final blog post! score!

This semester has been surprisingly pleasant. I sincerely enjoyed the short story unit with its wide assortment of stories that presented varying perspectives on varying subjects of life. The drama unit, though perhaps quite a bit more challenging, was too filled with a multitude of personal benefits. Shakespeare and I have never quite got along-- with all of his odd ways of speaking and communicating. But something that I truly learned this semester was an appreciation of Shakespeare that I never quite understood. The masterful things that Shakespeare can do with language is a wonder, and I am glad that I have finally achieved some understanding of his works, even if it was through tedious nights of reading Hamlet.

There hasn't been much that I have been frustrated with, besides the struggles with Shakespearian language, because I have thoroughly enjoyed the literature we have covered in this class. The discussions sparked by these literary works are among the most interesting that I have participated in and really give me a taste of what a real, intellectual discussion is like. Further, this class has introduced me to a number of amazing books that have become some of my favorites-- especially The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao! (You should read it.)

lets talk satire

Satire makes for the most interesting of literature. Aimed at ridiculing the vices of humans or of society as a whole, satire provides commentary and criticism often in order to "shame" things into improving. 

When we think about satire, we automatically think of The Onion or Saturday Night Live, both of which are sources of satirical hilarity and entertainment. The articles of The Onion and the sketches of SNL entertain people. Even so, both deal with real-world topics, recent events that are in some way representative of the shortcomings of society. The beauty of things like Saturday Night Live is that they are able to appeal to the masses, to publicize the problems and issues through ridiculing them-- through entertainment! 

But even the serious type of satire can be fascinating. Think Brave New World or Animal Farm. These two literary works are among the most interesting to study. In particular, Brave New World was a novel that really forced me to think about the rapidly advancing technological world and the strange mentality that comes with it. Issues present in these types of satire are incredibly relevant and worth further exploration. 

Satire. It serves all purposes. Entertainment and social criticism-- all in one. 

fukú and zafa

Fukú americanus, despite its uncanny resemblance to an English profanity, is a curse, one that has plagued Oscar de Leon's family for several generations. It is perhaps only a ridiculous superstition, but it seems to be a comfortable excuse for Oscar's terrible bad luck. Disastrously overweight, depressingly lonely, and socially awkward, Oscar does not live the ideal life. 

Such is the concept for Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. If you haven't read it yet, you should give it try. You could learn more about this curious, explicitly-named fukú americanus. 

The story is one of love, hatred, violence, compassion------ all of the emotions in one giant rainbow. It's about the most passionate kind of love, the deepest kind of hatred, the most terrible violence. The characters vibrantly come alive to tell you this life of Oscar, of his sharply stubborn mother Belí, his curse-bringer grandfather Abelard (everything can be blamed on Dominican dictator Trujillo), and his selfless, devoted sister Lola. This story is clearly more poignant than you thought. Plus, a little bit of Dominican history is thrown in there. 

And then there is the fukú and its counterspell, zafa. Bad luck and good luck-- the same kind of superstitions that we have (perhaps more superstitious...). But it really forces you to think about how much of Oscar's life is a function of this fukú, how much is saved by zafa, and how much is random chance. 

Pick it as your next independent reading book. 

seriously, what's up with hamlet?

Hamlet may say that he is only feigning insanity, but in all honesty, he must be crazy. How else can you explain his bizarre and morosely philosophical soliloquies, his blatant disregard for all of his relationships, his apparently merciless, ruthless thoughts? It is difficult to label him sane when he muses on whether avoiding suicide is worth it, when he comes to the conclusion that the reason to live is to avoid the nightmares in the afterlife, when he cruelly spurns his former love interest Ophelia, when he brutally lashes his mother with his words, when he refuses to murder his uncle until he is caught in a sinful act.... ETC.

Even Hamlet's act of feigning insanity is insane. He must be crazy.

I presume the normal Hamlet, the sane Hamlet is a rational individual, good-natured and decently virtuous-- one who nurtures his relationships rather than destroy them, who concerns himself what every normal young adult concerns himself with, who does not contemplate the prospect of committing suicide. The Hamlet we see is one with a personality inundated with cruelty and mercilessness. He is grossly compared to his uncle, who is initially presented as the heartless villain but whose guilt and humanity is later revealed. Hamlet, on the other hand, only wishes to kill Claudius when he is not praying and feels no remorse after killing an innocent man.

