Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Ellen Terry reciting Portia's mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice. Fitting right?
"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath" lines from Portia's speech to the court in William Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice
As Jimmy came across these above lines in the epilogue of a book that he was innocently, very innocently, reading about the sources of old time English playwright William Shakespeare’s sources for his various works he suddenly developed a 50th anniversary case of the nerves. And the source of those nerves was easily traceable, very easily traceable, to time spent in Miss Lenora Sonos’ classroom memorizing those very lines of the Bard.
Miss Lenora Sonos, Jimmy’s senior year English teacher made many people nervous. Who was he kidding, she made James Cullen, Jimmy, Class of 1961, and king hell king of the intramural bowling league (boys’ division) at old Clintondale High, nervous. Others can, on their own hook, come forth with their own benighted and heart-rendering testimony but she made him nervous before her class, nervous while in her class, nervous after leaving her class, and nervous in that occasional dark hour just before the dawn when he woke up, woke up with the sweats, became that book report due Monday morning bright and early was not coming together the way he wanted. Come on, again, who was Jimmy kidding, waking up with the sweats kidding, the way that she wanted it. The no rush, no night before it was due , well-thought out and drafted, concise, with some kind of original twist to it paper, and written like some come down from the mountain patriarchal tablet screed, or really an endlessly re-written version of that self-same screed.
And worst, worst than not being concise, worst than not having an original twist idea, was that you had to publicly defend your ideas in front of the whole class. But, once again who was Jimmy kidding, the class was child’s play, putty in his hands once he started throwing his obscure, arcane, in-your-face two thousand facts at them, and they retreated, or better, surrendered, white flags in hand. No, it was her, Miss Sonos, that he had to impress with his obscure, arcane, in-your-face knowledge but here was the rub, she had no surrender, or white flag, in her because she was privy to those two thousand facts, had in fact taught him a bunch of them, and had a few thousand additional ones in her own storehouse just waiting for Jimmy to make that one wrong move, the one wrong move that was inevitably to come from a young, still unformed, mind.
And worst, worst than public Sonos humiliation, worst than being at a lost for that original idea was to not be with her, to be with her one hundred percent, when she spoke, almost in a hushed whisper, of some piece of literature the virtues of which she endlessly drilled into the class, but really had her eyes set on him when doing so, or so he thought. (He found out later that that feeling was shared by every at least half-awake student in the class, the others were just ducking behind some book hoping not to be noticed.) As he thought of those books just now, he remembered the time, trying to be one hundred with her, when he blurred out that Holden Caulfield from The Catcher In The Rye “spoke” to him, spoke to him about his own teen alienation, spoke about what can a kid do when the cards are stacked against him in this cruel old world, a world he didn’t put together, spoke of teen angst in trying to find his place in the sun when everybody was pushing him in about six different ways and he was pushing himself in about seven.
And there Jimmy was, proud as a peacock, feeling like a junior-sized literary critic and then she, Miss Sonos in high dudgeon, lowered the hammer and dismissed the book, and the author, as so much hot air and New Yorker-style cheapjack kids’ short story, barely pabulum. And that was the end of it, for once Miss Sonos pronounced someone a mere short story writer, oblivion beckoned. She much preferred that her Jimmys tackle James T. Farrell, John Dos Passos, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James, Flannery O’Connor, and Edith Wharton who although they too wrote short stories wrote novels, great novels, and therefore were not assigned to hellish depths. And you know in a funny way Jimmy had to admit that she was right, right in the sense that these other guys had a lot to say and that one should no put all their “literary light” eggs in one basket, although she was still wrong, wrong big time, about J.D. Salinger. Wrong that is if she is not now nearby, nearby this side of the grave.
