tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82341582333334762592024-03-12T20:11:45.022-04:00Sobriquet MagazineUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger293125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-27356625540354138722024-03-09T20:49:00.003-05:002024-03-09T20:49:32.170-05:00Sobriquet 41.16<i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHanuU-YxIZUGn-I8dCQCApfuNR410-a1xTprQMs-ge6K9_StIfuzvR5NZ9N2L44RdKWhDFOOXOz4N4tRVmjf9-g1i8BcvsO2gZeDgX3cYQR2Li37jX2c8Yy1nUSudE1qy2dXAqFo86gE8h33821Vw6WkPcUSCW_y2ZEi-E_9PblzJCTCG_fLhkbjUcgOf/s320/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHanuU-YxIZUGn-I8dCQCApfuNR410-a1xTprQMs-ge6K9_StIfuzvR5NZ9N2L44RdKWhDFOOXOz4N4tRVmjf9-g1i8BcvsO2gZeDgX3cYQR2Li37jX2c8Yy1nUSudE1qy2dXAqFo86gE8h33821Vw6WkPcUSCW_y2ZEi-E_9PblzJCTCG_fLhkbjUcgOf/s1600/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4116.html">originally published</a> on 4/21/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>Since I spent the majority of today writing, I am not going to write very much at all this evening. It's been a good, long while since I managed to write more than a page or so in a day, so I am pretty pleased with myself (mostly because I am too tired to over-analyze my writing) and will just hit the hay for the evening.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Read another article.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-39630154951523573382024-03-09T20:45:00.000-05:002024-03-09T20:45:07.964-05:00Sobriquet 41.15<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9u2LDd0rMz1JOngaPxkvxew9GeEaJeVKlQWmGJrW_p0FbfRL6uGKv-Md_8KZcOLJhq2O8SmH2VbvIteyMOq3NFIutu7T5mfe3dpz0NDZg_3BlcascNn5yCqEnA4zP6LlPiS_Q9JvP5WmXnyKVXa4NcDOlV9AxHBidHr-q5Il5O2GkSzgL3MmwJLx7N9N/s320/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9u2LDd0rMz1JOngaPxkvxew9GeEaJeVKlQWmGJrW_p0FbfRL6uGKv-Md_8KZcOLJhq2O8SmH2VbvIteyMOq3NFIutu7T5mfe3dpz0NDZg_3BlcascNn5yCqEnA4zP6LlPiS_Q9JvP5WmXnyKVXa4NcDOlV9AxHBidHr-q5Il5O2GkSzgL3MmwJLx7N9N/s1600/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4115.html">originally published</a> on 4/20/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>Well, since it has been a long day for me today, I won't write too, too much. I did read the article I set aside for myself and, unlike the one I read yesterday, I found it made a good deal of sense and was easy to read. Although I don't have the energy to discuss the essay at the moment, I will say that Sue Kossew is easily one of the most readable Coetzee scholars out there. Had I not spent the bulk of my evening at the local drive-in movie theater, I would probably write quite a bit more than this, but while <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Drillbit Taylor</span> was surprisingly enjoyable, I had to shut my brain off (figuratively speaking, mind you) for the day after watching about three minutes of the second half of the double feature, a predictably inane flick called <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Superhero Movie. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">W</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">hile</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> both films were formulaic, strong performances by Owen Wilson and his supporting cast made </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Drillbit <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">ore</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> that watchable. The latter film, however, sought to combine the campy atmosphere of the </span>Naked Gun<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> series with the lowbrow satire of the </span>Scary Movie<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">/</span>Not Another Teenage Movie<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> franchises, failing miserably at the first, and "succeeding," if one can call it that, at the second. Still, for the opportunity to experience an increasingly rare bit of Americana, even </span>Superhero Movie<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> was worth the time. Barely.</span></span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow</span>: Write. Read an article or a bit of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Life & Times of Michael K.</span>, if possible.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-80274469885406061672024-03-08T19:51:00.002-05:002024-03-08T19:51:30.813-05:00Sobriquet 41.14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBeZ-2waPDcb6WSPM5wT8FcfZQpjGuiD-Bt5rESQMyPydVaWRI7bfjZIWr4yKj5R3X-5RXI3Xj50iSrzLCgMOhZMHy67DThtZueP-yvTaf1ESYUoSTHXLCaEKDIMPebLXUPCSiWZrxqzJnX_BMsNX8MqGtoOnOrGtyKRJJfNrSIWT2h_eppNtHVRouLUZR/s320/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBeZ-2waPDcb6WSPM5wT8FcfZQpjGuiD-Bt5rESQMyPydVaWRI7bfjZIWr4yKj5R3X-5RXI3Xj50iSrzLCgMOhZMHy67DThtZueP-yvTaf1ESYUoSTHXLCaEKDIMPebLXUPCSiWZrxqzJnX_BMsNX8MqGtoOnOrGtyKRJJfNrSIWT2h_eppNtHVRouLUZR/s1600/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4114.html">originally published</a> on 4/19/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>Just when I thought I might be hitting my stride, I found myself struggling to get through the article I set aside for myself to read today. I won't get into it now because it is so late, but Good God, I am so happy that post-structuralist criticism is on its way out. Seriously.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow</span>: Read another article.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-55489839662148633822024-03-08T19:49:00.002-05:002024-03-08T19:49:23.742-05:00Sobriquet 41.13<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkwK53kxM0SJfmCmilbNSrgKV2S9jfL16zKVtvTqRM8buCiPUiqejQ2_fhTpfKe8BoQRHsgurskDXr91nN02qU_PWMIBd_eyRxr8is6uqPwUGENGvivB4hcXPslubRUGJoJlz-m0u2P1D0aiBmntcJY4LJ_EYSgqh4E5g1M86mRYjMHrybhAzv1jYZjcC/s1024/LandT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="669" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkwK53kxM0SJfmCmilbNSrgKV2S9jfL16zKVtvTqRM8buCiPUiqejQ2_fhTpfKe8BoQRHsgurskDXr91nN02qU_PWMIBd_eyRxr8is6uqPwUGENGvivB4hcXPslubRUGJoJlz-m0u2P1D0aiBmntcJY4LJ_EYSgqh4E5g1M86mRYjMHrybhAzv1jYZjcC/s320/LandT.jpg" width="209" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4113.html">originally published</a> on 4/17/08.</i><p></p><p>Since it's late and I need to get to bed soon, I'll just say that I did get some writing done today. Like a paragraph. And it took, like, three hours. As had been the case with the chapter I wrote on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Age of Iron</span> in January and February, I find that I write at an excruciatingly slow pace. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had always aimed to write about five pages per "writing day," ever since my undergraduate days when realized that I could usually squeeze out roughly that much writing in an afternoon. Now, it seems, I am lucky to get more than a page. Still, I am plugging away at my section on<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> The Master of Petersburg</span> and planning/preparing for the next chapter.</p><div>I also read a bit more of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Life and Times of Michael K</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Read an article.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-23080109771031525142024-03-08T19:47:00.002-05:002024-03-08T19:47:13.993-05:00Sobriquet 41.12<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkwK53kxM0SJfmCmilbNSrgKV2S9jfL16zKVtvTqRM8buCiPUiqejQ2_fhTpfKe8BoQRHsgurskDXr91nN02qU_PWMIBd_eyRxr8is6uqPwUGENGvivB4hcXPslubRUGJoJlz-m0u2P1D0aiBmntcJY4LJ_EYSgqh4E5g1M86mRYjMHrybhAzv1jYZjcC/s1024/LandT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="669" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkwK53kxM0SJfmCmilbNSrgKV2S9jfL16zKVtvTqRM8buCiPUiqejQ2_fhTpfKe8BoQRHsgurskDXr91nN02qU_PWMIBd_eyRxr8is6uqPwUGENGvivB4hcXPslubRUGJoJlz-m0u2P1D0aiBmntcJY4LJ_EYSgqh4E5g1M86mRYjMHrybhAzv1jYZjcC/s320/LandT.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4112.html">originally published</a> on 4/16/08.</i><p></p><p>In addition to reading a bit of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Life & Times of Michael K.