Time: 11:04am. Timer: 25 minutes.
Go.
Klosterman begins by talking about Moby-Dick, one of my favorite novels. I've read it once in college (where it ought to be read, if only so that the worthwhile conversations that the book inspires can have regular space; in lieu of college, a good, dedicated book club could tackle the Whale over the course of, say, three or four meetings), then half again whilst playing a Batman video game. It's not easy to read by any stretch, and its purpose is far removed from what we think of as being "good writing" (much the way Victor Hugo's unabridged books accomplish a different goal than what we think a novel ought to do). It's also one of those books that everyone knows about and has never read, despite its elevated status.
It's that status that Klosterman brings to light, pointing out that the book was a monumental failure during Melville's life. The book was panned, ignored, and pretty much forgotten for decades. Then, in the early part of the 1900s, it came back. Its return was a secure one: American literature will always be measured against Moby-Dick.
Klosterman also talks about Franz Kafka. I have one collection of his, "The Metamorphosis" and Other Stories, which I read in college. I haven't picked it up since then, but the story of "The Metamorphosis" is definitely an example of incredible, ambiguous, dangerous writing. Though his name isn't as well known as Melville's, he's become a modifier, where things can be described as "kafkaesque" and people know what it means--surreal, ethereal, grotesque. The familiarity of people with his writing will likely remain at about the same levels that it is now, with a handful of people, mostly college-trained, who recognize and read his work. This likely would bother Kafka, whose self-effacement and self-doubt are legendary. Additionally, Kafka, unlike Melville, didn't gain a lot of fame during his career. Melville, who was famous before Moby-Dick and then saw his popularity wane, followed a different trajectory from Kafka, who died around age 40 in a sanitarium.
Both men are famous writers.
Go.
Case #1
Here's a thing I've been thinking about: Fame. Part of it comes from the book I started listening to this morning, But What if We're Wrong?. I'm still early in the book (about an hour and a half so far), but there are ideas that are challenging and interesting. It's part futurism, part history, part critical analysis--definitely up my alley, even if it does make me uncomfortable with some of the implications of the cheerily described tendencies of humanity.Klosterman begins by talking about Moby-Dick, one of my favorite novels. I've read it once in college (where it ought to be read, if only so that the worthwhile conversations that the book inspires can have regular space; in lieu of college, a good, dedicated book club could tackle the Whale over the course of, say, three or four meetings), then half again whilst playing a Batman video game. It's not easy to read by any stretch, and its purpose is far removed from what we think of as being "good writing" (much the way Victor Hugo's unabridged books accomplish a different goal than what we think a novel ought to do). It's also one of those books that everyone knows about and has never read, despite its elevated status.
It's that status that Klosterman brings to light, pointing out that the book was a monumental failure during Melville's life. The book was panned, ignored, and pretty much forgotten for decades. Then, in the early part of the 1900s, it came back. Its return was a secure one: American literature will always be measured against Moby-Dick.
Case #2
Klosterman also talks about Franz Kafka. I have one collection of his, "The Metamorphosis" and Other Stories, which I read in college. I haven't picked it up since then, but the story of "The Metamorphosis" is definitely an example of incredible, ambiguous, dangerous writing. Though his name isn't as well known as Melville's, he's become a modifier, where things can be described as "kafkaesque" and people know what it means--surreal, ethereal, grotesque. The familiarity of people with his writing will likely remain at about the same levels that it is now, with a handful of people, mostly college-trained, who recognize and read his work. This likely would bother Kafka, whose self-effacement and self-doubt are legendary. Additionally, Kafka, unlike Melville, didn't gain a lot of fame during his career. Melville, who was famous before Moby-Dick and then saw his popularity wane, followed a different trajectory from Kafka, who died around age 40 in a sanitarium.
Both men are famous writers.
Case #3
Today is always an important day in the Harry Potter fandom. The Boy Who Lived was born on this day (31 July), and shares his birthday with his creator, J.K. Rowling. There was a lot of care and thought put into Rowling's creations, even down to who married whom after the end of the seventh book (and, arguably, that information feeds into the "eighth book", Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, which I have mixed feelings about).
Rowling's success story is important and familiar, so I'm not going to rehash it here, but instead draw out the importance of her success. It's different than both Kafka's and Melville's stories: the former died in obscurity and, supposedly, burned 90% of what he wrote; the latter wrote prolifically, had fame, lost it, and died without knowing that his most important contribution to humanity would go on to become the standard bearer of American literature. In Rowling's case, she's a comparative overnight success. She's a rags-to-riches (immense rags, immense riches) story, philanthropist, and inspirational woman. Her books are consistently good (at least, once the first two are out of the way), and her easy familiarity with her characters shows how fully they're rendered in her mind and on the page. There's a lot to appreciate and underscore here.
She's a famous writer.
I am not.
Conclusion
Do I want to be? I've been struggling to figure out what it is that I want to have said that I accomplished throughout my life. Looking back over the last thirty-four years, I can dismiss much of the early mistakes as just that: the mistakes of early life. My selfishness as a child (scarcely diminished as an adult) paving way for the irritating certitude of my late adolescence/early adulthood. I cringe when I think of some of the things that I said and thought and believed about other people, particularly when I was a missionary (so much for being more Christ-like...I was probably more judgmental and intolerant during that two year span than any other time of my life). Would I want to be remembered for that? Not likely.
What, then, do I want to be remembered for? I think a great many people go along with the idea that their family will be their legacy. There's nothing wrong with that, but it feels to me like a placeholder. It reminds me (again) of my mission: Whenever I asked other missionaries what they would do when they finished their service, they would either have a very specific plan ("I want to be an entrepreneur") or none whatsoever. That latter category would often then assert this, "I don't know what I'm going to do, so I'll probably go to BYU and get an MBA so that I can earn a lot of money."
Right, so that's something. It's not a good plan (a good plan would be one that excites you and invigorates you), but it's a plan. Having a family be your legacy is a plan, but is that isn't what excites and invigorates me.
Obviously, I care about my family's well-being and health and safety. In fact, I care so much that I have sacrificed--perhaps forever?--the dreams that I have as a person to ensure there's a home for them to sleep in and food for them to complain about. But that doesn't change the fact that I had (have?) dreams and goals, selfish and satisfying in the way only selfishness can be satisfying, and I don't know how to do everything I hoped to.
It isn't family, either, that enters into this calculation. I love being a teacher; yet teaching requires time, devotion, and effort, which then takes away from me improving my craft.
I guess, in the end, I have to wonder who I'm more like, and what I think of that: More like Rowling? Melville?
I hope I'm not crazy like Kafka, though.
Time: 11:29am. Word count: 1,095