Monthly Archives: October 2009
[By Request] Affect vs. Effect
As promised, in my last post, if you have a grammar/punctuation/spelling question, I will do my best to answer it. Katie Leas took me at my word and asked me about Affect and Effect. In most instances, you can follow this simple rule to keep your use of affect and effect on the straight and narrow.
Effect is a noun.¹
Affect is a verb.²
Now, this wouldn’t be the English language without exceptions to the rules.
- Effect can also be used as a verb.
- Affect can also be used as a noun.
Confused yet? Let’s tackle Affect as a Noun first.
Affect as a noun is used only in the realm of psychology. In that world, it’s used to describe an observed emotion or feeling in a patient.
Though the writer often exhibited feelings of paranoia, his therapist noted the affect was always heightened during November.
You’re not going to come across this sort of language too often, so you can file this away under “Things Worth Knowing I Need to Look Up If Ever I Stumble Across Them.”
Now, here’s where things get tricky. If Effect can also be used as a verb, then how do you know which to use? The difference is tricky and very much a matter of nuance.
Effect: to cause change
Affect: to influence
One way to remember this is that Effect as a Noun means a result. So, if you’re using Effect as a Verb, whatever’s doing the effecting had better be causing some results. If, on the other hand, the whatever in question isn’t necessarily the direct cause but is doing a bit of nudging, then Affect as a Verb. Most of the sentences I see should be using Affect as a Verb, but, again, it’s a matter of nuance. What exactly are you trying to say? Effect as a Verb has a lot more denotative punch than Affect as a Verb, so use it wisely.
To conclude:
- Affect as a Verb [to influence]: Reading these blog posts on grammar is really affecting the way I approach my writing.
- Effect as a Verb [to cause]: By writing these blog posts, I hope to effect a change in the way people approach their writing.
- Effect as a Noun [a result]: Reading these blog posts on grammar has really had an effect on the clarity of my writing.
- Affect as a Noun [an observed emotion]: The writer often suffered delusions of megalomania, but writing those blog posts on grammar only seemed to intensify the affect.
[By Request] The Em Dash: Friend or Foe?
I hardly consider myself an expert on the art of writing. I do my research, and I hope I keep improving, but I think there are simply too many methods, opinions and philosophies out there for anyone to ever truly become a bona fide, incontrovertible expert.
That being said, if there’s one thing I do pride myself on knowing, it’s grammar, spelling and punctuation. I sacrificed my (semi) perfect eyesight in the pursuit of a nearly-error-free newspaper in college, and I still make a bit of extra income doing some freelance copyediting.
So, when my friends have a question about grammar, spelling or punctuation, they often come to me, and I am happy to help. One such friend has requested I do a pre-NaNoWriMo post on Em Dashes. I think she was witness to a bit of bantering that took place on twitter with fellow writer, one who happens to have a rather passionate love affair with the em dash. I, on the other hand, have often expressed my hatred of that dastardly punctuation mark, due to major overuse in publications I copyedit.
That being said, there is a time and a place for an em dash. When used properly, I actually can’t help but be charmed. Because my degree is in journalism, I generally follow the Associated Press guidelines:
ABRUPT CHANGE: Use dashes to denote an abrupt change in thought in a sentence or an emphatic pause: We will fly to Paris in June — if I get a raise. Smith offered a plan — it was unprecedented — to raise revenues.SERIES WITHIN A PHRASE: When a phrase that otherwise would be set off by commas contains a series of words that must be separated by commas, use dashes to set off the full phrase: He listed the qualities — intelligence, humor, conservatism, independence — that he liked in an executive.ATTRIBUTION: Use a dash before an author’s or composer’s name at the end of a quotation: “Who steals my purse steals trash.” — Shakespeare.WITH SPACES: Put a space on both sides of a dash in all uses except the start of a paragraph and sports agate summaries.
“I just can’t help myself,” Kristin said. “Em dashes are so —”“Don’t say it,” Elizabeth interjected. “I simply can’t bear it.”
WRONG: “We’ll learn proper punctuation… some day.”RIGHT: “We’ll learn proper punctuation — starting now!”
Nonessential Clause: “National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, is a time for both feats and follies.”Interjection: “National Novel Writing Month — or, as I like to call it, Writers Are Crazy Month — takes place every year in November.”
Recap: 28 October 2009
Lots of movies to get through again. Off we go.
