Unintended audiences

I've been intrigued to read the following article from Christianity Today.

While I might take issue with the writer's assumptions and approach, it did make me think quite a bit about what happens with blogging, and what sort unintended consequences it produces, once an idea has been unleashed into the blogosphere.

In his latest post, Alan Jacobs records a conversation with the excellent Miroslav Volf. It highlights, in passing, something about the nature of 'conversations' on the internet. He notes our inability to change and adapt our language rhetorically, as according to our audience (something we do naturally in conversations and in other written media - cf. persuasive essay, thesis, polemic letter to the editor.) This is because our intended audience, that is, the audience we're writing for, is too big, and too unpredictable. For good or ill, we don't know who's eavesdropping on our conversation. And that ought to have implications, not only for what we say, but how we say it, in our blogs. Here's Alan Jacobs, putting it more eloquently:


... while one might want to speak differently in different rhetorical situations, might strive to adjust one's language to suit different audiences that have different needs, in practice we do not live in a world with "bounded" rhetorical situations. "Everyone is listening," he said, thanks to the World Wide Web, as it is accurately called, which takes what you say to one audience and broadcasts it — as text, audio, video, or all of the above — to pretty much anyone who's interested in finding it.

One of the most fundamental principles of rhetoric has always been decorum, that is, suiting one's language to occasion and audience. Those of us who teach writing typically think it vital to get our students to think in these terms — to see that they must adjust style and diction, evidence and argument, to reach the readers they most want to reach.

Such imperatives will never cease to be important. But it also seems likely that we will have to train students to be aware — and will have to train ourselves to be aware — that much of what we say and write can find audiences we never intended. And the consequences of our words' extended reach will not always be positive ones.

Imitatio/Ersatz

I've been enjoying a show on ABC TV called Forger's Masterclass. The premise: John Myatt, a British art forger, evidentedly rehabilitated, hosts a show during which he shows three fine art students how to paint in the style of one of the great masters - Monet, Hockney, Braque, Van Gogh etc. It's brilliant viewing. Apart from the kooky art students, you realise just how difficult, technically, some of the deceptively simple works of modern art are. And, of course, in the imitation of others, one discovers something of one's own style.

So I'd been thinking about the art of imitation, when I got my first piece of German homework last week. We were given a painting (see below), and asked to write a 200-word story, about the three people in it. I was sceptical, at first (what were we, in High School again?), but soon fell into the project. It's a challenge, to construct something interesting within narrow confines.

I thought about Vermeer - how his pictures capture a moment in time in lives of his figures; a sharp juncture in the storyline. Amongst short story writers, the American Lydia Davis is well-known for her elliptical single paragraph or one page-long stories. And I've always wanted to try a story à la Peter Bichsel, my favourite Swiss writer. His whimsical, deceptively simple short stories often focus on the mundane - small incidents of everyday life - which, when at the centre of a short piece of writing, come into sharp focus, and reveal something deeply moving about human existence.

So here's my attempt at a Bichsel-Davis-esque piece. (I know it's pretentious, but I've included the German, 'cos it looks good. :P FYI: The German exercise was to test our knowledge of adjectival and article agreements - hence the plethora of them!)

Oh, by the way: While I was writing, I asked one of my housemate what the story of the picture was about. He came over to where I was sitting, and peering over my shoulder at the laptop, said: "Oh, that guy's lost his car keys over the cliff. She's pointing them out to him, while he's trying to get them without going over the edge. The other guy's just standing apart, laughing."

Wish I'd written that story! Hey, why don't you have a go at your own? Might be fun.

Kreidefelsen auf Rügen

Ihre Kutsche war zu schnell über den steinigen Weg gefahren, und armer Caspar hatte immer einen empfindlichen Magen.Hier lag er, wie eine große, schwartzbraune Motte, flatternd, auf dem grünen Gras. Sein Gesicht, blaß und schweißig, war genauso wie die weiße Farbe der Kreidefelsen vor ihnen. Er starrte ungläubig auf die kleinen Boote am Meer. In der Form ihres dreieckigen Hutes, schaulkelten sie auf dem Wasser. Ihre Bewegung ließ ihm wieder erbrechen. Diese Seeleute! Das war nichts für ihn. Er hasste Boote.

