A seminal book. Led to Anderson by Hemingway, who himself was inspired mightily by this book (EH would later satirize SA in a lackluster early book caA seminal book. Led to Anderson by Hemingway, who himself was inspired mightily by this book (EH would later satirize SA in a lackluster early book called The Torrents of Spring, but EH always struggled with appreciation and jealousy).
Anyway, all these decades later, I still remember a few of the stories. Good old George Willard (kind of like Jimmy Olson, newspaper reporter). The guy who couldn't trust his hands. The woman who had a romantic encounter with her pillow. But most of all, the word "grotesques" to apply to the mass of Winesburg men (and women) leading lives of quiet desperation....more
A great primer on what in hell "AI" is and, most importantly, isn't. With decades of experience as a college writing instructor, Warner's been there aA great primer on what in hell "AI" is and, most importantly, isn't. With decades of experience as a college writing instructor, Warner's been there and back -- and now THIS. Any teacher of writing at any grade level can relate, as generative AI has become a major problem. Yet another mess, as if education wasn't dealing with enough brushfires.
First off, Warner sides with those who dislike the term "artificial intelligence" because, well, there's nothing intelligent about it. Warner and others prefer to call it for what it is: automation. That's all, really. It spits out based on data that's pumped in, and while Warner tries hard to find uses for it in education and even plays with the automation in many ways himself, he's hard pressed to give it much beyond minor tasks to make our lives easier.
Why? Because writing is thinking and AI doesn't think. Because writing is feeling emotion and AI doesn't feel emotions and cannot reflect. Because writing is quirky at times and provides a snapshot of who we are through voice, and if there's one thing a machine based on algorithms cannot do, it's provide much in the way of voice.
It stands to reason, then, if writers use AI to generate writing, they are denying themselves the process of writing, thinking, feeling. You know, all the stuff that makes us HUMAN. And if they sneak it by their instructors, they are winning battles in a war they are sure to lose because, sooner or late, what they never learned by doing will be exposed.
I like telling students using generative AI to write papers for you is like watching workout videos on YouTube to get in shape. Good luck with that!
Diving even deeper, Warner warns us that it's the Musk-type 1%-ers who stand to make billions on this. The Zuckerberg types who ditch fact checks and create algorithms that reward extreme voices on both sides of the political divide (and the country be damned!) on FaceBook or Meta or whatever it's now called. What's more, creating infrastructure to build and support bigger and bigger AI facilities in rural areas (they need space) is having a huge effect on the environment (if anyone cares), especially water supply (and good luck to farmers in the same county).
Bleak, but revealing. Warner ends with advice under the categories of "Resist," "Renew," and "Explore." If everyone takes this as fait accompli and sits on their hands, it will only grow into a problem that can no longer be tangled with. Sound familiar? The same problem seems to exist politically in the sharply divided States of America (in fairness, I removed the "United"). It's act, or bear the consequences of doing nothing while everything goes to hell in a generative handbasket....more
Native Guard is a combination of identity poems (Trethewey is the daughter of a black mother and white father and grew up in Mississippi -- a recipe fNative Guard is a combination of identity poems (Trethewey is the daughter of a black mother and white father and grew up in Mississippi -- a recipe for identity poetry if ever there was one!) and poems about black soldiers who served in the Civil War. She's a precise poet who pays attention to what passes for little things, like line breaks, and she's not afraid to mix form poems with free verse.
Here is a poem from the book's Civil War mode. The Native Guards were the first officially sanctioned black regiment to serve in the Union Army.
Elegy for the Native Guards
Now that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea . . . 鈥擜llen Tate
We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead trailing the boat鈥攕treamers, noisy fanfare鈥� all the way to Ship Island. What we see first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee鈥� half reminder of the men who served there鈥� a weathered monument to some of the dead.
Inside we follow the ranger, hurried though we are to get to the beach. He tells of graves lost in the Gulf, the island split in half when Hurricane Camille hit, shows us casemates, cannons, the store that sells souvenirs, tokens of history long buried.
The Daughters of the Confederacy has placed a plaque here, at the fort鈥檚 entrance鈥� each Confederate soldier鈥檚 name raised hard in bronze; no names carved for the Native Guards鈥� 2nd Regiment, Union men, black phalanx. What is monument to their legacy?
All the grave markers, all the crude headstones鈥� water-lost. Now fish dart among their bones, and we listen for what the waves intone. Only the fort remains, near forty feet high, round, unfinished, half open to the sky, the elements鈥攚ind, rain鈥擥od鈥檚 deliberate eye.
And here is another inspired by Trethewey's own biography:
Genus Narcissus
Faire daffadills, we weep to see You haste away so soone.
-Robert Herrick
The road I walked home from school was dense with trees and shadow, creek-side, and lit by yellow daffodils, early blossoms
bright against winter鈥檚 last gray days. I must have known they grew wild, thought No harm in taking them. So I did鈥�
gathering up as many as I could hold, then presenting them, in a jar, to my mother. She put them on the sill, and I sat nearby
watching light bend through the glass, day easing into evening, proud of myself for giving my mother some small thing.
Childish vanity. I must have seen in them some measure of myself 鈥搕he slender stems, each blossom a head lifted up
toward praise, or bowed to meet its reflection. Walking home those years ago, I knew nothing of Narcissus of the daffodils鈥� short spring-
how they鈥檇 dry like graveside flowers, rustling when the wind blew鈥攁 whisper, treacherous, from the sill. Be taken with yourself,
Long time no Sophocles! A layer cake of decades that ain't sweet, to be specific, but it's always nice to revisit the ancient Greeks who knew a thing Long time no Sophocles! A layer cake of decades that ain't sweet, to be specific, but it's always nice to revisit the ancient Greeks who knew a thing or two about hubris (still pervasive on the Potomac).
