- Unlikely you’ll find any of them in a list, particularly not this one, but it’s possible. Readers are neither encouraged nor discouraged to continue.
- The first step is to decide what you truly need from what you merely think you need. To do this, you must discern between need and want. We don’t always need what we want nor want what we need.
- Unlikely you’ll find anything you need in an advertisement, so why do you keep looking at them?
- You don’t want to seem a “know it all” type. These know it all types are generally boring, and usually know only one aspect of the thing in question.
- Many lists only confirm what we knew to be true to begin with. Once we know something, we may discard it and draw another question.
- Everything they say is not good for you, it’s not, and you already knew it.
- At the same time, when you hear something is “ok in moderation,” recall William Blake’s line, “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” This should require no further explanation, except to question whether you really want to live in a palace, where evenings can grow quite lonely.
- Most lists are like ads, designed to persuade. What do you think this list is trying to sell you?
- If you use about 20 gallons of water every time you take a shower, and you shower daily, but you divert the water to gardening, you could grow 20 vegetable gardens. If you can’t divert the shower water, but you skip one shower a week, you can grow one garden without using any extra water.
- This need to know item intentionally left blank.
What is there to discuss-ion? “Music as discourse (jazz) doesn’t work,” John Cage said.* “If you’re going to have a discussion, have it and use words.” As both a jazz and Cage fan, I’ve often reflected on the paradox, for discourse, “running to and fro,” seems an accurate description of jazz, with or without words.
According to Google’s Ngram Viewer, the word discussion in American English is on the decline, following a peak around 1960. Interested readers may follow the link to an Ngram Viewer chart that graphs the word discussion found in “lots of books” from 1800 through 2008 using the corpus “American English.” But what is the difference between being involved in a discussion and having a conversation? Again using Ngram Viewer, we find conversation and discussion crossing just after 1900, discussion on the rise, conversation falling off, but recently apparently headed for another crossing, discussion dying, conversation on the upswing, beginning around 1980. What does all this mean, if anything? But it looks interesting, even if it does not provoke a good discussion question.
Are discussions weightier than conversations? We may not associate the chitchat, the tete-a-tete, with discussion, but with conversation. Do we gossip during a discussion? We prattle on. Are you still with us? Maybe conversations are more intimate than discussions. Can we have a conversation question in the same sense we have discussion questions? If words have meanings, then perhaps a discussion on discussion might mean something. But is mere meaning ever enough, or must we have entertainment to boot? To mean is to mind, as we mine for meaning. And Cage added, immediately following his seemingly anti-jazz comment, in parentheses, “(Dialogue is another matter).” What did he mean by that?
What are discussion questions, and should we have them? Can we have a discussion without a question to prompt one? What is the discussion question that can only result in silence? And is that the discussion we desire?
Give any one thought a push : it falls down easily but the pusher and the pushed pro-duce that enter- tainment called a dis-cussion . Shall we have one later ? Cage, "Lecture on Nothing," Silence, 1961 (1973), 109 (the text is arranged in four columns, here approximate).
Without further ado:
7 Short Discussion Questions with Equally Short Suggested Answers:
- Q: Are discussion questions deconstructive? A: Pour the lecture neat.
- Q: Where would you like to sit? A: In separate sections.
- Q: Has education become entertainment? A: You’re taking me out tonight?
- Q: How can we improve the world? A: How long is this supposed to last?
- Q: What can we learn from randomness? A: Noise counts – percussion discussion.
- Q: Why even when diligently minding our own business are we often snared by a discussion question? A: “Do you know the way to San Jose?”
- Q: Does wasted time pay for itself? A: Time will never tell.
* John Cage, "DIARY: HOW TO IMPROVE THE WORLD (YOU WILL ONLY MAKE MATTERS WORSE) 1965," A Year From Monday, 1967, 12.
