“Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the lot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.”
Ch. 42, Pg. 325
This quote was one of the most salient for me in the book. How true! How fitting! The elements of self-delusion and self-fulfilling prophecies are recurring. Casaubon wants to be able to love Dorothea, but scares himself when he realizes that it isn’t possible, and further torments himself over it. His methods of coping with the Ladislaw situation are equally troublesome – either his jealously will be discovered, or his coldness toward Dorothea will. When he dies, Celia attempts to “administer what she thought a sobering dose of fact” to Dodo, in a manner I feel is a ‘speck of self’ tormenting another self unconsciously. “…you never would marry Mr Ladislaw,” she says, “but that only makes it worse of Mr Casaubon.” Poor Dorothea for having to sit through Celia’s hurtful banter, and poor Celia for not knowing better!
I think Lydgate also deludes himself when it comes to Rosamond – who does not seem to respect his choice of profession. Lydgate can only acquiesce as he believes Rosamond to be pregnant – and does not want to trouble her.
And earlier in the novel, Fred is subject to this element when it came to his monetary problems. All too often people bet their money and lose it all.
I think Will doesn’t fall victim to this, though. Although midway through the novel he imagines it to be a good idea to visit Dorothea (and Casaubon) at Lowick church, he realizes the next day what a mistake it was.
joke life
Monday, January 30, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Cranford, Ch I-IX
‘It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,’ said Miss Matty, softly, as we settled ourselves in the counting-house. ‘I only hope it is not improper; so many pleasant things are!”
I suppose this passage depicts the Victorian mentality to avoid outright pleasure for the sake of social conventions. In this section, Miss Matty is being offered to fill the tobacco pipe by Mr Holbrook. I hate how petty Victorians can be about such things. Just pack the damn pipe. Maybe he’ll ask to marry you. Ugh. I hate this book.
I’m not really sure how to respond. I read the first nine chapters and did not get much satisfaction out of it. I think the main image Gaskell is trying to depict is how people tried to present themselves as more dignified than they really are, which is of course, a common occurrence in our society, too. In many cases, the ladies seem to abhor certain things about the “lower classes”, such as those “engaged in that ‘horrid cotton trade’ (Pg 75) or those of merchant-class origin. I don’t see why that is something looked down upon…the money has to come from somewhere.
I did learn that forks used to have two tines instead of four, and this is a way to distinguish older households from newer ones.
This book is boring and I don’t like it. Nothing happens, and the interesting male characters keep dying for one reason or another. The Captain died and Mr Holbrook died mysteriously. The women don’t do anything except play cards and complain and eat. They’re kind of like my aunts. But I don’t think I have learned anything new about Victorian domestic society
‘It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,’ said Miss Matty, softly, as we settled ourselves in the counting-house. ‘I only hope it is not improper; so many pleasant things are!”
I suppose this passage depicts the Victorian mentality to avoid outright pleasure for the sake of social conventions. In this section, Miss Matty is being offered to fill the tobacco pipe by Mr Holbrook. I hate how petty Victorians can be about such things. Just pack the damn pipe. Maybe he’ll ask to marry you. Ugh. I hate this book.
I’m not really sure how to respond. I read the first nine chapters and did not get much satisfaction out of it. I think the main image Gaskell is trying to depict is how people tried to present themselves as more dignified than they really are, which is of course, a common occurrence in our society, too. In many cases, the ladies seem to abhor certain things about the “lower classes”, such as those “engaged in that ‘horrid cotton trade’ (Pg 75) or those of merchant-class origin. I don’t see why that is something looked down upon…the money has to come from somewhere.
I did learn that forks used to have two tines instead of four, and this is a way to distinguish older households from newer ones.
