Conventional wisdom holds that New York City moves quickly, its millions of people going about their business at a frenetic pace at all hours of the day and night, restlessly passing from one task to another. It is not far wrong; simply walking down a sidewalk in The City often demands weaving and dodging among hordes of people united only in the hurry with which they make their separate ways from place to place with little concern for their surroundings beyond their ability to be exploited and their potential to cause harm--if even for so much as that. A nervousness develops thereby that itself demands a more hectic series of actions to work it off, feeding into a cycle that conspires against the people who live and work in The City.
That frenetic, nervous haste demands much energy, more than can be effectively had from cream-cheese-smeared bagels and slices of greasy cheese pizza (both of which can be easily and cheaply found at almost any time in almost any place in The City). Most frequently, caffeine is what is used to supplement the need, and it is delivered most commonly through something mangled in the mouths of locals as "coafee" although written as "coffee."
With coffee, I am long and abundantly familiar, as those who know me know. But I find that I am something of an oddity in my intimacy with it, even in The City where much that is elsewhere exceedingly strange is a daily occurrence. For although The City is a place of coffee drinkers, it is a place where the basic form of a thing is rarely acceptable. It is part of the character of this place that people cannot leave well enough alone. Clothes must be accessorized, apartments personalized, and idiosyncrasies indulged. Coffee must be adjusted through sugar and milk and other flavorings that make the black and bitter brew something else--except, it seems, for me.
I take my coffee black.
I must admit that The City is not the only place where my propensity to drink coffee that is untainted and unadulterated by milk or cream, by sugar or one of the substitutes therefore, or by flavorings naturally and artificially evocative of ice creams and candies has struck people oddly. When I was in my graduate coursework, before I came to the Big Apple, I had access to coffee pots operated by the department of which I was part, and I made good use of that access, downing another cup every hour or so as long as I was in the building and the department offices were open. Never did I introduce cream or sugar into my cup as did nearly all others who availed themselves of the most welcome service. And it was remarked upon that I did not do so, usually alongside comments such as "I can never drink it black; it's too strong for me."
It might be remarked that my drinking my coffee as I drink it is an indication that my palate is blunt and undiscriminating, that I have so abused my gustatory senses that only a sharp shock registers with them anymore--much as someone who listens to loud sounds loses the ability to hear soft ones. But it might also be remarked--and more accurately, I think--that my refusal to cover up the taste of brewed, burnt beans has left me better able to actually perceive that taste and to understand more finely the subtle distinctions among blends and roasts. And lest it be thought that I have made myself some sort of hyper-pretentious gourmand who scoffs at the plain thereby, let it be remarked that I do not buy for my deep daily drinking civet coffee or high-dollar exotic blends, but instead a common red-bagged coffee found easily in Louisiana and some few other places.
I drink other coffees, certainly, and I enjoy them. But I do not do so daily. I do not orient my life around being able to make it by coffee shops local and international. Instead, I brew a pot (or two, for a long day) at home as I have done for a decade and more, showing in it the working-class background that is mine. In it, I remain grounded in my origins, and I am glad of it.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query frenetic. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query frenetic. Sort by date Show all posts
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
20130826.1645
One of the things that living for a time away from my beloved wife has done is force me to cook for myself, since Stillwater does not offer quite so many options for delivery that The City does, and I have not got the money to eat out all the time, anyway (although that seems not to be stopping me from doing it more often than I ought to...). That has actually been a good thing for me, I think. It keeps me busy in the morning and in the evening. It makes me think ahead for the next day--since I have to let meat thaw out so that I can use it. And it makes me pay more attention to my food.
Those who have seen me can guess that food is something with which I am quite concerned. (Those who have seen me eat know to keep their hands clear of the loading area.) But I had not paid much attention to what was in it or its provenance until relatively recently. Cooking for myself has forced me to pay more attention yet to where my food comes from and what all is in it. I know, for instance, that the peaches I bought at the on-campus farmer's market last week came from the school (and they are tasty, so I am inclined to buy more of the school's produce). I know that the bratwurst that are in my freezer now (and which I will likely have before the week is done) are absent corn syrup, and that not all brats are so fortunate. Having the knowledge and acting upon it are helping me to be healthier, I think; I am not perhaps getting as much exercise as I should (although I will be working on that soon), but I am eating better, and that is helping me not lose as much as I otherwise likely would.
