Jane Campion's Bright Star --about the Romantic poet John Keats and his romance with his young neighbor, Fanny Brawne-- surprised me. I expected gorgeous and provocative cineamatography, moody passion and brilliant dialog. I expected the frilly, sensual, temptestuos spirit of the romantic poets to be made palpable, visual, alive. But I didn't expect
to leave the theater truly grieving John Keats, who died so young of tuberculosis. I didn't expect that I would be able to imagine what might have been--the warm homey love he and Fanny could have shared in a small house in the English countryside. I could picture him delighting and doting on their children in between writing sessions. I could picture her entertaining guests and protecting his privacy. I wanted all that for them.
Of course, they never married. He was too poor at first, and then also too sick. Their romance is quite legendary--but for me it had always been something static, like a pretty little figurine, and something emblematic, one more accessory for a Romantic poet to have--the passionate love, the debilitating illness, the unacknowledged brilliance. Through Campion's great work, though, he became a real person to me. As did she.
It was a great, fun movie. It made me think about art and relationships in new ways. Fanny was an incredibly gifted and precocious seamstress--who designed and sewed all her clothes. This was a beautiful visual aspect of the movie and it also set up an interesting opposition between the male, intellectual, serious art of poetry and her own more craftsman, more female, less intellectually respected art. If only she could have used her craft to provide the income for the couple!
I found myself more sympathetic to what it would be like to be in that time period, with the restrictions on women and on relationships that the culture imposed.
There was also an interesting tension between Fanny Brawne and John Keats' best poet friend, Mr Brown. At first I thought their intense hatred of each other was simply funny, something flirty and rather inconsequential. But there was something deeper, more elemental to it-- a truer belief in the lover's part on actual love, versus the older poet's more cynical nature.
I guess I also loved the movie because it showed an incredibly sensual, passionate romance without any sex--gratuitous or otherwise. That took creativity and art to pull off.
I had thought of Keats as being another romantic like Shelley, who left a horrible mess in his wake as they pursued his own agenda in the name of his passions. But in this portrayal Keats seemed driven by ideals and virtues bigger than himself.
The tragedy, especially for Brawne, was that the ideal of romantic love was still not big enough. As she went to wander the heath, dressed all in black after his death, I had another wish--not only that they could have lived out their lives together--but that she could have had a deeper vision to sustain her, a truer hope for her to lodge her amazing spirit.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The broken artist
Novelist Jeanette Winterson recently had an essay in the Wall Street Journal titled "In Praise of the Crack-up" where she wrote about the link between mental illness and despair and creative artistic people.
I haven't had the burden of struggling with true mental illness the way so many artists have, (including some friends and members of my own family). Not that I can't do a mood pretty darn well---but I can only blame my moods on my own brattiness--
That said, I know mental illness is a true issue for many people and many artists--and even without the highs and lows of the bipolar brain, many of us artists still seem to find ourselves broken in just the places where we also find our greatest moments of transcendence. In this light, the last few paragraphs were just so resonate for me--they seemed hauntingly true. I wanted to record them here.
"Art isn't a surface activity. It comes from a deep place and it meets the wound we each carry.
Even when our lives are going well, there is something that prowls the borders, unseen, unfelt. The existential depression that is becoming a condition of humankind, experienced as loss of meaning, a kind of empty bafflement....
Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the peoems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done...come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss.
The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god--the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality.
This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular, what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity...."
Earlier in the article, Winterson compares this artistic struggle with the wounding blessing that Jacob received as he wrestled with God.
I believe she is on to something--when we make art we are in the midst of the real-- the real longing and loneliness and loss of every heart, the terrifying wonder of our existence-- and it's pretty terrible at times, isn't it-
and yet, the artist is the person who can't stay away from the real--even if they drug themselves so as to avoid dealing with it--still, all that brokeness must not be the only option for the artist--
I hope we can learn--I hope I can learn --God's redemption in this--and in the meantime, I hope I learn to want to be broken by truth more than live comfortably with falseness. The final story of blessing I hope is not only wounding but a larger story of encounter. Encounter that is not only worth the violence it incurs but also redeems it.
