Two ways of looking at two rivers

In "Two ways of looking at a river," Mark Twain laments that when he became a licensed river boat captain, his youthful romance with the beauty of the river was changed forever. Every detail that had previously brought him delight was now a signal of the changing conditions and dangers of the river. He makes his point so clearly that it seems beside the point to notice the rhetorical devices, the shift in diction and tone, and the imagery and sound effects that accomplish that shift.

I sympathize with the student who came to me privately, during my first year of teaching ninth graders preparing for the IB program, and said, "It is wrong to analyze literature." She spoke with respect and a sincere desire to communicate to me her strong feeling. Ahead of her lay the unimagined wonders of 11th and 12th grade IB literature study. I don't remember the words I said to her, but the meaning of my reply was, "Well, this is what we do, and there is something to be gained from it: an understanding of what is true about life and human nature."

There are some poems that I never want to mark and scan, some novels that I have no desire to study. They are still magical to me, like Twain's first view of the river at sunset. I see their craft, but I see it out of the corner of my eye. When I read them, I do not need to say anything. They say it all for me.

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say. 

William Stafford