Archive for the ‘Writing in General’ Category

Literature as Religion

Harold Bloom uses the religious symbolism of the Kabbalah to link literature to the spiritual impulse. He views the nature of writing as a religious pursuit through which the writer delves into his own consciousness. In turn, the writing produced expands the consciousness of readers. In seeking enduring truths about the nature of humanity, the writer identifies the divine in mankind. Often founded upon prophetic visions, religions aspire to uplift and sanctify. Similarly, literature aims to enlighten, using flights of imagination to illuminate. Bloom groups the authors he discusses in his book Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Minds, 2002, under the ten divine attributes, the genius of God, illustrated by rays of light both emanating and remaining within the divine center.

Furthermore, Bloom claims that writers are gnostics and that literature is the practice of gnosticism.  Bloom writes that “gnosticism has been indistinguishable from imaginative genius.” He contends that gnosticism is the religion of literature. It frees the creative mind from any theology except its creative self and the unquenchable thirst for knowing. Gnostics are intoxicated with creative consciousness. Gnosticism is the search for knowledge about the human condition and the revelation of the divine spark that animates creation. The act of creation is the primal force that religions attribute to the Godhead. To create, then, is to partake of the divine.

It can very well be said that the eminent literary critic Harold Bloom has pursued in his eight-seven years the study of literature as passionately as any theologian.  The correlation of literature and religion carries merit. As I became less and less dogmatic about religion and my attachment to the ultimate veracity of any particular faith, literature did assume the stature of theology in my mind. I pursued writing and reading as devotedly as Paul followed Christ. I accepted the credo that reading widely and expansively in the classics and the accepted canon of the world’s literature broadens vision, builds a life with greater meaning, and creates a sense of kinship with people of different races, nationalities, cultures, and epochs. It enlarges the spiritual capacity for sympathetic understanding. It makes possible forgiveness of our own and others’ limitations and errors. What could be more spiritual? What could provide more amplitude for the soul to grow than the bountiful garden of the world’s literature?

When Adam and Eve ate of the apple, the fruit of the Tree of Good and Knowledge, it metaphorically portrayed man’s desire to partake of divine attributes. In the Kabbalah, the Sefirot are depicted as tree branches representing the ten divine traits, which are in constant motion. Bloom lists the Sefirot as: Keter, crown; Hokmah, wisdom; Binah, intellect in a recipient mode; Hesod, love; Din, strict judgment; Tefiret, beauty; sefirah, God’s victory or endurance; Hod, splendor of prophetic force; Yesod, foundation or a fathering force; Malkhut, female radiance of God.  In Bloom’s estimation, great art induces greater consciousness or knowledge of nature. He states the use of literature is to “augment awareness.” The measure of art is the degree to which it accomplishes this goal. According to Bloom, great literature must go beyond entertainment. If it stops at entertainment, it is not genius. This strikes me as harkening back to Horace’s dictum that art should both delight and instruct. Bloom would agree, but he elucidates it further, asserting that the greatest art is that which also expands to the greatest extend the reader’s consciousness.

 

Advertisements

Jigsaw Puzzles and Writing

Margaret Drabble’s The Pattern in the Carpet starts out as an exploration of the history, development, and popularity of jigsaw puzzles. It progresses into a long disquisition among other topics on childhood, board games, card-playing, needlecraft, Roman mosaics, collectibles, and aging. Putting together jigsaw puzzles is intimately connected in her mind with reminiscences of her maiden Aunt Philly and her growing up in a town situated on the Great North Road in England. Her narrative takes many side paths to reach its conclusion in which she clarifies the similarity of doing jigsaws to writing books.

I warmed immediately to Drabble’s point of departure in her ramblings because I also have fond memories of working jigsaw puzzles when I visited my Aunt Irene first in girlhood and then as an adult when she lived alone in retirement.  In childhood, I received Christmas presents of jigsaw puzzles and remember putting them together (usually by myself because my parents and siblings did not share this pleasure) on the dining room table while the television played in the background.  I set my Kindle ebook to text-to-speech and mounted my exercise bicycle to enjoy Drabble’s book. I did this to divert my mind from thinking while I pedaled, “Is this work-out over yet?” My strategy worked and time sped, believe it or not, pleasurably on the bike.

