For many months now, we have been invisible.
Why? For what possible purpose, for what conceivable intent, could this be the case?
There are no good replies... (Remorse is requisite. It is duly laid out, here, with penitential heart and truthful spirit.)
...Save for this: Lost in London. We (part of the newly functioning UK branch of Creative Works Int'l Media) know the train stations very well. They are a nice, fixed point in the ever-turning wheel of the city; they are magnetic, and deceptively spaced. A ten-minute wander in any direction can, at times, lead one to half a dozen stations. On the other hand, a three-hour ramble can lead one to precisely not the spot one had hoped to find. Lurking in second-hand bookshops. Market research, incognito. And such summer schemes.
Why incognito? --Valiantly, we go forth. Valiantly, we persist. (Despite that once the fabled spot is found, 'market research' often takes a backseat to grovelling among old children's books. Old travel guides. Old oddities, of diverse sorts.)
Valiantly, we find our way back to the station, having not discovered it: the secret to the perfect children's book. It is, after all, the new Philosopher's stone?
Join us, and see--
Details of our new forthcoming contests to follow.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Of Time, and Other Musings
Time is a fascinating subject to catch hold of...on rainy days, brooding about, it is a balm--to the lovelorn, the brave, the bored, the foolish, the splendidly happy, the mournfully lonesome--all things pale before this consideration.
We profess to know so much about it: 'Ten twenty-five,' said I promptly in response to a bewildered passerby this morning.
'A.M.--that's in the morning, is it?'
'...yes.'
For it had not occurred to me, you see, that it could be otherwise than ten twenty-five AM. And yet, this bewildered soul was quite right: there is not a topic on this earth, or outside of it, about which we know less.
For example, does it run in circles? Is it, then, the ever-present whirlpool? A matrix, perhaps? Or a drudging line, stretching out into oblivion, never to return whence we have come? Can past and present exist at once? And how would one know? It is the eternal mystery, of all the mysteries in this thing we call life.
I am aware that I may be delving into morose monstrosities of brooding here, but never fear: it does wrap round to return to publishing in the end.
For if time is not an arrow, but a sphere, then all the ideas, all the experiences we have been carrying about within ourselves for years (and doubtless wish to banish many from the groove of our memories) are as fresh and new as they were when they sprung into being. Thus, though we grow and learn beyond our stories' capacity, betimes, we can never leave the feelings that once we owned. Every instance of great feeling seems, to me, an hour-mark, every moment of passion or sorrow or envy or joy a tick-mark, a sundial-slash in the fluid sand of one's life. Tho' the tide of years may come up and seem to wash the mark away, it remains. It is ever being made, and disappearing, at once.
It may not be true, but what a good brooding introductory theme it makes.
© 2009 Creative Works Int'l Media, all world rights reserved
We profess to know so much about it: 'Ten twenty-five,' said I promptly in response to a bewildered passerby this morning.
'A.M.--that's in the morning, is it?'
'...yes.'
For it had not occurred to me, you see, that it could be otherwise than ten twenty-five AM. And yet, this bewildered soul was quite right: there is not a topic on this earth, or outside of it, about which we know less.
For example, does it run in circles? Is it, then, the ever-present whirlpool? A matrix, perhaps? Or a drudging line, stretching out into oblivion, never to return whence we have come? Can past and present exist at once? And how would one know? It is the eternal mystery, of all the mysteries in this thing we call life.
I am aware that I may be delving into morose monstrosities of brooding here, but never fear: it does wrap round to return to publishing in the end.
For if time is not an arrow, but a sphere, then all the ideas, all the experiences we have been carrying about within ourselves for years (and doubtless wish to banish many from the groove of our memories) are as fresh and new as they were when they sprung into being. Thus, though we grow and learn beyond our stories' capacity, betimes, we can never leave the feelings that once we owned. Every instance of great feeling seems, to me, an hour-mark, every moment of passion or sorrow or envy or joy a tick-mark, a sundial-slash in the fluid sand of one's life. Tho' the tide of years may come up and seem to wash the mark away, it remains. It is ever being made, and disappearing, at once.
