Thursday, March 22, 2012
Hunger Games: Book or Movie?
Alright you literary movie-goers, The Hunger Games opens tonight. So which is better, the book or the movie? Go see it, gentle reader, and then drop us a comment...
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Limits of Hope and of Meanness
I was recently researching some commentary on Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winner, The Road, and I came across a quote by McCarthy regarding hope. The context of the quote dealt with McCarthy's harsh, violent characters living in a seemingly meaningless and unfeeling world -- basically how most of his writing isn't easily redemptive and, a lot of times, doesn't end well -- when I stumbled across this really powerful hammer-stroke:
"I don't think goodness is something that you learn. If you're left adrift in the world to learn goodness from it, you would be in trouble... There's not much you can do to try to make a child into something that he's not. But whatever he is, you can sure destroy it. Just be mean and cruel and you can destroy the best person."
Hmm.
It's not that I disagree with this; I think McCarthy has hit on something very real and very fundamental. What I've been turning over in my mind is the implication behind this idea: that evil has the advantage. To be clear, I don't want to slip into naivety or an over-romanticized version of the world; evil exists, it persists, it does doom some. However, I would like to suppose that the power of evil is equally balanced by the power of good, and if McCarthy is right (and I am understanding him correctly...), evil knows no limits, and goodness does. We are born with a finite amount of goodness -- like champagne in a crystal flute, perhaps just a few drops, perhaps threatening to overflow -- and that's it. No more, forever. But apply enough cruelty, enough meanness, enough cracks to the flute, and the entire portion is capable of being drained out. Meanness can overcome any amount of goodness.
Hmm.
Can goodness be replenished? Am I reading too much into the word "destroyed"? I suppose we may rebuild what is destroyed. But then, it isn't quite the same as the original. It has potential to be great again, just not the same. And maybe therein lies the beauty. If I am only capable of a little goodness, and I lose it, then it wouldn't take me that long to regain it. After all, it was only a small amount to begin with, and if I can't recoup it, then I am probably not trying hard enough. Likewise, if I am capable of a deep level of goodness and lose it all, it will take me much longer to recapture all of it. Perhaps I would not be able to recapture every last drop, but then I started with a lot more than others and should still find myself well ahead of the game.
So, gentle reader, evil doesn't win. Or at least, it doesn't have to. It is still a very real player in the game, but ultimately it has no unfair advantage. And the best part, I think (if I'm still understanding the quote correctly...), is that we ultimately have control over the meanness and the cruelty. Don't like it? Don't do it! Those are better odds still.
"I don't think goodness is something that you learn. If you're left adrift in the world to learn goodness from it, you would be in trouble... There's not much you can do to try to make a child into something that he's not. But whatever he is, you can sure destroy it. Just be mean and cruel and you can destroy the best person."
Hmm.
It's not that I disagree with this; I think McCarthy has hit on something very real and very fundamental. What I've been turning over in my mind is the implication behind this idea: that evil has the advantage. To be clear, I don't want to slip into naivety or an over-romanticized version of the world; evil exists, it persists, it does doom some. However, I would like to suppose that the power of evil is equally balanced by the power of good, and if McCarthy is right (and I am understanding him correctly...), evil knows no limits, and goodness does. We are born with a finite amount of goodness -- like champagne in a crystal flute, perhaps just a few drops, perhaps threatening to overflow -- and that's it. No more, forever. But apply enough cruelty, enough meanness, enough cracks to the flute, and the entire portion is capable of being drained out. Meanness can overcome any amount of goodness.
Hmm.
Can goodness be replenished? Am I reading too much into the word "destroyed"? I suppose we may rebuild what is destroyed. But then, it isn't quite the same as the original. It has potential to be great again, just not the same. And maybe therein lies the beauty. If I am only capable of a little goodness, and I lose it, then it wouldn't take me that long to regain it. After all, it was only a small amount to begin with, and if I can't recoup it, then I am probably not trying hard enough. Likewise, if I am capable of a deep level of goodness and lose it all, it will take me much longer to recapture all of it. Perhaps I would not be able to recapture every last drop, but then I started with a lot more than others and should still find myself well ahead of the game.
So, gentle reader, evil doesn't win. Or at least, it doesn't have to. It is still a very real player in the game, but ultimately it has no unfair advantage. And the best part, I think (if I'm still understanding the quote correctly...), is that we ultimately have control over the meanness and the cruelty. Don't like it? Don't do it! Those are better odds still.
Monday, January 9, 2012
2012 New Year's Resolutions
1. Jay Gatsby says he will "try to steer clear of dangerous women who cry over men's apparel."
2. Beowulf resolves nothing. For there is nothing to resolve. (Enter Chuck Norris joke here only substitute "Beowulf" for "Chuck Norris")
3. Ma Joad says she plans to feed her family "less carbs and more proteins" this coming year.
4. Boo Radley would have said "to get out more" had he actually been contacted for this list.
5. Rosencrantz resolves to "ask more questions" especially in the presence of insane royal people.
6. Daisy Buchanan says she wants to cry less around men and their shirts. To which Holden Caulfield replies"stop being so damn phony" at which Daisy starts to cry. Holden gets depressed and goes off to find the ducks.
