The shiny bubble containing my lofty hopes for blogging success was promptly burst upon starting university.
I am ashamed to admit that these ambitions were lost under the pile of books I was immediately pressed to conquer.
However, now that assessment season is over, I have rediscovered my blog and plan to attack it again.
My internet absence does not at all mean I have ceased to read fascinating books. Not at all. In fact I will give a quick run down of my course thus far, in the hopes of spreading the reputation of a simple arts degree not as a last-resort option for those who didn't get into anything "better", but as the ultimate way to explore a variety of interesting fields in as much detail as you want.
My first subject is philosophy. The unit itself has a very ambitious title: Reality, Ethics and Beauty. This means jumping into Parmenides, Plato, Hume, Smith, Kant, Tolstoy, Socrates, Aristotle and Al-Farabi, to name a few. I found myself spending hours trying to understand Supernaturalism, Realism, Cognitivism, and the World of Perfect Forms. I saw myself arguing Moore against Smith, then Hume against both, then being from non-being, and Tolstoy's "Infection theory" against Brillo boxes.
Philosophy is nothing short of a brain f***. Every lecture I leave with a migraine and a demented grin, if I'm not so absorbed in faraway, abstract thoughts to forget about facial expressions altogether. It really is marvelous, and my enthusiasm rewarded me in my assessment, as my tutor commented "this is everything a philosophy essay should be". Like an imbecile, though, I omitted a bibliography and paid the price in the form of a credit instead of a distinction.
Next comes studies of religion. I'm still amazed by how many people assume me to be religious upon hearing this. Does studying Arabic make one an Arab? Does studying religion make one religious? You wouldn't think so. Anyway, this subject is fiercely anti-Theological, as much as my politically correct lecturers would have me think otherwise. This semester is called "The History of God", comprising a eurocentric history of monotheism from Ancient Egypt to the present day, via Zoroastrianism, Judaism, Christianity, Celtic and Nordic paganism, Gnosticism, ancient religions of Cyprus and Rome, Islam and more, even with a quick stopover for The Enlightenment and Renaissance Humanism. This is likely the subject I will end up majoring in. I cannot imagine studying anything more fascinating. The way the intertwine across space and time, the way they interact and integrate, develop and reminisce, preserve and advance, in my view makes religion the crowning glory of human inventions, even if simultaneously its most costly and damaging. For my assessment I tackled the theories of religion according to Freud and Jung. Enough said. It was amazing. I couldn't read enough. I bow to psychoanalysis.
Studies of Arabs, Islam and The Middle East is a subject hardly less demanding. Attempting to get some sort of grip on understanding Islam only proves to be less possible the more time you devote to it. As a cultural, religious, economic, historical being, the way in which islam has affected the populations of the world, and billions of changes and interactions it has brough about, is simply mind-boggling. Even studying pre-Islamic Arabia, a largely Christian region, requires knowledge of the various sects of Christianity, where they had come from and where they prevailed, how the economy and social life worked, and the same for the simultaneously important religions of Judaism and polytheistic Meccan paganism which contributed to the melting pot that was the Arabian peninsula even before the rise of Islam. To study it is a sort of escapism for me - something that would not have any effect on my everyday life had I not chosen to dive into it. I know that sounds nauseatingly ignorant, but I get the feeling that one could make their way through life in Australia without being aware of the subtleties of the history of the Middle East. All I know is that I love it, it dumbfounds me, and I want to get out there and check it all out for myself.
Finally, english. I have a love/hate relationship with english. I love reading the texts. Chaucer, Swift, Ovid, Shakespeare, Virgil - all names to make a literature fanatic weak at the knees. "Narratives of Romance and Adventure" as a unit title should be enough to lure even the most stringent book haters to the lectures. And it is amazing. I do wish, however, that there was some way in which I could complete the work of the course without being tested on it. I know, I know. But despite really enjoying "The Canterbury Tales", I dug my heels in life a tushy toddler when I found out there were deadlines I had to meet, analyses I had to make, and essays I had to write. I wanted to find myself lolling around in willow trees in the dappled afternoon sun, "Metamorphoses" in hand. Instead, I spend a lot of time hunched over my laptop cramming articles from Jstor and wishing I had started this earlier. It really makes the texts harder to enjoy. Complaints over, however hard it is, and however terrible my marks are, what I learn from my lecturers and author ancestors outweighs it all, every single day.
So there we go. Less brief than I had thought. And I didn't even get to tackle any of the texts in any sort of detail. But that will have to wait, as I am about to go jump back into "From The Holy Mountain", a piece of travel literature by William Dalrymple, who travels the path of the Byzantine Empire, hunting for the history of the largely forgotten Christian East. I will of course write about it when I have finished.