But the worst time, the worst time of all, for Jimmy who was trying to hold his head up in that dark early 1960s Cold War working poor teen angst night was when she made him write a paper as a proponent of the then front line, flame-burning civil rights movement down South after he had written a short piece, a short diary-like piece, for her eyes only, one time. Not only that but he was going to be forced to argue his case against the editor of the school newspaper, a hot shot who had real literary ambitions and a father who was a professor, or something, over at the university. Now Jimmy, as he noted in his short piece, was in sympathy, secret sympathy, with the struggle of black people down South, and had linked that struggle with his own sense of what white working poor people needed to. Not all that deeply thought out then, but that was the gist of it. But see, the secret part was necessary because the best word, the absolutely best word that he ever heard anybody in Clintondale, young or old, call black people was “nigra,” like the neighborhood, the predominantly Irish and Italian Catholic neighborhood that he lived in, and breathed in, was down South itself.
And the most vitriolic voice around the neighborhood was that of his father, and his kindred, who resided nightly at the Old Gaelic Pub, egging on vicariously, while watching the barroom television news, the Bull Connors of the world. Jimmy tried, tried hard, to explain this all to Miss Sonos but she, unlike in other things, dismissed his pleas out of hand. Well, he gave that presentation, and if he didn’t win the debate points, the precious debate points, that he thought he was fighting for he made it clear that the he was on the other side of the road between the those who lived, thought and acted “nigra” and those who said 1960s “negro.” So there she was right again, although many bridges were burned that day.
As Jimmy nervously finished up musing over the exploits, the maybe un-heroic exploits, of Miss Lenora Sonos, he though about those lines from Portia’s speech to the court in Shakespeare’s The Merchant Of Venice, lines that she made the class memorize, although that memorizing business was not her style in general. And Jimmy chuckled to himself that did not, after all, have to look those sentences in that speech up, although if he was in court he would have to confess that he did look up to see if there was one or two p's in droppeth. He knew those lines and more from the master by heart. And that fact, that fact of remembrance, served to bring up something, something heroic about Miss Sonos. About what she said, said endlessly. Literature matters. Words matter. Jimmy had, on more occasions than he cared to remember, honored those ideas more in the breech than the observance but he tried to be guided by them. But they, no question, were planted there by Miss Sonos.
Thinking on it now though Jimmy realized that he not close to Ms. Sonos, certainly not her "pet". Perhaps she did not even really know who he was, although that bout over the civil rights paper may have turned the tables a little away from the truth of that notion. He did not know about today but back then the classes were very large and there were many minds to feed. So it was possible. Perhaps she did not even “like” him. That too was possible. Jimmy did not display his better side, the "better angel of his nature", in those days, on most days. However, Jimmy did know two things about her-literature matters, words matter. That more than balanced things out, Jimmy thought. And then he said in whisper, “Miss (Ms.) Lenora Sonos, wherever you are-thanks.”
Showing posts with label English.literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label English.literature. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Saturday, May 17, 2008
***In Honor Of Miss (Ms.) Rose Enos,North Quincy High English Department, Circa 1964
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Ellen Terry reciting Portia's mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice. Fitting right?
Al Johnson, Class of 1964, comment:
Originally posted in May 2008 on Classmates
"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath" lines from Portia's speech to the court in William Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice"
No, I did not have to look those sentences up. (Okay, I will confess, I did look up to see if there was one or two p's in droppeth) I know those lines and more from the master by heart. Although I am not a fan of rote recital, as was the fashion in my schoolboy days and in earlier times (the great American playwright Eugene O' Neill's father was said to be the master of such Shakespearean recital in the 19th century), it does serve to bring up my point. Literature matters. Words matter. I have, on more occasions than I care to remember, honored those ideas more in the breech than the observance but I have tried to be guided by them. And did those pieces of wisdom just spring forth from the depths of my mind? Hell no, they were planted there by the person whom I wish to honor in this commentary- Ms. Rose Enos, my senior year English teacher.
I have recently come into possession of a friend's copy of our 1964 yearbook (Bill Cadger, the great cross country runner and track man) and in thumbing through the pages I came upon a group picture of the English Department, including Ms. Enos. That brought many things to mind in a hurry. First, and foremost, dread. Dread that I would not be prepared for her weekly ten vocabulary words. Dread that I had not memorized my Shakespeare. Dread that I was not prepared for my book report. You get the picture, right? Dread. And that ain't no lie.