But if you think about it, maybe his craziness is justifiable. I mean, this dude did just lose the person whom he idolized and revered the most, not to mention he's been subject to a truckload of hard-hitting betrayal. His uncle murdered his father. His mother married his uncle. His best friends are spies for his uncle. There are a plethora of catalysts for his insanity.

beauty

The 9 most beautiful words in the English language according to a Mr. Phil Cousineau: 
aesthetics
carouse
coffee
flaneur
ramble
smirk
sub rosa
voluptuous
zenith

To be blunt, I think Cousineau is wrong. Firstly, out of the millions of words that exist in our language, are these really the most beautiful? Secondly, I don't find many of these words to be particularly beautiful. Thirdly, "k" sounds are too harsh for my taste. 

Granted, this disagreement probably exists because Cousineau and I are not the same person. We do not think the same way. The problem with gauging beauty is its vague definitions, its excessive subjectivity-- especially when dealing with something not traditionally considered to be beautiful, like words. 

What makes a word beautiful? Cousineau's answer is different from mine, just as mine is likely different from yours. A word is beautiful to me because of everything that surrounds it-- its pronunciation, its meaning, its connotation. My favorite words are those that seem to exude warmth, freshness, even happiness. My favorite words are those that sound romantically poetic-- smooth and pacifying in a way that creates an image of calm beauty. 

With regards to pronunciations, "s" sounds are nice. "k" sounds are ugly.

Some beautiful words in the English language according to Ms. Jessie Li
serendipity 
bliss
licentious (you saw that one coming)
effervescent
fluorescence
ethereal 
serene
ambrosia
iridescence 

You probably think I'm wrong. 

crazy philosophical moments

"Let every man in mankind's frailty consider his last day; and let none presume on his good fortune until he find life, at his death, a memory without pain."
-Oedipus Rex (lines 1471-1475)

The last lines of Oedipus Rex are actually quite insightful, expressing the ease with which people seem to take things for granted. Fortune can only be claimed after the fact. In retrospect. Later.

Take Oedipus as an example. So preoccupied with the fruits of his supposed success-- his ascension to the throne, his marriage to the Queen, the reverence of his people-- he lives in ignorance of the truth. He considers himself to be overwhelmingly fortunate, a fact so cruelly untrue. Oedipus's live is certainly not a memory with pain, even if the vast majority of his life was lived in happiness.

It's easy to forget how fragile everything really is. So much of our lives are so fast-paced, so focused on the now-- that pensive moments are few and far between. How often have you really thought about your life-- really thought about it?

Case in point:

I stare at the prompt: "what matters to you and why?" A simple enough question-- should have been simple enough to answer. But I just stare blankly. I've never given it a real thought. What matters to me? Who matters to me? And then the incredibly elusive... What really makes me me? (The incredibly self-discoveries you make with the assistance of college essays...) I still haven't come to a complete conclusion. Life is just too complicated. (Another reason why college essays are impossible).

This was one of those crazy philosophical moments that everyone experiences sometimes--the kind that leaves you to ponder the meaning of life, the reason to live, etc. It's almost like you're not in the present for a moment, absent from the realities of now, focused on the obscurities of the self. It's funny how the more I think about it, the more confused I become. One thing I know for sure-- things are too fragile to take for granted. 

Maybe we should have more crazy philosophical moments. They're so much fun!

it's your fate

Have you ever thought about your fate? I sure hadn't-- at least until I read the delightful Oedipus Rex, the play that delves into the concepts of fate versus free will. Oedipus, in an attempt to escape his fate, runs directly into the arms of fate itself. His actions had been predestined. His choices were not entirely his own-- they were a product of his destiny.

It's all a bit mind-blowing, really. Can you truly imagine that every one of your actions has been planned-- that you have been fated to do what you do, to make the choices you have made? It's unnerving to even speculate that my control over my life can be questioned. If we all truly have a fate, there is nothing that we can do to evade it. Any tries to do so, like Oedipus, will only fulfill our fates. Everything comes full circle.

But does it really matter?

Suppose we all had predestined fates. Maybe things are different in Oedipus's world, where people could consult oracles who would accurately decipher their fates. But this is the real world. There are no magically gifted clairvoyants to say what the future holds (I guess this could be debatable, but I suppose I am a skeptic of the superstitious. And I feel like the majority would agree with me). There is no way of truly knowing our fates. The truth is that it doesn't matter-- people will go on living their lives, making choices as if they did have free will, and they will never know that their choices were of any other origin than their own selves.

