Revising practice 1 a thanksgiving scare answers

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Table of Contents -- Course Reader -- English 1A – Fall 2019 Course Syllabus 2 Revision Process 6 Sample Formatting Page 7 Sample Process Letter 8

1. Inductive Analysis Essay (4-5 pgs.) 50 points Page Essay Prompt 9 Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson 10 “The Transparent I” by William Fitzgerald (Sample Essay) 11 2. Deductive Analysis Essay (6-7 pgs.) 100 points Page Essay Prompt 14 “Seeing” by Annie Dillard 15 An Outline of the Essential Key Points of Dillard’s Essay 22 Sample Paragraphs for writing about “Seeing” 24 3. Personal Essay (4-6 pages) 25 points Page Essay Prompt 25 “Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address” 27 The Pledge of Allegiance 30 “Allegiance to Gratitude” by Robin Wall Kimmerer 31 “Learning the Grammar of Animacy” by Robin Wall Kimmerer 36 4. Research Essay (8-10 pgs.) 200 points Page Essay Prompt 41 Sample Prospectus 44 Sample Annotated Bibliography 45 Sample Outline for a Possible Approach to Writing the Research Essay 46 “The Impermanence of Order: The True Nature of Gardens” by William Fitzgerald 47 Basic Outline for “The Impermanence of Order” by William Fitzgerald 51 “Gardening Means War” by Michael Pollan 53 “The How-To Garden” by Jim Nollman 57 5. Group Presentation Page Group Presentation Prompt 67

Sentence Combining Page Sentence Patterns 68 Clause/Phrase Review 69 Sentence Focus 71 Coordination 77 Conjunctive Adverbs and Transitional Phrases 78 Subordination 80 Run Together Sentences (RTS) 83 Free Modifiers: Adjective Clauses 85 Free Modifiers: Noun Phrase Appositives (NPA) 91 Free Modifiers: Clause Modifying Verbal Phrases (CMVP) 94 Free Modifiers: Absolute Phrases 97 Correlative Conjunctions 100 Fragments 101 Faulty Parallel Structure 103 Punctuation 104 PIE Paragraph Structure 109 Quoting, Paraphrasing, and Summarizing vs. Plagiarism 110

MLA - Format for Bibliographical Sources Page Citing Sources In-Text: Contextualizing Sources 112 The Mechanics of In-Text Citations 116 Citing Sources in Your Essay as You Move Between Different Sources 119 Punctuating when Using Quotation Marks 119 Italicizing Titles vs. Using Quotation Marks 119 Formatting the Works Cited Page 121 Works Cited: Printed Sources 122 Works Cited: Sources from the Web 128 Works Cited: Other Common Sources 131

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English 1A (CRN 71261-502) — Fall 2019 Tuesday Evenings 6:10 pm – 10 pm (Art 311)

Instructor: Nathan Wirth | Phone: 415.239.3199 (best to use email) | Email: nwirth@ccsf.edu | Office: Art 213

Office Hours: Mondays and Tuesdays 5 pm to 6 pm and By Appointment Prerequisite for the course: Completion of English 96, 88, or 88b with a C or better or placement in English 1A

Course Website on Canvas: https://ccsf.instructure.com

Important Dates Last Day to Drop Without a "W": Sep. 6 | Last Day to Withdraw: Nov. 7 | Final Exam Date: Dec 17

Holidays: Jan 21, Feb 18, March 25

Required Texts & Materials A Reliable Internet connection for Canvas Course Reader (Download from Canvas)

The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan (NOT available in Bookstore) Major Learning Outcomes Outcome 1: Analyze university-level texts. Outcome 2: Compose research-based, organized essays that are driven by an arguable thesis and employ critical thinking. Outcome 3: Apply the major conventions of standard written English. Outcome 4: Choose and integrate credible sources for support, using appropriate citation format. Course Description This course is, first and foremost, a class about writing. We will consider a variety of strategies for combining clauses and phrases (adjective clauses, noun phrase appositives, verbal phrases, absolute phrases), practice ways to focus sentences more clearly, discuss how to develop and cultivate a thesis, and go over the basic elements and strategies for writing a research paper (citing sources, integrating quotations, doing research, etc.). We will also, as a class and in groups, be discussing the various texts and articles that you will be reading during the semester. Naturally, any class that focuses on writing and reading also inevitably leads to thinking. This course is designed to take you through a variety of experiences, perspectives and written assignments that will help you to build a well-rounded understanding of the various questions that will be posed during this course and then to write about them. Logging into Canvas • Log into Canvas from MyCCSF: https://www.ccsf.edu/en/myccsf.html • Username: Your CCSF ID (example W12345678, @12345678, or D12345678) • Password: Your RAMID password In order to take this class, you must have reliable access to the Internet. All homework-related assignments

and essays must be uploaded to Canvas, so if you do not have access to the site, you will not be able to submit your work. You must download and print the course reader, which contains all of the assignments and handouts for the

semester. You are required to bring the course reader to every class. It can be found on Canvas. Lab Hours Requirement • The English Department require all 1A students to complete the online library research tutorials. • Failure to complete ALL the tutorials and/or turn in the badges to prove you have completed them will result in

no participation points (a loss of 25 points). Essays/Written Work/Assignments/ Formatting: All written work (except for rough drafts and notes) must be typed and double spaced. If you don't follow the proper formatting, I will return the paper to you. It is essential that you meet the minimum required page limit. If you do not, then points will be deducted from your essay. You are always welcome to write more than the minimum. Here are my basic, standard formatting guidelines. • Set the margins of your document to 1 inch on all sides. • Use Times New Roman 12 pt. • Pages must be numbered. Place the number in the top right corner. Omit the number on the first page.

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• Indent the first line of paragraphs five spaces from the left margin. • Include a title • Staple the pages. • Underline your thesis statement. • No large gaps between paragraphs.

Quizzes: There will be four reading quizzes for The Botany of Desire. Check Canvas for dates and other details. Assignments: You will be given several essential assignments for your research paper (including, for example, a prospectus and an annotated bibliography). Details are available on Canvas and in the course reader. Process Letters: For each formal essay, you are required to include a brief letter that outlines the difficulties and successes you experienced while working on your essay. Your letter should be a short reflection (a) about your experience writing your essay. What did you struggle with? What problems did you encounter? How did you overcome them? What do you feel satisfied about? Any concerns that you want me to address when I read your essay? The pedagogy behind this is to allow each student the opportunity to actually think about his / her writing process and to reflect on what each student does or does not do when writing. You can find a sample in the course reader. Group Presentations: Instead of a final exam, you will be participating in a group project that will be presented either on December 10th or December 17th. All students must attend both class meetings. Revisions: You have the option to rewrite the first two essays (unless you receive an A). For your rewrite, you must include a detailed analysis of the changes that you made (e.g. what was the mistake? what did you do to change it?). Each rewrite, if done well, can earn up to a full grade; however, in order to earn that many points, your rewrite must be significantly improved and include detailed notes about the changes you made. Specific details are available in the course reader and will be discussed in class. • If your first two essays do not meet the standards and requirements for a passing essay, you will have to meet

me during an office hour to discuss strategies for fixing those issues. Failure to rewrite the essay within three weeks after I return the essay will result in a failing grade for that essay (which means that you will not be able to pass the course).

Plagiarism: Here is the official CCSF policy on plagiarism: "Plagiarism is defined as the unauthorized use of the language and thought of another author and representing them as your own." Plagiarism is a violation of the rules of student conduct, and discipline may include, but is not limited to," a failing grade in an assignment, test, or class in proven cases of cheating or plagiarism or other academic dishonesty.” • My official policy is that you will receive a failing grade for the assignment (0 points for the assignment). At

my discretion, I sometimes offer a plagiarizer the opportunity to rewrite the essay for an F with points (e.g. 55/100). If you should plagiarize a second time, then you will receive a failing grade for the essay and, as a result, for the class.

• My official thoughts about Plagiarism: I feel that plagiarizing is exceptionally lame. Why bother going to school if you have no intention of doing your own work? If you are stressed out about your writing, just come talk to me and we can discuss your situation.

