I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture in last week's class: The transition to Romanticism. Context is important when discussing literature; what is literature but a critical mirror held at the plateau of civilization?
Professor Kuin's discussion of the historical roots of Romanticism is especially important because these are roots blatantly affect our culture today.
Of course, all literature does, all history does. Literature as ancient as the Bible still impact our lives greatly. But, to say that Romantic writing and art has influenced the contemporary says something different: It marks the beginning of the Contemporary.
In this sense, the DRAMATIC shift from 'formal' to 'spontaneous' artwork was not only a shift; it was a creation of what we know art to be today.
What do we know art to be today? Think 'Art':
Strung out hippies? The homeless man at the corner with a guitar? Passion? Dreams? More cliches...
These worn cliches come from noble beginnings. Though many artists throughout history were poor ones, there was something about the Romantics that really set the stage for this. The rebellion against formality that made a new poetry: a poetry that anyone in the world, no matter how educated, can write. Anyone can be a poet. Poetry can be colloquial. Even the homeless man can write. There begins to be something 'charming' about that.
In the modern day, a day that starving artists are the majority of art makers, Romantic ideal takes over: Not only can the poor write, but you almost cannot write unless you are poor.
A sad fact, but in a capitalist society, unless you are one of the successful few, to write creatively one needs a secondary source of income. That is if one desires to maintain the standard lifestyle. Which leads the motivated person to ask what is more desirous, to have a lifestyle or to live a life.
But on to more specific things: What exactly do I mean to say that Romantic art has created our vision of contemporary art? I will give you a personal example.
When I was a child, I remember very clearly writing my first poem. I could not remember the poems I had read, or what I had read. All I remember now is that my eleven year old poem mentioned: 1) Beauty 2) Snow fall 3) Sunshine
In the poem I was commenting on the beauty of these natural things. I compared them to myself, saying, although I see beauty, I do not feel beautiful.
I did not know a Romantic poem from any other one. I think I would have been terribly confused if someone had tried to explain to me that there is a distinction. I think many grown people will be very confused to know that such a poem is not the generic.
Histories of literature are affluent in nature-talk. Nature as tools, analogies, gods. However the particular way that the Romantics glorified nature in their poems and impressionistic painted the skies and leaves created the glory of art today. And it is so glorious; because the reconnected awe of nature has become an unspoken aspect of it. To not glorify art in the contemporary is to break a truly hard to break rule.
The Romantic era has been lived into us. To amplify the impact of devout natural artistry that I am speaking of, I am going to include a very interesting passage written about Wordsworth, the Romantic we are focusing on in class:
"Everyone knows that Wordsworth was (to use his own phrase) a 'worshipper of nature', and the suspicion arises that a taste for his verse may have less to do with the appreciation of poetry as such than with a sentimental interest in his characteristics subject-matter and a fellow-feeling for his attitude towards it. There is, moreover, a general understanding that Wordsworth has, in some sense, a moral lesson to teach us; and most of us, like Keats, are uneasy about 'poetry that has a palpable design upon us'."
-"From Blake to Byron," the Pelican Guide to English Literature, edited by Boris Ford, pg.. 152: "Wordsworths' Poetry," R.O.C. Winkler.
The poetry of Wordsworth and Romantics like him is highly relatable: It expands beyond the formal ideal of poetry; it is an extrapolation a value that was and has become more universal; the appreciation of nature. He has already taught us what poetry is by making it what it now is.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Thursday, November 04, 2004
The Most Moving Part of 'Sonnets'
What I wish to do is forge ahead into what we are doing now in class. In accordance with Prof. Kuin's advice, I will catch up on the blogs I have missed over winter break: Sidney and Dryden.