Maybe believing in a fate can result in peace of mind. Thinking that the events of life are out of conscious control eliminates the "what if?" mentality and the regret that accompanies that. So many people constantly stick to the mantra, "Everything happens for a reason," and perhaps for good reason. Whether or not it's true, there's an optimism to it that everyone likes. Everyone needs a little optimism.

Do you have a fate? You can decide.

writer's block

It's never a good feeling when you hit a brick wall-- when you're staring blankly at the empty computer screen waiting for words to miraculously appear on the page. Unfortunately, it happens all the time-- especially now as a senior who is expected to pump out essay after essay after essay. Writer's block is exhausting. 

"What matters to you and why?" 

"Please write exactly five sentences that best describe you."

"What do you wish you were better at doing or being?" 

"What would you do with a free afternoon tomorrow?"

"Where is Waldo, really?" 

How am I supposed to answer these questions? How am I supposed to write an essay-- 500 entire words-- to convince someone that I am not only a good writer but also someone special enough to be accepted? Beats me. I'm stuck. 

Writing is a difficult task, especially when you're asked to show yourself through your words. I have a mathematical mind. My mind is familiar with the definite outlines of biological processes, derivatives and integrals, and algebraic equations. If I could express myself in the form of a math equation, life would be good. But unfortunately, written English is the standard. Apparently, written language is more personal than math. 

Maybe so. But that doesn't make writing any easier. It is daunting to think that my words are supposed to be a representation of me and my persona. Am I really capable of truly capturing my own essence in a group of organized sentences? Can a stranger read my words and know who I am? I have my work cut out for me. If only I could get past this brick wall. 

Writer's block is a pain. 

crazy people

Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is about crazy people.

But maybe they're not as crazy as they seem.

Kesey's 1960s novel surrounds a psychiatric ward in Oregon, inhabited by a host of supposedly insane men and the cruel, cold Nurse Ratched. The patients live in constant fear of the Big Nurse, who exercises completely control over her ward through deliberate manipulation of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. The arrival of the boisterous Randle McMurphy changes everything.

It is evident that, in this novel, the hospital and Nurse Ratched represent a kind of oppression. The patients of the ward, prior to McMurphy's arrival, seemed lifeless. They couldn't even laugh properly. Nurse Ratched was in control, and no one could challenge that. Her intimidation and power seemed to suppress the individuality of her patients--every man shrunk deeper into himself. Every man becomes crazier than he was initially.

Kesey is perhaps offering a commentary on the general dynamic of society today. Societal pressures can be quite oppressive, especially with pressures to conform. Conformity is the ultimate suppressor of individuality. Kesey is takes a more critical stance on the subject, revealing much about his own views. In fact, many parallels can be drawn between the novel and Kesey's life. Kesey himself is an ardent preserver of his own identity and individuality, refusing to conform to social norms. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest argues that the preservation of individuality can be equated with the preservation of sanity. The patients of Ratched's ward are not necessarily insane to begin with. Oppression drove them to madness.

our dear friend mr. albert camus

Albert Camus did not consider himself an existentialist at all.

That's interesting, considering the mind-boggling discussion of existentialism that his short story, "The Guest," prompted. But in the words of Camus himself, "No, I am not an existentialist. Sartre and I are always surprised to see our names linked..."

Instead, Camus considered himself to be an advocate of absurdism, a concept somewhat similar to existentialism. Absurdism is a school of thought that emphasizes the discrepancy between the human search for the meaning of life and the actual possibility of finding such meaning. Put quite bluntly in the absurdist view, this search is absurd-- absolutely impossible. Any attempt will be a failure. But Camus is an absurdist who believes that people need to embrace the impossibility and continue to search for the meaning of life regardless of the futility. He saw himself as an opponent to nihilism, another school of thought that asserts the absolute arbitrary nature of life. 

But existentialism in itself has an element of absurdism. The difference between these two philosophies, though seemingly key to Camus's self-identity, is perplexing and vague. Perhaps this is why people consider him to be an existentialist. 

Regardless, it is readily evident that Camus believes in an inherent meaning of life-- granted it is one that is apparently impossible to decipher. Even so, Camus expresses a sense of hope in his claim that humans should nevertheless continue to explore meaning. Such a sentiment can be found in "The Guest," when the prisoner, no doubt struggling in his own moral issues, makes the choice of going to prison instead of fleeing to freedom, fostering that sense of uplifting hope that this man is pursuing the meaning of his life by addressing his personal guilt and absolving himself of his crimes. 

moody literature

The Child by Tiger --- > murder

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? -- > rape

Hills Like White Elephants -- > abortion

The Destructors -- > war/extreme vandalism

Most Dangerous Game -- > hunting/killing

Interpreter of Maladies -- > adultery/guilt/failed relationships

How Far She Went -- > abduction
The Rockinghorse Winner -- > gambling/death

I would have to say all of these are some variant of a dark, twisted, violent, or depressing story. Is this characteristic of literary works in general? Perhaps.