So, that being the case, why is Ms. Enos being honored here today forty-four years after the event? Well, go back to that first paragraph. I was not close to Ms. Enos, certainly not her "pet". Perhaps she did not even know who I was. I do not know about today but back then the classes were very large and there were many minds to feed. I know from my own later experiences that such things occur. So it is possible. Perhaps she did not even like me. That too is possible. I did not display my better side, the "better angel of my nature", in those days. However, I know two things about her-literature matters, words matter. That more than balances things out, don't you think? Miss (Ms.)Rose Enos, wherever you are-thanks.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The following, unedited, is the traffic in response to my post on Classmates
I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he need to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said.
Replies 5 messages
(2) In memory of Miss Rose Enos . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 11:10am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Miss Enos was my 10th grade English Teacher for the 1954-55 school year. It often struck me as somewhat cruel, but some kids used to say it looked like she applied her makeup with a trowel. I struggled in her class, but so did many others. When we had to write our own poems, I wrote something to the effect that "If I had an airplane, I would fly. . . " I didn't think it was on a par with something by Frost or Longfellow, but one of the guys a year behind me said Miss Enos read my poem to their class the following year. Maybe saying "This is how not to write a poem." Who knows?
When I had the mumps that wiped out my 1955 spring track season, I missed a book report in Miss Enos' class. When I returned after missing 2 weeks of school, she let me choose one of the many books she had in her closet. I think it was called "Merril's Marauders" and it was quite interesting. I had to read that book in one night and write 2 facts about each chapter. I squeaked by with a "C" in her class. I think the spelling/vocabulary tests were what saved me. I just wasn't very good at writing things up in those days. I finally did get a "B" in English in my senior year, probably because I was no longer in the "College Prep" program. When I graduated in 1957, I "fled" into the Navy with no intention of ever going to college. Ironically, I spent nearly all of my first year in the Navy in school. I took the Honorable Discharge in 1967 and started college in 1974, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in 1982 from the University of Texas in El Paso. I guess some of us take a bit longer to get with the program. I feel that most, if not all, of the English teachers I had at NQHS made a positive impression, including Miss Rose Enos. That was in spite of my not getting the best of grades. Dave Meaney once asked if I was having problems at home, but I fibbed and told him there were no problems. Anyway, thanks should go out to the teachers who put up with us those many years ago.
Craig S. Warren
(3) Miss Enos
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 01:31pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I am posting the information below that I had originally placed with my commentary to prod Brother James Connolly (and others) to come up with their own Miss Enos stories like the one above by Craig Warren.
"I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he needs to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said."
(4) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:01am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My average for the three English classes I had in 10th, 11th and 12th grades was about a middle "C." 10th-C, 11th-L, 12th-B. Miss Enos may have been the teacher who planted the seed of writing in me, but it probably didn't begin to germinate till I started college in 1974, 17 years after graduating from North. I received three "A's" and a solid "B" for the 4 English classes I took in college and was encouraged by the professors to write more. I also did reasonably well writing up the lab reports for experiments in engineering or science classes. More recently, I have started a fictional "narrative." So far it's reached 142 pages in Spanish. I asked a former NQHS classmate if I should write a parallel English version. She told me it would probably be better to finish the Spanish version first. I don't know when that will be, if ever. I know; "don't give up on anything." The Spanish was probably started at NQHS with the two years of Latin with Louise Fifield and one year of Spanish with Roberta Webstersmith, who was usually a French teacher. After all is said and done, unless we slept through high school, all of the teachers and coaches had some influence on us. Some, of course, more than others. Rose Enos was one of those who may have been somewhat intimidating to many, but that's how good teachers are.
My late wife Elvia, who retired in 1990 after 28 years of teaching primary school for the State of Chihuahua, was that kind of teacher. She was tough on her students, and some of them later thanked her for being so tough, because it made secondary school and beyond less difficult.
