Samantha Miller was not brilliant, nor was she a beauty. Her job was ordinary, her daily routine unremarkable, her love life a vanilla series of dinner-and-a-movie outings that failed to inspire her or her potential beaus. She was, in short, boring. Except for one thing. She asked questions. A lot of questions.
Despite an intelligence that was far from formidable - it took her three tries to get through algebra, two to pass US History, and, now as an adult, at least a month and a team of helpers to get through her taxes - Samantha possessed remarkable self-awareness. She recognized and accepted her weaknesses young, and chose to turn them into strengths. While the result may have been something uninspiring to the world at large - she was, after all, plain in most every way - she was, in fact, an extremely valuable conversant precisely because she was slow to understand and quick to point out her lack of understanding.
“Wait, what do you mean by that?” Was her favorite phrase. Far from shame at her inability to grasp the subtleties of some interlocutor’s blathering, she was proud of her stubbornness, her determination to undermine the pretensions of others. She wielded, then, her so-called stupidity with what can only be described as genius, knowing exactly how to ask a question, when to interrupt a monologue, and what to do when her question was disregarded or misunderstood (that is, ask it again, and more loudly).
As a result of her inquisitiveness, and despite being slow to learn, Samantha had a formidable knowledge base. Or, at least, she understood extremely well the things that she did understand. Her shamelessness, furthermore, allowed her to interject not just with questions, but with vehement disagreement when the topic of conversation happened upon one of her strong points. Though she would never venture more than a sentence or so at a time, even when on the terra firma of acquired knowledge, her questions and interjections became more pointed, more direct, and even sometimes scathing. It was as if she was saying, “If I can understand this, why can’t you?”
That’s not to say Samantha was arrogant. Far from it. Rather, her self-awareness granted her the confidence that comes naturally and rightfully with knowledge of one’s strengths and weaknesses. That she had turned the latter into the former was a source of pride for Samantha, but also - and not accidentally - a source of humility.
Perhaps, then, Samantha Miller was a tragic figure? Blessed with a gift that she had identified and refined early in her life, she grew up to find a world that found her particular gift far less desirable than physical beauty or pure intellectual strength. Instead she was seen as a nuisance, an idiot, even. That didn’t bother her much, because she was, above all emotionally self-sufficient (and even, as she grew older, distant), but the result was that her extremely useful skill was lost to a society very much in need of it. The tragedy was not hers, but ours.
Showing posts with label character sketch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label character sketch. Show all posts
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Character Sketch: Elliot Hilliard
He was every bit as pretentious as his name sounded. Elliot Hilliard. Elliot Wordsworth Hilliard. He spoke with a slight lisp and an affected British accent, even though he was from Boise, Idaho, and had never left the country.
He was a hipster, a “space cowboy,” a plaid-flannel-and-aviator-sunglasses-wearing man of the modern world. He thought himself cosmopolitan because he could name the Presidents of Mexico, Honduras, Costa Rica, Panama, and Nicaragua, as well as the chief opposition to each in their upcoming elections, but did not find it at all ironic that he could not do the same for Canada. He would have explained that his bachelor’s degree in political philosophy culminated in a thesis on modern Central America, as if that specialized knowledge excused his ignorance regarding the rest of the world.
Moreover, Elliot didn’t speak a word of Spanish. That is, he knew the basic vocabulary that any resident of the American Southwest picked up just from channel surfing and going to the grocery store, but he had never put any particular effort into understanding the language (a fact which irked his professors very much). Instead he had taken Latin in high school, and French in college, and while those languages gave him enough working knowledge to translate - badly - the speeches and Mexican news articles that made up his background research for his thesis, they did nothing to teach him the intonation, the conversation, and the music of Spanish ("The Romance languages are called that because of the Romans, not because they are lovely," he would say).
Not that Elliot cared for such things. His interest in language was more... imperialist. He was a conqueror of the word, a wielder of its power, not an admirer of its beauty. He valued persuasion and rhetoric, and his love of poetry had more to do with its effect on other people than its affect on himself. That’s not to say he was emotionless, unmovable, uninspired. No, Elliot was simply thickheaded, a man smart and cunning enough to understand the machinations of the political and social world, but far too practical to see either the spiritual value of human interaction or the satisfaction of self-knowledge.
