Neil Gaiman on Gone with The Wind

“My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto
during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to
do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an
automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With
the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping
time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they
were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These
girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me
that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important.
Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of
the things that you live and die for.” — Neil Gaiman

The Library

A while ago, I was rereading my collection of Paris Review Interviews. The Paris Review has a wealth of interviews with novelists, artists, poets and playwrights. The interviews are episodes of biography that focus on revealing the artist in her own words. The interviews always start with describing the author’s house or writing room, like a lamp that warms from within and conceives a space where creation takes place. The descriptions set the pace for the interview and for explaining the artist's personality.
Here is my Paris Review inspired free-write describing the classroom where I have my French lessons.
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The workroom is supported by bookshelves (wooden, wrinkled and stable) and a few couches wedged in between. Light comes in through the one big window (the window sill is ornamented by a Japanese bobble head)  over the couch and the sliding glass doors. Red paneled doors section off the bathroom and lead into the main house. The floors are tiled and covered in rugs. Normally we sit at the two tables creating an L shape in the corner of the room, where the laptop sits and hums in open competition with the books. But really there isn’t any competition, because the bookshelves strike me right away.
The books have come here on wings. I imagine them filling hours in airplanes, airports, hotel rooms, trains, waiting rooms. They are aging softly, with pages that cringe and cracked spines. Mademoiselle's books have come from Canada, England, Paris, Hong Kong. From wherever they’ve come, they’ve come to rest here.

I think of peoples bookshelves as results, where the collection of titles tells more stories about the person than the contents of the books themselves. There are four bookshelves in the workroom (the rest man their posts in the main house), each of which I’ve already given personalities. The lean, skinny one which leaps from the wall next to the sliding glass doors speaks in tongues. Here we find fairy tales, fables and history books in French, Spanish guide books, a history documenting the many inventions of China, Italian art and text books. The squat, horizontal fellow stationed on the opposite wall of the sliding glass doors is dedicated almost entirely to art. Coffee table sized monsters with illustrations from museums the world over, art criticism, art sketched and drawn with charcoal and also the occasional psychology or odd reference volume. The next two shelves house my favorites. The grand wooden gatekeeper stands proud and ancient behind the desk. He houses most of the histories, long and sprawling hardcovers detailing and giving shape to countries I’ve never been. I feel like the gatekeeper is whispering their names to me and telling me how to find them.

Directly across, on the other side of the desk and to the right of the big window and the Japanese bobble head is who I save for last. The bookshelf is made from a darker wood, with growth rings, and within its forests I can get lost. His content varies from shelf to shelf. The middle rung cradles the masters, Dante and Proust, Milton and Byron. And then the collection of classics whose spines are numbered, as if they could count down the memories of the earth.

Russian Valentines

In honor of Valentines Day, my family descended upon the beach. We brought a kayak for thrashing through the high tides and green apples, cheese and dark chocolate for snacking. An influx of Russian tourists (in addition to the run of the mill Japanese brides and hipsters) have invaded Tumon of late, and today I heard their language for the first time. I have something of a love affair with languages and characterizing them. My Mom and I were talking about how I've always liked words (in addition to names. I can't count how many times I've sworn to name my very lucky future child after one of my name whims. Right now, I like 'Salem' for a girl) and the way that they sounded. I had a notebook on hand at the beach, so here are my Russian language observations.

At first I think she's speaking English, but she's taken the words to a fun house mirror, she's resized and stretched them to fit the shapes of her tongue and teeth. It's Russian. She asks her daughter something and to me, her question falls somewhere in the free space between sound and expression shared by two people who trade in different tongues. It sounds like she's taken her words to a butcher, to burst the slabs of meat through with wire hangers. Geographically, Russia edges off of Asia, and I can hear something of Asian languages, the falls and rises, in her speech. Her children are miniatures wearing pink bandannas and when they talk to each other the language reminds me of Japanese animation: whimsical and a little violent.