What I Watched
- Everyone Says I Love You (4 stars): Known by many as “that Woody Allen musical,” this throwback to the fantastic musicals of the 1950s is a story more or less about finding love. All of the stars (except Drew Barrymore) do their own singing, whether they should or not, which is part of what lends the movie its charm. Roger Ebert really says it best in his review: “Sometimes, when I am very happy, I sing to myself. Sometimes, when they are very happy, so do the characters in “Everyone Says I Love You,” Woody Allen’s magical new musical comedy. I can’t sing. Neither can some of Allen’s characters. Why should that stop them? Who wants to go through life not ever singing?” Definitely worth checking out; it’s not available on DVD as far as I can tell, but it is streaming on Netflix Instant.
- A Nightmare on Elm Street (3½ stars): I’d somehow managed to reach my 26th year of life without having ever seen any of the Nightmare movies. I was sort of skeptical going into this one, since my impression of Freddy Krueger is more an outrageously comical maniac than scary villain, but I was very pleasantly surprised. I definitely jumped at a few parts, which amused my sister greatly. This is probably going to become an annual viewing for me in October from now on.
- Rosemary’s Baby (2 stars): I feel like a bad cinephile because I just haven’t been able to connect with any of the Polanski films I’ve seen. The closest I came was THE NINTH GATE, but it fell apart in the final act. I didn’t particularly like any of the characters, with the exception of Ruth Gordon’s Minnie, but that’s entirely due to the actress rather than anything having to do with the story. I think I have trouble with weak females, and it’d be hard to find one much weaker than Rosemary. I was mostly just annoyed with her the whole time. There was a little bit of a creep factor, but not enough to make the movie (which felt very long [which is never good]) an enjoyable experience. I know some people rank this movie among the scariest of all time, but it didn’t do anything for me at all.
- Asylum (1½ star): Not much to say about this one. I was bored one afternoon, so I chose what I hoped would be a fun slasher film from Netflix Instant. It has some moments that are amusing, and that’s what gets it the extra half star to keep it above PROM NIGHT.
- Paranormal Activity (3½ stars): Quite the phenomenon this little film, huh? This movie about a couple fighting some sort of entity is scaring the heck out of people. I wasn’t really scared during the movie, but I was admittedly a little creeped out when I laid down to go to sleep that night. I think I would have found the movie itself more frightening if I didn’t suffer so severely from motion sickness. There’s a fair amount of handheld camera work, and, while it never comes close to the shakiness of CLOVERFIELD or THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT, it was still enough to force me to stand at the side of the theatre for the second half of the movie.
- The Invention of Lying (3½ stars): This film has been marketed as a comedy, but it’s really more of an existential dramedy. It tackles some heavy material with as light a touch as it can muster, but it still comes off a little clunky at times. That being said, it’s a movie that makes you think, and a mostly enjoyable one, plus I’d watch Ricky Gervais in just about anything.
- Slither (3½ stars): How much fun is this movie? I mean, it’s Nathan Fillion. Come on. If that’s not enough, I thought the “monster” was pretty clever, and the plot moves along nicely. It’s probably not going to blow your socks off or anything, but it’s a fun little horror comedy definitely worth checking out.
- Sleepy Hollow (3½ stars): Tim Burton + Johnny Depp. Need more? Fine. How about we throw in Christopher Walken as the Headless Horseman? Still no? OK, we’ll throw in some gorgeously gothic images, including the creepiest tree ever. Really, the shining star of the movie for me is Johnny Depp’s performance as Ichabod. It’s a role that’s a bit different than what I’d normally expect, in that Ichabod is really sort of a big, geeky, desperately-trying-to-be-brave-but-not-really-pulling-it-off wimp. And it’s utterly charming. To be honest, this isn’t a movie I adore (it’s no SWEENEY TODD or EDWARD SCISSORHANDS), but it’s one I come back to year after year. It’s just fun.
- Babette’s Feast (3½ stars): The first half of this movie is a little dry. It lacks the charm of, say, CHOCOLAT. Until it hits the third act. The entire movie, in my opinion, should have been the third act, because the third act is stellar. It’s inspiring; it’s entertaining; and, for the foodies out there, gorgeous food porn galore. So, if you can make it through the middle of the movie, where nothing much is happening, you’ll be very well-rewarded.
- An American Werewolf in London (3½ stars): If you’re a horror make-up aficionado, this movie is worth seeing for its landmark monster make-up alone. That being said, it’s also a highly entertaining and fairly gruesome take on the werewolf legend. To put it concisely, I really, really liked it. It starts out mostly horror comedy and then goes more for horror drama toward the end, but it works rather well. Bonus for those looking forward to THE WOLFMAN, the extra features on the latest DVD release have some interviews with make-up guru Rick Baker, who talks a bit about the upcoming film.
