why do we remember the past, and not the future? [Edited for BabelBabe]
While I count down the days until I find out if UW wants me to stay in Portland or move north, here's what I can recall of my high school reading lists:
Freshman Year
Teacher: the man built like a floppy daddy-long-legs, who covered the classroom walls with pictures of Germany and van Gogh's sunflowers, who loved Cancer Ward and Ken Kesey, who made us learn - and I mean really learn - vocabulary. Fifteen words a week? Twenty? Spoiler: he makes a reappearance junior year, and doubles the number of vocab words per week. I might mix up books between these two years.
Cold Sassy Tree. Why? It was decent but not all that great. I think ALL the freshmen had to read this, not just our lucky ducky honors English class. I can't imagine Mr. S picking this one on his own.
The Chosen.
Perhaps the foundation for all my ability to discuss themes in literature. I went on to read every single book I could find by Chaim Potok, and Bronwen and I have to been known to converse about becoming "the Chaim Potok of Orthodoxy." Mean, of course, Christian and not Jewish Orthodox.
A Tale of Two Cities. Ah, the French Revolution! Bastille Day! It is a far, far greater thing...
My mind is a complete blank on what the hell else we read that year. I think that was the year I did my big paper on Pride & Prejudice.
Sophomore Year
Teacher: one of the best teachers I've met. We read a huge variety of books, we tore them apart and put them back together, we did creative writing and real analytical writing. I could argue with him fiercely about a point I was trying to make in a paper. He had us organize a Heroes' Banquet at one student's house at which we, I kid you not, dressed up like real or fictional people who we thought of as heroes, and performed elaborate skits about our characters. My God, we got SO into that. I was Don Quixote. I have a group picture from the occasion.
The Odyssey. I am forever grateful for this because I certainly wouldn't pick it up on my own but it turns out that it makes for great discussion (was Odysseus really a hero? Or just a big jerk?) Plus, now my ears are attuned to mentions of wine dark seas and such, and it even made Joyce's Ulysses bearable.
Lord of the Flies. I blame this book for several years of disliking the color pink. Enough said.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I was always a sucker for Arthurian legend stuff - plus I believe I recall being in a play of the same story in middle school.
Cat's Eye (or was this senior year?) Either way, it got me reading Margaret Atwood.
The Great Gatsby. I've been meaning to reread this for ages - it seemed so perfect at the time. But I can't read any other Fitzgerald because the man only has one story to tell. I tried, believe me.
Junior Year: Mr. S makes a reappearance, with increased vocabulary. I perfect the art of "using the word in a sentence" by creating the most elaborate & unlikely sentences possible with the help of a dictionary of names. I've never looked back.
As I Lay Dying. And we all felt like the title was referring to US.
The Grapes of Wrath. Eh. Give me Travels for Charlie any time.
My Antonia. SORRY! Geez. I just remember stuff about fields and maybe a boarding house? And how to pronounce Antonia. I have neutral feelings towards Willa Cather, but then this is the only book of hers that I've read. I SUPPOSE I should read more, but with the reading lists you bloggers are throwing at me these days? No time!
Senior Year: Sweet Ms. A who always had a pencil in her hair and let us read contemporary literature and died a couple years ago of some unsuspected brain thing, leaving behind twins in grade school. It's so cheesy & trite but I wish I could send her a thank you for her part in turning me into someone with a BA in English.
The Kitchen God's Wife. Excellent tear-jerker.
A Prayer for Owen Meany. Okay, picture a classroom full of seniors who've been given time to read. Picture dorky 17 year old Jessmonster with Owen Meany in hand. Now, I'm known for the way I crack up while reading and startle other people in the room. Owen Meany practically had me in tears. I think there were points where the whole class stopped reading to watch me read. And the ones who weren't as far along as I was were wondering what on earth would happen next. I happened to finish the book in class, and that definitely drew some attention, although I wasn't laughing by that point.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. For such a depressing, fatalistic story, we managed to get a lot of good laughs out of it. Crumby, anyone?
I know there are more and it's driving me up the wall that I can't remember them. You see, is why I obsessively note down all the books I read these days. Records, people, records.
Freshman Year
Teacher: the man built like a floppy daddy-long-legs, who covered the classroom walls with pictures of Germany and van Gogh's sunflowers, who loved Cancer Ward and Ken Kesey, who made us learn - and I mean really learn - vocabulary. Fifteen words a week? Twenty? Spoiler: he makes a reappearance junior year, and doubles the number of vocab words per week. I might mix up books between these two years.
