I received my Dover Thrift Edition of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in the mail today. I'm big into online shopping so I felt the usual rush of adrenaline I'm used to feeling when I see a perfectly packaged parcel patiently waiting for me. The novel is actually shockingly brief, which means I'm already halfway through it less than 10 hours later.
I really don't have much to report on at this point. I've been able to draw a lot of correlations between the books I read in Ms. Pyle's Gothic novels class last semester, so I'm thankful for that experience. Our group did try to plan it this way; we wanted fantasy-level literature but the pre-twentieth century restriction made that difficult. Kafka was too recently published and apparently H.G. Wells is not considered an author of literary merit (I'm really bitter about this), so the Gothic area was essentially our only option. Frankenstein and Dracula were out of the question (as we had already read them), so R.L. Stevenson came to the rescue (cue the Jekyll and Hyde song from "Arthur").
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is much like Dracula in that it is almost entirely reported from an outside perspective-- outside being someone who is not the person of focus. I've always loved this structure in literature, as great works like Peter Pan and the Sherlock Holmes stories use certain major characters simply as tools for probing interaction and creative narratives. These are most often found in cases in which the main character is someone so sensitive, controversial or alternative that they cannot be questioned head-on. Sherlock Holmes is a forensic genius who could not tell a story that a typical human could understand. Frankenstein had to be written by the monster's creator and the creator's ship-sailing comrade, as the monster himself was far too scientifically advanced and socially primitive to be able to communicate with an audience. Peter Pan is a child with terrible mood swings, shockingly short-term memory, and a general disinterest in anything remotely solemn and simply cannot communicate with Wendy (someone he is close to) let alone an audience. While it would be very interesting to see this book written from Dr. Jekyll's perspective (which I think it might become later on), we are able to glean a lot of information from the outside perspectives of Mr. Utterson and Mr. Enfield, two dull men who are observant of Dr. Jekyll's situation (and therefore sneak the reader information) but are far too boring to be anything more than creative modes of generating a narrative. This slow trickle of information creates an eerie effect that prevents a 55-page novel from only being a 12-page short story (as it would probably be if it were written from Dr. Jekyll's perspective).
Every moment I spend reading a traditionally-narrated book, I love to imagine the story being written from a different character's perspective. A Handmaid's Tale written from Nick's perspective? Oliver Twist from The Artful Dodger or Nancy's point of view? That's some money-making stuff right there.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Monday, March 9, 2015
[PR] Chosŏn Goes Wandering
Yi Sang-Hwa 이상화
Morbid Season 병적계절
translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé and Peter Lee
Geese and swallows never meet, their ways never cross—why is that so sad to my mind?
Clutching a leaf from which a cricket has fallen, I watch through the night.
Autumn seems to be a season for weeping lest sorrowful lives be separated.
Is it time now for my endless thoughts, ceaseless dreams to subside one by one?
Swarming winds that have lost their way like a widower rush into my boat, make it roll.
Autumn seems to be a season when the doleful heart is so sick it runs wild.
Behold the sky. A haggard cloud goes wandering.
Behold the earth. Youthful Chosŏn goes wandering.
이상화
병적계절(病的季節)
기러기 제비가 서로 엇갈림이 보기에 이리도 설은가.
귀뚜리 떨어진 나뭇잎을 부여잡고 긴 밤을 새네.
가을은 애달픈 목숨이 나누어질까 울 시절인가 보다.
가없는 생각 짬 모를 꿈이 그만 하나 둘 잦아지려는가.
홀아비같이 헤매는 바람떼가 한 배 가득 구비치네.
가을은 구슬픈 마음이 앓다 못해 날뛸 시절인가 보다.
하늘을 보아라 야윈 구름이 떠돌아다니네.
땅 위를 보아라 젊은 조선이 떠돌아다니네.
I gained an appreciation for Korean poetry when I was at Korean language and culture camp this summer. I learned a lot about Kim Sowol, a poet whose poem 진달래꽃 "Azaleas" is INSANELY popular in Korea to this day. I really wanted to do a Korean poem for my poetry project earlier this year, but Ms. Pyle made it clear that it would be better to do a poem in its original language, and I'm not quite that good at Korean yet.
I've often thought about how we interpret something as "sounding lovely" when it's in a different language. It's much easier to identify the emotion in another language when it's expressed through music. For example, one of the first Korean songs I ever heard (listen to it here) definitely brought me to tears and I had no clue what the guy was saying. Music is powerful stuff. But think about it with traditional poetry or even books. You can hear someone read a poem out loud and the words will send a chill down your spine; But what if you were to read that exact passage to someone who didn't know English? It's not likely to have a very powerful effect at all on them. So how much of a language do you have to know before you can appreciate its finer forms? Well, I read a lot of poetry in AP Spanish Lit and I've felt neutral towards most of it. Maybe a few lines here and there have caused me think "dang, that's good," like a lot of English poetry does, but I think if I knew Spanish better those kinds of lines would be noticed more often.