A tragedy even the fussy Aristotle could get behind, Oedipus the King has some inadvertent humor to the modern, more jaded eye, thanks to the bristling dramatic irony throughout the play. We know what poor Oedipus Paging Doctor Scholl does not. No matter how much he tries to outwit the powers-that-be (read: Oracle at Delphi, a.k.a. "Radio Free Apollo"), he just can't. It would help if he knew who his real Mom and Dad are, but he doesn't, even though he knows Mom intimately (all together now: Ewww).
Oh, yeah. The humor. I love the Tiresias vs. Oedipus verbal battle early on, where Oedipus accuses the blind seer (oxymoron alert!) first of holding back knowledge (yes), second of murdering the former king, Laius (no), and finally of conspiring with Creon to overthrow Oedipus' rule (no). Given the fact that we know and T. knows but O. doesn't know, the whole exchange is just full of bon mots, especially when the old and tired T. gets sick of the whole conversation. You go, Old Man!
In the end, a bloody mess, and reason to purge jewelry boxes of brooches. But still, a comfort that it's there, this play, setting the bar for eons of playwrights to come. Overall, the Greek Chorus sings shock and awe (and hidden pleasure -- better him than us)!...more
Well, at least Warner did it the right way. He learned by doing. He worked in the trenches as an adjunct at different colleges, committed the sins of Well, at least Warner did it the right way. He learned by doing. He worked in the trenches as an adjunct at different colleges, committed the sins of the fathers, saw that his students didn't become better writers.
Then he asked himself, Why? And instead of indulging in America's favorite pastime (especially these dark days), pointing fingers at others (in this case, the usual suspects -- students) he looked in the mirror and said, "What about me? How am I an accomplice in all of this?"
The ways are many and this book is his "forgive me, father, for I have sinned," in the form of the same canned writing assignments and the same canned five paragraphs with topic sentences and the big, bad research paper and the worshiping at the altar of MLA citation and pop quizzes and grammar grind gotchas (to name a few). It all looked familiar, too. I think most every teacher goes in and leans heavily on what he considers teaching to be. Something like HE underwent in 12 years of schooling followed by undergraduate and graduate school.
Best of all, it's not just abstract chat here. Warner shares actual assignments he's tried and tinkered with in college writing courses, assignments designed to fire up the intrinsic desire to learn that reputedly exists in every human being (including those of us reading this book!). The emphasis moves from product to process, from completing one big paper to performing many smaller iterations along the way, from writing to a single sage called the teacher to writing for an audience much bigger than that.
Warner doesn't pretend his answers are THE answers or that they are appropriate for every writing course out there. It's more complicated than that, of course. Still, it's food for thought -- food of a different order and greater variety -- and it's welcome. Meaning: every English teacher who's been disillusioned by frustrating stints in the trenches should consider reading this and some of Warner's other books (I'll be there... apparently he has a new one about teaching writing in the age of AI, where grade-centric students are led into temptation by two siren-like letters of doom).
So no, this book isn't all that. But it's SOME of that, and every teacher should shop the market of ideas, not only for their students' sakes, but for the sake of their own sanity....more
Mostly set in Montana or other western locales, these stories feature a neat array of young(-ish) male protagonists with various problems, ambitions, Mostly set in Montana or other western locales, these stories feature a neat array of young(-ish) male protagonists with various problems, ambitions, worries, and dreams. Unflinching at times (like the story of a little kid whose father hires him to kill cats overrunning his barn and smelling up the hay with piss), they may not please every reader, but reality is what reality is and these things happen. Of course, some unevenness, but interesting and overall, writing that's up to the task. No, not James Joyce task, but a task that involves good plotting and sound characterization through dialogue and action. I liked it enough to think about his new novel, Beartooth....more
As poetry collections go, this one's pretty good. If you're unsure about poetry, it serves as a green light because it's what's known as "accessible."As poetry collections go, this one's pretty good. If you're unsure about poetry, it serves as a green light because it's what's known as "accessible." In the Church of Lyric Poetry, the pew you're in is confessional. (Or should I say the "box" followed by the Act of Contrition?)
Divided into five sections as collections often are, we find some themes therein. Most outstanding is a set of poem's where the speaker is dealing with the death of a brother and a son. We're not supposed to confuse authors with speakers in literature, but with poetry, you often find writers who are inspired by personal tragedies. The Muse wears a black veil, in other words.
Here's an example poem:
Dressing for the Burial
No one wants to talk about the hilarity after death-- the way the week my brother shot himself, his wife and I fell on the bed laughing because she couldn't decide what to wear for the big day, and asked me, "Do I go for sexy or Amish?" I told her sexy. And we rolled around on the mattress they'd shared for eighteen years, clutching our sides. Meanwhile, he lay in a narrow refrigerated drawer, soft brown curls spring from his scalp, framing his handsome face. This was back when he still had a face, and we were going to get to see it. "Hold up the black skirt again," I said. She said, "Which one?" And then she said, "You look so Mafia Chic," and I said, "Thank you," and it went on until we both got tired and our ribs hurt and now I don't even remember what we wore. Only that we both looked fabulous weeping over that open hole in the ground.
You get the picture. It reminds, a bit, of brides. Some giggle while taking the vows. Others cry. Humans are tragicomedies waiting to surprise you, often at the strangest moments.
Other themes in the book are love, nature, memory, family, and other such usual culprits found in this thing we call life.
Curious for more? A second, more grounded outing from this poetry collection (the poem's about earthworms, people!) is shared in this post on my website: ...more
Loading...
