I can’t buy into Eliot’s philosophy completely, but I can sort of see his angle. Poetry, to me, is a repressing of the unflattering past, in favor of one’s dramatic (and romantic) interpretation of the past. We are all nostalgic and wistful beings, and poetry is the art that is appropriate in expressing these feelings. It’s not so much an escape from our reality, as it is a dramatization of what was once our reality. Perhaps it is from the fiction that crowds most of modern society, but we are prone to make memories mean more than they really do. That’s almost exactly the perfect description of poetry to me.

This isn’t a personal indictment of it, or anything, because I like that dramatization/romanticizing of reality as it reflects the odd relationship our minds has with reality. It says something about the author, his or her past, and how they choose to deal with it. It’s not an outright escape, as Eliot argues, but a way of applying rhetoric decorations on the potentially unremarkable past. It’s not an “escape from emotion” but a re-shifting of the emotional emphasis.

I get the impression that Eliot is trying to lift the negative connotation that most artists place of “escapism.” It is often read as an inability for an artist to confront his reality head-on, i.e. “escaping from real life” He seems to be stitching on a new meaning, one that implies an escape from reality, but an escape that dips its toes in the waters of personal expression. It’s not real, in his opinion, but it’s the by-product of personal expression. In that case, no art is real and everything is escapism. Of course, it’s easy to get lost in the muck of Eliot’s (and my) choice of words, but hey, different interpretations for different people. I guess that’s where all argument about art begin, anyway.

I’m glad this quote turned out to be the subject of one of my journals as it is absolutely one of my most favorite. As the previous gave us a quote that reflects Tolstoy’s writing style yet also alludes to a sentiment that is difficult to deny, this one does the same with Chekov.

One could argue that Chekov was just as much as “naturalist” as Tolstoy, but where as Tolstoy emphasized the mundane and captured the simplicity of life, Chekov photographed the mundane and hinted at their unexplored beauty and/or humor. Chekov’s best work exists in the “simple day to day living” referenced in the above quote and the struggle he mentions with this life makes sense with the lack of melodramatic flair in his work.

He finds the crisis and/or major plot devices found in most literature to be simple things that were approached and solved on a superficial level. This is where most drama lies, the storyteller introduces a way of life, throws it for a loop, and we get involved with the characters who eventually solve the chaos. Our life is seldom like this, though, and Chekov understood this. That is why he never got involved with the shrill turning points that his fellow writers were so heavily dependent upon. He didn’t “solve” our daily way of living in the same way but the fact that he meditated on it is far more impressive than the simple narrative structure of others.

Tolstoy is something of a scientist to me, more so than any of the other classic figures of Russian literature. His perspective seems to be that of a bird floating above the world, he makes sure he sees everything and goes a long way to describing everything. In a way, his stories are like maps and his descriptions are like reference points – so and so is here, and they are close to this. It sounds a little vague (doesn’t everything) but the sprawling nature of his epic works seems to indicate a slightly colder tone to his work, and I think the map comparison is evident of this.

I bring this all up because the above quote seems to reflect his writing almost perfectly. It might be a little preemptive to call him a perfectionist, but he definitely was a little neurotic, and hyper-aware. He wanted everything explained, everything to have a purpose, to the point that human emotions could be calculated and explained in a manner that has more in common with math than it does with human psychology.

I don’t think you have to be as precise in your feelings (as Tolstoy is) to cosign the sentiments expressed through his comment. We all want to have a purpose, and/or a goal to work towards. Walking around aimlessly in this life is not only no fun, it’s also frustrating and likely to cause plenty of anxiety. After all, the most important part of our existence is finding a “purpose” and the sooner we find that purpose, the sooner we can channel all our energy into this purpose and pursue our true goals. I don’t buy into Tolstoy’s brutally factual naturalism, but I do understand the yearning for understanding our existence. Unfortunately, it’s something that we are not likely to ever know.

Perhaps I’m selling this quote a bit short, but I see it as a beauty is subjective type of sentiment. No not in the corny, “beauty is in the eye of beholder” way but more in the sense that there is poetry to be found in the simple and common images we are handed from day to day. They are overlooked by us, because we’re accustomed to them. The emphasis of an artist like Anton Chekov is to point out these beauties, which may or may not actually be present from our perspective. Chekov, in particular, seems to be the writer who most closely fits this quote – because he is an observor and allows us to draw our conclusions on beauty, and on what is important.