I like the poem included above because it's not at all like a traditional Korean poetry. First off, it's not nearly as repetitive as a lot of old Korean poetry tends to be. The only times when it is repetitive is in the last two lines, and this repetition affected me very positively. This is also a creative way to compare two things without direct metaphors or similes; The haggard cloud and the Youthful Choson both go wandering, suggesting they are linked in a significant fashion. The other non-traditional aspect of this poem is the long lines, which contrast with the typical 4 or so words per line in most Korean poems. This is a much more conversational and approachable style that fits well with my taste.
That should be enough analysis. When I read it, I'm much more focused on analyzing the way in which it was translated from Korean to English, as that is something I would like to do in the future. I'm especially intrigued by the fact that the English version has questions posed in the poem while the Korean version does not. I wish I knew Korean well enough to understand why that is the case, as it seems like a fairly significant difference, don't you think?
Go read some poetry that was originally written in a non-English language.
Morbid Season 병적계절
translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé and Peter Lee
Geese and swallows never meet, their ways never cross—why is that so sad to my mind?
Clutching a leaf from which a cricket has fallen, I watch through the night.
Autumn seems to be a season for weeping lest sorrowful lives be separated.
Is it time now for my endless thoughts, ceaseless dreams to subside one by one?
Swarming winds that have lost their way like a widower rush into my boat, make it roll.
Autumn seems to be a season when the doleful heart is so sick it runs wild.
Behold the sky. A haggard cloud goes wandering.
Behold the earth. Youthful Chosŏn goes wandering.
이상화
병적계절(病的季節)
기러기 제비가 서로 엇갈림이 보기에 이리도 설은가.
귀뚜리 떨어진 나뭇잎을 부여잡고 긴 밤을 새네.
가을은 애달픈 목숨이 나누어질까 울 시절인가 보다.
가없는 생각 짬 모를 꿈이 그만 하나 둘 잦아지려는가.
홀아비같이 헤매는 바람떼가 한 배 가득 구비치네.
가을은 구슬픈 마음이 앓다 못해 날뛸 시절인가 보다.
하늘을 보아라 야윈 구름이 떠돌아다니네.
땅 위를 보아라 젊은 조선이 떠돌아다니네.
I gained an appreciation for Korean poetry when I was at Korean language and culture camp this summer. I learned a lot about Kim Sowol, a poet whose poem 진달래꽃 "Azaleas" is INSANELY popular in Korea to this day. I really wanted to do a Korean poem for my poetry project earlier this year, but Ms. Pyle made it clear that it would be better to do a poem in its original language, and I'm not quite that good at Korean yet.
I've often thought about how we interpret something as "sounding lovely" when it's in a different language. It's much easier to identify the emotion in another language when it's expressed through music. For example, one of the first Korean songs I ever heard (listen to it here) definitely brought me to tears and I had no clue what the guy was saying. Music is powerful stuff. But think about it with traditional poetry or even books. You can hear someone read a poem out loud and the words will send a chill down your spine; But what if you were to read that exact passage to someone who didn't know English? It's not likely to have a very powerful effect at all on them. So how much of a language do you have to know before you can appreciate its finer forms? Well, I read a lot of poetry in AP Spanish Lit and I've felt neutral towards most of it. Maybe a few lines here and there have caused me think "dang, that's good," like a lot of English poetry does, but I think if I knew Spanish better those kinds of lines would be noticed more often.
I like the poem included above because it's not at all like a traditional Korean poetry. First off, it's not nearly as repetitive as a lot of old Korean poetry tends to be. The only times when it is repetitive is in the last two lines, and this repetition affected me very positively. This is also a creative way to compare two things without direct metaphors or similes; The haggard cloud and the Youthful Choson both go wandering, suggesting they are linked in a significant fashion. The other non-traditional aspect of this poem is the long lines, which contrast with the typical 4 or so words per line in most Korean poems. This is a much more conversational and approachable style that fits well with my taste.
That should be enough analysis. When I read it, I'm much more focused on analyzing the way in which it was translated from Korean to English, as that is something I would like to do in the future. I'm especially intrigued by the fact that the English version has questions posed in the poem while the Korean version does not. I wish I knew Korean well enough to understand why that is the case, as it seems like a fairly significant difference, don't you think?
Go read some poetry that was originally written in a non-English language.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
[CC] I Bought Her With My Money And My Yams
Why focus on the commentary on the human condition or the raw dynamics of each character in Chinua Achebe's book Things Fall Apart when you can be shocked by the amount of effort spent talking about yams?