And that’s it. I’ll be wrapping up my horror viewing this week in time to indulge in Christmas movies galore starting in November. Yes, I’m one of those people. Speaking of which, are you all gearing up for NaNoWriMo? Still on the fence? If you’re not participating, are you ready to experience the disappearance of friends and family participating? My mom told me a couple of weeks ago that she’d been lamenting to my dad that they’d likely not see me for the entire month, so at least they’re prepared. 
Only 3 days to go, and then IT’S ON! Woo!
[FridayFlash] A Succubus’s Worst Nightmare
So, this week, I went for something I’d probably classify as R-rated. (Sorry, Mom!) Just a heads up there for you all. So, that’s that. Thanks for all the fridayflash support from week to week. It’s lovely seeing what everyone thinks, and I’m having a great time reading everyone else’s stuff, too! Be sure to check out all the other fridayflash entries, available by searching #fridayflash on twitter or via J.M. Strother’s weekly reports.
A SUCCUBUS’S WORST NIGHTMARE
They were at it again. She could hear them through the walls. She bounced onto her other side and buried her face in the cushions of the couch, pulling her blanket to her chin. Nope. She could still hear it. The moaning, the grunting, and — worst of all — the giggling. She scowled and grabbed a throw pillow to smush into her face. She considered trying to suffocate herself out of sheer annoyance. No matter how many layers of fabric stood between her ears and open air, she could still hear them.
She threw off the blankets and pillows and stood up. “That’s it!” she yelled. In response, more giggling. She snarled, walked to the wall and yanked the heirloom mirror off the wall. It had been her grandmother’s. But that was beside the point. She ignored her haggard reflection, turned the mirror around, and stomped into the bedroom.
There they were. Going at it, just like every night. His eyes closed with that stupid smile on his face. Bastard. And that thing on top of him! It rode him like one of those dirty, bar-room bucking broncos. Disgusting. Though, the woman had to admit, there was something attractive about the thing, if you liked that sort of style. And judging by the noises he was making, her husband obviously did. It took every ounce of will power she had not to smash the mirror over his face, but that’s not why she’d brought it in here. Frankly, she’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that the thing would go away on its own, but it had been months. And she was tired.
The woman sighed and held up the mirror. It caught the reflection of the thing, and the thing reveled in it, amping up its performance. Its ecstasy was sickening.
The woman rolled her eyes and set the mirror on the bed, where the thing could still see it — or rather see itself in it. She slipped off the rings from her left hand and stared at them for a minute. She’d never had them fused. She took one last look around the room and sighed. She’d never imagined things ending like this. But any sadness she might have felt was interrupted by a cry of joy from her husband. She was running out of time tonight, and she had no interest in waiting any longer.
She grabbed the thing’s left hand and slipped her rings onto its finger. The rocking of its hips stopped immediately, and, for the first time ever, it looked at her. The woman smiled. The thing slid off the man and looked into the mirror. It seemed confused at first, and then horrified. “Take it away,” it whispered. The woman complied, setting it on the floor beside the bed. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled, and the well-worn look of a poorly treated wife was gone. In short, she looked free. She looked back at the thing. She almost felt pity as she watched it slide under the covers. She watched it put a hand on the man’s chest only to have him turn over and away from it. It looked at her, distraught. “Please,” it whispered.
“Sorry, honey,” the woman replied. “If you want the milk, you’ve got to buy the cow, too.” And then the sun peaked over the horizon, and through the blinds, and into the room, and the woman disappeared. The thing remained, and a tear slid down its cheek.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
NaNoWriMo: A Call to Action
November is my favorite month of the year. It has it all: colorful leaves, usually a sprinkling of snow, the beginnings of seasonal cheer and décor, Thanksgiving, and (last, but definitely not least) my birthday.
As if November weren’t fantastic enough, the folks at The Office of Letters and Light had to go and pile on National Novel Writing Month. So, that makes November’s official tagline “How much awesome can you handle?”
This will be my fifth year participating in NaNoWriMo. I’ve “won” all previous four years (hitting my personal goals of 60k in 2007 and 75k in 2008, I might add, in the interest of tooting my own horn), but I have yet to come out of the month with a baby novel. To recap:
- In 2005, I wrote about a slightly fictionalized version of my five weeks of hell working at Wal-Mart right after I graduated college.