</span> today, I read Charles Sarvan's "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace:</span> A Path to Grace?" Although I vaguely remember reading the essay a few years ago while researching the novel for my last-ever paper for my last-ever graduate seminar, I'd forgotten virtually everything about the article.</p><div>To be honest, I did not find Sarvan's essay particularly helpful. In fact, the essay reads like a rather uninspired book report, albeit with good grammar. The bulk of the article is plot summary, though the occasional critical insights do make the piece a bit more substantial than, say, your average scholarly book review. To Sarvan's credit, he does pick up on and discuss some of the novel's more overlooked content (the incestuous overtones of David Lurie's relationship with Melanie Isaacs, for instance). Otherwise, the essay retreads fairly common critical territory such as the various meanings of (dis)grace and the novel's commentary on post-Apartheid South Africa. The essay's big fault, however, is its over-reliance on a strangely eclectic group of classic literary and philosophical texts to "support" what often amounts to merely pedestrian observation. Citing everyone from novelists as varied as Thomas More and Nadine Gordimer to poets like W. H. Auden and William Butler Yeats to philosophers like Martin Heidegger and Boethius as well as canonical works of Eastern religious thought (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Upanishads</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Dhammapada</span>, in particular), it often seems like Sarvan is more eager to display the breadth of his learning than he is in probing Coetzee's novel -- and, in doing so, often derails what has the potential to be a thoughtful and provocative discussion. Indeed, "A Path to Grace?" does little more than scratch the surface of an intricate novel, leaving readers with the level of insight one might expect from a casual reading.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Write. If I find the energy, read a bit as well.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Work Cited</span></div><div>Sarvan, Charles. "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace:</span> A Path to Grace?" <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">World Literature Today</span> 78.1 (2004): 26-29.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-20064345891168388052024-03-07T12:38:00.002-05:002024-03-07T12:38:23.014-05:00Sobriquet 41.11<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1KZwgpQX3kEEEd5DMej3_5D63PpviyESMQB1ySbUSb33szD9qT0uyUrG3OLdfzIXz9qk_xUBaMOJ6qauN4z1JDpN84vl5cBzYb3ROdxPAPAUFXx4-nhO0rDy5oRjW0n-4xDvYg95orNUflpnBWw24qlshZvFMX2eBm4Yl7Qq7UhjMj4B6KNHilU_iEocz/s320/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1KZwgpQX3kEEEd5DMej3_5D63PpviyESMQB1ySbUSb33szD9qT0uyUrG3OLdfzIXz9qk_xUBaMOJ6qauN4z1JDpN84vl5cBzYb3ROdxPAPAUFXx4-nhO0rDy5oRjW0n-4xDvYg95orNUflpnBWw24qlshZvFMX2eBm4Yl7Qq7UhjMj4B6KNHilU_iEocz/s1600/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-4111.html">originally published</a> on 4/15/08.</i><p></p><p>Having spent far too much time photocopying essays last night, I did not get home until close to five this morning. Still, though it did take me some time to fall asleep, I did not sleep in too late this afternoon and I did manage to get some writing done, which was nice.</p><div>At any rate, I really wanted to get some writing done yesterday, though I'd only assigned myself the simple task of finishing <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span><span class="Apple-style-span">. A</span>t any rate, having finished rereading the novel relatively early yesterday, I'd hoped to get some writing done before bed, mostly to combat the sense of not making progress that tends to nag me when I skip more than a day of writing when I'm in "writing mode." Feeling that I'd wasted a golden opportunity to make some headway, I decided to try to be productive in another way. Hence the hour's drive to the library. Furthermore, I figured, such a trip meant I could listen to an audiobook <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">and</span> visit with a friend that will be moving to China in a few months, two extra-curricular activities I knew I would enjoy, and which I rarely have the time for while working on the dissertation.</div><div><br /></div><div>So it was a good day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, a significant chunk of the afternoon's procrastination stemmed from the renewed sense that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Jeezus, man, this thing takes so freaking long to get done! </span><span class="Apple-style-span">F</span>inding out that there are more than eighty articles dealing with <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace --</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> o</span>nly about a third of which I was able to get my not-so-greedy hands on -- did not cheer me up, either. Nor did spending more than twenty dollars photocopying that one-third of the criticism on the novel. The only tiny bit of relief came when I realized that if I did not count my own publications on the novel, I could cut the number of essays I need to read down to just under eighty. I was, like,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> thank you me. That helps!</span></div><div><br /></div><div>So, I got some writing done today. The process remains a slow one, the work remains a less-than-satisfying experience for someone restless to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">just finish it already</span>, but progress is progress, right?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow</span>: Read an article on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> or fifteen pages in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Life & Times of Michael K</span>. Keep it light.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-87058853565255697872024-03-07T12:36:00.003-05:002024-03-07T12:36:16.904-05:00Sobriquet 41.10<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH8VsN2hek98HBoMQFb5Qe5PJw6k0prLl-yw7JxWndOVx0IM0n_lW3HpicPaBH-tjAxblqtvhsqWaaCATCLzjKhpKrF8wfOCrznQaECKgzsR0PvSdm1ZfgwK5QQTUY6nhP4muoN0ES8LsWJ3TK93IIveeCdgHnUsjUgwsJRVrDbf2S8CQMr3KsZE3PE73/s475/9780670887316.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH8VsN2hek98HBoMQFb5Qe5PJw6k0prLl-yw7JxWndOVx0IM0n_lW3HpicPaBH-tjAxblqtvhsqWaaCATCLzjKhpKrF8wfOCrznQaECKgzsR0PvSdm1ZfgwK5QQTUY6nhP4muoN0ES8LsWJ3TK93IIveeCdgHnUsjUgwsJRVrDbf2S8CQMr3KsZE3PE73/s320/9780670887316.jpeg" width="198" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was originally published on 4/15/08.</i><p></p><p>Well, since it is three-thirty in the morning and I am sitting in a library an hour's drive from my home, I will keep this extremely brief.<br /><br />I finished rereading <span style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> today.<br /><br />I spent more than twenty dollars photocopying <span>essays</span> on <span style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> this evening.<br /><br />I'm not even halfway done getting the articles.<br /><br />Un-fucking-real.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Dissertate.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-61779292077495913852024-03-07T12:34:00.005-05:002024-03-07T12:36:23.872-05:00Sobriquet 41.9<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH8VsN2hek98HBoMQFb5Qe5PJw6k0prLl-yw7JxWndOVx0IM0n_lW3HpicPaBH-tjAxblqtvhsqWaaCATCLzjKhpKrF8wfOCrznQaECKgzsR0PvSdm1ZfgwK5QQTUY6nhP4muoN0ES8LsWJ3TK93IIveeCdgHnUsjUgwsJRVrDbf2S8CQMr3KsZE3PE73/s475/9780670887316.