When you look at Son of Mr. Green Jeans, you begin to see the structure formulating his work. The ABC’s form a restrictive guideline to his work. Can some of your best work come from limits that are within or out of your control? Think of George Lucas and his $11 million dollar baby Star Wars the New Hope. Within a limited budget and constant pressure from screen executives, Lucas would be the highest budget film of its time and create a multi-million dollar enterprise.

In another sense, the Star Wars movies got worse and worse as Lucas obtained legendary status, unlimited funds, and complete artistic control over his films. In a financial sense, he did himself good, but those prequels sucked balls.

In The Atlantic Man, we, the audience, can only see what Duras shows us, which is as she fondly describes as nothing or “emptiness.” However, confined within this screen of emptiness are her words, which seems overtly unrevealing. She has limited the audience’s access to concrete facts and like the screen leaves us empty. In that sense, her loneliness is felt, but we are left helplessly drowning in her sea of poetic suffering with no lifeboat in sight. She limits our access to connect with her, which is quite frustrating as a reader. It almost seems as if this essay is completely for herself and not for the subject or any reader.

In another light, she reveals enough. In a melodramatic way, this emptiness takes on another form throughout the essay. In the beginning, her mind tries to empty out her image of her love. The mind is trying to fight the emptiness with emptiness, but of course it doesn’t work and she knows it. She does not try to fill the void, but almost does nothing to heal it or close it up. He is an actor of this emptiness and of course is never there, and she doesn’t ever tell him if he is the main character or not. Is he watching the film or is he in this film? Maybe it no longer matters because he isn’t there.

I’ll start this by saying that I, too, struggled with Dumas’ piece.  It’s certainly not an easy read, though I found I liked it a bit more the second time around, having a sense of what to expect.

What I appreciated most about Dumas was that she really plays with sentence structure, which I think is part of what makes her piece so confusing, but also gives it such a unique flow.  I feel like the phrases that resonated with me the most from this piece were the most unusually organized ones: “You have remained in the state of having left,” or “While I no longer love you I no longer love anything, nothing, except you, still.”  By combining these convoluted statements with her short, bare-bones paragraphs, for instance “You do not know this” or “Look at the camera,” she drifts between being anchorless and certain through her structure as well as what she is saying.  I think I noticed this in particular when reading it with Moore’s work, which seems almost journalistic in its style at times (don’t get me wrong though—I loved Moore).  In Dumas’ essay, you drift and drift through convoluted thought bordering on philosophy (“You will think the miracle is not in the apparent similarity between each of the particles that make up those millions of men in their continuous hurling, but in the irreductible difference that separates them from each other, that separates men from dogs, dogs from film, sand from the sea…” on and on for another six lines, without a single period) and then are quickly brought back down to earth with a simple statement.  I feel like I had these ups and downs a lot reading this, and it kept me reading even though it could also lose me sometimes in the drifting.

I was always taught that writing in second person was for children’s adventure novels or trivial things. This of course, excludes letters and things that are actually only addressed to one other person.

I found Duras’ use of the second person both intimate and distance. At first, I questioned whether she was trying to draw her audience in by making it seem insistently personal. She said “you will forget this is you,” which I thought was very true because, regardless of whether or not the reader is supposed to feel like it is s/he, by the end of the second page, we’ve already begun imagining a character and setting the scene with her.

Once I made that transition, I felt sort of distanced from the work because, I knew it wasn’t about me. However, not distanced in a way in which I lost interest. Instead I felt as if I was reading something I shouldn’t be; something that wasn’t intended for my eyes. This, I felt, made the essay all the more interesting. Although I didn’t belong there, I was curious to find out who did.

That being said, I think this choice has the capability of distancing the reader to the point which they lose interest in the work. The execution is definitely key and the subject matter is important. It would be ambitious to try, but innovative to say the least. When do you ever read published works in second person?

I agree with both Tom and Chris about the merits of these two works. I think that both Duras and Moore biggest strength is the creative approach they take in engaging the reader. Honestly, there have been plenty of essays that we’ve read that I haven’t liked at all. After a while, reading essays becomes kind of tedious, unless the author presents interesting material in a unique fashion. 

Moore, of course, does this by organizing his theme into twenty-six seemingly random ideas, arranged in alphabetic order. This makes his essay read kind of like an encyclopedia, and each “entry” is short and to-the-point. It allows the reader to understand what Moore is getting at without reading too much into it, and thus keeps the reader from getting bored. The connections Moore draws from objects of nature, pop culture and his own life are inspired, creating a way of looking at a somewhat common theme (the loss of a father) that I had certainly never seen before. I particularly loved the entry for the letter Q, or “Quiz.” In this entry, Moore creates an impromptu quiz for the reader. This really makes it seem much more interactive than an essay should be, and actually makes it fun to read. 