Staying on Task: It is essential that you read the essay and assignment prompts carefully. Any essays that do not follow what the prompt specifically asks for will be returned ungraded. I will read them after you revise them, but they will be considered late. That said— the essays are designed to allow you the opportunity to develop exactly how you wish to address the questions posed, so you can still express your individuality. Late Essays: I will accept late essays, but if your essay is late, I will provide no comments and return it at my convenience (which might take a while). You are NOT allowed to rewrite late essays. All late essays must be turned in no later than two weeks after the due date. Requirements for Passing the Class: All the essays must be completed with a passing grade or you cannot pass the course. No exceptions. Help: I will gladly comment on thesis statements, outlines, or a paragraph or two from your essays via email or during office appointments-- but not on entire essays. Make sure that you have specific questions about specific

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things before you email me or come to an office appointment. You can also get lots of quality help in the English Lab (Rosenberg Library R205) — and your visits to the lab count towards your lab-hours requirement. Bring the course workbook to each and every class. Check the course schedule on Canvas before each class to see

what we will be covering and make sure that you bring the necessary materials to class.

Attendance/Participation/Class Discussion/Teacher-Student Conference Attendance: Let me make this as obvious as possible. Your presence is important both to me and for your success in the course. If you have made vacation plans, have work obligations, can’t attend the final class, and/or have no intention of showing up regularly, then I would not recommend taking this course. Even if you find me and/or the material boring, you still have to come to class; however, if that is how you feel, I would strongly recommend that you find a teacher and/or class more to your liking and schedule. • For a night class, you are allowed one unexcused absence (no questions asked and no consequences for that

absence), but I reserve the right to reduce your participation grade by five points for each subsequent absence. Please note that this is not an invitation to miss a class.

• If you miss three or more classes in a row before the final withdrawal date -- and do not contact me to let me know if you are still in the class— I will drop/withdraw you from the course.

• If you miss a total of five class meetings before the final withdrawal date — I will drop/withdraw you from the course. There comes a point when you are just not really taking the course-- and this, as far as I am concerned, is pretty much when you have arrived at that point.

• You are expected to arrive to class on time and to bring the proper materials (course reader, assignments ... check Canvas for details). If you are late then YOU have to let me know, or you will remain marked absent. Three "lates / tardies" equal one absence.

• Please note that if you miss a class, you are still responsible for all material/assignments covered in class. • I recommend that you exchange email addresses with at least a couple of students so that you can keep up

with anything you might miss in class. Though I will be as helpful as I can, do not rely on me to keep you up to date. I will not respond to emails that ask me what was covered in class. Check Canvas for the latest schedule / due dates / required reading, etc. EVERYTHING is there.

• If life deals one of those many unfortunate situations that we all dread but have to deal with, and, as a result, you have to be absent for a few classes, then please have the courtesy to let me know. I do not need to know the details—just that you are “dealing with something” and, thus, missing classes. I will drop or withdraw you from the class if I have not heard from you after two weeks. Don’t just vanish! Keep in touch and let me know what is going on.

Participation Grade: I base your participation grade on attendance, class participation, and completing the lab work (25 pts). Most students, when attendance is good, receive 21 or 22 points. To get more points you need to participate in discussions. Talking during class while others are speaking (whether it be me or your fellow classmates) will result in a reduced participation grade as well. Class Discussion: This class is built around a lot of class discussion and interaction; therefore, it is important that you take part in class discussions—which means that you must put your best effort towards reading the material and thinking about it. Consistent lack of participation will result in a lower participation score. Teacher-Student Conference: Between November 29th and December 3rd, I will conduct individual conferences with each student. Failure to participate in a conference will result in losing all your participation points. General Class Rules Eating & Drinking in Class: Official school rules prohibit eating in class, so if you spill something, clean up after yourself. Smart Phones & Laptops in Class: I am beginning to accept that some students use their smart phones to access information during class, but I am not entirely convinced yet. Let me say this: if you are far more interested in your smart phone than the class, you should seriously ask yourself why you are bothering to take this course. Do not disrupt the class. If you do, I will ask you to leave and then mark you absent.

 You are adults and I expect you to act responsibly/accordingly.  DO NOT TALK TO YOUR FELLOW CLASSMATES DURING LECTURES OR CLASS DISCUSSIONS!  Do not sleep or do homework during class. If you feel the class is boring and/or stupid, I encourage you to

drop the course and find one that is more interesting to you.

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Other Concerns  Email Addresses: Make sure that you check the email the school has provided you. You can forward your school email to

your regular email account (and that way you won’t miss anything the school sends you). This is the email that I am provided and my only way of contacting you. All mail related to Canvas is delivered to your school email as well.

 This class is rated “R.” From time to time strong language and discussion of adult themes and situations may occur. If these kinds of things offend you, you should consider taking a different course.

 Accommodations: If you need classroom or testing accommodations because of a disability, or have any other special needs, please give me your DSPS form or make an appointment with me as soon as possible. Disabled Students Programs and Services (DSPS) is located in Room 323 of the Rosenberg Library, phone (415) 452 5481

Grade Breakdown (Subject to Change) 70% of your grade • Inductive Analysis Essay 1 (Emerson) = 50 points • Deductive Analysis Essay 2 (Annie Dillard’s “Seeing”) = 100 points • Personal Essay (Kimmerer) = 50 pts • Research Essay (Gardening) = 200 points

20% of Your Grade • In-class Essay = 25 pts • Group Presentation = 25 points • Assignments (Various Points) • Reading Quizzes (Various pts.)

10% of Your Grade • Participation (Attendance + Class Discussion + Online Tutorials + Student-Teacher Conference) = 25 points

The Complete and Detailed Schedule for the Class Is on Canvas

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Revision Process

If your grade is below passing, then disregard this process. You must meet with me in person so that we can discuss your rewrite. It is your responsibility to make this appointment.

Turn in a printed copy of the rewritten essay to me – Do Not Upload Rewrites to Canvas

This exercise in revision is not just a process of fixing the corrections or responding to the comments I made. Treat this as a revision of the essay as a whole. Think about how you can improve or tighten up your points/writing. In other words, this is a revision of the whole essay. As you revise your essay keep notes about the changes you have made to your essay. I need to know WHY you made EVERY change. Note: Because Nathan marked it / told me to is not an acceptable reason. If I asked you a question or commented about something you wrote, I expect you to address what I said and tell me how and why you fixed it. I want to know what your reasoning is for every change you make. Keep track of these changes on your freshly-printed, revised draft. Go ahead and write on the essay in pencil. (A) Underline / circle the section you have changed in your revised essay and then explain the nature of the problem, how you fixed it, and why your fix has taken care of the problem. The amount of points you are awarded will be based on how detailed your explanations are. If you are going to only make minor changes and / or spend no time explaining this, then do not bother revising the essay. (B) For all sentence related errors—name the error (such as run together sentence, misspelled word, subject-verb agreement, incorrect verb tense, proofreading error, wrong word choice, the sentence fell apart/derailed/too weighty, etc) and then explain what you have done to fix the problem. (C) If it is repetitive problem—such as forgetting to use the right tense or keeping the comma inside the quotation marks or incorrectly formatting your in-text citations— then explain the nature of the error and circle each instance of that error. Do not explain the instance of each error. If you do not follow these requirements, then I will not read your revised essay. The amount of points that you are rewarded will reflect the quality of your rewrite and how detailed your explanations are. In general, your grade will be boosted a half grade or a full grade if you do a good job (for example a C+ will become a B-). If your rewrite significantly improves your essay, then I reserve the right to increase it a full grade (for example, a C could become a B). Provide me a printed copy with your corrections. Do not upload the revision to Canvas. Please Note  If you received an A- or better, then you cannot rewrite the essay.  Only the first two essays of the semester can be revised / rewritten.

If I am not requiring you to rewrite / revise your essay, then don’t bother with this process unless you really want to rewrite your essay and learn something from the process. Anything less will receive no points. Just changing a few quick things will not yield very many points (and might receive no points).

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Sample Format Guidelines for Essays Not a Writing Sample – Just a Formatting Sample

Bane

Personal Essay (Solitude)

December 31, 9768

The Eye of Solitude

Since my early childhood days, I have often returned to the Point Reyes National

Seashore, but after moving to Marin County a few years ago, that "often" has been

replaced with "as much as once a week," especially during the winter and spring after a

good rain has settled but the clouds have not yet left. As a child, my family was far too

poor to ever travel, but over several summers we would board the Golden Gate Transit

bus before sunrise, in the dark, and then leave to come home on the final bus, which

would return us to San Francisco in the dark. And thus began a tradition of sorts, one

that stretches back to those early childhood days and looks further forward to whatever

I may encounter in future visits. Now that I live in Novato, a forty five minute drive

away, I visit Drake's Beach each week, camera, neutral density filters, and tripod in

hand so that I can find yet another way to photograph this stretch of beach where land

ends and the sea begins-- or if you wish where the sea ends and land begins-- or,

perhaps, where the land and the sea simply meet, that shoreline bringing to mind the

line on a map where the blue of the water is separated by the color of the land mass.

