Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Wet Nurse's Tale: A New Step for Women's Literature


If you've never heard of Erica Eisdorfer, well, lucky for you I'm here to tell you. She wrote a novel called "The Wet Nurse's Tale" which stars the brilliantly complex female protagonist, Susan Rose. The story takes place in 1847 in Victorian England, and maps the fortunate and unfortunate events of Susan's wet nursing career.

Yeah, yeah, you can Google all this info in a snap. What I want to discuss is the fact that I had a chance to speak with and listen to Erica when she came to visit my college. She gave a reading in which she explained that wet nursing is one of the oldest professions in the world and yet hardly talked about, even in today's so-called modern society.

Erica made it clear that this book was not supposed to be a manifesto of any kind; her purpose was to illuminate modern readers on a still touchy subject, and to bring to life the world of the Victorians in ways that no Victorian writer would ever dream of.

I'll talk about two big things about the novel that I think are extremely important for the everyday reader to understand.

First, the MARRIAGE PLOT. This, if you couldn't guess, has to do with women getting married. Basically the rule is that if you're a writer writing a novel with a female main character, you only have two plot choices: 1. The main character gets married and lives happily ever after, or, 2. She dies. (Think Jane Austen, the Brontes, Defoe's Moll Flanders.)
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Oh, Mr. Darcy! ...Not too exciting, simply by the fact that we know the ending even before we begin. And the bad thing is, this marriage-plot convention still upholds in the book market today.

Erica defied the MARRIAGE PLOT in her book. I will not give away the ending, but I will tell you that Susan's happily ever after does not rely on her getting betrothed, married, seduced, or dying in some tragic way. When reading this book, take note of how many times your expectations for plot direction are shattered. And revel in the greatness of surprise.

Here's the second big thing: FEMALE BODILY FUNCTIONS. Oh, yes. Not only are women NOT objectified by the typical male-gaze narration, but the functions that today's society deems disgusting are portrayed as beautiful, and, as they should be, natural. If you couldn't guess, breast-feeding is a huge part of the book. What other novels have been written about breast-feeding? Erica stated that when doing her research, she found about four books on the history of wet nursing, one of them out of print and two of them by the same author.

The problem is that when wet nursing was still around as a profession, history books, most novels, and all other literary works were primarily composed by men. And what man would want to write about the REAL function of breasts? Indeed, even today, breasts are only being "normal" when they are used as entertainment, especially in movies and the media. Have you ever seen a movie that shot a scene with breast-feeding, and didn't try to subvert the "rawness" of it?

In short, Erica Eisdorfer's The Wet Nurse's Tale is sublime in the way it both paints realistically the Victorian world and defies the conventions of historical and even contemporary literature. This is a book celebrating the reality of being a woman, of strength and self-sufficiency. Not to mention a good bit of irony and humor that'll keep a smirk on your face.
Visit http://www.thewetnursestale.com/index.php to get more information.

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Fun Facts: Before the baby bottle was invented, mothers who could not nurse their infants had to feed them by using spoons or rags; another reason why the infant mortality rate was huge in the Victorian ages. Roughly halfway through the 19th century it was common for wet nurses to stay in the homes of their employers, leaving their own children behind. If you think about it, the implications can be devastating. Especially since wet nurse's had to nurse someone else's baby for up to a year or more.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Childhood

Babies. The other other white meat.

the other other white meat

Yes, babies are cute.

But babies don't really do anything besides just be cute, so I'm here to talk about your childhood. Oooh! Does it give you that magical tingle and make you think about fiery dragons and flying cars and soup made out of acorns and grass?

For a lot of people, childhood was a great era. It was a time when they could be free of tedious responsibility, free to explore the still large and mysterious world, free to let your imagination take you to new and exciting places. Childhood is a time for growing, but also for not growing. It almost seems that the more you know about the world the less wonderful it is. Or, that ever since Santa became extinct Christmas lost much of its wonder.

When you think about it, kids can get away with a lot of stuff. They can act silly, they can pretend to be this or that, and does anyone judge them? Of course not. They’re just “being kids.” Is there an expression like that for adults, though? I ask you: if a glowering, sully-eyed adult with a business suit and a five o’clock shadow drags themselves home after a perturbing work day, is he just “being an adult”?

I happen to miss my childhood. I’m sure a lot of you do as well. A lot of days I remember not feeling embarrassed to pretend to be pioneer and gather wheat for the long winter ahead; or trudge through desert terrain armed with special tools for fighting the loose dinosaurs; or sneak through the forest with a compass to try and find the rogue spy in the hidden tree house.

I feel like kids these days (yes, I said “kids these days”) are growing up too fast. Especially with all the new media and technological advances. With iPhones and iPods and iThis and iThat, kids can get access to all sorts of content not suitable to their underdeveloped ears and brains. For instance, my friends and I were at a state park and wandering along a river bank singing “Just Around the River Bend” when we came upon a group of prepubescent boys playing rowdily in the sand. As we passed we kept singing, and one of them began shouting profanities at us: e.g. “Boobs!”

