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What is an Essay?
The essay is an analytic, interpretative, or critical literary composition usually much shorter and less systematic and formal than a dissertation or thesis and usually dealing with its subject from a limited and often personal point of view.
Chinese Space, American Space by Yi-FuTuan
Yi-Fu Tuan (1930-) was born in China and later moved to the United States. Now a geography professor in Madison, Wisconsin, he has studied cultural differences between America and his native country. He states that he writes “from a single perspective—namely that of experience.” In this article published in Harper’s, he compares the way people in two cultures view their environments.
(1) Americans have a sense of space, not of place. Go to an American home in exurbia, and almost the first thing you do is drift toward the picture window. How curious that the first compliment you pay your host inside his house is say how lovely it is outside the house! He pleased that you should admire his vistas. This distant horizon is not merely a line separating earth from the sky, it is a symbol of the future. The American is not rooted his place, however lovely: his eyes are drawn by the expanding space to a point on the horizon, which his future.
(2) By contrast, consider the traditional Chinese home. Blank walls enclose it. Step behind the spirit wall and you are in a court yard with perhaps a miniature garden around a corner. Once inside his private compound you are wrapped in an ambiance of clam beauty, and ordered world of buildings, pavement, rock, and decorative vegetation. But you have no distant view: nowhere does the space open out before you. Raw nature in a such a home is experienced only as weather, and the only open space is the sky above. The Chinese is rooted in his place. When he has to leave, it is not for the promised land on the terrestrial horizon, but for another world altogether along the vertical, religious axis of his imagination.
(3) The Chinese tie to place is deeply felt. Wanderlust is an alien sentiment. The Taoist classic Tao Te Ching captures the ideal of rootedness in place with these words: “Though there may be another country in the neighborhood so close that they are within sight of each other and the crowing of cocks and barking dogs in one place can be heard in the other, yet there is no traffic between them; and throughout their lives the two people have nothing to do with each other.” In theory if not in practice, farmers have ranked high in Chinese society. The reason is not only that they are engaged in a “root” industry of producing food but that, unlike pecuniary merchants, they are tied to the land and do not abandon their country when it is in danger.
(4) Nostalgia is a recurrent theme in Chinese poetry. An American reader of translated Chinese poems may well be taken aback—even put off—by the frequency, as well as the sentimentality, of the lament for home. To understand the strength of this sentiment, we need to know that Chinese desire for stability and rootedness in place is prompted by constant threat of war, exile, and the natural disasters of flood and drought. Forcible removal make the Chinese keenly aware of their loss. By contrast, Americans move, for the most part, voluntarily. Their nostalgia for home town is really longing for a childhood to which they can return: in the meantime the future beckons and the future is “out there,” in open space.
(5) When we criticize American rootlessness, we tend to forget that it is a result of ideals we admire, namely social mobility and optimism about the future. When we admire Chinese rootedness, we forget that the word “place” means both a location in space and position in society: to be tied to place is also to be bound to one’s station in life, with little hope of betterment. Space symbolizes hope; place, achievement and stability.
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The Santa Ana by Joan Didion
(1)There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point. For a few days now we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night. I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior.
(2)I recall being told, when I first moved to Los Angeles and was living on an isolated beach, that the Indians would throw themselves into the sea when the bad wind blew. I could see why. The Pacific turned ominously glossy during a Santa Ana period, and one woke in the night troubled not only by the peacocks screaming in the olive trees but by the eerie absence of surf. The heat was surreal. The sky had a yellow cast, the kind of light sometimes called "earthquake weather." My only neighbor would not come out of her house for days, and there were no lights at night, and her husband roamed the place with a machete. One day he would tell me that he had heard a trespasser, the next a rattlesnake.
(3) "On nights like that," Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, "every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen." That was the kind of wind it was. I did not know then that there was any basis for the effect it had on all of us, but it turns out to be another of those cases in which science bears out folk wisdom. The Santa Ana, which is named for one of the canyons it rushers through, is foehn wind, like the foehn of Austria and Switzerland and the hamsin of Israel. There are a number of persistent malevolent winds, perhaps the best know of which are the mistral of France and the Mediterranean sirocco, but a foehn wind has distinct characteristics: it occurs on the leeward slope of a mountain range and, although the air begins as a cold mass, it is warmed as it comes down the mountain and appears finally as a hot dry wind. Whenever and wherever foehn blows, doctors hear about headaches and nausea and allergies, about "nervousness," about "depression." In Los Angeles some teachers do not attempt to conduct formal classes during a Santa Ana, because the children become unmanageable. In Switzerland the suicide rate goes up during the foehn, and in the courts of some Swiss cantons the wind is considered a mitigating circumstance for crime. Surgeons are said to watch the wind, because blood does not clot normally during a foehn. A few years ago an Israeli physicist discovered that not only during such winds, but for the ten or twelve hours which precede them, the air carries an unusually high ratio of positive to negative ions. No one seems to know exactly why that should be; some talk about friction and others suggest solar disturbances. In any case the positive ions are there, and what an excess of positive ions does, in the simplest terms, is make people unhappy. One cannot get much more mechanistic than that.
