• 'SOLDIERS OF IRAQ': For the 10th time this month, coalition aircraft Friday dropped thousands of leaflets over southern Iraq, telling Iraqi citizens and soldiers about radio reports that warn about the evils of Iraqi President Saddam Hussein, according to U.S. Central Command. The 360,000 leaflets, titled "Information Radio," refer readers to radio broadcasts that explain the U.N. resolution requiring inspections in Iraq. The text says, in part: "Soldiers of Iraq: Saddam does not care for the military of Iraq. Saddam uses his soldiers as puppets, not for the glory of Iraq, but for his own personal glory."

So glad we're being subtle with our propaganda.

It's positively balmy outside...must be pushing 15 degrees!

I advise then (for I return now to my original theme) that, as one should always be careful to avoid the theatrical and melodramatic style, so, on the other hand, one should exercise the same caution to avoid triviality and vulgarity in style; for a turgid diction is unfitted for a man in public life, and a barren style is too unimpressive; but as the body ought to be not merely healthy but also sturdy, so also speech should be not merely free from fault but vigorous too. For the cautious is merely commended, but the audacious is admired as well. It so happens that I entertain the same opinion also in regard to mental disposition. For a man should not be bold, on the one hand, or, on the other, pusillanimous and cowering, since the one resolves itself into impudence, and the other into servility. Always to pursue the middle course in everything is artistic and in good taste.

~Plutarch (Lanham 79)

Word. Verbatim ac litteratim.

Pusillanimous. God, what a word.

So what the hell is paideia anyway?

In ancient Greek the word translates simply as upbringing or education. It's also a great favorite for middle school spelling bees. Somewhere along the line from Greek theorists to modern day it has metamorphosed, or perhaps merely evolved, into a philosophy embraced by many nouveau schools, which revolves around the belief that learning is an on-going process necessary for full intellectual and humanistic appreciation of life.

In essence I believe that the promoters of this faith are correct. However, one must be wary of solely intellectual education, which lacks the life it tries to explain. Often there is no explanation to be had for events that happen. Nor are the lessons merely those that we find sitting in a classroom. They are also, and ultimately I think much more importantly, those that we find sitting around us. I came to the realization slowly in high school that people are far more diverse, colorful, and educating than a textbook could ever be. Now, I am a great devotee of reading; books are the quietest and most constant of friends, the most accessible of counsellors, and the most patient of teachers. But it must be remembered that while inspiration can often be found in solitude, instruction comes best with company.

Is this what Western culture aims for?

"The ability to live with the self-contradiction it [the AT/THROUGH oscillation] reveals - that social conventions have to be made by people, and change according to changing circumstance, and yet at the same time be considered as conceptually true and morally binding - is at the heart of any education for citizenship in Western culture. And it is a similar ability to live with an ethics both rule-based and situational at the same time that Western decorum, through its rhetorical educational system, has always tried to teach." (Lanham 84)

Lanham, it would seem, believes that the current Western practice is to ingrain a mild form of hypocrisy in its students. Hypocrisy, or flexibility, or a double standard, or adaptability - a view either of manipulative tendencies or of healthy open-mindedness can be taken from this statement. Those social conventions that shift with the shifting ethics of their makers' society must be held as a moral standard for the sake of order in culture. Otherwise an amoral and immoral chaos results. However, this would appear to say as well that we may choose to change what we hold as "convention" at any time, and this makes for a very fluid framework upon which to hang a civilization. Eating meat on a Friday is no longer a capital crime. The use of the death penalty and other punishments, the considerations of temporary insanity and other mitigating circumstances in criminal trials, environmentalism, racism, sexism, abortion, homosexuality, and a host of other issues display the degree to which social strictures have changed over the years, and will continue to change as societal acceptance dictates. On the less condemning hand, it could be said that we try to cling to a double goal. As far as this topic goes, we desire a strong basis from which laws and regulations may stem, but we also desire to appear open-minded and non-discriminating, and so that basis shifts and bends to allow for circumstances. Should we thus be accused of hypocrisy, or merely pitied for our vain struggle to please everyone?

Alexander Nisbet. Behind the Mask. Oil on panel.