Navigating the Waters of Salem

I started reading Arthur Miller's The Crucible in that kind of random, magic way that books find us when we need them, without us having realized or consciously participated. I had learned about the witch trails before and I'd been interested in them because of the extremes of belief that they'd revealed: I was interested in the way that religion and guilt had overlapped into hysteria. The Crucible takes the Salem Witch Trails and re-writes them to draw parallels to another set of trails, this time McCarthyism, which Miller lived through. I'm drawn to The Crucible because of the way it plays with religion and belief and truth or whether two things can be true at the same time. I feel like I can connect to the way the story talks about betrayal and forgiveness. Edward Albee said that Arthur Miller's work ''teaches us a lot about how to fight evil.'' and I think that's what The Crucible does for me. It's about belief in an idea of yourself, it's about fighting and sacrificing and forgiving. Stories are what we take from them.

I wanted to write three different essays on my thoughts after reading The Crucible. The first is about characters and the moral themes of the play and what the play means to me. The second will be about exploring the historical backdrop of the play (I want to research and write about both the Salem Witch Trials and McCarthyism). The third will be about Arthur Miller's life and times (he's been called America's social critic. His writing really inspires me). Below is the first essay. I didn't really explain the story of The Crucible in the essay itself (because I wanted to focus on expressing my thoughts), so I'll give a brief summary here. But the essay is about universal themes and identity, so hopefully people who haven't read the play can still connect to it.

The Crucible begins in 1692 with Reverend Parris's household. Parris's daughter, Betty, can't get out of bed and suffers from a strange silence. New spreads quickly in the community, and the Parris household is visited by several neighbors and doctors. Suspicion builds and the visitors argue as the town begins mumbling about witchcraft. Parris has taken in his orphaned seventeen year old niece, Abigail Williams (seven months ago Abigail had an affair with John Proctor, a prominent member of Salem). It's through Abigail that Parris finds out that the girls of Salem (his daughter included) had spent the last night dancing in the woods and making wishes over a fire with Parris's salve from Barbados, Tituba (one of the first women to be accused of witchcraft).

The Crucible is a marvel of a storm, but Miller centralizes the story. This is accomplished through the human emotions--the dawning little vengeances and jealousies. The winter and tensions of a marriage, the cracks and gossips that make up a society. The violence of a love affair, the guilt at the death of babies. These are the real invisible worlds knotting over Salem, the out of body spirits that bring a town to its boiling point. This essay will explore the ideas of self definition through honor and forgiveness.

Fires within Fires, the Waters of Salem
Arthur Miller’s fable burns into a new climate: It’s through a weaving of oral histories, insinuation and tension racing like footnotes underneath the exchanges between neighbors that Miller builds a society. In a Salem sectioned off by its beliefs, the community survives by familiarity.

“The American continent stretched endlessly west, and it was full of mystery for them. It stood, dark and threatening, over their shoulders night and day, for out of it Indian tribes marauded from time to time, and Reverend Parris had parishioners who had lost relatives to these heathen. The parochial snobbery of these people was partly responsible their failure to convert the Indians. Probably they also preferred to take land from heathens rather than from fellow Christians. At any rate, very few Indians were converted, and the Salem folk believed that the virgin forest was the Devil’s last preserve, his home base and the citadel of his final stand. To the best of their knowledge the American forest was the last place on earth that was not paying homage to God.”

Here community means survival, just as to the Puritans God meant saviour and society meant an identity as a whole. The church and Reverend made up a persona and the people lived under it as their title. United, under God. Miller makes arguments for belief and maybe part of his point is that unwavering, powerful belief in anything stirs up hysteria. The Puritans had fought for their place under belief, and to keep it steady they needed to establish a common ground. Religion became a mapkey for navigating the waters of Salem. Miller explains Salem as it was bordering on friction, surrounded by what was largely unknown. “To the European world the whole province was a barbaric frontier inhabited by a sect of fanatics who, nevertheless, were shipping out products of slowly increasing quantity and value.”