I am also necessarily paying closer attention to portion sizes. Cooking for one person is difficult, so I am cooking as if for two--but I am making two meals out of what I thus cook. One decently-sized chicken breast, for instance, feeds me for dinner one night and as part of breakfast the next. Or, when I cook bratwurst, I eat some with rice in the evening and some with eggs in the morning (and some dark bread, which goes so well with it). There is something nice in having leftovers as part of a hot breakfast the next day--heck, there is something about having a hot breakfast that I am enjoying greatly.
Living in The City, with the frenetic hustle of getting from home to work and back, I did not often have the opportunity to eat a decent meal in the morning. Usually, I would eat a bagel or a granola bar while walking to the subway station, and hot breakfasts were luxuries for the occasional lazy day that I did not sleep in too late to be able to afford to take the time to cook eggs and other things. Stillwater has helped me to be able to eat better in the mornings, to slow down with my food. I enjoy it more, certainly, and I cannot help but think that I am doing better with my food as a result, as well.
Those who have seen me can guess that food is something with which I am quite concerned. (Those who have seen me eat know to keep their hands clear of the loading area.) But I had not paid much attention to what was in it or its provenance until relatively recently. Cooking for myself has forced me to pay more attention yet to where my food comes from and what all is in it. I know, for instance, that the peaches I bought at the on-campus farmer's market last week came from the school (and they are tasty, so I am inclined to buy more of the school's produce). I know that the bratwurst that are in my freezer now (and which I will likely have before the week is done) are absent corn syrup, and that not all brats are so fortunate. Having the knowledge and acting upon it are helping me to be healthier, I think; I am not perhaps getting as much exercise as I should (although I will be working on that soon), but I am eating better, and that is helping me not lose as much as I otherwise likely would.
I am also necessarily paying closer attention to portion sizes. Cooking for one person is difficult, so I am cooking as if for two--but I am making two meals out of what I thus cook. One decently-sized chicken breast, for instance, feeds me for dinner one night and as part of breakfast the next. Or, when I cook bratwurst, I eat some with rice in the evening and some with eggs in the morning (and some dark bread, which goes so well with it). There is something nice in having leftovers as part of a hot breakfast the next day--heck, there is something about having a hot breakfast that I am enjoying greatly.
Living in The City, with the frenetic hustle of getting from home to work and back, I did not often have the opportunity to eat a decent meal in the morning. Usually, I would eat a bagel or a granola bar while walking to the subway station, and hot breakfasts were luxuries for the occasional lazy day that I did not sleep in too late to be able to afford to take the time to cook eggs and other things. Stillwater has helped me to be able to eat better in the mornings, to slow down with my food. I enjoy it more, certainly, and I cannot help but think that I am doing better with my food as a result, as well.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
20140105.0818
A blanket of snow shrouds Sherwood Cottage and the houses and streets surrounding it, setting into stark relief against its stunning background the few blades of grass that poke up from it and the walls of houses protected by their eaves. There is a peaceful quiet greater than that typical of mornings in this place; the snow serves to silence much, both in itself and in it prompting the dwellers of the wind-swept plains to remain in their own homes, where their sounds do not reach my ears. And I relish it.
In the outer silence, I am able to reach out within my home with all of my senses; I can sit and simply feel the house. I hear the susurration of the space heater in the bedroom where my wife still sleeps, the high electric whisper of current being forced through gas in my desk lamp and the magnetic oscillations my computer and its screen produce. I know that each cat does his own piece, with one even now padding softly towards the bedroom and another contemplating mischief; the third is on the floor where the heater discharges, waiting for the warmth to return.
I feel more than hear the house breathing. My wife and I have done much to insulate the old windows, but air still moves even if the wall furnace is not blowing. The doors, I think, which must remain passable--I have to be able to get out with a shovel somehow--are its bronchia, its spiracles. There is the sense that this place, though an older house and abused by its former tenants, is yet alive, still struggling on more through resignation to continuance than through defiance or in response to love. (And I think again of Bedfordside Garden, in which my wife and I were the first tenants, and which flourished because of love.)
And this place has been abused; the marks of it are more plain than bruises, for bruises fade with the body's ability to heal, and a house cannot make itself whole again. Its wounds have been patched in part, and its blemishes covered over, but they still remain. I can see that college students who did not know how to hold a house have lived here; I can see it in the results of inattention to fixtures and the one strange stain in the carpet that remains, and in the dorm-room-drab paint that is on the walls that are painted (over many layers of other colors that show where the paint has peeled away). I can see it, too, in the burns and bullet holes on the accompanying garage, and I wonder what else I will find.