It cannot be denied that an uncanny number of the stories we've read are of this nature. But it may be too big of an assumption to conclude that this is the "true nature" of literary fiction because it is perhaps not entirely intentional that the circumstances are as it is. Not all literature is dark--we've learned recently that humor can exist in literary works. But the high occurrences of death, murder, rape, etc. readily eclipses the light-heartedness that may exist. Why is this so?

You would have to recall the purpose of literary texts. They aren't written to make us feel good-- quite the contrary in fact. They reveal some profound truth about human nature. And chances are, whatever is worth revealing about human nature is not gloriously wonderful. In truth, humans are mostly quite aware of the gloriously wonderful parts of their nature. It's the dark side, the side that involves murder, rape, death, and adultery that people are prone to avoid in everyday thought. Literature is a world of deep exploration of hidden universal truths, ones that are presumably not the most delightful. They are written to make us feel uncomfortable, informed, and enlightened.

Further, the use of dark, twisted stories are considerably more memorable. I am much more likely to remember a shockingly violent story than one filled with mildness. Understanding the heavy themes of literature is important, but the impression it leaves is perhaps even more significant.

The moodiness of literature actually serves a purpose. It's all about impact.

the elusive white elephant

And the award for obscurity goes to Mr. Ernest Hemingway and his "Hills Like White Elephants."

"What the heck was he talking about?"-- my thoughts after finishing the story the first time. Only two and a half pages, the language is straight-forward enough. The events are not out of the ordinary. But what in the world is that story about?

Here's a good lesson: A second, closer reading of the story can be quite therapeutic.

The story is told in an almost clinically objective manner, void of emotional or intellectual commentary, a type of perspective quite unfamiliar. Every phrase is dedicated to the facts-- what they say, what they do, what their surroundings look like. We have no idea what the girl is thinking, what the American is thinking. This attribute alone is what makes this story enormously elusive. In every line, it seems, the reader is forced to extract some hidden meaning, "reading between the lines," as they say. There is no other method to properly discover the emotion, the internal thoughts obscured by the thick veil of objectivity.

The revelation that the "simple operation" is really an abortion is actually not as important as it initially seemed. Granted, I can finally comprehend the specifics of their conversation, but the fact that the couple is arguing over an abortion is not the point that Hemingway is attempting to make. Even without knowing the taboo operation, we can still sense the presence of some burden complicating the couple's relationship. We can still understand the severe communicative problems, where one can hardly hear what the other is saying. We can still see that the girl and the man are clearly avoiding legitimate conversation about their deep troubles. Hemingway is commenting on the obscurity of their communication and thus their relationship-- not the topic itself. In fact, it is quite possible that Hemingway utilized objective obscurity as a demonstration of this vague territory of uncommunicative communication.   

Obscure, indeed.

short and sweet

I've always liked short stories--a good thing, considering the the number read in English class.

Moreover, the short story is a form of literature just as significant as a novel, despite its brevity. A short story is, as its name suggests, brief in duration, but is as potentially enriching as a novel. Obviously not a full course meal, the short story is more like a piece of hard candy-- shorter-lasting but sweet all the same.

Of course, the length of a short story is much more comforting than that of a novel. But this form of prose offers much more than its less time-consuming nature. As a result of its brevity, a short story provides more simplicity, even in the conveyance of a complex theme. More focused on a single plot, setting, and message, short stories are ideal for a more extensive study of literary themes, ideas, and styles of varying authors, as readers can more quickly delve into a wider breadth of short story literature. Further, more intensive focus can be dedicated to the singularity of the story without the distracting elements of some novels.

As exhibited by many of the short stories already examined in class, these brief literary snapshots can offer as much power as any novel. "The Destructors" produced views on the destructive imprint of war on post-war generations. "The Child by Tiger" commented on the puzzling duality of good and evil in human nature. "How Far She Went" explores the extent of pride, guilt, and admiration. Heavy subjects are no obstruction for the short story.