In Russian literature, only Dostoevsky is Chekov’s equal in humanism, but it comes from a completely different angle. Dostoevsky’s work is that of somehow who is deeply lost within their own thoughts. Instead of letting us reflect on the events occuring on the surface, Dostoevsky produces a majority of his work by providing a transparent commentary on the meditations of himself and/or those of the character. The beauty in his work is less of a mystery, he tells us what to focus on and what to avoid, where as Chekov is the silent observer, the documentary filmmaker if you will. He doesn’t pull punches, or state. He believes in the study of people, and not forcing their arcs or types into the convenience of plots, action, or expository dialogue. In this case, he is most prolific writer to capture the “terrible mystery” and that’s part of what makes his work so fascinating.

Earlier this week in class, I raised issue with the claim that every work is symbolic. It turns out, I was wrong in thinking there’s such a thing as “no symbolism” but it’s because my idea of symbolism was kind of tainted. Admittedly, it has become a negative connotation, usually used to describe a work that is cumbersome, filled with self-importance. Symbolism was being used in a different way, though. Symbolism in the sense of what everything means for you, it’s different than what I had in mind, which was probably a lot closer to semiotics.

The comparison was raised between a reader’s personal symbolism and this quote from John Updike, which actually seems to refute the claim. Every work has the potential to mean something different to everyone, or, in other words, there are plenty of options / doors in the room that is the narrative. Updike seems to be saying that our reading/perception of a work can remain true, until otherwise proven not so by the author. For example, I might think some story is about a lost love, and that door can be followed, until the author closes it. He or she may do this by emphasizing and downplaying certain themes. If they emphasize a different motif entirely, I’d be just stubborn to try to continue through the door I previously choose. Sort of like trying to fit a square peg into a round socket or however that expression goes.

I still think art’s meaning comes from those observing it, otherwise it is without a purpose. There’s no point to constructing a building if no one will work in it, and there’s point to expressing your feelings through an artform if you don’t anticipate some consumption by the public. On the other hand, there is the approach that a work can be so personal that is only intended to be a way for the creator to manifest his or her feelings. Still, these works almost always have something of a following.

Shklovsky explains that “art is a way of experiencing the artfulness of an object; the object is not important.” In other words, he is emphasizing an importance on the features of common objects and defining them by characteristics, rather than downplaying their beauty with simple classifications. For example, a chair is a chair to most of us, but to those that are uninformed to the concept of a chair, it is something far more complex. We are taught at a very young age what items are, in a way we are simplifying the complexity of life. I am reminded of a quote from the (in)famous experimental filmmaker Stan Brakhage, “How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of ‘green’? How many rainbows can light create for the untutored eye? Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects, and shimmering with an endless variety of movement and innumerable gradations of color. Imagine a world before the ‘beginning was the word’.”

Shklovsky attributes this form to Tolstoy, who refers to this deconstruction process as defamiliarization – which, for the record, is not recognized as an English word. The term itself was first coined by Shklovsky as ostranenie. In the case of Brakhage’s quote, we would have to forget what “green” is. We realize how reoccuring and/or “common” an element of life is, it becomes less remarkable. When most full grown adults see a field of grass, they may be impressed by its aesthetic qualities, but it be a shock to see anyone overwhelmed by it.

Since the theory was first suggested by Shklovsky, it has taken on a life of its own. Many see a connection with the “alienation effect” theory of the infamous playwright, Bertolt Brecht. Brecht’s own influence is immense, especially on filmmakers, particularly fellow countryman Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Getting back on topic, Shklovsky’s theory was to embrace the subtleties of life, ones that are often overlooked in simple observations of everyday life. We see things in a new light when they are presented in a new life, which is something that the author stresses. To quote author John Willett on Brecht, “[the distancing effect] which prevents the audience from losing itself passively and completely in the character created by the actor, and which consequently leads the audience to be a consciously critical observer.”

I have yet to substantially dive into Tolstoy’s work, but from Shklovsky’s piece, I get the impression that the “slowing down of reality ” (so to speak) isn’t so much naturalistic as it is a poetic device. Again, this is sort of a prediction and it’s one that I intend on checking back on, but I think the whole “slowness of perception” does not emphasis the mundane-ness of reality, but rather making everything more conscious. It’s potentially academic and perhaps even “robotic” which I think is a very important line to draw when it comes to my own taste. I love simple, slow-moving humane dramas, but stylistically slow metaphoric pieces are not exactly my cup of tea. I’m very eager to see how this semester turns out, whether the former or latter comes true will probably have a direct impact on my appreciation of the works we visit in this class.

For those interested in participating in a conversation regarding Shklovsky’s piece can access it here.

For those who are curious, the header image is from Aleksandr Dovzhenko’s brilliant Arsenal.