Stone Life

I am a critic by nature. I readily admit to you that there is little I enjoy more than sitting back, pipe in hand, glass of wine in the other, and discussing, internally or in company what I see around me. Whether it be one's faith, the school which employs me, or the next NBA champion (Dallas, by the way), it is cathartic and an instrument for sharpening the mind to take what is given to my senses and to comment upon these sensations so as to break them down into either their most basic, fundamental elements (philosophy) or skew them according to my own preferences (narcissism, I suppose), whichever way that I am leaning at that time. This has been tiresome to many throughout the years, most of my combatants seem to have taken their toys and gone home, and honestly I do not begrudge them for it; my lack of blog activity as of late can be directly attributed to the fact that I too have neither the energy nor inclination to exert myself into these thinking exercises. Last night, though, I was truly inspired in an as of late less than inspirational place.

One of my recent posts concerned the conservative-wackos (technical term, look it up) that constantly derail every conversation not explicitly Protestant in my Recent World class. These same individuals have been on this bent for several semesters in these classes I am required to attend, and so, absent those rare occasions that we are reading Luther or Calvin, and it is on these days that attendance is up and everyone waves their "scholarship" banners proudly, I generally dread Wednesday nights, because inevitably they will find a way to besmirch the evening in the name of piety (their-piety, that is).

Last night, though, saw the return of Dr. Hella Hennessee for a one-time lecture. If I have never mentioned her, she is an amazing professor with a wonderfully thick German accent who was recently run-out-of-town by the good people of UD (s0 the rumor goes). She resurfaced to discuss with us Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. (Let me pause here a moment: if you have never read this book, it is fabulous. Drop whatever you are reading, come borrow one of my copies and experience the brilliance of German literature. It is strange, but so rich and only 40 pages long - you could even stomach a book you turn out hating for 40 pages, right?)

I was reminded from her opening words of the privilege of studying literature. Teaching high school this past year has soured me in many ways, burning the sweet taste off of my tongue like so much salt, so it was good to be reminded of how refreshing good books/poems can be. I know embarrassing little about painting and sculpture, but for a few moments as I walked towards my car after the lecture, I paralleled the feeling it must be to notice an abnormality in a single brushstroke of a Picasso painting that you one has stared at a hundred times previously, to speculate on the meaning behind such a movement of the hand, to uncovering a subtle change in the narrative-voice or a clever use of a double-entendre that never struck you on your previous readings. To enjoy the manipulation of language, whether poetic or narrative is beautiful, and to spend my time studying it is a phenomenal way to muddle through this life.