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH8VsN2hek98HBoMQFb5Qe5PJw6k0prLl-yw7JxWndOVx0IM0n_lW3HpicPaBH-tjAxblqtvhsqWaaCATCLzjKhpKrF8wfOCrznQaECKgzsR0PvSdm1ZfgwK5QQTUY6nhP4muoN0ES8LsWJ3TK93IIveeCdgHnUsjUgwsJRVrDbf2S8CQMr3KsZE3PE73/s320/9780670887316.jpeg" width="198" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-419.html">originally published</a> on 4/13/08. </i><p></p><p>I remember back in my retail days, when "part-time" usually meant working about five minutes less than full-time each week, I used to hate the irregular scheduling my co-workers and I would have to deal with. You know, working until closing time one night and opening up the store early the next morning or never having two days off in succession--which is what I really hated. Perhaps attending thirteen years of formal schooling on a Monday-through-Friday schedule conditions an individual to expect a weekend; I'm sure, for some people, at least, this is the case. It certainly is the case for me. At any rate, my new schedule, to which I have not been able to fully adjust myself, requires that I teach on Saturdays, thereby eliminating the two-day recess I looked towards to help give my life some semblance of order and to act as the carrot dangling on my proverbial string each week. Of course, weekends still <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> like weekends. I still want to stay up late on Friday evenings, I still expect to hear church bells on Sunday, and I certainly expect the post office to be open on weekdays on which I do not work, but I miss the patterned schedule a weekend provides. That extra work day seems to have the same effect on my life as a scratch has on an LP: what once had an easily recognizable beginning, middle, and end now seems to go on and on, ceaselessly and monotonously stuck in a middle without a terminus.</p><div>I'm trying not to let the new schedule affect my dissertation work but, not surprisingly, it does have an effect on what I do outside of the classroom. I now have one less "open" day to stretch out in bed before facing the blank page, one more day of lingering fatigue, one more evening of having to go to bed earlier than what feels natural. Still, I managed to make my way through this past week, despite being busier than I have been in quite some time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have continued reading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>, and should finish the novel tomorrow. I have also continued writing the chapter on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> though, oddly, I did not do any writing on my "off" days, having found it easier to cram some typing into the after school hours. As always, I love reading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>, Coetzee's tremendously powerful 1999 novel of the "New South Africa." I think this is the fourth or fifth time I've read the book, in fact, and I still love it. My copy, purchased only a couple of years ago, is so creased, so heavily-underlined, and so yellowed that I may have to buy a replacement soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reading the seemingly endless pile of criticism associated with the book, however, makes the normally satisfying feeling of finishing the book a bit less pleasant. Fortunately, having written about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> in the past and having published a bit of criticism on the novel myself, I am already familiar with the bulk of what has been written about the book, but I still feel the need to re-read the articles I have read and dig up the ones I've not yet seen--and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> promises to take quite a bit of time. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> is, after all, one of the most frequently taught and discussed contemporary novels.</div><div><br /></div><div>As for me, I hope to have more days like Friday, when I somehow managed to get a good chunk of reading completed between a full day spent teaching, grading and writing the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Petersburg</span> chapter. For a moment, I felt as productive as I used to feel as an undergraduate...Still, my big accomplishment this weekend may have been getting the <a href="http://rexwordpuzzle.blogspot.com/">Southern Tier's most famous blogger</a> to watch <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Kiss of Death</span>, the 1947 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">film noir</span> classic featuring the late, great Richard Widmark as the psychopathic Tommy Udo, which Mr. Parker briefly mentions in <a href="http://rexwordpuzzle.blogspot.com/2008/04/sunday-apr-13-2008-cathy-millhauser.html">today's post</a>. Seriously, the movie--especially Widmark's performance--is fantastic.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Finish reading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-64010004411236216282024-03-03T21:02:00.001-05:002024-03-03T21:02:17.337-05:00Sobriquet 41.8<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIGVYM2t11-MOIgNA1dS3KV0h6AOcAHJEtbTZrRhyru50XOYWSzLeg-OTc7EKVR7Vpr5o26JHLB39BxTxo0cg1Ji_2B3ii8sGq3BkJbrP47YXHWGknukoxKysqN_ZFqZLe64VUVOZD2_GZTrmJqlbEJyNqVKEzXILHlXAjdRoqDPOOnnRrICZ5_FuPbY6/s475/9780670887316.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIGVYM2t11-MOIgNA1dS3KV0h6AOcAHJEtbTZrRhyru50XOYWSzLeg-OTc7EKVR7Vpr5o26JHLB39BxTxo0cg1Ji_2B3ii8sGq3BkJbrP47YXHWGknukoxKysqN_ZFqZLe64VUVOZD2_GZTrmJqlbEJyNqVKEzXILHlXAjdRoqDPOOnnRrICZ5_FuPbY6/s320/9780670887316.jpeg" width="198" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-418.html">originally published</a> on 4/10/08.</i><p></p><p>I didn't get a whole lot done today, but I did manage to complete the rather modest amount of reading I'd set aside for myself. I spent much of the afternoon recuperating from a Tuesday night's marathon grading session, dozing on and off until sundown, but I woke refreshed and eager to work.</p><div>Tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday are all fairly packed days for me, so I do not anticipate making as much progress as I would normally make in a three day span, but I would like to make some real progress in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace </span>and, if I find a few hours to do so, get some writing done. And grade.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For the next few days</span>: Dissertate. Read. Grade.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-60336552702155281882024-03-03T20:59:00.002-05:002024-03-03T20:59:08.669-05:00Sobriquet 41.7<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ILpS98Evui4cSfM6uOPbDa9ygXH7fJ86tIl3fTqUAqN0lMlJ7oNno5SoWcr4x_GArABN8S6meGS5yeKgqXv7alQjiMh00_GrGBBYYJ6bsKjkOcs9PkNK8j-UlQndfKTd9wSqgslZaPUT0hYdA1WFmx8hm7HUErjS63BKBzdWcKNXZPLj0OedyD8nz_Ez/s320/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ILpS98Evui4cSfM6uOPbDa9ygXH7fJ86tIl3fTqUAqN0lMlJ7oNno5SoWcr4x_GArABN8S6meGS5yeKgqXv7alQjiMh00_GrGBBYYJ6bsKjkOcs9PkNK8j-UlQndfKTd9wSqgslZaPUT0hYdA1WFmx8hm7HUErjS63BKBzdWcKNXZPLj0OedyD8nz_Ez/s1600/IMG_0747-772352.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-417.html">originally published</a> on 4/9/08.</i><p></p><p>Looooooooooooooong day = No post.</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow</span>: Read.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-32100550142492919692024-03-03T20:56:00.001-05:002024-03-03T20:56:41.467-05:00Sobriquet 41.6<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIGVYM2t11-MOIgNA1dS3KV0h6AOcAHJEtbTZrRhyru50XOYWSzLeg-OTc7EKVR7Vpr5o26JHLB39BxTxo0cg1Ji_2B3ii8sGq3BkJbrP47YXHWGknukoxKysqN_ZFqZLe64VUVOZD2_GZTrmJqlbEJyNqVKEzXILHlXAjdRoqDPOOnnRrICZ5_FuPbY6/s475/9780670887316.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIGVYM2t11-MOIgNA1dS3KV0h6AOcAHJEtbTZrRhyru50XOYWSzLeg-OTc7EKVR7Vpr5o26JHLB39BxTxo0cg1Ji_2B3ii8sGq3BkJbrP47YXHWGknukoxKysqN_ZFqZLe64VUVOZD2_GZTrmJqlbEJyNqVKEzXILHlXAjdRoqDPOOnnRrICZ5_FuPbY6/s320/9780670887316.jpeg" width="198" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-416.html">originally published</a> on 4/7/08.</i><p></p><p>Although it isn't particularly late and while I'm not especially tired, I am going to just post a quick little entry and be off with it. Today was a surprisingly good day, especially considering it was my first day back at work after a week's break. I read the section of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> I'd set out for myself and wrote some more of the dissertation chapter on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span>, so I have no complaints.