Their carriage was too fast over the stony path, and poor Caspar had always had a weak stomach. He laid there, like a large, black-and-brown moth, fluttering on the green grass. His face, pale and sweaty, was exactly the colour of the white chalk cliffs before them. He stared out, unbelievingly, at the small boats on the sea. The form of his three-cornered hat, they bobbed on the water. Their movement made him sick again. These sailors! That was not for him. He hated boats.

Christiane war auch dankbar für die frische Luft. Für sie hatte der Tag früh angefangen. Sie hatte nichts gegessen; hatte mit jedem gesprächigen Gast geredet; und jemand hatte auf ihrem Brautschleier getreten. Jetzt war es schön, einfach in dem hellen, winterlichen Licht zu sitzen. Sie beobachtete die Boote. Sie mochte ihr großes blaßes Segelwerk, so zart dennoch groß, das es einen Windstoß enthalten konnte. Sie hoffte, dass Caspar und sie segeln würden. Sie hatte nie gesegelt.

Christiane was also thankful for the fresh air. For her, the day had started early. She had not eaten anything; had spoken with every chatty guest, and someone had trodden on her wedding veil. It's lovely, now, simply to sit in the bright, winter light. She watched the boats. She liked their large, pale sails, so fragile yet capable of holding a great gale. She hoped, that she and Caspar will go sailing. She had never sailed.

Der Kutscher dachte, Es ist spät, wir müssen schon wegfahren. Er wollte nach Hause gehen. Er wollte seine Frau küssen. Er wollte sich zu Tische setzen und ein warmes Abendessen essen. Später, brächte er die Kleineren ins Bett. Dann säße er sich am Kamin, und mache ein kleines Segelboot. Das Segelboot wäre aus Holz, und war für seinen zweitjüngsten Sohn. Er pfiff lautlos, durch die Lücken zwischen seinen ungleichen Zähnen.

The driver thought: It is late, we must go soon. He wanted to go home. He wanted to kiss his wife. He wanted to sit at the table and eat a warm dinner. Later, he will put the little ones to bed. Then he will sit before the fire, and work on a small sailing boat. The boat was made of wood, and was for his second youngest son. He whistled soundless, through the gaps between his uneven teeth.

Poetry and Theology

Religions are poems. They concert
our daylight and dreaming mind, our
emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture

into the only whole thinking: poetry.
Nothing's said till it's dreamed out in words
and nothing's true that figures in words only.

A poem, compared with an arrayed religion,
may be like a soldier's one short marriage night
to die and live by. But that is a small religion.

Full religion is the large poem in loving repetition;
like any poem, it must be inexhaustible and complete
with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?

You can't pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;
you can't poe one either. It is the same mirror:
mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,

fixed centrally, we call it a religion,
and God is the poetry caught in any religion,
caught, not imprisoned. Caught as in a mirror

that he attracted, being in the world as poetry
is in the poem, a law against its closure.
There'll always be religion around while there is poetry

or a lack of it. Both are given, and intermittent,
as the action of those birds - crested pigeon, rosella parrot -
who fly with wings shut, then beating, and again shut.

- Les Murray.

If ever I could write the syllabus for a theological subject, I'd make sure that the students' reading list included some poetry or fiction, as well as usual books and articles ... The imagination should should illuminate before God, even as Reason strain after Him.

New Project

Well, a new year means a new venture.

Here's a project I've started with a friend. Inspired by Julia & Julie, we're going to try to read (and blog) our way through a wonderful list of 100 books.

http://www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca/

Unlike Julie's plan to cook her way through The Art of French Cooking in 365 days, I suspect we'll take longer to get through this list of books. In fact, we've joked about passing it on to our various imaginary and beleaguered children, and their children's children ... Or, more likely (and worse!), of passing the readership from our subscribers to their progeny.

Nevertheless, methinks an ambitious and perhaps noble venture. A bit of fun, at the very least.

Hope you can join us, some time.

A Girl who Reads

Thanks to my friend Kate, I discovered this lyrical and joyful post: http://themonicabird.com/post/3273155431/date-a-girl-who-reads-date-a-girl-who-spends-her.

Hope you enjoy it too!