Sharp as a flint

He stared at me

Wrinkled old face like a gnarled apple

And one bird-like bright eye.

“Ye’ve come to see them, I’ll wager,”

With a knowing nod and chuckle.

“Ay, me little children, ye want to view.

Well, in ye go then, lass.”

He grinned like a nut-brown gnome

And threw wide the door

To his tiny hut, his palace, his shrine

Filled with his creations.

The maskmaker’s house, lined with faces

Every possible expression captured and frozen

The passage of time in clay, paper, wood

A craftsman of emotions.

Long time he showed me ‘round

And gave me a new face to hide behind.

“I’ve crafted every known visage,” he said sadly.

“And now there’s nought to do.”

With an eye to defending the grandiloquent...

As Richard A. Lanham seems to be the resident persona non grata I decided to be controversial and like him. I will not say that wading through the swamp of intellectual dross is in any way an edifying process, save perhaps to strengthen a growing resolution to limit all words to three syllables or less. However, I don't think that this scoriaceous outpouring of Websterian prolixity is fueled by a selfish desire to "hear his own voice" or to put himself forward as being on a stratospheric level far and above the rest of us common folk. I believe that he writes with a dual purpose: to relay his opinion(s) regarding hypertext, the role of literature in modern society, and the changing interpretations and freshly dynamic nature of said literature, and also for the sheer joy of writing. He is exercising his phraseologic muscles, and the simple love he holds for words shines through the bog he made for his slightly more vernacular readers. I confess I would be tempted to do the same were my standing vocabulary as extensive as his obviously is. Either that or Webster sits on his bedside table. Is this urge not something we have all experienced with different skills? When doing something we enjoy, we attempt to take the experience to its fullest extent, to utilize and exploit our talents in the utter pleasure of ability. I can, therefore I will.

Going back to the first point, Lanham is not an aggressive writer. Overwhelming at times, granted, but he is not forcing his conclusions down the reader's throat. The typical reader cannot quite grasp what his conclusions are in the first place, so this is immaterial. Before every chapter, each one a sort of individual essay, there is a short commentary that in any other case could be regarded as a sort of disclaimer. Lanham does not apologize in advance for anything, though; he in fact takes great care to avoid any sort of mitigation at all, yet somehow still manages to not be overbearing. He actually mentions at some point (I have forgotten the specific page number) that his goal is to convince his readers to come to the same beliefs as himself, thereby diluting the verbiage with rhetoric. Rhetoric: the effective use of language, specifically public speaking, implicating the act of persuasion. As Lanham points out, a study unfairly sullied by pure-minded anti-highbrows setting themselves against vacuity and empty frivolity. In short, the use of big words to say nothing and seem everything. It is then ironic that so many of my classmates would consider Lanham to be the figurehead of this practice. He does however say something with his literary effusion, buried as it is beneath the layers of a glorified thesaurus. However encumbered and dripping with adornment and extraneity his writing, his opinion is still valid...dare we say legitimate?

Felt moved to observe upon point raised in last class discussion vis a vis the nature of a class blog. Personal or scholarly?

A fellow classmate (and then there were three...) commented that she wrote in a journal only in times of unhappiness or stress, and that if anyone were to read it the conclusion would probably be that she was a very angry person. I have attempted several times to keep a formal journal and failed miserably save when ranting bitterly about something, so I can relate to where she is coming from. One wonders, however, whether this leads to a point on the expression of self. Does a polemic upon the shortcomings of mankind qualify as true expression of self? "Expression" it surely is, but so is the work of an artist who places a single black dot on a white canvas and with great pomp and circumstance presents it as a commentary upon individuality. As inexorably biased as an angry viewpoint is by nature, it cannot by itself serve as a window to the person entire. Yet the emotion of that person is undoubtedly present and undoubtedly poignant, and to shuffle off the work of any mind as illegitimate (that word again) is a crime against the gods of self-expression. So how do we react to this sort of one-sidedness? Do we merely take what we have and try to form a complete picture of it? Randomly looking down the wrong end of a telescope at a gigantic mural and attempting to describe the subject from the pinpricks that appear comes to mind as a suitable analogy. A person is a vast array of form and feeling that defies explanation or definition. We can only pray for periodic enlightenment.