These are the kinds of thoughts that I often play with as I wait for the seconds to pass

into minutes during the long exposure photographs that I work on each visit. Indeed,

gazing out into the sea, I often find a certain kind of silence, a silence that is experienced

in between the sounds of the sea, a silence that I only find in solitude.

Lately, I have been thinking about what Emerson and Thoreau had to say about

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SAMPLE PROCESS LETTER Dear Mr. Nathan,

Overall, I feel like I understand the question and answered it well; however, I really struggled

with my introduction and my conclusion. I know that they are supposed to be like the bookends of the

essay and really tie together my overall points/thesis, but I don’t feel like I fully introduce my essay and I

am not certain if the introduction even really relates to my thesis. I wish I had taken more time with it. I

am not entirely certain if I ever fully figured out exactly what Emerson is saying about solitude. I do,

however, feel that I have a good grasp of Emerson’s main ideas (I am not certain that I adequately

explained his thoughts, and I may have claimed he said things he never actually says in the essay).

I feel confident about my body paragraphs. I worked very hard on trying to write good

transitions between paragraphs and I think most of them are very effective, but I also think a few of them

are a bit too formulaic. I think I did a really good job integrating the sources and finding ways to support

my argument that solitude helps us to understand nature in very human terms. I am used to thinking of

the first sentence of each paragraph as a topic sentence, so it might take me a while to adjust to your

instruction about considering them as points.

I wish I had taken a little more time to revise the essay. I feel good about the writing overall, but

I know that I could have cleaned up and better focused some of the sentences. I’d really appreciate it if

you would comment on the conclusion and let me know if you think I successfully tied together all the

elements of my body paragraphs and my thesis.

I plan to start the next essay even earlier so that I have lots of extra time to proofread and

rethink my sentences (and make sure that all the elements of the essay work together smoothly). I know

every student says that!

Thanks! Miley

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Essay 1: Inductive Analysis Essay -- Emerson (50 pts.) Length: 4-5 pgs. Due Date: Check Canvas Task: Analyze the text of the excerpt from Emerson’s Nature and discuss how the writer explains (a) his experience with nature while in solitude and (b) the spiritual connection that he has with God through nature. • To successfully accomplish this task, you will need to analyze Emerson’s actual language. This is essential. I am

not asking you what your thoughts are about Emerson’s views. I am asking you to analyze what he wrote. • You need to make sure that you analyze the following key elements in Emerson’s essay: a) What Emerson feels is required to achieve the kind of solitude he is discussing. How one can achieve it. b) How our awe for the stars help us to understand what true solitude means. c) How all “natural objects” can fill us with the same sense of awe if we are open to their influence. d) How seeing this way is the way the poet sees. e) How seeing with this sense of wonder is the way many people experience nature when they are children. f) How the “transparent eyeball” passage represents the awe, the willingness to be open to the influence of all “natural objects,” the way the poet sees, the child-like wonder that we can have for nature, and his connection with God through nature.  be very thorough about this (do not skip it). Please note I am not asking you to discuss your views about his thoughts. Your task is to analyze the text (so you will need to summarize, paraphrase and directly quote from Emerson and use your analysis of the text to shape your understanding of how he experiences solitude and nature). And your essay is not only a summary … it is an analysis. Do not write from the perspective of what you think Emerson is trying to say; instead, write from the perspective of what he actually writes and how his observations are interconnected-- and what they, ultimately, lead to.  Audience: Your audience will be familiar with this excerpt, so you should not retell everything that happens in them. Instead, focus on those passages that you choose to analyze. You should summarize, paraphrase and quote those passages that will help you to demonstrate how Emerson describes his experiences with nature in solitude. Do not use “I” or “You.”  Essay Structure: This is an inductive analysis essay, which means you do not begin your essay with the traditional introduction that includes a thesis statement. Instead, you should, after stating the title and the author’s full name, jump right in and start analyzing what Emerson does and how he does it. Your goal is to connect the various elements of his essay and show how he ultimately connects with God through his deep connection with nature. Thus, it makes the most sense to discuss his essay by analyzing these elements in the order he writes them in—your job also including the need to make connections between these elements. Your conclusion must, ultimately and conclusively, state how Emerson’s essay explores his connection with God through solitude and nature. And, very importantly, state your thesis in your conclusion. Think of it this way: this essay form requires you to argue towards your thesis (instead of stating it at the beginning of your essay).  MLA Formatting: (1) When writing about the essay, use the present tense (Example: Emerson explains a certain quality of solitude). (2) In your introductory paragraph, refer to the title of the full essay (Nature) and the author’s full name (Ralph

Waldo Emerson). (3) For the rest of the essay, use the author’s last name (Emerson). Do not repeat his full name again. (4) Once you have mentioned the title, do not mention it again. Do not write “in the essay.” We will know that you

are discussing the essay. (5) For in-text citations / quotations, use the page number in the course reader. You do not need to mention the

author’s last name in the citation because once you have introduced us to the title and the author’s name, we will know that you are only quoting that source because your task is to analyze that essay and that essay only.

(6) Provide a Works Cited page. Here is the correctly formatted bibliographical citation. Pay attention to the italicized titles and the indented second line.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. English 1A Course Reader. Edited by Nathan Wirth, Nathan’s Mind Inc., 2019.  Final Draft: Upload your final draft to Canvas. Check the course schedule for due dates and the upload link.  Process Letter: You must also include a process letter, in which you write about your writing process for the essay. Please make this the first page of your document (and it does not count as one of the required pages). You can find a sample process letter in this course reader.  Formatting: Check the formatting requirements in this course reader before you upload your essay.

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Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1836 To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I

read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime.1 Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing2 smile. The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort3 her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood. When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impression made by manifold natural objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter, from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape, which I saw this morning, is indubitably4 made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their warranty-deeds give no title. To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, -- he is my creature, and maugre5 all his impertinent6 griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial7 of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial8 festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate9 than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature. The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right. Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight, does not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance. For, nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity, the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then, there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population.

1 sublime = of such grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe (so much awe that it comes with fear / respect & thus reverence) 2 admonish = to urge to a duty; remind 3 extort = obtain (something) by force, threats, or other unfair means 4 indubitably = too evident to be doubted 5 maugre = in spite of 6 impertinent = not pertinent to a particular matter; irrelevant. 7 cordial = a comforting or pleasant-tasting medicine 8 perennial = lasting or existing for a long or apparently infinite time; enduring or continually recurring. 9 connate = (especially of ideas or principles) existing in a person or thing from birth; innate.

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Sample of Essay One – Emerson William Fitzgerald English 1A Mr. Nathan

The Transparent I Ralph Waldo Emerson begins his essay Nature by offering his readers the conditions necessary to

find a certain quality of solitude, one that he later experiences when he finds a very deep and personal connection with nature and, ultimately, God: “To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society” (10). One should note that Emerson specifically indicates the necessity to leave both his connections with home and the society that his home is located in; in fact, he indicates the need to sever his ties from others even further by realizing that being physically alone, being at home without anyone else around, is not necessarily enough, for even when he reads and writes in solitude he is still connected with those whose thoughts he might read and for those whom he might write. To best find the truest sense of the solitary, he explains one should look to the brilliance of the heavens and its many stars, for this is how one can feel truly disconnected from the rest of the world. The stars, Emerson writes, “will separate” man “between him and what he touches” (10). In other words, those who look to the brilliance of the stars will see something filled with such immensity they will feel a sense of awe that separates them from all that is material, all that is touchable, and, as a result, leave them to feel alone and solitary in the face of such grandeur. But the stars are not just beautiful. They also fill one with the sense of the sublime, a word which not only describes the sheer beauty and grandeur of the lights that fill the night but also indicates the power of the stars, a power and intensity that elicits veneration and respect and awe and, thus, a touch of uneasiness. That fear, that respect, that reverence, is essential to understanding what Emerson wishes to communicate because the heavens in all their vastness and mystery are, in his words, “the city of God” (10). So, ultimately, Emerson equates the intensity of this quality of solitude he seeks with the intensity of connecting with God, but, at this point, God is high in the heavens and out of his reach.