</p><div>Also, for anyone interested, my essay "<a href="http://www.logosjournal.com/issue_7.1/grayson.htm">Remembering Norman Mailer</a>" finally made its way into the latest issue of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Logos</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>For tomorrow</b>: Busy day, so just try to read some more of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-46189957405169781932024-02-29T21:37:00.002-05:002024-02-29T21:37:34.002-05:00Sobriquet 41.5<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3ZRNmoNBTu2jG_pWn6vGt01L7msd6JspOhIZqjG48itM5B6O_oOfeUmSzPojaBFPixyphhO1EKXzpKOxHsOJ5HT4Mk5BdVgJknnjcfAlojoellmIPSL1O-fG9CoNSEKF3qirkqmY1xqevesMPKUAPjvBCqRUsqxqLbwgdf2Z5kbg0yISCYs3VOh3SAyQ/s475/9780670887316.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3ZRNmoNBTu2jG_pWn6vGt01L7msd6JspOhIZqjG48itM5B6O_oOfeUmSzPojaBFPixyphhO1EKXzpKOxHsOJ5HT4Mk5BdVgJknnjcfAlojoellmIPSL1O-fG9CoNSEKF3qirkqmY1xqevesMPKUAPjvBCqRUsqxqLbwgdf2Z5kbg0yISCYs3VOh3SAyQ/s320/9780670887316.jpeg" width="198" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-415.html">originally published</a> on 4/6/08.</i><p></p><p>As much as I would like to write this evening, I really haven't the time to devote to anything worth reading, so I will keep this on the brief side. Although I enjoyed the all-too-rare company of my parents for much of the weekend, and while I spent a good deal of time walking around the jetties on Seneca Lake, snapping pictures of gulls and enjoying the sixty degree weather, I actually got a decent amount of work done. I read a hefty chunk of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>, which looks like it will be the focus of my next chapter and, as is always the case when reading Coetzee's 1999 novel, enjoyed the experience.</p><div>Like many other Coetzee readers, I consider <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> to be his best novel, though I enjoy <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Elizabeth Costello</span>, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Slow Man</span> nearly as much. The book has become a major focus of my academic work over the past few years, yielding a term paper, part of a field examination, a conference paper, and even work appearing in peer-reviewed publications. Needless to say, I have quite a bit I could say about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>, but I will direct anyone interested in my impression of the book to a <a href="http://www.sobriquetmagazine.com/Library/Writers/Disgrace.htm">review</a> I wrote after reading the novel for the first time. It's considerably less academic in tone and much easier to locate.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow</span>: Read more of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>. Write some more, if possible.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-17710015300093902462024-02-29T21:33:00.001-05:002024-02-29T21:33:21.466-05:00Sobriquet 41.4<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsF16vgJMx99GotBVD6-gESdX1yLUgq6wYE4FCQ6QulNh0Bedu_mIH-hVeknPbSmN2Oj31M6OyZsFShSRFtTjs6FkEJVfPjl3Za3TstKmOfKjfp7sN0gLdm65S85N5SvLtlgNkQs2kg2sQKojjbAD7HwY5MuwbbR8KatBqLE6zcLpyVILOWMQTdfZLzB5/s300/Sugar_-_Copper_Blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsF16vgJMx99GotBVD6-gESdX1yLUgq6wYE4FCQ6QulNh0Bedu_mIH-hVeknPbSmN2Oj31M6OyZsFShSRFtTjs6FkEJVfPjl3Za3TstKmOfKjfp7sN0gLdm65S85N5SvLtlgNkQs2kg2sQKojjbAD7HwY5MuwbbR8KatBqLE6zcLpyVILOWMQTdfZLzB5/s1600/Sugar_-_Copper_Blue.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-414.html">originally published</a> on 4/5/08.</i><p></p><p>Today sort of made up for yesterday, I think. I wrote more this afternoon than I did yesterday and, all things considered, feel fairly satisfied with the result. So it was a good day, a productive day.</p><div>Today's internal struggle, unlike yesterday's, had relatively little to do with the writing process, though it is quite closely linked to the dissertation or, rather, to what the dissertation represents. It may have been the proverbial April showers that prompted the mood that swept over me this evening by reminding me of the cool drizzles I'd experienced in Bergen some twelve years ago or it could have been the Sugar (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Copper Blue</span>, to be precise) playing on my iPod, I don't know but, regardless of the cause, I've spent the past few hours really missing some of the places I've called home over the years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nostalgia, that gross over-romanticizing of the past, certainly has a big role in the persistent, even stubborn, refusal of this mood to dissipate, but it extends beyond a mere dissatisfaction with my present circumstances. As I said earlier (like two sentences ago), a major contributing factor to this semi-wistful, strangely pleasant melancholy is my reflection upon the semiotic value of my dissertation. This paper, this huge, hulking beast of an assignment marks the end of my formal education and so, as I contemplate finishing it, I cannot help but look back on the events that led me to where I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've often said--if not on this blog, then certainly to my friends and family in person or on the telephone--that I wish I had never gone to graduate school, that I would have stayed in St. Paul, that I would have done something else with my life. I also know full well that had I not gone to graduate school, had I not worked my way through a master's program <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a doctoral program, I would have spent those years regretting my decision not to go. So, essentially, when I say I wish I never attended graduate school, it sounds like I am saying I wish I wasn't me, which is ludicrous. I like being me. So, what am I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">really</span> saying?</div><div><br /></div><div>What it comes down to is that, like Rod Stewart, I wish I knew then what I know now, namely that fulfillment in one area of my life can contribute to a significant lack of fulfillment in other, more important areas. So, while I was living in Montreal, reading Joseph Heller and eating smoked meat and poutine, my friends moved on with their lives. Sure, we stayed in touch. I even visited Minnesota a few times and welcomed old friends into my home, but I always felt as if I was putting my life, my "real life," on hold. A part of me always felt Minnesota and Norway, for a variety of reasons, were my real homes, that Quebec and upstate New York were merely places in which I would study for a few years before returning. On days like today, I still feel that way. Then I remember nostalgia is more about the present than the past. Longing for the past is really no more than a discomfort with the present.</div><div><br /></div><div>I also know that those people I love, those people whose presence made those places home, have spread out and live in New York City, southern Mississippi, Santa Fe, Oslo, and a slew of other spots even the most accurate of pushpinning cartophiles wouldn't be able to locate. Home, after all, is where the heart is and, in this case, home is both a place and a time. In other words--or, rather, in the words of Thomas Wolfe--you can't go home again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another huge component of this mood is the fact that I never really took to the Southern Tier of New York. I mean, sure, I love the topography and the well-preserved Painted Ladies poking out of centuries-old deciduous forest. As someone who was born in New England and raised in rural New Jersey, the appeal of living among houses dating back to the Boston Tea Party and among woods and rolling almost-mountains has always been strong. The problem, for me, is that this particular swath of America is so economically depressed, so overpopulated and underemployed, that it might as well be called America's stretch mark. I mean, as the nation grew large and prosperous, places like Binghamton and Elmira boomed. Business thrived and the affluent population built stately homes and other monuments to their pecuniary status. Then, for a number of different reasons, the economy began to recede and once-proud industries went bye-bye, leaving factories and storefronts empty and sucking the population out of their homes. Now, thanks to the inevitable forces of entropy coupled with an inability or unwillingness to systematically renovate decrepit buildings, the area is the ugly scar of America's once fat belly too quickly made thin again by disease and age. In other words, the region is a poignant reminder that everything (including friendships and one's own happiness) breaks down when neglected.