<p>Somehow I found time tonight to respond. Please don’t take any of my comments offensively, and regard anything I say with a grain of salt–I am, after all, simply a student and don’t claim to know everything. And I agree with you on many fronts.</p>
<p>Phillis Wheatley, a black female slave of the 1700s, wrote poetry, but her poetry has been ridiculed for centuries by literary forces that snickered at her stiff, struggling, ambivalent, and forced lines (1). Wheatley in no way compares to Emily Dickinson or Sylvia Plath or Emily Bronte or any of the other great female poets about of the Western canon. But Wheatley did not write her poetry to be intelligently complex, to be reached by a larger audience, or to be even considered great. She wrote because she had to, she felt the need, the urge to respond to her surroundings. And that is why her poetry is intriguing and wonderful and beautiful, not because of her rhyming patterns or her complex arrangements or psychological depth, but because it is not only an amazing thing she even wrote—speaking to the power of creative urges—but also because a reader three hundred years later can get a glimpse into the mind, into the circumstances, of a frail, broken down black woman</p>
<p>I mention this story of Wheatley to make the following point: Literature should not always be judged by how it stands up to the greats or by how it follows or creates its own literary devices. Sometimes literature is a wonderful teacher. And that is how I view Sherman Alexie. He has taught me about the dire and lost circumstances of contemporary Indians. (I actually think Alexie purposely doesn’t use any literary devices to reflect the lost and wandering mentality of Native Americans today, a culture that just doesn’t care about anything—like how Alexie doesn’t “seem” to care to use any literary devices.) I humbly disagree with your statement about Alexie’s narrow mindedness and his purpose of writing is to tell us something we already know. I think all too often we acknowledge the horror that the U.S. government put Native American’s through but quickly get sick of the “poor me” syndrome. But I don’t think Alexie attempts to get sympathy from his background, and instead he writes, I believe, from brutal honesty: He shows contemporary Native American Indian life really how it is for many people, and that is hard to take. I consider Alexie an important voice in Native American contemporary literature because he tells the truth, as brutal as it is and as blunt as it is. He may not write elegantly or follow creative and complex devices, but he teaches me something. And to me, being taught something is one purpose of literature.</p>
<p>Now I don’t mean to say Alexie is more important or greater than say a Faulkner or even Bolano, but my point is they shouldn’t be compared; it simply isn’t fair to compare. Take this analogy: My family has a great tradition. We play board games. Not Monopoly. Or Life. Or any other brand name and recognizable board game. I am talking about eight hour long, ever changing complex decisions, strategy board games. I simply love these. They are probably my favorite hobby. But I also enjoy and relish simple and short games. There is beauty in their simplicity. The same, I believe, could be said for literature. Does something need to be complex to be great? Literature or art doesn’t always have to be a difficult puzzle that has to be solved. This idea about complexity vs. simplicity reminds me of this beautiful and short poem by William Carlos Williams:</p>
<p>so much depends
upon</p>
<p>a red wheel
barrow</p>
<p>glazed with rain
water</p>
<p>beside the white
chickens.</p>
<p>Many people try and make this poem into something complex, but I believe the poem’s intention is simply to provide you beautiful juxtaposition of color and textures and objects, engaging the imagination of the reader. Could you really compare this to Eliot’s work? No. That wouldn’t be fair because their purposes are vastly different.</p>
<p>I think it is amazing and wonderful you get so much out of Bolano and Wallace, and I think you should stick to solving the complex puzzles of the literary genius’. But don’t disregard the simpler and seemingly inferior works because they don’t match up in a literary sense to these masters: See them for more than literary works; see them as a response to the human condition.</p>
<p>Phew, sorry for the length of that, and please don’t take this as attack on you. I find it a fascinating debate. OK, onto the next topic…</p>
<p>Regarding open curriculum: Your response shows you are the perfect candidate for this type of curriculum, and it also attests to your maturity. You truly love to learn for the sake of learning, and I applaud you for that. There is really nothing else I can say, except that you will succeed in whatever school you decide to attend and any school would be smart to accept you. My list of schools follows (the first three are real reaches—remember I am a transfer student to all of these except DS, and my beginning grades right out of high school were not the best): Cornell, Brown, Pomona College, Tufts/School of the Museum of Fine Arts (dual degree: one in art the other a BA at Tufts), Washington University in St. Louis, DS, Oberlin, Swarthmore, University of Washington (kind of a safety school, but they also offer a dual degree similar to Tufts), and I have a slew of LACs that I need to cut down (some of which will be more safeties, like Pitzer or perhaps Bates). After your response, Hamilton intrigues me. Being from California, you may be surprised to not see a UC on the list, but unfortunately because of issues with credits, I am not a valid transfer candidate—this may be for the best because the UC system is in dire financial circumstances.</p>