Novels are movies. Short stories are snapshots-- photographs that are all the same worthy of a good exploration.

ambiguity

What's the point?

That's exactly what I exasperatingly ask myself every time I find myself in the midst of a so-called "literary" work. The surface of these texts is inundated with countless words and sentences with difficult-to-discern meanings, seemingly written to deliberately perplex the reader. The vagueness is uncomfortable, the purpose is far from explicit, and the reader inevitably ends with more questions than he had previously. So what's the point?

Of course, we are told that these works are the manifestation of universal truths, revealing some profound revelation on human nature. They are considered literary for a reason, and that reason, contrary to what most high school English students see, is presumably not that they are ridiculously difficult to comprehend.

The point, then, is this: it takes more than the typically resentful, unfocused teen to truly delve into literature. Literary texts are written to make people think--to really think, the kind of contemplating that can be uncomfortable, that can be frustrating, and that can produce more questions than existed previously. It takes something as perplexing and vague as literature to fully expound upon the perplexing and vague human life. Ambiguity, an inherent aspect of literature, mercilessly tests our minds, especially those that are stubbornly mathematical. Everything seems to be frustratingly open to interpretation. 

This is precisely the challenge of Advanced Placement Literature. 

juxtaposition

 "Tyger! Tyger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? "

                     - "The Tyger" 

   

  "Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed, 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? "

- "The Lamb"

Juxtaposition: "an act or instance of placing close together or side by side,especially for comparison or contrast." 

Let's consider William Blake and his Songs of Innocence and of Experience. The title of the poem collection in itself expresses what Blake suggests is the "two contrary states of the human soul." Innocence is juxtaposed with experience. Experience shatters innocence. Here are the two poems describing the opposing notions represented by a lamb and a tiger. 

The lamb revels in the bliss that is light, innocence, and delight. Its existence is rejoiced, its sweetness treasured. The poem exhibits remarkable gratitude towards the lamb's creator, who evidently crafted a bundle of beautifully pure naiveté. 

The tiger prowls in a darkness inundated with destruction and violence, painted in an image strikingly yet horrifyingly beautiful. "The Tyger" sings a song of lamentation, sorrowfully wondering who could have created the magnificently majestic, destructive tiger. 

Juxtaposition is a universal presence, Blake asserts. Both light and dark, both good and evil, and both lambs and tigers exist in our world. It is paradoxical-- that such polar notions can coexist in a single place. Blake himself is perplexed by these coexistences: "Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" Puzzling as it is, this dichotomy reveals truths even about human nature, truths strikingly exhibited in The Child By Tiger's Dick Prosser, a manifestation of extreme dichotomy. We can talk about juxtaposition. We can talk about Dick Prosser, the man so admired by teen adolescents and the man who murders. It is no mistake, then, that the short story's author weaves in Blake's poetry about a terrifyingly beautiful tyger. In what strange world can both a tiger and a lamb exist inside a single person? 

It all leaves us to ponder about ourselves. If tigers and lambs can so easily coexist, how easily can evil vanquish good? After all, it happened to Dick Prosser.  

grown up

Here we are. The fourth and final year of our secondary school education. It's gone by pretty quickly, hasn't it? It's difficult to believe that we're approaching the end of our precollege years. Just think about this time next year, when we're going to be throwing ourselves into the great unknown that is independence--away from strict rules, away from parents, and away from home. 

Even now, I can't even get accustomed to calling myself a senior. Senior. That word seems invariably profound with a certain sense of finality attached. It's like a wake up call. We're all growing up. For real this time. 

Of course, senior year seems to be attached to the notions of freedom, carefree actions, and fun. The go-to mentality of the typical senior is along the lines of "I can't wait to get out of here!", which, of course, is the basis of the terribly debilitating case of laziness known as senioritis. But take a step back. Even with the worst case of senioritis, there is that slight well of nostalgia. Graduating is bittersweet. Freedom comes with the loss of this school, these peers, these teachers, and, most of all, this home. 

In many ways, it's terrifying--especially now, when we begin to delve into future plans, immersing ourselves in the hectic world that is the college application process. I don't know where I want to go. I don't know what I want to do. I just don't know. But maybe we're really not supposed to know. Maybe that's what senior year is all about. 

It's a juggling act. Fill out this application today. Write this essay tomorrow. Go to school. Rewrite that awful paragraph. Look at scholarships. Look at schools. Extracurricular activity. Edit this essay. Ask for a recommendation. Keep going to school. On and on and on and on... 

We're all growing up. For real.