This book is boring and I don’t like it. Nothing happens, and the interesting male characters keep dying for one reason or another. The Captain died and Mr Holbrook died mysteriously. The women don’t do anything except play cards and complain and eat. They’re kind of like my aunts. But I don’t think I have learned anything new about Victorian domestic society
Monday, January 23, 2012
Middlemarch – Books I-IV
‘…selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world: I see enough of that every day.’ – Mary Garth
Mary Garth’s remonstration to Fred Vincy’s plea for clemency and sympathy amidst his failure to repay his debts is noble and telling of her character. And this foreshadows her stolid restraint against the dying Featherstone’s request to alter his will at his deathbed.
I suppose Middlemarch is about the individual. Eliot has created a universe that is equally small and pastoral and yet ubiquitous – every character is shaped by it, and struggles with an internal conflict between himself or herself against the perceptions of the town. Rosamond loves Lydgate, but before marriage is proposed between the two, it feels as if half the town’s population knows it must happen. Thus when Mrs Bulstrode approaches Rosamond about her relations with Lydgate, she feels the weight of her society upon her.
The life of middle-class citizens in the Victorian era is characterized by social rigidity and conformity. Perhaps Eliot is trying to challenge this rigidity by creating a world where we can witness the motives of each character from in and around his or her mind. The third-person omniscient viewpoint is notoriously the most challenging for a writer to use effectively, but when it is performed with alacrity, as Middlemarch, a parallel world is created. I just wish it were narrower.
‘…selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world: I see enough of that every day.’ – Mary Garth
Mary Garth’s remonstration to Fred Vincy’s plea for clemency and sympathy amidst his failure to repay his debts is noble and telling of her character. And this foreshadows her stolid restraint against the dying Featherstone’s request to alter his will at his deathbed.
I suppose Middlemarch is about the individual. Eliot has created a universe that is equally small and pastoral and yet ubiquitous – every character is shaped by it, and struggles with an internal conflict between himself or herself against the perceptions of the town. Rosamond loves Lydgate, but before marriage is proposed between the two, it feels as if half the town’s population knows it must happen. Thus when Mrs Bulstrode approaches Rosamond about her relations with Lydgate, she feels the weight of her society upon her.
The life of middle-class citizens in the Victorian era is characterized by social rigidity and conformity. Perhaps Eliot is trying to challenge this rigidity by creating a world where we can witness the motives of each character from in and around his or her mind. The third-person omniscient viewpoint is notoriously the most challenging for a writer to use effectively, but when it is performed with alacrity, as Middlemarch, a parallel world is created. I just wish it were narrower.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
I asked our host the direction of a bathroom I could use and excused myself. Once inside, I closed the door and locked it. There were four cabinet doors, two drawers, and a mirror that swiveled open, only revealing toothbrushes, toothpaste, and various ointments. Next I drew open the cabinet drawers. Toilet paper rolls, spare shampoo, tissue boxes, tazor blades, more toilet paper rolls, tampons, a first aid kit, some white bottles, took a look, just vitamins, shut the doors. The drawers yielded similar results.
I closed the cabinets, drawers, and shut the swiveling mirror door. I flushed the toilet once and opened the door. There was more hunting to do.
Every family in America takes prescription drugs. Typically if they are used sparsely as only in time of illness they're kept in bathrooms - and those taken regularly, for on-going need are kept in the kitchen - perhaps to associate with mealtime. Some people, like me, keep them by their bedside tables for reasons of privacy and because I take drugs as part of daily routine.
The living room was unique in that it had three passageways. One was the front door. The right door led to the hallway with the bathroom I rummaged through, and the left door was shared with the kitchen. The design was ingenious in that it allowed me to circle around the living room, around the band enclosed within the shut doors - to the kitchen. I made a mental note that the mother was in her study in the hallway adjacent to the bathroom.
Here I would open the cabinets one by one - taking a quick peek inside then quickly shutting it. To anyone else, I was looking for a glass.
Medicine cabinets are almost always kept above a counter top, never in a pantry. Why? I don't know. I guess it makes it easier to crush up Adderall XR to spike your schoolboy's applesauce. Seriously, Shire Pharmaceuticals recommends this method with which to dose your youngsters who cannot yet swallow pills. Sickening.
