Basic Principles of New Historicism
New Historicism is a branch of literary theory that concerns itself with historical events displayed in the text, how said events are viewed by the author or characters, events in the text that represent the historical period of the author, and how texts (fictional and nonfictional) from a given period influence each other. The founder of this school of literary theory is Stephen Greenblatt who also coined the name. Stephen Greenblatt is famous for his studies on Shakespeare; and in relation to the theory, he is of the idea that texts are influenced by the historical period they are written in and not the time period they are written about. This study has been criticized by several critics for being a "reduced" version of Historical Criticism. Harold Bloom and Camille Paglia were among many critics who did not favor the idea. Michel Foucault's notion of the "episteme" (from The Order of Things) was seen to be very similar to the principles of New Historicism. "Episteme" suggests that cultural and political ideas determine the body of knowledge at any given time. For example, we wouldn't know exactly what people in the 1700s thought. If we read any work from that period, we would not have a full understanding of that work unless we lived in that era and really understood their culture. New Historicism suggests that we interpret texts based on the cultural practices we come from. Texts, on the one hand, are products of the historical moments they were written in. On the other hand, historical study is subjective. That is to say, New Historicists "interest themselves in the interpretative constructions which the members of a society or culture apply to their experience."
Analysis
The four memoirs on this blog are all written in March 2014, in a century that still feels most of its past century's influences, such that many 20th century writers and thinkers, like Michel Foucault and Ayn Rand to name a few, are still widely read today.
The background of these authors are not known; but common themes among the four are (1) the love for writing, (2) the need for writing, (3) the inseparability of the writer from her writing, and (4) a never-ending "love affair" with writing. The art of writing, for the longest time, was always seen as a pleasurable thing to do, if not euphoric. Different writers feel differently about their writing; but it would be safe to say that writing is indeed a lifelong "career"--one in which there is no retirement age. In short, once a person proclaims himself a writer, he will always and forever be a writer from that moment on, no matter how awful his writings or distressing his writing habits.
Following the 20th century's new face of memoir-writing, these four memoirs that dealt with "writinghood" were written by the authors themselves. Each author talked about why they write, what writing meant to them, how writing is able to bring them comfort and clarity, and why they enjoy writing. Other types of memoirs would be about a one's personal experiences or about one's experiences with other people, but these memoirs, written about their own writing life, makes for a really unique theme.
Sources:
http://www.iep.utm.edu/literary/
http://public.wsu.edu/~delahoyd/new.hist.html
https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/722/09/
"Why I Write" by Terry Tempest Williams
A manifesto by author Terry Tempest Williams, published in a book on creative nonfiction
I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.
I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things
differently perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure.
I write against power and for democracy.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write in a solitude born out of community.
I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that make me complacent.
I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain.
I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know.
I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy.
I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt.
I write out of my anger and into my passion.
I write from the stillness of night anticipating -- always anticipating.
I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me.
I write because I believe in words.
I write because it is a dance with paradox.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in
sand.
I write because it is the way I take long walks.
I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness.
I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees.
I write as ritual.
I write out of my inconsistencies. I write with the colors of memory.
I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as witness to what I imagine.
I write by grace and grit.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write for the surprise of a sentence.
I write with the belief of alchemists.
I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding.
I write past the embarassment of exposure.
I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realise it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.
I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.
I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things
differently perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure.
I write against power and for democracy.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write in a solitude born out of community.
I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that make me complacent.
I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain.
I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know.
I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy.
I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt.
I write out of my anger and into my passion.
I write from the stillness of night anticipating -- always anticipating.
I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me.
I write because I believe in words.
I write because it is a dance with paradox.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in
sand.
I write because it is the way I take long walks.
I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness.
I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees.
I write as ritual.
I write out of my inconsistencies. I write with the colors of memory.
I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as witness to what I imagine.
I write by grace and grit.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write for the surprise of a sentence.
I write with the belief of alchemists.
I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding.
I write past the embarassment of exposure.
