Letter to the Leaves: The Literary Cannon Cigar Lounge -Members Only-

My Fellow Contributors,

If you have been following me on Twitter (@BermudaAFL) then you may have read that I am currently reading the Italio Calvino novel, If on a Winters Night a Traveler. This novel is unlike anything I have read during my time as an under grad. His manipulation of personal pronouns, the novel's self awareness and awareness of other has left me reading, re-reading, and discovering new nuances with each sitting.

But why has it taken me this long, almost four years, to come across a book that has sparked more classroom discussion than any other in my time at Cal Poly. A book that I have been motivated to read, not because of grades, but because of the desire to discuss it with my fellow colleagues outside of the classroom.

Looking back on the courses I have taken, they were filled with good books from various time periods. However I feel as though I have been trapped in the 18th, 19th and very early 20th century for four years.

What has been missing from my literary education are authors who have yet to be given the members-only key to the literary cannon cigar lounge.

Where Walt gently selects a cigar from the box at the bar and delicately places it in his mouth, before Henry James grabs his book of matches and begins to light him up. Where Milton and Edwards are debating nature's place in divinity, and Shakespeare is on stage, skull in hand, spouting forth a dramatic monologue (To be or not to be...). Where Equiano trades tales with Cabeza De Vaca and over in the corner Bradstreet and Dickinson are quietly abstaining.

I am there, only as visitor. Shuttling from one author to the next, ease dropping on conversations, catching the punch line of a joke here or choking on the smoke from a Whitmanian aphorism there. In all this haze and muted chatter, I struggle to find meaning. But with the guidance of my professor, who at this time is heaving haughty laughs with Franklin, I sift my way through the leaves of ash, and find a purpose.

But where is Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Tennessee Williams, Anthony Burgess, and Gabriel García Márquez? (to name a few)

They're outside. Waiting for the critic/bouncer, who stands at the door, to give them their key. You can see them through the sounds and smoke, peering over his shoulder, staring at you.

Beckoning you to say a word on their behalf.

As Always,

Undoubtedly Yours,
Bermuda