First off, I am in love with my classes this semester. Well, three out of the four. And, of course, the only one I want to drop is in the only one I can't. Of course. Ceramics may kill me--if Kappa doesn't first. The facts were these: I have been up until five am every night this week, and for once, procrastination had nothing to do with it. I have been making artwork for kappa, creating ceramic figurines for ceramics, drawing nudes for four hours at a time, writing like my life depended on it, and reading about empowering girls. So yes, most of these things are enjoyable. But most of these things also take up a significant portion of my day.
Anyways, that's enough whining, yes? I think so. On to what really matters: literature, life, art, and happiness.
Here is what we talked about in my creative writing seminar today: In The Reign of Harad IV, by Steven Millhauser. We also listened to the podcast, which you can do by clicking here. It's about thirty seven minutes long, so the alternative is to read the story yourself, and then listen to the discussion that Cynthia Oznick and Deborah Treisman (the fiction editor of The New Yorker) have at the end of the audio clip.
Read it? Listened to it? Unless you are my mother, father, or possibly Logan, I don't think I believe you. I wouldn't have either. Here's a summary (you should read it at some point though, it's very good):
In a nutshell, this story is about a miniaturist's pursuit of creating progressively smaller objects. In the end, he is creating objects that are invisible to everyone, even (eventually) himself. On the surface level, it is about his own pursuit of perfection, but the understated message is to every artist. And yes, I am calling myself, as a writer, an artist. Can we ever reach perfection? The Master, as the miniaturist is called in the story, does, but not even he can see his own work. Could we then say, that even though we cannot see it, that this miniature world is his greatest masterpiece?
They bring up an interesting point in their discussion on the podcast. It is generally considered that James Joyce's masterpiece is Ulysses, and not Finnegan's Wake. Which is albeit understandable as there are some words even in the wikipedia ariticle about Finnegan's Wake that I don't understand. The question they then pose is: Is Finnegan's Wake just too invisible for the average human to see? We accept it as a difficult book, too difficult to be considered as great, and focus on his (also difficult) Ulysses. We think that Ulysses is his masterpiece, but who knew what James Joyce thought? Is art still art if there is no one there to see it?
If I just create my novel and shove it in the vacuum of my bottom drawer (or my bedroom floor, as that's where everything else is at the moment...), is it still a work of art? We are all searching for perfection in some field or another, but it seems like even if we reach it, there will be no one left to realize it. No one could see his art, and there is no one really who has found the true beauty and perfection in Finnegan's Wake. Perfection is a lonely man.
And scene. WHOA that was a lot of philosophical things for one day. I'm just saying, you should all read this short story, and let me know what you think about it. It is fantabulastic. Anyways, that's it for today, I'm sure I'll post again soon as I have much to write about. Coming up: The Graveyard Book, The Giver, Wonderstruck, and more.
Create something even if there isn't anyone to see it. Be selfish. Do it for you. Don't worry so much about perfection.
I nearly melted when Neal Caffrey read part of Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty" in the most recent episode of White Collar. To listen, visit my tumblr.
-L.R. Ogden
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