I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realise it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.
I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.
"Write I Will" by Ria Puangco
Writing is a desperate
inevitability. I write or I die. Inside, in that hidden part of me nestles the
seed of who I am, who I was and who I can be. When my system refuses to form
healing words, I feel the rot from that seed creep out to my organs, to my
bones, seeping sepsis in my blood stream to release in sweat and tears and,
inexorably, depression.
I write to touch the beauty
around me. Colors named, textures contoured, my self settles into my chair,
breathing this air, on this afternoon. This box of a room suddenly holds
precious my niece’s laughter, notes we sing together, whispered stories with my
sister, talk of tattoos-aliens-superheroes with my brothers, and my mother’s
low-toned urgent confidences. Through words I can push my face into my fleece
blanket and rub, writhe, revel, remember and, sometimes, even forget.
I write to access that part of
me where magic and humor reside. Words wave over the gregarious grown-up to
reveal this still wide-eyed girl eager with hands clasped together in perpetual
anticipation of something amazing. Crafted sentences discover pathways bridging
event to event, winding between brick heavy constructs and high-rising
high-flying possibilities. Paragraph portals open on tremendous paradoxes where
I often stay in my quiet moments, enjoying the misfit. Here, I am not an
equation. Here, I can look out to people in my life and scream, “I ain’t a
function of any constant set of variables, yo!” and I
won’t even feel guilty about them slang.
I write because I love to laugh
and this life is so much funnier when you try to put into symbol-words this
expansive nebulous intense experience of existing. Consider this overheard conversation:
Girl 1: I love your hair! How do
you keep it so long?
Girl 2: I don’t cut it.
No words could describe the desperate giggle trying to come
out of me as I sit in a cubicle. Or maybe I could say it felt like a full
bladder. (cue incredulous guffaw)
"Why I Write" by Linds Boughton
I write to see if I can
make sense
when I'm tired and I'm
feeling dense
to write my homework for
my writing class
with no inspiration or a
prompt or a half-full glass
to remind me of what I'm
about to write.
I write my morning pages
at the break of dawn
when my mind is fresh
and hasn't started thinking
I write how I feel when
I'm all alone
about the rays of the
sun that lights the moon that's sinking
grateful for our daily
bread, I write to start my day right.
I also write when I'm
upset and what great length I go
Indeed to exercise my
right to feel this way
No matter I'm right or
wrong when I'm feeling low
Let me express and vent
about my dismay
better for me to write
than to shop to feel good
I write to pay tribute,
I love writing cards
to say thank you or I
love you oh how I miss you my dear
I write to say sorry and
for what I said please discard
"Speak what we feel, not what we ought to
say" says King Lear
then
I cry over spilled milk then write some more.
My problem at the
moment is that I don't write enough
I must write daily to
make it part of my life
I should write anytime
when I cry and laugh
on every aha moment
when it cuts like a knife
those moments that I
can freeze and frame when I write.
I love it when I write
when my heart drives my hand
to sing the words in
melody, with rhythm and rhyme
of phrases and sentences
like Mozart's lullaby
in solitude I write,
oh heavens on high
strumming the words
through crests and throughs my soul embrace.
"Writing" by Leslie Cruz
Today, I write because I want to. I am encouraged. I am inspired. I need to do something for myself. Yesterday, I wrote because I had to. I was forced to join Bamboo Shoots. I joined a
national writing contest for young writers and won second place. A banner
announcing the victory hung outside the school.
The Children’s Media Center insisted the trophy belonged to the school.
I wrote a haiku in 4th grade.
I remembered the first two lines up until 2012. I wrote a “book” – How the Rabbit Got Its Cotton Tail – in elementary school that was
illustrated by my classmate, Mai Long.