It may not be true, but what a good brooding introductory theme it makes.
© 2009 Creative Works Int'l Media, all world rights reserved
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Lost, and Found
I apologize for my unwieldy absence; I've been away, and relocating to London, where I shall hope to sleuth about the literary scene on behalf of my fellow editors with equanimity. And, doubtless, walk into a great many passers-by.
In the process, I seem to have forgotten Dr. Johnson's dictionary--still under the bed, this time in my old house. A great pity indeed.
But all is not lost! I have had a hint that great news is ahead. Please watch this space, for a grand adventure unfolds...But how do I know?
...It buzzes, within, this sense--clear and qualmless as any bell. See? If you can't beat them, join them: words are fluid, as is language itself. Perhaps someday we shall communicate purely by images 'sent' to each others' brains. A great pity, one feels, indeed. For without words, without the weight and heft of them...
Let's just leave it at that for this evening, shall we? And, back to the pondering-board as one contemplate a wordless life. A human existence, or no?
http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?topic=9653&uid=111734314017#/pages/Creative-Works-Intl-Media/111734314017
Saturday, August 1, 2009
How To Choose a Book to Read Aloud, or, Parley for All Ages
The joy of reading aloud, especially at busy holidays, has been mentioned. (It also features prominently in this our philosophy). Books that possess this capability are more than simply accessible, they are enthralling. For, at heart we are an oral species still--tho' the days of cultural identities passed from mother-to-child or elder-to-group before a fire are, for a large percentage of the world, over, we instinctively relate to the cadences of the human voice.
But how to choose the perfect book?
When reading to a mixed audience, it is good to know what the attention level is. One wouldn't want to be stuck on the B section of Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, just to choose an example at random, if there are squirming children around the table, or squirming businesspeople at a meeting. The trick is to select a book that holds an appeal for everyone, even if it requires a slight alteration of the text. (If little Xanthis is currently obsessed with pirates/vampires/Norsemen/aliens/zombies/Roman Senators/talking animals, perhaps a little tasteful editing is in order). Best of all, a book that has everything.
Jerome K. Jerome is a good place to start, for the last idea mentioned. The classics are really underrated for humour--try Dickens' Our Mutual Friend, or a Jane Austen novel. Vikings may not be period, but with a little dexterity, it may be possible to work them in. The undying Complete Sherlock Holmes is another good place to start.
Another option, rather than subjecting the children to adults' books, is to subject the adults to children's books. Eva Ibbotson and Joan Aiken hold much for the discerning reader, regardless of age.
Just be sure that whatever book you choose contains no 'bathroom humour'. It isn't that funny, really. Really.
Suggestions: good books for reading aloud? Please do submit as comments, or join our discussion here.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Various Confusions With the Ds, or, When Not to Alliterate
Today, I found myself torn between dandiprat (n.s., a little fellow; an urchin: a word used sometimes in fondness and sometimes in contempt) and disrelish. However, at risk of over-alliterating, I shall choose the former:
Intense emotion wracked the bosom of little Charelzefride as he surveyed the tiny figure, high up, in the rigging of his father's ship. "O, that little dandiprat ," an officer said as he passed, evidently inclined to pay no attention to the lithe, monkeylike boy in the rigging. But Charlelzefride stood motionless as he contemplated the sight: his old enemy, alive and upon the same ship. The dandiprat's features twisted in mocking recognition; his lips formed the words:
"Tell no one about the map." Charlezefride nodded.
