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Sep. 21st, 2006 02:56 amMy term is extraordinarily American. Not only am I back, and in a corner where the subtext of many local conversations seems to be--
A: Hello. America?
B: America.
A: America!
B: America! Goodbye.
--but I'm somehow taking American history, American literature, and the American literature that's the prerequisite of that one. The grammar class too feels rather American, by osmosis. Then there's the snatches of Underworld and The Civil War in rare free hours. And American political TV which is absurdly addictive even when you hate everyone involved.
I read around in Emerson almost daily for a few seasons, but this is my first time straight through some of his early essays. His dislike of Shelley seems increasingly bizarre--several of Shelley's non-narrative strains (Intellectual Beauty, Defence etc.) are reborn in young Emerson. Even the language is remarkably close.
And I'm drunk on it. I can't remember which essay I'm reading, usually. Phrases and paragraphs are so strong that, even when numbered, I forget the sequence or overarching argument. The living picture, what he's after, gets sharper as you move into the Essays proper. By Self-Reliance and Circles he's mastered his game, there's nothing you can help admiring.
His early addresses fascinate especially for how many paragraphs could have been written by Bloom...almost. And Emerson anticipates completely the initially infuriating, ultimately endearing Bloomian trick of overstating ridiculously and then trailing entirely, savingly adequate qualifications across the next few pages/chapters.
The great thing about gnosticism is you don't have to believe in it. There is something happier than the present or typical way things are--that's all you have to subscribe to. Short of a positive faith in doom, a stance even Beckett had trouble staying firm in, this is a default position, something you're already doing when you've lost faith in whatever else. It's almost a rephrasing of depression: I know it can be better. But that very rephrasing is a radical recentering. Once put it thus and you're in the middle again, whether seeking or waiting, and the world distills to useful and useless flavors. The knowledge that something will come is fed by all comings, takes body and life within time.
It's living from the middle, really, from the self-evidence that you matter, rather than reasons you might matter.
A: Hello. America?
B: America.
A: America!
B: America! Goodbye.
--but I'm somehow taking American history, American literature, and the American literature that's the prerequisite of that one. The grammar class too feels rather American, by osmosis. Then there's the snatches of Underworld and The Civil War in rare free hours. And American political TV which is absurdly addictive even when you hate everyone involved.
I read around in Emerson almost daily for a few seasons, but this is my first time straight through some of his early essays. His dislike of Shelley seems increasingly bizarre--several of Shelley's non-narrative strains (Intellectual Beauty, Defence etc.) are reborn in young Emerson. Even the language is remarkably close.
And I'm drunk on it. I can't remember which essay I'm reading, usually. Phrases and paragraphs are so strong that, even when numbered, I forget the sequence or overarching argument. The living picture, what he's after, gets sharper as you move into the Essays proper. By Self-Reliance and Circles he's mastered his game, there's nothing you can help admiring.
His early addresses fascinate especially for how many paragraphs could have been written by Bloom...almost. And Emerson anticipates completely the initially infuriating, ultimately endearing Bloomian trick of overstating ridiculously and then trailing entirely, savingly adequate qualifications across the next few pages/chapters.
The great thing about gnosticism is you don't have to believe in it. There is something happier than the present or typical way things are--that's all you have to subscribe to. Short of a positive faith in doom, a stance even Beckett had trouble staying firm in, this is a default position, something you're already doing when you've lost faith in whatever else. It's almost a rephrasing of depression: I know it can be better. But that very rephrasing is a radical recentering. Once put it thus and you're in the middle again, whether seeking or waiting, and the world distills to useful and useless flavors. The knowledge that something will come is fed by all comings, takes body and life within time.
It's living from the middle, really, from the self-evidence that you matter, rather than reasons you might matter.