Craig S. Warren-1957
(5) Yes, Literary Ambitions....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 12 2008 01:18pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for answering my question about whether Ms. Enos (or any other teacher) sparked any literary ambitions in you. In the interest of getting your 15 minutes of fame (or more) I guess you better keep on writing your autobiography (oops) fictional 'narrative'. Good luck. The reason that I asked you that question in my e-mail is that someone last spring asked me that same question. I answered her with an entry in this space that I subsequently deleted. I have reposted here to give you an idea about my 'literary' ambitions.
*****
A Writer's Monologue
Why is this writer writing all these damn commentaries on these message boards?
I have recently received an e-mail asking this very question, although it was more politely put. I hope. Well, if one reads my answer on the canned Q&A section on my profile page (since deleted, AJ) provided by this site one answer is to network with the old gang. Another is the fact that some of us are still standing and that is in itself a cause for wonder. In earlier ages (there he goes again with that history stuff) people of a certain age (that means us) would be considered old. Can you believe that? So, partially I am also celebrating that fact. Furthermore, a recent series of events in my life have made me aware of my mortality and I, frankly, feel a need to get back to my roots. Fair enough?
Those reasons listed above are all good and sufficient but I will now present the real reason, a confession if you will. I have always liked to write, and I have an inordinate respect for those who do it well. If for one minute I could write like Ernest Hemingway with that sparse, functional language that gets to the bone of social existence I would give much gold. Or if I could write in the savage sardonic style of the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson (Doctor Gonzo) I would add diamonds to the pile.
So mix this love of writing with all of the others. Then put them together with the glorious possibilities of the information superhighway that gives me a targeted audience and here we are. And the best part is that you can read or not read these screeds without any fuss, muss or bother. Nice, right?
(6) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Sep 13 2008 11:17pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Al;
Haven't seen any of your commentaries for a while. Have you continued teaching? Anyway, I hope all's as well as can be with you.
Whenever anyone asks me, "How have you been?," my usual answer is, "In spight of everything, . . . well."
I have done little writing lately, but have done quite a bit of reading. One of my favorite writers is a lady from Chile who has been living in Marin County in Califorfnia for some years with her San Francisco Lawyer Husband. Her name is Isabel Allende, and she has published a goodly number of books, beginning in the early 1980's. She didn't consider herself a writer until she had published two books and begun to write her third. A word she likes to use to describe her writing as well as most of her life is "passion." You seem to feel that a sense of humor is a necesary quality for a writer, and you're quite right in most cases. Ms. Allende definitely has a sense of humor which is evident in most of her books. She writes in Spanish and most of her books have been translated to as many as 40 other languages, including English. Her life has been somewhat of a "roller-coaster," which you and I seem to have experienced to some degree. Maybe that's what is needed to be a credible writer.
I also recently saw a video of a speech Ms. Allende gave to a group of scholars in Monterey, California a year or so ago. She has an accent in English, but not too heavy. No worse than a Boston accent. Again, her sense of humor and passion were evident. Oh, yeah. One of her books, "The House of Spirits," was also made into a movie in the late 1980's or early 1990's. She is, or could be, an inspiration for me, if I would just get off my duff and back to bashing the keys.
That's all for now. I often say to my son and grandson that if they really like to do something, they should "stay with it." Maybe it's time I followed my own advice.
Craig, NQHS 1957
Al Johnson, Class of 1964, comment:
Originally posted in May 2008 on Classmates
"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath" lines from Portia's speech to the court in William Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice"
No, I did not have to look those sentences up. (Okay, I will confess, I did look up to see if there was one or two p's in droppeth) I know those lines and more from the master by heart. Although I am not a fan of rote recital, as was the fashion in my schoolboy days and in earlier times (the great American playwright Eugene O' Neill's father was said to be the master of such Shakespearean recital in the 19th century), it does serve to bring up my point. Literature matters. Words matter. I have, on more occasions than I care to remember, honored those ideas more in the breech than the observance but I have tried to be guided by them. And did those pieces of wisdom just spring forth from the depths of my mind? Hell no, they were planted there by the person whom I wish to honor in this commentary- Ms. Rose Enos, my senior year English teacher.