Abigail warns Proctor in Act One: “I have a sense for heat.” So goes the play. It is ever present, settling over each linger of hysteria as it swells to magnitudes.

Now Heaven and Hell Grapple on Our Backs
Even the timing of the story makes a point--it’s a kind of post love-affair confessional, all interrogation and past tense and guilt. It teaches us that the action is not what matters, but the judgement that comes after. So much of our lives are working backwards from an action that seems skyward, an act of God, others’ mistakes shambling into us. It teaches us that our reactions are the challenges that make or break, they are justice. Miller wrote a lot about regret in his plays.

“A character is defined by the kinds of challenges he cannot walk away from. And by those he has walked away from that cause him remorse.”

Proctor is action, he storms through and articulates; grasps and expresses his conflict and struggles. With stories before, I would pay attention to metaphor or themes. But Miller is all dialogue, all force and gust, contrast and character. It’s humans in detail and society at large. He teases relationships to their height, his plays are immediate and urgent and unforgiving. I read an interview where Miller talked about creating stories with meaning, stories as parables and arches. “I think it depends primarily on the writer's orientation. There is a lot of work being done today which is very sharp, but there doesn't seem to be a moral dimension to them. In other words, they are not looking out beyond the personal story. That is a difficult thing to trace in a work. I suppose if you took Moby-Dick, he could have written that as an adventure story about a whale and hunting it. Instead it became a parable involving man's fate and his struggle for power, over God even. The intensification of a work generally leads in the direction of society if it is indeed intense enough.”

John Proctor is fully human simply because of the range of his character. In one play we see all sides of him striving, he hits all the notes in his search for self definition against the backdrop of his society. Miller wrote, “Everything we are is at every moment alive in us.” In The Crucible stories and personas are constantly being resown and altered. But the past is so clearly a blueprint, a biography, footsteps echoing behind every saving grace. Proctor is poled to his sins, his past and his guilt struggle with his search to define himself through his present actions. Proctor says, “Now Hell and Heaven grapple on our backs, and all our old pretense is ripped away--make your peace! Peace. It is a providence, and no great change; we are only what we always were, but naked now.”

Forgiveness is not always something that is earned and it’s not always given for the sake of the wronged. Proctor’s need for forgiveness isn’t subjective, it’s an element that weighs down on him and his house.

It’s energy that twists and navigates his present. Proctor wrestles with his own devils, and believes that he cannot redeem his honor because Elizabeth’s judgements weigh him down. He says he lives under her eyes, that she mistakes herself for God and that she thinks her justice is law. Elizabeth tells him that she isn’t what holds him at this standstill. “The magistrate sits in your heart that judges you. I never thought you but a good man, John--only somewhat bewildered.”

Proctor needs to restore his idea of honor, and that can only be done through Elizabeth’s eyes. It’s a bargain, a compact of betrayal.

“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.” Miller wrote. Just as forgiveness, maybe, is the only justice that lasts.

The Crucible trades in the unseen--the elements of lies, and trust and hysteria. The unseen is made simple. Some rights and wrongs can’t be undone and negotiated. It doesn’t matter what actions were sparked between the ‘victims’ and the ‘accusers’ (at moments in the play, the two are interchangeable). We cannot lose sight of ourselves or take morality into our own hands. In The Crucible that sense of morality is overshadowed by a belief in God. Proctor makes an argument against judgement that translates into a humility. Stories (as illustrated in a town as close knit as Salem) are constantly evolving in all directions, actions are striked or broken.

We only know our own stories. We can’t trace or track the reasons behind another’s actions. Just as Proctor needs to know only his name: Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!



The Crucible patterns faith and belief with responsibility. The characters (Puritans) believe in higher, impersonal forces that rack their lives. Abigail is a hysteric, a prophet, an angel whose divinations are accusations.
Sins and stories collide into a mirage, a dizziness and hysteria. Proctor and Abigail are both on the brink of a break in faith, and they fight or sacrifice to keep that faith.