Less levity, more information should arrive by next post. If Our Readers have any questions, let them not hesitate to submit them (and, if they are common, we shall address them in posts) at this Ask-Our-Editors link: http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/Writing-Books-Publishing-Ask-the-Editors.html
Intense emotion wracked the bosom of little Charelzefride as he surveyed the tiny figure, high up, in the rigging of his father's ship. "O, that little dandiprat ," an officer said as he passed, evidently inclined to pay no attention to the lithe, monkeylike boy in the rigging. But Charlelzefride stood motionless as he contemplated the sight: his old enemy, alive and upon the same ship. The dandiprat's features twisted in mocking recognition; his lips formed the words:
"Tell no one about the map." Charlezefride nodded.
Less levity, more information should arrive by next post. If Our Readers have any questions, let them not hesitate to submit them (and, if they are common, we shall address them in posts) at this Ask-Our-Editors link: http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/Writing-Books-Publishing-Ask-the-Editors.html
Friday, July 17, 2009
Why Read Children's Books, or, Editor Julian North's Personal Business View
As perhaps our readers may have guessed by this time, and judging from our list of 'Books to read Aloud,' I am unquestionably in love with children's books.
(Good children's books, that is. The world of children's publishing is full, it is true, of irritating, puerile characters and brash stereotypes, but the certain class of book I am talking of is less commercial than it is authentic.) One might wonder why...
I give myself free leave to be serious, I am afraid, in this post.
Children's authors, as Joan Aiken perceptively observes, have a much bigger responsibility than authors of the common sort (I use this qualifying term with all due respect). A child will only read, it is estimated, a certain number of books during the course of childhood; thus, every book counts, when it comes to informing, enlightening, and above all kindling a sense of wonder without being dreary or didactic.
Children's books, I find, are very often truer in perception of character than the rest of the vast ocean of literature. They depict characters which, though often oversimplified, are true in essence--for a child will not abide stodgy characterisations or a lack of heart. The issues presented are so often so much nearer the mark, when it comes to an understanding of human problems..
..for often, in our multivariating world, the common author seeks to depict only suffering, without meaning, or plot, without purpose. Why lapse into nihilism if there is a chance of a happy ending? Happy endings breed optimism, which in turn cultivates action. Cynicism, or nihilist/existentialist dilemmas do just the opposite. For if a person believes there is no reason to hope, why would they strive for the best, for change, growth, life?
Likewise, it takes a true maturity to exhibit optimism--for, as we have all doubtless seen, any adolescent can dowse into cynicism.
This maturity, children are born with. If they lose it over time, it is our responsiblity to look to ourselves, to see what in us is fostering this unnatural trait. All of nature is in a constant state of change, of growth, cycles of birth and ephemery. Let us keep the fade-and-fall of optimism, of hope, of expansion, alive. Let us do it through literature.
(Good children's books, that is. The world of children's publishing is full, it is true, of irritating, puerile characters and brash stereotypes, but the certain class of book I am talking of is less commercial than it is authentic.) One might wonder why...
I give myself free leave to be serious, I am afraid, in this post.
Children's authors, as Joan Aiken perceptively observes, have a much bigger responsibility than authors of the common sort (I use this qualifying term with all due respect). A child will only read, it is estimated, a certain number of books during the course of childhood; thus, every book counts, when it comes to informing, enlightening, and above all kindling a sense of wonder without being dreary or didactic.
Children's books, I find, are very often truer in perception of character than the rest of the vast ocean of literature. They depict characters which, though often oversimplified, are true in essence--for a child will not abide stodgy characterisations or a lack of heart. The issues presented are so often so much nearer the mark, when it comes to an understanding of human problems..
..for often, in our multivariating world, the common author seeks to depict only suffering, without meaning, or plot, without purpose. Why lapse into nihilism if there is a chance of a happy ending? Happy endings breed optimism, which in turn cultivates action. Cynicism, or nihilist/existentialist dilemmas do just the opposite. For if a person believes there is no reason to hope, why would they strive for the best, for change, growth, life?
Likewise, it takes a true maturity to exhibit optimism--for, as we have all doubtless seen, any adolescent can dowse into cynicism.