What has the world of youngsters come to?

But it’s not even THAT that annoys me so much about childhood. No, it’s the fact that after you’ve turned thirteen, you’re expected by almost everyone around you to be done with childhood. Enough playing pretend. Enough thinking about magical creatures. Stop being creative. Do your homework. Get a boyfriend. Buy clothes that hug you way too tightly. Poor brooding teenagers.

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All my teenage years I mourned my childhood. I’d sit down in the living room by myself and watch our home videos, watch me as a baby push around a squishy soccer ball and slobber all over my pygmy hands. I spent hours reading children’s books, watching children’s movies . . . I was sad that I didn’t have a real reason to keep enjoying that kind of stuff.

Then, college happened. College? Wait—isn’t that where all the stuck-up brains go to write thesis papers and wear tweed jackets? Sometimes, yes. Luckily I ended up at a liberal arts college, meaning the students are as immature as they were in high school, and sometimes even less mature than that. At college I found people who love childhood as much as I do. The difference is, we haven’t lost it yet.

We play on the elementary school playground; we sing Disney songs along the river bank; we read all the latest YA fantasy novels; we set up secret trees around campus to hide notes to each other in; we dress up in costumes and have tea parties. But the one thing we have that a lot of adults lack is childlike enthusiasm for life and learning. If there’s something we’re interested in, we learn everything we can about it and get EXCITED.

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Why can’t adults still hold on to that one aspect of childhood, that most important aspect? If you still saw the world from behind eyes that were always full of wonder or curiosity, wouldn’t everything seem magical again? Or at least somewhat tolerable?

You know, maybe I’m just thinking about all of this because I’m scared to graduate next year and start “real life.” But to me, life is never boring. It’s never monotonous. It’s never routine. Because there are so many new things to learn every day—so many new things to see. How could anyone be apathetic? How could anyone be so serious?

Oscar Wilde said something like, “Life is too important to ever talk seriously about it.” And he was right. Why do adults take life so seriously? And why are we rubbing that off on today’s youth? Why are sex and violence “cool”? (Although I must admit, I do enjoy a movie or book with sex and violence once in a while.)

Lastly, I must urge you to think about how you were different as a child. And if you feel your life is lacking something as an adult, why not try and see through the eyes you had when you were, say, seven?

Maybe I’ve just been reading too many Lewis Carroll biographies…

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Dante Freaking Alighieri



What do you think of when you hear the name "Dante"?

FLAMES?

DEMONS?

A THREE-HEADED SATAN WITH A GIANT--WINGSPAN?

If you answered "yes" to these three questions, then you have read Dante's Inferno. Good for you. I am proud you were forced to read it in high school. It is a classic.

Dante was from Tuscany, back in the middle ages. A man of the state. Who liked to make people think he was the next Jesus Christ (on a strictly subconscious level, of course).

Now, what else do you think of when you hear the name "Dante"?

TERRACES?

FOG?

VERY HEAVY ROCKS?

If you answered "yes" to these three questions, you have read Dante's Purgatorio and I feel extremely sorry for you. You see, Dante didn't just want to show his fellow Italians how to meet Satan and conquer him, but also how to climb the mountain of Purgatory and meet all the old saps who were somewhat sorry for their sins but still had to undergo torture for X amount of years in order to go up to Heaven.

Dante's epic poems almost read like bible scripture, so be careful--you could fall into the Dante-is-kind-of-Jesus trap.

And now for a few fun facts:
Did you know: In Inferno and Purgatorio, Dante liked to express his superiority by placing friends he knew in real life into terrible situations? For instance, one person he half-drowned in a river of blood. Dante was so great to his sinner friends. So much mercy.
Did you know: Dante was so in love with Virgil (the poet) that he made the character of Virgil lead the character of Dante around Hell and Purgatory as his wise, old guide? Dante wanted to show that he was the heir to Virgil's poetic legacy, and that Virgil's writings had taught him everything he knew.
Did you know: Dante had a wife and also a secret lover on the side? Who's the sinner now, dude?!

For even more fun, I bring you two Purgatorio comics of my own making.


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Sunday, January 16, 2011

My Sonnet Affliction

After reading sonnets composed by John Donne (most noteably "The Flea") back in English Survey I, I couldn't help but get in on the action.

When most people hear the word "sonnet," they immediately picture something like this:
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And though the Earl of Dorset is rather comely, his portrait does not denounce the meaning or concept of a sonnet.

A sonnet is usually 14 lines of poetry, going along the following pattern: ABAB/CDCD/EFEF/GG, and if you forget that rhyming couplet at the end, GOD STRIKE YOU DOWN IMMEDIATELY.

