Do not be fooled by the beauty of the written word. Readers accustomed to attractive words on paper assume that they just show up like Alicia Wallace[1], an endearing 30 minutes late to the
prom. There they are: refined, unassuming, and impossibly beautiful to onlookers. And why is the perfect song always playing when they walk in? It’s like Bryan Adams gets a kick back from these people…and words. But don’t be fooled. Words, like Alicia, only show themselves after a brutal regimen of make-up and self-doubt. The ruse does not last, though. All songs fade. The veneer on transcendent prose is easily scratched. Scrutiny cuts like a knife, Bryan.
Stimulating words are born of throbbing fingers.[2] In the Medieval period[3] Peter Abelard wrote, 'Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, since it is a dangerous and contagious disease'.[4] I like that he used the word ‘disease’. Once contracted, the malady tortures the mind until it has no choice but to deliver a few words.[5] I also like that he made the disease communicable. I am more prone to write after reading something well-written.
The pain is why I am so intimidated by, and attracted to, writing. As men say, writing introduces men to the agony of childbirth. Yes, as I watched my wife give birth to our beautiful daughter I whispered to her, my hushed tones barely audible through the screams. ‘Honey, one day I’ll write a book. Then we shall bond through our shared birthing pain. Except, there’s no epidural for me. I’m just saying.’ It just felt right.[6]
All of that to say I am spellbound by poignant sentences. I know that sounds a bit pedestrian. But its true. Recently, Krisy and I were watching television when a promo reminded me of my obsession. The featured program chronicled the lives of parents raising physically challenged children. Like most commercials, it was fast paced and full of one-liners. But just at the end, a mother’s face filled the screen as a man asked what her daughter meant to her. The middle-classed soccer mom sighed, ‘She is the maker of me’. To be sure, there are theological problems with that sentence. Though I don’t think it was intended as a theological treatise. It was an imprecise, off-the-cuff, reaction to a question. And it took my breath away.
I don’t think I have ever written a truly poignant sentence.[7] Maybe on my death bed I can pen something that will make people tear up. If I had truly mentioned a ‘shared birthing bond’ to my bride, I would have already had this opportunity. When that day does come, I could probably just write, ‘It’s true. Dying, easy. Comedy, less so’. Its no ‘flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’ but my family would probably laugh through their tears. Poignancy at last! But then death has always had a way of bringing out the best in writers. However, Walt Whitman did not think last words were necessarily the best:
Why do folks dwell so fondly on the last words, advice, appearance, of the departing? Those last words are not samples of the best, which involve vitality at its full, and balance, and perfect control and scope. But they are valuable beyond measure to confirm and endorse the varied train, facts, theories and faith of the whole preceding life. [8]
His partial distrust of last words foreshadowed his own. He simply asked his nurse to shift him to his other side. There must be more to good writing than weighty circumstances.
I am aware of the obstacles to good writing as I type this. I am sitting at a table for two in Edinburgh’s Old Town. Having recently purchased the first Harry Potter book (which J.K. Rowling wrote at a café in Edinburgh) I set out to ‘blow my mind’ by reading part of the book in the same place where Quidditch was conceived. However, the birthplace of Harry and Hogwarts is now The Buffet King, home of the curried wonton. I decided a Chinese buffet was way too commercial for someone trying to read a book that sold 325 million worldwide. A passion for more genuine surroundings brought me to this Starbucks. They play Nora Jones here, man. Her tunes are real to the bone.
I abandoned the Harry Potter idea. In full knowledge of its dangers, I opted to write. Starbucks is not really conducive to good writing. I am sitting just below a ‘treble only’ speaker. Since it is Starbucks, they are playing Sting, the king of real. Next to me are no less than twelve American undergraduates, all using that loud grainy voice we Americans use when we want someone to be impressed with what we are saying. “Oh, like yeah, when I like decided to STUDY ABROAD, I was like all ready to get some new experiences and that’s why I was like so done with Ohio. I had to go somewhere more like…historical. Ya know?” Yes, I do know, Ashley. I know that these obstacles will not stop me.