This maturity, children are born with. If they lose it over time, it is our responsiblity to look to ourselves, to see what in us is fostering this unnatural trait. All of nature is in a constant state of change, of growth, cycles of birth and ephemery. Let us keep the fade-and-fall of optimism, of hope, of expansion, alive. Let us do it through literature.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Fleshquake, or, A Word Perhaps Better Left to the Past, and Other Musings
Fleshquake. n.s. A tremor of the body: a word formed by Jonson in imitation of earthquake.
A word, one could say, perhaps better left to the past?
It is singular that, in our modern world of automatic newsfeeds and nonstop commentary, we have not the penchant for forming new (often beautiful) words that our forbears did. If human nature can be allowed to exhibit its fullest creative qualities, perhaps 'fleshquake' will do.
Cloris looked up at the Baron; her whole small being was wracked by a fleshquake. "If the Commodore holds my father's will, then please tell me this: Who will buy the peas for our army's offense?" The Baron had no answer for this nine-year-old's precocious questioning, for in truth, she was right. Without peas, they were lost.
Next, as I believe, will be a post on Why Children's Books?.
A word, one could say, perhaps better left to the past?
It is singular that, in our modern world of automatic newsfeeds and nonstop commentary, we have not the penchant for forming new (often beautiful) words that our forbears did. If human nature can be allowed to exhibit its fullest creative qualities, perhaps 'fleshquake' will do.
Cloris looked up at the Baron; her whole small being was wracked by a fleshquake. "If the Commodore holds my father's will, then please tell me this: Who will buy the peas for our army's offense?" The Baron had no answer for this nine-year-old's precocious questioning, for in truth, she was right. Without peas, they were lost.
Next, as I believe, will be a post on Why Children's Books?.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Things Lost Are Not Often What They Seem, Or, How I Found Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, Not Where I Thought It Was Hid.
I have found it--and we shall see if the finding augments, or rather detracts, from this Blog. A series on musings (for sometimes I find that finding an antiquated or strange word, and musing upon it, helps to inspire a story) is forthcoming, of which this is the first.
But I must explain.
Not, under the bed was it--not in the eternal abyss of darkness and despair, where souls of library books in torment await their accumulating fine--not in that black hole betwixt my bed's four feet, and the dusty floor--but in a pile of books by my door. Yesterday, searching for something else (and isn't that always the way) I found it, by chance, spilled to the ground as my hand knocked it out of place.
So here it is.
I will start with By-coffeehouse, a happy thought today.
By-coffeehouse. n.s. A coffeehouse in an obscure place.
Phyllis reached out her hand, searching through her laboured breath for an alleyway to dart into, a cubbyhole in which to evade her pursuers. She heard them, hot upon her heels--faster, she turned, not caring where she went, her frenzied lips forming the anguished words: 'O, if only there had been a by-coffeehouse!'
By-the-by, I must give heartfelt thanks to Liam's Pictures from Old Books for the images found here. http://www.fromoldbooks.org
But I must explain.
Not, under the bed was it--not in the eternal abyss of darkness and despair, where souls of library books in torment await their accumulating fine--not in that black hole betwixt my bed's four feet, and the dusty floor--but in a pile of books by my door. Yesterday, searching for something else (and isn't that always the way) I found it, by chance, spilled to the ground as my hand knocked it out of place.
So here it is.
I will start with By-coffeehouse, a happy thought today.
By-coffeehouse. n.s. A coffeehouse in an obscure place.
Phyllis reached out her hand, searching through her laboured breath for an alleyway to dart into, a cubbyhole in which to evade her pursuers. She heard them, hot upon her heels--faster, she turned, not caring where she went, her frenzied lips forming the anguished words: 'O, if only there had been a by-coffeehouse!'
By-the-by, I must give heartfelt thanks to Liam's Pictures from Old Books for the images found here. http://www.fromoldbooks.org
Sunday, July 5, 2009
A Holiday Scene, Or, How To Snare Even The Most Attention-Deficient of Relatives
It is the evening of a holiday.