Avid jigsaw puzzlers know that the frame is assembled first; next colors are sorted in separated groups; then a section is worked from the border that appears most promising; from there the picture is built. Drabble does not immediately draw comparisons between her career as a prolific novelist to jigsaws. The drift of where the direction of her meanderings is going is put together rather like a jigsaw puzzle slowly unfolding. A clue to her meaning can be unraveled in her title, which she leaves the reader to decipher, because nowhere in the book does she explicitly unpack the reason for her choice of title. What are the reasons for the words pattern and why carpet? She does not discuss carpets in her book, but carpets are a frame too placed on the floor; they are all of a piece, that too must be woven together by numerous threads to form a whole. The carpet suggests a journey, as in the magic carpet to adventure and perhaps an unknown destination to be revealed as the flight continues. Drabble writes her book as a journey along which she pauses and observes many sites, objects, and phenomena. Similarly, the jigsaw is a pattern that only reveals itself at the end of the journey in its making.

Drabble comments that jigsaw puzzles provide a welcome relief and refreshing diversion from the intensity of writing. Both require pattern-making  and a working out of meaning from disjointed fragments, an order out of chaos, with the difference that jigsaws are visual, physical, involving manipulation of color to achieve pattern. It’s a shift from the verbal to the non-verbal. She acknowledges that activities like crocheting and knitting achieve that same change of pace for the writer. Having worked two 1000-piece puzzles in the last few years as well as being an obsessive knitter, I share Drabble’s experience of their beneficial effects.

I like to describe novel-writing as a long journey into night. Putting a jigsaw puzzle together is often a long journey into night as it is not unusual to stay up until 2:00 o’clock in the morning finding that obstinate last piece to insert in a glaring gap. The motif of the journey becomes abundantly clear at the end of the book when Drabble writes: “The concept of life as a journey, a pilgrimage, a quest, a ladder, or a spiral track may be attractive to some, but to me the notion of a goal is not.” I believe that Drabble did not have a definite goal in mind when she started her book; she reveled in the journey as she wrote, exploring every alley and corner as she went along. For Drabble what has meaning is the journey itself, the endurance on the path, both the indignity and the dignity of her Aunt Philly’s dying in the nursing home. The persistence in completion of the jigsaw puzzle is laudable. She goes on: “In the larger pattern, all the solitary journeys combine, and we arrive together. The jigsaw, with its frame, is a simulacrum of meaning, order and design.” Startlingly, she ends by stating books too attempt to make a pattern and fail.  The last sentences of the book read: “The admission of failure is the best that we can do. It is a form of progress.”

The puzzle remains. Drabble’s meaning is not entirely clear. Maybe this is by design. I must pause and think, ponder the meaning. And that underscores the journey again. The process of seeking and forming the pattern is what makes us unutterably human and what makes jigsaw puzzles and writing similar. The process of writing itself has a way of creating a pattern unpredictable at its beginning, taking unexpected turns in the middle, and revealing a goal in the end that was not there.

Writers’ Retreats

Open any distinguished literary magazine to the classified section and the number of advertisements for writers’ retreats are remarkable, some at rather exotic locations like Tuscany, a Greek Island, or Andalucia. Supposedly, a writer whether experiencing the spurious writer’s block or not, may need a vacation from the ordinary routine for inspiration. Apparently, the ambience of a get-away from it all provides the lubricant to oil the gears of creativity again, causing me to wonder what happened to the artist’s garret, the cramped quarters in a rotten borough that gave birth to some great works of literature.

In times past a quiet corner in a greasy spoon cafe provided enough fuel to fire the imagination. All that was required to write were a table, a pad of yellow paper, and a stubby pencil with a useable eraser at the end. The compulsion to write no matter what the environment was sufficient. Nowadays the pursuit responds to commercialism as so many other endeavors in contemporary life. The cyclist needs a proper suit, helmet, and shoes to ride a technologically up-to-date ten-speed bicycle. Every sport needs its high quality equipment for success, so why not writing. Writers are encouraged to invest in writers’ conferences and the still more expensive retreats. Hire the services of an editor or professional critiquer. Purchase computer software to grammar and spellcheck. Register for a course on how to write the blockbuster novel. Spend, spend, spend.

I am fortunate to actually live in a writer’s retreat–a log house abutting a national forest in northwest Montana. Born in Chicago, raised watching urban sprawl spread around me in a village outside the city, I now spend my golden years removed from traffic and commercialism.  I toyed with the idea once of hosting a writers’ retreat here in the tranquility of the mountains, but something in my nature resisted the effort to plan such an enterprise. Besides, conducting a writer’s retreat would deflect from my own writing. Consequently, I decided that my energy was best spent in actually writing more.

