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.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
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.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
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
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
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.
"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.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
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.
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.
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