Abigail gambles to keep her standing on that edge of a world, to keep God in her eyes. She spins a tangle and sails it off away from her, pinning blame on innocents.

Proctor struggles under his own striving for resurrection, his rebirth. He maintains his idea of God, of honor, of faith. Both start the story as guilty, both battle to be baptized. The Crucible is a religious story, simple in its play of fear and redemption.

Notes of Expression

My ideas towards writing are changing, reworking themselves into larger shapes that crowd my head and want out. Onto paper, poem, voice. I used to think of writing as a response, tinkered from observation or shot like streams of paper birds after I was passed along to a piece of writing that I'd loved. I crafted my first  story in between reading only Virginia Woolf and The Waves and Mrs. Dalloway and creating a kind of third space that was echos of Woolf's lines. I wanted to get as close a could to her, and I think that in itself is a form of translation. I read that Roxana Robinson does this too, tries to create a kind of language between herself and writing that reflects her thoughts.

"Sometimes I read a bit, to enter into a sensibility that’s useful for whatever I’m working on. I read “The Journals of John Cheever” while I wrote “This Is My Daughter.” I read “Anna Karenina” while I wrote “Sweetwater.” I read “The Hours” while I wrote “Cost.” I read “Atonement” while I was writing “Sparta.” I came to know those books very well. I could open them anywhere and know the passage. I broke the spine of Atonement, though I only read one section of it, over and over.

I read a page or two, then close the book.

This is the moment. On a good day I’m now where I need to be, still in that deep dreaming place, where I can listen."

I see writing as a response, in some cases, with some works. Maybe attitudes towards writing change as we approach each story. We figure the harmless way to abstract surgery, to the removal of this story from ourselves into words.

Henri Matisse (1869-1954), of the French Fauves (a group of bold artists who broke from Impressionism and were christened 'wild beasts'), understands this. His wrote:...my thought has evolved, and my modes of  expression have followed my thoughts. I do not repudiate any of my paintings but there is not one of them that I would not redo differently, if I had it to redo. My destination is always the same but I work out a different route to get there."

I'm in the excavation stage for a new story, listening closely to identify what language I'll be using to express this one. I just realized how aptly this blog is named, because I'm constantly going through transformations. For me now, writing is more about mythology. Matisse writes, "What I am after, above all, is expression...I am unable to distinguish between the feeling I have for life and my way of expressing it." Matisse's thoughts on expression create his mythology, not parallels that never meet, but his own twisting cosmos of expression, life and vision. It's not really a response to life and what he sees, but his own world without filter between reality and perception. It reminds me of Descartes and dreamworlds.

The mythology is the vision and the expression varies. It's apart of a search. In searching for our expression, we borrow from other mythology. Matisse writes on a Cézanne painting that left an impression: "....Sustained me spiritually in the critical moments of my career as an artist; I have drawn from it my faith and my perseverance."

It's a sort of self definition by wonder. Wonder that grounds you and disciplines and gives you the patience to get closer to refining and delving deeper into yourself, your focus, your work. I think as artists, as writers, as creators, we are constantly at war with self definition and that during our formation, as we search and strive, we use our influences as expressions that make ourselves seem more possible.

Now comes the writing.