And what of the self online? In the far reaches of anonymical cyberspace one can become whoever - whatever - one desires. As Sherry Turkle described it in "Identity In the Age of the Internet," "the obese can be slender, the beautiful plain, the 'nerdy' sophisticated...the anonymity of MUDs gives people the chance to express multiple and often unexplored aspects of the self, to play with their identity and to try out new ones" (Holeton, Composing Cyberspace, 8). The argument has been made that this leads to deception. The male can pass himself off as female, the female male, the 60-year-old 20, and an endless list of other disparities with no one the wiser. Why do people feel compelled to "play with their identity" and become either their ideal or simply something that they've wondered about being? The desires of a mind (or perhaps we have strayed over into the domain of the heart by now) express themselves in as physical a way as the Internet can provide, in the virtual reality of a chat room. A window in more ways than one...a little piece of a life and a soul boxed off and often side by side with mutiple others. For simplicity's sake let us assume that an individual creates a persona stronger, faster, smarter, more attractive, and generally better than the original in every way. This is a desire expressed as an ideal, but that desire sprang from a living, breathing person and must therefore be considered a part of him. It may not be fundamentally true in physical reality, but are our desires and wishes any less a facet of our character than our hair color? Identity is marked by fluidity. In the so-called physical world we can change everything from the color of our eyes to the shape of our noses, so one might argue that desires are actually more real, more constant, than the tangible body. "To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already achieved, but at what he aspires to." ~Kahlil Gibran. Armed with that journal, we can add more little pieces to the puzzle of that human being, his hopes and dreams along with the angry entry about obnoxious siblings and the hurt and confusion of a divorce. We see him in a mix of what he is and what he could be, would be, can never be, and every part of it is still him.

Help, I'm addicted to a basic arcade-style helicopter flying game. In danger of crashing and burning in a haze of gray smoke puffs and tinny explosions. High score 2271 so far. Is it ironic that the Black Hawk Down soundtrack was playing concurrently?

Current topic of debate in class: what decides the legitimacy of an interpretation? My response is also a question: who decides what decides the legitimacy of an interpretation, and how do we know their conclusion is in and of itself legitimate? Then again I tend towards devil's advocacy in any and all discussions.

One of the students in class told the story of a teacher who rejected her opinion as "wrong" on the basis of the established literary critics' response. I had much the same experience in junior English class. We had just laboured through Nabokov's definition, aka treatise, on what makes a good reader and a good writer, and our teacher had asked us whether or not we agreed. As this seemed an invitation to discussion, most of the class, their previous evenings spent bogged down with a close-written fifty pages of writer's idealism to which none present aspired, replied in the negative. You could almost see her bristle. Of course he was right...he was Nabokov, and besides, that was what the critics had decided. But Ms...excuse me, Dr. A, that's only our opinion. I don't care. That's what I say, and I'm the one standing at the front of the class. Dead silence.

I wondered later what she might have done had I pointed out that the decision of the esteemed critics was also only an opinion, however collaborative. Had my class of that day been sitting in their places, our decision would have been recorded and come down through the history of literature as the definitive judgement of Vladimir Nabokov's prescription for proper writing and appreciative reading. At 11 pm I doubt any of the class were inspired to emulate his instructions on the subject, and especially not for a woman who demanded her title of Doctor, though her Ph.D. was not in English, but in adolescent psychology. Many of us found this amusing. But the question still remains: what is legitimate? My personal opinion (legitimate? you tell me) is that there is no legitimate when it comes to interpretation. An author, when his great work is finished and lying on the slab, most likely hopes that his readers will draw something in particular from his words: an idea, an image, an inspiration, a moral realization. However, it is not up to him to control the manner in which this occurs. Because no two people's background, experience, memories, and character are the same, the personal edification that comes from reading a book is a unique and individual process. A simple description sparks different imaginations, memories, or other so-called "artistic renderings" in different minds. A scene can variously amuse, shock, disgust, inspire, frighten, cheer, bore, or teach. Therefore, with no base standard from which to dispense judgement, we cannot define any interpretation - opinion - as right or wrong. Far-fetched, perhaps, wishful thinking, but if in any way it can be supported with further evidence from the text, then it must be deemed a valid option for analysis and taken into consideration. If it cannot stand up to examination, then it may be discarded and further avenues explored. But what is key is that this is not a majority vote sort of process. An idea must be able to support itself with its own merit and its own proof. A two-to-one-you-lose conclusion is just sloppy and in reality concludes nothing, as the dissenter's point of view is merely overruled, not disproved.

