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The next few weeks were a haze of pain for me. Several people tried to orchestrate a reconciliation between us, but I wasn't having any of it. I felt that the only way for me to function was to avoid you altogether. Our families had many friends in common, and you called to try to arrange logistics, so that I could see my friends without worrying about seeing you. In retrospect, it was a sweet thing to do. You even sent a card, which I still have in a box somewhere, with a near-apology written on it. I remember being amazed by that, even then. We are neither of us good at admitting to being wrong. ↗
If you don’t know your father,” Odysseus was answering in that low, calm, but fiercely firm voice of his that always seemed to carry as far as it had to, “how can you know yourself? I am Odysseus, son of Laertes. My father is a king, but also a man of the soil. When I saw him last, the old man was down on his knees in the dirt, planting a tree where an old giant of a tree had finally – cut down by his hand finally – after being struck by lightning. If I do not know my father, and his father before him, and what these men were worth, what they lived for and were willing to die for, how can I know myself?” “Tell us again about arête,” came a voice from the front row. Ada recognised the man speaking as Petyr, one of the earliest visitors. Petyr was no boy – Ada thought he was in his fourth Twenty – but his beard was already almost as full as Odysseus’. Ada didn’t think the man had left Ardis since he’d first heard Odysseus speak that second or third day, when the visitors could be counted on two hands. “Arête is simply excellence and the striving for excellence in all things,” said Odysseus. “Arête simply means the act of offering all actions as of sacrament to excellence, of devoting one’s life to finding excellence, identifying it when it offers itself, and achieving it in your own life.” A newcomer ten rows up the hill, a heavyset man who reminded Ada a bit of Daemon, laughed, and said, “How can you achieve excellence in all things, Teacher? Why would you want to? It sounds terribly tiring.” The heavy man looked around, sure of laughter, but the others on hill looked at him silently and then turned back to Odysseus. The Greek smiled easily – strong white teeth flashing against his tanned cheeks and short, gray beard – and said, “You can’t achieve excellence in all things, my friend, but you have to try. And how could you not want to?” “But there are so many things to do,” laughed the heavy man. “One can’t practice for them all. One has to make choices and concentrate on the important things.” The man squeezed the young woman next to him, obviously his companion, and she laughed loudly, but she was the only one to laugh. “Yes,” said Odysseus, “but you insult all these actions in which you do not honour arête. Eating? Eat as if it was your last meal. Prepare the food as if there were no more food! Sacrifices to the gods? You must make each sacrifice as if the lives of your family depended upon your energy and devotion and focus. Loving? Yes, love as if it was the most important thing in the world, but make it just one in the constellation that is arête. ↗
t this point I would like to return to the question of the plot movement and the different narrative levels of the book. David Lodge raises a crucial issue when he asks 'how Charlotte Brontë created a literary structure in which the domestic and the mythical, the realistic world of social behaviour and the romantic world of passionate self-consciousness, could co-exist with only occasional lapses into incongruity.' As far as the plot and setting go, however, this states the question rather misleadingly, for in fact at Thornfield there begins a progressive plot movement from realism to fantasy. By 'realism' I do not mean the predominance of the every day and commonplace, or an authorial objectivity of treatment, but simply the use of material that the reader can accept as existing in the ordinary world as well, or of events of a kind that might happen in it without being viewed as extraordinary. That is, things that have a face-value currency of meaning prior to any concealed meaning they may hold or suggest. Thus while Gateshead and Lowood School fit neatly into, and contribute importantly to, the symbolic pattern of the book, they are perfectly believable places in their own right. Even the heavy-handed and obvious satire of Mr Brocklehurst and his family does not invalidate him as a credible conception. But with the beginning of the mystery of the Thornfield attic the plot starts moving away from this facevalue actuality. ↗
In the fall he picked up his phone one afternoon to hear Grandma Lynn. 'Jack,' my grandmother announced, 'I am thinking of coming to stay.' My father was silent, but the line was riddled with his hesitation. 'I would like to make myself available to you and the children. I've been knocking around in this mausoleum long enough.' 'Lynn, we're just beginning to start over again,' he stammered. Still, he couldn't depend on Nate's mother to watch Buckley forever. Four months after my mother left, her temporary absence was beginning to take on the feel of permanence. My grandmother insisted. I watched her resist the remaining slug of vodka in her glass. 'I will contain my drinking until'- she thought hard here- 'after five o'clock, and,' she said,' what the hell, I'll stop altogether if you should find it necessary.' 'Do you know what you're saying?' My grandmother felt a clarity from her phone hand down to her pump-encased feet. 'Yes, I do. I think' It was only after he got off the phone that he let himself wonder, Where will we PUT her? It was obvious to everyone. ~pgs 213-214; Grandma Lynn and Jack; ↗
Writing isn’t my life…it’s a lovely part of my life... but it’s not my life. My life is family, friends, fishing, food…things like reading and painting and all the rest of it, and you can’t really prioritize when you’re involved with family or you’re involved in fishing, you can’t say, ‘Oh, I really should be writing. ↗
Question number 2 for week 6! The biograpghy and the character of Theresa Cameron remind me of my own story when I was trining to get my undergraduation degree. It is somehow simillar to the diffeculities and constrants I had face to get learn in the KFUPM, but in constract I had/have family support/sponser my learning expenses as schoolship. ↗
As I prepare to leave she walks with me, half deaf and blind, under several ladders in her living room that balance paint and workmen, into the garden where there is a wild horse, a 1930 car splayed flat on its axles and hundreds of flowering bushes so that her eyes swim out into the dark green and unfocussed purple. There is very little now that separates the house from the garden. Rain and vines and chickens move into the building. Before I leave, she points to a group photograph of a fancy dress party that shows herself and my grandmother Lalla among the crowd. She has looked at it for years and has in this way memorized everyone's place in the picture. She reels off names and laughs at the facial expressions she can no longer see. It has moved, tangible, palpable, into her brain, the way memory invades the present in those who are old, the way gardens invade houses here, the way her tiny body steps into mine as intimate as anything I have witnessed and I have to force myself to be gentle with this frailty in the midst of my embrace. ↗
Evan slung his arm over my shoulder. “That’s my mom and dad,” he pointed to a couple approaching us as families trickled onto the field. “Mom! Get a picture of me and she-wolf?” “Sure, sure,” the strawberry blonde lady said, digging in her purse. “Aha! Here it is. I’m Elaine, Evan’s mom,” she announced to us. “Now smile!” I smiled but just before the flash went off Evan kissed my cheek. I gasped in surprise, probably making the funniest face known to man. Evan snatched the camera from his mom and laughed. “That is totally going to be my facebook profile pic. Take a look she-wolf.” He turned the camera so I could see the image on the screen. Oh, God. I narrowed my eyes and pointed a finger at Evan. “You better promise me that, that picture never sees the light of day.” “Well, technically it’s already seen the light of day, seeing as it’s the morning and all.” “Evan, you know what I mean.” “Fine,” he lowered his head, “I won’t post it on facebook.” “Or twitter, instagram, or any other picture sharing site. Got it? Maybe you should just delete it now?” “Nah,” Evan grinned. “I’m keeping this forever and ever as proof that I kissed the she-wolf. ↗