However, before I blog about last week's lecture, the transition to Romanticism, I want to just post this last comment about Sidney. I had written this a while ago, and I'd like to have it posted before I move on:
Certain Sonnets: I am going to expand on absolutely my favourite verse in Certain Sonnets. You can tackle meaning out of anything, but the significance is so much more passionate when you have it screaming off the page in sentimental verse:
Sonnet 24. 'To the tune of 'The Smokes of Melancholy'
Read the lines carefully aloud to yourself, to hear every word:
2. That kind of despair that Love may bring, if you are one of those unlucky heart-broken types. Once you experience it, you know it inside-out. You know there is nothing you can really say to your heartbroken friend short of get over it, and you know better than to say that (since it has been said to you). So like me you smile. You empathize. A person happily in Love is more questionable. Sometimes, only sometimes, you're not sure if its extreme infatuation. But when they are not getting out of bed, you know.
There is my favourite line from a favourite movie that I will share with you that depicts this exactly. Tune in to this and then I will stop blabbing. For those of you that know me personally, you know my name. For those that don't, look to the left of the screen. Sabrina. Have you seen the movie? That's what I was named after. I would find this distrubingly depressing, except that the wonderful Audrey Hepburn played the main role of Sabrina, which somehow made it okay. Off-topic again. So, in this movie, the young Sabrina spends her youth in Love with the son of the successful family for whom her father shewfers. The son pays no attention to her; he has not a clue of her affections. Her frustrated father cannot cure her disease, and sends her to cooking school in Paris. There we find her in class, where the instructor is about to judge the class on the sufles they have made. Some are too burnt, some too high, and poor Sabrina's is 'way too low'. Sabrina does not know what she has done wrong. "I know what you have done," says the wise old French man to her left. "You forgot to turn on the oven." She is imbarrassed to find that he is correct. "You are in Love, and I will venture to go further than that. You are unhappily in Love."
"Is it that transparent?"
"Madame, happily in Love, you burn the sufle. Unhappily, you forget to turn on the oven."
Hurt from Love is understood by the experienced in Love, the hurt is distinct and so pained that it is memorialized, and is a identified aspect to life. It is this that Sidney portrays in his stanza.
Love, so intense and exact a feeling, is not capable of being empathized with from someone who has not loved himself, or "hath ever felt the change of love". Someone who "hath not fully felt what kind of fires that be in which those spirits melt", although will feel his feelings somehow, will "miss his disease." Notice: "hath not FULLY felt." Love as a complete feeling; not lacking at all. There is Love or there is not Love. If it is not full Love or full feeling, it is not legitimate enough. You can not truly understand what is complete feeling. Disease; Lack/unrequited Love is a Disease. Not simply pain, but something deep and severe. This is Sidney's final cutting word to prove his thoughts. It is, after all, a DISEASE. Don't expect to understand the pain.
However, before I blog about last week's lecture, the transition to Romanticism, I want to just post this last comment about Sidney. I had written this a while ago, and I'd like to have it posted before I move on:
Certain Sonnets: I am going to expand on absolutely my favourite verse in Certain Sonnets. You can tackle meaning out of anything, but the significance is so much more passionate when you have it screaming off the page in sentimental verse:
Sonnet 24. 'To the tune of 'The Smokes of Melancholy'
Read the lines carefully aloud to yourself, to hear every word:
"Who hath ever felt the change of love
And known those pangs that the losers prove
May paint my face without seeing me,
And write the state how my fancies be
The loathsome buds grown on sorrow's tree:
But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt
What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt
Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease;
Feeling my pulse, miss my disease."
WOOOOOW! SO, what makes this verse so fantastic? Why is this so incredibly insightful?
I've had my heart hurt like many people have. And I think all such people will agree that it is a treacherous experience. You never beleive that you will recover from the pain until the day that you do. At the time of my growings-up and my heart-breakings, I had a close girl friend who too fell in love and was tremendously hurt. I also had, and still have, one other friend who has never felt 'love'. While I do beleive that Love means very different thing for every person and every situation, I learned at that time that it has one binding factor: When it stings, it hurts more than imaginable.
The pain of, say, loss of Love, unrequited Love, etc. is unique. It is distinct from any other emotional pain. To say that it is lighter or more heavy I cannot quarantee; I have been fortunate not to have experienced many. But I will say this, whenever I come across a human in Love, whether it be on the bus, at home or shopping, I feel like I know it. And I smile, because I know.
