Sunday, November 22, 2009
It turns out my friend Ralph Russell was a Communist.
And, revision of the previous post: Russell passed away in 2008, while Pritchett is still alive and teaching at Columbia University.
Why this?
In all the articles I'm reading, the most interesting are the ones that give me a window into why on earth all these scholars bother writing articles for the sake of someone else reading them. Why Urdu? Why this relatively obscure (by Western standards) language, and why its poetry?
In short, for me, it is because Professor Ali's daughter got married.
Had Professor Ali's daughter stayed happily single in her father's home, I would have had three more weeks of Urdu class. Had I had three more weeks of Urdu class, I may have gotten into the poetry that Prof. Ali kept promising us.
However, no such poetry arrived and as a result I had the innocent audacity to email my advisor with a proposal for a thesis in religion looking at Urdu poetry.
I am truly a dead cat in this situation, and all the more do I realize it now that I lay the work in front of me and contemplate the depth of the tradition that I seem to now have my hands in. I have a rough draft of the first two chapters due in a week, and am adequately terrified. Mostly because I'm afraid of missing something. I can compare it to kneading dough, which is my other chief past-time as of late---you dig your hands in and start pounding, only to realize that the dough is way stickier than you thought. Therefore you start adding flour, which just causes the whole thing to get bigger, and bigger, until your arms start getting tired because the small ball of dough is now a mound.
I am now pounding a large mound of dough in which my hands are stuck.
What makes the dough seem more manageable is the realizing that Frances Pritchett and Ralph Russell are (were?) human beings. They, at some point, met a Dr. Ali who snapped off drippy Urdu phrases like dard-e dil and whose daughter subsequently got married. They became dead cats for a time until a few lights switched on and their curiosity turned into a career of writing books and articles for younger dead cats like myself to read.
In short, for me, it is because Professor Ali's daughter got married.
Had Professor Ali's daughter stayed happily single in her father's home, I would have had three more weeks of Urdu class. Had I had three more weeks of Urdu class, I may have gotten into the poetry that Prof. Ali kept promising us.
However, no such poetry arrived and as a result I had the innocent audacity to email my advisor with a proposal for a thesis in religion looking at Urdu poetry.
I am truly a dead cat in this situation, and all the more do I realize it now that I lay the work in front of me and contemplate the depth of the tradition that I seem to now have my hands in. I have a rough draft of the first two chapters due in a week, and am adequately terrified. Mostly because I'm afraid of missing something. I can compare it to kneading dough, which is my other chief past-time as of late---you dig your hands in and start pounding, only to realize that the dough is way stickier than you thought. Therefore you start adding flour, which just causes the whole thing to get bigger, and bigger, until your arms start getting tired because the small ball of dough is now a mound.
I am now pounding a large mound of dough in which my hands are stuck.
What makes the dough seem more manageable is the realizing that Frances Pritchett and Ralph Russell are (were?) human beings. They, at some point, met a Dr. Ali who snapped off drippy Urdu phrases like dard-e dil and whose daughter subsequently got married. They became dead cats for a time until a few lights switched on and their curiosity turned into a career of writing books and articles for younger dead cats like myself to read.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spam-a-lot and Red Roses
From what I recall, the adjective was intelligent, the nouns spam and a dozen red roses.
January seems like a long time ago, but in light of the spring fever that seems to have descended upon the Middlebury campus, as well as my increasing need to Always Look on the Bright Side of Life as finals are approaching, I remembered.
In any case, you tell me which is more intelligent--spam or red roses? I fought this one on the side of spam only for nostalgia's sake, much to my own chagrin a half sentence into it. What woman is dumb enough to announce to a collection of guys and girls two weeks before Valentine's day that spam is a more intelligent move than red roses? I half expected a can of spam on my doorstep come February 14. However, one too many discussions on the benefits of eating Spam on the island of Guam in junior high school youth group have forever tainted my view of the stuff, despite the fact that I have never and will never actually eat it. Somehow, I still feel responsible for defending the merits of spam, years later. I attempted to explain this bit of background information to the Apples to Apples crew assembled that night, to no avail. It took me a while to humble myself and stop arguing, even though the true value of roses over spam occurred to me probably in the first sixty seconds after I pointed to the spam card.
Truth is, the other half of the roses-verses-spam problem is that when I dream of a surprise bouquet outside my doorway, they are almost always tulips, not roses. Brightly colored and thorn-free, tulips always come around just when you think they died over the winter, or lost them in the dirt somewhere. Then "BAM! Color comin' out of your yin-yang!"
Roses, I think, were always too concerned with getting eaten by the local dog to enjoy life.
January seems like a long time ago, but in light of the spring fever that seems to have descended upon the Middlebury campus, as well as my increasing need to Always Look on the Bright Side of Life as finals are approaching, I remembered.
In any case, you tell me which is more intelligent--spam or red roses? I fought this one on the side of spam only for nostalgia's sake, much to my own chagrin a half sentence into it. What woman is dumb enough to announce to a collection of guys and girls two weeks before Valentine's day that spam is a more intelligent move than red roses? I half expected a can of spam on my doorstep come February 14. However, one too many discussions on the benefits of eating Spam on the island of Guam in junior high school youth group have forever tainted my view of the stuff, despite the fact that I have never and will never actually eat it. Somehow, I still feel responsible for defending the merits of spam, years later. I attempted to explain this bit of background information to the Apples to Apples crew assembled that night, to no avail. It took me a while to humble myself and stop arguing, even though the true value of roses over spam occurred to me probably in the first sixty seconds after I pointed to the spam card.
Truth is, the other half of the roses-verses-spam problem is that when I dream of a surprise bouquet outside my doorway, they are almost always tulips, not roses. Brightly colored and thorn-free, tulips always come around just when you think they died over the winter, or lost them in the dirt somewhere. Then "BAM! Color comin' out of your yin-yang!"
Roses, I think, were always too concerned with getting eaten by the local dog to enjoy life.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
the Piano and the Christmas Tree
Maybe the only words will be better said with the violin at home.
When Jesus comes in on the back of a motorbike instead of a donkey.
In to New York City from some unknown place in Texas.
We're going to hang a sweater on the hook next to the door.
Waiting for the calender to be covered with little red Xs.
It's always the end, and not nearly ending enough for me.
In the end, the truth will set you free.
Christmas time is here.
When Jesus comes in on the back of a motorbike instead of a donkey.
In to New York City from some unknown place in Texas.
We're going to hang a sweater on the hook next to the door.
Waiting for the calender to be covered with little red Xs.
It's always the end, and not nearly ending enough for me.
In the end, the truth will set you free.
Christmas time is here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