Duras, on the other hand, engages the reader by speaking directly to him through extensive use of the second person. I didn’t particularly enjoy reading this piece, but I did see some merit in the second person technique. In speaking directly to the reader, Duras effectively engages the reader in ways that a normal, formulaic essay simply cannot.

My main point is that, in writing, it is often easy to just stick to what you know, which can sometimes result in fairly boring essays. That’s why it’s important to take risks. These risks are most often evident in the form of subject matter: for example, the controversial essays of Joe Wenderoth or the various selections from the course reader relating to sex. However, it is also important to experiment with style, and to present readers with new essay structure. If the risk fails, there is of course the danger of embarrassing yourself with a subpar essay. But if the writer’s risk succeeds, the essay often benefits hugely from the break from form or subject matter. This is true in the case of Moore: the break in form is incredibly entertaining and makes for an easy read that gets its point across effectively. The same is also true for Duras. Although I didn’t particularly like the essay, I do think the break in form made the essay better than it would have been without it.

In reading Son of Mr. Green Jeans, I am reminded of Kathryn Chetkovich’s Envy, when she reads “those pages of his I wished I had written.” I wish I wrote this: it’s brilliant. Seemingly random, fully independent snippets mesh together ingeniously to create a cohesive whole. Moore leaves us with a unique, nuanced look at absent fathers. And I always admire a writer who can do justice to a serious matter while maintaining his sense of humor.

When it comes to writing, I am absolutely incapable of pre-planning anything. I find outlines and lists useless; structure only makes me want to rebel. So I wonder how Moore approached writing this: did he start out with a general topic and just begin writing? Was the patterning of this story just lucky circumstance, or is it artfully arranged? Did he know each topic he would touch upon beforehand?

Whatever my writer envy, at least we both like Leave It To Beaver references.

Marguerite Duras uses the second person quite a bit.  “The Atlantic Man” is addressed to some unknown person (although we know from the forward that it’s Yann Andrea), and stands as a list of commands, qualities, and effects that she wants to explain to him.  However, during the course of the reading, I can’t shake this lingering feeling that the “you” in this story is actually the reader, me.  Combined with the fact the the original French used “vous” for all instances of “you”, the formal version that she wouldn’t use for a lover but rather someone she doesn’t know, like me.

This uncanny feeling doesn’t go away throughout the piece.  It makes you feel inadequate and shameful, as if all this pain and anguish was your fault.  She speaks with force, telling you exactly how to leave her, how to leave the film empty with nothing, because you are nothing and neither is she.  You have caused her to lose herself in the nothingness, and so she tells you how to leave.

But the worst part comes at the end, with “You do not know this”.  Here, we are reminded of the roses she was just talking about.  The ones that stay open for days, let everything out, and die, unseen by anyone.  She relates this rose to herself, with “you do not know this”.  She has just let herself out, and yet no one has seen it.  So maybe we are not the person who is addressed in this piece.  We read it; we know her pain and how we caused it.  But the real “you” doesn’t know this, so we are not “you”, and we did not cause her pain.

But then again, it resonates still, even after this reversal at the end, that maybe we did do it.  Maybe not in Marguerite’s life, but our own.

I think it’s pretty fantastic the way that Moore weaves together tidbits about animal mating habits, sitcom actors, scientific studies, and personal anecdotes—despite being seemingly random components—while remaining anchored to his theme of missing fathers. This establishes a rapport with the reader, as living without ones father is a common experience. The parts about animals and science interest the reader sort of like documentaries and news stories, the actors are recognized and acknowledged, and most importantly, the personal stories make it all honest. It also helps keep the reader paying attention since it constantly switches topics.

I don’t have much more to say about that—it’s pretty straightforward. I guess I could note that the other piece, “The Atlantic Man” is quite possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever read. That’s notable, right? Nothing else has invoked in me so difficult to control a desire to headbutt the sidewalk after removing my eyes slowly with a wooden spoon. While covered in fire ants and hot coals. Duras might be a very accomplished writer, and indeed the way the writing flows suggests this, but I am obviously not her intended audience. Please tell me that this isn’t the essence of the lyric essay genre.