"He was not a failure like Unoka. He had a large barn full of yams" (6)
"'I also kill a cock at the shrine of Ifejioku, the god of yams'" (17)
"It was for this man that Okonkwo worked to earn his first seed yams" (19)
"I have cleared a farm but have no yams to sow" (21)
"But for a young man whose father had no yams, there was no other way" (22)
"The earth burned like hot coals and roasted all the yams that had been sown" (23)
These are just of a few of the references to yams that can be found in the first three chapters of Things Fall Apart. So why are yams mentioned an ungodly amount of times? According to my research, yams are economically important in that they are a major African export and almost a form of currency. But along with this literal value, there is an incredible amount of abstract value in yams that earns it a festival at the beginning of the harvest season and many rituals by which the crop is surrounded. It's understandable that such hype is built up around something that seems so trivial in the US when you consider how much of the Igbo people's lives depend on the abundance and quality of this crop. Even if there's not enough for a cash crop (which would arguably not be entirely detrimental to the people), yams are a huge part of these people's diets. When you have a limited source of meat, a lack of options for crops that grow in the dry climate, and a barn or two full of yams, you can bet your mama you'll be eating yams on the daily.
Have you ever eaten one of these highly acclaimed yams? If your answer is "yes," I'll let you know right now that you're probably wrong. Raw yams are virtually inaccessible in the US because the demand is relatively low, they have to be imported from dry areas like central Africa, and food companies know they can put sweet potatoes in a can and we'll take their word for the fact that it's a can of yams. The USDA doesn't crack down too hard on this labeling system, but if you look closely at any can of "yams" in your local grocery store, you're bound to find the "sweet potatoes" on there somewhere.
So what's the difference? A whole plant species, that's the difference. Yams are part of the lily family whole sweet potatoes belong to the morning glory family. They even look less alike than you'd probably imagine them to look. There are white sweet potatoes in existence and orange yams, too, but the yams being referenced throughout the book are probably the big white ones with the dark, bark-like rind. Not a handsome creature. But a sweet potato would most likely not work well with the functions a yam is expected to have in Igbo areas. The yam is tougher (allowing it to do well in dry soil and last longer in storage) and much starchier, making it fit for hearty meals like stew and yam fufu (or as Achebe calls it, "foo-foo"). I mean, could a root any less starchy than a bona fide yam stand up against the violent cooking that is fufu-making? Look here for some serious YAM ABUSE. A sweet potato can't take that crap.
"He was not a failure like Unoka. He had a large barn full of yams" (6)
"'I also kill a cock at the shrine of Ifejioku, the god of yams'" (17)
"It was for this man that Okonkwo worked to earn his first seed yams" (19)
"I have cleared a farm but have no yams to sow" (21)
"But for a young man whose father had no yams, there was no other way" (22)
"The earth burned like hot coals and roasted all the yams that had been sown" (23)
These are just of a few of the references to yams that can be found in the first three chapters of Things Fall Apart. So why are yams mentioned an ungodly amount of times? According to my research, yams are economically important in that they are a major African export and almost a form of currency. But along with this literal value, there is an incredible amount of abstract value in yams that earns it a festival at the beginning of the harvest season and many rituals by which the crop is surrounded. It's understandable that such hype is built up around something that seems so trivial in the US when you consider how much of the Igbo people's lives depend on the abundance and quality of this crop. Even if there's not enough for a cash crop (which would arguably not be entirely detrimental to the people), yams are a huge part of these people's diets. When you have a limited source of meat, a lack of options for crops that grow in the dry climate, and a barn or two full of yams, you can bet your mama you'll be eating yams on the daily.
Have you ever eaten one of these highly acclaimed yams? If your answer is "yes," I'll let you know right now that you're probably wrong. Raw yams are virtually inaccessible in the US because the demand is relatively low, they have to be imported from dry areas like central Africa, and food companies know they can put sweet potatoes in a can and we'll take their word for the fact that it's a can of yams. The USDA doesn't crack down too hard on this labeling system, but if you look closely at any can of "yams" in your local grocery store, you're bound to find the "sweet potatoes" on there somewhere.
So what's the difference? A whole plant species, that's the difference. Yams are part of the lily family whole sweet potatoes belong to the morning glory family. They even look less alike than you'd probably imagine them to look. There are white sweet potatoes in existence and orange yams, too, but the yams being referenced throughout the book are probably the big white ones with the dark, bark-like rind. Not a handsome creature. But a sweet potato would most likely not work well with the functions a yam is expected to have in Igbo areas. The yam is tougher (allowing it to do well in dry soil and last longer in storage) and much starchier, making it fit for hearty meals like stew and yam fufu (or as Achebe calls it, "foo-foo"). I mean, could a root any less starchy than a bona fide yam stand up against the violent cooking that is fufu-making? Look here for some serious YAM ABUSE. A sweet potato can't take that crap.
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