Cold Sassy Tree. Why? It was decent but not all that great. I think ALL the freshmen had to read this, not just our lucky ducky honors English class. I can't imagine Mr. S picking this one on his own.
The Chosen.
Perhaps the foundation for all my ability to discuss themes in literature. I went on to read every single book I could find by Chaim Potok, and Bronwen and I have to been known to converse about becoming "the Chaim Potok of Orthodoxy." Mean, of course, Christian and not Jewish Orthodox.
A Tale of Two Cities. Ah, the French Revolution! Bastille Day! It is a far, far greater thing...
My mind is a complete blank on what the hell else we read that year. I think that was the year I did my big paper on Pride & Prejudice.
Sophomore Year
Teacher: one of the best teachers I've met. We read a huge variety of books, we tore them apart and put them back together, we did creative writing and real analytical writing. I could argue with him fiercely about a point I was trying to make in a paper. He had us organize a Heroes' Banquet at one student's house at which we, I kid you not, dressed up like real or fictional people who we thought of as heroes, and performed elaborate skits about our characters. My God, we got SO into that. I was Don Quixote. I have a group picture from the occasion.
The Odyssey. I am forever grateful for this because I certainly wouldn't pick it up on my own but it turns out that it makes for great discussion (was Odysseus really a hero? Or just a big jerk?) Plus, now my ears are attuned to mentions of wine dark seas and such, and it even made Joyce's Ulysses bearable.
Lord of the Flies. I blame this book for several years of disliking the color pink. Enough said.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I was always a sucker for Arthurian legend stuff - plus I believe I recall being in a play of the same story in middle school.
Cat's Eye (or was this senior year?) Either way, it got me reading Margaret Atwood.
The Great Gatsby. I've been meaning to reread this for ages - it seemed so perfect at the time. But I can't read any other Fitzgerald because the man only has one story to tell. I tried, believe me.
Junior Year: Mr. S makes a reappearance, with increased vocabulary. I perfect the art of "using the word in a sentence" by creating the most elaborate & unlikely sentences possible with the help of a dictionary of names. I've never looked back.
As I Lay Dying. And we all felt like the title was referring to US.
The Grapes of Wrath. Eh. Give me Travels for Charlie any time.
My Antonia. SORRY! Geez. I just remember stuff about fields and maybe a boarding house? And how to pronounce Antonia. I have neutral feelings towards Willa Cather, but then this is the only book of hers that I've read. I SUPPOSE I should read more, but with the reading lists you bloggers are throwing at me these days? No time!
Senior Year: Sweet Ms. A who always had a pencil in her hair and let us read contemporary literature and died a couple years ago of some unsuspected brain thing, leaving behind twins in grade school. It's so cheesy & trite but I wish I could send her a thank you for her part in turning me into someone with a BA in English.
The Kitchen God's Wife. Excellent tear-jerker.
A Prayer for Owen Meany. Okay, picture a classroom full of seniors who've been given time to read. Picture dorky 17 year old Jessmonster with Owen Meany in hand. Now, I'm known for the way I crack up while reading and startle other people in the room. Owen Meany practically had me in tears. I think there were points where the whole class stopped reading to watch me read. And the ones who weren't as far along as I was were wondering what on earth would happen next. I happened to finish the book in class, and that definitely drew some attention, although I wasn't laughing by that point.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. For such a depressing, fatalistic story, we managed to get a lot of good laughs out of it. Crumby, anyone?
I know there are more and it's driving me up the wall that I can't remember them. You see, is why I obsessively note down all the books I read these days. Records, people, records.
posted by Jess at 2:26 PM
4 Comments:
yay! I must agree with you about Chaim Potok, who arrived to me later in life than you, but after all of those books I am a different person. Maybe in a weird and quirky, and possibly more isolated way.
Loved The Chosen (which I read in my 20s). Read The Grapes of Wrath in Year 12 and it was the most depressing, boring book, ever. (Henry Fonda was cute in the movie though, that was the way my 17 year-old brain thought).
Glad to see I'm not a Chosen-loving freak. Which reminds me that I should reread it since it's been ages.
See, we didn't get to watch the movie...no Henry Fonda to help me suffer through. Too bad.
how could you not say ANYTHING about My Antonia? I need something - throw me a crumb!
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