April 22, 2020
OK--this is boring. I started this blog as an electronic version of my handwritten diary. But the entries are boring. It's of course a lot harder to write by hand than to type--but it is also more satisfying and more virtuous. But here, in the blog, I will no longer stick to my handwritten diary. But I'll still keep a handwritten diary.
There's an art to writing a diary or journal, as I've learned reading Pepys's diary and Emerson's journals. I'm still learning it.
This week I've focused on studying French. I'm determined to learn to read it fluently. And I can get there--soon. Probably in a month, if I keep at it.
One of my favorite books is a book written in the 1960s called The Art of Literary Research, by Robert Altick. I like the world and apparatus of the scholar that the book conjures up, a world of slips and typewriters and printed bibliographies. In his chapter on note-taking, Altick makes a big deal about "slips" versus "cards." I can't understand the difference. Slips are thinner? Anyway, I tried to look this up online, but that dimension of the scholarly world of yesteryear has not made it to cyberspace. At least not yet. What I did come across was discussions of the late sociologist Niklas Luhmann's system of note-taking. The system was called Zettelkasten, which is German for "slip box." Here's how it works. You note something on a card and number it 1. You note something on another card and number it 2, thus connecting it to card 1 (2 is adjacent to 1). Let's say you note something on a third card and it has more to do with 1 than 2. You number that card 1a and put it between card 1 and card 2. And so on.
Went for two walks today, both 30-minute walks. As usual, I had to go out of my way to stay six feet from other people (not that there were a lot of other people out; there weren't). I had leftover Chinese for dinner, then I wanted some ice cream, so I went to Goodberry's for a scoop of vanilla, a scoop of chocolate, and malt powder on top. Of course their patio was closed--coronavirus. I had to take my frozen custard to the car and eat it there.
I read an amazing poem today. It's in the new New Yorker. It's called "At the Ruins of Yankee Stadium" and is by Campbell McGrath. It's a tour de force--Whitmanesque, Ginsberg-esque. There's a recording of the poet reading it on the New Yorker website. He does a good job. It's a long poem. The reading takes 11+ minutes. When I first opened to where the poem was, I said, no fucking way I'm reading this: it's too long. But I did--and I'm glad I did. I also liked the other poem in the issue, a normal lengthed lyric. It has bird imagery, and that's what I look for these days when I read poetry. It keeps my reading anchored. A surprising number of poems have bird imagery.
Read my friend's blog, Things Invisible to See. She's a terrific writer.
OK, that's it for today. I could go on, but I've got reading to do. Today was beautiful.
There's an art to writing a diary or journal, as I've learned reading Pepys's diary and Emerson's journals. I'm still learning it.
This week I've focused on studying French. I'm determined to learn to read it fluently. And I can get there--soon. Probably in a month, if I keep at it.
One of my favorite books is a book written in the 1960s called The Art of Literary Research, by Robert Altick. I like the world and apparatus of the scholar that the book conjures up, a world of slips and typewriters and printed bibliographies. In his chapter on note-taking, Altick makes a big deal about "slips" versus "cards." I can't understand the difference. Slips are thinner? Anyway, I tried to look this up online, but that dimension of the scholarly world of yesteryear has not made it to cyberspace. At least not yet. What I did come across was discussions of the late sociologist Niklas Luhmann's system of note-taking. The system was called Zettelkasten, which is German for "slip box." Here's how it works. You note something on a card and number it 1. You note something on another card and number it 2, thus connecting it to card 1 (2 is adjacent to 1). Let's say you note something on a third card and it has more to do with 1 than 2. You number that card 1a and put it between card 1 and card 2. And so on.
Went for two walks today, both 30-minute walks. As usual, I had to go out of my way to stay six feet from other people (not that there were a lot of other people out; there weren't). I had leftover Chinese for dinner, then I wanted some ice cream, so I went to Goodberry's for a scoop of vanilla, a scoop of chocolate, and malt powder on top. Of course their patio was closed--coronavirus. I had to take my frozen custard to the car and eat it there.
I read an amazing poem today. It's in the new New Yorker. It's called "At the Ruins of Yankee Stadium" and is by Campbell McGrath. It's a tour de force--Whitmanesque, Ginsberg-esque. There's a recording of the poet reading it on the New Yorker website. He does a good job. It's a long poem. The reading takes 11+ minutes. When I first opened to where the poem was, I said, no fucking way I'm reading this: it's too long. But I did--and I'm glad I did. I also liked the other poem in the issue, a normal lengthed lyric. It has bird imagery, and that's what I look for these days when I read poetry. It keeps my reading anchored. A surprising number of poems have bird imagery.
Read my friend's blog, Things Invisible to See. She's a terrific writer.
OK, that's it for today. I could go on, but I've got reading to do. Today was beautiful.
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