This poem by the World War I poet Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est, recently made an appearance in my HP 101 class. I had seen it before a year earlier when it was my duty to give a formal analysis of it: meter, rhyme scheme, literary devices used, the whole objective and entirely heartless literary critic's spiel. Something I chose not to share with that class, however, undoubtedly hanging on my every word, was the connection on a personal level that I felt due to my own connections with the military and certain of its personnel to whom I have just waved goodbye as the plane departed for northern Iraq. The following is a journal entry I made upon the subject of war shortly thereafter. The song lyrics apparently randomly interspersed throughout the text come from the Tori Amos album "Under the Pink" which was playing at the time, and were actually written as they were heard with a strangely coincidental timing.

Friday, August 30

...On the up side, my weekend has begun and I can relax for a while before shouldering the burden of calculus homework. Tori Amos' mildly sacrilegious and completely off-the-wall lyrics are about perfect for my mood right now. "They say you were something in those formative years..." I was at the Empire Diner last night enjoying a mocha chocolate smoothie (one free Immune Booster included), when a friend arrived and we toppled gently into conversation, most notably on the army, which naturally progressed to war. As our country is girding its loins and about to plunge once more into the breach, my friends - the third time of note in my memorable lifetime - I really begin to think about how dirty, miserable, and tragic it really is. As Wilfred Owen bitterly pointed out, there is no honor, no nobility in dying for one's country - there is only death. "I believe in peace, bitch..." Pro patria, Horace? I think not. And the thought that many people I know will be sent off to die that ignoble death, and many more potentially sent off should America choose to utilize the selective service system, is one that gives me pause. As long as war remains overseas, we can shut it comfortably away as an unfortunate set of circumstances to be worked out "over there," but when it comes into our homes and our friendships and tears them ruthlessly apart - that is when even the apathetic sit up and complain. "This is not real, this this this is not really happening, hey..." You bet your life it is.

What has America done with its history? We chafed under and finally threw off the yoke of an Imperialist nation that sought to shape our policies, our commerce, our beliefs, our borders, and our foreign relations from a seat of government three thousand miles away. And now we have become George III. When, along the great timeline of history, was it written that America got it right? What right have we to set ourselves up as the paragon of nations and dabble in the affairs of every nation that might not agree? We are at the top because of our military might and a good deal of luck, not because our political system works the best. We are feared, not loved, just as Machiavelli prescribes. Amen for leadership. With our strength inevitably came enemies, but we were too bloated with pride to care. And we profess anger, betrayal, shock that one of them decided to strike back; to have the unmitigated gall, no less, to do it on our own ground. We called them terrorists. What did they call us as our bombs plunged earthwards, reducing homes, families, and traditions to ashes? As our troops marched over their lands, our politicians drew their boundaries, and our peacemakers wrote up their treaties, signing away lives with every stroke of the pen? "Circles and circles and circles again, got to stop spinning..." One day the tables will truly be turned and we will wonder whatever made us think that we, we alone of the 7 billion people on earth, had a clue? Nations are not pies to stick as many fingers in as we can reach. Nations are people, as human as and probably considerably more aware than we. "Make it go...make them go...show me the way to get back to the garden..." Eden was burnt.

To laugh often

And love much

To win the respect

Of intelligent persons

And the affection of children

To earn the approbation

Of honest citizens and

Endure the betrayal

Of false friends

To leave the world a bit

Better, whether by a healthy

Child, a garden patch, or a

Redeemed social condition

To have laughed and played

With enthusiasm and

Sung with exultation

To know even one life

Has breathed easier

Because you have lived

This is to have succeeded.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson