Alphabet Juice: The Energies, Gists and Spirits of Letters, Words and Combinations Thereof; Their Roots, Bones, Innards, Piths, Pips and Secret Parts, Tinctures, Tonics and Essences; With Examples of Their Usage Foul and Savory
“The title Alphabet Juice derives from its author’s contention that sound and sense are often strikingly related, that certain letters and combinations of letters possess a gut-level electricity, and that ‘through centuries of knockabout breeding and intimate contact with the human body’ some words ‘have absorbed the uncanny power to carry the ring of truth.’ A high-fiber word like ‘grunt’ sounds right for what it means. Good diction thus tends to be sonicky. Blount’s neologism for that ‘quality of a word whose sound doesn’t imitate a sound, like boom or poof, but does somehow sensuously evoke the essence of the word: queasy or rickety or zest or sluggish or vim.’ To write well, then, we need to use our tongue and ears, not only our mind and fingers.”
A few weeks ago at the Christianity and Literature conference, I struck up a conversation with a very nice woman while we were waiting for a session to begin. She told me that she was from California, that her research interest was the early novel, Daniel Defoe in particular, and she invited me to a conference her university was hosting next February.
thought I’d do last week’s here:“A folksy bluegrass trio began playing, the mandolin offering the quavering melody, then two guitars joined in, and then three voices singing. We turned slowly to look at the musicians. A woman got up from her table and began to dance on the lawn between us and the stage, all by herself, and I thought to myself, I wish I were the kind of person who could dance in public, not caring what everyone thought. And I wanted to be this way so badly that after a minute I just got up, moved closer to the music, toward the one woman dancing, and slowly and very shyly and without enormous visible grace, began to move in time with the music. I figured that once I stepped forward into that spotlight, another would appear somewhere near my feet, and if it didn’t, at least I’d have had the chance to dance.
So I did, dancing with my eyes closed so as not to be distracted. Nietzsche said that he could only believe in a God who would dance, and I feel the same way . . .”
When my oldest son Travis was about two or three years old, his favorite book was Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever, basically a dictionary with lots of wonderful pictures. He’d go get the book, pull me to a chair, then sit in my lap and flip through it, pointing out which definition I was to read next. Over and over again. Day after day. He’d laugh delightedly; I longed desperately for narrative, even the Little Golden Book kind.
me he’d finally gotten to see the new film version of Prince Caspian, but said he’d had trouble getting into the movie.
L to R: Dr. Colby Kullman, me, Dr. Natalie Schroeder, and Dr. Ronald Schroeder (director)
This was taken immediately after the Oral Comp; you can see the relief in my big smile. One more check mark on the list. I'm offically ABD now!
A couple of good friends, fellow PhD-pursuers, helped me celebrate the milestone. We had a wonderful dinner at Old Venice, checked out Square Books (what else would you expect people pursuing a PhD in English to do?), and shared a huge dessert and coffee while looking over the Square at Downtown Grill.
Tara, me, and Sarah
Thanks, guys, for helping me celebrate my special day!
I guess I'll just have to follow some advice I was given by an undergrad professor right before a particularly terrifying final exam. He said, "You have a library in your head. Calm down and use it."
m a lot bigger and older than a sixth grader now, and I’ve taken more classes than I can count. I’ve read tons of books, gone to many lectures, and earned several diplomas to hang on the wall. I’m fast approaching the end of my PhD studies, and I’ve learned more things about literature and life than I could have even dreamed existed way back in the first grade.
Back when I was driving what we fondly called the Cruise Liner, an old blue Bonneville chosen because the back seat was big enough to hold two child seats and a strap-in infant carrier, I had one of those moments. If you’re a parent, you know what I mean.
uesday, October 7, 2008, at about 3:23 in the afternoon, I finished the last page of the last book on my Oral Comps reading list. For this part of the Candidacy Examination, Ole Miss requires students to choose a discrete period of literary history, and then to read the fiction, non-fiction, drama, poetry, and attendant criticism pertaining to it. In my case, it was an era in British Literature often called “The Long Eighteenth Century,” a literary period bracketed by two historical events—the restoration of Charles II to the throne in 1660 and the death of Jane Austen in 1817. My list took me four months of steady reading to cover. Reading was my job, my hobby, my life. It took total precedence over everything else. (If you don’t believe me, come write your name in the dust on my furniture or check out the empty pantry.)
After the Christianity and Literature Conference in Shawnee, Oklahoma, last weekend, my husband and I drove on to Oklahoma City to spend the night and see a few sights. (Terry’s not much interested in literature, but there was a huge horse sale going on in Shawnee that kept him entertained.) After checking into our hotel room, we headed straight for the Oklahoma City Museum of Art to view their current exhibit “Roman Art from the Louvre.” We saw full length marble statues—of Caligula and Trajan, busts of Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius, reliefs, mosaics, and lintels. We saw jewelry, funeral urns, and an intricately carved sarcophagus. I think the mosaics were my favorite. The colors are still so beautiful, and I can’t imagine the skill and patience it takes to turn all those little-bitty puzzle pieces into a huge work of art. The statues were really fascinating, the hair painstakingly detailed, the togas draping so fluidly I wanted to reach out and touch them. As beautiful as they were, though, after going to Italy a couple of years ago and seeing the work of Michelangelo, even I could tell these sculptures weren’t anywhere close. I admired these, but when I stood in front of Michelangelo’s David, I cried.
s, number of barbs, size of barbs, types of barbs. Who knew? There were firearms displays, rodeo exhibits, saddles and tack, a Western Frontier section with Native American artifacts, military paraphernalia, and the tools of hunters and trackers. There was a Cowgirl photo exhibit, a Western Performers gallery with dime novels, movie posters, and a larger-than-life statue of John Wayne. They had paintings and sculpture by Frederick Remington, Charles Russell, Albert Bierstadt, and William R. Leigh. And, right before we left, we walked through a reconstructed circa 1900 Western cattle town, complete with its own saloon, school, church, newspaper, and blacksmith’s shop. So in the space of twenty four hours, we toured ancient Rome and the Old West. Not bad for a mini-vacation.