Aha! Above the sink were an assortment of orange bottles. This is it. This was it. Now one-by-one, I'd rotate the bottle toward me to check the active ingredient or brand name. Let's see...atenolol, Wellbutrin, generic Lipitor, lactase pills,...Zolpidem...nah, not today. Cymbalta, propranolol, amoxicillin, yuck...and..!
The door opens. It's our host. I pulled my hand out of the cabinet, leaving it ajar, my idle hand nestled behind the fridge.
-Are you...do you need something?- he said.
-I was just gonna help myself to a glass of water- I replied, surprised at my artfulness.
-Oh, no. Cups are on the other side- He opened the cabinet nearest to him and pointed to the glasses.
-Thanks. I'll see you guys back there in a second, my throat got kinda itchy-
-Alright.
I'm a suspect but he has no evidence. I drink the water cautiously as he pours himself some soda and leaves.
Last bottle...it reads "substituted for Clonazepam." I don't believe it at first and reread it, thinking I read Clonidine, which would be useless, at least without hypertension. Name check...Chaz Shalom. Hah, I guess Big Daddy Jew has panic attacks? I check names to make sure I'm not taking drugs from the terminally ill. I mean, I guess I wouldn't know...I didn't se ea comatose grandma lying in the living room between the drums and the amp. Perhaps its one of those actions we do automatically that at first we think are good, but once analyzed and questioned, seem without much meaning, other than good intentions.
So Chaz was holding his soothing pills captive in amber cells...and this was a prison break. I liberated four yellow gentlemen from their cell nad closed the door quickly before the guards could see me. Performed a quick patrol of the corridor and got ready to initiate phase two. Once again, four more prisoners were rescued. Unfortunately, some had to be left behind. I could tell our bailiff wouldn't be taking headcounts any time soon, but if he know that more than half of his captives had escaped, there'd be hell to pay.
I closed the cabinets, drawers, and shut the swiveling mirror door. I flushed the toilet once and opened the door. There was more hunting to do.
Every family in America takes prescription drugs. Typically if they are used sparsely as only in time of illness they're kept in bathrooms - and those taken regularly, for on-going need are kept in the kitchen - perhaps to associate with mealtime. Some people, like me, keep them by their bedside tables for reasons of privacy and because I take drugs as part of daily routine.
The living room was unique in that it had three passageways. One was the front door. The right door led to the hallway with the bathroom I rummaged through, and the left door was shared with the kitchen. The design was ingenious in that it allowed me to circle around the living room, around the band enclosed within the shut doors - to the kitchen. I made a mental note that the mother was in her study in the hallway adjacent to the bathroom.
Here I would open the cabinets one by one - taking a quick peek inside then quickly shutting it. To anyone else, I was looking for a glass.
Medicine cabinets are almost always kept above a counter top, never in a pantry. Why? I don't know. I guess it makes it easier to crush up Adderall XR to spike your schoolboy's applesauce. Seriously, Shire Pharmaceuticals recommends this method with which to dose your youngsters who cannot yet swallow pills. Sickening.
Aha! Above the sink were an assortment of orange bottles. This is it. This was it. Now one-by-one, I'd rotate the bottle toward me to check the active ingredient or brand name. Let's see...atenolol, Wellbutrin, generic Lipitor, lactase pills,...Zolpidem...nah, not today. Cymbalta, propranolol, amoxicillin, yuck...and..!
The door opens. It's our host. I pulled my hand out of the cabinet, leaving it ajar, my idle hand nestled behind the fridge.
-Are you...do you need something?- he said.
-I was just gonna help myself to a glass of water- I replied, surprised at my artfulness.
-Oh, no. Cups are on the other side- He opened the cabinet nearest to him and pointed to the glasses.
-Thanks. I'll see you guys back there in a second, my throat got kinda itchy-
-Alright.
I'm a suspect but he has no evidence. I drink the water cautiously as he pours himself some soda and leaves.