- In 2006, I wrote a truly horrible (if complete) supernatural-mystery-thriller featuring the worst dialog and the biggest Mary Sue of all time.
- In 2007, I wrote what a story about a young man who chooses not to speak and realized about 20,000 words in that it was supposed to become a screenplay. I finished it, but no one will ever see that version. Instead, it served as a very broad and early conceptual version of MUTE.
- In 2008, I tackled a huge concept I really had no business tackling: a collision of the modern and fairytale worlds on a ridiculously epic scale. It remains unfinished.
Despite having no novel to show for my four wins, I wouldn’t change my experience for anything. It was NaNoWriMo that reawakened my desire to write for a living after school and life had dampened it a bit. It was NaNoWriMo that proved to me that I could write something novel-length, even if I had a long way to go as a prose writer. With a little (or, on some days, a lot of) effort each day, I could be a writer.
So, here’s my advice. If you’ve ever toyed with the idea of writing a book, because it sounds like fun, or you think you have a story to tell, or you want to say you once did, or — God help you — you want to be a writer, then November is the perfect time to take the plunge. At no other time during the year will you have the same support you get from the NaNoWriMo site, its tools, and all the other crazies partaking in the rollercoaster adventure of writing a novel in a month with you.
Even if you think you won’t have time to write 50,000 words, I’d still encourage you to give it a shot. Even if you end up with 40,000 or 20,000 or 2,000 or 500 words, it’s likely more than you would have written otherwise, and that, my friends, is a victory. So, if you’re up for the challenge, head on over to the NaNoWriMo site and sign yourself up. If you like, feel free to add me as a buddy (you can do so easily by clicking on the participant icon on the right side of my blog). I’ve got a feeling that November 2009 is going up to be the best NaNoWriMo ever, so don’t miss out!
[FridayFlash] Jack and Jill
There are a number of fascinating Halloween legends out there, and I knew I wanted to write a story about this one. I found the opportunity when, a couple of weeks ago, my sister, inspired by Tim Burton’s sketches from Sweeney Todd, sketched a spooky image of her own. I loved it immediately, and I knew the woman in the picture had a story to tell. This is it.
JACK AND JILL
Jill hadn’t been in Ireland very long. Thus, when she saw the strange man holding what looked like a turnip walking down the road, her only consideration was that she was looking rather gaunt and feeling rather hungry. She needed the money, and if a turnip-loving man had it to offer, then she would happily provide whatever services he requested.
The villagers here didn’t like her, and she couldn’t honestly blame them. The women hated her because their men loved her, and the men hated her because they couldn’t help loving her. Needless to say, she was far from popular. She didn’t let it bother her, though. Whatever troubles she faced here, though, they were far easier to bear than what she’d left behind in England. Her hand instinctively brushed her stomach, and she felt the lump rising in her throat. She’d lost much.
Immediately, she sniffed and straightened herself up. She looked out the window again. Yes, the odd but thankfully handsome man was definitely heading this way. She pulled down her dress and pushed up 
her breasts, and then she opened the door before he could knock. She batted her long-lashed eyes at him, and he smiled back at her. Her eyes flitted to the turnip. Now she could see it was hollowed out, and inside it glowed an ember, brighter than any she’d seen in the admittedly pathetic fires she’d built in her decrepit hut.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, in a tone somewhere between playful and husky, having not yet figured out what sort of fantasy suited the man’s fancy.
“Indeed, I would, if you’re offering,” he replied, grinning in such a way that Jill couldn’t help but be a little charmed.
She moved aside, just enough for him to enter, but not without brushing her skin as he passed. “I see the fog cleared,” she remarked.
The man swung around. “Finally. And on Halloween night, no less.” His smile only got wider, as if he’d stumbled upon a pot of gold.
“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked, settling on husky.
“The name, my unfortunate beauty, is Jack.” He spotted a kettle on the dwindling fire and motioned to it before she could reply. “May I?”
“Of course,” she said, still a little unsettled by being called unfortunate. She shook it off, though. She had a job to do. “But please. Let me.”
She walked to the kettle, grabbed a mug from a nearby shelf, and poured him a cup of cider.
“It’s almost a shame,” the man mused, more to himself than to Jill.
“What is?”
He turned to face her, and she handed him the mug. He took a sip. “You’re not from here, I take it.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, giggling as she once again batting her eyelashes. Perhaps playful was his preference after all.
“Unfortunately so,” he replied.