Sherwood Cottage has been good to me and mine, and I thank the house for it. It has served as a refuge from the frenetic furor of The City, permitting space in which to heal myself from what I did to myself therein, and I appreciate it. It will serve as the first home for my beloved child yet to come, and I cannot help but be grateful. But it is a place I know I will not be in long, and so although I do extend myself outward to feel what is here, to find the limits of this space amid the snowy world surrounding it, I will not extend deeply into it. I respect it and I maintain it, and I work in my small and inexpert way to improve it, but this is not my forever home; my time here is limited, and so I am not settling here.
For now, though, I know its limits, I know mine, and I will work within them in the snow-made quiet.
In the outer silence, I am able to reach out within my home with all of my senses; I can sit and simply feel the house. I hear the susurration of the space heater in the bedroom where my wife still sleeps, the high electric whisper of current being forced through gas in my desk lamp and the magnetic oscillations my computer and its screen produce. I know that each cat does his own piece, with one even now padding softly towards the bedroom and another contemplating mischief; the third is on the floor where the heater discharges, waiting for the warmth to return.
I feel more than hear the house breathing. My wife and I have done much to insulate the old windows, but air still moves even if the wall furnace is not blowing. The doors, I think, which must remain passable--I have to be able to get out with a shovel somehow--are its bronchia, its spiracles. There is the sense that this place, though an older house and abused by its former tenants, is yet alive, still struggling on more through resignation to continuance than through defiance or in response to love. (And I think again of Bedfordside Garden, in which my wife and I were the first tenants, and which flourished because of love.)
And this place has been abused; the marks of it are more plain than bruises, for bruises fade with the body's ability to heal, and a house cannot make itself whole again. Its wounds have been patched in part, and its blemishes covered over, but they still remain. I can see that college students who did not know how to hold a house have lived here; I can see it in the results of inattention to fixtures and the one strange stain in the carpet that remains, and in the dorm-room-drab paint that is on the walls that are painted (over many layers of other colors that show where the paint has peeled away). I can see it, too, in the burns and bullet holes on the accompanying garage, and I wonder what else I will find.
Sherwood Cottage has been good to me and mine, and I thank the house for it. It has served as a refuge from the frenetic furor of The City, permitting space in which to heal myself from what I did to myself therein, and I appreciate it. It will serve as the first home for my beloved child yet to come, and I cannot help but be grateful. But it is a place I know I will not be in long, and so although I do extend myself outward to feel what is here, to find the limits of this space amid the snowy world surrounding it, I will not extend deeply into it. I respect it and I maintain it, and I work in my small and inexpert way to improve it, but this is not my forever home; my time here is limited, and so I am not settling here.
For now, though, I know its limits, I know mine, and I will work within them in the snow-made quiet.
Monday, May 20, 2013
20130520.0720
It would seem that the return to work is also prompting a return to some of my less-than-good habits, as evidenced by my lack of work in this venue. I think it tends to give the lie to the idea that teachers do not work; the time and energy I devoted to maintaining my online presence while I was out of work is more than taken up by the tasks of work. And it is not only this venue that suffers thereby; another few projects of mine have not gotten updated as they ought to be. This is not at all to say that I would rather be out of work, however; I can make time for things in and around my teaching schedule, if I but pay attention and apply myself diligently.
There may be some problems with my doing so in the short term, however. I am dealing with either allergies or an emergent sinus infection, which has me at something other than my best right now. Feeling feverish at odd intervals is hardly optimal, and the drugs that might help to manage some of the symptoms have an unfortunate tendency to make me light-headed and somewhat...detached from my body, so that they are hardly ideal, themselves. What I am able to muster, I have to attend to familial concerns, as my in-laws are in The City. I get along with them more or less well anymore, but having company always imposes some responsibilities, and attending to them necessarily takes me away from some of the other things I do during my non-working hours.
I write now because the time is open and available. There are advantages to being a morning person, after all.
