Story-of-the-Day/April 8
The Old Dictionary
I have an old dictionary, about one hundred and twenty years old, that I need to use for a particular piece of work I'm doing this year. Its pages are brownish in the margins and brittle, and very large. I risk tearing them when I turn them. When I open the dictionary I also risk tearing the spine, which is already split more than halfway up. I have to decide, each time I think of consulting it, whether it is worth damaging the book further in order to look up a particular word. Since I need to use it for this work, I know I will damage it, if not today, then tomorrow, and that by the time I am done with this work it will be in poorer condition than it was when I started, if not completely ruined. When I took it off the shelf today, though, I realized that I treat it with a good deal more care than I treat my young son. Each time I handle it, I take the greatest care not to harm it: my primary concern is not to harm it. What struck me today was that even though my son should be more important to me than my old dictionary, I can't say that each time I deal with my son, my primary concern is not to harm him. My primary concern is almost always something else, for instance to find out what his homework is, or to get supper on the table, or to finish a phone conversation. If he gets harmed in the process, that doesn't seem to matter to me as much as getting the thing done, whatever it is. Why don't I treat my son at least as well as the old dictionary? Maybe it is because the dictionary is so obviously fragile. When a corner of a page snaps off, it is unmistakable. My son does not look fragile, bending over a game or manhandling the dog. Certainly his body is strong and flexible, and is not easily harmed by me. I have bruised his body and then it has healed. Sometimes it is obvious to me when I have hurt his feelings, but it is harder to see how badly they have been hurt, and they seem to mend. It is hard to see if they mend completely or are forever slightly damaged. When the dictionary is hurt, it can't be mended. Maybe I treat the dictionary better because it makes no demands on me, and doesn't fight back. Maybe I am kinder to things that don't seem to react to me. But in fact my houseplants do not seem to react much and yet I don't treat them very well. The plants make one or two demands. Their demand for light has already been satisfied by where I put them. Their second demand is for water. I water them but not regularly. Some of them don't grow very well because of that and some of them die. Most of them are strange-looking rather than nice-looking. Some of them were nice-looking when I bought them but are strange-looking now because I haven't taken very good care of them. Most of them are in pots that are the same ugly plastic pots they came in. I don't actually like them very much. Is there any other reason to like a houseplant, if it is not nice-looking? Am I kinder to something that is nice-looking? But I could treat a plant well even if I didn't like its looks. I should be able to treat my son well when he is not looking good and even when he is not acting very nice. I treat the dog better than the plants, even though he is more active and more demanding. It is simple to give him food and water. I take him for walks, though not often enough. I have also sometimes slapped his nose, though the vet told me never to hit him anywhere near the head, or maybe he said anywhere at all. I am only sure I am not neglecting the dog when he is asleep. Maybe I am kinder to things that are not alive. Or rather if they are not alive there is no question of kindness. It does not hurt them if I don't pay attention to them, and that is a great relief. It is such a relief it is even a pleasure. The only change they show is that they gather dust. The dust won't really hurt them. I can even get someone else to dust them. My son gets dirty, and I can't clean him, and I can't pay someone to clean him. It is hard to keep him clean, and even complicated trying to feed him. He doesn't sleep enough, partly because I try so hard to get him to sleep. The plants need two things, or maybe three. The dog needs five or six things. It is very clear how many things I am giving him and how many I am not, therefore how well I'm taking care of him. My son needs many other things besides what he needs for his physical care, and these things multiply or change constantly. They can change right in the middle of a sentence. Though I often know, I do not always know just what he needs. Even when I know, I am not always able to give it to him. Many times each day I do not give him what he needs. Some of what I do for the old dictionary, though not all, I could do for my son. For instance, I handle it slowly, deliberately, and gently. I consider its age. I treat it with respect. I stop and think before I use it. I know its limitations. I do not encourage it to go farther than it can go (for instance to lie open flat on the table). I leave it alone a good deal of the time.
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We'll discuss this story in ZOOM class friday. Again, think about the choices Davis has made--where does she start, what tone does she strike, what new elements does she allow into the text as it goes on...
It strikes me that all three of the stories we've looked at so far are about parents and children; this is the first we've discussed where Davis is the parent. What differences in tone do you mark in this story?
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ReplyDeleteHello again! :) Sorry for my posting issues that caused this double-post.
