How to Deal With Literary Historians and Other Boring People

             Surging purple, exploding red ribbons, rockets of fuchsia against the pink sky, deep peacock green and India blue swirl through the magnificent sunset, a moment of relief from an otherwise drab and colorless day.  This, the greatest show that Earth has to offer, is the view from your living room window every evening.  But your apartment is very expensive.  Would you give it up?  This is the question facing the narrator of Diane Ackerman’s short prose piece, “Visual Opium.”

            In watching the sunset every evening, the narrator finds a relief like no other.  In her urban setting, the enjoyment of this spectacular natural phenomenon was a moment eagerly awaited.  Even just picturing the vivid colors has a calming effect, which is particularly useful when trapped in dull conversation.  The speaker’s coffee-room nemesis: the “Literary Historian.”  Literary historians are apparently recognizable by their drab colored clothing, miserliness, and poor conversation skills.  At this point, I had to stop and assess the situation.  I tend to wear darker shades of brown or green.  I don’t like spending money.  I am horrible at small talk.  And I am less than a semester away from a Bachelor’s in English and history.  Oh dear, I think I might be a literary historian!

             Am I destined to a life of boring dullness?  What do I do to fix this horrible predicament? 

            The speaker’s assessment seems to be that the literary historian’s objection to the expense of the apartment was not simply monetary, but that it was a “too-extravagant experience of life” (Ackerman 76).  “Sensory misers,” the speaker reflects, “will inherit the earth, but first they will make it not worth living on” (76).   Those, like the literary historian, who refuse to enjoy the sunset, and who discourage others from doing so, are surely making life not worth living.

Really?

Not that I’m telling people not to watch the sunset if they want to.  My own house has a decent view of the sunrise, if I get up that early (never by choice).  But I wouldn't call myself a sensory miser just because I'm not a morning person.  Perhaps the literary historian isn't a sensory miser either.  Perhaps her enjoyment of life simply lay in another direction.  Consider her love of poetry, a source of endless (boring, to the speaker) conversation.  But the literary historian obviously takes pleasure in the subject.  Perhaps poetry is to the literary historian was what the sunset is to the speaker: a celebration of life.

Life is short, the speaker reflects.  Life should be enjoyed.  Otherwise, what’s the point? Go ahead and try too hard, care too much, ask silly questions, and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Find something you enjoy in life.  Pick up an autumn leaf on your way to the mailbox.  Bask in the glory of its vibrant redness.  Read a poem.  Or two.  Listen to good music.  Watch a sunset.  Smell the rain.  Splash in a puddle.  And if the neighbors stare and think us eccentric?  Wave and smile. We know the secret. 

Works Cited

Ackerman, Diane. “Visual Opium.” Sisters of the Earth. Edited by Lorraine Anderson. New York: Vintage, 2003. Page 74-77.

What does the fir tree say?

            A small child, innocent and trusting, proudly holds up a trinket for display, hoping to impress the gawking audience.  This mere bauble holds little monetary value, but it is the child’s most prized possession.  Suddenly, a thief snatches the trinket.  The child looks up with tear-filled eyes, surprised, shaking, unable to speak.  This scene seems to be suggested by Emily Dickinson’s poem “Who Robbed the Woods,” in which the innocence of nature is contrasted with the grasping curiosity and outright robbery perpetrated by an unnamed male thief.  

             In Dickinson’s poem, the woods, like a trusting child, proudly displays burrs and mosses to impress a visitor.  The poem states that "The unsuspecting trees / brought out their burrs and mosses / his fantasy to please" (Dickinson).  The visitor then betrayed this trust and took what belonged to the woods.  At first glance, the poem positions the reader to sympathize with the forest, to share in the speechless outrage expressed by the fir and hemlock.  

But really, what was the harm of taking a few burrs and mosses?  Have you ever picked up a vibrant fall leaf and carried it home?  Collected a few pretty pine cones to put in a bowl on the end-table in the living room?  The visitor "scanned their trinkets, curious" (Dickinson).  Perhaps he simply admired the beauty of nature.  Perhaps he wanted to learn more about nature.  Perhaps he did not know that he had offended the trees.  Perhaps he truly did not intend any harm.  