<p>How did your play go? What was/is it?</p>
<p>Your sonnets: These are wonderful rough drafts. I am curious why you chose this type of sonnet? Was it just the assignment or was there any other reason? Also, please understand I am not familiar with everyone’s perspective you are taking, so I may miss subtle—or even blatant—reflections of personality.</p>
<p>Montserrat Lona Bordes:
Good opening. I love when poems start with concrete objects so I can quickly visualize and set the scene; it is a great way to transition into the poem. You might consider telling the reader what kind of spicy vegetables and/or how much garlic. Doing so would make the reader’s image even more specific. Lines 4-6 seem a bit forced and clunky to me. Adore the line “The folds of the scaffolding collapsed in my / Dreams last night.” The word “flourished” doesn’t’ quite work for me. I think, maybe, I have a problem with that whole image of dust flourishing its way to oblivion. I get what you are saying, but I would search for a more elegant way to put that. Love the introduction of Babylon, but my one question, would Montserrat Lona Bordes really use that reference? If so, then it is a beautiful comparison to the building. The ending is interesting, but I feel my eyes straining over the close repetition in the last few lines—that might be a good thing or it might not.</p>
<p>Zach Condon (sorry I know nothing about this musician or band):
What is your reasoning for putting an exclamation point after an em dash? What are you trying to get the reader to do? Weeping as she pressed calloused toes against the earth is a beautiful image—my favorite so far! “Spires seemed to perspire,” sounds odd to me. “Torturous heights” is a great and surprising juxtaposition. I do not quite get the second stanza—perhaps because I don’t know the band or perhaps because I am missing something. (I wish I could spend more time, the time these poems deserve, studying them, but sadly I cannot, so don’t be too upset if I don’t’ “get” things.) I am guessing the image of dizzying patterns of stars and tailed bent shapes is really a description of the building, and you call this a revolution, perhaps meaning a revolution in architecture? I think I get bits and pieces of this stanza, but I am still lacking an overall connection of the two stanzas.</p>
<p>William Faulkner:
I have to admit I was expecting the poem to be one long sentence, but perhaps it is good the poem isn’t what I expected. Good transition into the poem using a strong, concrete image. Interesting correlation between sand and the building—I like it. And a very lovely connection to childhood—the building is truly reminiscent of a child’s imagination. I don’t have too much bad to say about this poem. I enjoyed it! I could be real nitpicky, but I won’t go there.</p>
<p>Tom Waits:
Not sure the “glee glee glee glee” part does much for me, perhaps because I just finished reading “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the leader of the Rude Mechanicals fills the lines of his play with repetitive words with no real purpose other than he needed more words, like “die die die die”—not that you did this; it just reminds me of it. It seems distracting. I don’t really get the ending—once again I do not know tom Waits all that well.</p>
<p>Antonio Gaudi:
I almost feel like the first line isn’t or shouldn’t be needed. I think the poem can evoke that sense from Gaudi without telling us—if that makes sense. Of all the sonnets, this is the one I least connect to and least understand and perhaps this difficulty lends itself well to this brilliant genius architect.</p>
<p>Overall, I am quite impressed with these first drafts. The task you have set yourself is very difficult but a very wonderful exercise—trying to get in the minds of other people, writing like they would think. There are some flow problems. In other words, the lines, at times, don’t seem to flow from line to line. But for a rough draft, you got some great ideas and images down, and there is a lot—a lot—to work with. I would love to see if you develop these further.</p>
<p>I just picked up a collection of Kafka’s stories, one of which is “Metamorphosis.” Have you read much Kafka? I would be curious to hear your thoughts on the author as I have yet to read any of his works. You are more advanced than I in regards to analyzing and studying literature, so I welcome your comments and analysis.</p>
<p>(1) An elegant discussion of Wheatley is woven into the brilliant and moving essay “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens,” written by Alice Walker. The essay discusses the ability for black women to unconsciously and unwarily keep creativity alive, even in the most of dire times of slavery, when it was punishable for a black person to read or write. Walker manages to transcend not only racial lines but also gender lines, and speaks about creativity of humanity.</p>