Last bottle...it reads "substituted for Clonazepam." I don't believe it at first and reread it, thinking I read Clonidine, which would be useless, at least without hypertension. Name check...Chaz Shalom. Hah, I guess Big Daddy Jew has panic attacks? I check names to make sure I'm not taking drugs from the terminally ill. I mean, I guess I wouldn't know...I didn't se ea comatose grandma lying in the living room between the drums and the amp. Perhaps its one of those actions we do automatically that at first we think are good, but once analyzed and questioned, seem without much meaning, other than good intentions.
So Chaz was holding his soothing pills captive in amber cells...and this was a prison break. I liberated four yellow gentlemen from their cell nad closed the door quickly before the guards could see me. Performed a quick patrol of the corridor and got ready to initiate phase two. Once again, four more prisoners were rescued. Unfortunately, some had to be left behind. I could tell our bailiff wouldn't be taking headcounts any time soon, but if he know that more than half of his captives had escaped, there'd be hell to pay.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
happy new year
Happy new year, team! Last night was better than expected. It's much better to be with people you know you like, than with people you don't know you like. God bless America.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
long year
This is me and my writing, hello hello. It’s almost the end of the year and I’ll publish something before I get too crazy tonight. But tonight has been making me think: I’ve been browsing internet forums for almost a few hours at a time now and I’ve been thinking:::::what’s the point? Why go out? Am I ever going to have sex again? Why is that all I think about these days? There’s no real stimulus creating that for me what the hell i'm going to think about other things now
Monday, December 5, 2011
a wedding and a funeral
My mom remarried in 2004. I was on her side. She deserved to be happy.
The wedding was interesting though. Of course, my father didn’t show up. That would be really weird. I felt like a martyr, though. Like I was the image of someone losing from this partnership. I was put in a weird position and was forced to cope somehow. The first thing I remember is hardly remembering.
My mom was going through chemotherapy at the time and I took some of her Ativan to calm my nerves. I remember some people singing at the wedding. It was in the clubhouse in that gated community of mobile homes in which they lived, with some Spanish name. I remember lying to my grandmother about the beer I was drinking, saying it was juice. She doesn’t know what Heineken is. She’s too old and foreign to know. I love her.
I think I danced with my cousin. And I remember passing out in the back of my Aunt Rona’s Ford Escape with the dog. I did not puke. I do not remember how I got home. That’s one of my trademark shitfaced wasted reflections. I do not remember how I get home.
Like the first time I got drunk when I was 14. Jessica, Kim, and Miguel had me drink a Powerade bottle’s worth of what I thought was mostly Powerade. It was mostly Bacardi. I was wearing an oversized hoodie with shark tooth designs on it. It was ugly and black. In my mom’s car I remember puking down the sleeve. I do not know how she did not know. I think she pretended not to. How could she not notice? Somewhere she picked me up and drove me home. I stumbled into my bed and puked in it, without taking off the hoodie. I learning nothing from this experience, except from not to trust people; they may deceive you at any given time.
The wedding was interesting though. Of course, my father didn’t show up. That would be really weird. I felt like a martyr, though. Like I was the image of someone losing from this partnership. I was put in a weird position and was forced to cope somehow. The first thing I remember is hardly remembering.
My mom was going through chemotherapy at the time and I took some of her Ativan to calm my nerves. I remember some people singing at the wedding. It was in the clubhouse in that gated community of mobile homes in which they lived, with some Spanish name. I remember lying to my grandmother about the beer I was drinking, saying it was juice. She doesn’t know what Heineken is. She’s too old and foreign to know. I love her.
I think I danced with my cousin. And I remember passing out in the back of my Aunt Rona’s Ford Escape with the dog. I did not puke. I do not remember how I got home. That’s one of my trademark shitfaced wasted reflections. I do not remember how I get home.