Again with that word. She felt her brow furrow just for a second, and then she simply smiled at him, wide-eyed. He set down the mug, but not the turnip, and moved toward her. His hand found her neck, and his fingers found her hair, and then, his lips found hers. They were cold, and he tasted like smoke. She pulled away, demurely, just as he began to pull her closer.
“Now, Jack,” she purred, stroking the exposed skin at his collar. “If that’s your business tonight, then we should talk about… compensation.”
Jack moved away, his grin even wider than she would have believed possible. “My dear,” he said. “My poor, unfortunate soul. My business here is utterly finished.”
She stared at him, perplexed. He grabbed the mug of cider and then backed out the door, taking it with him. Jill followed him outside the house without thinking. She peered into the darkness, but the fog had returned. There was no sight of him. It was then that she noticed it: in her hand was the turnip, and the ember inside it was glowing brighter than ever.
“Jack?” she called into the night. But there was no answer. She turned to go back inside only to find the door closed. She tried the handle, but the door had latched, and it would not give. She sighed. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to ask for a neighbor’s help. She walked down the road toward the next home, cursing the man Jack, who had stolen a kiss and been too stingy to pay for it.
When she came to the path leading to her neighbor’s door, she could not force her feet onto it, no matter how hard she tried. She told herself it was fate, or God, or destiny, forcing her onward to the next house. But when she came to it, she could not approach it either. And so she walked on, and on, and on. After a number of hours, or days, or weeks, or perhaps even years, she could no longer remember why she walked. All that remained was a hope that the fog would lift.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
Recap: 12 October 2009
Mega Movie Recap — GO!
What I Watched
- Memento (4 stars): Finally got around to seeing this one. While the resolution left me feeling a bit cold, there’s no denying the brilliance of the storytelling here. The true feat comes in making the audience feel the same confusion as frustration as the main character, often without even realizing it. It evokes a sort of detached sympathy quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced with a film before. So, even though it’s not a film I particularly enjoyed, it’s certainly one that I appreciate.
- Bullets Over Broadway (3½ stars): Woody Allen does his take on gangster movies in this film about what happens when a gangster infiltrates a Broadway production. It’s a comical and enjoyable examination of the lengths people are willing to go to for the sake of art.
- The Evil Dead (3 stars): This movie is pretty ridiculous but in a very fun way. I jumped about six times whilst watching, which always ups the enjoyment of a schlocky horror movie.
- Powder Blue (2 stars): Oh, what a mess. I think this is what happens when you get a bunch of high-calibre, talented actors who make a movie because they think it will win awards instead of because it has a compelling story. I’m not sure what the point of this movie was, to be honest. In an effort to concentrate on the positive, some of the performances were in fact pretty solid. Jessica Biel continues to impress me, doing much with very little story-wise.
- The Informant! (3 stars): This movie was mind-boggling, but in a good way. Like Memento, we’ve got an unreliable narrator here, too, as played by Matt Damon (who does a fantastic job playing against type, I might add). This isn’t an out-and-out comedy, but it is very funny in a sort of wtf-is-going-on-is-this-guy-for-real sort of way.
- Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (5 stars): A perennial favorite, my sister and I had been waiting to watch this movie since some time in August, but we made ourselves wait ’til October. As always, totally worth the wait. You can see my original review here if you’re interested.
- The Singing Detective (2 stars): Another mess of a movie here, I’m afraid. This one never landed theatrical distribution, despite having Robert Downey Jr., Mel Gibson, and Robin Wright(-Penn) leading the cast. I’m not familiar with the critically acclaimed BBC miniseries, but I have to imagine the film was a letdown. RDJ is hard to look at for most of the film, which is part of the story, but… Well, to paraphrase RDJ in Tropic Thunder, never go full-psoriatic. Additionally, if the Singing Detective story had been more prevalent and better woven throughout, it would have been a more solid film. As is, it’s a pretty big disappointment.
- Couples Retreat (2½ stars): Another middling romantic comedy. The difference here is I felt this one had a lot of potential going in, but with lack of story, lack of likeable characters, and lack of any truly laugh-out-loud moments, everything just fell flat. It’s not an entirely disagreeable disappointment if you can leave all your hopes for something uncommon at the door.
- Gangs of New York (3½ stars): Can I put in a request for a truncated edition of this film? Because I think I would have really enjoyed it had it been, say,117 minutes instead of 167 minutes. It’s a gorgeous film, and the characters are really interesting when the story is actually moving. Because it meanders so much, though, it feels even longer than the nearly three hours it does take.