One of them is that, even in The City, there is a sense of quiet in the morning. The streets are not deserted, perhaps, but they are far from heavily occupied, either afoot or in vehicle. The air is still cool (although damp today), and the sun, as it begins to glimmer over the too tall buildings of too densely packed humanity, fosters a growing glow amid the concrete, glass, and steel. That it s enjoyed by so few, either because they are yet abed or are else ant-like and scurrying to and fro, frenetic in their miles-long tunnels and corridors, is a sad thing to consider.
So, too, that I shall join them soon. But less so, in that I have again a job to do.
There may be some problems with my doing so in the short term, however. I am dealing with either allergies or an emergent sinus infection, which has me at something other than my best right now. Feeling feverish at odd intervals is hardly optimal, and the drugs that might help to manage some of the symptoms have an unfortunate tendency to make me light-headed and somewhat...detached from my body, so that they are hardly ideal, themselves. What I am able to muster, I have to attend to familial concerns, as my in-laws are in The City. I get along with them more or less well anymore, but having company always imposes some responsibilities, and attending to them necessarily takes me away from some of the other things I do during my non-working hours.
I write now because the time is open and available. There are advantages to being a morning person, after all.
One of them is that, even in The City, there is a sense of quiet in the morning. The streets are not deserted, perhaps, but they are far from heavily occupied, either afoot or in vehicle. The air is still cool (although damp today), and the sun, as it begins to glimmer over the too tall buildings of too densely packed humanity, fosters a growing glow amid the concrete, glass, and steel. That it s enjoyed by so few, either because they are yet abed or are else ant-like and scurrying to and fro, frenetic in their miles-long tunnels and corridors, is a sad thing to consider.
So, too, that I shall join them soon. But less so, in that I have again a job to do.
Monday, October 28, 2013
20131028.0617
I have commented about being a morning person before (referenced here), about the joys of being awake and aware in the early quiet and cool. I enjoy the feeling of the first cup of coffee taking effect on me (and I think there may be a poem in there somewhere). I do my best work in the mornings, really, while I can focus intently upon the tasks facing me and have the pressure of a deadline to motivate me. The blog happens as it does because I have to go to work, and so I cannot spend quite so much time on it as I might otherwise do; I am obliged to develop ideas quickly and efficiently if I am going to get my words out into the world. Preparation for my classes happens similarly; I only have so much time at the office before I must head down to my assigned room to greet the students, so I must act quickly to put together ideas for them.
Even so, I confess that I do not snap awake of my own accord (often, anymore). Usually, I set an alarm, and it is the alarm that wakes me. Or it tries to do so; like most alarm clocks, mine has a snooze button, and there are days I avail myself of it. I do so most days, in fact, including this morning. (I am fortunate that the snooze timer is a scant five minutes and that I do not know how to adjust it. It prevents me from falling all the way back to sleep, so the repeated alarm is less jarring. Did I know how to reset the thing, I might still be abed.)
That I have already begun using my snooze button this week--and I have yet to have gone to work--can bespeak several things. It could suggest that I am in anticipation of fatherhood (as I am) and am in practice for not getting enough sleep; I remember many nights in my youth that my father was awake after I went to bed and was already dressed by the time I rolled out of it (usually because he came and woke me up), and I have heard the words of other fathers (I work and have worked with many), so I expect that full nights of sleep will become rare and precious. It could suggest that I am still in some form of recovery from the exertions of The City, with its frenetic pace and affectedly arrogant attitudes; it is a commonplace that New York City grinds people down, and while I think I may have been more of gristle than grist, I was not unaffected by the millstones of Manhattan avenues. And it could suggest that I am lazy, an indolent intellectual (like most of that breed, else why would we prefer scholarship to "real, honest" work?), loafing at my ease (as the poet has it) rather than actually getting going and doing something useful for something other than mimetic Onanism.
That I think the second most accurate does not mean that it is.
Even so, I confess that I do not snap awake of my own accord (often, anymore). Usually, I set an alarm, and it is the alarm that wakes me. Or it tries to do so; like most alarm clocks, mine has a snooze button, and there are days I avail myself of it. I do so most days, in fact, including this morning. (I am fortunate that the snooze timer is a scant five minutes and that I do not know how to adjust it. It prevents me from falling all the way back to sleep, so the repeated alarm is less jarring. Did I know how to reset the thing, I might still be abed.)