Now how genuine the Love is for the particular individual I cannot know, because that would entail an intricate understanding of that persons emotional tendency and capability: To measuer the meaning of another person's Love would necessitate a comparison to my own tendencies. Some people may naturally Love more intensely, or less.
Or, I may find a person who's eyes glow with comsumption. They may grow pale and timid, loving and desperate. But, watching, there is nothing that says that they may Love another person even more radically. Or, who can tell how much of their action is personal characteristics, and how much is characteristics brought upon them by the special Power? Certainly, the ways one Loves is mostly dependent upon the lover; the beloved cannot make a lover. On the other hand, every animal is able to Love to an extent, therefore from any such being a lover can be made.
Damn, okay, now I have to approach all you optimists out there with an apology. Please don't misunderstand, I believe in True Love. Every Love is Ultimate Love. But do grant me this: It is true that one may Love a few in their lifetime, and no Love is necessarily more worthy than the other. Only different; more powerful, more intense, connected in more ways, more open, etc. But Love, so long as it can pain you tremendously, is True. See, I am an idealist. A romantic. I promise. I am representing Sidney of all people, aren't I?
Now, back to what this stanza is all about:
1. The comparison between my friend who is in Love, with whom I empathize immediately. And, my friend who has never loved. When I call her to express my woes, she gives a simple reply; beyond that does not know what to say. How many friends of yours have told you, "Don't worry, there are other fish in the sea." Oh my god. While in pain, hearing something like that will make me want to jump off the nearest cliff. Hel-lo! I am crying because I don't want the other fish. I want him. It's like trying to convince a kid to get the other flavour of ice cream when they see the what they want right behind the glass. "Don't worry, there are another 48 flavours..." Good luck with that.
This friend never understood that pain because she never felt that she needed, someone else in that way that Love. She never experienced that emotional dependency but through family, a much more fickle and relaxed relationship. My friend who also Loved...well we were on the phone for hours. Despairing, we knew there was nothing to say to one another. So we said nothing, but talked for hours.
And known those pangs that the losers prove
May paint my face without seeing me,
And write the state how my fancies be
The loathsome buds grown on sorrow's tree:
But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt
What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt
Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease;
Feeling my pulse, miss my disease."
WOOOOOW! SO, what makes this verse so fantastic? Why is this so incredibly insightful?
I've had my heart hurt like many people have. And I think all such people will agree that it is a treacherous experience. You never beleive that you will recover from the pain until the day that you do. At the time of my growings-up and my heart-breakings, I had a close girl friend who too fell in love and was tremendously hurt. I also had, and still have, one other friend who has never felt 'love'. While I do beleive that Love means very different thing for every person and every situation, I learned at that time that it has one binding factor: When it stings, it hurts more than imaginable.
The pain of, say, loss of Love, unrequited Love, etc. is unique. It is distinct from any other emotional pain. To say that it is lighter or more heavy I cannot quarantee; I have been fortunate not to have experienced many. But I will say this, whenever I come across a human in Love, whether it be on the bus, at home or shopping, I feel like I know it. And I smile, because I know.
Now how genuine the Love is for the particular individual I cannot know, because that would entail an intricate understanding of that persons emotional tendency and capability: To measuer the meaning of another person's Love would necessitate a comparison to my own tendencies. Some people may naturally Love more intensely, or less.
Or, I may find a person who's eyes glow with comsumption. They may grow pale and timid, loving and desperate. But, watching, there is nothing that says that they may Love another person even more radically. Or, who can tell how much of their action is personal characteristics, and how much is characteristics brought upon them by the special Power? Certainly, the ways one Loves is mostly dependent upon the lover; the beloved cannot make a lover. On the other hand, every animal is able to Love to an extent, therefore from any such being a lover can be made.
Damn, okay, now I have to approach all you optimists out there with an apology. Please don't misunderstand, I believe in True Love. Every Love is Ultimate Love. But do grant me this: It is true that one may Love a few in their lifetime, and no Love is necessarily more worthy than the other. Only different; more powerful, more intense, connected in more ways, more open, etc. But Love, so long as it can pain you tremendously, is True. See, I am an idealist. A romantic. I promise. I am representing Sidney of all people, aren't I?