Writing and Henri Matisse

The way I write is an evolution--cycles and constant fixed thoughts, bursts and breaks renewed. I read an article about Henri Matisse’s working patterns being similar to an excavation, the kind that requires detail and tents to shield from the sun and little picks and brushes to hack, cut and bleed closer to the vision. Matisse will focus on an image and mirror it--reworking the focus as it’s reincarnated in blends of color and different styles. His work amounts to a series of paintings relaying alter egos of the same image. It’s a fully fleshed out process. It’s about realizing the core idea, getting to know the idea, but also recognizing it in transformations. It’s deciding the best way to express the focus.Which is the way I work with my writing. I’m attracted to translation because in another kind of way, it echoes my writing excavation. I like the idea of shifts and swings and detail and minuscule word replacements abruptly uprooting the original piece or thought. It means that the writing (or translation, or Matisse masterwork) is a million little stories each fighting for expression, a million fates and outcomes killing for their birth. It means stories make up the story. In my own writing process, I create halfling bits of thought and dissect--I play with wording, or a phrase, or a piece of a poem. I amplify and resurge that piece of writing into another work in progress, until I find its home. I experiment with which words pair with what meaning. I create, then construct. I never write a piece in one gust of inspiration. My finished writing is a rag doll made seamless.

Iceland, 'Of Monsters and Men' and Skalds

Note:
In my mythology, stories are happening in all directions and as the observer I sometimes try to articulate them. It’s happening by this design that Norse mythology has always made an impression on me and I’m listening on constant repeat to a band from Iceland that sways to the rhythms of these same storytelling traditions. For Christmas, I made my mom an edda filled with Icelandic folk tales and my poetry inspired from lyrics by said Icelandic band. My writing here is  an excavation to get deeper and closer to my fascinations. This is the first entry in a series to explore different angles of these ideas.

Iceland and wanderers

"In my childhood dreams Iceland was holy ground; when, at the age of twenty-nine, I saw it for the first time, the reality verified my dream; at fifty-seven it was holy ground still, with the most magical light of anywhere on earth." --W. H. Auden.

Iceland's unfolding in my mind. It came to me as fascinations come: first through mythology, geography and then song. I can understand the Auden quote as creating your own mythology: you have this idea of a foreign place in your mind and you listen to its stories and let it settle over your map making. It becomes your superstition. Your holy ground. There you hide your ideals, you swear on it (that you'll one day see it, you will, you will). It's a promise and a poem that you hold like an ocean that will twist outside of you into a river and direct your fate.

It's the need hungering Baudelaire's  poem, 'Le Voyage':

Pour l'enfant, amoureux de cartes et d'estampes,
L'univers est égal à son vaste appétit.
Ah! que le monde est grand à la clarté des lampes!
Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit!
Un matin nous partons, le cerveau plein de flamme,
Le coeur gros de rancune et de désirs amers,
Et nous allons, suivant le rythme de la lame,
Berçant notre infini sur le fini des mers

I like the translation by Geoffrey Wagner:

"For the child, adoring cards and prints,
The universe fulfils its vast appetite.
Ah, how large is the world in the brightness of lamps,
How small in the eyes of memory!
We leave one morning, brains full of flame,
Hearts full of malice and bitter desires,
And we go and follow the rhythm of the waves,
Rocking our infinite on the finite of the seas"


Auden's relationship to Iceland shifts once he meets his holy ground and conceives it as a whole, outside of his desires. It becomes a place that he understands on a different level but it still swells. Iceland is to Auden as Hong Kong is to Mademoiselle. I feel like I'm stealing her story from her in the pieces that I can snatch it, because I want it to be mine.

In our classes, Mademoiselle will dabble through her memories, picking a rattling, ringing one to share with me. Her words ring around the room, fleshing out cities and faces as she retells them, her voice moving steadily out of French and English like disappearing down a tunnel before reemerging. Her voice varies in tone and shade, but after listening to her stories for awhile I stop noticing the switching language gears.

She’ll mark a memory, a story, with one of her books. She’ll pull a book from the shelves and tell me that it accompanied her to England on her trek to visit the house of the Bronte Sisters. I feel, on these mornings that bleed into our afternoons, that I am here to listen, to grasp slowly at everything.This is my education. My mind flits in and out of her memories and fills with words, language and books. Mademoiselle’s stories billow up around us and we are the ones on wings.

Someday is when I promise myself I’ll go, but for now it is enough to be here to listen and collect and remember.