That I have already begun using my snooze button this week--and I have yet to have gone to work--can bespeak several things. It could suggest that I am in anticipation of fatherhood (as I am) and am in practice for not getting enough sleep; I remember many nights in my youth that my father was awake after I went to bed and was already dressed by the time I rolled out of it (usually because he came and woke me up), and I have heard the words of other fathers (I work and have worked with many), so I expect that full nights of sleep will become rare and precious. It could suggest that I am still in some form of recovery from the exertions of The City, with its frenetic pace and affectedly arrogant attitudes; it is a commonplace that New York City grinds people down, and while I think I may have been more of gristle than grist, I was not unaffected by the millstones of Manhattan avenues. And it could suggest that I am lazy, an indolent intellectual (like most of that breed, else why would we prefer scholarship to "real, honest" work?), loafing at my ease (as the poet has it) rather than actually getting going and doing something useful for something other than mimetic Onanism.
That I think the second most accurate does not mean that it is.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
20131121.0628
I have commented once or twice before about my coffee-drinking habits. They began early in my life and have continued since, including while I was working in a campus coffee shop at my undergraduate school and through my graduate work. Indeed, I would not have been able to complete my dissertation as I did without the black brew; most of the third chapter was composed in a caffeine-fueled haze of frenetic productivity. Similar phenomena have marked much of my academic career; I have often ramped up my caffeine intake in the hopes of speeding myself along to success in the classroom and in the outside work that supports it. While I have not perhaps been as successful as I should like, I have not failed as badly as I have feared to do.
But there is a cost to the method. Caffeine is a stimulant, an artificial means to accelerate body and mind, and its effects only last a short while. When they wear off, many people are left with less than they had before taking it in of vitality and energy; they crash at the end of the ride. For many years, I was able to stave off the crash by taking in more caffeine, having another cup of coffee (and another, and another...), each one boosting me less until I came to a cup that did not matter; I drank it and went to sleep. But with the resilience of youth, I woke up the next morning in fine form, ready to start the day again...and to resume my coffee drinking in earnest. I knew myself to be addicted, and I still know myself to be, but I know also that I cannot maintain quite the pace of consumption that I used to even if I still feel the need for it to make my way in the academic world.
I still drink coffee on working days, about a pot of the stuff from home and one or two cups at the office during the day. On my days off, however, I have been switching more to tea (I drink Darjeeling by preference). I am still able to feel the influx of caffeine into my body when I drink it, staving off the ponding headaches that would come from its lack (I noted my addiction), but I do not suffer the...drawbacks of the caffeine rush quite so badly, if at all. Perhaps it is because hot tea must be drunk more slowly than I quaff my coffee. Perhaps it is because the production cycle is a bit slower, as well. And perhaps it is the case that the other components of the tea that are much touted--soothing chemicals that emerge from the leaves when brewed--work upon me, keeping my heart from racing although it quickens, preventing my body from burning through its ready resources in short order while still sharpening the mind.
It seems to be helping matters somewhat. I am feeling better on my (few, and growing fewer) days off than had been the case before, so I will keep doing what I am doing for a while.
But there is a cost to the method. Caffeine is a stimulant, an artificial means to accelerate body and mind, and its effects only last a short while. When they wear off, many people are left with less than they had before taking it in of vitality and energy; they crash at the end of the ride. For many years, I was able to stave off the crash by taking in more caffeine, having another cup of coffee (and another, and another...), each one boosting me less until I came to a cup that did not matter; I drank it and went to sleep. But with the resilience of youth, I woke up the next morning in fine form, ready to start the day again...and to resume my coffee drinking in earnest. I knew myself to be addicted, and I still know myself to be, but I know also that I cannot maintain quite the pace of consumption that I used to even if I still feel the need for it to make my way in the academic world.
I still drink coffee on working days, about a pot of the stuff from home and one or two cups at the office during the day. On my days off, however, I have been switching more to tea (I drink Darjeeling by preference). I am still able to feel the influx of caffeine into my body when I drink it, staving off the ponding headaches that would come from its lack (I noted my addiction), but I do not suffer the...drawbacks of the caffeine rush quite so badly, if at all. Perhaps it is because hot tea must be drunk more slowly than I quaff my coffee. Perhaps it is because the production cycle is a bit slower, as well. And perhaps it is the case that the other components of the tea that are much touted--soothing chemicals that emerge from the leaves when brewed--work upon me, keeping my heart from racing although it quickens, preventing my body from burning through its ready resources in short order while still sharpening the mind.