- The Exorcist (3½ stars): As a horror movie, I’m rather nonplussed about this film. I don’t find it particularly horrifying or unsettling, at least not in the way that many people do. However, as a psychological study, it’s really quite fascinating. As shocking as some of the violence is, the truly chilling aspect is the psychological games the demons play with those trying to cast them out.
- Apartment Zero (3 stars): Despite an uneven tone and some pretty big pacing issues, this is actually an interesting little movie. It stars Colin Firth (who is very good, per usual) as a young man beginning to show some symptoms of the psychological illness that has relegated his mother to hospice care. When he takes on a tenant for his spare room to save money, he begins to suspect that his new roommate might not be exactly who he says he is. What’s heartbreaking is that he doesn’t really care; he just wants a friend, a confidant, a parental figure. The biggest issue is I never really felt the danger or the mystery. There’s never really any doubt about the roommate, and none of the characters ever seem to be in true danger. I’d love to see a smart remake that addresses these issues; it’d make for a pretty stellar little thriller.
- Night of the Living Dead [1968] (3 stars): Again, this one, for me, was more effective as a psychological study than a horror movie. Though, having said that, it did make me afraid of the dark and give me nightmares. Honestly, I think this is one that might grow on me in time, but on first full viewing, it didn’t do much to really grab me.
And that’s it. I’m on a horror kick now that October here, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m rather unversed in horror, to be honest, so feel free to leave me some recommendations!
[FridayFlash] You Have Been Replaced
I’m cheating a bit and posting something I wrote last year. Give me a break, OK? I had to make pie! From scratch — crust and all! Anyway, excuses aside, I normally stay pretty clear of poetry, but this dropped out of my brain one day, and I kind of liked it. Hope you do, too.
YOU HAVE BEEN REPLACED
Dear Sir or Madam
We must express our sincerest regrets
And please know that you have our deepest apologies
But we simply must inform you
That you have been replaced.
Perhaps this comes as a shock, and perhaps it does not.
We didn’t quite see it coming ourselves
But foresight has never been a strong point for us.
At first we thought of the New Component
As nothing more than a simple accessory.
A supplement, if you will.
But as time moved forward
It became clear that there was a hole of sorts
A mold that needed to be filled
A mold that you had indeed created
And yet, you seemed to be outgrowing it.
Rebelling against it.
Trying to reshape it to your new form.
And we came to realize
It wasn’t you we needed.
We needed the mold.
And the mold needs to be filled.
And the New Component fits.
And so, while we know it might be awkward
To see yourself replaced
In niches, in requests, in photographs, in social situations, in minds, in hearts
Know that we enjoyed you while you were here
And we wish you the best
But the time has come
And you have been replaced.
All the best,
The Management
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Bronze Head
Had to do a little wikipedia hopping to find this week’s inspiration, but I eventually settled on something that felt fitting for the first FridayFlash of October. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks (as always) for reading!
THE BRONZE HEAD
Sylvia had become an expert at spotting diamonds in the rough on the shelves of the town’s thrift store. She had an eye for what things could be rather than what they were. Her friends all eyed her impeccably and uniquely decorated home with envy, and she reveled in it.
The bronze bust had caught her eye immediately. She ran through her mental packet of swatches and immediately settled on a cool blue to cover the ghastly gold. Yes, it would be the perfect finishing touch for her parlor when she was done with it. She rescued it from the shelf and carried it to the register, cradling it as if it were an actual head. She even refused to hand it over to the cashier, instead choosing to show him the price tag. He’d seen weirder behavior, though, and thus he didn’t bat an eye.
A couple of days later, she set to work in her garage, wielding the can of spray paint like a graffiti pro. In mere seconds, the head had a lovely new sheen. “Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“I was partial to the bronze, to be honest, but I suppose I could get used to this.”
She screamed and dropped the can of spray paint. She pressed her hand over her mouth, staring at the head in horror. It stared back, unfazed. She shook her head and walked out into the fresh air. “Paint fumes,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all. Just paint fumes.”
Sylvia returned to the garage, avoiding eye contact with the bust as she picked up the paint can from the floor. She took a deep breath, squared off against the bust, and then looked it in the eye. “You did not just speak,” she told it in no uncertain terms.
It raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. The paint can clattered to the floor again as she ran into the house. The bust grimaced, its expression suggesting this reaction was not uncommon.
Greg came home several hours later to find his wife sitting on the sofa, staring devotedly at nothing in particular. “Honey?” She looked up at him, as if confused to see him there. “Are you OK?”
