Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Lifelong Expectations of Misery
I find being married wonderful, and I am irritated at the number of people with whom I have the following conversation:
"Oh, hey, how's married life treating you?"
"It's great!"
"Well, you say that now...."
-or-
"Well, just you wait...."
-or-
"Well, you ARE still newlyweds...."
And we are still newlyweds. But if we're waiting for anything it's that things, with our devotion and our effort and our care and love, will get better, not worse. What would happen if we really went around expecting things to be otherwise?
"Oh, hey, how's married life treating you?"
"It's great!"
"Well, you say that now...."
-or-
"Well, just you wait...."
-or-
"Well, you ARE still newlyweds...."
And we are still newlyweds. But if we're waiting for anything it's that things, with our devotion and our effort and our care and love, will get better, not worse. What would happen if we really went around expecting things to be otherwise?
Reading list
Here is the suggested reading list for my independent study, compiled by my professor for the course. Whether we do all or a portion of these is up in the air:
Readings in the Irish Novel after Joyce.
Flann O’Brien, The Third Policeman and At-Swim Two Birds.
Sebastian Barry, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty.
Sam Hanna Bell, December Bride.
Dermot Bolger, The Journey Home.
Elizabeth Bowen, The Last September.
Seamus Deane, Reading in the Dark.
Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha and A Star Called Henry.
Aidan Higgins, Langrishe, Go Down.
Patrick McCabe, The Butcher Boy and Breakfast on Pluto.
John McGahern, The Barracks and Amongst Women.
Brian Moore, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne and Catholics
Edna O’Brien, The Country Girls.
Kate O’Brien, The Land of Spices.
William Trevor, The Story of Lucy Gault
Julia O’Faolain, No Country for Young Men.
Francis Stuart, Black List, Section H.
Colm Toibin, The South and The Heather Blazing.
Samuel Beckett, Malone, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable
Readings in the Irish Novel after Joyce.
Flann O’Brien, The Third Policeman and At-Swim Two Birds.
Sebastian Barry, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty.
Sam Hanna Bell, December Bride.
Dermot Bolger, The Journey Home.
Elizabeth Bowen, The Last September.
Seamus Deane, Reading in the Dark.
Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha and A Star Called Henry.
Aidan Higgins, Langrishe, Go Down.
Patrick McCabe, The Butcher Boy and Breakfast on Pluto.
John McGahern, The Barracks and Amongst Women.
Brian Moore, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne and Catholics
Edna O’Brien, The Country Girls.
Kate O’Brien, The Land of Spices.
William Trevor, The Story of Lucy Gault
Julia O’Faolain, No Country for Young Men.
Francis Stuart, Black List, Section H.
Colm Toibin, The South and The Heather Blazing.
Samuel Beckett, Malone, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable
Registered
I'm on campus today. I just registered.
A registration period which runs just a bit past the start of classes is marvelous, especially if you need to add or drop a class after you receive your syllabi and realize what steamy pile you've stepped in. But it's not so good if you're pushing off your registration.
I'm not stepping into any steamy piles this semester, but it looks juicy all the same. An independent study on contemporary Irish novels. A class on Renaissance literature, and one on Victorian literature. All these different times and places means I'm NOT registered for the one American lit seminar that will be offered during my time here. I'm not sure how I'll feel about having a hole in my education the size of our literary tradition. As if one class could ever hope to fill such a hole.
Anyhow, I was on campus a few weeks ago and the place seemed dead. I usually like walking places which are deserted, when we usually know them as busy or packed with people. Window-shopping in an empty shopping mall after a late-night dessert at Ruby Tuesday's. The middle of the street in the middle of the night. A gigantic people-less church. Last I was on campus I should have felt the same. Today music blares on the mall, but then it was quiet. There was a conspicuous absence of students whose cell phones had fused to their ears. I was not peaceful. The doors were locked, and I needed to return some books and, well, register.
Peaceful is for the library, despite what I tell myself as I wistfully reflect on the schoolyear during the grind of a full-time summer job. And summer is partially for giving us the space to think of the schoolyear as peaceful.
Into the fire.
A registration period which runs just a bit past the start of classes is marvelous, especially if you need to add or drop a class after you receive your syllabi and realize what steamy pile you've stepped in. But it's not so good if you're pushing off your registration.
I'm not stepping into any steamy piles this semester, but it looks juicy all the same. An independent study on contemporary Irish novels. A class on Renaissance literature, and one on Victorian literature. All these different times and places means I'm NOT registered for the one American lit seminar that will be offered during my time here. I'm not sure how I'll feel about having a hole in my education the size of our literary tradition. As if one class could ever hope to fill such a hole.
Anyhow, I was on campus a few weeks ago and the place seemed dead. I usually like walking places which are deserted, when we usually know them as busy or packed with people. Window-shopping in an empty shopping mall after a late-night dessert at Ruby Tuesday's. The middle of the street in the middle of the night. A gigantic people-less church. Last I was on campus I should have felt the same. Today music blares on the mall, but then it was quiet. There was a conspicuous absence of students whose cell phones had fused to their ears. I was not peaceful. The doors were locked, and I needed to return some books and, well, register.
Peaceful is for the library, despite what I tell myself as I wistfully reflect on the schoolyear during the grind of a full-time summer job. And summer is partially for giving us the space to think of the schoolyear as peaceful.
Into the fire.