Although I have beautiful surroundings in which to write and ample solitude for reflection, neither are together or alone, the magic pill for prolific writing. A determined writer can produce volumes in a dump. A motivated writer can screen out distractions while the television blares in the background. I don’t fall in the latter category, for I require solitude and the only sound I find conducive is contemplative music to my taste. The retreat is into the writer’s head, that special place where imagination dwells, where the images become words, sentences, paragraphs, and extend into infinity. The imagination in not finite nor is the human will. It is the will to create anytime, anyplace, anyhow that gets that brain child born into the light of day. The stillpoint of creation resides in the compulsion to write no matter what the circumstances. Virginia Woolf famously demanded a room of her own. Where that room is, how the writer creates that room, is up to him or her alone.  Anyone who successfully writes has retreated into that private space wherever it may be, beautiful or ugly, near or far. However, it is not necessarily a physical place but the intangible domain of the imagination, which can be activated anywhere.

Retrospective on Six Years of Blogging

When I began this venture into online writing six years ago, I viewed it as my outlet to the world–an instant digital plug-in to communicate with bookworms and bibliophiles around the globe from my isolated mountain retreat far from the country’s cultural centers. As an obscure, unknown writer, I would send missives to unknown addressees. Luckily, none of my posts would come back marked “Return to Sender.” In Emily Dickinson’s terms, if the world did not come to visit me or write letters to me, then I would write little essays to the world that never wrote to me. Like sending a message in a bottle out to sea, I would post short commentaries on the art of writing, favorite books and authors, films, all things literary, and any topic cultural or political that appealed to me and send my little essays to float off into the blogosphere and land willy-nilly where they may.

As a blogger I hoped to spark a conversation. In retrospect, blogging has been a successful and satisfying form of self-expression, but it has not produced the dialogue to the extent I had hoped for between me and readers. Although I often invite readers to add their thoughts and ideas on the topic of my posts, they have not generated a great deal of comments, at least not as many as I would have liked. Despite this, I am a little frog with boundless temerity in an ocean of bloggers and have collected my posts over the period May 2011 to May 2017 into a book titled How Public Like a Frog.

I am a frog on a log in my blog. I may be croaking alone, but I enjoy the sound of my croaks. Blended from the labial at the end of the word web and from log, as in a ship’s log or journal, the blog emerged in the 1990s and quickly caught fire. The blog can simply be an online personal journal, a ranting platform, or an informational forum on any conceivable hobby or interest. Essentially, it is informal non-fiction writing, making anyone in the world an opinion columnist. I aim for my blog posts to be mini-essays. In the classic sense, their goal is to delight and instruct, appealing to writers and readers of all genres even poetry lovers.

Sometimes my blog frog has ventured into the political swamp. I believe this topic is not off-limits to serious writers. Not only opinion columnists and political scientists are entitled to wade through this territory, but fiction writers as story-tellers must uphold honesty. In a way, fiction writers tell honest lies. They fabricate fictional truth by creating a made-up world in which they can illuminate reality and expose hypocrisy and venality under the guise of storytelling. They change the names of people and places, alter clothes and accents, add a mustache or curl the hair here and there to protect both the innocent and the guilty. As for poetry, it embodies heightened life; it encapsulates the life lived well and honestly. A faked poem is readily apparent; it is sentimental, forced, pompous, and gerrymandered. No higher praise can be awarded a novel, a poem, a film, any literary work than to pronounce it true to life. The frog alone in its bog reflects upon what it sees. His small pond is a microcosm of the macrocosm. Those reflections may find a kindred spirit in the universe, and when that happens, I croak happily.

As long as I have breath and functioning brain cells, my frog will publicize my thoughts and observations on this blog. I like commenting on books and films that have enlightened me. They are like flies I catch here and there while I am sitting on my log. My roving eye enjoys movies and will  not resist telling you why I think they are worth viewing. I love art, music, and painting.  In case you haven’t noticed, I go absolutely gaga over history.  Perhaps I am a hopeless dilettante, a dabbler in the arts, a goggle-eyed egg-headed intellectual. That’s not to say I avoid exercise. I do like to jump from lily pad to lily pad, to dive in the water and make a small splash, a little ping in the pond now and then. I hope you’ll be standing by the shore and listening.

 

Pop Culture Wins in 2016

Pop culture wins in more than one area in 2016.

