Several ordinary life stories, if told in rapid succession, tend to make life look far more pointless than it really is, probably. — Kurt Vonnegut Is that a fact? Let’s try it and see! Here are some excerpts from this week’s obituaries in the Irvine World News: Read more →
EppsNet Archive: Literature
Albert Camus
On this date in 1960, Albert Camus died in a car smash outside Paris at the age of 47. The incomplete manuscript of The First Man, the autobiographical novel that Camus was working on at his death, was found in the mud at the site of the wreck. What a finish! Quel tableau! Read more →
Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson was born on this date in 1830. Happy Birthday, Emily! I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth,—the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names. Let’s party! Read more →
So Much Trash
On this date in 1851, Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick was published. The book, considered by modern scholars to be one of the great American novels, was dismissed by Melville’s contemporaries and belittled by reviewers as “so much trash belonging to the worst school of Bedlam literature.” Melville took bad reviews pretty hard and gave up writing fiction a few years later. He died in New York on September 28, 1891, at the age of 72, almost completely forgotten. Read more →
Why Great Novels Are Not Written by 10-Year-Olds
And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean. — Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son And so, on page 243 of a 900-page novel, the 6-year-old Son referred to in the title dies! “So what’s the rest of the book going to be about?” I wonder aloud. “Your butt,” my son suggests. Read more →
Burning Down the House
I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground. — Henry David Thoreau, Walden We’ve got a number of uncontrolled fires burning in Southern California. It’s raining ash out of a darkened sky in Orange County, where I live, although we’re nowhere near the actual fires. Read more →
That is You
The earth keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. — Edgar Lee Masters, “Fiddler Jones” There’s a balance to be struck between providing a kid with some direction in his life, and thinking that he should like certain things because I like them, or dislike certain things because I don’t like them, or that he should do things a certain way because that’s the way I would do them, the danger being that even though my way is, of course, the best way, the way he does it is what makes him him . . . Read more →
Lesbian Rescue Fantasies
From a company newsletter: [Insert woman’s name here] is quite a rescuer. She started with animals and now has six dogs, 13 cats and a rabbit. Last fall, she decided to extend her caretaking talents to children by becoming a foster parent. She and her partner, [Insert another woman’s name here], are foster parents to 7- and 9-year-old children and expect to take in several more soon. In fact, the two recently added on to their house to accomodate the growing family. Read more →
Wrought by Prayer
I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Morte d’Arthur” Tennyson has said that more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of, but he has wisely refrained from saying whether they are good things or bad things. It might perhaps be as well if the world were to dream of, or even become wide awake to some of the things that are being wrought by prayer. — Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh Read more →
Genealogy: Who Cares?
I found myself involved in a genealogy discussion the other night, and I guess I disappointed everyone by admitting that I don’t know the origin of the name Epps, nor am I all that curious about it. Read more →
“Hiring the Best” Explained
An employer is always somewhat reassured by the ignominiousness of his staff. At all costs the slave should be slightly, even much, to be despised. A mass of chronic blemishes, moral and physical, are a justification of the fate which is overwhelming him. The world gets along better that way, because then each man stands in it in the place he deserves. A being who is useful to you should be low, flat, prone to weakness; that is what’s comforting; especially as Baryton paid us really very badly. In cases of acute avarice like this, employers are always a bit suspicious and uneasy. A failure, a debauchee, a black sheep, a devoted black sheep, all that made sense, justified things, fitted in, in fact. Baryton would have been on the whole rather pleased if I had been slightly wanted by the police. That always makes for real devotion. — Louis-Ferdinand… Read more →
Are You Being Served?
The Guardian sends writers to bookstores to test the staffs’ literary knowledge: I point to the word ‘jawbo’ on page 330 [of Joyce’s Ulysses]. ‘That’s not a word,’ I say. ‘Mmmm,’ he says. ‘It’s rare that publishers make a mistake like that.’ Read more →
Teaching Kids to Write
Having students write essays about books accomplishes three things. It makes them hate writing, because it’s such a fruitless, uninteresting assignment. It makes them hate reading, because even books they enjoy are turned against them. And it probably makes them hate thinking, because the kind of analysis they’re forced to do is so strained and dull. — Joseph Weisberg Read more →
Samuel Butler Meets Rusty and Andrea Yates
“Poor people! They had tried to keep their ignorance of the world from themselves by calling it the pursuit of heavenly things, and then shutting their eyes to anything that might give them trouble.” — Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh Related Links Transcript of Andrea Yates’ confession This is very, very sad and hard to forget. You may want to just skip it. Read more →
Classic Review
Fortunately, however, the chief damage done will be to the author himself, who thus dishonors his own physical nature; for imperfect though the race is, it still remains so much purer than the stained and distorted reflection of its animalism in Leaves of Grass, that the book cannot attain to any very wide influence. — Atlantic Monthly, Jan. 1882 Read more →
Dav Pilkey Lives!
Charles Dickens, however, is dead I was reading Bleak House last night, and my 8-year-old son said, “Charles Dickens is dead, right?” And I said, “Yes, he’s dead.” “It seems like all the good writers are dead.” “Well, a lot of them are dead.” “Dav Pilkey is still alive.” So there you have it: Charles Dickens is dead but Dav Pilkey lives. Tra-la-laaaaaa! Read more →