You are all clustered 'round a table laden with the remains of a feast. Only a few derelict pieces of sponge cake remain; everyone's glass is nearly empty. Conversation flags. The children are somewhere beneath the table--you can feel them, tugging at your feet, and plucking at Great Aunt Meredith's shoes.
What to do?
All new news has long since been exhausted, and your relatives have started in on their favourite subjects--you respond, drearily, the with the same noncommital phrases they have heard time and time again, and still cease to understand. Old tensions rise. Old arguments stir. Sensibilities rankle.
What to say?
There is only another hour or two until you can righteously turn them out--time for a board game (only the rules are missing)--or, should you resort to turning on the television?
How differently things would go, if only you had a book to read aloud!
Reading aloud over a dinner table--an antiquated, funny old notion, from the bygone days when people would cluster around a piano in the tiny parlor, to be entertained. An adventurous notion, requiring relatives to put on their spectacles, crank up their character voices, and fall into the tale.
The children have crawled up from under the table; they wish to be involved. Little Alfred's chapter may take forever, but he feels proud at its end, for having navigated words such as 'pecuniary' and 'Herculean'. If it is a humorous book, all the better--the ice is instantly broken! No-one minds about Aunt Agatha's creaky voice, or Cousin Matthias' inability to differentiate between the female characters and the male.
When the evening is done, you may rest assured, they will come again. And leave their arguments behind.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Dream-Sequence, Or, A Lesson in Madness
Although dreams can occasionally frighten us, confound us, or startle us, though they bring out our worst social fears, or make us wonder whether we really are as sane as we assumed, there is one purpose for which dreams hold a continual charge. Never mind about analysing your dreams; sometimes they are best in their raw, emotion-filled, bizarre state. So it has been for ages past.
Dreams are a great source of inspiration.
Yes; from foretelling catastrophic events to revealing inner secrets, dreams have a long-established power upon the human understanding, coming as they do from the human imagination.
Just think, if you were given a space in which to tell stories wholly uninhibited by rational censors--
Well. Each night, each dream, is that space.
Here is an exercise:
1) Dream.
2) Without thinking too much about it, write it down. Don't worry if some of the details vanish into that black hole of oblivion, somewhere between the dreaming-consciousness, and the waking-consciousness. Neither should you be afraid to go back to your notebook and add details as they occur to you throughout the day.
3) Keep the journal handy; when you think of story ideas (when they spontaneously pop into your head, that is) write them down in this journal as well. For dreams, and story ideas, come from the same place--the more liberty you allow them to grow, the better they will turn out. When the story, like the dream, takes off by itself, that is the first step to writing well--semi-consciousness.
Take note of any recurring themes, symbols, or situations. If you truly think you may need help, perhaps a call to the psychiatrist helpline is in order. If not, analysing dreams can not only spur your writing, but help you to sort out your life.
And that is altogether a win-win situation.
For more ideas such as this, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/chesterton-davies-ltd-books-workshops.html, and sign up for a workshop. Finding yourself is just the beginning of it!
Dreams are a great source of inspiration.
Yes; from foretelling catastrophic events to revealing inner secrets, dreams have a long-established power upon the human understanding, coming as they do from the human imagination.
Just think, if you were given a space in which to tell stories wholly uninhibited by rational censors--
Well. Each night, each dream, is that space.
Here is an exercise:
1) Dream.
2) Without thinking too much about it, write it down. Don't worry if some of the details vanish into that black hole of oblivion, somewhere between the dreaming-consciousness, and the waking-consciousness. Neither should you be afraid to go back to your notebook and add details as they occur to you throughout the day.
3) Keep the journal handy; when you think of story ideas (when they spontaneously pop into your head, that is) write them down in this journal as well. For dreams, and story ideas, come from the same place--the more liberty you allow them to grow, the better they will turn out. When the story, like the dream, takes off by itself, that is the first step to writing well--semi-consciousness.