She's told me of when she was working in England and left for a job offer in Hong Kong riding on bravery. She said that she wanted to submerge in faces she'd never seen, in culture spicy and unknown. 'Le Voyage' is somewhat responsible for her back bone, too. Mademoiselle told me, whimsically and wistfully, that as a teenager she’d loved Baudelaire and left the poem as a goodbye to her London boyfriend. And that’s a romance.

Iceland and The Skalds
Iceland has a long history of storytelling and spreading. The songs and stories, histories and poems were embodied and passed through centuries by the poets, who were called skalds. Since Iceland herself was survived through her poems, the skalds served as historians, performers and her keepers. The poems were the heritage of Icelanders and familiar words to the people. The skalds were not originators in that sense: they took stories and embellished, enlivened and transformed. As Iceland progressed towards the Middle Ages, their mythology and poems were written in the eddas.

‘Of Monsters and Men’
I place a big emphasis on my soundtrack. My songs are my storylines--they run underneath and deep. They create a tone and backdrop. Sometime last year, my dad and I started downloading indie rock compilations (This is a somewhat rocky trade. You have to MANUALLY sort through some 50+ songs and listen to each of them and then debate whether they deserve a second listen. Often times, songs need time to take hold and need to be heard over and over. For example, I originally sunk the Gotye (Somebody That I Used to Know) ship before it could sail. My brother made me pay closer attention. Shh. Don’t tell.)

That’s how I found the Icelandic band Of Monsters and Men. At first it’s the sounds, the music that shoots through me; but eventually the lyrics type into my head and I listen closely. Their songs create a canvas, a blue and white sea, a forest. Their lyrics weave a story sound of ghosts and memories, houses that hide spirits, ice mountains that melt into seas, monsters that wait and transform, endings that wait inside of beginnings. The songs are like sagas, and you can trace influences and references weaving back to Norse mythology. I see Of Monsters and Men as modern day skalds. 

Here’s my free write on ‘Little Talks’:
‘Little Talks’ is stormy and triumphant. Ships battle seas, storms and voices clatter inside of her (the female singer/storyteller) mind like an attic with furniture scuttling. But in the song there are also constants--like a world fading that’s fighting to keep her and a stronger voice like fire under ice that calms and coaxes. The lyrics (Don’t listen to a word I say, the screams all sound the same. Cause though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore.) gamble everything--truth, death, insanity--in a wager with the cosmos. In the end of the story we come down to the house. The storytellers have crossed seascapes in their own geography and they’ve created their own mythology, but the house won’t let them leave. It owns their stories, and after they’re gone it will hold them silent still. These are the ghosts, memories and mistakes that creak under the stairs and move through the house like a draft.

Singer/guitarist/songwriter Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir says of the song: “We had in mind the people that lived in my house, because I moved into a very, very old house. They had lived their lives there, and the woman had just passed away. It’s a conversation, and maybe one person isn’t really hearing the other one.” It’s a romance and a ghost story.


The Riddles, Charms and Poems
The Icelandic eddas are spellbound by mystery: lost ageless knowledge and secrets that echo in the throats of the dead. The eddas favor and reward searching, questioning minds.

The charm the wanderer holds in the face of the wise is language: stories are written to be read, lost things found. This give/take balance of the universe reveals. The eddas tell of the creation story in which the cosmos birthed frost giants before yielding the existence of the gods. The gods hunt and horde knowledge. Giants know more of mysteries than the gods do, since they existed before the gods. Odin seeks out the fate of the gods, he tricks and disguises his questions and desires as riddles. Paul B. Taylor writes: Riddles also suggest the Nordic fascination with the apparent relationship between the structure of language and the structure of the cosmos. For the Scandinavians the wisest man--he who knows the most of the structure of the cosmos--is also the most skilfull poet. It is, hence, appropriate that the god who is compelled to search out the facts of the cosmogonic scheme is the god of poetry.”