Feather-Light Futures

“It’s as if the past were sinking like lead, while the feather-light future defies gravity.” Bernard Cooper expertly writes Maps to Anywhere, illustrating throughout the course of his reflections how the past can hold a person down. By living in past memories, it is difficult to embrace the present. For Cooper, the event he seems to dwell upon most is the death of his brother. From my own experiences, it is always difficult to let go of loved ones. It takes years to move beyond the grief phase; each loss seems to take a small part of my heart. That place never fully heals, but eventually it does scar over with good memories and the pain fades.  

With a loss, there is often one question floating through people’s minds, “why, if no one wants to, [does] everyone dies.” This is the question that could be the cause the deluges of tears; those still left on earth cry, not because they are sad for the deceased, but because they miss them. Constant longing for their return, renews the sorrow. It is this living in the past that pulls anyone down like lead, as Cooper describes it. 

However, there is always a hope of a feather-light future where we can all move on from past grievances. This is the hope that keeps us all going from day to day. Without it, we would never be able to remember people with fondness: move on. As Navajo proverb says, “You cannot see the future with tears in your eyes.”

Surgery of the Samurai

As Ernest Hemingway said, “The only kind of writing is rewriting.” This is the most tedious part of any authors’ journey: the revision process. To effectively revise, a writer must cut his or her work up: moving sentences or entire paragraphs, adding words to make it flow, essentially reworking the entire piece.”  Natalie Goldberg captures the essence of revising in her chapters “The Samurai” and “Reading and Rewriting” from Writing Down the Bones.

Goldberg draws an analogy between revising a piece and using a samurai sword. “Like a samurai with an empty mind who cut their opponents in half, be willing not to be sentimental about your writing when you reread it. Look at it with a clear, piercing mind.” The first part accurately captures how I look at the task of rewriting: a brutal, mindless murder of innocent words. However, I often find it difficult to clear my mind and mutilate, then rebuild my own piece.

I must perfect my eyes to be as sharp as a samurai’s blade. It is only then when I can properly dissect my writing. “When you’re in the samurai space, you have to be tough. Not mean, but with the toughness of truth.” It is very difficult to look at my own writing and see what flows, what is a complete mess, and what reads as beautiful prose. I know what I mean to say, so I read it that way, mentally filling in all the gaps. In other cases, I like each individual sentence so much that I cannot bear to remove even one, despite the lack of cohesion. However, this is when I need to get into the samurai mindset and remove myself from the sentimentality of my work. It is then I can remember Goldberg’s words: “Write one good line, you’ll be famous. Write a lot of lukewarm pieces, you’ll put people to sleep.”

Human Compassion

According to Arthur Schopenhauer, “Compassion is the basis of morality.” In her piece The Fifth Story, Clarice Lispector interweaves multiple tales to form a complex image of humanity versus a guilty conscience. To many, insects such as the common cockroach are just pests to be exterminated. However, using these varmints, Lispector introduces the recurring argument reading the value of a life. “Should I renew the lethal sugar every night [and kill more of nature’s creation]?” Despite the fact that these bugs invade homes, carry diseases and scare the unsuspecting, their extermination is strangely accompanied by the despicable feeling of having killed a living creature.

While calling attention to the mindless killing of creatures, Lispector provides a brilliant literary example of how a simple story can have much more to it than meets the eye. As she first tells the story of the “murder” of the cockroaches, she introduces it simply as a successful way to kill the pests, calmly stating, “The cockroaches died,” to summarize the results of her sugary and deadly potion. She proceeds to tell the same story again, this time adding details of her malicious outrage over the invasion of the cockroaches and the burning desire to eradicate them. She adds on two more drafts of the same murderous tale, each time adding details and sculpting the scene of the crime.

By the fourth story, Lispector evokes a newfound sympathy for the cockroaches by introducing the plight of right versus wrong: either bear the creepy-crawly invasions or butcher the pests. Even the executioner “trembled at the sight of that hardening gypsum, the depravity of existence would shatter my inner form.” With it arrives a choice “between two paths…Any choice would mean sacrificing either myself or my soul. I chose.” But Lispector does not reveal the slayer’s choice; instead, she leaves it to our interpretation as to what the fifth story would hold.

This decision on the author’s part makes the reader think more about killing helpless and innocent creatures, who are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I cannot count the number of times a poor spider or mosquito has lain smashed, by my doing. Yet, I have felt little remorse; to me they are just pests with no purpose in life. But is this the case? Or, would it be better to give them a little human compassion?

  

A Spark of Inspiration

As William Arthur Ward said, “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” I have encountered many great teachers in my educational career and each one, in his or her own way, has inspired me. This inspiration enables me to remember and comprehend far more about a subject. This is what made Miss Ferenczi, the intriguing substitute teacher in Charles Baxter’s Gryphon, a great teacher: she encouraged the students to think and learn.

Instead of following the typical class schedule, Ms. Ferenczi chooses to engage the students in her own unique way. When she was talking, “there was not a sound in the classroom, except for Miss Ferenczi’s voice.…No one even went to bathroom.” This rapt attention is the gift of an extraordinary instructor. Miss Ferenczi appealed to youths’ learning style with storytelling. And no one was going to forget the interesting facts she illustrated.

For example, for the unit on Egypt Miss Ferenczi did not bore everyone with dates, facts, and details to memorize. Instead, she engrained the Egyptian’s beliefs into each student’s head by describing, “how they [people] behaved—‘well or ill’—in life,” could affect their prospects of reincarnation. Or, that “people act the way they do because of magnetism produced by tidal forces in the solar system, forces produced by the sun and by its ‘planetary ally,’ Jupiter.” Miss Ferenczi’s “ideas themselves were, as the dictionary would say, fabulous.” With such vivid and captivating ideas, none of Miss Ferenczi’s students would ever forget the religious aspects of Egyptian culture.

For young minds, Miss Ferenczi manages to capture the most important foundations of education: an interest in learning. Once this spark is lit for a student, it could be the start of something big; it could change a person’s life. As my great-aunt once said to me, “Labor for learning before you grow old, for learning is better than silver or gold. Silver and gold will vanish away, but a good education will never decay.”