We won a prize. She kept the
book. She said since she illustrated it
and did more work than my writing, it should be hers. I became the editor in chief of Bamboo Shoots when I was in 5th
grade. Phil de Imus argued with me and
said HE was the editor. I think I wrote
for the school paper in Middle School. I
think I wrote for the school paper in 5th and 6th
form. I was Features Editor for The MHC News. I had to fight for the
position. Claudia Acunto became Managing
Editor her freshman year. I took a
Creative Writing class my last semester of senior year. I wrote about the bridge of sighs in
Venice. Mrs. McHenry said Venice evoked
a “sinister mystique”. I wish I took it
earlier. I threw out my essays in the
midst of a cleaning frenzy. I should
have saved them. A reminder of my college senior self. I was a staffer of the Ateneo Law Journal. I write on a daily basis for work as a lawyer.
I love writing letters and post cards. I
hate writing e-mail messages to friends; they deserve a hand-written letter or
a post card at the very least. I bought
a journal with writing prompts. It
remains unopened. I re-wrote the last line of my fourth grade haiku some time
in 2012. It was printed on a fan. I can no longer find the fan. I had to compose a new haiku for Randy
Bustamante. Instead of acting out a
scripted monologue for a “talent” show, I wrote my own. A friend said she would read my writing. My heart leapt. I was encouraged. I was inspired. I took a leap and did something for myself –
I enrolled in this class. My artistry is
writing.
"Why I Write" by Leilani Chavez
I
was seventeen when I had my first taste of belated rebellion. There I was,
Capri in hand, hiding in a videoke room along Estrada with three friends. The
smoke whirled around us, leaving a pungent smell of combusted tobacco in
uniforms we would later sprinkle with talcum powder. I was busy practicing the
deed when one of my companions asked: Why do you smoke?
What
I said then, I would repeat eight years after, when that same friend asked a
more personal question: Why do you write? The scenario was, however, different.
No hidings, no uniforms, no smoky secrets. We were huddled in a corner table at
a coffee shop in Greenbelt when she dropped the question. I, feigning
composure, pulled out a white stick, fingered the familiar fine gold lines,
flicked light, and after a breath or two of nicotine, answered with cinematic
confidence: “Because I can.”
I
have long quit smoking. I still write.
Looking
back, I was never truthful; I didn’t know why I write. I just do it. I have
been writing for as long as I can recall; I don’t remember not knowing how to
write. Yet for the two decades that I have been with the craft, I never sat
down to ponder why or how I do it. It was imbued in me, the way babies know
Mommy and Daddy or a group of sparrows glide in sync across the purple fingers
of twilight. It was not a question of like or love or passion, it was out of
habit—sheer familiarity.
If
I delve deeper, I would always remember an instance when I was around six. My
grandmother was braiding my hair for school and having no better thing to do, I
watched her from the vanity mirror. Amidst the wizened forehead, freckles, and
the noticeable jowl, her eyelashes fluttered like dragonfly wings, shading hazel
eyes that would brighten as light hit them. She was the most beautiful woman in
the world.
When
she was done, we would wait by the front porch and languidly stare at my
neighbours. Kim’s Dad was wearing his usual crisp green shirt, the Contreras’s
red beetle zoomed past, and my friend mouthed ‘See you in class’ by the window.
And as the world breathed around me, I wondered: Why do I see the sun and not
the sweat on my forehead? Why do I hear the lawnmover and inhale the sharp
aroma of freshly cut grass? Do people see me the way I see them—a mass of hair,
eyes, ears, and flesh? Do they read my mind? Why do I feel and why do I care?
These questions played in my head until the school bus arrived and steered my
thoughts to class assignments and Polly Pockets and Pippi Longstockings.
When
I got home, I wrote down those insights in a journal, waiting for answers.
Sometimes I get it, sometimes I don’t. And it has continued until my
grandmother stopped braiding my hair, until we moved to a different house, until
I grew out of dolls. This tug-of-war between me and my writing has become my
undisturbed world. Sometimes repulsed, sometimes enthralled, my writing and I
have shared a love-hate relationship through the years. And it went on until I
met Edward Hopper.
Edward
and I are both painters. I use words, he used acrylic. We both love the movies.