(4) Easterners commonly complain that there is no "weather" at all in Southern California, that the days and the seasons slip by relentlessly, numbingly bland. That is quite misleading. In fact the climate is characterized by infrequent but violent extremes: two periods of torrential subtropical rains which continue for weeks and wash out the hills and send subdivisions sliding toward the sea; about twenty scattered days a year of the Santa Ana, which, with its incendiary dryness, invariably means fire. At the first prediction of a Santa Ana, the Forest Service flies men and equipment from northern California into the southern forests, and the Los Angeles Fire Department cancels its ordinary non-firefighting routines. The Santa Ana caused Malibu to burn as it did in 1956, and Bel Air in 1961, and Santa Barbara in 1964. In the winter of 1966-67 eleven men were killed fighting a Santa Ana fire that spread through the San Gabriel Mountains.
(5)Just to watch the front-page news out of Los Angeles during a Santa Ana is to get very close to what it is about the place. The longest single Santa Ana period in recent years was in 1957, and it lasted not the usual three or four days but fourteen days, from November 21 until December 4. On the first day 25,000 acres of the San Gabriel Mountains were burning, with gusts reaching 100 miles an hour. In town, the wind reached Force 12, or hurricane force, on the Beaufort Scale; oil derricks were toppled and people ordered off the downtown streets to avoid injury from flying objects. On November 22 the fire in the San Gabriels was out of control. On November 24 six people were killed in automobile accidents, and by the end of the week the Los Angeles Times was keeping a box score of traffic deaths. On November 26 a prominent Pasadena attorney, depressed about money, shot and killed his wife, their two sons and himself. On November 27 a South Gate divorcée, twenty-two, was murdered and thrown from a moving car. On November 30 the San Gabriel fire was still out of control, and the wind in town was blowing eighty miles an hour. On the first day of December four people died violently, and on the third the wind began to break.
(6) It is hard for people who have not lived in Los Angeles to realize how radically the Santa Ana figures in the local imagination. The city burning is Los Angeles's deepest image of itself. Nathaniel West perceived that, in The Day of the Locust, and at the time of the 1965 Watts riots what struck the imagination most indelibly were the fires. For days one could drive the Harbor Freeway and see the city on fire, just as we had always known it would be in the end. Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The winds shows us how close to the edge we are.
Excerpt from Slouching towards Bethlehem, © by Joan Didion.
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For more about how to read essays, click on the following link:
http://www.smpcollege.com/litlinks/essays/readessa.htm
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Swearwords
Using swearwords is taboo in nearly every culture, so why do we still use them? Find out how words become swearwords.
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posted by jimperia | 7:53 PM
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MIAD Writing Instructor, Miriam Ben-Shalom, brings to our attention the following book review:
H-NET BOOK REVIEW
Published by H-Minerva@h-net.msu.edu (November 2005)
Sarah E. Gardner. _Blood and Irony: Southern White Women's Narratives of the Civil War, 1861–1937_. Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 2004. x + 352 pp. Illustrations, notes, bibliography, index. $39.95 (hardcover), ISBN 0-8078-2818-1.
Reviewed for H-Minerva by M. Ben-Shalom, Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design
They Weren’t Southern Belles, They Were Warriors
Rarely does it happen that a book dedicated to history may be called a "page turner." Nevertheless, Blood and Ironey is just that. Gardner delves deeply into the Southern psyche from the rare viewpoint of the Southern woman and does so with grace and gentle authority. Gardner manages to give readers a decidedly different view of the Civil War and of Southern women. In doing so, she offers not only historians but also casual readers a view of the war diametrically opposed to what most might think they know and understand.