I roll each blue sleeve just twice – I’m cool, not hot. The tattered bill on my grey hat says, ‘This guy has been places, places that are rough on hats’. The steam from my Tall Americano creates a cloud that stinks of eloquence.[9] Conditions are perfect. One minor problem: I have nothing to say. This creates a high hurdle in my writing career. I blame Ashley and decide to leave it for a while.
Some time passed after my Starbucks debacle. I have had time to consider why writing is so hard for me. It seems that good ideas are the most elusive elements of good writing. They are for me, anyway. Writers aim for eloquence but eloquence is hollow when it fails to woo people toward an idea.[10] In De Oratore, Cicero said eloquence is “one of the supreme virtues.” I disagree with Cicero on that point. Though I do think Cicero has something to offer. He continues,
…after encompassing a knowledge of facts, [eloquence] gives verbal expression to the thoughts and purposes of the mind in such a manner as to have the power of driving the hearers forward in any direction in which it has applied its weight.[11]
According to Cicero, eloquence is a tool that drives hearers/readers forward. It cracks the whip and makes us take a step toward an idea. In the wrong hands it is a treacherous weapon. After all, Hitler’s eloquence (a spitting, syncopated brand of eloquence) moved an entire nation toward hellish ideals. In the right hands, it can enlighten war-weary minds. It took only 246 words for Lincoln to console a nation at Gettysburg. Rather than a ‘supreme virtue’, eloquence is a mercenary willing to serve both sides of a conflict.
Alas, I have a passion for eloquence. That means that what I love is the idea of writing. Sleeves, hats, steam, beautiful words. But where are my ideas? I think they are there - shrouded in ridiculous notions of poignancy. One implication from Cicero’s words is that eloquence can effectively serve any master but itself. Without a solid, grounding, idea, words flitter off the page in a flourish. When eloquence is self-serving, words have no lasting impact. In the service of truth, however, words become chiseled soldiers who fight for their cause. They travel light and hit hard. That is why my writing remains cluttered with unnecessary phrases and axioms that are superfluous.[12] I have a perilous attraction to words even if they are divorced from ideas.
Good writers love ideas and want others to understand them. So what ideas do I love? What do I want people to understand? Why is it so hard to be honest with those kinds of questions? In my worst moments, I would have to say that I love laziness, pride, and television. But I don’t want to stop with a dose of self-loathing. What about better, Spirit-wrought, moments? What ideas do I love then?
As I thought about that I set some rules for myself. First, don’t pretend. Don’t answer this question based on who will read it. Second, don’t try to be eloquent. See if the ideas will take care of themselves. After agreeing to the rules, I came to these basic conclusions. I want a soul-satisfying God to be at the center of people’s lives. I love that idea. I love the thought of people glorifying God through genuine living, not artificial presentations. I would love for people to know a Christ who makes the world larger, not smaller.
That is the purpose of these essays. I am going to start with ideas (conversation, work, laughter, daughter, wife, shyness, driving) and work from there. As I am sure will be apparent, I am not shooting for eloquence. I want to find God in the nuances of life. Taken together, I hope the nuances reveal something poignant.
[1] First rule of eloquence: insert details to add depth. Check.
[2] A shameless attempt at eloquence.
[3] Here I define Medieval as "well after Augustine and well before safe pork".
[4] Letter 8 to Heloise http://historymedren.about.com/od/ philosophers/a/ quote_abelard.htm I knew I had heard a good quote from a Medieval theologian. Thanks to this website for helping me find it. We should note here, that Abelard was writing this to his love interest, Heloise. A quirky little pastime for a monk.
[5] Second rule of eloquence: be vivid. Check.
[6] As an aside, my wife’s left hook is underrated.
[7] In the 11th grade I did write a version of “Song of Myself” that bordered on poignant. But I overused words like ‘bravado’ and mentioned something about a whippoorwill. In retrospect, I see there is a fine line between being poignant and being stupid.
[8] From footnote 4 in “Leaves of Grass.”
[9] Just broke rule number three of eloquence: don’t say ‘stink’.
[10] Rule number four of eloquence: drop ‘woo’ like its no big deal.