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now, having spent nearly five years here, I look back and really want to leave. While I could pick up and go, it is easier to stay here to finish my dissertation. So, to make a long story a bit longer, the dissertation represents the last wall, the final gate I must pass through before my life is mine again. What I mean by this is that, when I decided to take the route that I have taken, I made a commitment to myself to work and work until I finished my doctorate, no matter where it took me. That was my choice, but it set a course I could not allow myself to swerve away from. That's just tenacious ol' me, I guess. But when the dissertation is done, I will not "have" to stay away from the places I love. I will no longer have to live in a situation that feels more and more like exile. What the whole thing comes down to, I suppose, what it really amounts to, is that I am tired of being a student. I've grown weary of living paycheck to paycheck, of putting my life on hold until I can afford to live in a nice home with a bank account large enough to make visiting my distant friends possible. That's what the dissertation has grown to signify for me. I chose a path seven years ago, a road leading away from the places and faces most dear to me, and the dissertation is the last leg of that path, the part that will swing around and join the original road. And there's a freedom there that I've not experienced in quite some time: whereas grad school was more or less mapped out for me, point by point from master's seminars to the dissertation, the future is emphatically not planned, there is no set course and I welcome that. I can take a job or not take a job. I can choose not to take a job in a region I do not think I would like. I can apply for jobs only in places in which I would want to reside (this, of course, will be mitigated by the dearth of the sort of jobs I want, but let me dream for now). I could even, in a quixotic move, return to Minnesota or Norway.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the same time, I wouldn't trade what I have done or where I have been for the world. Sure, there are things I would rather not have seen, people I would rather not have met, far-away events I would have liked to have seen, but it's been a worthwhile journey. I'm just eager for it to end so I can start the next one.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow and Sunday:</span> I'm gonna be busy the next few days so if I cannot get any writing done, at least get some reading out of the way.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-53866000537981997242024-02-29T21:28:00.002-05:002024-02-29T21:28:47.035-05:00Sobriquet 41.3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrB9jPIiWn5aQRPziVA3KxSueAGuNUou3_02lvlTw51EjwvM3ix1Z_m29yrLuASr_HdH1L5MASYtd77FiiuEslqcwyhP1N2AFH-UkIdH8mVt0JctjFZVAAuoDpMRqEOW7DeIiacbP342JGs7TcNvA-cCjUXU6oFcD0MRF2ndPD1FppQTQRwSuMW5gfQL-O/s350/MoP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="229" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrB9jPIiWn5aQRPziVA3KxSueAGuNUou3_02lvlTw51EjwvM3ix1Z_m29yrLuASr_HdH1L5MASYtd77FiiuEslqcwyhP1N2AFH-UkIdH8mVt0JctjFZVAAuoDpMRqEOW7DeIiacbP342JGs7TcNvA-cCjUXU6oFcD0MRF2ndPD1FppQTQRwSuMW5gfQL-O/s320/MoP.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-413.html">originally published</a> on 4/3/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>I wrote about a page more on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> this afternoon. I spent over an hour trying to figure out how to begin the lone paragraph I managed to squeeze out and it took me another two hours to finish the damn thing. I mean, I have come to realize that it often takes me a pretty significant chunk of time to get going, but today was painful. Seriously, the scatological image of a constipated person straining to relieve his or her bowels of the shit that has stuck around for too long comes readily to mind. I feel as if I strained and strained, sweat pouring down a face contorted by pain and concentration, only to produce a misshapen, stubborn little nut of a turd.<div><br /></div><div>In other words, I feel as if I have expended far more energy and spent a good deal more time than my work will show. And those pesky doubts that normally plague me when writing? They swarmed about me like flies in an outhouse on a humid summer day.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, yeah, I'm glad to have gotten another one percent of the dissertation written.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> More of the same.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-47204115700752154732024-02-29T10:48:00.002-05:002024-02-29T10:48:36.806-05:00Sobriquet 41.2<i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-412.html">originally posted</a> on 4/3/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>Well, I finally started writing about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> today. I'm not too crazy about what I have written so far, but I do not think it is complete crap. If anything, it is only 88% crap. The other twelve percent is shit. Or so it always seems when I start writing a new essay.<div><br /></div><div>In all seriousness, though, I rarely feel confident about my academic writing. I mean, my work has earned a few accolades over the past few years and I have published my share of scholarly writing in peer-edited journals, but none of that really changes how I feel about my current academic writing. For me, it's always a matter of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">what have you done for me lately?</span> Only the "you" becomes "I" and "the academy" replaces "me."</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's where I am, again. I know that I was in a similar place when I began writing what was to become my chapter on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Age of Iron</span> back in January, but whatever tenuous confidence I carry from that ordeal's surprisingly positive conclusion hardly counteracts the heavy doubts that always seem to spring up when I work on academic writing.</div><div><br /></div><div>At any rate, I brushed aside as many of the doubts as I could this morning and set about starting the introduction. Having spent far more time producing less than satisfactory preparatory writing than I would have liked, it was both refreshing and uncomfortable for me to begin writing the new chapter. As I have mentioned elsewhere, I had initially intended the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Age of Iron</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> sections to form part of a chapter on Coetzee. Now, however, since the direction of my dissertation seems to have shifted from a multi-author study in which Coetzee figured to be one of several authors whose recent fiction I would examine towards a more concentrated single author study of Coetzee, I find myself more than a little bit concerned with the amount of insightful writing I could possibly devote to a novel I had long assumed would require no more than five or six pages of my project to discuss. As a result of the new direction I have taken, I spent an additional month or so reviewing <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg </span>which, while not wholly unpleasant, has added a sense of stagnation to the process. This, of course, is neither an accurate assessment of the time spent rereading the novel nor an entirely unreasonable sensation. What it amounts to, though, is a rather hefty dose of unwelcome nervousness.