I haven't had the burden of struggling with true mental illness the way so many artists have, (including some friends and members of my own family). Not that I can't do a mood pretty darn well---but I can only blame my moods on my own brattiness--
That said, I know mental illness is a true issue for many people and many artists--and even without the highs and lows of the bipolar brain, many of us artists still seem to find ourselves broken in just the places where we also find our greatest moments of transcendence. In this light, the last few paragraphs were just so resonate for me--they seemed hauntingly true. I wanted to record them here.
"Art isn't a surface activity. It comes from a deep place and it meets the wound we each carry.
Even when our lives are going well, there is something that prowls the borders, unseen, unfelt. The existential depression that is becoming a condition of humankind, experienced as loss of meaning, a kind of empty bafflement....
Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the peoems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done...come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss.
The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god--the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality.
This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular, what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity...."
Earlier in the article, Winterson compares this artistic struggle with the wounding blessing that Jacob received as he wrestled with God.
I believe she is on to something--when we make art we are in the midst of the real-- the real longing and loneliness and loss of every heart, the terrifying wonder of our existence-- and it's pretty terrible at times, isn't it-
and yet, the artist is the person who can't stay away from the real--even if they drug themselves so as to avoid dealing with it--still, all that brokeness must not be the only option for the artist--
I hope we can learn--I hope I can learn --God's redemption in this--and in the meantime, I hope I learn to want to be broken by truth more than live comfortably with falseness. The final story of blessing I hope is not only wounding but a larger story of encounter. Encounter that is not only worth the violence it incurs but also redeems it.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
writing a poem is hard
for me, at least.
It's gotten much harder, not easier, in the last three and a half years that I've been at this. I'm sure my expectations of the results are higher now. And at the same time, though I've learned what makes a better poem, to some small degree, the basic raw material (my knowledge of the language, my life experience and observations) are not really improved. So no wonder it's not any easier.
It may be that I write some better poems now, but I'm not even sure of that.
I've just been noticing, and had this confirmed by the experience and testimony of my poet friends, that most good poems take more than six months to complete. And often more than a year, with many many rewrites and also months of shelving them and then taking them out and working and reworking.
The art form doesn't seem, in my experience, to do well with hurrying.
I guess it surprises me to know that a small one page poem might take me most of a year to write. Thankfully, I can work on a few at a time. And thankfully, as well, it's fun for me and it's good to learn to let go of productivity as way of judging value. And it's also a mercy I don't have to make a living doing this.
It's gotten much harder, not easier, in the last three and a half years that I've been at this. I'm sure my expectations of the results are higher now. And at the same time, though I've learned what makes a better poem, to some small degree, the basic raw material (my knowledge of the language, my life experience and observations) are not really improved. So no wonder it's not any easier.
It may be that I write some better poems now, but I'm not even sure of that.
I've just been noticing, and had this confirmed by the experience and testimony of my poet friends, that most good poems take more than six months to complete. And often more than a year, with many many rewrites and also months of shelving them and then taking them out and working and reworking.
The art form doesn't seem, in my experience, to do well with hurrying.
I guess it surprises me to know that a small one page poem might take me most of a year to write. Thankfully, I can work on a few at a time. And thankfully, as well, it's fun for me and it's good to learn to let go of productivity as way of judging value. And it's also a mercy I don't have to make a living doing this.
Monday, September 14, 2009
the murky waters of our obsessions
Probably one of my biggest roadblocks in my spiritual formation (that I can discern, at least) is this tendency to get bogged down by my small worries (that seem not so small) and just completely absorbed in them. Not that these things have no importance, but it seems to me that I make my worrying about them all important--I let it become my life--as if there is no Creator and Redeemer who is working out his story in all of history, advancing his Good Kingdom into every corner of this sad and glorious planet.
I make my universe about me-- me figuring out whether Luke should stay in preschool, me trying to fix whatever I think is uncomfortable in my marriage, me attempting to get rid of any bad habit I have, me trying to make some kind of grade with my church community-- and I get completely absorbed in this-- and truly have gotten blinded to God's light.