Chris “is not in a good mood due to non-208 related things” Garcia

P.S. I will grant “The Atlantic Man” a good use of artistic effects with the whole act of addressing nothingness as a director would a movie. It just doesn’t resonate and I haven’t the energy to dissect it.

Today, I’m a rather messy person – dropping clothes and towels on the floor, misplacing irreplaceable items left and right, letting dirt pile up until it discolors the carpet. But once upon a time in the past-tense realm of childhood, I was a neat freak. Any handwriting expert would tell you this.

My perfectionist’s drive manifested itself most clearly in my grade school notebooks. These black-and-white composition books were chocked full of clean, rounded block letters, “I’s” dotted decisively, mistakes (reluctantly) crossed out with a thick black line. Each page, I considered, was a feat of artistry and order – of course I doodled, but these sketches were not to be found creeping in the margins but rather on their own, specially designated pages.

Having a neat notebook was an utmost priority of mine, in addition to snagging the perfect pink-trimmed Nike sneakers at the beginning of the school year and making sure ketchup was a component of as many of my meals as possible. To jazz up my notebooks, I insisted my mother drive me to a local stationary store and buy Milky Pens. As a result my notes had lines of gold, silver and turquoise ink that other girls could only envy. Building my inflated confidence were my teachers. I took a fundamental pride in my notebooks, but became even more ecstatic when a teacher asked to photocopy my clear notes to give to absent students – a regular occurrence.

Today, my handwriting has evolved into something quite different. No more are there straight letters, perpendicular lines, neat margins. Today, my penmanship is loose and loopy; a unique hybrid between simple and cursive letters, with many connected to each other for the sake of jotting down words as quickly as possible. I can’t help but see meaning in this evolution – that today I am undeniably looser, more prone to doodles and unorthodoxy, a bit less constrained by a desire to please. I only wish it was socially acceptable to hand in college assignments in sky-blue Milky Pen.

When I was a toddler, I had an uncanny likeness to Shirley Temple. She’s the famed singing/dancing child star of the 1940s, with cherubic sausage curls and a round dimpled face that could melt the heart of the Grinch. My mother grew up watching Shirley Temple, and she bestowed her love of all things having to do with Animal Crackers in my Soup, The Good Ship Lollipop and Curlytop unto me. I became entranced. Shirley’s perfect golden locks invigorated a sense of pride in my own head of kinky curls, which I had previously viewed as an undeserved and malicious trick of genetics. I watched movies of Shirley tromping around in her fluffy skirts, clicking her toes on the floor to an old-timey rhythm. She giggled and sang and made everyone around her glow with affection. AND she was famous. Shirley Temple was everything I wanted to be…when I was four.

Before I had started any formal dance training, I would adorn myself with glamorous costumes and accessories (usually including, but not limited to: a tiara and a wand of some sort) and make my family watch me dance around our living room for ungodly amounts of time. In one home video of little Julia at age three, I finish a grandiose solo to the Nutcracker suite (with a grumbling DJ, Christopher DeNardo, age 6½ ) and plunge into a luxurious curtsy exclaiming “EXCUSE ME, IS anybody CLAPPING?!” What can I say? I have always loved the stage. And I am not afraid to admit appreciating a good round of applause now and again. I asked my mom if I could be in movies, and if she could start me out in Juicy Juice commercials so I could break into the biz. I was a pretty precocious little whippersnapper to say the least. Her response to my adamant requests to lead the life of a child star was to sign me up for tap dance lessons at our community recreation center. I had just turned four, and although this wasn’t exactly the same caliber of artistry as appearing in a Juicy Juice commercial, or being the kid chosen to ride around in the Oscar Myer Weiner-Mobile (my other plot to instant stardom) I was satisfied. I remember buying my first pair of tap shoes before the class. I chose to put a bright red ribbon on them. They were smashing. My expectations of a good time in tap class had little to do with technical prowess, and lots to do with the intoxicating notion of scampering about the room with fun music and being allowed to make loud noises with our shoes. I was right, that was pretty fun. But as it turns out, I also had something of a knack for physical movement. I remember standing on the wooden floor of “community dance room #4,” and hearing the shrieks from the next room over filled with little boys doing karate.