The result was a man very much in the world, with a great many acquaintances, but few friends or enemies. Most people regarded him as an Italian prince might regard a wealthy merchant carrying a copy of Machiavelli - respectful of his intellect, suspicious of his potential power, and wary of his lack of empathy. That Elliot himself was totally oblivious to the reaction he elicited in others reinforced and perpetuated that reaction: his lack of self-awareness came across as a meticulous, calculated indifference.
Even so, Elliot believed he had a great many friends. As he had never known meaningful friendship or true conversation, he took his superficial interactions for profound ones, his philosophical rambling for a heart-to-heart. Elliot was not, then, unhappy. Quite the opposite. Among those who knew him best, his cheerfulness was one of his most troublesome qualities, betraying a disturbing lack of empathy. No wonder so many of his acquaintances - and even his own family - continuously urged him to go into politics. No wonder, either, that Elliot would say that he didn’t have the heartlessness and cynicism for it, that he was too much the “common man,” with simple needs and simple desires.
He was a hipster, a “space cowboy,” a plaid-flannel-and-aviator-sunglasses-wearing man of the modern world. He thought himself cosmopolitan because he could name the Presidents of Mexico, Honduras, Costa Rica, Panama, and Nicaragua, as well as the chief opposition to each in their upcoming elections, but did not find it at all ironic that he could not do the same for Canada. He would have explained that his bachelor’s degree in political philosophy culminated in a thesis on modern Central America, as if that specialized knowledge excused his ignorance regarding the rest of the world.
Moreover, Elliot didn’t speak a word of Spanish. That is, he knew the basic vocabulary that any resident of the American Southwest picked up just from channel surfing and going to the grocery store, but he had never put any particular effort into understanding the language (a fact which irked his professors very much). Instead he had taken Latin in high school, and French in college, and while those languages gave him enough working knowledge to translate - badly - the speeches and Mexican news articles that made up his background research for his thesis, they did nothing to teach him the intonation, the conversation, and the music of Spanish ("The Romance languages are called that because of the Romans, not because they are lovely," he would say).
Not that Elliot cared for such things. His interest in language was more... imperialist. He was a conqueror of the word, a wielder of its power, not an admirer of its beauty. He valued persuasion and rhetoric, and his love of poetry had more to do with its effect on other people than its affect on himself. That’s not to say he was emotionless, unmovable, uninspired. No, Elliot was simply thickheaded, a man smart and cunning enough to understand the machinations of the political and social world, but far too practical to see either the spiritual value of human interaction or the satisfaction of self-knowledge.
The result was a man very much in the world, with a great many acquaintances, but few friends or enemies. Most people regarded him as an Italian prince might regard a wealthy merchant carrying a copy of Machiavelli - respectful of his intellect, suspicious of his potential power, and wary of his lack of empathy. That Elliot himself was totally oblivious to the reaction he elicited in others reinforced and perpetuated that reaction: his lack of self-awareness came across as a meticulous, calculated indifference.
Even so, Elliot believed he had a great many friends. As he had never known meaningful friendship or true conversation, he took his superficial interactions for profound ones, his philosophical rambling for a heart-to-heart. Elliot was not, then, unhappy. Quite the opposite. Among those who knew him best, his cheerfulness was one of his most troublesome qualities, betraying a disturbing lack of empathy. No wonder so many of his acquaintances - and even his own family - continuously urged him to go into politics. No wonder, either, that Elliot would say that he didn’t have the heartlessness and cynicism for it, that he was too much the “common man,” with simple needs and simple desires.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Character Sketch Fragment: Jonnathan Quinn
Jonnathan Quinn is, at this moment, slated to be the main character of my novel-in-progress. This is a short, two-paragraph sliver about his background.
Even before enrolling at Barr, Jonnathan Quinn's friends called him “Quinn.” Even as early as middle school, his family name had been his primary appellate, and indeed he had become so accustomed to hearing it that his first name sometimes failed to elicit a reaction from him. There wasn't anything wrong with “Jon,” mind you, it's just that there were so many other Jons and Johns and even a couple Jhons (presumably with either foreign or troublesomely negligent parents) running around with less interesting – or at least less easily pronounceable – last names than Jonnathan Quinn.
