“…To discover where it is that we have been so startlingly set down, if we can’t
learn why.”
On page fourteen,
Dillard encapsulates her passion and mission quite perfectly. In all our conversations thus far in class,
all our tangential wanderings about that which “is” and why, what it means to know,
and how we decide truth, we consistently confront a concrete reality: we just do
not know. Shall we? Can we? In Dillard’s mind, absolute knowledge of human
purpose is beyond our reach—that is God’s ground. The closest we may come to peeking through
the crack, then, is by coming to know our place.
I
cannot write all I want about her, the woman who knows the natural world
in such an intimate and concentrated way, in a single post. I want to talk about her style, her curiosity, her fervor, the unrelenting and harmonic way in which she interweaves her thoughts on life
and death, purpose and meaning, into insightful descriptions of nature, and so
much more. I want to write it all, and
keep writing, because her words have an elusive freedom to them that moves and
inspires me. Instead, I will let “the muddy
river flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness” (pg. 35) that are my
thoughts, and stop, hopefully, before I have worn out my reader.
Perhaps the most
beautiful aspect of Dillard’s prose, which is arguably poetry, is her child-like
curiosity juxtaposed with deep empathy and thoughtfulness of an old soul. She is dually an explorative child, noticing things
long passed over by eyes trained otherwise, and a reflective intellectual unafraid
to contemplate without end. Initially, I
appreciated how she allows writing to lead to places which frighten and sadden
her—her nightmares, the lost foreign lover, the monstrified moth. It is as if she releases control of the destination
of her composition and thoughts, following them down dark passages, through
tunnels of light, over bridges and through the roots of cedars. Not a genre suited for every occasion, but a
bravery, both in thought and word, than can surely be applied elsewhere.
Another fascinating element of her chapters is the manner in which she does not shun the
spiritual. She makes no concerted effort
to explain or define it, but instead allows its mention in her writings, even
if unanswered. Perhaps this is “the
mystery of the continuous creation,” (pg. 5) of which she spoke. An arrow shaft leaving a red trail. In the Phaedo
dialogue Socrates said, of the scientists of his time, “Yet the power by which
they’re now situated in the best way that they could be placed, they neither
look for nor credit with supernatural strength.” Socrates was killed by attempting to explain
spirituality; Nietzsche, his counterpart, went mad doing the same. Dillard may have recognized that she could
never understand in full, only observe. Both
in the natural and spiritual, creeks and souls alike, she occupies her time
with feeling it, rather than trying
to know it. Is one more important than the other, or more
attainable? It seems they are
complimenting efforts; by doing one we inadvertently gain the other. Dillard makes us constantly aware, if not informed. “Make connections; let rip; and dance where
you can,” she writes (pg. 97).
Lastly, she
suggests her inherent darkness. “The
creek is my mediator,” she writes, “benevolent, impartial, subsuming my shabbiest
evils and dissolving them…” (pg. 102).
That breathtaking writing flows from the mind of one aware of her shadows,
is almost more beautiful as the writing itself.
“I never merited this grace” she says twice in the same paragraph, “I
never merited this grace” (pg. 103).
Man for a moment I thought I was one of the only people to write about Dillard. Thank you! Now I am not. So this is a bit out there and not totally related but my brother and I went snorkeling on mushrooms back when I was in high-school. That is what Dillard is to me. It is like a trip were you see things with a new kind of sight. Judging by how you write about her writing I cannot be the only person to feel this way. "Her child-like curiosity" is a great way to put it.I think that is something lost on our modern world and I think it is great. I would also argue that this book is poetry. Beowulf and the Iliad and the Odyssey are all considered poetry. All be what I have read translations I still see them as poetry and Dillard is no exception. It is an epic.
ReplyDeleteAnjeli, I very much admire this statement that you made: “Initially, I appreciated how she allows writing to lead to places which frighten and sadden her—her nightmares, the lost foreign lover, the monstrified moth.” It creates in my mind a picture of a diehard truth-seeker, someone who pursues knowledge and truth no matter how difficult or painful it is at the moment of capture and possession. I think this is a great personal quality to have, but I’m curious how this mentality (or at the least the appearance of it) rhetorically affects an audience. As you pointed out, such a pursuit of truth is a type of “bravery” not suited for every occasion; sometimes truth gained through critical introspection hurts, and not everyone is willing to deal with that pain—and thus, reader dismissal is one disadvantage of this brave pursuit. However, it can also function as a rhetorical device to one’s advantage: the willingness to explore all avenues lends credibility and depth to your writing.
ReplyDeleteWe are then forced to ask, “How can we actually apply this idea to our own writing without crossing a line and turning off our audience?” I think you address this query in your paragraph about Dillard’s mention of the spiritual—she simply observes rather than explains. When I write, I am typically frustrated with trying to discover the deeper “why” or “big idea” of the piece, which can sometimes be a downfall to my paper’s overall persuasive effectiveness. I should take a cue from Dillard and be more of a cartographer of possible thought-trails rather than tour guide.
Anjeli, it’s interesting that the theme of darkness comes up several times in your post. I think that’s the right word, given Dillard’s probing and yet somewhat aimless prose, like she’s feeling around for something but she’s not sure what it is. I like your observation that “she releases control of the destination of her composition and thoughts.” I too am unsure if this is wisdom or inexperience, “child-like curiosity” or the “thoughtfulness of an old soul.” The way that you capture that in your third paragraph shows how the writing is simultaneously “explorative” and “reflective.” One might think these are mutually exclusive terms, but you show how she comfortably walks the line between them, or even breaks down that wall. The fact that you put this in terms of “bravery” changed by perception of the text somewhat. In reading your post, I also saw the baptismal theme in your final quote. This connects nicely to your observation that “she does not shun the spiritual.” I’ll be thinking about religion and spirituality more carefully as I move through the second half of this text.
ReplyDeleteLiam
Hi Anjeli,
ReplyDeleteI like your tone throughout this. It kind of reminds me a speech of some sort. … I like it. :)
I think I’m going to stray a little from the ideas within your piece to focus on this sentence:
“Perhaps the most beautiful aspect of Dillard’s prose, which is arguably poetry, is her child-like curiosity juxtaposed with deep empathy and thoughtfulness of an old soul.”
I wonder why we put things into categories. You said that this could be considered as poetry and it reminds me of a poem my Creative Writing class read a week or so ago. That poem looked like a short story, but it was really a poem (but it had stanzas though). My class was asked what made it a poem and the one answer I came up with was that there wasn’t a clear meaning. In other words, I thought it was because it didn’t contain the elements in prose such as character conflict, plot and character growth etc. If I think about the meaning of poetry in these terms and apply it to what you said about Dillard, I think I can see how it could be considered as a poem instead of as prose. … I do wonder about the purpose of Dillard’s piece and now as I’m on page 161, I think I’m slowly coming to my own answer as to why she wrote it. And… now as I think about it… if poetry is defined by not have character conflict, character growth, plot etc, and getting our own meaning from a piece than does that mean all nonfiction is poetry as well? And if we separate nonfiction into separate paragraphs to look like stanzas, could that also make it into poetry? But wait – I suppose poetry could allude to multiple themes (such as slavery or abuse) that are not necessarily covered in some nonfiction pieces. Maybe that's one way to separate the distinction? I'm not sure.