The desire for nothing—for what is absent from the senses—filled his works and
completed the missing puzzle of my writing. Or at least justified why I grew
enamored of the unexplained things. And if my friend were to ask me again why I
write, I would say:
I
write to show what’s there—and ironically, what isn’t there. I write to bridge
my two worlds: the one I can sense and the one that dances in existential
fragments. My writing is a confluence of the tangible and the impalpable, a
bridge, a reminder that I exist and my thoughts are real. I write to reify
silences, feelings, and weird passions that swirl like cigarette smoke,
shrouded by sensual desires.
I
write to make meanings, to make meanings matter.
Introduction
About the Memoir
In early times, the memoir, a genre of creative nonfiction, was far from the autobiography. People often wrote about others than about their own lives. It was only until the19th and 20th centuries when people started writing in the first-person and about their stories with other people. Two examples I could give for this category are My Years with Ayn Rand by Nathaniel Branden and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein. Although the two titles are not necessarily the most popular of the genre, I still believe that both possess qualities of great memoirs of this category. Both books, written in first-person, were not about the authors themselves. Nathaniel Branden, in the earlier chapters of his book, gave generous details recounting his experiences, correspondences, and affairs with the literary genius Ayn Rand. Gertrude Stein, another literary genius, wrote the book about Alice B. Toklas with the latter being the narrator. It was also rumored that Toklas was Gertrude Stein's best friend.
It was only during the late 20th centuries when people started writing about themselves, hence the growth of a more sophisticated genre called memoir-writing. Today, this practice entails writing about personal experiences, whether about oneself or another, and an ability to translate experiences into metaphors. In that sense, one can writes about his own life experiences while at the same time shedding light on bigger insights into life. What did the writer learn from a particular anecdote. What insight can a reader gain from reading that anecdote? Nowadays, memoirs come in various hybrid forms as writers always find it necessary to deconstruct and deviate from traditional notions of any discipline, be it prose or poetry. Some notable personal memoirs are Night by Elie Wiesel, Chinese Cinderella by Adeline Yen Mah, and Walden by Henry David Thoreau. What is common among these works is that their authors wrote during or about the time of war and their experiences in it. A predominant facet of most memoirs I have read is the setting of a war in history. One of my favorite memoirs written by a Filipino is the memoir of David M. Consunji, entitled A Passion to Build: A Memoir of David M. Consunji. Consunji is a man I look up to for his character, prudence, intellect, leadership, family-orientedness, and many other positive traits. In his memoir, he wrote about his family from both sides (I admire him for an ability to recall events and people in such detail), humble beginnings, education, war experiences (Japanese and American occupation), company's founding, family life, life in construction, and many other enriching stories. Reading those anecdotes, I was able to get a glimpse of what life in the Philippines was like in earlier times. People were more conservative, religious, and pietous; and education during the Americal colonization was entirely different. A classroom would look like a class in an international school today--there would be classmates of different nationalities, and all were taught and disciplined according to the views of the learning institution.
The rule of thumb in nonfiction is to tell the truth. However, the harder challenge lies in how far one can actually tell the truth. Surely, one cannot remember every word that was said, and one cannot be accurate in writing about a person one has known only for 5 years. Memoir-writing becomes more complicated when truth becomes a requirement. Of course, this aspect is what sets it apart from other forms of prose or poetry. The world of nonfiction becomes a newer world to explore. While Montaigne and Sei Shonagon are canonical writers of this genre, writers like Joan Didion, Julio Cortazar, and Eliot Weinberger are more contemporary authors. The world of nonfiction still remains a mystery to me, and it is a field I would definitely love to pursue and study.
About the Four Memoirs
This blog contains four memoirs by four different writers, each on the theme "Why I Write." This theme was patterned after a poem-prose written by Terry Tempest Williams. You can find the manuscript on this blog. These memoirs are unpublished workshop manuscripts.
Further Reading
The website below contains writings on the same theme. On this website, writers explain why they write.
http://www.nwp.org/cs/public/print/resource/3663
Why do people write? And perhaps the most important question should be, "Why do you write?"
