John Hope Franklin's ways of writing

C-SPAN has online a great interview with the distinguished historian John Hope Franklin (1915–2009). I often encourage students to consider the possible advantages of writing essays by hand, so I very much like Franklin's distinction between different ways of writing:

Once I've collected the material . . . , I have two ways of writing. If the problem is complicated, I want to see what I'm doing. I write either by hand or perhaps on the computer, but preferably by hand, to try to work it out, to see what I'm doing, how I'm doing. And I just write in longhand on a sheet of yellow paper, some kind of paper like that. And I write for maybe several hours, just working and reworking.

If the problem is simple and relatively uncomplicated, I will perhaps even begin by writing on the computer, just writing along. But it's a combination of writing by hand and writing on the computer.

Elsewhere in this conversation, Franklin notes that he doesn't do e-mail ("I think it's something of a curse, if I may say so") and describes doing his research "the old-fashioned way." Meaning? Notecards.

This C-SPAN broadcast has some great clips of Franklin looking at his orchids and working at his dining room table, Pilot G-2 in hand. Take a look:

In Depth with John Hope Franklin (C-SPAN)

Homemade music

One of the best things about having "the kids" home on spring break is the chance to make music together. Here is some homemade music, "made in the home, on the premises," and "by one's own efforts" (Merriam-Webster Online). The song is the Raconteurs' "Old Enough," with Rachel's ukulele, Ben's banjo, Elaine's violin, and my harmonica.



And here's one made with a directional microphone and better sound quality (but no video):

"Old Enough" (YouTube)

Rachel and Ben, I'm so proud of you, in so many ways.

Dickens in the house

The first nine words do not apply: our house is clean enough, thank you. The rest of the sentence though makes me wonder whether Dickens has time-traveled:

It was dingy enough, and not at all clean; but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures.

Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853)

It must've been after we got the piano.

Domestic comedy

"But remember, in a normal case of teletransportation . . ."

The context: a conversation about the work of philosopher Derek Parfit.

[Used with permission. Thanks, Ben!]

Related reading
All "domestic comedy" posts

Stimulus package

Just 3.5 oz: chocolate-covered coffee beans. They help to promote class discussion.

"Professionally-ran"

From a commercial: "–––– is a professionally-ran radio station."

[T., this one's for you.]

O calendrical woe! (Blogger)

Somehow this Blogger error seems worth noting.

Pencil crossword

"Get The Lead Out!" is a pencil-themed crossword by Barrel of a Pencil. It's Sunday-sized, with many clever clues and great pencil-related answers, some quite unexpected. This puzzle is available as a PDF from Pencil Talk.

Thanks, Barrel of a Pencil. Thanks, Pencil Talk.

Good advice from Harvey Pekar

"If you don't correct stuff right when it happens, you can get into serious trouble. Stay on it."

Harvey Pekar, "You Get Old You Can Fall Apart (We're a Winner)," in American Splendor: Another Dollar (New York: DC Comics, 2009), 45.

In this story, illustrated by Ty Templeton, Pekar schedules physical therapy for a mending elbow, has a false tooth reglued, and gets a missing screw for his glasses replaced. "Keep on pushin'," he thinks, as the story closes. "Keep on pushin'."

Other Harvey Pekar posts
A few words from Harvey Pekar
Harvey Pekar on life and death
Harvey Pekar's The Quitter
Review: Leave Me Alone!

After William Carlos Williams

This Is Just to Say

                after William Carlos Williams

I am actually
grateful
for this first
opportunity

to publicly
speak
about
my crimes

for which
I am so
deeply sorry
and ashamed

Bernard Madoff (2009)

Part of what makes William Carlos Williams' 1934 poem "This Is Just to Say" a great poem is its refusal to offer anything as self-serving as a confession of guilt and sorrow for eating forbidden — or "probably" forbidden — fruit. The poem's mock-melodrama — "Forgive me" — is followed by a reminder of how wonderful the plums tasted: "they were delicious / so sweet / and so cold." Not "they looked delicious": there's no justification of transgression in these lines. Williams' poem suggests a playful, knowing relationship between two people, each with a capacity for humor, tolerance, and, yes, forgiveness. To say nothing after eating these plums would be to engage in passive-aggressive theft. To say more, proclaiming guilt and resolving to never, ever do it again, would be to put up a false rhetorical front. Hence, what the poem says is just to say, right, fitting, appropriate to the occasion.

How false, in contrast, Bernard Madoff's words look: actually, opportunity, publicly, deeply. Feeling grateful for an "opportunity" — had anyone denied it? — to speak of what makes one deeply ashamed: that must be a difficult trick to master.