She jumped up and grabbed onto him, almost as if she were afraid of falling. “Take it back,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Take it back,” she repeated, with more intensity.
“You’re kind of freaking me out, Sylvie.” She pulled him back to the garage door, opened it, and pointed to the bust. “Didn’t you just buy that?”
“Take it back!” The meekness was gone, but the horror was not.
“Can’t we just throw it away? It wasn’t that expensive, was it?”
She shook her head fervently and backed away, closing the door on him. Greg sighed. He walked over to the bust and picked it up. “You’re awfully sad-looking,” he said, examining the face of the sculpture. “Let’s get you back to Goodwill, I guess.” He stuck the head under his arm and got back in his car.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot. He looked over to the bust in the passenger’s seat. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” he said, grabbing it and stepping out of the car. “What’d you do to her anyway?”
“I think I scared her,” the bust answered.
Greg dropped the head onto the pavement, where it landed with a thud, punctuated by the ringing of the hidden metal. Greg bent down and peered at it. He nudged it with his toe. Finally, he shook his head, even chuckling at himself a little. He picked up the bust and dusted off the gravel. The paint was marred where the bust had landed, and the bronze was showing through once again.
No emotion registered on the face of the cashier when Greg walked in with the bust. “We don’t take refunds,” was all he said.
“Um, that’s OK,” Greg said, setting the bust on the counter. “Donation.”
“Did you want a receipt for taxes?”
“No, thanks.” And with that Greg was out the door.
The cashier walked up to the bust. “Back again?”
“So it seems,” it answered.
The cashier picked it up and carried it back to its dust-lined shelf. “You’re not giving up hope, are you?”
The bust seemed to mull over the question for a moment. “No. I suppose not. After all, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” the cashier said, giving it a friendly punch on the chin.
The cashier walked back to the register, and the bust, as it always did, fixed its gaze on the painting on the far wall, waiting once again to catch someone’s eye.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
Ruminations on À Rebours
Where to start? As Oscar Wilde muses in Chapter 10 of The Picture of Dorian Gray
[Mild spoilers for À Rebours follow.]
À Rebours (or Against the Grain or Against Nature, depending on the translation) follows a middle-aged man by the name of Des Esseintes, who has experienced everything he believes life has to offer and is simply sick of it. He retreats to a home outside Paris and designs his life there so that he only has to have minimal interaction with his two servants.
Des Esseintes is fascinated with falsehood and the ways in which man has learned to imitate nature and, in his opinion often exceed it — from flowers to scents to jewels to colors. At one point, he decides he is in need of a trip to London, and after spending only an evening, decides that he’s had his fill, that his imagination had served up these images and experiences just as well if not better than the real thing, and he finds himself content to never leave his home away from civilization again.
Sadly for him, it comes to pass that his doctor (and numerous other specialists in nervous disorders, whom he consults when he is unhappy with his doctor’s prescription) insists that he move back to Paris and find a way to enjoy the company of others. Even this is anti-climactic. As distasteful as he finds the idea, he is deathly afraid of, well, death and illness. Thus he would rather be psychologically miserable than physically so.
This reaction to a life of excess, to having experienced everything he believes there is to experience, leads him to a life where he wants to experience nothing. He wants to ruminate, to remember, to analyze, but never to experience. In the most severe bouts of his illness, he even goes so far as to prefer nourishment via enema and is disappointed when his doctor prescribes a return to food.
[Spoilers for The Picture of Dorian Gray follow.]
Knowing the relation of the two novels (À Rebours is the unnamed novel delivered to Dorian Gray by Lord Henry Wotton, a novel Dorian himself calls poisonous), it’s practically impossible not to compare and contrast Des Esseintes and Dorian Gray. Dorian, of course, experiences none of the ravaging effects of the excessive lifestyle that Des Esseintes does. Even so, he does become bored and introverted and tired of society, though he never wishes to escape it in the way that Des Esseintes does.
Nonetheless, both men do tire of exploring the sin of gluttony, and, when they do, they take decidedly different paths. Dorian decides he wants to be a good person. He breaks off the affair he’s having with a young woman before it gets too serious for her to end up another Sibyl Vane. (It’s worth noting that, shortly after his shunning of Sibyl, he does in fact profess to want to become a good person. However, this is done out of fear and duty more than anything else. After all, at that point in Dorian’s life, there were still plenty of other, more immediately satisfying sensations to be had, and he was easily convinced to leave that conviction by the wayside.) Des Esseintes, it seems, never had much interest in becoming virtuous. Once he’d experienced everything he felt there was to experience, he gave way to sloth and apathy.