After another early morning of sitting on my couch doing nothing but this kind of obsessing-- I came to the computer and read a little excerpt of some of our recent American history that seemed to me to illustrate very well this human ability to miss what's going on because of where we have decided to fix our gaze and our mind.
The Writer's Almanac (an NPR radio broadcast by Garrison Kellior which also has a daily email version) recounted a bit of the Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky story. At the end of that synopsis, there was this telling paragraph:
In the months that the Lewinsky scandal was dominating the press, the U.S. embassies in Tanzania and Kenya were bombed, killing 224 people and injuring more than 4,500, and soon linked to Osama Bin Laden. During this same time period of the Lewinsky scandal, Hugo Chávez was elected president of Venezuela, and Iraq announced that it would shoot down any U.S. or British planes patrolling the country's no-fly zones, the Euro was established, and the Chinese government announced that it was restricting Internet usage.
Regardless of politics, this seemed to me a perfect example of how easy it is to lose our life in small things, to not see what actually is going on that matters.
I must engage fully with the cares of my particular life, but I must remember this is not the entirety of what God is up to in this universe, and it's not even, truly, the entirety of what He wants to do in my life.
Now, how to do this? I really, truly do not know... only, I believe strongly in that the idea of training our minds towards God.
But I'm a numbskull in these areas. Believe me. Still, I liked the illustration and since it was from Writer's Almanac I thought I could get away with posting it here.
Have a great day--
I make my universe about me-- me figuring out whether Luke should stay in preschool, me trying to fix whatever I think is uncomfortable in my marriage, me attempting to get rid of any bad habit I have, me trying to make some kind of grade with my church community-- and I get completely absorbed in this-- and truly have gotten blinded to God's light.
After another early morning of sitting on my couch doing nothing but this kind of obsessing-- I came to the computer and read a little excerpt of some of our recent American history that seemed to me to illustrate very well this human ability to miss what's going on because of where we have decided to fix our gaze and our mind.
The Writer's Almanac (an NPR radio broadcast by Garrison Kellior which also has a daily email version) recounted a bit of the Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky story. At the end of that synopsis, there was this telling paragraph:
In the months that the Lewinsky scandal was dominating the press, the U.S. embassies in Tanzania and Kenya were bombed, killing 224 people and injuring more than 4,500, and soon linked to Osama Bin Laden. During this same time period of the Lewinsky scandal, Hugo Chávez was elected president of Venezuela, and Iraq announced that it would shoot down any U.S. or British planes patrolling the country's no-fly zones, the Euro was established, and the Chinese government announced that it was restricting Internet usage.
Regardless of politics, this seemed to me a perfect example of how easy it is to lose our life in small things, to not see what actually is going on that matters.
I must engage fully with the cares of my particular life, but I must remember this is not the entirety of what God is up to in this universe, and it's not even, truly, the entirety of what He wants to do in my life.
Now, how to do this? I really, truly do not know... only, I believe strongly in that the idea of training our minds towards God.
But I'm a numbskull in these areas. Believe me. Still, I liked the illustration and since it was from Writer's Almanac I thought I could get away with posting it here.
Have a great day--
Saturday, September 12, 2009
So E. L. Konigsburg is my new chocolate
not that I gave up the original.
I just read The View from Saturday and I can say she is now in my top twenty list of favorite writers ever. This one had very similar themes and even in some ways a similar plot and characters to Jennifer, Hecate, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth. Very very smart and isolated, lonely young people who form secret bonds that involve a lot of cleverness and intriguing riddles and puzzles. So, I'll have to read more of her to find out if this is her little formula. It sure doesn't feel formulaic. The characters seem very alive and bright and they sing out their stories in a very organic way. I guess Marilynne Robinson's three novels all have some similarities, don't they? So do Charles Dickens' and Jane Austen's and Ha Jin's and Dostevesky's. (more of my top twenty).
Still, Konigsburg is utterly amazing and delightful and the added perk is the that they are written for a kid and so, I can consume and utterly enjoy them completely in a night or two.
