues their works with a magnified and careful eye. Kafka's characters Joseph K. ("The Trial") and K. ("The Castle") try to explore their situations from every perspective in order to better their position; Joseph K. pursues discovering the nature of his trial in order to appropriately diagnose the best course of action in his defense. K. pursues every avenue of entering the Castle to attempt to understand the nature of his employment. Nabokov investigates the world through a scientifically trained eye. Each detail is noted and important, even the ones that often seem the least important.

The void needs to be considered an important characteristic of the writing of Nabokov and other writers exploring space in the 20th century. It can symbolize something that many of these authors such as Nabokov and Kafka struggle with-- defining the undefinable, approaching infinity, and exploring the abyss.




*Here is a passage from a story I wrote called "A Grove in the Barren". I feel that this story deals with this concept Nabokov puts forth about "our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness".

It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow...

*Read the rest of the story at http://adambenson.blogspot.com/2009/08/grove-in-barren.html

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Pinky

Pinky



I try to rummage through my memories and sort the useful from the useless like the separating of wheat from chaff. Locating the singular memory I consider my first feels impossible in the jumbled chronology of the past. I ruminate and probe the various flashes of recollection that present themselves as my first, most important memory only to return to the thought of my dad’s missing finger. Considering my childhood memories in accordance with my dad’s missing finger raises memories of the flowering of my understanding of humor, frustration and a myriad of humanity. Each sprouting from the space on my dad’s hand where there should be flesh and bone but there is none.

Since I can remember my dad has had five fingers on his right hand and four and a half on his left, the pinky being lopped off at the first joint past the knuckle. This stub became a tool for provoking me endlessly. I would ask him how he had lost his finger and he would tell me the story. I became confused when his stories began to contradict one another; each story being different every time he told me of how his pinky had become to be half intact, half lost. Soon, I could recognize the pattern he crafted his stories around. The story would surround the situation that we both were in and at the end he would abruptly hold up his hand, framing the pinky in my view, and give a signature, quick flash of a smile. This half-finger story became even more interesting when I noticed his insistence on telling a tale to complete strangers: a cashier, a waitress, some students in his Spanish class. Always masterfully twisting the story around the situation but always ending the tale by holding up his hand and giving a quick smile.

Among my friends the telling of these tales became something of a legend. My dad would craft the tales to fit in to our teenage ramblings when he drove us up skiing. He had cut it off on the edge of a snowboard, broke it off by slamming it in a cash register, and it had been sliced off on a guitar string just like a piece of salami. My friends intrigue of this story went so far as for one of my friends to suggest “Adam, it’s your destiny to lose a finger just like your dad and tell stories.” I laughed and brushed off the remark. I stated how absurd that was, how much I liked having ten fingers and how I expected to for a long time to come.
I’ve made inquiries with friends of his, fellow high-school teachers that know him, and even my mom. Somehow they all react with cryptic knowledge. Not revealing any useful information and giving me a sly smile, honoring a tradition they all know; a tradition that precedes my birth.

To this day I still do not know the “real” reason why my dad has nine and a half fingers instead of the standard ten. I do not know if he’s embedded clues or some version of the truth in the stories he has told me. I do not know if I will ever find out. I do not know if I want to ever find out. But I do know that the imprint of these tales sway across my childhood memories like my dad dangling a plastic finger attached to a key chain in front of my eyes.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Technique Response-- Point of View

*I wrote this for a Creative-Nonfiction class. The assignment was to read Sherman Alexie's "Superman and Me", select some passage, pick out a technique I liked, discuss how it works and give a short example of how it could work in my writing. As the year rolls on I will post a few more of these so don't be alarmed to see more of them in the near future.*




“This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at an early age and advances quickly. He reads "Grapes of Wrath" in kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and Jane." If he'd been anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it will somehow dull the pain and make him sound more modest about his talents.” (Selection from Sherman Alexie's "Superman and Me")



Although this is not a concise passage to examine it does offer some fantastic play with point of view and meta-commentary to create an effect that confronts the reader on many fronts. Until this passage Alexie has dealt with the narrative from a more traditional stance, providing the story from the first person of one who is recollecting, confronting the images from memories and doubts that come with memory recall. Writing from the first person point of view lets the reader come close to the author and invite the reader into a world of possibilities, full of room for discussion and human discourse; mainly, first person offers an understanding of the author as a person to relate to. However, changing the point of view to the third person creates instant space in our understanding of the author as a person to relate to. Third person narratives shove aside closeness in favor of the power of assertion. When Alexie shifts to third person it seems he is telling us not about his story but an imagined story where the value of the story is not in the relationship between the reader and author but in the authority of the author over the reader.