Now, back to what this stanza is all about:
1. The comparison between my friend who is in Love, with whom I empathize immediately. And, my friend who has never loved. When I call her to express my woes, she gives a simple reply; beyond that does not know what to say. How many friends of yours have told you, "Don't worry, there are other fish in the sea." Oh my god. While in pain, hearing something like that will make me want to jump off the nearest cliff. Hel-lo! I am crying because I don't want the other fish. I want him. It's like trying to convince a kid to get the other flavour of ice cream when they see the what they want right behind the glass. "Don't worry, there are another 48 flavours..." Good luck with that.
This friend never understood that pain because she never felt that she needed, someone else in that way that Love. She never experienced that emotional dependency but through family, a much more fickle and relaxed relationship. My friend who also Loved...well we were on the phone for hours. Despairing, we knew there was nothing to say to one another. So we said nothing, but talked for hours.
2. That kind of despair that Love may bring, if you are one of those unlucky heart-broken types. Once you experience it, you know it inside-out. You know there is nothing you can really say to your heartbroken friend short of get over it, and you know better than to say that (since it has been said to you). So like me you smile. You empathize. A person happily in Love is more questionable. Sometimes, only sometimes, you're not sure if its extreme infatuation. But when they are not getting out of bed, you know.
There is my favourite line from a favourite movie that I will share with you that depicts this exactly. Tune in to this and then I will stop blabbing. For those of you that know me personally, you know my name. For those that don't, look to the left of the screen. Sabrina. Have you seen the movie? That's what I was named after. I would find this distrubingly depressing, except that the wonderful Audrey Hepburn played the main role of Sabrina, which somehow made it okay. Off-topic again. So, in this movie, the young Sabrina spends her youth in Love with the son of the successful family for whom her father shewfers. The son pays no attention to her; he has not a clue of her affections. Her frustrated father cannot cure her disease, and sends her to cooking school in Paris. There we find her in class, where the instructor is about to judge the class on the sufles they have made. Some are too burnt, some too high, and poor Sabrina's is 'way too low'. Sabrina does not know what she has done wrong. "I know what you have done," says the wise old French man to her left. "You forgot to turn on the oven." She is imbarrassed to find that he is correct. "You are in Love, and I will venture to go further than that. You are unhappily in Love."
"Is it that transparent?"
"Madame, happily in Love, you burn the sufle. Unhappily, you forget to turn on the oven."
Hurt from Love is understood by the experienced in Love, the hurt is distinct and so pained that it is memorialized, and is a identified aspect to life. It is this that Sidney portrays in his stanza.
Love, so intense and exact a feeling, is not capable of being empathized with from someone who has not loved himself, or "hath ever felt the change of love". Someone who "hath not fully felt what kind of fires that be in which those spirits melt", although will feel his feelings somehow, will "miss his disease." Notice: "hath not FULLY felt." Love as a complete feeling; not lacking at all. There is Love or there is not Love. If it is not full Love or full feeling, it is not legitimate enough. You can not truly understand what is complete feeling. Disease; Lack/unrequited Love is a Disease. Not simply pain, but something deep and severe. This is Sidney's final cutting word to prove his thoughts. It is, after all, a DISEASE. Don't expect to understand the pain.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Sidney: Certain Sonnets
Hello everybody!
Now that I have explained my general thoughts on Sidney's work, and perhaps poetry in general, it is time that I push forward with explanations of how I read him; my analysis of the text.
I am going to begin with looking at his Certain Sonnets. I am going to do this for a number of reasons. Firstly, in order to develop a relationship with any artist I think it's important to obey what draws you to them, and I was very drawn to his Sonnets. I enjoyed them because, while they had to do with one another, there was a lot of change between them, and I suppose this kept my mind to the writing. The second reason I am doing this is because I found in them some ideas that reoccur in Astrophil and Stella. Thirdly, and most importantly, I Love his lines, and I think I have a lot to say about them. I want you to love them too!