Maybe she is the new gin and tonic. I have given them up, de facto.
I just read The View from Saturday and I can say she is now in my top twenty list of favorite writers ever. This one had very similar themes and even in some ways a similar plot and characters to Jennifer, Hecate, William McKinley and Me, Elizabeth. Very very smart and isolated, lonely young people who form secret bonds that involve a lot of cleverness and intriguing riddles and puzzles. So, I'll have to read more of her to find out if this is her little formula. It sure doesn't feel formulaic. The characters seem very alive and bright and they sing out their stories in a very organic way. I guess Marilynne Robinson's three novels all have some similarities, don't they? So do Charles Dickens' and Jane Austen's and Ha Jin's and Dostevesky's. (more of my top twenty).
Still, Konigsburg is utterly amazing and delightful and the added perk is the that they are written for a kid and so, I can consume and utterly enjoy them completely in a night or two.
Maybe she is the new gin and tonic. I have given them up, de facto.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Julie and Julia and all of us existentially angsted bloggers
We watched Julie and Julia last night. I thoroughly enjoyed it-- I especially enjoyed watching a movie in a theater with Jack. We hadn't done that in awhile. But the story-line really has me thinking.
We follow two stories-- one is Julia Child, in her 30s or 40s, I'd guess, in late 1940s Paris, where her husband works for the embassy and where she is trying to find something to channel her passion for life, her joy, and her love of food and France. She is indomitable (and Meryl Streep is quintessintially amazing), and she finds away to enter the Cordon Bleu cooking academy and then teams up with two French women to write a cookbook that had not yet existed-- a French cook book in English-- French Cooking for Americans.
The main story of the movie, though is the story of a 30 year old New Yorker in 2002, Julie, who has found herself in a life in Queens that is not the life she thought she should have. She had gone to school to be a writer, but she hadn't finished the book she started, and now she has this rather impotent government job. She finds plenty to be dissatisfied about--her small apartment, her friends, her job and most of all herself. But then she starts this project, cooking through all 500+ recipes of Julia Child's cookbook in one year, while blogging about it. As she undertakes this project, she finds a sense of purpose and accomplishment that she had not yet experienced. She also gets plenty of readers and fans of her blog and at the end of the year, she has acheived some actual fame and a book deal.
Now, it's a fun story. And really, it was hard to compete with Julia Child or Meryl Streep. They are two inimitable women. But I just came away with this impression that what this story really illustrated was the sad, trapped self-absorption of our generation. They acknowledged this within the movie. Julie started to have marriage troubles because she was so obsessed with herself and her little blogging project that this became all encompassing. And after her crisis, she seemed to become more aware of her husband and a little less caught up in her self- drama. But only a little.
The Julie character seemed like a very decent, talented and personable young woman--and also-- quite typical of my generation. What was her big acheivement? To say she had finished a goal she had set for herself. To become "a writer." To acheive some success-- a book deal, a movie deal, fans. But actually, she never did anything very far outside of herself, that wasn't primarily revolving around her.
But contrast this with Julia Childs--and there was such a difference. Certainly she didn't do anything very heroic or self-sacrificial--but still--it wasn't quite so self- absorbed. She wanted to make a cookbook so that Americans could learn how to cook the French food she loved. There was this was in love with the world around her. She and her husband were utterly delighted with each other. She didn't whine and fuss when her husband had to move them out of France, although she loved Paris. She had some bigger world to live out of than herself. And I don't know how she got that...except that it seemed like that was more the norm for her generation. (though she was certainly exceptional in her talents, her spirit and her personality).
And Julie is the norm for our generation, although perhaps exceptional in her talents. But this is the world all of us live in. I've experienced it myself. It isn't attractive to me. I don't want for me or my friends to simply set a goal and acheive it, to write a blog that gets recognized, to do something that makes us look good. I want us to make real good in this world. Real, genunine beauty. Real, true, life-giving good. Does anyone else see the difference? Does that make sense?
