Winnie-the-Pooh

It looks like the nature of schooling is going to force this blog to be a once-in-a-while affair, but that'll make it all the sweeter when I do post. I'll shoot for once every two weeks, like dear ole' sis has been doing. But lest this digression turn into a diary entry explaining why I haven't posted, let's get to the meat of things.

Winnie-the-Pooh. I love you too. I purchased a pretty little yellow-covered copy (say ten times fast) for a strange reason--because my friends and I use the character names as nicknames for each other. Oh, which one am I, by the way? I oscillate between being Pooh and Eeyore. I likes mah honey.

So I figured I ought to actually read the book, given how much we refer to it. So I did. It was fantastic. Though I remembered most of the stories through their television counterparts, the actual writing and off-hand narration of the father-figure was excellent. Our introduction to Pooh in the first story goes as follows: "Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it" (3). Embedded in a narrative which is essentially an affirmation of a child's love for his toys and imaginary creations as well as a record of their interdependency, this is a glimpse at a different sort of experience. We see a child's innate lack of sensitivity to his possessions, the disregard that can accompany true and deep affection. (Picture obtained at http://kiddley.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/01/winniethepooh.jpg)

But I love Pooh for a wholly different reason, not at all related to any sort of over-analyzed social commentary. I love the logic. I don't know if I can explain it entirely without quoting a HUGE chunk of text, but I'd like to avoid doing that. It is, simply, the logic of a child translated into adult terms. See, if you have a copy available, the passage immediately preceding Pooh's climb up the tree in the first chapter. Other examples are scattered throughout.

The least impressive aspect of the book are the little chants and lyrics that come at intervals. I might just be spoiled by Brian Jacques' epic attempts in his Redwall books, but I've seen far more interesting and valid attempts at poetics in books for children. These are just lame.

The love in this book, the father's for his child, the child's for his toys, and the toys for each other, is what really pulls this together. There is an episode in the second part, in which Pooh is stuck in Rabbit's home. Pooh asks Christopher Robin, "'Then would you read a Sustaining Books, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in a Great Tightness?' So for a week, Christopher Robin read that sort of book [to Pooh]." It offers a sort of thematic cohesion which, while common enough in simplistic books, especially for children, feels all too fleshed out and real to be written off. Winnie-the-Pooh is worth your time, even if you aren't a child. Especially if you aren't a child.

I'll leave you with a little bit of wisdom from Christopher Robin: "'That's why he [Pooh] likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just remembering'" (20).

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God

I have been busily visiting classes, dropping those classes, and visiting new classes these past few days. Before that, I was busily moving back into the dorms. So I forgive myself for not posting recently. Fortunately, my friend Seth chose this time to publish his first contribution to my blog. Hopefully, it will not be his last. However, I simply couldn't let his post stand as the most recent piece on my own blog--so here I am.

A couple of days ago I finished The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God & Other Stories, by Etgar Keret. Those two or three of ye faithful who actually read every word written here will recognize that name from a previous post, What is Good Writing? I wrote a book review of his collection, The Girl on the Fridge in order to get a post at the Michigan Daily. I did not get the post, for reasons unfathomable (to me), but I did find an excellent author.

Etgar Keret does not disappoint here. The collection is essentially composed of 21 stories and one novella, but only fills 130 pages, (and it's one of those books that wastes pages in order to have pleasantly blank breaks between stories) of which 40 pages are the novella, "Kneller's Happy Campers." Fourteen are amazing, four are most definitely not, and three I am irresolvably ambivalent about. And "Kneller's Happy Campers" serves as an amazing bonus to back up the appeal. In my frank opinion, a 2/3 rate for a short story collection is really quite good, although I don't believe it matches the insane quality of The Girl on the Fridge, which is almost flukish in its ability to satisfy.

I'm having trouble thinking what exactly to say. Read it? Plus, a passage I love: "They used to execute people by electrocution, and when they'd throw the switch, the lights in the whole area would flicker for a few seconds and everyone would stop what they were doing, just like when there's a special news flash. I thought about it, how I'd sit in my hotel room and the lights would go dim, but it didn't happen. Nowadays they use a lethal injection, so nobody can even tell when it's happening" (8). Just read it.