Sources:
http://socrates.berkeley.edu/~kihlstrm/memoir.htm
http://iwp.uiowa.edu/iwp-courses/distance-learning-courses/upcoming-courses/advanced-nonfiction-seminar
In early times, the memoir, a genre of creative nonfiction, was far from the autobiography. People often wrote about others than about their own lives. It was only until the19th and 20th centuries when people started writing in the first-person and about their stories with other people. Two examples I could give for this category are My Years with Ayn Rand by Nathaniel Branden and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein. Although the two titles are not necessarily the most popular of the genre, I still believe that both possess qualities of great memoirs of this category. Both books, written in first-person, were not about the authors themselves. Nathaniel Branden, in the earlier chapters of his book, gave generous details recounting his experiences, correspondences, and affairs with the literary genius Ayn Rand. Gertrude Stein, another literary genius, wrote the book about Alice B. Toklas with the latter being the narrator. It was also rumored that Toklas was Gertrude Stein's best friend.
It was only during the late 20th centuries when people started writing about themselves, hence the growth of a more sophisticated genre called memoir-writing. Today, this practice entails writing about personal experiences, whether about oneself or another, and an ability to translate experiences into metaphors. In that sense, one can writes about his own life experiences while at the same time shedding light on bigger insights into life. What did the writer learn from a particular anecdote. What insight can a reader gain from reading that anecdote? Nowadays, memoirs come in various hybrid forms as writers always find it necessary to deconstruct and deviate from traditional notions of any discipline, be it prose or poetry. Some notable personal memoirs are Night by Elie Wiesel, Chinese Cinderella by Adeline Yen Mah, and Walden by Henry David Thoreau. What is common among these works is that their authors wrote during or about the time of war and their experiences in it. A predominant facet of most memoirs I have read is the setting of a war in history. One of my favorite memoirs written by a Filipino is the memoir of David M. Consunji, entitled A Passion to Build: A Memoir of David M. Consunji. Consunji is a man I look up to for his character, prudence, intellect, leadership, family-orientedness, and many other positive traits. In his memoir, he wrote about his family from both sides (I admire him for an ability to recall events and people in such detail), humble beginnings, education, war experiences (Japanese and American occupation), company's founding, family life, life in construction, and many other enriching stories. Reading those anecdotes, I was able to get a glimpse of what life in the Philippines was like in earlier times. People were more conservative, religious, and pietous; and education during the Americal colonization was entirely different. A classroom would look like a class in an international school today--there would be classmates of different nationalities, and all were taught and disciplined according to the views of the learning institution.
The rule of thumb in nonfiction is to tell the truth. However, the harder challenge lies in how far one can actually tell the truth. Surely, one cannot remember every word that was said, and one cannot be accurate in writing about a person one has known only for 5 years. Memoir-writing becomes more complicated when truth becomes a requirement. Of course, this aspect is what sets it apart from other forms of prose or poetry. The world of nonfiction becomes a newer world to explore. While Montaigne and Sei Shonagon are canonical writers of this genre, writers like Joan Didion, Julio Cortazar, and Eliot Weinberger are more contemporary authors. The world of nonfiction still remains a mystery to me, and it is a field I would definitely love to pursue and study.
About the Four Memoirs
This blog contains four memoirs by four different writers, each on the theme "Why I Write." This theme was patterned after a poem-prose written by Terry Tempest Williams. You can find the manuscript on this blog. These memoirs are unpublished workshop manuscripts.
Further Reading
The website below contains writings on the same theme. On this website, writers explain why they write.
http://www.nwp.org/cs/public/print/resource/3663
Why do people write? And perhaps the most important question should be, "Why do you write?"
Sources:
http://socrates.berkeley.edu/~kihlstrm/memoir.htm
http://iwp.uiowa.edu/iwp-courses/distance-learning-courses/upcoming-courses/advanced-nonfiction-seminar
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)