We follow two stories-- one is Julia Child, in her 30s or 40s, I'd guess, in late 1940s Paris, where her husband works for the embassy and where she is trying to find something to channel her passion for life, her joy, and her love of food and France. She is indomitable (and Meryl Streep is quintessintially amazing), and she finds away to enter the Cordon Bleu cooking academy and then teams up with two French women to write a cookbook that had not yet existed-- a French cook book in English-- French Cooking for Americans.
The main story of the movie, though is the story of a 30 year old New Yorker in 2002, Julie, who has found herself in a life in Queens that is not the life she thought she should have. She had gone to school to be a writer, but she hadn't finished the book she started, and now she has this rather impotent government job. She finds plenty to be dissatisfied about--her small apartment, her friends, her job and most of all herself. But then she starts this project, cooking through all 500+ recipes of Julia Child's cookbook in one year, while blogging about it. As she undertakes this project, she finds a sense of purpose and accomplishment that she had not yet experienced. She also gets plenty of readers and fans of her blog and at the end of the year, she has acheived some actual fame and a book deal.
Now, it's a fun story. And really, it was hard to compete with Julia Child or Meryl Streep. They are two inimitable women. But I just came away with this impression that what this story really illustrated was the sad, trapped self-absorption of our generation. They acknowledged this within the movie. Julie started to have marriage troubles because she was so obsessed with herself and her little blogging project that this became all encompassing. And after her crisis, she seemed to become more aware of her husband and a little less caught up in her self- drama. But only a little.
The Julie character seemed like a very decent, talented and personable young woman--and also-- quite typical of my generation. What was her big acheivement? To say she had finished a goal she had set for herself. To become "a writer." To acheive some success-- a book deal, a movie deal, fans. But actually, she never did anything very far outside of herself, that wasn't primarily revolving around her.
But contrast this with Julia Childs--and there was such a difference. Certainly she didn't do anything very heroic or self-sacrificial--but still--it wasn't quite so self- absorbed. She wanted to make a cookbook so that Americans could learn how to cook the French food she loved. There was this was in love with the world around her. She and her husband were utterly delighted with each other. She didn't whine and fuss when her husband had to move them out of France, although she loved Paris. She had some bigger world to live out of than herself. And I don't know how she got that...except that it seemed like that was more the norm for her generation. (though she was certainly exceptional in her talents, her spirit and her personality).
And Julie is the norm for our generation, although perhaps exceptional in her talents. But this is the world all of us live in. I've experienced it myself. It isn't attractive to me. I don't want for me or my friends to simply set a goal and acheive it, to write a blog that gets recognized, to do something that makes us look good. I want us to make real good in this world. Real, genunine beauty. Real, true, life-giving good. Does anyone else see the difference? Does that make sense?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Book Recommendation
Who else loves a good young adult novel?? Actually, a lot of people, I guess, considering the popularity of those books about the orphaned wizard from the London suburbs--
I haven't read that much Harry Potter. He'll do in a pinch--I can think of worse flight reading, that's for sure.
But I just recently picked up a book from the library and it was so splendid, so cunning and delightful in this joyous, clever and understated way that I hadn't found in Rowling's work (to my memory and opinion and experience (all which are extraordiarily limited). )
The book was Jennife, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth by E. L. Konigsburg (it was her first novel, I think). And as the title suggests, it's a charming story about two girls-- the new girl, Elizabeth, and Jennifer, who claims to be a witch and makes Elizabeth her apprentice witch.
This isn't a fantasy book. The girls are witches the way that children usually are, through their cleverness and loneliness and will. And their friendship is tenuous and has ambivalence and longing and much joy and play, the way that friendships typically do.
The writing is skilled and smart and sweet. And... it's always nice that YA novels are easy and quick reads. I appreciate that these days.
Here's a little sample.
"The rest of that week seemed to have a month's worth of days, but Saturday came. It was a golden day full of the smells of autumn. I told my parents that I'd skip going grocery shopping with them. I told them that I had some work to do at the library. No argument. I was usually a nag for them to take to the A & P. I wasn't very popular at the A & P either. Once I had rammed the cart into a big mountain of cracker boxes. Avalanche! I told the manager that I'd pick them all up, and I did. I arranged them very aristically; the aisle was blocked for forty-five minutes. I hadn't been very popular at that A & P since.