Next, he shifts from the reverence and awe one might feel for the stars to reverence for the many facets of nature down here on earth, writing that that the stars are “inaccessible,” that we can never touch them and that, in the end, this is an essential part of the reason why they “awaken a certain reverence” (10)— “awaken” implying our senses and spirit have been asleep or dulled and that through this experience those inactive senses are stirred up, excited, and aroused. And this is precisely where Emerson associates that same awakening, that same awe, that same reverence for the majesty of the nighttime sky with all and any “natural objects” (10), the phrase “kindred impression” (10) connecting the stars to all “natural objects” (all of which we can touch, unlike the stars, if we choose). “Kindred” denotes there is a definite similarity between the stars and the natural objects of the earth, but even though they are not the same, they do, in a sense, come from the same natural origin (later in the essay, the “Universal Being”). “Impression” indicates the effect something has on the mind, the conscience, and one’s feelings. So, when combined in this context, these two words indicate, once again, that Emerson is drawing a connection between the intensity and awe we hold for the stars and the awe and reverence that we might have for any natural object, but, for this to happen, the mind must be “open to their influence” (10). “Influence” is the key word here, for it indicates that experiencing these natural objects and surroundings can affect one’s moods and feelings, that one can experience the same awe for the stars in the entirety of nature if one is open to seeing that influence, that, ultimately, nature is as grand and awe-inspiring as those stars (and, by connection, one can also experience God in and through nature).

Emerson then shifts to explaining how the wise person— i.e., the person whose mind is open to the influence of nature— recognizes that nature does not act meanly, that nature is not a trivial toy to be played with, that nature never ceases to amaze and intrigue the person who experiences it, and, perhaps most importantly, the truly wise person realizes the best moments experiencing nature as an adult return one to the wonder which childhood was often filled with, to a time before the experiences of being an adult deadened and dulled the innocence and curiosity of childhood experiences in nature. In other words, one of the deepest consequences of opening one’s mind to the influence of nature is that it awakens, in part, some of that lost wonder of our childhood. Emerson then connects this reawakened mind to a “most poetical sense” of how we see things. To see things poetically is to see them as they are and not in an analytical or purely functional way; the poet sees nature in its entirety and not by its material divisions. He offers the example of the woodcutter— who sees a tree only for its potential

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materials— and the poet, who sees the tree for what it is: as a whole tree with all the beauty one might associate with a tree— as well as a “natural object” that shares a “kindred impression” with the stars that invokes a sense of awe, reverence and wonder. He further explains this poetical perception by describing a walk through a variety of farms and woods, in which he sees all these parcels of individually owned land as one landscape and not a landscape divided by ownership. The poetically-awakened mind realizes one can possess a deed to some land, but one can never own the landscape, the view, the experience (and the awe and the wonder it can invoke if one’s mind is open to the influence) .

And it is this poetical sense of mind that Emerson sees through when he later goes for a walk in the woods at twilight. The poetically-minded individual is the one whose mind, heart, spirit and eyes, “whose inward and outward senses,” are “still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood” (10). Indeed, the “lover of nature,” as Emerson refers to it, sees nature not only with the eyes but with a curiosity and exhilaration that has not been deadened, one that can continually be reawakened. As he takes his walk, he feels a perfect exhilaration and his senses are filled with delight, recognizing that every season brings its own delights and reactions and that, very importantly, one can feel a sense of excitement even when one feels sad. For Emerson, experiencing nature is like a ritual, one that offers him an opportunity to communicate with both the heavens and the earth, for God can be found— if one’s mind is open to such influence, to such awe and reverence— in both those celestial stars he discusses at the beginning of the essay and the natural world that he is now taking a walk in. He recognizes that a man (woman) can “cast off his years” and “what period soever of life” be always a child (10). So, before he describes the very intense connection with the natural world that he is about to have, Emerson once again connects the feeling of childhood wonder and the awe of nature that can be found if one’s mind is open to their influence. In fact, this connection is so intense he likens it to a “perennial festival,” which implies that a walk of this kind is very similar to a ritual one might experience in a church, but, in this case, no building is necessary, for nature, itself, is the place of worship, the place of ritual. He also takes the reader back to the beginning of the essay by saying that a person would never tire of this ritual in even a thousand years, which brings us back to how even more intense the stars in the night sky would be if they only appeared every thousand years. But, in this case, he states that one would never tire of what is clearly there, what can be clearly touched.

And it is in this state of “perfect exhilaration” that one returns to reason and faith, these words being essential because, for Emerson and his fellow transcendentalists, the spiritual and the scientific were never in competition with one another. They generally believed that the world could be understood through spiritual intuition, but they also accepted scientific doctrine. For some, this might be difficult to understand— especially since he is about to speak about his very deep, mystical connection with nature in exceptionally poetic terms— but that poetic outlook is exactly what fuels his direct experience. It may be poetic, but it is also reasoned through a connection to what is there, to what he sees in terms of what these natural objects actually are. And with this focused attention on his surroundings, he then writes about the intensity of his connection to both the natural landscape and God:

There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God (10).

At first glance, Emerson’s words seem to suggest an almost hallucinatory experience, but when one considers the reverence, the childhood wonder, and the most poetical sense of mind that he has already introduced us to, one can see the absolute delight and awe he has for such an intense experience, a moment of experience in which he fully absorbs his surroundings, the intensity of the connection itself being what instructs and connects him. Indeed, he speaks in mystical terms, in a connection through which he purely experiences the moment itself as if he is there, but not there, and, in that state, connects with God. In this perennially festive moment, he lets the self, the “mean egotism” go, and it is as if he joins, in that moment, the same “infinite space” where one would find the stars and the “city of God,” as if he has bridged the “intercourse with heaven and earth” (10). To be transparent is to be opaque, as if you are there but cannot be seen. One might also think of a substance like water which is sheer and allows light to shine through, as if in those moments the light of everything in the universe, viz., the “Universal Being,” radiate through him thus allowing him to absorb everything in his surroundings. The “eye,” the organ through which we see, can also be seen as a pun on the personal pronoun “I,” which

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connects this experience to the self, and, as a result, the self, the “I,” is also made transparent and one then becomes nothing, as if one is no longer there, and then becomes a “part” of God or a minute particle of God, both indicating that he has connected and become part of nature and part of God. At the very least, one sees the absolute intensity by which he finds this connection, one that is bound to reverence, to wonder, and to a most distinctly poetical sense of mind.

Emerson clarifies one last time the wonder he has for nature by explaining that every time he sees the “waving of the boughs in the storm,” it “is new to” him “and old,” for it takes him “by surprise, and yet is not unknown” (10). At first this might seem paradoxical, for how can something one sees often be both known and surprising? The answer lies in the wonder of the poetical mind open to the influence of nature. Regardless of the amount of times, he has seen such things and experienced such moments, he always feels wonder for them (as if each experience is “new”). Finally, he ends by pointing out that nature itself does not provide the emotional connection. It is the individual who connects in this way—and he calls this connection a “higher thought” or “better emotion,” both suggesting that one must, again, be open to such influences. For, after all, one could go for a walk in the woods and feel nothing but boredom, for it is the mood of the individual that sets the experience. Earlier, he said that nature “never wears a mean appearance” (10) and then ends with the observation that nature “always wears the color of the spirit” (10), a claim that clearly states that nature itself does not control our mood—though it can certainly affect our mood.

Ultimately, Emerson has written about experiencing an intense, mystical-like connection with the natural world, one that is, in fact, so intense that he has, at times, connected to the “Universal Being.” In order to explain the depth of this experience, he writes about the reverence and awe one can have for nature if one’s mind is open to the influence of such things— so much so that he connects the awe one might have for the brilliant, shining stars in the nighttime sky to the awe one can have for all natural things in this world down below those stars. To open one’s mind to nature in this way is to see nature poetically, to see it with a wonder that links one back to a similar wonder and curiosity one had for nature as a child. He represents the intensity of this awe and wonder by using a metaphor of “becoming a transparent eyeball” (10), a comparison which offers the perspective that when he experiences this intense connection, it is so intense he becomes one with both nature and God. Early in the essay, he refers to the unreachable stars as the “City of God” (10), and later in the essay he refers to nature as the“plantations of God” (10). By doing so, Emerson expresses his belief that the unreachable God he reveres so much in those unreachable stars can be experienced in and through the beauty and awe of nature experienced down here on earth. But, again, one must be open to such possibilities, such influences.

