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24 May 2007

A little something from Flannery O' Connor →[More:]

From her essay The King of the Birds, found in Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose.

Dedicated to the hero transcriber Hugh Janus and to all of you, my friends. As follows:

When the peacock has presented his back, the spectator will begin to walk around him to get a front view; but the peacock will continue to turn so that no front view is possible. The thing to do then is to stand still until it pleases him to turn. When it suits him, the peacock will face you. Then you will see in a green-bronze arch around him a galaxy of gazing, haloed suns. This is the moment when most people are silent.

"Amen! Amen!" an old Negro woman once cried when this happened, and I have heard similar remarks at this moment that show the inadequacy of human speech. Some people whistle; a few, for once, are silent. A truck driver who was driving up with a load of hay and found a peacock turning before him in the middle of the road, shouted "Get a load of that bastard!" and braked his truck to a shattering halt. I have never known a strutting peacock to budge a fraction of an inch for truck or tractor or automobile. It is up to the vehicle to get out of the way. No peafowl of mine has ever been run over, though one year one of them lost a foot in the mowing machine.

...

Some people are genuinely affected by the sight of a peacock, even with his tail lowered, but do not care to admit it; others appear incensed by it. Perhaps they have the suspicion that the bird has formed some unfavorable opinion of them. The peacock himself is a careful and dignified investigator....

...One of mine stepped from under the shrubbery one day and came forward to inspect a carful of people who had driven up to buy a calf. An old man and five or six white-haired, barefooted children were piling out of the back of the automobile as the bird approached. Catching sight of him they stopped in their tracks and stared, plainly hacked to find this superior figure blocking their path. There was silence as the bird regarded them, his head drawn back at its most majestic angle, his folded train glittering behind him in the sunlight.

"Whut is thet thang?" one of the small boys asked finally in a sullen voice.

The old man got out of the car and was gazing at the peacock with an astounded look of recognition. "I ain't seen one of them since my grandaddy's day." he said, respectfully removing his hat. "Folks used to have 'em, but they don't no more."
"Whut is it?" the child asked again in the same tone he had used before.

"Churren," the old man said, "that's the king of the birds!"

The children received this information in silence. After a minute they climbed back into the car and continued from there to stare at the peacock, their expressions annoyed, as if they disliked catching the old man in the truth.

post by: Divine_Wino at: 13:09 | 19 comments

She's one of my favorite authors. Thanks for this.

posted by initapplette 24 May | 13:13

Mine as well, but I haven't read much of her non-fiction. Thanks, D_W.

posted by BoringPostcards 24 May | 13:16

Another big fan here.

It's fun to compare her writing to Iron & Wine's music. There are a lot of similiarities, I think.

Thanks Wino.

posted by mudpuppie 24 May | 13:31

I love her writing far beyond my ability to express, which is why sometimes all I can say is "Get a load of that bastard!"

posted by Divine_Wino 24 May | 13:32

With apologies, I know I'd be a good man if there were someone around to shoot me every minute of the day. I most often think that when surfing the internet.

posted by omiewise 24 May | 13:35

Lovely. Thanks as well D_W.

And speaking of showing your ass . . . last night the missus and I babysat our almost 4-year old nephew. It was the first time we had been asked to do so, though we had always made ourself available. What an eye-opening, wonderful and frustrating experience.

Little guy had to poop, and mrs. tr33 had taken him to the bathroom the first few times, so this was my time at bat. I painfully realized how socialized we are to be uncomfortable around naked children, and how unabashed they are when it comes time to drop their trowsers.

Which he did, and so I stepped back to the side of the bathroom door to at least give him a little privacy, and assuage my feelings of discomfort.

I heard a few grunts, the tell-tale plop, and then heard him stand up. When I peeked back around, he was standing there, pants down, and said "can I wipe myself?" "Well, I think you should give it a try," said I (hoping, good lord, yes, please wipe yourself!).

So he grabbed a few sheets and wiped. And then, I kid you not, turned around bent over and spread his ass cheeks in a goatse-esque fashion and asked me "Did I get it all?"

I was horrified and on the verge of hilarity. I couldn't really even look. I know when we have one of our own, it will be different. But I just said, "Yes, looks great, I'm sure you got it all buddy."

Too freaking hilarious.

posted by tr33hggr 24 May | 13:35

I'll have to go back and reread it to see if I'm still as blown away, but in "Everything that Rises Must Converge," there's this really skillful and subtle shift in perspective from one character to another. It's almost like she changes narrators without you even knowing. Really brilliant.

Tr33, that's high-larious.

posted by mudpuppie 24 May | 13:36

At Mount Vernon and Monticello, in Virginia (George Washington and Thomas Jefferson's respective homes), they have peacocks, and maybe at the Adams' place, too. Definitely in Jamestown and Williamsburg. Maybe not at Mount Clare in Baltimore, but maybe so.

When I was a lad I chased ducks. Many kids do; some are told not to, but my parents didn't mind. When they took us to Mount Vernon for the first time, I was maybe five and my brother, seven. Upon seeing a peacock on the lawn, I started running. Of course, it flashed its tailfeathers up and strutted toward me, and I yelped, spun around, and fell on my face, then got up and ran as fast as I could to the parking lot.