Like the first time I got drunk when I was 14. Jessica, Kim, and Miguel had me drink a Powerade bottle’s worth of what I thought was mostly Powerade. It was mostly Bacardi. I was wearing an oversized hoodie with shark tooth designs on it. It was ugly and black. In my mom’s car I remember puking down the sleeve. I do not know how she did not know. I think she pretended not to. How could she not notice? Somewhere she picked me up and drove me home. I stumbled into my bed and puked in it, without taking off the hoodie. I learning nothing from this experience, except from not to trust people; they may deceive you at any given time.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Remember when you wrote How to Subdue a Society, more than 15 pages in like 3-4 days? Less than that. I took Adderall, but I churned out the best thing I have ever written. With the Khrushchev paper, which was marginally better, I took a steadfast and focused approached. It took me a few drafts, but they improved consistently each time. I am very impressed with it, when I look back upon it. Let's do that now. I feel more confident about my writing ability and look forward to see what will coalesce in regards to 19th century Britain and social welfare.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Photography / Bullet Trains
Many people have either taken or been part of a photograph. A technology from the Victorian era that has yet to die out soon, and is constantly being improved, photography is a way to create memories, to capture beautiful scenes, and create images out of light. We first had rudimentary photography in the Civil War/Victorian era, and it was also in the 1850s when the first steam engine locomotives were making their debut in Victorian Britain and with the unparalleled speed of global capitalism, around the world.
To be captured in a photograph is to be imbued in time. The mediums of photographs have changed from paper printouts which cost money to electronic images shared on the internet. Trains have only increased in speed, efficiency, and how much waste they produce.
Many people have either taken or been part of a photograph. A technology from the Victorian era that has yet to die out soon, and is constantly being improved, photography is a way to create memories, to capture beautiful scenes, and create images out of light. We first had rudimentary photography in the Civil War/Victorian era, and it was also in the 1850s when the first steam engine locomotives were making their debut in Victorian Britain and with the unparalleled speed of global capitalism, around the world.
To be captured in a photograph is to be imbued in time. The mediums of photographs have changed from paper printouts which cost money to electronic images shared on the internet. Trains have only increased in speed, efficiency, and how much waste they produce.
Monday, November 7, 2011
John Ruskin's Modern Painters
John Ruskin's Modern Painters
"…for [the painter's] selection of the brawls of peasants or sports of children can, of course, proceed only from the fact that he has more sympathy with such brawls of pastimes than with nobler subjects."
In his integrative essay Modern Painters, John Ruskin explains several points regarding high art, and on what makes certain art truly great. In brief, great art amounts to the use of a well-regarded subject (real or fictitious), beauty in consistence with truth, and utilizes the power of invention or imagination. He regards the so-called Pre-Raphaelites of the Victorian world, those who attempted to return to Renaissance-style art like the old Pre-Raphaelites, as those who have attained the "perfect unison of expression." Therefore, one can assume a bias toward the style of painting found on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
I think he is embracing the past too much. Yes, those works depicting Christian harmony are triumphant and have provoked piety as well as zeal for centuries, but he has encapsulated the concept of great art within a tiny prism. For the industrializing era, realism can amount to a completely new range of expression. For example, while Ruskin was writing this manifesto, Ilya Repin of Russia was becoming an esteemed portrait and realist-styled artist - and he turned Ruskin's quote regarding "lower orders of painting" and "noble subjects" on its head. Repin painted Tsar Nicholas II, Ivan the Terrible, and Leo Tolstoy - all who could be considered noble subjects - but they were captured in different ways. Tolsoy, simplistically; Nicholas, gallantly, and Ivan, brutally. Repin also painted peasants, famous Volga barge haulers, and a fantasy piece, Sadko in the Underwater Kingdom. This is why Ruskin's statement on how an artist must choose a proper subject is petty and pointless. It is not who or what the artist captures, but the way in which they are captured that determines whether it may be high art or not. The rest of Ruskin's points are rather one-sided or obvious. An artist on his or her path does not need Ruskin's help in understanding what makes a Rembrandt or a Durer fantastic. Thank goodness for Emilio Marinetti and his Futurist Manifesto¸ tossing aside this pedantic nonsense.
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