For your consumption and comment

I wanted to read my whole essay aloud today because it doesn't really get to the meat until later. So in lieu of that, here is the final copy. I'd like to know what everyone thinks, so please leave your comments. Also, I think everyone did a fine job presenting their work in class today. It takes a fair amount of bravery to lay yourself bare like that, no matter what the circumstances. Bravo.

And really, you should all check out my personal blog, too. minimumwrage.blogspot.com. You know...feed your head.


“An intelligent hell would be better than a stupid paradise.”
—Victor Hugo

Ramageland is not a place that you journey to; it’s a journey itself. Like El Dorado or Shangrila, the point isn’t to get there, it’s to quest. I’m slouching toward Bethlehem in front of my laptop. There is dust between the keys and on the screen that glows in the afternoon glare.

This is Super Bowl Sunday. Today kicks off with partly cloudy skies and a 50 percent chance of misanthropy. It’s raining in Miami. Tornados tore through the peninsula two days ago destroying what CNN’s Soledad O’Brien pointed out were, “not just mobile homes, but regular homes, too.” Poor Floridians are getting soaked today because their roofs were flicked off like paper footballs by the finger of God, and a few miles away Shannon Sharpe wears a $2,000 Italian wool suit while pontificating about latter day gridiron saints. Bad vibes abound for this, our most sacred right of Americana. The Great Magnet is offering us a foreboding message, and we are almost certainly ignoring it.

What kind of tact must football commentators exhibit to call the shots objectively—as they see them? Ignore the nastiness down the road. Focus on the struggle here, on this field of green. There will be losers, yes, but there will be winners, too, and that’s more comfort than those poor Floridians in Wesh-Lake county can offer an audience. No one can control what the weather does, but these teams…they have coaches. Ignore the nastiness down the road. It’s an exercise in rhetoric. Remember that people tune in to see football, not worry about their common man.

Today culminates my journey through Ramageland. Two cups of impossibly bad coffee and an uneasy motivation got me out of bed this morning, and now I’m shuffling through memories of 101 pages, deciphering what they meant and how I dealt with their after effects. Sorting all this into a respectable essay is all I care about today. Not football, not food, not tomorrow. Just a respectable essay. Ramage probably spent hundreds of days like this writing Rhetoric. Today might be my last time directly discussing the book, but it’s the first time I can look at it in hindsight. So regardless of whether or not I liked Rhetoric, it’s now in my mind forever and will subtly influence my consciousness until I die. For the rest of my life, Ramage will be in hindsight.

How to begin? Since our blog chronicled our real-time reactions as we searched for Ramageland’s illusive boarder, a reflection on the journaling progression seems appropriate.

* * *

It’s 11: 47 in Kutztown. Snow comes down silently, falling on the warm asphalt of the street and melting instantly. Each unique flake, God’s personal handiwork, is obliterated with heat upon contact with the ground. One flake after another, the snow comes down in waves—torrents blown on by gusts of wind which swirl like miniature cyclones. Silently. It comes down heavier and heavier until, as I watch from my window, the house across from me disappears in the blizzard-like conditions. But the air is warm. The road is warm. And no matter how much snow falls on Noble Street, those little masterpieces are reduced to nothing, one by one, when they reach their destination. They dance in the air and disintegrate on arrival.

In the midnight darkness I can only see what happens in the cone of light cast by our streetlamp. The snow floats in and out of the beam, churning like water in the wake of a boat until it crosses the boarder of light and disappears into the darkness. For all I know, it doesn’t even exist.

It’s deprivation time. Decrease all external stimuli. Focus. Just like the first two chapters, the only way I’ll get through this is by shutting out the world. And what do I expect to get out of reading Rhetoric: A User’s Guide? Pearls of knowledge uniquely and expertly crafted by some “all knowing” being. They’ll flutter down like snow from above, swirling in a delicate ballet on the night air, just waiting to be appreciated. Then they’ll land lightly on the asphalt of my mind and be destroyed. Melted with extreme prejudice. So in the end the ground is changed, but it’s wet, not covered with snow.