I have recently come into possession of a friend's copy of our 1964 yearbook (Bill Cadger, the great cross country runner and track man) and in thumbing through the pages I came upon a group picture of the English Department, including Ms. Enos. That brought many things to mind in a hurry. First, and foremost, dread. Dread that I would not be prepared for her weekly ten vocabulary words. Dread that I had not memorized my Shakespeare. Dread that I was not prepared for my book report. You get the picture, right? Dread. And that ain't no lie.
So, that being the case, why is Ms. Enos being honored here today forty-four years after the event? Well, go back to that first paragraph. I was not close to Ms. Enos, certainly not her "pet". Perhaps she did not even know who I was. I do not know about today but back then the classes were very large and there were many minds to feed. I know from my own later experiences that such things occur. So it is possible. Perhaps she did not even like me. That too is possible. I did not display my better side, the "better angel of my nature", in those days. However, I know two things about her-literature matters, words matter. That more than balances things out, don't you think? Miss (Ms.)Rose Enos, wherever you are-thanks.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The following, unedited, is the traffic in response to my post on Classmates
I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he need to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said.
Replies 5 messages
(2) In memory of Miss Rose Enos . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 11:10am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
Miss Enos was my 10th grade English Teacher for the 1954-55 school year. It often struck me as somewhat cruel, but some kids used to say it looked like she applied her makeup with a trowel. I struggled in her class, but so did many others. When we had to write our own poems, I wrote something to the effect that "If I had an airplane, I would fly. . . " I didn't think it was on a par with something by Frost or Longfellow, but one of the guys a year behind me said Miss Enos read my poem to their class the following year. Maybe saying "This is how not to write a poem." Who knows?
When I had the mumps that wiped out my 1955 spring track season, I missed a book report in Miss Enos' class. When I returned after missing 2 weeks of school, she let me choose one of the many books she had in her closet. I think it was called "Merril's Marauders" and it was quite interesting. I had to read that book in one night and write 2 facts about each chapter. I squeaked by with a "C" in her class. I think the spelling/vocabulary tests were what saved me. I just wasn't very good at writing things up in those days. I finally did get a "B" in English in my senior year, probably because I was no longer in the "College Prep" program. When I graduated in 1957, I "fled" into the Navy with no intention of ever going to college. Ironically, I spent nearly all of my first year in the Navy in school. I took the Honorable Discharge in 1967 and started college in 1974, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in 1982 from the University of Texas in El Paso. I guess some of us take a bit longer to get with the program. I feel that most, if not all, of the English teachers I had at NQHS made a positive impression, including Miss Rose Enos. That was in spite of my not getting the best of grades. Dave Meaney once asked if I was having problems at home, but I fibbed and told him there were no problems. Anyway, thanks should go out to the teachers who put up with us those many years ago.
Craig S. Warren
(3) Miss Enos
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 01:31pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
I am posting the information below that I had originally placed with my commentary to prod Brother James Connolly (and others) to come up with their own Miss Enos stories like the one above by Craig Warren.
"I recently received an e-mail on the Classmates site from James Connolly, Class of 1964, who was in English class with me in senior year. James is now a Xavierian Brother- that is a Catholic religious order. He, presumably, has no reason to lie, not that he needs to on this occasion. Brother James told me that he too was in dread of Ms. Enos in those days. He also told me that Ms. Enos, among others, had helped him immensely in preparation for his vocation. Enough said."
(4) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 24 2008 11:01am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
My average for the three English classes I had in 10th, 11th and 12th grades was about a middle "C." 10th-C, 11th-L, 12th-B. Miss Enos may have been the teacher who planted the seed of writing in me, but it probably didn't begin to germinate till I started college in 1974, 17 years after graduating from North. I received three "A's" and a solid "B" for the 4 English classes I took in college and was encouraged by the professors to write more. I also did reasonably well writing up the lab reports for experiments in engineering or science classes. More recently, I have started a fictional "narrative." So far it's reached 142 pages in Spanish. I asked a former NQHS classmate if I should write a parallel English version. She told me it would probably be better to finish the Spanish version first. I don't know when that will be, if ever. I know; "don't give up on anything." The Spanish was probably started at NQHS with the two years of Latin with Louise Fifield and one year of Spanish with Roberta Webstersmith, who was usually a French teacher. After all is said and done, unless we slept through high school, all of the teachers and coaches had some influence on us. Some, of course, more than others. Rose Enos was one of those who may have been somewhat intimidating to many, but that's how good teachers are.