7. Beowulf changes his mind and decides to kill a dragon and leave his country defenseless this year.
8. Montag says he will come up with a nickname to avoid further confusion over long and short vowel sounds.
9. Victor Frankenstein resolves to tamper with the natural order of life and death "just one more time."
10. Ophelia decides to "not worry" about those swimming lessons.
2. Beowulf resolves nothing. For there is nothing to resolve. (Enter Chuck Norris joke here only substitute "Beowulf" for "Chuck Norris")
3. Ma Joad says she plans to feed her family "less carbs and more proteins" this coming year.
4. Boo Radley would have said "to get out more" had he actually been contacted for this list.
5. Rosencrantz resolves to "ask more questions" especially in the presence of insane royal people.
6. Daisy Buchanan says she wants to cry less around men and their shirts. To which Holden Caulfield replies"stop being so damn phony" at which Daisy starts to cry. Holden gets depressed and goes off to find the ducks.
7. Beowulf changes his mind and decides to kill a dragon and leave his country defenseless this year.
8. Montag says he will come up with a nickname to avoid further confusion over long and short vowel sounds.
9. Victor Frankenstein resolves to tamper with the natural order of life and death "just one more time."
10. Ophelia decides to "not worry" about those swimming lessons.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Top 5 Things Hamlet Can Learn From Beowulf
This is a quick list. Very self-explanatory. After all, without Beowulf there may not even be an Elsinore for Hamlet to mope around...
1. Avoid the pool. People like to bring up swimming at the Danish royal table.
2. Don't look the Queen directly in the eye. She's liable to adopt you as grand protector of her wimpy adolescent children. Except when you're already related to the Queen. In that case, have your mother invite a big, bad Geatish warrior to come visit from across the sea to become your new grand protector. It'll be worth your time, trust me.
3. Swords optional.
4. Get that front door checked.
5. I am your (great-great-great-great-great grand) father!
Go Hamlet, go.
1. Avoid the pool. People like to bring up swimming at the Danish royal table.
2. Don't look the Queen directly in the eye. She's liable to adopt you as grand protector of her wimpy adolescent children. Except when you're already related to the Queen. In that case, have your mother invite a big, bad Geatish warrior to come visit from across the sea to become your new grand protector. It'll be worth your time, trust me.
3. Swords optional.
4. Get that front door checked.
5. I am your (great-great-great-great-great grand) father!
Go Hamlet, go.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Willy Loman is not Lazy!
Tragic, yes. Despicable, yes. Pathetic, yes (just clarify connotation, please!).
But not lazy!!!
William Loman wants nothing more than to be all the things he seemingly cannot be. A good father. A good husband. To be well liked. And he pursues these things -- deliberately and with energy -- like a hamster on a wheel with a cute little fedora and matching briefcase full of merchandise. Only the hamster is able to stop whenever he wants. Willy cannot. Therein lies the rub.
Because Willy is doomed to forward motion, he is incapable of true reflection. Because he is never, ever truly alone with his thoughts. To be clear, he has full access to his memories and a host of questions, mostly self-depracatory, but he has no such access to introspective thought. He cannot slow down his self-doubt; he refuses to release himself from his own guilt. In short, he cannot actually move forward.
Revision: Willy is doomed to perpetual motion, limited to circular angles, prohibitive of forward progress. Willy is stuck. But not by laziness. Not even by a lack of morals. He cannot overcome himself. He cannot face up to the sum of all his parts. Certainly, some of these parts are rotted wood: the affair, his parenting skills, his backward sense of reputation in the business world. But taken together, Willy Loman is not a bad man.
Low, maybe. Which is what makes him tragic. Which is why we murder to dissect him and stash him away nice and neatly into a mislabeled corner. We don't like to look overlong at such a man. We may start to see a bit of ourselves tucked inside a dimple or stuck to an eyelash. So we must kick him lower than he really is, to distance ourselves.
Do not, gentle reader, seek this distance. A little grit is not a bad thing.
But not lazy!!!
William Loman wants nothing more than to be all the things he seemingly cannot be. A good father. A good husband. To be well liked. And he pursues these things -- deliberately and with energy -- like a hamster on a wheel with a cute little fedora and matching briefcase full of merchandise. Only the hamster is able to stop whenever he wants. Willy cannot. Therein lies the rub.
Because Willy is doomed to forward motion, he is incapable of true reflection. Because he is never, ever truly alone with his thoughts. To be clear, he has full access to his memories and a host of questions, mostly self-depracatory, but he has no such access to introspective thought. He cannot slow down his self-doubt; he refuses to release himself from his own guilt. In short, he cannot actually move forward.
Revision: Willy is doomed to perpetual motion, limited to circular angles, prohibitive of forward progress. Willy is stuck. But not by laziness. Not even by a lack of morals. He cannot overcome himself. He cannot face up to the sum of all his parts. Certainly, some of these parts are rotted wood: the affair, his parenting skills, his backward sense of reputation in the business world. But taken together, Willy Loman is not a bad man.
