Read Online The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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that everyone applaud, that the audience cheer the hardworking suffering artist simply because he has suffered, or so he says. If it took me twelve years to write a book, I would not admit it. “It took me three days to prepare this dinner for you,” someone said. “It took me all day to scrub these floors, and now look!—you don’t appreciate me!” The writer who speaks candidly of his suffering is really begging for love. He is blackmailing the rest of us. Love, acclaim, success. Blackmail.
Though I struggled with the organization of that novel, at least one critic—for one of the better magazines—spoke of it as formless, sheer flux or energy. Formless . And to feel the need, in this case, to say nothing, not to bother to respond—frustrating—saddening—for one’s fate is evidently to be misunderstood practically all the time, unless one makes a conscious effort to direct critical assumptions—as Mailer does, or tries to do—and is that morally valid?—not to mention its being a time-consuming effort. Conrad in his Prefaces defeating the very mystery and complexity of his novels, by speaking at great and fond lengths of the “originals” of his characters. He felt he must do that—but why? To prove to his readers that he was “one of them,” not fabricating very much and therefore to be trusted? But to me a preface is part of a work of art; imaginative, fictitious, playful, possibly true and possibly para-truth. Conrad, one believes sadly, believed he was telling the truth.
After several hours the new cat is perfectly at home. Abandoned by its owners?—they haven’t reported it lost. Nothing in the paper, no notice at the Humane Society. The stranger, the intruder, far more comfortable here than our two cats—whose territory has been challenged—who slink about big-eyed, tremulous, ready for melodrama. The antics of cats mimicking the antics of people. Their simpler thoughts on the surface of their bodies—in their muscles, actually. Actors. Immediately gripped by instincts, as we are so easily gripped by “emotions.”
A university department as the microcosm of any organization, whether intellectual or military or for sports or financial gain. And “social” also, ina fascinating way. The “social” bonds that can be established within the pressure of the organization are considerable—leave an imprint on one that will remain for years—not exactly “friendship” in most cases but rather more interesting than friendship. Political skirmishes, close calls and victories, endless conversations, discussions, debates—everyone so very, very sincere when it comes to professional matters (because they are tied up with the ego, in most men anyway)—as no one is necessarily sincere in social life. One may be sincere, but it isn’t necessary. Other traits are more desirable.
The springing-to-life of liaisons when outside “enemies” appear—the cementing of bonds—new and surprising allies: one must experience these things to really appreciate them. Writ small, this is the political history of the world. It is not a game, it is hardly cynical, it is a part of life itself—these semi-conscious bonds and alliances and sheer irrepressible joy.
Not to have worked, never to have experienced this sort of thing—what a loss!
December 2, 1974. Snowbound—great drifts of snow everywhere—the streets practically closed—police suggesting everyone stay home—the University and public schools shut down, and what curious disappointment—a Monday morning that is not a Monday morning, but sheer colorless limbo. Preparing for my classes yesterday, in a kind of slantwise manner, I could not have guessed how very much I was looking forward to actually meeting them—the continuing surprise of teaching being that meeting, in the flesh, the coming-together of minds, no way of predicting exactly what will happen. Now it is eleven o’clock when I would be meeting my
Though I struggled with the organization of that novel, at least one critic—for one of the better magazines—spoke of it as formless, sheer flux or energy. Formless . And to feel the need, in this case, to say nothing, not to bother to respond—frustrating—saddening—for one’s fate is evidently to be misunderstood practically all the time, unless one makes a conscious effort to direct critical assumptions—as Mailer does, or tries to do—and is that morally valid?—not to mention its being a time-consuming effort. Conrad in his Prefaces defeating the very mystery and complexity of his novels, by speaking at great and fond lengths of the “originals” of his characters. He felt he must do that—but why? To prove to his readers that he was “one of them,” not fabricating very much and therefore to be trusted? But to me a preface is part of a work of art; imaginative, fictitious, playful, possibly true and possibly para-truth. Conrad, one believes sadly, believed he was telling the truth.
After several hours the new cat is perfectly at home. Abandoned by its owners?—they haven’t reported it lost. Nothing in the paper, no notice at the Humane Society. The stranger, the intruder, far more comfortable here than our two cats—whose territory has been challenged—who slink about big-eyed, tremulous, ready for melodrama. The antics of cats mimicking the antics of people. Their simpler thoughts on the surface of their bodies—in their muscles, actually. Actors. Immediately gripped by instincts, as we are so easily gripped by “emotions.”
A university department as the microcosm of any organization, whether intellectual or military or for sports or financial gain. And “social” also, ina fascinating way. The “social” bonds that can be established within the pressure of the organization are considerable—leave an imprint on one that will remain for years—not exactly “friendship” in most cases but rather more interesting than friendship. Political skirmishes, close calls and victories, endless conversations, discussions, debates—everyone so very, very sincere when it comes to professional matters (because they are tied up with the ego, in most men anyway)—as no one is necessarily sincere in social life. One may be sincere, but it isn’t necessary. Other traits are more desirable.
The springing-to-life of liaisons when outside “enemies” appear—the cementing of bonds—new and surprising allies: one must experience these things to really appreciate them. Writ small, this is the political history of the world. It is not a game, it is hardly cynical, it is a part of life itself—these semi-conscious bonds and alliances and sheer irrepressible joy.
Not to have worked, never to have experienced this sort of thing—what a loss!
December 2, 1974. Snowbound—great drifts of snow everywhere—the streets practically closed—police suggesting everyone stay home—the University and public schools shut down, and what curious disappointment—a Monday morning that is not a Monday morning, but sheer colorless limbo. Preparing for my classes yesterday, in a kind of slantwise manner, I could not have guessed how very much I was looking forward to actually meeting them—the continuing surprise of teaching being that meeting, in the flesh, the coming-together of minds, no way of predicting exactly what will happen. Now it is eleven o’clock when I would be meeting my
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