DeleteI found the tone shifts in this story to be very interesting, especially when discussing the differences between her relationship to her old dictionary versus her relationship with her son. In the first few sentences, her appreciation for her dictionary is evident, as well as her desire to connect with previous forms of the language. She takes careful steps to maintain the book's condition, especially since she needs "to use it for work" and recognizes that with each use "it will be in poorer condition than it was when I [she] started, if not completely ruined” (374). She then becomes increasingly introspective in tone, realizing her "primary concern is not to harm it." Upon this reflection, the tonal shift is one of near-guilt, as the acknowledges the value we place on objects should never exceed the value we place on people. She begins to express genuine concerns regarding this epiphany, as the affirms that her concerns with her son are often external, making dinner, helping with homework, and finishing her own phone calls (374). Davis then takes on an increasingly objective tone contrasting the physical appearance of the book versus the "strong and flexible" (375) exterior of the boy's body. She recognizes that perhaps she treats the dictionary "better because it makes no demands on me [her], and doesn't fight back” (375). Maybe she is more focused on the preservation of something that not only has a distinctive purpose, but never presents any downside. She then begins to think more globally, that if she only is satisfied by her relationships with things that have limited reactions to her. She continues this emotional rumination with questioning whether our value and respect toward things is linked solely with appearance. Davis applies this emotionally based reasoning to contemplating her relationship with her dog and the consequences of disciplining the pet. She juxtaposes objects accumulating dust, even though they provide us with "relief and pleasure” (376). It is perhaps this novelty that reinforces our attachment to inanimate objects because of the constant demands that the care of children requires. Her tone finally is more optimistic, in which she realizes that she can transfer the care and concern she has for objects to her relationship with her son, who in contrast, is actually sentient. "I could handle it more slowly, deliberately, gently" (376), Davis reflects. Interestingly, the use of it implies that she has now elevated her son to the same level as the objects, which ironically means she has accorded him more respect and protection. That's all for now :) See you on Zoom, friends! Hope you're having a lovely and productive week.
This is a really compelling way to set up the gradient of things author seems to be managing under her obligation. It was Plathian in its ability to draw out very domestic images, but it doesn’t place the same emphasis on gender roles and obligations that Plath’s work seemed to focus on. Instead, Davis makes the more universal comment about how we organize our priorities compared to the hierarchy of actual importance. Living things like the dog and the plant should have a specific dedication to respect as well as maintenance, while a child should be cared for as the most important responsibility in a person’s life. Yet Davis insinuates that we pour our attention into other things not because we care more per say, but because the repercussions will be specific, immediate and irredeemable. Pets have a way of filtering out human mistakes, and the social judgement for killing a houseplant is minimal. In that way I think the child and the dictionary have the most in common, but unlike the dictionary, the child’s fragility or ripped edges often won’t be visible for years. I wonder then, if Davis’ point isn’t about mistreating the things most important to us, but taking them for granted to greatest detriment.
ReplyDeleteI agree with what Esmé says about how Davis is incredibly similar to Plath in her writings. It feels almost confessional -- for the sake of her work, like Plath, she must reveal something deeply personal and analytical about herself, or at least the persona she presents. We talked on Tuesday on Davis' tendency to be cold/detached but inviting in her pieces, and this is an excellent example of this. She pragmatically admits that she isn't as "human" or "warm and fuzzy" or protective of her son as she should be, instead focusing on the maintenance and happiness of the inhuman aspects of her everyday. This very admission for Davis' shortcomings, despite its somewhat levelheaded portrayal, is what makes the writer so fascinating and welcoming. It allows for readers to reflect on their own lives, the way they treat perhaps their own children or siblings or friends in relation to other things deemed "necessary" in their lives. Davis also quantifies the good deeds that she is able to give to the things in her life. It only takes five things for the dog to be happy -- she can manage that. She cannot do what she thinks is most beneficial for her son because he is able to defy her. She cannot quantify how many things she needs to do to achieve his happiness and be a good mother, and that bothers her.
ReplyDeleteI totally agree with you, Victoria, that Davis's candor draws us in. "Confessional" is an excellent way to describe her work -- both in this piece and "Letter to a Funeral Parlor," her writing is incredibly approachable for the reader, even as she ticks off her flaws. It feels as if she's letting us in on a secret.
DeleteAlso, while I frequently wish that my mother would "leave [me] alone a good deal of the time," I've found myself thinking lately of Billy Collins's "Lanyard." In such close quarters, I've noticed a tendency in myself to harp on the shortcomings of other people (most often my mother!). This short piece from Davis reminded me instantly of Collins's poem, which also considers the impossible standards of motherhood, though from the perspective of the child.
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