Now, in my first attempts at writing sonnets, I didn't always follow the pattern because I was what the Deutsch would call a "dummkopf." And so, I forewarn you all, that though they may seem deepy entrenched with the Renaissance ideals of poetry, they are not, in fact, all that good.

I will now reproduce for you a few of my sonnets. Plagarism is welcomed, but only if you wish to find a severed horsehead in you bed and your mother at the bottom of the ocean swimming with the fishes. (Side note: I am in no way affiliated with the Mafia. Much.)

Sonnet #1

A milk-white shadow in the street
Hallowed, foamy, an inhale of smoke
To breathe this danger comforts me
Without putrid air my lungs will choke.
They blanket me, and stow away
The trinkets: heart, brain, soul;
Peeling maddness so sour a delay
That I broke the bell yet hear it toll.
Milk-white face in my dream behold
A ghostly prayer of vivid decay
Stopped, like a cork in my soul
Another toll will tell me who can stay.
Face from hell you liven me,
As deadened fruit that's fallen from the tree.

Sonnet #2

Love, Love, Love is an odd fuck,
It spoils and dries then peels
Like melons sitting out in the sun
First it rots then draws the fleas.
Love, Love, Love is an itchy foot
That scabs and burns and browns
Trembling with the want to cut,
Take it out and bury it beneath the ground.
Love, Love, Love is a pregant rat;
It drags and bites and smells
Once it births the offspring shall attack
Killing beauty where'er it dwells.
Love takes the shape of a blooming rose,
But like a storm it injures when it blows.


The following poem does not rhyme, and it is not a sonnet. I wrote it last night.

My Box

No one knows just what I keep
inside my special box
perhaps a coin, perhaps a cross
Neither will you find in there.
And never will you know.
My special box is just for me
Its contents keep me alive
If you can guess just what it is,
I may pay you with a key.
Or else I'll just take my box
And leave it to draw the flies
Somewhere in a shrubbery,
A barn or circus tent
A place where no one will see
That box of mine at rest.
It's not my heart, no that's a joke
It's rather something more,
Akin to whisps and fairy wings,
perhaps a bit like odds and ends.
But never pausing is my box
It plays a little tune
With whistles loud and voices low,
You may wonder who could write it,
The book that's kept inside my box
A story of a life and time.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Don't You Smile, Lewis Carroll

So there's this guy. He goes by "Lewis Carroll" but that's not his real name. I think it's Charles Lutwidgedsdouehfso or something. Anyway, he wrote these books, and apparently they're really famous. "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"--have you heard of that one? Some people have. I guess you could say there's an "Alice" cult running around out there somewhere, thanks be to Disney's Alice in Wonderland and then recently Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland With Johnny Depp.

So this guy likes kids, right? Especially little girls. I know what you want to say: "Little girls? Was he like a child molester or something?" And to you I say, "No idea. But let's not ruin the magic, ok?"

The thing is, I've become kind of very much interested in this "Lewis Carroll" fellow. You know, I tend to go for those tall, dark, handsome, stammering Englishmen.

So I Googled images of Mr. Carroll and found dozens upon dozens. Did you know he was a photographer? I know--how much cooler can this dude get? Anyway, I found photographs he took of himself.

AND GUESS WHAT?

Mr. Carroll isn't smiling. Not in a single photograph. And it made me wonder--if he was such a fun guy, playing with children all the time, hopscotch, hide-and-seek, Wonderland and what have you, why on earth wouldn't he show it on his face? Did he want the world to remember him as a pre-Emo Victorian artist who was a supressed homosexual? (He never married...hmm...)

Now I'm just jumping to conclusions.

I will now present to you some photographs of Mr. Carroll, to prove my point.

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I am a sad young man and nobody understands my imagination.

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Still very sad.

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So sad that I'm bored to death.

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So sad those little girls grew up. Now they're just bitches.

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In fact, I'm just going to pretend I am important. Maybe that'll help.

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Who knew, even surrounded by little children I cannot form a smile. Can someone teach me? No one?

OH WAIT--we're all Victorians! No wonder we're not smiling!!!

*****

And that is Mr. Carroll.

Now I will present to you a comic of my own making, a comic which negatively represents Mr. Carroll not because I don't like him but because he never smiles and so I am poking fun at him. He really was rather brilliant, and probably very funny and kind, but by golly his photographs could fool anyone, eh?

Hier ist das comic:
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Saturday, January 1, 2011

Two Thousand Eleven

In honor of the New Year and its budding infancy, I bring you a few pictures of my homeland, Prague, Czech Republic.

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Ah yes . . . the beauty of Prague revealed . . .

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What a magical place.

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Oh, sorry, that is not Prague--that is Ace, my dog.

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I'm fairly sure the words are referring to the whale on the wall, not to me...

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Puppets are loved as much as pets are.

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And the pigeons eat better than the people.


Happy New Year.

Don't blow it.