I am going to work the sonnets, or parts of sonnets, that spoke to me the most. There is A LOT to write, so I will most likely do this through a bunch of posts.
I am going to begin with sonnet three. This sonnet includes too stanzas. The first is a bit lighter than the second.
The form of the second mimicks the first. They both begin with a set of four lines that use nature metaphors, carrying on Ancient literary tradition. Then, it jumps to "Fame...1 + 2 + 3." "Time...1 + 2 + 3." Both stanzas do this. However the second stanza is much more powerful, carrying through it a sense of strength of passion.
The call to nature in stanza one is:
"The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth;
The air in rain for my affliction weepeth;
The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth;
The earth with pity dull the centre keepeth..."
Then, my favourite lines of the passage:
"Time runs away for sorrow," and
"My fall her glory maketh:
Yet still her eyes give to my flames their fuel."
In the second stanza, Mother Nature comes again. Much more aggressive, I think:
"Fire, burn me quite, till sense of burning leave me;
Air, let me draw no more thy breath in anguish;
Sea, drowned in thee, of tedious life bereave me;
Earth, take this earth, wherein my spirits languish..."
Now, this is the breaking point. After "Fame" and "Time", there is a sudden change in form:
"Fire, air, sea, earth, fame, time, place, show your power.
Alas, from all their helps I am exiled;"
and ends:
"Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure."
Powerful words. Sidney lets the words speak without clouding them with fancy anything:
'From all their helps I am exiled.'-
Exiled. One becomes exiled from a country. From a family. Thrown out. Left alone. Abandoned.
'She makes of me no treasure'-
He says quickly that he belongs to her, that he is absolutely taken by her. Notice that he mentions it so briefly, for his love, in writing already, even to his audience, follows without need of testimony. But for her, 'she MAKES of me no TREASURE'-
1. She has an Option to Make and not to Make, and she does not make at all. To make implies the choice to form or not to form a feeling, like a god chooses to create. Sidney has no such choice at all.
2. 'Treasure'- something worth value, analagous to monetary value. Something precious, one aspires to, searches for, perhaps mysterious. Like a Pirate's treasure. The woman as a mystery is a common idea in art. Even in the contemporary. Observe the 'mysterious' glare of a cover girl.
3. 'Treasure' is used ironically. What Sidney intends is that she does not make of him Anything, never mind a treasure. But he hyperbolizes what he is not to show that there is no comparison between their sentiments. To Sidney, she is more than a treasure, while to him he is not even half that.
That was my say on sonnet three. The sonnets will continue in my next post!
Now that I have explained my general thoughts on Sidney's work, and perhaps poetry in general, it is time that I push forward with explanations of how I read him; my analysis of the text.
I am going to begin with looking at his Certain Sonnets. I am going to do this for a number of reasons. Firstly, in order to develop a relationship with any artist I think it's important to obey what draws you to them, and I was very drawn to his Sonnets. I enjoyed them because, while they had to do with one another, there was a lot of change between them, and I suppose this kept my mind to the writing. The second reason I am doing this is because I found in them some ideas that reoccur in Astrophil and Stella. Thirdly, and most importantly, I Love his lines, and I think I have a lot to say about them. I want you to love them too!
I am going to work the sonnets, or parts of sonnets, that spoke to me the most. There is A LOT to write, so I will most likely do this through a bunch of posts.
I am going to begin with sonnet three. This sonnet includes too stanzas. The first is a bit lighter than the second.
The form of the second mimicks the first. They both begin with a set of four lines that use nature metaphors, carrying on Ancient literary tradition. Then, it jumps to "Fame...1 + 2 + 3." "Time...1 + 2 + 3." Both stanzas do this. However the second stanza is much more powerful, carrying through it a sense of strength of passion.
The call to nature in stanza one is:
"The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth;
The air in rain for my affliction weepeth;
The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth;
The earth with pity dull the centre keepeth..."
Then, my favourite lines of the passage:
"Time runs away for sorrow," and
"My fall her glory maketh:
Yet still her eyes give to my flames their fuel."