It seems to be helping matters somewhat. I am feeling better on my (few, and growing fewer) days off than had been the case before, so I will keep doing what I am doing for a while.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
20130602.0957
This morning, I read Robin Hobb's The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince. The text expands upon a narrative thread referenced (among others) in one of the commentaries that Hobb uses to introduce chapters in her Six Duchies novels--in this case, an excerpt from the "Legend of the Piebald Prince" (Royal 641-42). In doing so, The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince does seem to engage in a bit of a temporal paradox, but even so, it offers an entertaining and well written story that offers a useful glimpse of the implied history of the Six Duchies.
That the tale suggests its narrator is somehow aware of future events is noted fairly early in the novella. The narrator remarks on the name of a character: "His name was Lostler. Now some will say that his name was Sly, and some will even call him Sly o' the Wit when they sing of him. I never heard him called by such a name" (38-39). The name is the same by which the character is referenced in the "Legend," and while it is true that the perceptions of names change over time (as Hobb addresses elsewhere in her Six Duchies corpus), the change seems a bit too rapid to be described as taking place within the frame of the novella. The narrator reports events she witnessed, marking the shift as taking place within living memory--and the change from "Lostler" to "Sly" is a bit much for one or two generations of speakers to make. It suggests, rather, a bit of narrative slippage, and one consonant with the awareness of future time the Willful narrator exhibits from the beginning of the text (9).
Even so, Hobb writes an excellent story, one well worth the short time taken to read it (my copy offers less than 175 pages of text, and that in a large and easily-read print). The narrative voice is again in the first-person retrospective that typifies much of Hobb's corpus, a humanizing gesture that does much to foster willing suspension of disbelief. The suspension is further eased by the ample establishment of the narrator's particular authority to discuss the matter; the repeated insistence on providing a true and faithful account is one likely to ring true for early twenty-first century readers who are themselves concerned with offering what may be taken as authoritative assertions of personal and historical authenticity.
In addition, Hobb continues to work in The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince to present whole, detailed characters, rather than the flat archetypes too frequently present in fantasy literature. Each of the prime actors in the text is possessed of sensible motivations, qualities that are themselves virtuous, and all too human flaws that render those virtues far less at times. In brief, those in the text read as people, rather than as mere characters or caricatures; there is an evident sense of history and doings unseen in the narrative yet present and relevant somehow to the main story presented in the text. It is quite compelling.
Of particular note to me is that the text avoids a flaw I have unfortunately had to point out in some of Hobb's other work. Although the novella is rather short, it does not feel unduly rushed. The denouement is brief, yes, but its brevity makes sense, in terms both of form and of content. It is swift but not frenetic, which I appreciate greatly. And if it is the case that a particular plot point at the end of the book is fairly common, it is one that is foreshadowed within the text itself and in some of the comments in earlier volumes of the Six Duchies works, so that it feels and organic part of the text rather than something forced into it.
Also, Hobb again manages to address social issues in the work. Queer studies will have something to say about The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince no less than other works in the Six Duchies milieu, as will gender studies. Marxist criticism is likely to be particularly applicable to the text, as well. The question of what certain major threads of the Six Duchies milieu signify is also further complicated by the text, so that my own work with Hobb's corpus will find more to do--and I appreciate having tasks to which to turn my mind.
Works Cited
~Hobb, Robin. Royal Assassin. New York: Bantam, 1997. Print.
~---. The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince. Illus. Jon Foster. Burton, MI: Subterranean Press, 2013. Print.
That the tale suggests its narrator is somehow aware of future events is noted fairly early in the novella. The narrator remarks on the name of a character: "His name was Lostler. Now some will say that his name was Sly, and some will even call him Sly o' the Wit when they sing of him. I never heard him called by such a name" (38-39). The name is the same by which the character is referenced in the "Legend," and while it is true that the perceptions of names change over time (as Hobb addresses elsewhere in her Six Duchies corpus), the change seems a bit too rapid to be described as taking place within the frame of the novella. The narrator reports events she witnessed, marking the shift as taking place within living memory--and the change from "Lostler" to "Sly" is a bit much for one or two generations of speakers to make. It suggests, rather, a bit of narrative slippage, and one consonant with the awareness of future time the Willful narrator exhibits from the beginning of the text (9).