In October when the Swedish Academy awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature to Bob Dylan, I questioned its appropriateness. Wasn’t the creation of a separate category more in order than pronouncing Dylan’s lyrics an accomplishment in world literature considering that songwriting spans the realms of music and literature? I recognize that poetry no longer has a general readership and that most Americans’ exposure  to poetry today comes solely through song lyrics. I have no elitist quarrel with this state of affairs, for clearly poetry has its roots in an oral tradition. Yet the gushing of some authors such as Salman Rusdie and Joyce Carol Oates over Dylan’s award struck me as excessive and unwarranted. The Academy justified the award because Dylan “had created new poetic expression within the great American song tradition”–a peculiar rationale, which seemed to justify a new category–songwriting–not a prize for outstanding accomplishment in literature.

I wondered if I was missing something. Did others see literary merit where I had only heard successful popular folk music that I had enjoyed while growing up? I wondered if the lyrics would impress me as great poetry when I read them on the printed page. I determined to read all of Dylan’s lyrics and to formulate my own judgment. With this purpose in mind, I ordered the 679-page volume of The Lyrics 1961-2012.

It has taken me two months to read the entire book. By page 100, I was bored. Granted, there are some clever lines scattered here and there; but I didn’t see enough meat on the bones to pronounce this great poetry. I struggled to finish the book, only able to read a few pages at a time. Much is monotonous, boring, silly, lame, and the usual mournful love laments. The lyrics are dependent on refrain and repetition and are often rather banal. Dylan is a genius in use of rhyme, but on the printed page they come across as too forced. “Blowin’ in the Wind,” of course, stands out as rising above the ordinary lyric and reads well as a poem. Much of what I read is pure doggerel, light verse à la limerick. Did the Academy members actually read all of the complete lyrics?  How did they stay awake for the duration?

About page eighty-five the language is becoming more political, and in “One Too Many Mornings,” Dylan creates one of his memorable refrains: For I’m one too many mornings/And a thousand miles behind. A good example of his word wizardry that everyone enjoys occurs in “All I Really Want to Do:” I don’t want to meet your kin/Make you spin or do you in/Or select you or dissect you/Or inspect you or reject you. Or these unforgettable lines in “My Black Pages:” Ah, but I was so much older then/I’m younger than that now. Of the intermittent lyrics that I consider crossing the border into what may be termed literary in the canonical sense is “Chimes of Freedom” in which the one-line, end-of-stanza refrain is not overdone and the line Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales/for the disrobed faceless forms . . . possesses the fresh, vivid imagery, assonance and consonance my senses love in fine poetry.

But moments of verbal virtuosity are lost  in pages of verse that are flat and trite. There are too many to choose from, but I’ll settle on this from “I Shall Be Free No. 10:” Now they asked me to read a poem/At the sorority sisters’ home/I got knocked down and my head was swimmin’/I wound up with the Dean of Women/Yippee! I’m a poet, and I know it/Hope I don’t blow it. Ogden Nash could do better. Dylan’s gymnastics with rhyme augurs the rise of rap and hip hop at the end of the twentieth century.

Half-way through the book, I began to note poems that seemed to transcend the jingle-jangle of merely a song lyric. “Tin Angels,” “Golden Loom,” and “Romance in Durango” (a bilingual ballad) have glimmers of more substance, and “Too much of Nothing” has the clever line evocative of Dylan’s social commentary. Then I rejoice, hearing the sounds of my favorite song lyrics in “Forever Young,” and “Simple Twist of Fate.” Am I swayed by memories of listening to these songs, or are they also good, if not great poems? The Academy’s consensus apparently was that Dylan’s body of work rose above the trite and time-worn found in love ballads and folk songs. I am not so sure, especially, when I come to this final verse in “Where Teardrops Fall” toward the end of the volume: Roses are red, violets are blue/And time is beginning to crawl/I just might have to come see you/Where teardrops fall. Sometimes Dylan runs out of steam in playful language and his last lines bomb into vacuity. Is that his intention? Laughing at his own verbal play? Here’s another ending from “Dignity:” Sometimes I wonder what it’s gonna take/To find dignity. Here I hit the bottom of an empty well.

We have another figure of pop culture rising to prominent heights this year: Donald J. Trump, impresario of  the TV reality show “The Apprentice.” Pop culture has colored the nation’s judgment, taste, manners, and morals. So should I really wonder at the Swedish Academy’s wisdom in selecting Bob Dylan as recipient for the Nobel Prize in Literature?  Can the world at large discern quality in literature any better than the general electorate of the United States can distinguish character and fitness for office among political candidates? Pop culture has triumphed in all spheres of life. Pop culture is largely entertainment and is supposed to be fun. I don’t fault it for being that, but I do fault those who are unable to appreciate that dealing with important national and global issues is no laughing matter.