Take note of any recurring themes, symbols, or situations. If you truly think you may need help, perhaps a call to the psychiatrist helpline is in order. If not, analysing dreams can not only spur your writing, but help you to sort out your life.
And that is altogether a win-win situation.
For more ideas such as this, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/chesterton-davies-ltd-books-workshops.html, and sign up for a workshop. Finding yourself is just the beginning of it!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Book Review No. 1: Joan Aiken, 'The Way to Write For Children'
Hello, Julian here--
On The Website, we have a linked page on books to read for aspiring authors--here is the first in a review series.
All in all, a fine book containing the essential questions and basic information that every author--not restricted to those hoping to write for children--must consider. Aiken's cohesive, thoughtful book, The Way to Write For Children, is a masterwork of resources, pulling extensively from the wisdom of past authors, and drawing on the canon of children's literature to present a full and clear portrait of the craft.
She presents the very practical considerations of age range, length, and genre, in a knowledgeable and often tongue-in-cheek style, creating a guidance book that is overall entertaining, if not indeed thrilling to read.
Above all, her focus is on motive. This is not a quick-fix book for a best-seller; no, it is an instructive book on the essence of writing. 'Ideally, writing for children should be a vocation,' she says, and continues with the many variations on responsibility with which the passionate writer must wholly agree.
Altogether, a more-than-satisfactory read, and well worth one's time to find.
Of course, the sensible writer must weigh Aiken's recommendations carefully; that is, after all, part of the carving-away at a raw block to shape the self, the author in his or her own unique definition.
For further information, or to purchase the book through ABE, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/new-books-recommended-reading.html
On The Website, we have a linked page on books to read for aspiring authors--here is the first in a review series.
All in all, a fine book containing the essential questions and basic information that every author--not restricted to those hoping to write for children--must consider. Aiken's cohesive, thoughtful book, The Way to Write For Children, is a masterwork of resources, pulling extensively from the wisdom of past authors, and drawing on the canon of children's literature to present a full and clear portrait of the craft.
She presents the very practical considerations of age range, length, and genre, in a knowledgeable and often tongue-in-cheek style, creating a guidance book that is overall entertaining, if not indeed thrilling to read.
Above all, her focus is on motive. This is not a quick-fix book for a best-seller; no, it is an instructive book on the essence of writing. 'Ideally, writing for children should be a vocation,' she says, and continues with the many variations on responsibility with which the passionate writer must wholly agree.
Altogether, a more-than-satisfactory read, and well worth one's time to find.
Of course, the sensible writer must weigh Aiken's recommendations carefully; that is, after all, part of the carving-away at a raw block to shape the self, the author in his or her own unique definition.
For further information, or to purchase the book through ABE, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/new-books-recommended-reading.html
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Storytelling, Or, Best-Laid Plans &tc &tc
There is an exercise employed, so I am told, by the great masters of the classics...one can see them, sitting around their café table (round, naturally: there is no hierarchy of creativity), sipping espresso or wine with impressionistic delight...one says to the others, 'Yesterday, I saw a duck with green spots on its back.'
'Really? And so?'
And so it begins. A story unfolds, tossed about by one of the artists with compelling skill--something heartbreaking, absurd, reflective. 'Yes, perhaps,' says the first, 'But actually, I believe what happened is this:' And he presents a story a little pithier, a little funnier, a little heavier, than his comrade's. Each takes a single image, and elaborates upon it, adding depth and the various exquisitries of his own wit, until it has spiralled out of control--the duck is no longer just a duck, but a hero, the spots the evidence of its remarkable passion, search for justice, fatal flaw.
At the end of the morning (or afternoon, or evening--this game can take place at any time, on any day), the masters bid each other good-day; they part, congenially, each taking up the thread of the story they have broidered in his own mind.
An ancient pursuit, and a thrilling one. It pulls past belief, into mythology; mythology is what we, as humans need in all times, in all circumstances.