[11] De Oratore, III.xiv.55. Italics added. This illustrates the fifth rule of eloquence: quote any multi-named Roman. Marcus Tullius Cicero, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, or Maximus Decimus Meridus (Russel Crowe) will be fine.
[12] Case in point.
Stimulating words are born of throbbing fingers.[2] In the Medieval period[3] Peter Abelard wrote, 'Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, since it is a dangerous and contagious disease'.[4] I like that he used the word ‘disease’. Once contracted, the malady tortures the mind until it has no choice but to deliver a few words.[5] I also like that he made the disease communicable. I am more prone to write after reading something well-written.
The pain is why I am so intimidated by, and attracted to, writing. As men say, writing introduces men to the agony of childbirth. Yes, as I watched my wife give birth to our beautiful daughter I whispered to her, my hushed tones barely audible through the screams. ‘Honey, one day I’ll write a book. Then we shall bond through our shared birthing pain. Except, there’s no epidural for me. I’m just saying.’ It just felt right.[6]
All of that to say I am spellbound by poignant sentences. I know that sounds a bit pedestrian. But its true. Recently, Krisy and I were watching television when a promo reminded me of my obsession. The featured program chronicled the lives of parents raising physically challenged children. Like most commercials, it was fast paced and full of one-liners. But just at the end, a mother’s face filled the screen as a man asked what her daughter meant to her. The middle-classed soccer mom sighed, ‘She is the maker of me’. To be sure, there are theological problems with that sentence. Though I don’t think it was intended as a theological treatise. It was an imprecise, off-the-cuff, reaction to a question. And it took my breath away.
I don’t think I have ever written a truly poignant sentence.[7] Maybe on my death bed I can pen something that will make people tear up. If I had truly mentioned a ‘shared birthing bond’ to my bride, I would have already had this opportunity. When that day does come, I could probably just write, ‘It’s true. Dying, easy. Comedy, less so’. Its no ‘flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’ but my family would probably laugh through their tears. Poignancy at last! But then death has always had a way of bringing out the best in writers. However, Walt Whitman did not think last words were necessarily the best:
Why do folks dwell so fondly on the last words, advice, appearance, of the departing? Those last words are not samples of the best, which involve vitality at its full, and balance, and perfect control and scope. But they are valuable beyond measure to confirm and endorse the varied train, facts, theories and faith of the whole preceding life. [8]
His partial distrust of last words foreshadowed his own. He simply asked his nurse to shift him to his other side. There must be more to good writing than weighty circumstances.
I am aware of the obstacles to good writing as I type this. I am sitting at a table for two in Edinburgh’s Old Town. Having recently purchased the first Harry Potter book (which J.K. Rowling wrote at a café in Edinburgh) I set out to ‘blow my mind’ by reading part of the book in the same place where Quidditch was conceived. However, the birthplace of Harry and Hogwarts is now The Buffet King, home of the curried wonton. I decided a Chinese buffet was way too commercial for someone trying to read a book that sold 325 million worldwide. A passion for more genuine surroundings brought me to this Starbucks. They play Nora Jones here, man. Her tunes are real to the bone.
I abandoned the Harry Potter idea. In full knowledge of its dangers, I opted to write. Starbucks is not really conducive to good writing. I am sitting just below a ‘treble only’ speaker. Since it is Starbucks, they are playing Sting, the king of real. Next to me are no less than twelve American undergraduates, all using that loud grainy voice we Americans use when we want someone to be impressed with what we are saying. “Oh, like yeah, when I like decided to STUDY ABROAD, I was like all ready to get some new experiences and that’s why I was like so done with Ohio. I had to go somewhere more like…historical. Ya know?” Yes, I do know, Ashley. I know that these obstacles will not stop me.
I roll each blue sleeve just twice – I’m cool, not hot. The tattered bill on my grey hat says, ‘This guy has been places, places that are rough on hats’. The steam from my Tall Americano creates a cloud that stinks of eloquence.[9] Conditions are perfect. One minor problem: I have nothing to say. This creates a high hurdle in my writing career. I blame Ashley and decide to leave it for a while.