 

The Writer and Politics

Writers form part of the intelligentsia–the group of creative minds who through their writings, paintings, sculpture, music, and other forms of art, reflect upon and portray the spirit of their times. In doing so they cannot ignore politics. Who are the current players upon the national stage? What is the moral climate? How is the fabric of society being effected by events, styles, fads, popular opinion, new inventions, gadgetry, and fashions? Even if they write historical fiction, their narratives of the past seek to shed light on the contemporary milieu. It is not necessary for them to be polemical or take to the streets as activists. They can stay home and compose The Grapes of Wrath.

In the two weeks since the shocking election of Donald Trump, I have reflected how this event, thought so impossible by the intelligentsia, could have occurred. Like so many citizens who prided themselves on being informed and thoughtful voters, I was stupefied within one hour of listening to the election returns on November 8th and, thoroughly aghast, I turned off the television by seven o’clock. The country rejected elitist thought and chose a vulgar, ignorant, duplicitous man to be its president. My judgment had been terribly wrong. All Trump’s negatives, lack of temperament and qualifications did not matter to a goodly portion of Americans, both educated and non-educated, well-informed or ill-informed. They kicked elitists in the butt. Crudity and vulgarity ruled, which translated into not being politically correct–now considered a virtue. I moped. I still admired good manners.

I had invested time and energy in the last year and a half expecting him to be defeated. He was too absurd, too bizarre, too incoherent, to ever be elected. I am a pointy-headed intellectual who misread my country and my countrymen. It is a humbling experience. It is my comeuppance. It is the pride that goes before the fall, and the outcome made me extremely crestfallen.

Water therapy helps. Several bubble baths later, I can calmly reconsider this catastrophic event. This is my wake-up call, my eye-opener, not exactly being knocked off a horse like Saul on the way to Damascus, but it will have to do to give me new vision. I now have regained some serenity in the matter. My daily anodyne for twenty-five years has been A Course in Miracles, which tells me now “to loose the world from all I thought it was” and “not value what is valueless.”

Escaping from the political bombshell, I soaked in the tub, reading Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness. In the first paragraph the narrator Genly Ai, the peace envoy to the planet of Winter, states “Facts are no more solid, coherent, round, and real than pearls are. But both are sensitive.” I nod my head, thinking “Isn’t that the truth in this campaign cycle?” Facts were inconsequential, ephemeral, irrelevant; but still precious as pearls. This science-fiction novel holds out the hope for peace when the two main characters, alone crossing the glacier, build trust and love for each other despite their differences. A dose of the Chinese yin and yang was a salve to my jangled soul. Light is the left hand of darkness/and darkness the right hand of light, Le Guin writes. Bingo! A light seemed to glimmer in my darkness. Trump is the shadow side of America, and I am a part of that America. I must own it, and in that darkness also acknowledge there is accompanying light. Something good may come of this bad.

Trump can’t fix the world; no one can, and certainly not one elected official alone. What’s real is love–the only fix-it-upper. To continue to lambaste this man is not the road to peace. To continue to find fault and to blame will not solve one problem (even if he did that in spades). The problem is in ourselves–our failure to forgive. Politics too much lately has been an exclusive game of fault-finding and finger-pointing. After the car breaks down, the owner has to fix it or buy a new one. I do not wish a failed presidency on anyone, but I feel the elevation of Trump to high office is bound to enlighten him and everyone who voted for him despite his inadequacies. He will have ample opportunity to fall off his high horse as I did. If he stumbles and falls, the experiment in electing an unqualified, low-minded person will have been tested, and we will have to form and test another hypothesis.

What I want to do in the next four years is first, stay alive; two, read a lot more books because that’s what an egghead does; three, play my harp while Washington squabbles; fourth, write some more blogs like this one that few people will ever read; five, knit fifty lace shawls; and last but not least, make new friends but keep the old ones. Have I given up following politics? No. I’ll just get my information entirely from reputable print and online news sources. Will I break down and watch the inauguration on January 20? No. I’ll be remembering my mother who was born on that day in 1917.

I append to these election reflections a two-part poem on the subject. The first part I wrote the morning of November 8th; the second part I wrote ten days afterwords.

Election Reflections

A.M.

Election morning brings feeling
That in the evening
We’ll have a leader that is female
Then the world in one breath will exhale.