My late wife Elvia, who retired in 1990 after 28 years of teaching primary school for the State of Chihuahua, was that kind of teacher. She was tough on her students, and some of them later thanked her for being so tough, because it made secondary school and beyond less difficult.
Craig S. Warren-1957
(5) Yes, Literary Ambitions....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 12 2008 01:18pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- Thanks for answering my question about whether Ms. Enos (or any other teacher) sparked any literary ambitions in you. In the interest of getting your 15 minutes of fame (or more) I guess you better keep on writing your autobiography (oops) fictional 'narrative'. Good luck. The reason that I asked you that question in my e-mail is that someone last spring asked me that same question. I answered her with an entry in this space that I subsequently deleted. I have reposted here to give you an idea about my 'literary' ambitions.
*****
A Writer's Monologue
Why is this writer writing all these damn commentaries on these message boards?
I have recently received an e-mail asking this very question, although it was more politely put. I hope. Well, if one reads my answer on the canned Q&A section on my profile page (since deleted, AJ) provided by this site one answer is to network with the old gang. Another is the fact that some of us are still standing and that is in itself a cause for wonder. In earlier ages (there he goes again with that history stuff) people of a certain age (that means us) would be considered old. Can you believe that? So, partially I am also celebrating that fact. Furthermore, a recent series of events in my life have made me aware of my mortality and I, frankly, feel a need to get back to my roots. Fair enough?
Those reasons listed above are all good and sufficient but I will now present the real reason, a confession if you will. I have always liked to write, and I have an inordinate respect for those who do it well. If for one minute I could write like Ernest Hemingway with that sparse, functional language that gets to the bone of social existence I would give much gold. Or if I could write in the savage sardonic style of the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson (Doctor Gonzo) I would add diamonds to the pile.
So mix this love of writing with all of the others. Then put them together with the glorious possibilities of the information superhighway that gives me a targeted audience and here we are. And the best part is that you can read or not read these screeds without any fuss, muss or bother. Nice, right?
(6) Literary ambitions . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Sep 13 2008 11:17pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Al;
Haven't seen any of your commentaries for a while. Have you continued teaching? Anyway, I hope all's as well as can be with you.
Whenever anyone asks me, "How have you been?," my usual answer is, "In spight of everything, . . . well."
I have done little writing lately, but have done quite a bit of reading. One of my favorite writers is a lady from Chile who has been living in Marin County in Califorfnia for some years with her San Francisco Lawyer Husband. Her name is Isabel Allende, and she has published a goodly number of books, beginning in the early 1980's. She didn't consider herself a writer until she had published two books and begun to write her third. A word she likes to use to describe her writing as well as most of her life is "passion." You seem to feel that a sense of humor is a necesary quality for a writer, and you're quite right in most cases. Ms. Allende definitely has a sense of humor which is evident in most of her books. She writes in Spanish and most of her books have been translated to as many as 40 other languages, including English. Her life has been somewhat of a "roller-coaster," which you and I seem to have experienced to some degree. Maybe that's what is needed to be a credible writer.
I also recently saw a video of a speech Ms. Allende gave to a group of scholars in Monterey, California a year or so ago. She has an accent in English, but not too heavy. No worse than a Boston accent. Again, her sense of humor and passion were evident. Oh, yeah. One of her books, "The House of Spirits," was also made into a movie in the late 1980's or early 1990's. She is, or could be, an inspiration for me, if I would just get off my duff and back to bashing the keys.
That's all for now. I often say to my son and grandson that if they really like to do something, they should "stay with it." Maybe it's time I followed my own advice.
Craig, NQHS 1957
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