“It” being The Forms of Youth, a.k.a. my new critical book.
The link above gives you the Columbia page for the book, and puts you one click away from a PDF of the introduction; you can also buy it through Amazon, or ask Powell’s why it costs way more to buy it from Powell’s. Go, little book…
Primary language acquisition is awesome. So are the beginnings of learning to read. Especially when they take place at the same time. Some of Nathan’s recent hits:
–Our shower dial, according to N, has two words on it: “NO” and “OFF.”
–When I came into his bedroom after he woke up from his nap, I said to him, “Somebody’s awake,” and he said “Nathan!”
–When I told him his crayon drawings were “Not bad!” he said “That bad!” We now have a game very like the “No”/”Yes” game: I say “Not bad!” and he says “That bad!” Over and over.
–The empty shampoo bottle he plays with in the bath says “NEW” on its side. He wanted to know what it said. I said “New.” He said “New.” I said “New means it hasn’t been there for a long time.” He said “Time.” But what is time? If no one ask of me, I know; if I wish to explain to him who asks, I know not.
–When he’s not learning words he likes to watch cute animals on the internet, which is how we discovered the Korean video version of Krazy Kat. (Click the link on “Pucca Is” and then one of the buttons in English to see what I mean.)
–More verbal behavior shortly, including, perhaps, a guide to our new favorite piglet. Nathan asks for her by name. Constantly. (And, so far, I don’t mind.)
There’s nothing like reading weepy 1950s sf about the end of the world to make you briefly weepy, sentimental, confused and distractable.
On the other hand, there are few kinds of nonfiction prose more exhilarating, frustrating, consoling and thought-provoking– yes, all those qualities at once– than the essays and speculations of William Carlos Williams: in between waits for a bus and waits for the photocopier this morning I have been reading The Embodiment of Knowledge, and quite apart from the scholarly uses I expect to make of it this month, it’s got some remarkable bits of quotable prose, viz.:
“Science is a sham to him who sees his city destroyed by gunfire. Philosophy is a cheat to him who has lost that which he loves and knows no better than to weep. Poetry at such moments is terrible, an overwhelming summation of life and the world– never perhaps to be set down, the type of a peculiarly humane knowledge.” (Note how Williams seems about to make an unsustainable claim for actual poems’ ability to sustain and console us– and then tells us that no such poems exist, that the “poetry” which could do all these things is not the kind you can read.)
And: “our schools are based on the principle of a consued mass striving for the unseen summit of a topless cone– and that alone real.”
And: “”Afraid lest he be caught in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated– thrown aside– a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.” (Not just a man: anyone? Any man?)
For more and better quotations (from novelists and science writers, mostly) just keep reading Jenny, to whom this post constitutes a sort of homage.
Steve has been holding down the blog-fort for a while. I’ve been too consumed by household stuff to think of sitting down at the computer to post. Today the distraction of television presented itself, wresting me away from the process of putting together Ikea furniture.
Which brings to mind this exchange:
Nathan: Kee-ya! Kee-ya! Kee-ya!
Steve: Did you go to Ikea?
Nathan: No.
Steve: Who went to Ikea?
Nathan: Mommy!
Steve: What did Mommy get at Ikea?
Nathan: Daddy!
Dan came over with his son Louie this morning, bearing yummy scones for breakfast and, as an added bonus, beautiful purple and yellow tomatoes (perhaps in an homage to the Vikings?). We ate the tomatoes tonight with freshly-made mozzarella from the Belmont Farmer’s Market and basil from our very first box from Boston Organics. For $37 a week, they will be delivering a great big box of organic produce to our door! Definitely one of the perks of moving here.
It’s been strange reading and listening to coverage of the bridge collapse. We drove over that bridge several times a week, usually on my way to and from work and often with Nathan in tow for day care. Very scary stuff.
This time, they’re art: Monday we saw an exhibit of (on? for? about?) Joseph Cornell. We journeyed to the traveling show in Salem with J and (unexpectedly) C and her friend from Brooklyn, A. We, um, like him. (We like J, and C, and A, as well.)
More here. Why don’t they sell posters?
Today– after two weeks!– we’re finally going to be able to watch television. Or, as I sometimes think of it, watch television. I plan– in all seriousness– to learn a bit more about how to lecture effectively as we, on occasion, watch television.
Bunch of new poetry-related projects: watch this space for updates as confirmations, contracts, denials, and such-like come in.