Low, maybe. Which is what makes him tragic. Which is why we murder to dissect him and stash him away nice and neatly into a mislabeled corner. We don't like to look overlong at such a man. We may start to see a bit of ourselves tucked inside a dimple or stuck to an eyelash. So we must kick him lower than he really is, to distance ourselves.
Do not, gentle reader, seek this distance. A little grit is not a bad thing.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Cash Bundren's Great Secret
Once again I find myself leading my intrepid literary troops through William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, and once again I am struck by a singular character:
Cash Bundren.
Eldest child, focused carpenter, absolute truth-teller. His first narration in AILD is nothing more than a list, a quick how-to on coffin-making. He even fails to mention that it is for his mother that he toils. Emotion-dodging? Deflection-by-insulation? Or space case? We quickly jump to the latter, feeling (fearing?) something is a little off with the oldest Bundren offspring.
Cash, however, strikes me as having access to some secret that I am not privy to, or if I am, then it is a secret I care not to look at for longer than a moment or two. Like staring at the sun overlong. Or a car crash before the ambulance.
He knows what it means to stay on task. Whether the task is concrete like constructing a coffin or abstract like demonstrating kindness, Cash knows how to see it through, regardless of time frames.
Like Dick in Waterland or Lenny in Of Mice and Men or Forrest Gump himself, it is their vacuous nature which allows them to outstrip, in this one small arena at least, the other great men which surround them.
I must confess, I don't like the hollowness of Cash's devotion. And not because he is "slow" or a "dullard," and not because he is "simple" and "rural;" it is entirely because it is something I cannot do. It is a skill-set which I do not possess. And I am not dull or slow; I am witty and sophisticated. I read and discuss and posit great ideas and challenge the great ideas of others.
In fact, it would seem as if I am so over-burdened by my wit and sophistication that I cannot clutch a single devotion to my chest for longer than a few moments.
Was it Thoreau who claimed "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!"? I feel, gentle reader, that Cash is nodding a slow nod right about now. And he will probably continue to nod until I get it, not a moment before. Not even long after his head hurts.
Cash Bundren.
Eldest child, focused carpenter, absolute truth-teller. His first narration in AILD is nothing more than a list, a quick how-to on coffin-making. He even fails to mention that it is for his mother that he toils. Emotion-dodging? Deflection-by-insulation? Or space case? We quickly jump to the latter, feeling (fearing?) something is a little off with the oldest Bundren offspring.
Cash, however, strikes me as having access to some secret that I am not privy to, or if I am, then it is a secret I care not to look at for longer than a moment or two. Like staring at the sun overlong. Or a car crash before the ambulance.
He knows what it means to stay on task. Whether the task is concrete like constructing a coffin or abstract like demonstrating kindness, Cash knows how to see it through, regardless of time frames.
Like Dick in Waterland or Lenny in Of Mice and Men or Forrest Gump himself, it is their vacuous nature which allows them to outstrip, in this one small arena at least, the other great men which surround them.
I must confess, I don't like the hollowness of Cash's devotion. And not because he is "slow" or a "dullard," and not because he is "simple" and "rural;" it is entirely because it is something I cannot do. It is a skill-set which I do not possess. And I am not dull or slow; I am witty and sophisticated. I read and discuss and posit great ideas and challenge the great ideas of others.
In fact, it would seem as if I am so over-burdened by my wit and sophistication that I cannot clutch a single devotion to my chest for longer than a few moments.
Was it Thoreau who claimed "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!"? I feel, gentle reader, that Cash is nodding a slow nod right about now. And he will probably continue to nod until I get it, not a moment before. Not even long after his head hurts.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Poor Grendel's Accident
Poor, poor Grendel. What, gentle reader, is this guy's (monster's...) problem? I mean, Beowulf has won, Grendel has lost his arm, and he has been clearly shown that nihilism has failed him. So what gives? Why the pouting? Why the pathetic holding-on to a miserable attitude? Why the need to act so humanly?
To quote Aldous Huxley: "Experience teaches only the teachable."
Your thoughts? Are you teachable? Can you even assess this for yourself? A dangerous notion, that. Trying to self-discover one's ability to accept teaching. Not even criticism, but teaching.
Now hold on. This is not a teacher's rant. This is not about comma rules or MLA formatting or even about how to write the bigger, better thesis statement. No, no, no. This is about learning something. About yourself. About the real world.
About being human. Why is it so tricky to join that club?
To quote Aldous Huxley: "Experience teaches only the teachable."
Your thoughts? Are you teachable? Can you even assess this for yourself? A dangerous notion, that. Trying to self-discover one's ability to accept teaching. Not even criticism, but teaching.
Now hold on. This is not a teacher's rant. This is not about comma rules or MLA formatting or even about how to write the bigger, better thesis statement. No, no, no. This is about learning something. About yourself. About the real world.
About being human. Why is it so tricky to join that club?
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