I underlined the entire conclusion because all of it can be seen as a thesis for what Emerson ultimately “does” in his essay—as well as “how” he “does” it. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Essay 2: Deductive Analysis Essay -- “Seeing” (100 points) Length: 6-7 pages Due Date: Check Canvas Task: Write an analysis of how Dillard, in her essay, explores a variety of ways for what it means to see, both literally (the natural obvious) and figuratively (the artificial obvious), and how she connects and builds from them throughout her essay so that by the end of the essay she comes to a realization about a kind of seeing that is more visionary than it is biological or neurological. • Very important: Your task is to analyze what Dillard says and how she says it (and how everything is

interrelated)—and not what you think she says or how you feel about what she says. You need to provide a clear connection between the points and observations she makes in her essay.

• Do not write from the perspective that Dillard is trying to show us how to see or how to better enjoy our lives or be happy. Dillard is writing about her thoughts and experiences. You are analyzing that so write from that perspective.

 Audience: Your audience will be familiar with this piece, so you should not retell everything that she writes about. Instead, focus on those passages that you choose to analyze in order to build and expand your thesis. You should summarize, paraphrase and quote those passages that will help you to demonstrate the different ways that Dillard discusses what it means to see. Look for ways to connect those passages so that your reader can see what your analysis of them equals (thus allowing you to carefully connect everything to come to an overall conclusion about how Dillard explores what it means to see). You should demonstrate an awareness of what the essay, overall, is about.  Essay Structure: (1) Make sure your introduction establishes the nature of what Dillard does in her essay—and then make sure that your introduction is introducing us to your thesis and the analysis you will be covering in your body paragraphs. (2) Your thesis should be a specific claim about how Dillard ponders what it means to see and how those different “ways and meanings” lead to the end of her essay where she experiences a visionary-like moment. (3) Your body paragraphs should connect your various analyses of the passages you cover (and directly relate to the claim that you make in your thesis and where you are going in your conclusion). They should also provide your reader the material needed to understand how you came to your conclusion. (4) Your conclusion should tie together everything you say in your body paragraphs and tell us, ultimately and conclusively, how Dillard’s various explorations of “seeing” lead to her visionary moment at the end of the essay. Your conclusion should be specifically connected to your thesis / your thesis should be specifically linked to your conclusion.  MLA Formatting: • In your introductory paragraph, refer to the title of the book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and the author’s full name

(Annie Dillard). Make it clear that “Seeing” is a chapter from that book.  In “Seeing,” the second chapter from her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard writes about a variety

of different meanings for what it means “to see.” • For the rest of the essay, use the author’s last name (Dillard). Do not repeat her full name again. • Once you have mentioned the title, do not mention it again. Do not write “in the essay.” We will know that you

are discussing the essay. • For in-text citations / quotations, use the page number from the course reader. You do not need to mention the

author’s last name in the citation because once you have introduced us to the title and the author’s name, we will know that you are only quoting that source because your task is to analyze that essay and that essay only

• Provide a works cited page. Here is the correctly formatted bibliographical citation. Pay attention to the italicized title of the course reader.

Dillard, Annie. “Seeing.” English 1A Course Reader. Edited by Nathan Wirth, Nathan’s Mind, Inc. 2019  Make sure your sentences are focused and that you take the time to effectively combine sentences using coordination and subordination.  Make sure you meaningfully and effectively use coordinators, subordinators, conjunctive adverbs and transitional expressions to provide, where appropriate, clear transitions between your ideas.  Make sure you provide meaningful and relevant context for your quotations, paraphrasing, and summaries. Be sure you also provide (a) relevant explanations of them and (b) specific analysis.  Do not use “I” or “you.”  Final Draft: Upload your final draft to Canvas. Check the course schedule for due dates and the upload link.  Process Letter: You must also include a process letter, in which you write about your writing process for the essay. Please make this the first page of your document (and it does not count as one of the required pages). You can find a sample process letter in this course reader.  Formatting: Check the formatting requirements in this course reader before you upload your essay.

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"Seeing” by Annie Dillard This is Chapter Two from the book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Harper Perennial, 1974)

When I was six or seven years old, growing up in Pittsburgh, I used to take a precious penny of my own and hide it for someone else to find. It was a curious compulsion; sadly, I’ve never been seized by it since. For some reason I always “hid” the penny along the same stretch of sidewalk up the street. I would cradle it at the roots of a sycamore, say, or in a hole left by a chipped-off piece of sidewalk. Then I would take a piece of chalk, and, starting at either end of the block, draw huge arrows leading up to the penny from both directions. After I learned to write I labeled the arrows: SURPRISE AHEAD or MONEY THIS WAY. I was greatly excited, during all this arrow-drawing, at the thought of the first lucky passer-by who would receive in this way, regardless of merit, a free gift from the universe. But I never lurked about. I would go straight home and not give the matter another thought, until, some months later, I would be gripped again by the impulse to hide another penny.

It is still the first week in January, and I’ve got great plans. I’ve been thinking about seeing. There are lots

of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But—and this is the point—who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat kid paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go your rueful way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won’t stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

I used to be able to see flying insects in the air. I’d look ahead and see, not the row of hemlocks across the road, but the air in front of it. My eyes would focus along that column of air, picking out flying insects. But I lost interest, I guess, for I dropped the habit. Now I can see birds. Probably some people can look at the grass at their feet and discover all the crawling creatures. I would like to know grasses and sedges—and care. Then my least journey into the world would be a field trip, a series of happy recognitions. Thoreau, in an expansive mood, exulted, “What a rich book might be made about buds, including, perhaps, sprouts!” It would be nice to think so. I cherish mental images I have of three perfectly happy people. One collects stones. Another—an Englishman, say— watches clouds. The third lives on a coast and collects drops of seawater which he examines microscopically and mounts. But I don’t see what the specialist sees, and so I cut myself off, not only from the total picture, but from the various forms of happiness. Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven; the brightest oriole fades into leaves. These disappearances stun me into stillness and concentration; they say of nature that it conceals with a grand nonchalance, and they say of vision that it is a deliberate gift, the revelation of a dancer who for my eyes only flings away her seven veils. For nature does reveal as well as conceal: now-you- don’t-see-it, now-you-do. For a week last September migrating red-winged blackbirds were feeding heavily down by the creek at the back of the house. One day I went out to investigate the racket; I walked up to a tree, an Osage orange, and a hundred birds flew away. They simply materialized out of the tree. I saw a tree, then a whisk of color, then a tree again. I walked closer and another hundred blackbirds took flight. Not a branch, not a twig budged: the birds were apparently weightless as well as invisible. Or, it was as if the leaves of the Osage orange had been freed from a spell in the form of redwinged blackbirds; they flew from the tree, caught my eye in the sky, and vanished. When I looked again at the tree, the leaves had reassembled as if nothing had happened. Finally I walked directly to the trunk of the tree and a finally hundred, the real diehards, appeared, spread, and vanished. How could so many hide in the tree without my seeing them? The Osage orange, unruffled, looked just as it had looked from the house, when three hundred red-winged blackbirds cried from its crown. I looked downstream where they flew, and they were gone. Searching, I couldn’t spot one. I wandered downstream to force them to play their hand, but they’d crossed the creek and scattered. One show to a customer. These appearances catch at my throat; they are the free gifts, the bright coppers at the roots of trees.

It’s all a matter of keeping my eyes open. Nature is like one of those line drawings of a tree that are puzzles for children: Can you find hidden in the leaves a duck, a house, a boy, a bucket, a zebra, and a boot? Specialists can find the most incredibly well-hidden things. A book I read when I was young recommended an easy way to find caterpillars to rear: you simply find some fresh caterpillar droppings, look up, and there’s your caterpillar. More recently an author advised me to set my mind at ease about those piles of cut stems on the ground in grassy fields. Field mice make them; they cut the grass down by degrees to reach the seeds at the head. It seems that when the grass is tightly packed, as in a field of ripe grain, the blade won’t topple at a single cut through the stem; instead, the cut stem simply drops vertically, held in the crush of grain. The mouse severs the bottom again and again, the stem keeps dropping an inch at a time, and finally the head is low enough for the

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mouse to reach the seeds. Meanwhile, the mouse is positively littering the field with its little piles of cut stems into which, presumably, the author of the book is constantly stumbling.