Some time passed after my Starbucks debacle. I have had time to consider why writing is so hard for me. It seems that good ideas are the most elusive elements of good writing. They are for me, anyway. Writers aim for eloquence but eloquence is hollow when it fails to woo people toward an idea.[10] In De Oratore, Cicero said eloquence is “one of the supreme virtues.” I disagree with Cicero on that point. Though I do think Cicero has something to offer. He continues,
…after encompassing a knowledge of facts, [eloquence] gives verbal expression to the thoughts and purposes of the mind in such a manner as to have the power of driving the hearers forward in any direction in which it has applied its weight.[11]
According to Cicero, eloquence is a tool that drives hearers/readers forward. It cracks the whip and makes us take a step toward an idea. In the wrong hands it is a treacherous weapon. After all, Hitler’s eloquence (a spitting, syncopated brand of eloquence) moved an entire nation toward hellish ideals. In the right hands, it can enlighten war-weary minds. It took only 246 words for Lincoln to console a nation at Gettysburg. Rather than a ‘supreme virtue’, eloquence is a mercenary willing to serve both sides of a conflict.
Alas, I have a passion for eloquence. That means that what I love is the idea of writing. Sleeves, hats, steam, beautiful words. But where are my ideas? I think they are there - shrouded in ridiculous notions of poignancy. One implication from Cicero’s words is that eloquence can effectively serve any master but itself. Without a solid, grounding, idea, words flitter off the page in a flourish. When eloquence is self-serving, words have no lasting impact. In the service of truth, however, words become chiseled soldiers who fight for their cause. They travel light and hit hard. That is why my writing remains cluttered with unnecessary phrases and axioms that are superfluous.[12] I have a perilous attraction to words even if they are divorced from ideas.
Good writers love ideas and want others to understand them. So what ideas do I love? What do I want people to understand? Why is it so hard to be honest with those kinds of questions? In my worst moments, I would have to say that I love laziness, pride, and television. But I don’t want to stop with a dose of self-loathing. What about better, Spirit-wrought, moments? What ideas do I love then?
As I thought about that I set some rules for myself. First, don’t pretend. Don’t answer this question based on who will read it. Second, don’t try to be eloquent. See if the ideas will take care of themselves. After agreeing to the rules, I came to these basic conclusions. I want a soul-satisfying God to be at the center of people’s lives. I love that idea. I love the thought of people glorifying God through genuine living, not artificial presentations. I would love for people to know a Christ who makes the world larger, not smaller.
That is the purpose of these essays. I am going to start with ideas (conversation, work, laughter, daughter, wife, shyness, driving) and work from there. As I am sure will be apparent, I am not shooting for eloquence. I want to find God in the nuances of life. Taken together, I hope the nuances reveal something poignant.
[1] First rule of eloquence: insert details to add depth. Check.
[2] A shameless attempt at eloquence.
[3] Here I define Medieval as "well after Augustine and well before safe pork".
[4] Letter 8 to Heloise http://historymedren.about.com/od/ philosophers/a/ quote_abelard.htm I knew I had heard a good quote from a Medieval theologian. Thanks to this website for helping me find it. We should note here, that Abelard was writing this to his love interest, Heloise. A quirky little pastime for a monk.
[5] Second rule of eloquence: be vivid. Check.
[6] As an aside, my wife’s left hook is underrated.
[7] In the 11th grade I did write a version of “Song of Myself” that bordered on poignant. But I overused words like ‘bravado’ and mentioned something about a whippoorwill. In retrospect, I see there is a fine line between being poignant and being stupid.
[8] From footnote 4 in “Leaves of Grass.”
[9] Just broke rule number three of eloquence: don’t say ‘stink’.
[10] Rule number four of eloquence: drop ‘woo’ like its no big deal.
[11] De Oratore, III.xiv.55. Italics added. This illustrates the fifth rule of eloquence: quote any multi-named Roman. Marcus Tullius Cicero, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, or Maximus Decimus Meridus (Russel Crowe) will be fine.
[12] Case in point.
2 comments:
Thanks for the long awaited post. It was worth waiting for. :-)
Your last two lines fulfilled your quest.
Dad
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