The Reader and the Paywall Poem The Reader and the Wally Moon Foul Ball The Reader and the Pool Hall Doggerel The Reader and the K of C Third Degree The Reader and the Professor Who Knew It All The Reader and the Screwball PCH Big Sur Rally of 1972 The Reader and the Walled Out Surf Cove The Reader and the Beer Hall Jukebox Sing-along The Reader and the Union Hall Layoff Sign-up List The Reader and the Baloney Sandwich with Mayo&Mustard on Rye and a Glass of Milk The Reader and the Red Clew of Yarn Mystery The Reader and the Fans with the Giant Red White and Blue Beach Ball The Reader and the Short Tell It All The Reader and the True Tall Tale The Reader and the Tall Boy PBR The Reader and the Plumber's Helper
“Ulysses could have done with a good editor,” Roddy Doyle said, fed up with all the attention Joyce gets to the neglect of other Irish writers. “I doubt that any of those people were really moved by it [Ulysses],” Doyle said. Roddy was just stirring up the stew, tossing in some new ingredients, and no need to cook it so long over an open fire. Let’s eat; I’m hungry. But what of Paul Coelho; what’s his beef with Joyce? “Ulysses is pure style. There is nothing there,” Coelho said. We introduced the topic in Monday’s post: must a work “move” the reader to have literary value?
In his On the Sublime, Longinus says, “The effect of elevated language upon an audience is not persuasion but transport. At every time and in every way imposing speech, with the spell it throws over us, prevails over that which aims at persuasion and gratification.”
Ha Ha Ha! Take that, Coelho!
Yet Longinus also says, “In life nothing can be considered great which it is held great to despise.” But does the reader despise Joyce’s Ulysses for its “pure style”? Longinus said “that is really great which bears a repeated examination, and which it is difficult or rather impossible to withstand, and the memory of which is strong and hard to efface.” Is this true of Ulysses? And, if not, would editing help?
Longinus lists “five principal sources of elevated language:…the power of forming great conceptions…vehement and inspired passion…the due formation of figures, first those of thought and secondly those of expression…noble diction…[and] the fifth cause of elevation…is dignified and elevated composition.”
Can we edit one or more of Longinus’s principal sources of elevated language out of Ulysses and still expect something sublime to emerge?
But what of the idea that for a work of literature to be considered “great” it must “move” the reader? I began thinking of literary works that we might consider great yet don’t move the reader. I selected those works whose design seems to match up to Longinus’s ideas of the sublime and elevated language but also at the same time might, using Doyle’s critical voice as expressed in the Guardian article, have “done with a good editor.” Here’s the list, annotated with wry comments using the “must move to be good” literary critical voice:
1. Moby Dick, by Herman Melville: Edit out all that business about whaling, surely included simply to fatten the thing up, so Melville could boast he had written a big book. But the real problem is, can anyone be moved by the killing of a mad sailor by a vengeful whale? What has this to do with the price of a loaf of bread and a bottle of beer at the local grocery?
2. The Trial, by Franz Kafka: Well, it’s a trial reading it. And who was ever moved by a trial, particularly one that had no ending?
3. Three Novels (Malloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable), by Samuel Beckett: Triple play of boredom, the reader thrown out at every base, a runner that never reaches home plate. The work defines constipation, the antithesis of being moved.
4. Gravity’s Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon: Where are those scissors?
Still, there’s something to the topic that invites comment. What is good? Should a work be considered good simply because it achieves its objectives, even if those objectives lack sentiment and fail to move? Or should we keep looking, for those books that are both “pure style” and contain enough sentiment to be considered moving? How about Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury?
Related Post: Coelho & Doyle on Joyce
From Longinus’s On the Sublime, Chapter 1: “As I am writing to you, good friend, who are well versed in literary studies, I feel almost absolved from the necessity of premising at any length that sublimity is a certain distinction and excellence in expression, and that it is from no other source than this that the greatest poets and writers have derived their eminence and gained an immortality of renown. 4. The effect of elevated language upon an audience is not persuasion but transport. At every time and in every way imposing speech, with the spell it throws over us, prevails over that which aims at persuasion and gratification. Our persuasions we can usually control, but the influences of the sublime bring power and irresistible might to bear, and reign supreme over every hearer. Similarly, we see skill in invention, and due order and arrangement of matter, emerging as the hard-won result not of one thing nor of two, but of the whole texture of the composition, whereas Sublimity flashing forth at the right moment scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt, and at once displays the power of the orator in all its plenitude.”