If I can’t see these minutiae, I still try to keep my eyes open. I’m always on the lookout for antlion traps in sandy soil, monarch pupae near milkweed, skipper larvae in locust leaves. These things are utterly common, and I’ve not seen one. I bang on hollow trees near water, but so far no flying squirrels have appeared. In flat country I watch every sunset in hopes of seeing the green ray. The green ray is a seldom-seen streak of light that rises from the sun like a spurting fountain at the moment of sunset; it throbs into the sky for two seconds and disappears. One more reason to keep my eyes open. A photography professor at the University of Florida just happened to see a bird die in midnight; it jerked, died, dropped, and smashed on the ground. I squint at the wind because I read Stewart Edward White: “I have always maintained that if you looked closely enough you could see the wind—the dim, hardly-made-out, fine debris fleeing high in the air.” White was an excellent observer, and devoted an entire chapter of The Mountains to the subject of seeing deer: “As soon as you can forget the naturally obvious and construct an artificial obvious, then you too will see deer.”

But the artificial obvious is hard to see. My eyes account for less than one percent of the weight of my head; I’m bony and dense; I see what I expect. I once spent a full three minutes looking at a bullfrog that was so unexpectedly large I couldn’t see it even though a dozen enthusiastic campers were shouting directions. Finally I asked, “What color am I looking for?” and a fellow said, “Green.” When at last I picked out the frog, I saw what painters are up against: the thing wasn’t green at all, but the color of wet hickory bark.

The lover can see, and the knowledgeable. I visited an aunt and uncle at a quarter-horse race in Cody, Wyoming. I couldn’t do much of anything useful, but I could, I thought, draw. So, as we all sat around the kitchen table after supper, I produced a sheet of paper and drew a horse. “That’s one lame horse,” my aunt volunteered. The rest of my family joined in: “Only place to saddle that one is his neck”; “Looks like we better shoot the poor thing, on account of those terrible growths.” Meekly, I slid the pencil and paper down the table. Everyone in that family, including my three young cousins, could draw a horse. Beautifully. When the paper came back it looked as though five shining, real quarter horses had been corralled by mistake with a papier-mâché moose; the real horses seemed to gaze at the monster with a steady, puzzled air. I stay away from horses now, but I can do a creditable goldfish. The point is that I just don’t know what the lover knows; I just can’t see the artificial obvious that those in the know construct. The herpetologist asks the native, “Are there snakes in that ravine?” “Nosir.” And the herpetologist comes home with, yessir, three bags full. Are there butterflies on that mountain? Are the bluets in bloom, are there arrowheads here, or fossil shells in the shale?

Peeping through my keyhole I see within the range of only about thirty percent of the light that comes from the sun; the rest is infrared and some little ultraviolet, perfectly apparent to many animals, but invisible to me. A nightmare network of ganglia, charged and firing without my knowledge, cuts and splices what I do see, editing it for my brain. Donald E. Carr points out that the sense impressions of one-celled animals are not edited for the brain: “This is philosophically interesting in a rather mournful way, since it means that only the simplest animals perceive the universe as it is.”

A fog that won’t burn away drifts and flows across my field of vision. When you see fog move against a backdrop of deep pines, you don’t see the fog itself, but streaks of clearness floating across the air in dark shreds. So I see only tatters of clearness through a pervading obscurity. I can’t distinguish the fog from the overcast sky; I can’t be sure if the light is direct or reflected. Everywhere darkness and the presence of the unseen appalls. We estimate now that only one atom dances alone in every cubic meter of intergalactic space. I blink and squint. What planet or power yanks Halley’s Comet out of orbit? We haven’t seen that force yet; it’s a question of distance, density, and the pallor of reflected light. We rock, cradled in the swaddling band of darkness. Even the simple darkness of night whispers suggestions to the mind. Last summer, in August, I stayed at the creek too late.

Where Tinker Creek flows under the sycamore log bridge to the tear-shaped island, it is slow and shallow,

fringed thinly in cattail marsh. At this spot an astonishing bloom of life supports vast breeding populations of insects, fish, reptiles, birds, and mammals. On windless summer evenings, I stalk along the creek bank or straddle the sycamore log in absolute stillness, watching for muskrats. The night I stayed too late I was hunched on the fog staring spellbound at spreading, reflecting stains of lilac on the water. A cloud in the sky suddenly lighted as if turned on by a switch; its reflection just as suddenly materialized on the water upstream, flat and floating, so that I couldn’t see the creek bottom, or life in the water under the cloud. Downstream, away from the cloud on the water, water turtles as smooth as beans were gliding down with the current in a series of easy, weightless push- offs, as men bound on the moon. I didn’t know whether to trace the progress of one turtle I was sure of, risking sticking my face in one of the bridge’s spider webs made invisible by the gathering dark, or take a chance on seeing the carp, or scan the mudbank in hope of seeing a muskrat, or follow the last of the swallows who caught at my heart and trailed after them like streamers as they appeared from directly below, under the log, flying upstream with their tails forked, so fast.

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But shadows spread, and deepened, and stayed. After thousands of years we’re still strangers to darkness, fearful aliens in an enemy camp with our arms crossed over our chests. I stirred. A land turtle on the bank, startled, hissed the air from its lungs and withdrew into its shell. An uneasy pink here, and unfathomable blue there, gave great suggestion of lurking beings. Things were going on. I couldn’t see whether that sere rustle I heard was a distant rattlesnake, slit-eyed, or a nearby sparrow kicking in the dry flood debris slung at the foot of a willow. Tremendous action roiled the water everywhere I looked, big action, inexplicable. A tremor welled up beside a gaping muskrat burrow in the bank and I caught my breath, but no muskrat appeared. The ripples continued to fan upstream with a steady, powerful thrust. Night was knitting over my face an eyeless mask, and I still sat transfixed. A distant airplane, a delta wing out of a nightmare, made a gliding shadow on the creek’s bottom that looked like a stingray cruising upstream. At once a black fin slit the pink cloud on the water, shearing it in two. The two halves merged together and seemed to dissolve before my eyes. Darkness pooled in the cleft of the creek and rose, as water collects in a well. Untamed, dreaming lights flickered over the sky. I saw hints of hulking and underwater shadows, two pale splashes out of the water, and round ripples rolling close together from a blackened center.

At last I stared upstream where only the deepest violet remained of the cloud, a cloud so high its underbelly still glowed feeble color reflected from a hidden sky lighted in turn by a sun halfway to China. And out of that violet, a sudden enormous black body arced over the water. I saw only a cylindrical sleekness. Head and tail, if there was a head and tail, were both submerged in cloud I saw only one ebony fling, a headlong dive to darkness; then the waters closed, and the lights went out.

I walked home in a shivering daze, up hill and down. Later I lay open-mouthed in bed, my arms flung wide at my sides to steady the whirling darkness. At this latitude I’m spinning 836 miles an hour round the earth’s axis; I often fancy I feel my sweeping fall as a breakneck arc like the dive of dolphins, and the hollow rushing of wind raises hair on my neck and the side of my face. In orbit around the sun I’m moving 64,800 miles an hour. The solar system as a whole, like a merry-go-round unhinged, spins, bobs, and blinks at the speed of 43,200 miles an hour along a course set east of Hercules. Someone has piped, and we are dancing a tarantella until the sweat pours. I open my eyes and I see dark, muscled forms curl out of the water, with flapping gills and flattened eyes. I close my eyes and I see stars, deep stars giving way to deeper stars, deeper stars bowing to deepest stars at the crown of an infinite cone.

“Still,” wrote van Gogh in a letter, “a great deal of light falls on everything.” If we are blinded by darkness, we are also blinded by light. When too much light falls on everything, a special terror results. Peter Freuchen describes the notorious kayak sickness to which Greenland Eskimos are prone. “The Greenland fjords are peculiar for the spells of completely quiet weather, when there is not enough wind to blow out a match and the water is like a sheet of glass. The kayak hunter must sit in his boat without stirring a finger so as not to scare the shy seals away… The sun, low in the sky, sends a glare into his eyes, and the landscape around moves into the realm of the unreal. The reflex from the mirror-like water hypnotizes him, he seems to be unable to move, and all of a sudden it is as if he were floating in a bottomless void, sinking, sinking, and sinking… Horror-stricken, he tries to stir, to cry out, but he cannot, he is completely paralyzed, he just falls and falls.” Some hunters are especially cursed with this panic, and bring ruin and sometimes starvation to their families.

