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179 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1938
Tolstoi, Ibsen, Blake, Goethe, Thomas Mann and all great men, known or unknown, famous or obscure,—they are great men in the first place and so they cannot say anything that is not important, not a single word. Their writing, their art is merely a by-product, a cast-off creation of a great personality.This is a dangerously servile way to think about other people, and a fatally arrogant way to think about oneself. Whereas to think both of one's own writing and the writing of others as an art rather than an expression of self is much more usefully humbling, even as it is a legitimate goad to ambition. Tolstoy managed to write great novels—and some not-so-great stories and essays—while bearing a more troubled soul than Ueland seems to have known; and it's hard, complex, intellectual work writing prose as superficially simple as Tolstoy's.
I’ve always thought the public schools needed to study the best literature. I always taught Oedipus Rex to all kinds of what they used to call remedial or development classes. The reason those kids are in those classes is that they’re bored to death; so you can’t give them boring things. You have to give them the best there is to engage them.Politics aside, what should you do if you want to write but don't want to tailor your soul to some arbitrary standard of simple greatness? I recommend the reverse of Ueland's advice. Instead of looking around and transcribing what you see, you might first turn your attention to your own favorite piece of writing and try to understand how the author did it. (There is no magic in seeing, any more than there is in "lived experience," today's preferred nostrum; we only have anything that could be called sights and experiences later, when we come to understand in retrospect the chaos we have beheld or endured. Ueland warns readers against describing from memory, whereas I warn against describing from anything else.)
One of the intrinsic rewards for writing the sonnet was that then the nobleman knew and understood his own feeling better, and he knew more about what love was, what part of his feelings were bogus (literary) and what real, and what a beautiful thing the Italian or the English language was.—while failing to mention that they were extensively schooled, multi-lingually, in rhetoric and poetics. The sonnets might have come easily, but they came after much instruction and much imitation of models. Imitation of models, not untrammeled self-expression, is the basis of education. It is the basis of individuation tout court, in fact, and our choices—in life as well as literature—are not between imitation and non-imitation, but between conscious active imitation and unwitting thoughtless imitation.
Someone asked Ibsen how he happened to name the heroine of "A Doll's House" Nora, and he said: "Well, her real name was Eleanora but they got to calling her Nora as a little girl."Her few points of practical advice—to describe the particular if you want to capture the universal; to allow ideas to come slowly and without dependence on chemical inducement—are worthwhile. The evidence of her students' compositions, quoted at length, and compared unfavorably to selections from the fashionable magazines of the day, are instructive. Her students' plainer, livelier style is superior to the still somewhat Victorian stiffness of the "slick" magazines; and while I wouldn't base on this one fact an insupportable aesthetic theory about the plain style's genera; superiority, it does provide context for Ueland's judgments.