To play footsie with an ignoramus
Was terribly dangerous.
The chance of a bigot as POTUS
Was a blemish on all of us.

With the counting seek the polestar
That in the evening
Will project in bright light
All are not without foresight.

Election morning I’m foreseeing
That in the evening
Love’s heel crushes the head of hate
Then binds a divided state.

P.M.

Premonitions are often wrong
Like morning’s hopeful song
That collapses like the twin tower
Folding in upon itself in horror.

Beyond dumbstruck by the dumb
Who’ve elected the worse than dumb
Stupefies and I’ve become the buffoon
Babbling like a baboon.

Reason is trumped, resentment
Excuses bad judgment,
Moral compass is jettisoned
And I’m utterly disillusioned.

The navigational guides are jinxed;
We’ve been hoodwinked.
The ship of fools sails on with broken spar,
Can Ahab steer to safe harbor?

What is Oratory?

The glaring absence of this art in the political arena today gives cause for reflection on how its presence is immediately recognizable to listeners. We know we heard it in Martin Luther King’s speeches; we know we heard it in John Kennedy’s speeches; the world heard it in Winston Churchill’s speeches, but we don’t hear oratory in the GOP presidential candidates of 2016 and maybe just little glimmers in Bernie Sanders; none in Hillary Clinton’s because her words fail to aspire.

Oratory is formal speaking, although at points in an address an orator may modulate his key from a lofty to a folksy tone for greater intimacy with his audience. Franklin Roosevelt did this in his fireside chats. The Latin root ars conveys the meaning that oratory is the art of eloquence, of eloquent speech. Then what is eloquence? How is eloquence recognized? Eloquence is fluid, forcible, filled with crafted sentences, analogy, metaphor, and colorful language. It is rhythmic, musical, and paced like carefully placed rests in a musical measure. What about the speaker? He is confident; his gestures are graceful and purposeful. He is not wooden or robotic.  He enunciates his words, varies his pitch, volume, and tone consistent with his meaning.  He avoids perpetual shouting and the canning of lines he delivered hundred of times before.  He chooses the precise word, in fact, every word deepens and broadens understanding of his argument. He does not have to resort to vulgar language in a weak ploy to add force to his speech, which only appeals to the baser instincts of his audience.

There is substance to oratory in contrast to the platitudes that comprise the usual political speech. Substance is achieved through a well-organized speech that has been written out and planned in advance but delivered as if it were extemporaneous. Good orators know how to read from a text naturally. Churchill wrote his speeches in psalm format. “The Finest Hour” speech appears like typed lines of poetry on the page.Finest hourEach line builds upon the other. Progression is paramount, thus enabling the audience to follow the argument easily. Repetition is used meaningfully.  Contrast the orator’s organized speech to the ramblings of our current candidates or the jumbled blather of Sarah Palin.

Oratory is an art form because it encompasses many disciplines: knowledge of literature, history, the ability to construct balanced sentences, an ear for rhythm and harmony, control of voice and body movement. Great orators are great readers. They are conversant with the world’s literature and with the sacred texts of the world, including the Bible. They would not be stumped to quote a favorite passage from the Book of Proverbs or elsewhere in the New or Old Testaments. Forgive me, if I cannot conceive of any of our candidates reading more than a few books of any substance since they graduated from college.

But a stump speech can be oratory if it demonstrates these qualities of eloquence. Unfortunately, what I am hearing on the campaign trail is harangue. What distinguishes harangue from oratory? Often Adolf Hitler is given credit for oratorical skills, but his was the talent of the haranguer. The haranguer is a great shouter. The emotions the haranguer stirs up are fear and hatred while the orator inspires the audience with nobler qualities of faith, hope, courage, love, and the brotherhood of man. He is encouraging his audience to believe and to act better than they have previously thought they were capable of doing.

Often cited as the presidents who possessed oratorical skills to one degree or another are John F. Kennedy, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Barack Obama, Ronald Reagan, and Bill Clinton. One of the reasons attributed for the election of a junior senator like Obama was his oratory. Similarly, Ronald Reagan greatly benefited from his early days as a radio announcer and his acting career. He won also because his speeches inspired the country to believe that the United States was that shining city on a hill, the New Jerusalem.

I look for inspiration with substance backed up with sound reasoning, precision of language, and coherence of argument. Bombast is not oratory. A grocery list of platitudes is not oratory. Senseless repetition is not oratory. Oratory is inseparable from the speaker; for the speaker must be confident, truthful, sincere, principled, and dedicated to ideals beyond glorification of self.