In the second stanza, Mother Nature comes again. Much more aggressive, I think:
"Fire, burn me quite, till sense of burning leave me;
Air, let me draw no more thy breath in anguish;
Sea, drowned in thee, of tedious life bereave me;
Earth, take this earth, wherein my spirits languish..."
Now, this is the breaking point. After "Fame" and "Time", there is a sudden change in form:
"Fire, air, sea, earth, fame, time, place, show your power.
Alas, from all their helps I am exiled;"
and ends:
"Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure."
Powerful words. Sidney lets the words speak without clouding them with fancy anything:
'From all their helps I am exiled.'-
Exiled. One becomes exiled from a country. From a family. Thrown out. Left alone. Abandoned.
'She makes of me no treasure'-
He says quickly that he belongs to her, that he is absolutely taken by her. Notice that he mentions it so briefly, for his love, in writing already, even to his audience, follows without need of testimony. But for her, 'she MAKES of me no TREASURE'-
1. She has an Option to Make and not to Make, and she does not make at all. To make implies the choice to form or not to form a feeling, like a god chooses to create. Sidney has no such choice at all.
2. 'Treasure'- something worth value, analagous to monetary value. Something precious, one aspires to, searches for, perhaps mysterious. Like a Pirate's treasure. The woman as a mystery is a common idea in art. Even in the contemporary. Observe the 'mysterious' glare of a cover girl.
3. 'Treasure' is used ironically. What Sidney intends is that she does not make of him Anything, never mind a treasure. But he hyperbolizes what he is not to show that there is no comparison between their sentiments. To Sidney, she is more than a treasure, while to him he is not even half that.
That was my say on sonnet three. The sonnets will continue in my next post!
Monday, November 01, 2004
My Personal Introduction: Sidney and Me
Hello all, I am back online, ready to play some catch up. (Thanks guys, for keeping me in check).
There's a great load of open material in this course. There is plenty of extra resource hunting to be done, and there is always that extra material in the back of the book that goes undiscussed in class...which leaves a great deal of things to do, and much to write about.
That's a good introduction to what I am going to begin writing about today. My first instinct when I began reading Sidney was to read whatever appealed to me. The first thing that caught my eye was the section, 'Certain Sonnets'.
I suppose its the poet in me that drew me to it, as well, I have very little experience with Renaissance work and was in desperate search of rhetoric I could relate to. It's what I call the stubborn 'I-stick-to-modern-secular-rebel-writers' problem that I beleive many people in my generation fall victim to.
Now, it surprises me that I have not gotten to online writing earlier, as I quite enjoy blabbing (hence the last two paragraphs). To blab about blabbing, I will say that it really depends on my mood, but in this blog site of mine I will include random literary perspectives as well as serious analytical and historical reflection. Perhaps more. We will venture to find out...
Now, on with Sidney; my personal introduction to his work:
Firstly, please pardon any misrepresentations of Sidneys work that takes place here. I am clearly not expert interpreter and may drastically take things out of context. Therefore, please do not take any general critiques or assumptions of his work too seriously. What I aspire to, in general, is: 1. To point out some things that grab my attention in his work. 2. Make connections between these ideas and my general knowledge-of-the-world (including, of course, the inseperable 'literary world'), and 3. To allow you, the reader, to develop your own ideas from it. I write, like every other reader and writer, from a particular background and particular fields of interests. Being young and inexperienced with words is a detriment in strict academia, however, it is truly a blessing when it comes to finding innovative ideas. I'm telling you, revolution came from young people. Or maybe I'm just too idealistic...
Speaking of the untraditional view, Sidney reminds me off-hand of anything but. This is obvious, since he lives and writes in a time that has a wealth of heavy tradition, The Renaissance; the absolutely European time. When I think Renaissance, I think Rich. Rich art, rich feeling, rich rationale and words and poetry, food and discourse, wine and the dinner table.
Today in North America, we as well have a wealth of tradition. But it is not rich in the same way; it is divided and obscure. We fall into clusters of culture that seem to be strong, but quickly fade in the face of mass marketing. Religion begs the question of language and skin colour, and words like Diversity become ironic. In the late 20th and early 21st century, culture becomes culture: small, tidily defined ways of life. But after we exhaust ourselves deciding what we are, the backbone is always business and politics.
