January 14, And here, to me, is the interesting part: the answer, categorically, is no. I've invited it The essays included in "The Best American Essays " may be diverse, but they don't appear to have been chosen randomly.
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I dragged my crayon through narrow alleys and around corners, backing out of dead ends, trying this direction instead of that. Often I had to stop and rethink my strategy, squinting until some unobstructed path became clear and I could start to move the crayon again. I kept my sights on the small chamber in the middle of the page and knew that being lost would not be in vain; wrong turns only improved my chances, showed me that one true path toward my reward.
I gripped the crayon, savored the place. The lines on the next maze in the coloring book curved and rippled like waves on water.
The object of this maze was to lead a hungry dog to his bone. It was the tricky, halting travel I was after, forging a passage, finding my way. Later that day, as I walked through our living room, a maze revealed itself to me in the mahogany coffee table. I sat on the floor, fingered the wood grain, and found a winding avenue through it.
At the age of seven I changed forever, like the faithful who see Christ on the side of a barn or peering up from a corn tortilla. Everywhere I looked, a labyrinth meandered. And so I began to make my own. My frugal mother, hoarder of jelly jars and rubber bands, had saved a stack of them. She was happy to put the cardboard to use, if a bit mystified by my new obsession. The best method was to start from the center and work outward with a sharpened pencil, creating layers of complication.
My hobby required a twofold concentration: carefully planning a maze while allowing myself the fresh pleasure of moving through it. Alone in my bedroom, sitting at my desk, I sometimes spent the better part of an afternoon on a single maze. I worked with the patience of a redwood growing rings. Drawing myself into corners, erasing a wall if all else failed, I fooled and baffled and freed myself. Eventually I used shelf paper, tearing off larger and larger sheets to accommodate my burgeoning ambition.
Once I brought a huge maze to my mother, who was drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen. It wafted behind me like an ostentatious cape. I draped it over the table and challenged her to try it. But mazes had a strange effect on my parents: they took one look at those tangled paths and seemed to wilt.
Their mortgage ballooned. The plumbing rusted. Old friends grew sick or moved away. The creases in their skin deepened, so complex a network of lines, my mazes paled by comparison.
The endless succession of burdens and concerns was enough to make anyone forgetful. Eggs were boiled until they turned brown, sprinklers left on till the lawn grew soggy, keys and glasses and watches misplaced. Why would anyone choose to get mired in a maze when the days encase us, loopy and confusing? Remembered events merge together or fade away.
Places and dates grow dubious, a jumble of guesswork and speculation. Recollecting the past becomes as unreliable as forecasting the future; you consult yourself with a certain trepidation and take your answer with a grain of salt.
The friends you turn to for confirmation are just as muddled; they furrow their brows and look at you blankly. Of course, once in a while you find the tiny, pungent details poised on your tongue like caviar. It gets harder to remember the days when you were here.
Bernard Cooper and the Essayistic Sentence
I dragged my crayon through narrow alleys and around corners, backing out of dead ends, trying this direction instead of that. Often I had to stop and rethink my strategy, squinting until some unobstructed path became clear and I could start to move the crayon again. I kept my sights on the small chamber in the middle of the page and knew that being lost would not be in vain; wrong turns only improved my chances, showed me that one true path toward my reward. I gripped the crayon, savored the place.
Understanding Labyrinthine Essay
Many people think of private as meaning something in solitude, or secretive. Reading these dictionary entries revealed the labyrinthine meaning of the word private. Some of the definitions seem very similar to the way private is used in every day life, however others seem hidden as though they were private definitions themselves. Most freshmen at Michigan State University and. This inclusion of the bits of the essays by Podhoretz and Hoagland shows Staples ' understanding of the other side of the argument he is making. This display of understanding provides support to Staples ' character as it shows that Staples ' is not merely attempting to cram his opinions and views down the throats of his audience.