Their reactions to this aspect of their lives are telling. The gluttony of experience for Des Esseintes was a mere academic study. Dorian, on the other hand, was devoted to beauty and pleasure. Des Esseintes was a bored academic; Dorian was, essentially, a constantly fascinated hedonist.
The Effect of Beauty on Personality
Des Esseintes was a sickly child, but not uncared for. He received appropriate and above-standard care at the Jesuit school he attended as a youth. Because the emphasis for his success in life was always put on his intellect, he spent his efforts developing it. Despite his skepticism regarding the religious beliefs of his professors, he was very well respected for his mind and encouraged to think and explore for himself. Because of that, he was also resistant to influence. A man like Henry Wotton would likely have been an interesting companion for a time (before Des Esseintes bored of him), but he would never have had the influence on Des Esseintes that he was able to have on Dorian.
Dorian was beautiful, but unloved. It is not until he met Basil that he experienced any sort of adoration. Wotton only serves to further this emphasis on Dorian’s beauty (and youth) as his only perceived worth. Dorian is, in essence, a sort of cypher. He is a blank slate for other people’s philosophies and interests. Basil and Wotton praise his youth and beauty; he comes to believe he must treasure these things above all else. As a young man, very much a boy in so many ways, to have his first experiences with love and encouragement and being wanted be based on his looks, it is no wonder he makes the flippant oath that he does. After all, having known what is like to be without those feelings, it’s truly horrific for him, especially in his emotionally immature state, to imagine being without them once his youth and beauty fade.
Intrinsic vs. Extrinsic Pride
Throughout the course of his life, Des Esseintes has to deal with illness and the failure of his body to comply with his desires. This culminates in what could have been a final blow to his pride: impotence. Even then, Des Esseintes takes no responsibility for his ails — neither physical nor social — instead choosing to blame genetics and the intellectual failings of others. There is never a moment where he wavers in his pride; instead, he retreats to a place where his pride will meet no challenges. He abandons the world because it doesn’t meet his standards. He sees his own intelligence as so far above the masses that he can’t bear even the smallest interaction. He simply recoils from anything that would challenge his pride. For a man so interested in questioning everything else, he never bothers to question himself, an act which makes him interesting but entirely unsympathetic.
Dorian, however, has no such refuge. In his own portrait, he sees how each of his actions should affect him, and he has to live with the knowledge that it hasn’t. This phenomenon is alternatingly horrifying and fascinating to him. In essence, he lives with the theoretical responsibility of his actions, but he has no physical or (for a very long time at least) social consequences. Because of this, there is a constant psychological tug of war going on in Dorian’s mind between the proof that his actions are depraved and the fact that he doesn’t have to suffer for them. Having never had any intrinsic pride instilled in him as a youth, as Des Esseintes had, he found his pride in extrinisic things: in others’ reactions to him, in his acquisition of beautiful things, and in the change of the painting. He is both massively proud of his ability to get away with the things he does (via the painting, not his own doing) and terribly ashamed of those same actions and behaviors. The final blow to his already tenuous pride, the thing that pushes him over the brink, is Wotton’s flippant assertion that he is, essentially, a lost cause. To hear from his mentor, the architect of so much of his psyche, his constant source of encouragement, that there is no hope for him or his soul? It’s the last push over the edge for a mind that had always been unsure, emotional, impetuous, and desperate for approval.
It’s likely Des Esseintes would have found Dorian to be rather simpering, too emotional, and, frankly, annoying. Dorian is sort of like the little brother, trying very hard to be like his older sibling, but never quite succeeding. However, it’s for those very reasons that I connected so strongly with Dorian’s story. I was intrigued by Des Esseintes, but there was no emotional connection to the man. He was interesting but entirely unlikeable. Sure, I could understand some of his views; I even agreed with some of them. We see him struggle against his health, against others, but he never looks inside himself. He was an interesting man, but I didn’t care for him. In that way, Dorian is his inverse. I was invested in Dorian; I wanted him to rise above his influences. Watching his descent was difficult enough, but my heart broke when Wotton crushed his last hope. In the end, though, they both died (or at least it can be assumed in Des Esseintes’ case) as they lived: Des Esseintes, bitterly and stubbornly misanthropic in the only company he could tolerate — his own; and Dorian, passionately, impetuously, and tragically yearning for something he could never obtain.