In my own writing I often seek ways to manipulate the space and closeness the reader feels between himself/herself and my voice. I often find myself, stuck at a point in some narrative, where I want to deploy a dramatic effect: create distance, close distance and use the notion of space between reader and author to my advantage. Practicing the technique of a well-placed shift in point of view would add another useful tool into my author utility-belt.


Saturday, August 29, 2009

A Grove In The Barren

A Grove In The Barren


By: Adam Benson

It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow.

Time, according to the rise and fall of light, was useless. It always remained the same dull glow, and so I could only measure the passing of time with memories, feeble examinations of various thoughts, considerations and moments. Occasionally, in the vast space between the bones of my skull, the chronology of these memories jumbled like a handful of snow blown up into the wind where it would dissipate and every appearance of coherence it once had would be lost forever.

I had a minimum of supplies buried down in pouches underneath my coat: a small metallic hatchet, matches, flint, canteen and a knife with a long blade. I held on to these with all hope. Removing the knife and glimpsing at the shimmer of the blade through the blanket of white gave me a moments perspective into what could lay hidden in the emptiness; a possible object, a thing other to myself, that existed out in the white field. I began to run with the knife, searching for something to plunge the blade into. Quickly I became tired of running and the knife remained perched in my hand, unable to find a resting place. In the emptiness of The Barren items operate like useless currency— tools without purpose.

Once, in between memories now lost to me, I felt the muscles in my legs quaking as never before. This violent shake made me stumble and I flung my arms about in all directions grasping for a hold when no longer able to resist I collapsed to the ground. The force of my body falling made a small cavern where I fell and the fresh falling snow quickly bedded me deep down underneath the surface. Wrapped in the freezing ground of The Barren I tried to continue to muse but soon felt myself drifting off.

Upon opening my eyes I was surprised to find myself transported out of my imprint in the snow to the center of a small grove of pines. Still weak and tired I gathered myself. I rose and looked at the vibrant green of the surrounding trees and heard the wind over their tops and outside their boughs. In the calm of this shelter I loosed the hood of my coat and started a small fire with the matches inside my pocket and dead branches I found lying at the base of a tree well. I hadn’t been there long, it seemed like mere minutes, when another person, face hidden behind the fur of a coat, glided into the grove and sat down across the fire from me. I looked up, my lips quivering from the cold, and asked the persons name in a slow, stumbled voice. Seconds passed and I got no reply so I asked again. The reply came silently; the person slid the fur hood gently off her head. I saw her long black hair and the dark skin of her face, taut in a smile, all freed by the falling of the hood. I sat still and said no more but tried to return the smile but the frozen corners of my mouth gave off a painful appearance. She looked away from me and I felt embarrassed and looked towards the ground. When I glanced back up she was removing her gloves. Surprised at her deft movements in the cold I watched as she reached deep inside her coat with agile fingers and pulled out a pot, filled it with snow, and held it over the fire. The metal belly warmed in the heart of the flames and the handfuls of snow transformed into bubbling, boiling water. She continued to smile at me and reached back into her coat; a market of ingredients came— potatoes, carrots, spices, and red meat. She tossed each into the boiling water and soon a rich smell rose up, pressed the crease of my lips and drifted up into my nostrils like perfume on the neck of a lover—insatiable and delicious. She stirred the pot with her head slightly down, shifting her glance back and forth between me and the boil from the corner of her eyes colored like oak grain. After many turns of a wooden spoon she picked up the pot, ladled some into a bowl, and handed the stew across the fire. My hands warmed and softened under the warmth of the bowl and the steam rising up covered my face like submersing the body into a hot springs. I thanked her in mumbles of gratitude and shaky bows but she ignored my praises and beckoned for me to eat by bringing both her hands up to her lips, still pressed in a smile. I composed myself, returned the gaze and nodded in understanding. Slowly I bent my head and brought the bowl up towards my lips when she began to move. Surprised, I watched her from across the fire. She began to loose her coat by pushing each individual button back through each hole and then untying the straps around her waist. She lifted the coat off her shoulders and let it fall softly to the snow-covered ground. Still holding the stew before my lips, having not yet taken a taste, I saw glimpses of her skin through the orange and yellow flicker. It looked smooth like bone but soft like fresh leather; the reflection of flames in her eyes like oak grain showed two freshly burning coals preparing to stoke a great fire that was now only an imagination. Right in front of my eyes the once small grove in The Barren began to expand, quickly becoming more vast than The Barren itself. The wind began to sing low in the treetops and steam rose up from her warm body when it contacted the cold night air. The Barren vanished behind a veil when the steam drifted ever closer to me, pressed up against the crease of my lips and came up into my nostrils like the perfume of a lover—insatiable and delicious.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Reading and Interpreting