When I think of what Ramage has done to our class, my mind repeatedly wanders to Lawrence of Arabia, the classic book by Alistair MacLean chronicling the heroic struggles of someone who was decidedly not Peter O'Toole. The real-life Lawrence redefined what "endurance for a cause" meant—and still means—to educated Englishmen. He grew up in luxury and comfort, but enlisted in the army and helped the Bedouin Arabs throw off their Turkish oppressors during WWI. To do this required extended treks through pure deserts lasting for months on end sometimes. All their food had to be carried with them, as nothing edible lived in the sands of Arabia. All their water had to be carried, too, as liquid was just as scarce as sunshine was plentiful. Their missions were to stir up rebellion, blow up bridges and rail lines, spy when they could, and try their best to make it back alive. Meanwhile, the Turks were doing everything they could to kill Lawrence and his mischievous band of scoundrels. This was an Arab fight, to be sure. But Lawrence suffered and struggled through it nonetheless.

Why do I bring all this up? Well, like I said, Rhetoric and the story of Lawrence of Arabia are inextricably linked in my mind. I see it like this:

Our class struggled through a long and arduous journey (30 pages somehow seems like 50 or 60). Danger lurked around every corner (paper cuts, depression, alcoholism, etc.). We were driven on by fear (Failure with a big, fat, juicy F) and the desire to squash our enemies (don't know about you, but I don't like being dumb). Plus, there was the constant battle with insanity (yes).

But of course there were a few differences between our class and Lawrence of Arabia. The main one being that we dragged our feet a hell of a lot more than Lawrence did. We bitched and moaned and complained about 10 dollar words at every opportunity. We cried about not "liking" the author. But Larry wandered a scorching desert for half a decade in constant fear of starvation, fatal dehydration, sunstroke, and being gunned down by an extremely hostile enemy. In fact, he fought on the very same sand that beige-speckled American troops are fighting on to this day. So, our connection with the deserts of Arabia is actually stronger than most college-level Americans admit to, or even realize. Considering this, it makes complaining about suffering through Ramage's cruel vocabulary seems weak and extremely unbecoming of our typical zeal as students. As a result, the tone of eng230.blogspot.com has been timid and whiny, to say the least. Of course it’s also insightful, thoughtful, and funny, but not brave. What I'm trying to say is that I hope we see the trend going from postings of "feelings" to postings of "convictions."

* * *

It’s called Stendhal syndrome. Sometimes when a person sees art that is exceedingly beautiful, overwhelming or touching, they suddenly become lightheaded. Their heart starts beating faster and they get dizzy, hallucinate or get confused. Rarely, people lose consciousness or even suffer heart attacks.

I doubt anyone has ever been affected with Stendhal syndrome while reading Rhetoric or anything else by Ramage. So I find myself asking why we, as a class, even bothered reading this monstrous work?

It’s because of the different approach Ramage takes in describing the process of writing. Rhetoric not only shapes what we say and how we say it, but is also largely ignored in other English classes. Why not kill two birds with one jerk’s book? It’s a beautiful thing, efficiency.

Nothing Ramage suggests in his book is controversial. As a result, there is little room left for contention of any kind. He’s not presenting new ideas, only describing old ones—ideas that have been intrinsic in people since the dawn of man. Every person is familiar with and uses this thing daily, yet rarely even recognizes its existence. Rhetoric is an abstract idea which flows through and permeates every aspect of communication, pushing and pulling messages, directing attention and diverting emphasis. It’s like the vapory mist of a fog; often ignored despite demanding caution for what it potentially harbors. And as a result, a large part of why Rhetoric is so hard to read is because it’s about something that’s disregarded for its difficulty.

But now, as I wait to for the Great Spectator Bowl to get started, I can look back and appreciate all the frustration Ramage put me through. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t something I looked forward to. And maybe being done with it has shifted my outlook on the whole agonizing process. Nonetheless, I’m glad I slogged through.

The overall benefit of being exposed to something new is immeasurable. As much as anything, the mere recognition that some books and writers out there operate on a hyper-literate level is worth the effort and time involved. It puts things in perspective, and I am better for having read it.

So welcome to Ramageland. We haven’t arrived anywhere, but we’ve embarked on a journey to the heart—the very essence—of what makes civilization possible. I’m sitting in the same seat that I started in. Slouching. Ramage’s words will never leave me, for good or ill. I’ll be reading Rhetoric metaphorically for the rest of my life. And if there’s one thing I think we can all agree on, it’s that a journey through Ramageland is a journey through hell. So like Winston Churchill said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”