I was by far the smallest student, even among other four and five year olds. I was in my phase of only wearing dresses and pink tights; NEVER pants, or anything that might even subtly connote a lack of femininity. My patent leather tap shoes stuck out from underneath the billows of my dress like clown shoes on a princess, and my curly hair was shoved messily into a bun on top of my tiny head. We would face our teacher Ms. Joan, who looked like she had been plucked out of the chorus of 42nd street with giant hair sprayed hair, as she had us practice the Buck Times Step or our Maxiford turns one at a time. I was a tiny little ball of energy waiting and ready to prove that good, hell great things come in small packages. I wasn’t competitive with any one else; I just wanted to make sure Ms. Joan didn’t overlook me. I wanted her to think I was the next Shirley Temple, because I wanted it desperately. I also wanted to be a little taller. I wanted to have high heel shoes so I looked older. Nevertheless, each time it was my turn to do the steps I outperformed everyone. I certainly wanted to be a great dancer like dear Shirley, but I didn’t know I actually had something special. I was good. I was really good. From the moment I learned the shuffle ball change, and executed it pristinely in front of Ms. Joan and my fellow pre-school comrades, I had the first feeling of knowing I had found something I am innately good at. It was a raw stage of self-discovery. Of course in my dance training for many years to come, I would work tirelessly to achieve recognition, rehearse for many hours to perfect a piece of choreography, and prepare for the mental and physical rigors of auditions. But when I was four, in Ms. Joan’s Rec-center tap class, I was truly a kid wonder. I whipped out buffalos across the floor in perfect time, with my arms in the right place, and a dazzling smile on my face. At the end of the first class, unbeknownst to me until years later, Ms. Joan approached my mother in confidence. “Julia has got it” she said bluntly, “Your daughter is a dancer.” But at that moment, I didn’t even need the validation. I knew I had unearthed something that I loved; something that would follow me for the rest of my life. And it has. So I didn’t become a child star. And that’s ok. I’m probably way better off emotionally. But there is a Shirley Temple poster on the wall of my apartment, and more importantly; there is still time for me to figure out a way to ride around in the Weiner-Mobile.

Shirley (1944)

Me (1994)

I’ll be honest, it took me a while to come up with something for this post.  I’m a fencer for Northwestern, but I’m flattened so routinely by some of my much more skillful teammates that I hesitate call myself “good.”  I played piano for eight years, but I was horrible about practicing and it took me a painfully long time to learn pieces.  I can’t paint or draw, I’m hideously tone-deaf.  But by the time I was a Senior in High School, I was a pro a running successful blood drives.

It’s hardly what you’d call a talent, I’m not entirely sure why I picked it.  But over the span of two years, Junior to Senior, I became capable of conniving even the most needle-phobic, squeamish person to at least consider having someone slowly drain 1/8 of their blood in a single sitting.  I had an arsenal of factoids (still do), answers for every question or misgiving.  No, you cannot get diseases from donating, it’s impossible.  Yes, the needles are sterile.  Or, of course, I also picked up the occasional well-placed encouragement.  Yes, you can miss class if you donate.  Yes, you do get out of sports practice that day.  I was so notorious for being the “blood drive girl” that for a Holiday assembly one year, “Santa” called me onstage, had me sit on his lap, told me he had the gift I wanted most, and handed me a leaking bag of red, sticky, odorless “blood.”

So what exactly I am I good at?  Guilt-tripping people for a good cause?  I hope not—I really, really hate it when people try to guilt trip me, and the people who stand at the arch and ask me if I have a minute for the environment, or gay rights, or PETA, and then ask for my credit card number so they can automatically take money from my account monthly never fail to frustrate me.  But I know I sank to that level a little.  Early on, when I was having less success getting names of people willing to donate, I went on stage during a school announcements session and said something along the lines of, “Guys, almost no one’s signed up for the drive.  And I know you might not love the idea but there is no substitute for human blood in transfusions, so if people don’t give, people die.”  I hadn’t meant to put it so bluntly.  But it worked.  I got at least ten names within five minutes of making that announcement.

I think what I able to master was the art or putting on a bit of a persona.  I hesitate to call it acting.  It was more like there was this little part of me that was the vampire: efficient, blood-hungry, tireless, merciless to fear or hesitation.  And for two weeks, at the drop of a hat, I could forget everything else and become that thing.  You know that part in Harry Potter when he’s under the imperius spell and all that’s in his mind is one action?  It was eerily like that.  All I had to do was step back and let it take over.

Maybe the moral is, when I want something to succeed bad enough, I get really, really good at getting it, shoving aside inhibitions and distractions.  Or maybe I’m good at framing myself in whatever light I want to be seen in that day.  Or, well, it’s possible I’m just adept at guilt-tripping.  But I like to think the whole thing proves I’m good for something, apart from sucking blood.