To this day, every time I'm with my dad and we see the exit for Mount Vernon (my brother lives in Alexandria), he chuckles and says, "Oh, Mount Vernon; you know, [Hugh], they have peacocks in the gardens there."

So thanks, brother; great work. You feeling the glow of transcription, the promise of process, the knowledge now at your fingertips? That's why I transcribe. You should see my notebooks full of longhand transcriptions (though it's doubtful anyone will before I'm long a-mould'ring); I read so damn fast, and though I pick everything up, I sometimes don't trust that I'm paying attention to the important stuff, so I write it out. Most of my best habits counter phantom failings.

This is a great piece to put up this way, edifying and satisfying. One of the few ways to make people better.

I have a violin book for you.

posted by Hugh Janus 24 May | 13:53

I've decided that I want to memorize more passages from things or any passages really, next time you see me test me on An Irish Airman Forsees His Death.

posted by Divine_Wino 24 May | 14:04

That sounds great; I recited a little Poe (Eldorado) for the guys last time I was on the Porch of Grand Goings-On.

I'll make a modest attempt, too; you kick up the Yeats, and I'll bust out The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.

They'll stand us drinks for such performances somewhere, and then, arm in arm, we can vault from reciting solo death odes into conducting the whole joint in a careening singalong:

I think of you every morning
Dream of you every night
Darling, I'm never lonely
Whenever you are in sight

I love you for sentimental reasons
I hope you do believe me
I've given you my heart

posted by Hugh Janus 24 May | 14:28

Hugh? You like transcription?

Transcribing someone's written notes? I can dig it.

Transcribing stuff from a microcassette tape? I detest it.

How do you manage?

posted by TrishaLynn 24 May | 14:50

I transcribe stuff from books I read, or articles. Not from dictation. Though I write down stuff I hear all the time, like yesterday when the lady in the cubicle caddycorner to mine had a long conversation with her granddaughter about not drawing on the wall.

After pointing out that "It wasn't an accident" and that "I don't think you're listening to me," she finally said, "If you want to draw, I'll bring you a big notebook full of nice paper for you to draw on when I see you Friday, okay, beautiful?" always with the most pleasant and businesslike voice.

posted by Hugh Janus 24 May | 15:05

I didn't transcribe this, but it's my favorite O'Connor non-fiction piece, from "Writing Short Stories":

I prefer to talk about the meaning in a story rather than the theme of a story. People talk about the theme of a story as if the theme were like the string that a sack of chicken feed is tied with. They think that if you can pick out the theme, the way you pick the right thread in the chicken-feed sack, you can rip the story open and feed the chickens. But this is not the way meaning works in fiction.

When you can state the theme of a story, when you can separate it from the story itself, then you can be sure the story is not a very good one. The meaning of a story has to be embodied in it, has to be made concrete in it. A story is a way to say something that can't be said any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is. You tell a story because a statement would be inadequate. When anybody asks what a story is about, the only proper thing is to tell him to read the story. The meaning of fiction is not abstract meaning but experienced meaning, and the purpose of making statements about the meaning of a story is only to help you to experience that meaning more fully.

posted by mrmoonpie 24 May | 15:08

You feeling the glow of transcription, the promise of process, the knowledge now at your fingertips? That's why I transcribe.

Hear, hear. I also transcribe obsessively. It's a strange feeling, moving your hands to form the words that some other genius has put together. You feel both thrilled, by participating in the act of writing, and humbled, because you are not the original genius.

Plus, it's the best way to remember text.

posted by felix betachat 24 May | 16:08

When you can state the theme of a story, when you can separate it from the story itself, then you can be sure the story is not a very good one. The meaning of a story has to be embodied in it, has to be made concrete in it. A story is a way to say something that can't be said any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is.

I'm remembering now why she's one of the only authors I ever really loved.

posted by BoringPostcards 24 May | 20:13

The meaning of a story has to be embodied in it, has to be made concrete in it. A story is a way to say something that can't be said any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is. You tell a story because a statement would be inadequate.

Yeah, no, exactly. Jesus wept, she was so fucking smart. I don't mean to glean that from that quote, but if you read her body of work and just let the depth of feeling and the quality of her ability to express what she thought wash over you, I don't believe any fair judge wouldn't say that FO'C wasn't almost horribly, monstrously, magically smart. She is one of my saints.

posted by Divine_Wino 24 May | 22:42

Joan Didion is another. I never got into her fiction, but holy shit -- aren't many people who can clearly articulate a point like she can.

posted by mudpuppie 24 May | 23:00

Damn skippy, mudpuppy; Didion's one of the greatest ever.

Though I gotta say, when my brother and I are throwing down in a cage match over who's better, Didion or Joyce Carol Oates, I give it up to Oates, because she writes brilliantly about more things I like to read about, like boxing and Dostoyevsky. Joan Didion has the edge on style. Either way, I think we're lucky they live to write for us; our benefit on reading them is immeasurable.

posted by Hugh Janus 25 May | 08:49

Oops, misspelled your name, mudpuppie; sorry.

posted by Hugh Janus 25 May | 08:50

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