*Note: I realize there may be 'holes' in my discussion and that some of the concepts are not very fully developed or adequately explained and defended but I feel that for this medium-- the blog-- it works as a useful discussion of the topic.*



Reading and Interpreting



As I was reading the Introduction to Kafka's "The Castle" I came across an interesting concept-- one I probably inherently know but never understood as written down into words. The author of the Intro., Irving Howe, makes a case for two different ways of understanding literature, reading and interpreting. For many of us, we consider the two different processes to be intertwined, which, I think they probably are. However, it is important to understand that they are not one and the same thing. Despite their overlap in practice each method does have its own unique eccentricities and definable characteristics. Placing emphasis on one or the other can, in some cases at least, give you two very different perspectives on the same text.

Not only do we confuse the two different acts we also assume that we know what reading is just from doing it, which gives us a feeling of what it is but not a verbal construction to judge it with. Try and define it into words and most peoples understanding of reading would probably become somewhat confused, lacking the conviction of understanding it outside of participating in the act of doing it. Throw interpreting into the mix by asking them to compare reading and interpreting by defining each term with the other in mind and the definitions would become even less stable. So, to provide some solid ground to get good footing on I'm going to base the following discussion on the quote that Irving Howe provides in "The Castle" Introduction; "A reading describes the text as scrupulously as possible, seeking to evoke its uniqueness; an interpretation transposes the text into a sequence of supplied meanings". Howe's definitions of reading and interpreting are especially applicable to the writing of Kafka and the placement of this assertion in an introduction to Kafka the reader needs to question if these are general definitions or just definitions specifically for Kafka scholars. I contend that these definitions are somewhat geared for Kafka but also hold up against any literature and perhaps against anything that can be "read" or "interpreted", which, according to the post-modern sway, is almost anything.

To get deeper into the conflict let's first address this definition of reading. To reiterate, Howe contends reading "describes the text as scrupulously as possible, seeking to evoke its uniqueness". For most of us, including some criticism camps concerned with reader response, reading is that feeling we ususally get from engaging in the general process of reading-- becoming immersed in the story and the special construction of events the author has put before us. To read is to trust the text and have the faith of the story; reading is like actually living the events somewhat void of criticisms that come from later reflection.

With reading somewhat under our belt now our focus can shift to interpreting. According to the Howe definition interpreting "transposes the text into a sequence of supplied meanings". Applying theory and various literary criticisms are all ways of interpreting. Juxtaposing the text with another system of meaning opens up the text for the interpreter. Interpreting makes the reader much less anxious with the "problems" a reader confronts. In some works, especially Kafka, the reader has to deal with problematic issues such as Gregor Samsa turning into a bug; we are tempted to focus on what turning into the bug could mean (alienation, disgust, loss of humanness) and rationalize the problem we have with a human being metamorphasizing into an insect. To interpret makes us more comfortable with the text by being able to prescribe concepts we are familiar and comfortable with to curb the anxiety of the unknowable.

Perhaps reading is like seeing the world as a metaphor while interpreting is understanding events like a simile. Adding the "like" or "as" (the simile) in understanding events establishes immediate distrust; the interpreter needs to grasp at external, familiar associations to most accurately pinpoint their cognitive location because of the lack of ability to completely trust in their initial feeling. Understanding the world without the "like" or "as" of the simile (the metaphor) revels in the faith of solid belief in a feeling and stance towards understanding that feeling. Consider reading as defined by pure-faith while interpreting is striving towards the same faith but encountering the world with an uncertainty similar to the lack of conviction as defined in the Uncertainty Principle-- we are unable to know both the speed and location of matter at the same time; to know any of this information we must interfere.

