Tony Earley :: essays research papers

Memory and Imagination in spite of appearance Human ExperienceTony Earley delves into his knowledge memories in his book, Somehow Form a Family. In the introduction, he instructs the reader on the purpose of narrative form, defines a personal essay, and reveals the true nature of productive nonfiction. In the ten essays that follow, he provides sketches of the events and people who shaped his life. Earley focuses on a different bit of common ground in each story, freehand his readers everything they need to know at heart a relatively short gallus of pages.The uses of discernable facts, such as actual places, names, past events and past conversations, conduct elements of authenticity to Earleys writings. From the Blue Ridge Mountains to the name Bill Ledbetter, to the numerous shows he watched throughout his adolescence, Earley presents these facts to the reader in order to tether the weave script to a tangible source. He repeats these facts over and over within each story, re flecting again and again on personal memories. Memory and mental imagery, Earley states, face to me the same human property, known by different names. Earley makes this burning(prenominal) transfer as he reflects on the individuals ability to discern an event uniquely due to imagination.Miracles are not uncommon within Earleys vivid memories. The imagination prevalent within his work reflects his own willingness to accept the supernatural into his reality. Earley relishes in his memories, now infused with the essence of his own imaginationThe first time I attended the Episcopal Church in my hometown with a girlfriend, I was shocked by the complexity of the melodies the organist played, by the sheer, tuneful competence of the singing. Until then I dont think I knew it was possible to worship God in cadences and keys actually indicated in a hymnal. In the years since I left, Rock springs has added air-conditioning and a sound arrangement and a fellowship hall, but has changed l ittle in one important way the congregation still sings out of green, dog-eared copies of the 1940 Broadman Hymnal. Though I heard the songs in the Broadman sung well only once a year, on Homecoming, the third Sunday in May, when the church overflowed with visitors and our musical defect were hidden inside a joyful noise, they have always been the songs I love best. I would be hard-pressed to recall even a single sentence from the hundreds of sermons I heard growing up