In Praise of Falling

On the first day of class

On the first day of class I write the Chinese symbol for poetry on the black board: first figure–word, second figure–temple.The students don’t think poems should be dissected. You’re right, I say to arched eyebrows and crossed arms. Picture it: poor little poem bodies strapped, spread-eagled, to cork-bottomed pans. But sometimes looking closer lets us love something more.Take for example the etymology of nostalgia: nostos, home, plus algos, pain.Those Greeks knew how to split longing into parts. Or go back to the fetal pigs we knifed open in biology class, formaldehyde death-stench filling our noses.We learned that the brain is not cauliflower but a brushed silk cord folded into a dome, that a skull really can crack like an egg, and pig hearts are gum erasers rubbed down to unique and lopsided forms.We stuck pin-flags into each, labeling the parts, but in the end we still can’t explain how they sum up to life.  Dumesnil PGS:Layout 1 4/28/09 12:32 PM Page 18 ...