This is unlike the united time period (not culture, time period) of the Renaissance. Memoirs of the Renaissance have remained very strongly. Much like how the Western World longs to return to the days of Greek knowldge and pre-Socratic serenity, Europe seems very reminiscent of Renaissance years.
This is the general context with which I view Sidney's life. Now, as for his writing, my understanding of it came so immediately to me that I did not realize it until now. His ideal, some aspects of style and form hits me as how, as a child, I tried to write. Obviously very shabbily so, but what I mean is he was a traditional writer; he wrote how one should write. The first thing a new writer does is fall into her place in tradition, and (T.S. Eliot is cringing from his grave) imitates. Add a dash of Woodsworth, scratch out the dead Anglosaxin phrasing and Sidney's writing becomes the traditional writing that as kids we are taught is poetry.
I put together some traditional-poet cliches that I believe are indusive to Sidney's writing, at least to some extent:
1. The poet is in love with pain.
2. His pain is his subject matter, and the reason is, for the love of it. For the solace found in sadness.
3. Every so often, the poet decides to tell you so (as if you didn't know it from the previous century). Sometimes this explanation is the entire poem.
4. The Pain is often best expressed through the torment and longing towards an external object. i.e. Being unsatisfactority In Love. Or, just being In Love, since love by nature leaves one unsatisfied.
5. The poet is impacted by ancestral tradition, even if it is by its rejection. i.e., comparisons and metaphors to nature are prominent, a tendency that evolved from the Greeks and Ancients.
6. The poet uses basic poetic tools (deemed 'obvious' by some second year students) are used. For example, the way to name a thing: a. vivid imagery. b. uniting b's characteristics with those of c by saying that they are alike (simile), and c. (the biggie) the metaphor, implying that something is like the other by uniting the objects into the same value or idea. b = c
1 = 1
I find that Sidney's writing represents these traditional methods, among others. Please bear in mind, this does not mean that his life is exactly traditional (despite his role as Courtier). Nor does it intend that his writing is not excellent. Every writer follows tradition to some degree (Unless they are convinced that they re-created the alphabet...).
Sidney is nothing short of fantastic. At first I was frustrated, I found his use of language was difficult to understand. But soon, many of his ideas became identifiable, and wonderfully worded. His perspectives about pain, remniscence, memory and love are strong and confident, developed maturely. They are phrased simply but through simplicity, they create an overwhelming power. I enjoyed his quick synopsies of life so much that I had to reference him in a school project:
Well, that's my intro to Sidney and to blogging. More detail about Sidney and the Renaissance will follow in my next blogs. Thanks for reading!
There's a great load of open material in this course. There is plenty of extra resource hunting to be done, and there is always that extra material in the back of the book that goes undiscussed in class...which leaves a great deal of things to do, and much to write about.
That's a good introduction to what I am going to begin writing about today. My first instinct when I began reading Sidney was to read whatever appealed to me. The first thing that caught my eye was the section, 'Certain Sonnets'.
I suppose its the poet in me that drew me to it, as well, I have very little experience with Renaissance work and was in desperate search of rhetoric I could relate to. It's what I call the stubborn 'I-stick-to-modern-secular-rebel-writers' problem that I beleive many people in my generation fall victim to.
Now, it surprises me that I have not gotten to online writing earlier, as I quite enjoy blabbing (hence the last two paragraphs). To blab about blabbing, I will say that it really depends on my mood, but in this blog site of mine I will include random literary perspectives as well as serious analytical and historical reflection. Perhaps more. We will venture to find out...
Now, on with Sidney; my personal introduction to his work:
Firstly, please pardon any misrepresentations of Sidneys work that takes place here. I am clearly not expert interpreter and may drastically take things out of context. Therefore, please do not take any general critiques or assumptions of his work too seriously. What I aspire to, in general, is: 1. To point out some things that grab my attention in his work. 2. Make connections between these ideas and my general knowledge-of-the-world (including, of course, the inseperable 'literary world'), and 3. To allow you, the reader, to develop your own ideas from it. I write, like every other reader and writer, from a particular background and particular fields of interests. Being young and inexperienced with words is a detriment in strict academia, however, it is truly a blessing when it comes to finding innovative ideas. I'm telling you, revolution came from young people. Or maybe I'm just too idealistic...