As I pursue understanding reading and interpreting most likely the question you the audience are begging me to address is this, "which is "better" (for lack of a more potent word), to read or to interpret?" This question, despite our feeling for it's necessity, is not a useful way of solving the problem. A better way to understand this issue is to ask "which method is better for what I am trying to accomplish?". Considering the ambitions of the reader allows the question to become much more answerable. For pure enjoyment most people would say to read is more enjoyable than interpreting but not everyone; some find the process of seeking connections between the text and the "supplied meanings" an enjoyable challenge. For scholars producing papers interpretation is the most employed method; again though, reading is not entirely absent from scholarly work. Possibly, in order to address whether to read or to interpret, the most basic question to ask is "how do I want the text to mean?".

The problems of whether to read or interpret does not only plague literature scholars but also the common pleasure reader. To the common reader, the process of interpreting can have it's positive and negative associations; A pleasure reader may say "I admire that interpretation of this book. It helps to broaden my understanding of it." However the opposite side may say "that interpretation was no where in this book. I don't see how you can read into information that wasn't written by the author. Doing that ruins the book by taking away from it." Who's right? Once again, I say both readers are right. Both reading and interpreting provide their own insights, neither of which is wrong, but only another perspective. In fact I would say that it is completely impossible (children, who greater posses the "suspension of disbelief" power, could be argued) to not engage in both, whether consciously or not. Only through vigorous involvement in and consideration of BOTH actions can the intellectual depth of the work-- and the reader-- be revealed.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Poem-- Eight Ball, Corner Pocket


* I wrote this poem in the Fall of 2008. It was later published in MSU's literary publication "Read This".


Eight Ball, Corner Pocket


A moment
gonna come.

In the dark damp of that sexy room,
I’m hunched over the velvety bed,
all the weight on my arms
like Atlas illuminated in low lights.
Remove my quivers
steady Apollo.
Make me a straight-shooter.
My fingers wrapped around this soft trigger
as Paris holds his bow.

A moment
gonna come.

I know the moment.
It’s the neon lights that line Main Street,
it’s the Jazz and Blues that come from the halls,
it’s the cigar smoke that wafts about the parlor
held close by the ceiling
like incense in the cathedral.

The moment is captured in that Pompeian ash
the men tap from their cigars
to separate wheat from chaff
and let their embers glow
perpetual.
Eternal.
Long, deep, pull—
Long, deep, blow.
Long, deep, pull—
Long, deep, blow.

Don’t let the moment be spoiled
by no hard breath
and no quick thrust.
That sunset strawberry is firm in my hands
and I anticipate its juice on my lips.
The moment
gonna come.

Let the moment hang.
Let the pendulum swing—
let the pendulum swing—
let the pendulum swing—
swing.

-Klok- The cue ball entices the eight into that deep romantic chasm.

A moment came.
Another moment
gonna come.

Poem-- Today You Will Be With Me In Paradise


* I wrote this poem in the Spring of 2009. It later was published in the MSU literary publication "Read This".

Today You Will Be With Me In Paradise



I.

I plunge a metallic screw
into the swollen cork
like performing rough surgery
on a bloated cadaver.
I am a human spirit,
wielding divine instruments,
waking my consummate body
from a deep slumber,
for the soul is not dead
but sleeping.
The world tips upside down
and the invaded capillary canal
spills out,
~glug~
~glug~
~glug~
paints my glassy eye
opaque.

Who was Eve?
She who held humanity in her hands

and dented its soft skin
with her earthen fingers.

II.

riverrun red
on my lips
to my cavern throat
and bursts warm landscapes
from narrow chinks.
through an empty glass
i pluck elaborate rushes
but they quickly wilt
and the prettiest are always further
so i think in years
looooooong and lofty
until i see
Everything.

Who was Eve?
She who took the first bite,
unveiled infinity,
and gazed upon it with her minds eye.

III.

I wake up outside
under the midday sun,
sweat on my face,
surrounded by
empty peels
of a fruit
idontknowitsname.
My feet feel a little torn.
I have never stepped barefoot on rocks before.

Who was Eve?
She who felt the pangs of Psyche’s birth,
and nurses her despite thorns and thistles of a harsh world.

When the young eyes open
to watch the whole of creation consumed
they will see no Omega.