Like so many things in his life, Jon had not been consulted on this particular indicator of his identity. Without objection he had allowed the world around him to alchemize his name, and by the time he was a student at Barr he couldn't even remember whether it bothered him or not. He simply was “Quinn,” for better or worse, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Character Sketch: Xavier Moon
An early character sketch from my novel-in-progress. Xavier Moon is not the main character, but at this early juncture I imagine him playing an important role in the story.
Xavier was a kind of superhero – at least a superhero as far as Barr College was concerned. He was frighteningly intelligent, with just the right amount of discretion to keep him from dominating a conversation. He was soft spoken, but unafraid to use his vocabulary to its fullest. He clearly did every reading thoroughly, and took the time, moreover, to think carefully about the meaning and implications of the text, but was nevertheless frequently seen wandering the campus engaging with his classmates in his reserved, elitist way. That he seemed to rub no one the wrong way despite his air of superiority was perhaps his greatest gift: rare is the person who is manifestly great without inspiring the hatred – or at least the jealousy – of the masses.
That's not to say Xavier was entirely beloved. Having Mr. Moon in your class was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, there's no question it would be excellent. On the other, that very excellence sometimes crushed the free-spirited atmosphere that the best conversations need in order to truly blossom. It's not that Xavier actively forced caution on his classmates, but rather than they took it up as a matter of course, as if they were more concerned with his judgment than with the actual evaluation of the grade-book-holding Tutors.
Xavier's fashion sense was keen, if a bit anachronistic. Indeed, it was sometimes said about him that he would be less surprising among 19th century noblemen than among his actual peers. Even so, there was no question that Xavier “pulled it off,” that his appearance, if anything, made everyone else look anachronistic. He was dressed for the occasion, while they had mistaken Barr as a college, and not the meeting of the aristocracy it was.
One was hard pressed to pin down Xavier Moon's beliefs, despite his striking and self-assured demeanor. He was a professed atheist, but nevertheless was deeply interested in religious texts of all kinds. He clearly had an empirical bent, favoring modern science over the “nonsense of the ancients,” as he called it, and yet he himself would admit that Laboratory was his worst class. When asked about his political views, Xavier was – like so many Barr students – noncommittal. In short, despite being very much in the public eye, very much a topic of discussion when not present, and very much an object of admiration among both the young men and young women of the campus, Xavier remained very much an enigma.
What the other students failed to realize, and this was because Xavier kept it to himself, was that Xavier was as much an enigma to himself as to his classmates. His archaic dress was something he had begun and cultivated as teenage rebellion, which now he thought, if not silly, at least unnecessary. But it had become so much a part of the way other people understood him that he dared not change it. His intellect, as he was the first to acknowledge, was indeed formidable, but his knowledge of things useful was sparse, and he felt this lack keenly when he would try to, for example, troubleshoot a computer problem or mend a broken dresser handle.
Above all, Xavier was mystified by his interactions with other people. His cynicism and sarcasm – which often accompany young intelligence – did not seem to deter almost universal admiration. Xavier, however, did not know how to cope with being beloved at Barr. Throughout his life in middle and high school he had been reviled and teased. His attire was, amongst the brutes of his previous schools, mocked. His intelligence and, more to the point, his propensity for earning high marks without appearing to try aggravated his classmates and even frustrated his teachers.
Having a kind of natural emotional reservedness, Xavier's experiences heretofore in school had helped him to develop a calm introversion, an attachment to older and more sophisticated friends, and an ironical and wry sense of humor regarding the immaturity – in both action and thought – of others his age. The underpinnings of that attitude were shaken at Barr – at least by some of the students – but the expression of it remained very much intact, as Xavier honestly did not know how to change it, or even if it was worth changing. His fame, then, was a kind of strange accident, his excellence not quite a full-blown ruse, but rather an accidental illusion of fortuitous brilliance. Like light passing through a prism to reveal its component colors, Xavier's latent virtues were brought out by the particular circumstances of his place and time.