Speaking of the untraditional view, Sidney reminds me off-hand of anything but. This is obvious, since he lives and writes in a time that has a wealth of heavy tradition, The Renaissance; the absolutely European time. When I think Renaissance, I think Rich. Rich art, rich feeling, rich rationale and words and poetry, food and discourse, wine and the dinner table.
Today in North America, we as well have a wealth of tradition. But it is not rich in the same way; it is divided and obscure. We fall into clusters of culture that seem to be strong, but quickly fade in the face of mass marketing. Religion begs the question of language and skin colour, and words like Diversity become ironic. In the late 20th and early 21st century, culture becomes culture: small, tidily defined ways of life. But after we exhaust ourselves deciding what we are, the backbone is always business and politics.
This is unlike the united time period (not culture, time period) of the Renaissance. Memoirs of the Renaissance have remained very strongly. Much like how the Western World longs to return to the days of Greek knowldge and pre-Socratic serenity, Europe seems very reminiscent of Renaissance years.
This is the general context with which I view Sidney's life. Now, as for his writing, my understanding of it came so immediately to me that I did not realize it until now. His ideal, some aspects of style and form hits me as how, as a child, I tried to write. Obviously very shabbily so, but what I mean is he was a traditional writer; he wrote how one should write. The first thing a new writer does is fall into her place in tradition, and (T.S. Eliot is cringing from his grave) imitates. Add a dash of Woodsworth, scratch out the dead Anglosaxin phrasing and Sidney's writing becomes the traditional writing that as kids we are taught is poetry.
I put together some traditional-poet cliches that I believe are indusive to Sidney's writing, at least to some extent:
1. The poet is in love with pain.
2. His pain is his subject matter, and the reason is, for the love of it. For the solace found in sadness.
3. Every so often, the poet decides to tell you so (as if you didn't know it from the previous century). Sometimes this explanation is the entire poem.
4. The Pain is often best expressed through the torment and longing towards an external object. i.e. Being unsatisfactority In Love. Or, just being In Love, since love by nature leaves one unsatisfied.
5. The poet is impacted by ancestral tradition, even if it is by its rejection. i.e., comparisons and metaphors to nature are prominent, a tendency that evolved from the Greeks and Ancients.
6. The poet uses basic poetic tools (deemed 'obvious' by some second year students) are used. For example, the way to name a thing: a. vivid imagery. b. uniting b's characteristics with those of c by saying that they are alike (simile), and c. (the biggie) the metaphor, implying that something is like the other by uniting the objects into the same value or idea. b = c
1 = 1
I find that Sidney's writing represents these traditional methods, among others. Please bear in mind, this does not mean that his life is exactly traditional (despite his role as Courtier). Nor does it intend that his writing is not excellent. Every writer follows tradition to some degree (Unless they are convinced that they re-created the alphabet...).
Sidney is nothing short of fantastic. At first I was frustrated, I found his use of language was difficult to understand. But soon, many of his ideas became identifiable, and wonderfully worded. His perspectives about pain, remniscence, memory and love are strong and confident, developed maturely. They are phrased simply but through simplicity, they create an overwhelming power. I enjoyed his quick synopsies of life so much that I had to reference him in a school project:
"...Trial only shows,
The bitter juice of forsaken woes,
Where former bliss present ills do stain-
Nay, former bliss adds to present pain,
While remembrance doth both states contain."
(Certain Sonnets, number 24, line 10)
The bitter juice of forsaken woes,
Where former bliss present ills do stain-
Nay, former bliss adds to present pain,
While remembrance doth both states contain."
(Certain Sonnets, number 24, line 10)
Well, that's my intro to Sidney and to blogging. More detail about Sidney and the Renaissance will follow in my next blogs. Thanks for reading!
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