Sometimes here in Virginia at sunset low clouds on the southern or northern horizon are completely invisible in the lighted sky. I only know one is there because I can see its reflection in still water. The first time I discovered this mystery I looked from cloud to no-cloud in bewilderment, checking my bearings over and over, thinking maybe the ark of the covenant was just passing by south of Dead Man Mountain. Only much later did I read the explanation: polarized light from the sky is very much weakened by perfection, but the light in clouds isn’t polarized. So invisible clouds pass among visible clouds, till all slide over the mountains; so a greater light extinguishes a lesser as though it didn’t exist.

In the great meteor shower of August, the Perseid, I wail all day for the shooting stars I miss. They’re out there showering down, committing hara-kiri in a flame of fatal attraction, and hissing perhaps at last into the ocean. But at dawn what looks like a blue dome clamps down over me like a lid on a pot. The stars and planets could smash down and I’d never know. Only a piece of ashen moon occasionally climbs up or down the inside of the dome, and our local star without surcease explodes on our heads. We have really only that one light, one source for all power, and yet we must turn away from it by universal decree. Nobody here on the planet seems aware of this strange, powerful taboo, that we all walk about carefully averting our faces, this way and that, lest our eyes be blasted forever.

Darkness appalls and light dazzles; the scrap of visible light that doesn’t hurt my eyes hurts my brain. What I see sets me swaying. Size and distance and the sudden swelling of meanings confuse me, bowl me over. I straddle the sycamore log bridge over Tinker Creek in the summer. I look at the lighted creek bottom: snail tracks tunnel the mud in quavering curves. A crayfish jerks, but by the time I absorb what has happened, he’s gone in a billowing smokescreen of silt. I look at the water: minnows and shiners. If I’m thinking minnows, a carp will fill my

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brain till I scream. I look at the water’s surface: skaters, bubbles, and leaves sliding down. Suddenly, my own face, reflected, startles me witless. Those snails have been tracking my face! Finally, with a shuddering wrench of the will, I see clouds, cirrus clouds. I’m dizzy, I fall in. This looking business is risky.

Once I stood on a humped rock on nearby Purgatory Mountain, watching through binoculars the great autumn hawk migration below, until I discovered that I was in danger of joining the hawks on a vertical migration of my own. I was used to binoculars, but not, apparently, to balancing on humped rocks while looking through them. I staggered. Everything advanced and receded by turns; the world was full of unexplained foreshortenings and depths. A distant huge tan object, a hawk the size of an elephant, turned out to be the browned bough of a nearby loblolly pine. I followed a sharp-shinned hawk against a featureless sky, rotating my head unawares as it flew, and when I lowered the glass a glimpse of my own looming shoulder sent me staggering. What prevents men on Palomar from falling, voiceless and blinded, from their tiny, vaulted chairs?

I reel in confusion; I don’t understand what I see. With the naked eye I can see two million light-years to the Andromeda galaxy. Often I slop some creek water in a jar and when I get home I dump it in a white china bowl. After the silt settles I return and see tracings of minute snails on the bottom, a planarian or two winding round the rum of water, roundworms shimmying frantically, and finally, when my eyes have adjusted to these dimensions, amoebae. At first the amoebae look like muscae volitantes, those curved moving spots you seem to see in your eyes when you stare at a distant wall. Then I see the amoebae as drops of water congealed, bluish, translucent, like chips of sky in the bowl. At length I choose one individual and give myself over to its idea of an evening. I see it dribble a grainy foot before it on its wet, unfathomable way. Do its unedited sense impressions include the fierce focus of my eyes? Shall I take it outside and show it Andromeda, and blow its little endoplasm? I stir the water with a finger, in case it’s running out of oxygen. Maybe I should get a tropical aquarium with motorized bubblers and lights, and keep this one for a pet. Yes, it would tell its fissioned descendants, the universe is two feet by five, and if you listen closely you can head the buzzing music of the spheres.

Oh, it’s mysterious lamplit evenings, here in the galaxy, one after the other. It’s one of those nights when I wander from window to window, looking for a sign. But I can’t see. Terror and a beauty insoluble are a ribband of blue woven into the fringes of garments of things both great and small. No culture explains, no bivouac offers real haven or rest. But it could be that we are not seeing something. Galileo thought comets were an optical illusion. This is fertile ground: since we are certain that they’re not, we can look at what our scientists have been saying with fresh hope. What if there are really gleaming, castellated cities hung upside-down over the desert sand? What limpid lakes and cool date palms have our caravans always passed untried? Until, one by one, by the blindest of leaps, we light on the road to these places, we must stumble in darkness and hunger. I turn from the window I’m blind as a bat, sensing only from every direction the echo of my own thin cries.

I chanced on a wonderful book by Marius von Senden, called Space and Sight. When Western surgeons

discovered how to perform safe cataract operations, they ranged across Europe and America operating on dozens of men and women of all ages who had been blinded by cataracts since birth. Von Senden collected accounts of such cases; the histories are fascinating. Many doctors had tested their patients’ sense perceptions and ideas of space both before and after the operations. The vast majority of patients, of both sexes and all ages, had, in von Senden’s opinion, no idea of space whatsoever. Form, distance, and size were so many meaningless syllables. A patient “had no idea of depth, confusing it with roundness.” Before the operation a doctor would give a blind patient a cube and a sphere; the patient would tongue it or feel it with his hands, and name it correctly. After the operation the doctor would show the same objects to the patient without letting him touch them; now he had no clue whatsoever what he was seeing. One patient called lemonade “square” because it pricked on his tongue as a square shape pricked on the touch of his hands. Of another postoperative patient, the doctor writes, “I have found in her no notion of size, for example, not even within the narrow limits which she might have encompassed with the aid of touch. Thus when I asked her to show me how big her mother was, she did not stretch out her hands, but set her two index-fingers a few inches apart.” Other doctors reported their patients’ own statements to similar effect. “The room he was in… he knew to be but part of the house, yet he could not conceive that the whole house could look bigger”; “Those who are blind from birth… have no real conception of height or distance. A house that is a mile away is thought of as nearby, but requiring the taking of a lot of steps… The elevator that whizzes him up and down gives no more sense of vertical distance than does the train of horizontal.”

For the newly sighted, vision is pure sensation unencumbered by meaning: “The girl went through the experience that we all go through and forget, the moment we are born. She saw, but it did not mean anything but a lot of different kinds of brightness.” Again, “I asked the patient what he could see; he answered that he saw an extensive field of light, in which everything appeared dull, confused, and in motion. He could not distinguish objects.” Another patient saw “nothing but a confusion of forms and colors.” When a newly sighted girl saw photographs and paintings, she asked, “’Why do they put those dark marks all over them?’ ‘Those aren’t dark

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marks,’ her mother explained, ‘those have shape. If it were not for shadows many things would look flat.’ ‘Well, that’s how things do look,’ Joan answered. ‘Everything looks flat with dark patches.’”

But it is the patients’ concepts of space that are most revealing. One patient, according to his doctor, “practiced his vision in a strange fashion; thus he takes off one of his boots, throws it some way off in front of him, and then attempts to gauge the distance at which it lies; he takes a few steps towards the boot and tries to grasp it; on failing to reach it, he moves on a step or two and gropes for the boot until he finally gets a hold of it.” “But even at this stage, after three weeks’ experience of seeing,” von Senden goes on, “’space,’ as he conceives it, ends with visual space, i.e. with color-patches that happen to bound his view. He does not yet have the notion that a larger object (a chair) can mask a smaller one (a dog), or that the latter can still be present even though it is not directly seen.”

In general the newly sighted see the world as a dazzle of color-patches. They are pleased by the sensation of color, and learn quickly to name the colors, but the rest of seeing is tormentingly difficult. Soon after his operation a patient “generally bumps into one of these color-patches and observes them to be substantial, since they resist him as tactual objects do. In walking about it also strikes him—or can if he pays attention—that he is continually passing in between the colors he sees, that he can go past a visual object, that a part of it then steadily disappears from view; and that in spite of this, however he twists and turns—whether entering the room from the door, for example, or returning back to it—he always has a visual space in front of him. Thus he gradually comes to realize there is also a space behind him, which he does not see.”