So Xavier Moon rode the wave of his fame at Barr not without a sense of irony, for he knew himself well enough to see that, while he perhaps was excellent in certain ways, it was precisely his greatest weakness – his inability to blend in and be “just another student” – that was most responsible for his gleaming reputation.
Xavier was a kind of superhero – at least a superhero as far as Barr College was concerned. He was frighteningly intelligent, with just the right amount of discretion to keep him from dominating a conversation. He was soft spoken, but unafraid to use his vocabulary to its fullest. He clearly did every reading thoroughly, and took the time, moreover, to think carefully about the meaning and implications of the text, but was nevertheless frequently seen wandering the campus engaging with his classmates in his reserved, elitist way. That he seemed to rub no one the wrong way despite his air of superiority was perhaps his greatest gift: rare is the person who is manifestly great without inspiring the hatred – or at least the jealousy – of the masses.
That's not to say Xavier was entirely beloved. Having Mr. Moon in your class was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, there's no question it would be excellent. On the other, that very excellence sometimes crushed the free-spirited atmosphere that the best conversations need in order to truly blossom. It's not that Xavier actively forced caution on his classmates, but rather than they took it up as a matter of course, as if they were more concerned with his judgment than with the actual evaluation of the grade-book-holding Tutors.
Xavier's fashion sense was keen, if a bit anachronistic. Indeed, it was sometimes said about him that he would be less surprising among 19th century noblemen than among his actual peers. Even so, there was no question that Xavier “pulled it off,” that his appearance, if anything, made everyone else look anachronistic. He was dressed for the occasion, while they had mistaken Barr as a college, and not the meeting of the aristocracy it was.
One was hard pressed to pin down Xavier Moon's beliefs, despite his striking and self-assured demeanor. He was a professed atheist, but nevertheless was deeply interested in religious texts of all kinds. He clearly had an empirical bent, favoring modern science over the “nonsense of the ancients,” as he called it, and yet he himself would admit that Laboratory was his worst class. When asked about his political views, Xavier was – like so many Barr students – noncommittal. In short, despite being very much in the public eye, very much a topic of discussion when not present, and very much an object of admiration among both the young men and young women of the campus, Xavier remained very much an enigma.
What the other students failed to realize, and this was because Xavier kept it to himself, was that Xavier was as much an enigma to himself as to his classmates. His archaic dress was something he had begun and cultivated as teenage rebellion, which now he thought, if not silly, at least unnecessary. But it had become so much a part of the way other people understood him that he dared not change it. His intellect, as he was the first to acknowledge, was indeed formidable, but his knowledge of things useful was sparse, and he felt this lack keenly when he would try to, for example, troubleshoot a computer problem or mend a broken dresser handle.
Above all, Xavier was mystified by his interactions with other people. His cynicism and sarcasm – which often accompany young intelligence – did not seem to deter almost universal admiration. Xavier, however, did not know how to cope with being beloved at Barr. Throughout his life in middle and high school he had been reviled and teased. His attire was, amongst the brutes of his previous schools, mocked. His intelligence and, more to the point, his propensity for earning high marks without appearing to try aggravated his classmates and even frustrated his teachers.
Having a kind of natural emotional reservedness, Xavier's experiences heretofore in school had helped him to develop a calm introversion, an attachment to older and more sophisticated friends, and an ironical and wry sense of humor regarding the immaturity – in both action and thought – of others his age. The underpinnings of that attitude were shaken at Barr – at least by some of the students – but the expression of it remained very much intact, as Xavier honestly did not know how to change it, or even if it was worth changing. His fame, then, was a kind of strange accident, his excellence not quite a full-blown ruse, but rather an accidental illusion of fortuitous brilliance. Like light passing through a prism to reveal its component colors, Xavier's latent virtues were brought out by the particular circumstances of his place and time.
So Xavier Moon rode the wave of his fame at Barr not without a sense of irony, for he knew himself well enough to see that, while he perhaps was excellent in certain ways, it was precisely his greatest weakness – his inability to blend in and be “just another student” – that was most responsible for his gleaming reputation.
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