When I got to the library reading room I knew Jennifer was already there. Her wagon was parked by the enclyclopedias. She was looking at a big book of maps when I came in. Libraries are for whispering, and I soon discovered that Jennifer whispered beautifully, with many nice sssssssss sounds coming like steam out of a kettle.
I whispered, "Hi."
She whispered back, "Did you bring something to eat?"
"No," I said. "A & P day. The cupboard was bare."
She closed the atlas and looked at mean for what seemed like a very long time. Leaning way over and in such a quiet voice that it was almost zero, she said, "I've decided to make you an apprentice witch."
"What do I have to do?" I asked.
"Answer 'yes' or 'no.'" I must have looked worried. She didn't let me waste time; she came across soft but fast. "If you really want to be a witch, nothing you have to do will seem like too much. If you really don't want to be a witch, everything will seem like too much. Answer ' yes' or 'no'"
I answered, "Yes."
---
I was going to check out more E. L. Konigsburg novels when I was at the library today, but I had reached my 30 book max. Those picture books add up fast. Especially, I have to say, when they are heavy on the dinosaur end of things. Thanks very much, to my dinosaur crazy nephen who hooked Luke. Now I have to try to pronounce all those crazy words. I need witch powers or something.
I haven't read that much Harry Potter. He'll do in a pinch--I can think of worse flight reading, that's for sure.
But I just recently picked up a book from the library and it was so splendid, so cunning and delightful in this joyous, clever and understated way that I hadn't found in Rowling's work (to my memory and opinion and experience (all which are extraordiarily limited). )
The book was Jennife, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth by E. L. Konigsburg (it was her first novel, I think). And as the title suggests, it's a charming story about two girls-- the new girl, Elizabeth, and Jennifer, who claims to be a witch and makes Elizabeth her apprentice witch.
This isn't a fantasy book. The girls are witches the way that children usually are, through their cleverness and loneliness and will. And their friendship is tenuous and has ambivalence and longing and much joy and play, the way that friendships typically do.
The writing is skilled and smart and sweet. And... it's always nice that YA novels are easy and quick reads. I appreciate that these days.
Here's a little sample.
"The rest of that week seemed to have a month's worth of days, but Saturday came. It was a golden day full of the smells of autumn. I told my parents that I'd skip going grocery shopping with them. I told them that I had some work to do at the library. No argument. I was usually a nag for them to take to the A & P. I wasn't very popular at the A & P either. Once I had rammed the cart into a big mountain of cracker boxes. Avalanche! I told the manager that I'd pick them all up, and I did. I arranged them very aristically; the aisle was blocked for forty-five minutes. I hadn't been very popular at that A & P since.
When I got to the library reading room I knew Jennifer was already there. Her wagon was parked by the enclyclopedias. She was looking at a big book of maps when I came in. Libraries are for whispering, and I soon discovered that Jennifer whispered beautifully, with many nice sssssssss sounds coming like steam out of a kettle.
I whispered, "Hi."
She whispered back, "Did you bring something to eat?"
"No," I said. "A & P day. The cupboard was bare."
She closed the atlas and looked at mean for what seemed like a very long time. Leaning way over and in such a quiet voice that it was almost zero, she said, "I've decided to make you an apprentice witch."
"What do I have to do?" I asked.
"Answer 'yes' or 'no.'" I must have looked worried. She didn't let me waste time; she came across soft but fast. "If you really want to be a witch, nothing you have to do will seem like too much. If you really don't want to be a witch, everything will seem like too much. Answer ' yes' or 'no'"
I answered, "Yes."
---
I was going to check out more E. L. Konigsburg novels when I was at the library today, but I had reached my 30 book max. Those picture books add up fast. Especially, I have to say, when they are heavy on the dinosaur end of things. Thanks very much, to my dinosaur crazy nephen who hooked Luke. Now I have to try to pronounce all those crazy words. I need witch powers or something.
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