</div><div><br /></div><div>The resultant anxiety has made beginning the chapter a bit more difficult than I had hoped and I find myself forgetting the various insights I made during fits of nerve-induced academic amnesia. Likewise, although I jotted down reams of notes and have thrown together an outline flexible enough to accommodate freshly remembered ideas, I sometimes feel lost amid an overwhelmingly sprawling body of knowledge. If anything, I feel like Lucy trying to maintain order among the chocolate candies on an increasingly speedy conveyor belt:</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8beAGg6oQ7E4eatq6C3E_kQPP-qxed8_MjGYv7f52cyZF7yM7_bKAo009Q-O7AtYWsDFchvDbADZa5mPZbZ_azdgWiVoQovCnIQJjCTu2Y4nIbL1GrIFDWp65TWlyIXceZ3-NSs0jKJ42tb1-uSAfgDOlbRjo0e6fcaH3GcE-7-xQI5cRJTjb-AKLowLx/s1958/MV5BMTU1MTYxNDQyN15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwNDc2MDU2MTE@._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1478" data-original-width="1958" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8beAGg6oQ7E4eatq6C3E_kQPP-qxed8_MjGYv7f52cyZF7yM7_bKAo009Q-O7AtYWsDFchvDbADZa5mPZbZ_azdgWiVoQovCnIQJjCTu2Y4nIbL1GrIFDWp65TWlyIXceZ3-NSs0jKJ42tb1-uSAfgDOlbRjo0e6fcaH3GcE-7-xQI5cRJTjb-AKLowLx/s320/MV5BMTU1MTYxNDQyN15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwNDc2MDU2MTE@._V1_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><center><br /></center></div><div>So I started writing and, so far, the people to whom I have shown my writing assure me that, despite my fears to the contrary, it makes sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>In addition to writing, I would like to continue working on the dual-track approach I have been using (reading for/preparing for/writing the present chapter while reading/preparing for later chapters), so I will probably begin rereading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, though, I am going to put my still-aching body to bed and listen to a bit more of the Paul Auster novel</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Write and/or plan a bit more. Begin rereading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span> if I find the time and energy to do so.</div><p> </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-57375004092821826692024-02-29T10:43:00.001-05:002024-02-29T10:43:22.230-05:00Sobriquet 41.1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwGI6TcXGDgUpsc47Qju9h87FhSW-YKGYDti5F-VAdLzEWvrLi0-f3XQUA7jRjOS5exw8vNbJ3KmL00Q11x9KLTidP_8lcUE0J-DGGBUEaga5eCQ0guteoxPJPTpSG7NLjeG0Ftt5IZ5dBq0OFHvcFXgWNenj_uVX6fvMhgVTNabP1DFAL7aKtME1thun/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwGI6TcXGDgUpsc47Qju9h87FhSW-YKGYDti5F-VAdLzEWvrLi0-f3XQUA7jRjOS5exw8vNbJ3KmL00Q11x9KLTidP_8lcUE0J-DGGBUEaga5eCQ0guteoxPJPTpSG7NLjeG0Ftt5IZ5dBq0OFHvcFXgWNenj_uVX6fvMhgVTNabP1DFAL7aKtME1thun/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/04/sobriquet-411.html">originally published</a> on 4/1/08.</i><p></p><p>Today basically sucked. I woke up this morning feeling achier than Billy Ray Cyrus's early-to-mid nineties heart. My joints ached, my muscles (I use the term liberally) ached, my aches ached. I couldn't stay awake, I felt weak and unbalanced when perambulation became necessary. It was one of those days that feel as if they should be spent wrapped in a tattered bathrobe, sipping gallons of weak tea, staring out a kitchen window. Instead, I spent the day in bed reading and listening to Paul Auster's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Travels in the Scriptorium</span> (imagine Samuel Beckett re-writing the screenplay for <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Memento</span>) on audio.</p><div><br /><div>Needless to say, I found working rather difficult. At one point, as I sat in front of my computer screen, I found that I could not focus my blurry vision and had to return to bed. Somehow, I managed to read the rest of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> in between fitful snatches of sleep. Though I finished the novel a full three days before I planned to do so, I still feel annoyed with myself for not having gotten much pre-writing done. I will have to go out and work on that now.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Prewriting and a lot of it.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-55094786738022923452024-02-28T18:30:00.002-05:002024-02-28T18:30:27.331-05:00Sobriquet 40.27<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZepkYY3T-zAWiQ6UWenfenYGLU9IthWDxG6FPaetLMwmpU0lUw856MKUnIN2sQ49BEbAZDZ74B2_ktBSWrMbWvajaf-LVreUdYLQLiQ0yqQdzEbAhkMcx-1SaFJZRuLIRWIR22W3DRP-9IQ9bCdVQJTUf4DZ52Bvkok_OpNnuA3Qqbu9fdfWdC5YmRRP/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZepkYY3T-zAWiQ6UWenfenYGLU9IthWDxG6FPaetLMwmpU0lUw856MKUnIN2sQ49BEbAZDZ74B2_ktBSWrMbWvajaf-LVreUdYLQLiQ0yqQdzEbAhkMcx-1SaFJZRuLIRWIR22W3DRP-9IQ9bCdVQJTUf4DZ52Bvkok_OpNnuA3Qqbu9fdfWdC5YmRRP/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></i></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4027.html">originally published</a> on 3/31/08.</i><p></p><p>It's been a few days since I last posted anything and, as I had assumed would be the case, I did not get a whole lot of work done over the weekend. I did, of course, continue reading (and enjoying) <span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> and I have been doing a little bit of prewriting. I seem to have hit another of those instances when writing begins to feel both daunting and irksome. As my doubts swarm around me like midges on Joba Chamberlain, I find that although I feel as if I should be starting the chapter in a day or two, I never seem to get any closer to the actual writing. It sucks.</span></p><div>I would have gotten a bit more done today, but I decided that having the opportunity to meet Mike Gravel this evening was too tempting to pass up. Now, after having listened to Senator Gravel speak in person (he is a tremendously eloquent man, especially when given more than a few seconds to speak as was the case during the Democratic debates) I have no qualms about unequivocally supporting the newly-minted Libertarian candidate for president.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, if the nation would just listen to this man speak for an hour or two, most people would probably embrace him as the best candidate. No joke. This man is really, really bright, very eloquent and, in my opinion, the only one to actually support his rhetoric with, you know, facts and stuff...</div><div><br /></div><p><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> R</span>eally get a move on the prewriting. Read a bit more of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-75331333185276991082024-02-28T18:27:00.000-05:002024-02-28T18:27:47.220-05:00Sobriquet 40.26<i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZepkYY3T-zAWiQ6UWenfenYGLU9IthWDxG6FPaetLMwmpU0lUw856MKUnIN2sQ49BEbAZDZ74B2_ktBSWrMbWvajaf-LVreUdYLQLiQ0yqQdzEbAhkMcx-1SaFJZRuLIRWIR22W3DRP-9IQ9bCdVQJTUf4DZ52Bvkok_OpNnuA3Qqbu9fdfWdC5YmRRP/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZepkYY3T-zAWiQ6UWenfenYGLU9IthWDxG6FPaetLMwmpU0lUw856MKUnIN2sQ49BEbAZDZ74B2_ktBSWrMbWvajaf-LVreUdYLQLiQ0yqQdzEbAhkMcx-1SaFJZRuLIRWIR22W3DRP-9IQ9bCdVQJTUf4DZ52Bvkok_OpNnuA3Qqbu9fdfWdC5YmRRP/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4026.html">originally published</a> on 3/27/08.</i><div><br /></div><div>Although it is not even remotely late by my standards, and despite the fact that I am pretty psyched to be using the iMac I bought this morning, I am going to have to keep today's entry rather brief. You see, I still have loads of grading to do. Lots and lots of it...<div><br /></div><div>At any rate, I did reread another good chunk of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians </span>early this morning before setting out on my day-consuming journey into the Land of Mac. Having spent more time than I would care to admit sequestered in the windowless computer lab buried in the basement of Saint Olaf College typing English papers on Macs, I always thought of myself as a Mac person, even though I have been using PCs for the past eight years. I mean, the first computers I knew were Macs, I first surfed the Internet on Steve Jobs's brainchildren, and I most certainly recall being baffled by the second mouse button on PC mice. So it's nice to be back.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, since this weekend is going to be packed, I may not post another entry for a few days, but I fully intend to continue doing what I have been doing these past few days. Also, if I get a chance to do so, I'd like to make a few comments on Don DeLillo's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">White Noise</span>, which I finally finished this evening as I drove through a wintery mix of rain and snow on my way home from the Mac store.