(N.B. I had intended this post to be about Joan Aiken, but was diverted. Watch for next time: a review of Joan Aiken's book on Writing for Children)
'Really? And so?'
And so it begins. A story unfolds, tossed about by one of the artists with compelling skill--something heartbreaking, absurd, reflective. 'Yes, perhaps,' says the first, 'But actually, I believe what happened is this:' And he presents a story a little pithier, a little funnier, a little heavier, than his comrade's. Each takes a single image, and elaborates upon it, adding depth and the various exquisitries of his own wit, until it has spiralled out of control--the duck is no longer just a duck, but a hero, the spots the evidence of its remarkable passion, search for justice, fatal flaw.
At the end of the morning (or afternoon, or evening--this game can take place at any time, on any day), the masters bid each other good-day; they part, congenially, each taking up the thread of the story they have broidered in his own mind.
An ancient pursuit, and a thrilling one. It pulls past belief, into mythology; mythology is what we, as humans need in all times, in all circumstances.
(N.B. I had intended this post to be about Joan Aiken, but was diverted. Watch for next time: a review of Joan Aiken's book on Writing for Children)
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Business Philosophy. Part II., or, Whence That Dusty Shelf?
Books are artifacts. Do you ever wonder if, in a hundred or so years, this blog that you have haplessly decided to read, will exist? If the myriad upon myriad email messages, notifications, websites, &tc will possibly remain? If a plague decimates humanity, or a plot to undo electricity finally works--where will the bulk of human wisdom be stored, save in books?
Already, we know of our distant ancestors through their own recorded history; if we obliterate the written page, we shall become a society without a past, and with no future to speak of. Something to muse upon in these summer days, while sipping one's iced tea beneath an iridescent umbrella, while the cicadas sing their melancholy, tense chantings, this.
Without the rediscovery of the Classical texts, would the Dark Ages have ended? It is a pithy question to ponder. So it is in our current 'light age,' when the blinking of computer screens and televisions is all that can be seen from space--when, at last, the world wakes up unto itself again, it will seize upon the remaining relics of this civilization--the books--to aid in the answering of that immutable question, "What was it all about, really?"
It is our duty to provide these valuable archaeological finds for our children's children's children. Or even, our children's children, or our children's children's children's children's children's...I think you get my point.
And so, those groaning dusty shelves in my house are for a purpose, after all. They are archaeology, and so I tell my friends. Future historians will thank you for not moving them from your chair, to the ground.
Already, we know of our distant ancestors through their own recorded history; if we obliterate the written page, we shall become a society without a past, and with no future to speak of. Something to muse upon in these summer days, while sipping one's iced tea beneath an iridescent umbrella, while the cicadas sing their melancholy, tense chantings, this.
Without the rediscovery of the Classical texts, would the Dark Ages have ended? It is a pithy question to ponder. So it is in our current 'light age,' when the blinking of computer screens and televisions is all that can be seen from space--when, at last, the world wakes up unto itself again, it will seize upon the remaining relics of this civilization--the books--to aid in the answering of that immutable question, "What was it all about, really?"
It is our duty to provide these valuable archaeological finds for our children's children's children. Or even, our children's children, or our children's children's children's children's children's...I think you get my point.
And so, those groaning dusty shelves in my house are for a purpose, after all. They are archaeology, and so I tell my friends. Future historians will thank you for not moving them from your chair, to the ground.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Business Philosophy. Part I. Or, Why Publish BOOKS in This Day and Age?
Well. Books are essential, even in this day and age--more than that, they are themselves essences. At risk of being effusive, allow me to explain:
The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.
Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).
And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...
Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.
Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.
There is simply no comparison.
Books are artifacts.
So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?
The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.
Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).
And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...
Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.
Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.
There is simply no comparison.
Books are artifacts.
So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?
Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds
Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds
I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.
Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...
Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.
Dr. Johnson will have to wait.
I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.
Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...
Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.
Dr. Johnson will have to wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