First and foremost, Gardner's subject provides a decidedly different view of the Civil War from the usual male power brokering and posturing. She has well and ably researched the words and thoughts of the losing side--from the viewpoint of a stereotyped section of the Southern population, white Southern women, without injecting any judgment or propagandistic bombast. She says, "Southern white women soon realized that the end of the war had not signaled an end to the suffering, a release of hatred, an acceptance of the terms of surrender, or a willingness to reintegrate into the Union" (p. 42). White Southern womanhood saw the loss of the Civil War as due to a lack of moral rectitude, a flaw in character, or some lack of a spiritual correctness which removed God from their side. So, although it was hard for them, they began to write, take oral histories to heal the "broken spirit" (43) of the South, as if to have records for the generations to come so that the flaw of character which caused God to abandon the South might be corrected.
And write with vengeance, these women did. Many had never been writers and feared they could not accurately portray the travails of the South. It appears they overcame such doubts with a certain amount of ease because they felt they were warriors with pens. From 1861 to 1865, a host of writers produced a plethora of romances, most notably _The Heroine of the Confederacy_, which speaks to the "constancy of the women at home" (34). These women felt that to produce books about hearth, home, and women not unlike the Spartans of old was a patriotic duty.
After the surrender of the South, many of the writers felt betrayed and like captives. They did not trust the North to be decent. Some stopped writing entirely, others paused and wondered if were proper for them to write about "military matters" (43). Sarah A. Dorsey rose to the challenge of propriety and wrote not only histories, but also defenses of Southern military leadership. Belle Boyd, a Southern spy, wrote her account of the war from exile in England. Judith B. McGuire wrote from personal experience in _Diary of a Southern Refugee during the War_. Others took on the North as if the Devil incarnate were present, writing against "intersectional marriage"--that is, marriage between Northerners and Southerners (65). And they did not hesitate to include Southern men suspected of cowardice or cravenness, either, as appropriate focuses for hatred and loathing.
After Reconstruction, Southern women began to write about memory of the war; they felt they had an obligation to provide historical inquiry from a Southern viewpoint. In the chapter entitled "The Imperative of Historical Inquiry," Gardner gives readers a psychological look at the scars the Civil War carved on Southern society. Almost as if unwilling to allow full surrender, Southern women writers took to the pages to celebrate the "men who wore the grey … [and] … celebrate the past, not to reform the present" (117). The United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC) was formed and a historical committee for that group began to attempt to standardize formats for the recording of history from the Southern viewpoint. Claiming to "prize truth above all else," the UDC attempted to impose its interpretation on what was written (123). Around 1877 the UDC reinforced the idea that the war was a "war between the states" and not a Civil War (125). They banned histories that portrayed Lincoln as a hero, that the South had fought to protect slavery, or that the North had initially attempted to nonviolently engage the South. The wives of Southern generals, especially Helen Dortch Longstreet, began the reconstruction of their husbands' careers, turning them from less than able leaders to heroes of the Confederacy. They did not see their efforts as censorship, however, but as providing a view to the "war of Northern aggression" that standard history might not necessarily provide. And they were right in their assumption, "that they understood the origins, meanings, and implications of war and defeat for themselves and Southern society … that directly contrasted northern historians' dominant interpretations" (4).
It is at the end of the war that the myth of "The Lost Cause" began to rise to great height, and even still influences Southern culture and outlook today; as an example, Gardner cites one writer, Caroline Gordon, who, in 1974 in an address to the Flannery O'Connor Foundation, described herself as "a totally unreconstructed Confederate" (262). Bag and baggage of the Lost Cause myth is that the South fought only for states' rights, that the war had little to do with slavery, that the South lost the war because of some spiritual lacking. As a result, the South was doomed to failure. White Southern women writing after Reconstruction were attempting to "right the wrongs of history," as Gardner says (159). And there was discussion of _Gone With the Wind_, whose "frenzy that followed publication" forced Margaret Mitchell to run from Atlanta to the north Georgia mountains (246).
It is the sections concerning the Lost Cause and white Southern women writers' addition to it that are surprisingly interesting for a discerning modern reader. In studying the attempt of Southern white women writers to rectify what they perceived as the wrongs of the past and to blame failure on moral weakness, readers may glimpse the echoes of that time in today's world of "blue" and "red" states and in the idea that God has granted special permission to engage in the Iraqi conflict. While Gardner does not deal with the continuing impact of white Southern women writers on Southern culture today, their influence can be found. Gardner's book certainly offers an insight into the workings of today's presidential administration by looking at the traditions of the past. As Gardner says, "Everything that rises must converge" (251).The white Southern women of whom Gardner writes certainly believed that the South would rise again if only they kept the faith; perhaps we are seeing a resurgence from the roots of that peculiar belief in today's political arenas. Such conjecture is provoked and worthy after reading _Blood and Irony_.
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Great blog! interesting perspectives!!
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