The mental effort involved in these reasoning’s proves overwhelming for many patients. It oppresses them to realize, if they ever do at all, the tremendous size of the world, which they had previously conceived of as something touchingly manageable. It oppresses them to realize that they have been visible to people all along, perhaps unattractively so, without their knowledge or consent. A disheartening number of them refuse to use their new vision, continuing to go over objects with their tongues, and lapsing into apathy and despair. “The child can see, but will not make use of his sight. Only when pressed can he with difficulty be brought to look at objects in his neighborhood; but more than a foot away it is impossible to bestir him to the necessary effort.” Of a twenty- one-year-old girl, the doctor relates, “Her unfortunate father, who had hoped for so much from this operation, wrote that his daughter carefully shuts her eyes whenever she wishes to go about the house, especially when she comes to a staircase, and that she is never happier or more at ease than when, by closing her eyelids, she relapses into her former state of total blindness.” A fifteen-year-old boy, who was also in love with a girl at the asylum for the blind, finally blurted out, “No, really, I can’t stand it any more; I want to be sent back to the asylum again. If things aren’t altered, I’ll tear my eyes out.”

Some do learn to see, especially the young ones. But it changes their lives. One doctor comments on “the rapid and complete loss of that striking and wonderful serenity which is characteristic only of those who have never yet seen.” A blind man who learns to see is ashamed of his old habits. He dresses up, grooms himself, and tries to make a good impression. While he was blind, he was indifferent to objects unless they were edible; now, “a sifting of values sets in… his thoughts and wishes are mightily stirred and some few of the patients are thereby led into dissimulation, envy, theft and fraud.”

On the other hand, many newly sighted people speak well of the world, and teach us how dull is our own vision. To one patient, a human hand, unrecognized, is “something bright and then holes.” Shown a bunch of grapes, a boy calls out, “it is dark, blue and shiny… It isn’t smooth, it has bumps and hollows.” A little girl visits a garden. “She is greatly astonished, and can scarcely be persuaded to answer, stands speechless in front of the tree, which she only names on taking hold of it, and then as ‘the tree with the lights in it.’” Some delight in their sight and give themselves over to the visual world. Of a patient just after her bandages were removed, her doctor writes, “The first things to attract her attention were her own hands; she looked at them very closely, moved them repeatedly to and fro, bent and stretched the fingers, and seemed greatly astonished at the sight.” One girl was eager to tell her blind friend that “Men do not really look like trees at all,” and astounded to discover that her every visitor had an utterly different face. Finally, a twenty-two-old girl was dazzled by the world’s brightness and kept her eyes shut for two weeks. When at the end of that time she opened her eyes again, she did not recognize the objects, but, “the more she now directed her gaze upon everything about her, the more it could be seen how an expression of gratification and astonishment overspread her features; she repeatedly exclaimed: ‘Oh God! How beautiful!’”

I saw color-patches for weeks after I read this wonderful book. It was summer; the peaches were ripe in

the valley orchards. When I woke in the morning, color-patches wrapped round my eyes, intricately, leaving not one unfilled spot. All day long I walked among shifting color-patches that parted before me like the Red Sea and closed again in silence, transfigured, wherever I looked back. Some patches swelled and loomed, while others vanished utterly, and dark marks flitted at random over the whole dazzling sweep. But I couldn’t sustain the illusion of flatness. I’ve been around for too long. Form is condemned to an eternal danse macabre with meaning: I

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couldn’t unpeach the peaches. Now can I remember ever having seen without understanding; the color patches of infancy are lost. My brain then must have been smooth as any balloon. I’m told I reached for the moon; many babies do. But the color-patches of infancy swelled as meaning filled them; they arrayed themselves in solemn ranks down distance which unrolled and stretched before me like a plain. The moon rocketed away. I live now in a world of shadows that take shape and distance color, a world where space makes a kind of terrible sense. What Gnosticism is this, and what physics? The fluttering patch I saw in my nursery window—silver and green and shapeshifting blue—is gone; a row of Lombardy poplars takes its place, mute, across the distant lawn. That humming oblong creature pale as light that stole along the walls of my room at night, stretching exhilaratingly around the corners, is gone, too, gone the night I ate of the bittersweet fruit, put two and two together and puckered forever my brain. Martin Buber tells this tale: “Rabbi Mendel once boasted to his teacher Rabbi Elimelekh that evenings he saw the angel who rolls away the light before the darkness, and mornings the angel who rolls away the darkness before the light. ‘Yes,’ said Rabbie Elimelekh, ‘in my youth I saw that too. Later on you don’t see these things any more.’”

Why didn’t someone hand those newly sighted people paints and brushes from the start, when they still didn’t know what anything was? Then maybe we all could see color-patches too, the world unraveled from reason, Eden before Adam gave names. The scales would drop from my eyes; I’d see trees like men walking; I’d run down the road against all orders, hallooing and leaping.

Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before

my eyes, I simple won’t see it. It is, as Ruskin says, “not merely unnoticed, but in the full, clear sense of the word, unseen.” My eyes alone can’t solve analogy tests using figures, the ones which show, with increasing elaborations, a big square, then a small square in a big square, then a big triangle, and expect me to find a small triangle in a big triangle. I have to say the words, describe what I’m seeing. If Tinker Mountain erupted, I’d be likely to notice. But if I want to notice the lesser cataclysms of valley life, I have to maintain in my head a running description of the present. It’s not that I’m observant; it’s just that I talk too much. Otherwise, especially in a strange place, I’ll never know what’s happening. Like a blind man at the ball game, I need a radio.

When I see this way I analyze and pry. I hurl over logs and roll away stones; I study the bank a square foot at a time, probing and tilting my head. Some days when a mist covers the mountains, when the muskrats won’t show and the microscope’s mirror shatters, I want to climb up the blank blue dome as a man would storm the inside of a circus tent, wildly, dangling, and with a steel knife claw a rent in the top, peep, and, if I must, fall.

But there is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go. When I see this way I sway transfixed and

emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the difference between walking with and without a camera. When I walk with a camera I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment’s light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this second way, I am above all an unscrupulous observer.

It was sunny one evening last summer at Tinker Creek; the sun was low in the sky, upstream. I was sitting

on the sycamore log bridge with the sunset at my back, watching the shiners the size of minnows who were feeding over the muddy sand in skittery schools. Again and again, one fish, then another, turned for a split second across the current and flash! The sun shot out from its silver side. I couldn’t watch for it. It was always just happening somewhere else, and it drew my vision just as it disappeared: flash, like a sudden dazzle of the thinnest blade, a sparking over a dun and olive ground at chance intervals from every direction. Then I noticed white specks, some sort of pale petals, small, floating from under my feet on the creek’s surface, very slow and steady. So I blurred my eyes and gazed towards the brim of my hat and saw a new world. I saw the pale white circles roll up, roll up, like the world’s tuning, mute and perfect, and I saw the linear flashes, gleaming silver, like stars being born at random down a rolling scroll of time. Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin. I breathed an air like light; I saw a light like water. I was the lip of a fountain the creek filled forever; I was ether, the leaf in the zephyr; I was flesh-flake, feather, bone.

When I see this way I see truly. As Thoreau says, I return to my senses. I am the man who watches the baseball game in silence in an empty stadium. I see the game purely; I’m abstracted and dazed. When it’s all over and the white-suited players lope off the green field to their shadowed dugouts, I leap to my feet; I cheer and cheer.

But I can’t go out and try to see this way. I’ll fail, I’ll go mad. All I can do is try to gag the commentator, to

hush the noise of useless interior babble that keeps me from seeing just as surely as a newspaper dangled before my eyes. The effort is really a discipline requiring a lifetime of dedicated struggle; it makes the literature of saints and monks of every order East and West, under every rule and no rule, discalced and shod. The world’s spiritual

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geniuses seem to discover universally that the mind’s muddy river, this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash, cannot be dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might lead to madness. Instead you must allow the muddy river to flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness; you raise your sights; you look along it, mildly, acknowledging its presence without interest and gazing beyond it into the realm of the real where subjects and objects act and rest purely, without utterance. “Launch into the deep,” says Jacques Ellul, “and you shall see.”