The American Scholar

Ter Conatus

Someone said that all of us Irish writers toil in the shadow of . I prefer to think of myself as basking in its radiance, but seeing those words written now, I feel embarrassed by them. The verb looks wrong. The whole phrase is glib and trite. It looks rote and unconsidered. I feel this way much of the time while reading Joyce. As much as I love him, he makes me feel that any attempt of mine to wield language is ham-fisted and juvenile. But then, my reading

You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.

More from The American Scholar

The American Scholar6 min read
For Whom Do We Create?
American Fiction is the film I’ve been waiting for since I majored in ’lm studies at Columbia University more than two decades ago. Only 27 minutes into it, I was compelled to stop, not only so that I could contemplate the beauty and complexity of th
The American Scholar4 min read
Four Poems
Driving south, I cross it—the intangible line beyond which bougainvillea grows, beyond which the land is flagrant. It’s not exact; there is no sign as with a border, so everybody knows. It doesn’t waft to me; it’s not even fragrant. When I see the bu
The American Scholar5 min read
Born To Be Wild
One November afternoon, while jogging on the edge of a swamp about two miles from his house in Massachusetts, John Kaag encountered a lone wolf. As he ran frantically homeward, he discovered a rock cave in his own back yard that he had never noticed

Related Books & Audiobooks