Even so, Hobb writes an excellent story, one well worth the short time taken to read it (my copy offers less than 175 pages of text, and that in a large and easily-read print). The narrative voice is again in the first-person retrospective that typifies much of Hobb's corpus, a humanizing gesture that does much to foster willing suspension of disbelief. The suspension is further eased by the ample establishment of the narrator's particular authority to discuss the matter; the repeated insistence on providing a true and faithful account is one likely to ring true for early twenty-first century readers who are themselves concerned with offering what may be taken as authoritative assertions of personal and historical authenticity.
In addition, Hobb continues to work in The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince to present whole, detailed characters, rather than the flat archetypes too frequently present in fantasy literature. Each of the prime actors in the text is possessed of sensible motivations, qualities that are themselves virtuous, and all too human flaws that render those virtues far less at times. In brief, those in the text read as people, rather than as mere characters or caricatures; there is an evident sense of history and doings unseen in the narrative yet present and relevant somehow to the main story presented in the text. It is quite compelling.
Of particular note to me is that the text avoids a flaw I have unfortunately had to point out in some of Hobb's other work. Although the novella is rather short, it does not feel unduly rushed. The denouement is brief, yes, but its brevity makes sense, in terms both of form and of content. It is swift but not frenetic, which I appreciate greatly. And if it is the case that a particular plot point at the end of the book is fairly common, it is one that is foreshadowed within the text itself and in some of the comments in earlier volumes of the Six Duchies works, so that it feels and organic part of the text rather than something forced into it.
Also, Hobb again manages to address social issues in the work. Queer studies will have something to say about The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince no less than other works in the Six Duchies milieu, as will gender studies. Marxist criticism is likely to be particularly applicable to the text, as well. The question of what certain major threads of the Six Duchies milieu signify is also further complicated by the text, so that my own work with Hobb's corpus will find more to do--and I appreciate having tasks to which to turn my mind.
Works Cited
~Hobb, Robin. Royal Assassin. New York: Bantam, 1997. Print.
~---. The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince. Illus. Jon Foster. Burton, MI: Subterranean Press, 2013. Print.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
20140223.0722
Now that the girl is home and things can actually begin to take on some semblance of normalcy,* I can actually take a few minutes to sit and write, if not so many as might be hoped. I have wanted to do so over the past few days--I feel something of the Good Doctor's dictum about reasons for writing--but the frenetic pace since Wednesday has prevented me from doing more than a very little. And not only in the sharp limits on the amount of time that I may spend in writing amid feeding and changing the kid have I felt it; my mind has been, appropriately, otherwise occupied. (How much better now do I understand Woolf's discussion of one's own room! I had intellectually engaged with the idea before, but the taste of things I have had in the past few days...the visceral experience matters.)
One thing that the past few days have shown me is just how delicately balanced daily life is, how contingent upon things being just as they are and "ought to be." Being away from things for the few days I was left much undone or done badly because done in extreme haste--and the things normally done by others, such as my wife (not because of any demands I place upon her in my own person, but because she decides that they are what she wants to do for me and for us, as I do such things for her and for us), were in similar state. Realignment from them and returns to smooth operations, adjusted for the presence in the household of another (and it is strange and terrifying to find myself a parent), will take some time.
Even so, it is happening. With the help of a great many people, we are getting adjusted to this new way of living, and I am well aware that we will be doing so for the rest of our lives.
*I know that there are going to be...adjustments made with the newborn at home. But it is far better to have to deal with those adjustments here than to try to do them running between Sherwood Cottage and the hospital. That we need not do so is what I mean by the semblance of normalcy.
One thing that the past few days have shown me is just how delicately balanced daily life is, how contingent upon things being just as they are and "ought to be." Being away from things for the few days I was left much undone or done badly because done in extreme haste--and the things normally done by others, such as my wife (not because of any demands I place upon her in my own person, but because she decides that they are what she wants to do for me and for us, as I do such things for her and for us), were in similar state. Realignment from them and returns to smooth operations, adjusted for the presence in the household of another (and it is strange and terrifying to find myself a parent), will take some time.
Even so, it is happening. With the help of a great many people, we are getting adjusted to this new way of living, and I am well aware that we will be doing so for the rest of our lives.
*I know that there are going to be...adjustments made with the newborn at home. But it is far better to have to deal with those adjustments here than to try to do them running between Sherwood Cottage and the hospital. That we need not do so is what I mean by the semblance of normalcy.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
20140318.0832
I am not hung over. I did sleep in a bit, but that was as much because I am not at work this week (although I am working) as for any other reason. And I had to feed the baby.