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: </span>Keep rereading and prewriting.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-58999974761172308542024-02-21T22:40:00.002-05:002024-02-21T22:40:39.048-05:00Sobriquet 40.25<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4025.html">originally published </a>on 3/26/08.</i><p></p><p>Since today marks another day in a succession of similarly structured days, I haven't much new to report. As usual, I spent an hour or so reading <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>, taking notes, reflecting on what I might be able to say about the novel and devoted a bit of time to plotting out the next chapter. Although I have baulked at outlining and extensive prewriting in the past, I found the the skeletal outline I threw together in a fit of desperation while struggling to find my bearings on the last chapter really helped me out. I mean, if nothing else, an outline does provide one with a road map to his or her project and, reassuringly, contains what can often feel like a sprawling, uncontrollable, unmanageable mass in a page or two of black text on 8 1/2" x 11" paper.<br /><br />At least that's what I tell myself.<br /><br />As for the reading: I continue to marvel at the fact that I found <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> forgettable the first time I read it. I mean, for every "oh yeah, I remember that moment," there's another "how on earth did I forget that" moment...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Since I have a good deal of grading I will be doing and since I have had to cancel plans to socialize with friends to finish that task, I do not have the highest of expectations for my own work. If anything, I'd like to do a teensy-weensy bit of prewriting and, maybe, squeeze in a couple more pages of <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>. If only to cultivate a sense of accomplishment, no matter how trivial it may be.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-22762344149268637482024-02-21T22:37:00.001-05:002024-02-21T22:37:12.480-05:00Sobriquet 40.24<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4024.html">originally published</a> on 3/26/08.</i><p></p><p>Very long day = very short entry.<br /><br />Since it is getting quite late and I'm a bit on the sleepy side, I will just say that today was a good, solid day. I'm still enjoying my work, particularly as I get deeper into what is fast becoming one of my favorite Coetzee novels.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow: </span>Again, the same.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-71562080940542943892024-02-21T22:35:00.002-05:002024-02-21T22:35:19.892-05:00Sobriquet 40.23<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__9XCOB-197qOb__oYYbPABkpO9LtwBoxgh2ThNLuv_NXSwDMTNdYqARtqRfxySJ5y-_q54K26gwf18_oDo9s6XVxlDiwS8h1YoLUEBJx-uS6xkZ1jTSJtHwBqH_cozbJOJuPWUoA6hU18I8ULTEKvZF-Q3uCd-gdYq8LietoAUXvkkD65CqG8AOsgRSU/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4023_24.html">originally published</a> on 3/24/08.</i><p></p><p>Well, it's been an interesting day. I've been having quite a bit of computer trouble lately, which has limited my access to the internet and certain research avenues, but this morning the machine committed electronic suicide, quite literally offing itself and seemingly taking with it scads of documents and other precious data. Needless to say, I was not terribly pleased with the development but, having experienced similar "crises" in the past, I stoically took the thing in for an autopsy and had the computer coroner extract my files for me.<br /><br />And now I stand, sixpence cap clutched to my breast, humming Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" as the staid cemetery hands of this idiotically extended metaphor lower the corpse into the ground...<br /><br />Ah, but I did not weep. Nay. Rather I look to the future, knowing that the work started on one computer can easily be transferred to another like genes from parent to child.<br /><br />Deliberately sappy prose aside, it does suck to lose one's computer. I mean, obviously, for someone writing a dissertation, the word processing and research capabilities of the average PC are of tremendous value. Still, I am of a generation for whom memories of computer-less living rooms and dens are quite common. I didn't even own a computer until I had graduated from college and worked for several months, so working without the buzz of a CPU is not wholly foreign to me.<br /><br />Of course, I might have sung a different tune had I actually <span style="font-style: italic;">needed</span> to use the computer today...<br /><br />I did continue working, as I had planned, and will work a bit more before bed. I am still enjoying <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>, though I do occasionally find the tone a tiny bit didactic. As a philosophical novel, however, I suppose such a tone is both inevitable and ultimately necessary.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Same old, same old.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-4445925866486330482024-02-19T21:26:00.004-05:002024-02-19T21:26:47.444-05:00Sobriquet 40.22<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJWweF4Qn7TclaL8C06_wFns1rmSvrw4-bhP0ZJq7-ZCfhyphenhyphenH_V5HoKi4EPhSwh1uCpAN2wJBCmsB7JOYUyE_zBDUHEJT6PilUxIpdVYLTk5hyphenhyphenZbhpNqE23RsSetdxM5ruXY4CEJABI6dD3OKcaG0HG5q-1sgBrpE0n3CRNcpqsam_58kThPiGXMypCY3W/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJWweF4Qn7TclaL8C06_wFns1rmSvrw4-bhP0ZJq7-ZCfhyphenhyphenH_V5HoKi4EPhSwh1uCpAN2wJBCmsB7JOYUyE_zBDUHEJT6PilUxIpdVYLTk5hyphenhyphenZbhpNqE23RsSetdxM5ruXY4CEJABI6dD3OKcaG0HG5q-1sgBrpE0n3CRNcpqsam_58kThPiGXMypCY3W/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4022.html">originally published</a> on 3/23/08.</i><p></p><p>Okay, so I said I was going to keep my entry brief yesterday before proceeding to ramble on for a few paragraphs. Today, however, I will stay true to my word and keep this on the short side. I kept the temptation to procrastinate at bay, so I finished virtually everything I'd set aside for myself to get done this afternoon relatively early, which afforded me the opportunity to spend my evening conversing over good, healthy food and diet soda (we all have our surfeits...). And, yeah, I am still loving <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> More of the same.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-12464481168670345122024-02-18T13:57:00.001-05:002024-02-18T13:57:12.749-05:00Sobriquet 40.21<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-1aTmT6MOoGMUqa0kklwO3GHHQGTe1y8_9exJbDtGVM4mrWndr0d9Pv5B-MAsBqKIBtgCAVkWuHNr3Y5J6s61407otbTUBfaQgzssjvLgKCFvEHeVddRGY0Eeh0whiMGHiK4WwPYbCY8JTm2geBMnvz04SXMATGFN8-vt9JBPW616_2ysMa4xu99awlPJ/s300/HuskerDuNewDayRising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-1aTmT6MOoGMUqa0kklwO3GHHQGTe1y8_9exJbDtGVM4mrWndr0d9Pv5B-MAsBqKIBtgCAVkWuHNr3Y5J6s61407otbTUBfaQgzssjvLgKCFvEHeVddRGY0Eeh0whiMGHiK4WwPYbCY8JTm2geBMnvz04SXMATGFN8-vt9JBPW616_2ysMa4xu99awlPJ/s1600/HuskerDuNewDayRising.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4021.html">originally published</a> on 3/23/08.</i><p></p><p>A long day, I'm afraid is going to have to result in a short entry. I did get the work I set out to do finished, but it took me until the wee hours of the morning to do so. Though a significant chunk of my day consisted of a six hour block of teaching this morning and afternoon, I did procrastinate a bit more than I should have this evening. Or, rather, much more than I normally regard as acceptable. Granted, I had fun playing games with friends and watching old punk rock videos, but still...<br /><br />I dealt with a mild swell in dissertation anxiety this evening, as well. For some reason, I began dwelling on the amount of time I have spent/wasted so far in relation to the amount of time normally granted to a doctoral candidate to complete his or her dissertation at my university and felt the familiar pulsing of nervousness and doubt. As had happened so often already, my thoughts drifted from the task at hand to the unsettlingly unstable realm of academic marketability and professional branding. Of course, my supervisor does not seem concerned in the least and, given that she has supervised dissertations and the doctoral students who write them at this institution for three decades, I try to impose on myself the sense that I am doing at least reasonably well. But, still...