If the visitor was not truly an evil villain bent on intentional destruction, what is the meaning of the poem?  Perhaps it represents a disconnect between humans and nature.  He was curious about nature, but he did not understand the full implications of his actions.  He may have admired the beauty of the woods, but he did not fully appreciate the tenderness and fragility of the natural world.  Nature, like a small child, should be cared for.  In the appreciation of Nature, is not enough simply to visit and carry off a trinket.  

Dickinson’s poem promotes a respect and reverence for nature, as a sentient, living entity.  Nature’s beauty, even to the small curious details, the burrs, the moss, the pine cones, should be respected as belonging to nature.  There may be many beautiful wildflowers growing freely in a park, and it may not seem like taking a handful would do any harm.  But if every visitor took a handful, there would be fewer flowers for future visitors to enjoy.  If all the burrs, pine cones, and other seed containers were removed, plants would not be able to reproduce.  When interacting with nature, as well as with our fellow humans as we go about our ordinary daily lives, it is important to remember that even our smallest actions can have significant effects. 

Works Cited

Dickinson, Emily.  “Who Robbed the Woods.” Bartleby.com. http://www.bartleby.com/113/2017.html

That Troublesome Moth!

           Darkness closes in around the light of a dim lamp.  Black rain pours from the opened sky.  A spirit appears, drifting towards the light, fragile and full of power.  Thus opens Louise Erdrich’s poem, “Luna.”  This poem, about a moth at first glance, asks deeper questions about mortality, gender, sexuality, human agency, and the meaning of life. 

            The moth sits on the speaker’s windowsill, green fairy wings edged in blood.  The passing of night, however, comes with consequences.  The following morning, the poor moth’s thin wings are ragged and torn.  The moth may have appeared strong in the dim lamp-light, but the bright light of a new day reveals imperfections. 

            This female moth, the speaker of the poem reflects, is nothing more than a function of the life cycle of her species.  She will mate, lay eggs, and die.  Are humans really any different?  We like to think that our actions will matter in the future.  But how many of our actions will live on?  Why does anything do really matter, when we are all mortal in the end?

            The mortality of this moth bothers the speaker.  We, moths as well as human beings, all face the same end.  What, then, is the meaning of life, if we are no different from moths?  For example, what good is learning French?  It’s all just brain chemicals, which will someday become fertilizer.  The speaker of the poem seems to echo the famed wisdom of Solomon as expressed in the book of Ecclesiasties: “Everything is meaningless” (Ecclesiastes 1:2b NIV). 

Still, we seem to have a human need to search for meaning.  “We lose ourselves most happily in tasks that partake of the eternal,” the speaker of Erdrich's poem reflects, “And once we realize that nothing really does, anything can” (Erdrich 21).  These everyday actions, such as picking apples, pulling weeds, and caring for children may seem trivial, the speaker implies.  But actions such as these shape the world around us and impact future generations in ways which may not ever be fully evident in our own lifetime. 

Learning French, too, may have benefits not apparent at first.  Second languages may improve communication, open wonderful new worlds, and even reduce the risk of Alzheimer’s.  Are actions truly meaningless if they improve our (short) lives?  Even if these actions don’t “partake of the eternal”?  Perhaps they really do, but we can’t see it from our present point of view.

In the end, the speaker looks into the moth’s eyes and accepts her.  The moth appears renewed, beautiful and strong.  Touching the moth even seems to burn the speaker’s fingers.  Excessive meditation on mortality or futility can result in unhealthy depression, but the moths in our lives should not stop us from engaging in useful or enjoyable daily activities, gardening or learning new languages, and living life to the fullest.  Learning not to fear the moth has the potential to unleash a powerful burning fire.  Who knows where this might lead? 

 

Works Cited

Erdrich, Louise. “Luna.” Sisters of the Earth. Edited by Lorraine Anderson, Vintage, 2003. Page 20-22.