I first subscribed to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in the autumn of 1999. The magazine still published eleven issues a year, then, and I read them voraciously through the end of my high school career (I graduated in 2000*) and throughout my undergraduate studies (all five years of them). Once I reached graduate school, however, I slowed a bit--not because I read less, but because I had to read so much more of other things. I had to fill my mind with Beowulf and Chaucer and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Malory, with Shakespeare and Shakespeare and Shakespeare, with Milton and Donne and Addison and Steele, with Bradstreet and Wheatley and Emerson and Thoreau and Twain. I had not the time for the still-pulp pages of pop culture products (although I did still get to read much of what I wanted to read, as my research history suggests).
In The City, the frenetic pace of life and of teaching my teaching load and working on my dissertation continued to crowd out my poring over the pages of the magazines. (Matters were not eased by the lack of space to keep them on the shelves.) While I did have time to read most days, that time was taken up by reading the scholarly journals with which I stayed abreast of the best practices in my field or, less frequently, local newspapers so that I could have some small idea of what was going on in the world around me. (Being much in the lower levels of the ivory tower, I do not get to see much. I imagine that those in the upper levels do not often look, some for being engrossed in their work on The Work, others for fear.) Seldom was my reading the kind of reading done for pleasure; while I enjoy the work I do, there is a difference between reading scholarship and reading for fun, just as there is a difference between working on construction sites and building small models.
It is only recently at Sherwood Cottage that I have actually been reading issues of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction as they have reached me. (I still have not gotten into the backlog.) I have been greatly eased by doing so, and not only because it "takes me back" (a phrasing implying a nostalgia I know I should not feel). The writing is good, the stories entertaining, the characters engaging, and the part of me that works on The Work wants to work with some of the series of stories that pop up in issues across the nearly fifteen years I have been reading the thing. Each bespeaks the reading as a thing worth doing, and there is some comfort in knowing that what is done is worth the doing. This is particularly true for those of us who work in the academic humanities, so often told that our efforts are of no account that parts of our own minds speak against us.
*It is, to my knowledge, the only year that graduation at my high school was rained out. There is a metaphor in there somewhere, I am certain.
I first subscribed to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in the autumn of 1999. The magazine still published eleven issues a year, then, and I read them voraciously through the end of my high school career (I graduated in 2000*) and throughout my undergraduate studies (all five years of them). Once I reached graduate school, however, I slowed a bit--not because I read less, but because I had to read so much more of other things. I had to fill my mind with Beowulf and Chaucer and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Malory, with Shakespeare and Shakespeare and Shakespeare, with Milton and Donne and Addison and Steele, with Bradstreet and Wheatley and Emerson and Thoreau and Twain. I had not the time for the still-pulp pages of pop culture products (although I did still get to read much of what I wanted to read, as my research history suggests).
In The City, the frenetic pace of life and of teaching my teaching load and working on my dissertation continued to crowd out my poring over the pages of the magazines. (Matters were not eased by the lack of space to keep them on the shelves.) While I did have time to read most days, that time was taken up by reading the scholarly journals with which I stayed abreast of the best practices in my field or, less frequently, local newspapers so that I could have some small idea of what was going on in the world around me. (Being much in the lower levels of the ivory tower, I do not get to see much. I imagine that those in the upper levels do not often look, some for being engrossed in their work on The Work, others for fear.) Seldom was my reading the kind of reading done for pleasure; while I enjoy the work I do, there is a difference between reading scholarship and reading for fun, just as there is a difference between working on construction sites and building small models.
It is only recently at Sherwood Cottage that I have actually been reading issues of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction as they have reached me. (I still have not gotten into the backlog.) I have been greatly eased by doing so, and not only because it "takes me back" (a phrasing implying a nostalgia I know I should not feel). The writing is good, the stories entertaining, the characters engaging, and the part of me that works on The Work wants to work with some of the series of stories that pop up in issues across the nearly fifteen years I have been reading the thing. Each bespeaks the reading as a thing worth doing, and there is some comfort in knowing that what is done is worth the doing. This is particularly true for those of us who work in the academic humanities, so often told that our efforts are of no account that parts of our own minds speak against us.
*It is, to my knowledge, the only year that graduation at my high school was rained out. There is a metaphor in there somewhere, I am certain.
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