<br /><br />Other than that, I continue to marvel at both the amount of stuff popping out at me from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> and how much more I am enjoying <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> the second time around. I realize that some of my older readers will chuckle at this statement, but bear with me here...one of the most wonderful things about getting older is that, with accumulated experience, the beauty of truly brilliant art can be better appreciated. I mean, in the six years since I read the novel, I have experienced that much more of life's richness and, accordingly, appreciate the sublimity of Coetzee's book more deeply. I can only imagine how utterly transcendent an experience reading <span style="font-style: italic;">Moby-Dick</span> is for someone of sixty or seventy.<br /><br />At any rate, I am going to sign off now. The sleepier I feel, the less confident I am in my ability to string together cogent sentences, so I will wrap this up while eyelids are light enough to hold open.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> More o' the same.<br /><br />And, just in case you were wondering what was the most intense-sounding live performance of the 1980s, I suggest you plug "Husker Du" and "New Day Rising" into the search bar on YouTube.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-60539820614454041872024-02-18T13:35:00.003-05:002024-02-18T13:35:54.427-05:00Sobriquet 40.20<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCeT2NnPx4kPbXB8whVbRtd9e0KMUd-clA9aIBMQBIeeycDKkOmUCIrK5zDPyP6-rVNuAzplvb-I7nBjaXoavkMUlcC5TjxtfMWpjz-TZeAWmnuBQcSs66LbcLkMLg4sfgFwvaRBP72pG4W6zSoRbsn55Rlt1-aTh2BtjcPnQkdfEifIzZvKS26rgrLtC/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCeT2NnPx4kPbXB8whVbRtd9e0KMUd-clA9aIBMQBIeeycDKkOmUCIrK5zDPyP6-rVNuAzplvb-I7nBjaXoavkMUlcC5TjxtfMWpjz-TZeAWmnuBQcSs66LbcLkMLg4sfgFwvaRBP72pG4W6zSoRbsn55Rlt1-aTh2BtjcPnQkdfEifIzZvKS26rgrLtC/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4020.html">originally published</a> on 3/21/08.</i><p></p><p>Well, I continued rereading <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> today and, happily, I have really been enjoying it. Having read <span style="font-style: italic;">Dusklands</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">In the Heart of the Country </span>so recently, I think, has given me a new perspective on the novel. Although Coetzee's first two books are undeniably excellent, they do not feel fully his, if that makes sense. In other words, while Coetzee's unique vision of the world certainly <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>emerges at many points in both <span style="font-style: italic;">Dusklands</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">In the Heart of the Country</span>, the shadow of the author's influences looms perhaps a bit heavier over his prose than one might like. With <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span>, however, Coetzee seems to have come utterly into his own. Not only is the Magistrate Coetzee's first likable, sympathetic character, but the prose is markedly more fluid than any of Coetzee's earlier writing (with the possible exception of "The Narrative of Jacobus Coetzee," which is largely free of the dense prose of "The Vietnam Project" or <span style="font-style: italic;">In the Heart of the Country</span>). One of Coetzee's great gifts, in my opinion, is his ability to wax philosophical and explore the same highly theoretical terrain as the poststructuralist thinkers of the sixties, seventies, and eighties without resorting to using the ostentatiously rarefied language so common among those folks. With <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians</span> Coetzee achieves that difficult balance of plain language and deep thought and does so masterfully.<br /><br />So, yeah, I'm enjoying this.<br /><br />Now it's onto some pre-writing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> Same old, same old.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234158233333476259.post-53253611117374379642024-02-17T21:42:00.000-05:002024-02-17T21:42:16.824-05:00Sobriquet 40.19<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMT5FxulV2utkPLq8w3ow1Xph1ww-UqWQWgI8hJWOHvQ_pK5Y36bu7nNZddWK3-cyUSSb7TMo66D0_dmraMiVG27-AVhelRdMdTZTybCTwv3pGKCGFk_IegEYiGDPhHrAF-4T6ji8iXTKn2t_E1rz2kkz7OC5Q6LoKDmeoJ22tNOXjVWOwWUyI9_Ed5DA/s1000/Barbarians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMT5FxulV2utkPLq8w3ow1Xph1ww-UqWQWgI8hJWOHvQ_pK5Y36bu7nNZddWK3-cyUSSb7TMo66D0_dmraMiVG27-AVhelRdMdTZTybCTwv3pGKCGFk_IegEYiGDPhHrAF-4T6ji8iXTKn2t_E1rz2kkz7OC5Q6LoKDmeoJ22tNOXjVWOwWUyI9_Ed5DA/s320/Barbarians.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><i>The following post was <a href="https://coetzee.sobriquetmagazine.com/2008/03/sobriquet-4019.html">originally published</a> on 3/20/08.</i><p></p><p>Although I'd wanted to write a bit more tonight, I really haven't a whole lot of time to devote to blogging this evening. At any rate, I did begin the pre-writing phase of the chapter on <span style="font-style: italic;">The Master of Petersburg</span> this evening. Surprisingly, I found the process considerably less painful than I had anticipated and I even found myself marveling at the number of directions the chapter could take. I doubt that this will match the length of my first chapter, though it seems there will be more than enough material to make this section at least long enough. Still, it is a nerve-wracking procedure.<br /><br />For me, the pre-writing phase has always been the most tedious of ordeals. I find that the closer I get to writing, the less I want to arrange notes and plot things out. In the past, I have had quite a bit of success simply arranging my papers mentally but, of course, those were briefer essays that required less extensive planning in the first place. One of the biggest lessons I learned while writing my Master's thesis several years ago is that while what worked in the past on shorter, less complex papers may continue to work on the longer, more intricate pieces required by graduate departments, it is much easier to write when one has taken his or her time preparing extensively. Now, for me, the biggest obstacle preventing such preparations had always been the rather brief windows of time I had to work on a given paper. See, the shorter the time in which I had to work, the more tedious prep work I'd have to fit into a short time span, which can be maddening. I am learning now that one of the luxuries of having a relatively open-ended project like a dissertation is that the boring busywork I had eschewed in the past as too time-consuming and mind-numbing to squeeze into a few days can now be spread out into weeks and broken up into a series of short, bearable sessions. After all, the study skills gurus always said that working in brief bursts rather than long marathon stretches enables students to retain more information and produce higher quality work. It's the same thing here. It's like having 100 miles to run. No one can sprint it but if a sprinter runs a series of 100-yard dashes, he or she would likely make the 100 miles in less time (minus the breaks, obviously) than if an ultramarathon runner ran straight through.<br /><br />I also began rereading <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting for the Barbarians </span>this afternoon and am enjoying it a good deal. Prior to <span style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Barbarians</span> was Coetzee's most famous book, the one most likely to end up on university syllabi--and I am beginning to see why. It is immensely readable, immediately assessable, and chock full of the themes Coetzee is known for.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For tomorrow:</span> More of the same.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0