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Another throwback, this time from 2017. This was the first chapter of an abandoned book project on learning languages, before I realized I didn't really have much new to say about the actual mechanics of learning languages. Though I do still quite like the "theory" I talk about, and do plan to explore these ideas more in future writing. It will not be a "how-to" guide like this was, though.
This abandoned book is quite long, however, so it'll be coming in multiple parts... To continue the throwback kick: an article I wrote for a newsletter in university about Don Quijote. It's fun for me to see how my thoughts and writing have evolved since then (2012), both generally and specifically about this book. I don't think I said much of anything in the article, actually, which is quite funny to me now. But I do like the ending: "While his effectiveness is unclear, his character issues a resounding challenge to us all to grapple with the reality of the virtues and ideals with we hold dear." It's increasingly clear to me that few, precious few of us live a life from principle, and we all to varying degrees participate in the timeless tradition of deluding oneself otherwise. Rather, living from convenience and expedience is the norm. For if a decision is easy or convenient, we cannot truly say it was freely chosen in affirmation of higher principle. We have only taken the path of least resistance.
If a knight is someone who "acts like a knight," then based on the results of his acts Quijote was inarguably not a very good one. While Quijote at least attempted to live a life of principle, he made the mistake of doing so in a fashion disconnected from his context and disconnected from most others- perhaps as fitting a definition of madness as any other. Any ideal can only come alive in relationship. But it did at least live in the relationship between Quijote and Panza, and perhaps a few other characters. That is something. Even if it has but lived once, then it has still lived. What, then, do we bring alive in our relationships? Seems it is time for a re-reading... I was listening to the radio the other day. Streaming the French culture station. I was only half paying attention, but I remember they were talking about the book Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne. And my ears especially perked up when they compared it to one of my favorite books, Don Quijote. In fact, one of the speakers was busy making the case that, in fact, the two books are essentially the same.
The Escape
There's nothing better than driving alone at night on an empty highway. The thought roared past me on the road, followed quickly by a semi-truck for emphasis. I shifted on the seat, already aching. I wasn't sure how long I'd been driving and I didn't care to know. The tank was still half full, and that was the only thing that mattered right then. This was the only place where there was any sense of purpose: to get to a station before running out of gas. The world shrank and became manageable, something I could grasp, the more I relaxed into the getaway. My wheels pasted the ruined remains of a skunk further into the road. I hate skunks, anyway. One of the few animals can't stand. I love notebooks. Beautiful, well-made notebooks, of course, with silky paper and a pleasing design. But also cheap dollar notebooks from low-price box stores, the kind with scratchy paper and cheap binding or, worse, spiral bindings. Spiral notebooks both fascinate and repulse me.
I love them all because I love the idea of a notebook. An empty notebook is enticing possibility. The magic of all the things one could live, learn, dream, design. It is the thought of the intimate essay we get to write for ourselves, what will be a constant work-in-progress, growing alongside the writer. An empty notebook is an invitation. It is an invitation into conspiracy, where writer and receiving vessel are complicit in the act of rebellion that is writing. In its pages a shared secret unfolds, for they retain the silence of their father trees. They keep their secrets, their only whispers being that of pen on paper. An empty notebook engages all the senses. There is the feeling of it in one's hands. The crinkle of the stiff pages waiting to be worn in. The imaginings of what it could eventually contain. The woody smell of the unspoilt pages still beating to the rythym of its former forest. It's an elixir I could get drunk off of, were it only able to be distilled. In a way, I do drink it in regardless. How else can I explain the uninhibited dance of pen across page, the inkblots like footprints in the sand? The dance that begins so hesitantly, so delicately, as I'm afraid to sully the pristine pages with the profanity of my penmanship. But, inevitably, I do. Thoughts crystallize as they can only do on a page. The notebook is the medium, the sacrifice, the kindling that so patiently sacrifices itself in the search for something greater than the writer. The notebook can never again be perfect once it is used, filled as it is with earnest attempts at enlightenment crammed around yesterday's shopping list. The pages, clear like a polished mirror, reflect our own imperfections. The only thing I love as much as an empty notebook is a freshly filled notebook. There is a different kind of beauty to it, but a beauty nonetheless. Everything in between is messy anxiety and stuttering insight. I am learning to mistrust parts of myself. For example, a knee-jerk reaction of understanding. I get that sometimes when I hear or read something. It clicks and it makes so much sense! So I stop thinking about it and move on to something else.
Yet later I try and explain it and struggle to put it into words. To my chagrin, this happened to me the other day when I tried to explain to a friend a book I recently read. After a couple minutes of struggling with words, I sort of circumscribed the meaning of the book. He got the idea of what I was talking about- maybe. Maybe he just wanted me to shut up about it already. But it got me thinking- did I really understand the book before I had to explain it? |
...sees much and knows much
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