Until then, book-lovers!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
An afternoon with Frost and Harwood.
This week was marked by a death in the family. Unexpected and deeply painful, but for the young person concerned, a release from what was a challenging life.
I was charged with the task of finding an appropriate poem or extract to read at the service, so I set to work. Of course, the tone is of utmost importance. I wanted something which did not throw a light of depression or sorrow on the passing; instead, I wanted something that showed that our sorrow stems from what is essentially our sadness at no longer having that person in our lives. I wanted it to celebrate his life, I wanted to focus on the silver lining, I wanted to concentrate on the cycle of nature that eventually claims us all and is the source not only of all sadness but of all joy. I wanted, most of all, for the guests to cease to mourn the passing of this person but to remember and cherish the time we had with him and hope, in that way that the living can only do, that he has gone to a better place than this earth. After all, it was Socrates according to Plato who said: "No one knows whether death, which they in their fear apprehend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good."
I wasn't sure where to start. I skimmed through Whitman but couldn't find anything that hit the note I wanted - it was all too heavy in that sublime way of Whitman's. Browning offered me nothing, despite being one of my favourite poets for a long time.
Suddenly I thought back to a poem of Robert Frosts - The Road Not Taken.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The tone of peace and the path of life was exactly right - but obvious themes were missing for my purpose, such as the inevitability of death moreso than the active, conscious choices we make during our lives. Nevertheless, it is a poem which never fails to send a shiver up my spine. So calm and reflective...
This was when my stroke of genius arrived - which poet has a beautiful, easy-to-read style of writing, deals with themes of death and the cycle of nature regularly and the talent to capture the fragility of the human condition with maturity and grace? GWEN, of course. Two poems popped into my mind - "At Mornington" and "The Violets". "Father and Child" followed soon after. I knew I had hit the jackpot as soon as I opened the booked and slid my eyes over the lines, magnificent in their simplicity. However, the above mentioned pieces specify the character in question (about to die or dead) as aged and "ripe", using metaphors of dusk and nature flawlessly to imply the natural flow and approach of death. In this specific case, the person in question was neither old nor ripe, and reflections on childhood memories long ago were useless because he died a child.
It had to be something new. I hovered, flicking over the works, stopping when something really shifted the tectonic plates of my being. Finally, I saw it. In Part Two of "Past and Present", the final stanza ends like this:
"I know that joy will come
as a voice in a fugue returns
to enter and alter the texture
of accumulating seasons.
I feel time life and lighten
between the peace of the dead
and the living child beside us
who touches the quick of light.
What is grief but the after-blindness
of the spirit's dazzle of love?"
Perfection.
R.I.P. William, a beautiful soul.
I was charged with the task of finding an appropriate poem or extract to read at the service, so I set to work. Of course, the tone is of utmost importance. I wanted something which did not throw a light of depression or sorrow on the passing; instead, I wanted something that showed that our sorrow stems from what is essentially our sadness at no longer having that person in our lives. I wanted it to celebrate his life, I wanted to focus on the silver lining, I wanted to concentrate on the cycle of nature that eventually claims us all and is the source not only of all sadness but of all joy. I wanted, most of all, for the guests to cease to mourn the passing of this person but to remember and cherish the time we had with him and hope, in that way that the living can only do, that he has gone to a better place than this earth. After all, it was Socrates according to Plato who said: "No one knows whether death, which they in their fear apprehend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good."
I wasn't sure where to start. I skimmed through Whitman but couldn't find anything that hit the note I wanted - it was all too heavy in that sublime way of Whitman's. Browning offered me nothing, despite being one of my favourite poets for a long time.
Suddenly I thought back to a poem of Robert Frosts - The Road Not Taken.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The tone of peace and the path of life was exactly right - but obvious themes were missing for my purpose, such as the inevitability of death moreso than the active, conscious choices we make during our lives. Nevertheless, it is a poem which never fails to send a shiver up my spine. So calm and reflective...
This was when my stroke of genius arrived - which poet has a beautiful, easy-to-read style of writing, deals with themes of death and the cycle of nature regularly and the talent to capture the fragility of the human condition with maturity and grace? GWEN, of course. Two poems popped into my mind - "At Mornington" and "The Violets". "Father and Child" followed soon after. I knew I had hit the jackpot as soon as I opened the booked and slid my eyes over the lines, magnificent in their simplicity. However, the above mentioned pieces specify the character in question (about to die or dead) as aged and "ripe", using metaphors of dusk and nature flawlessly to imply the natural flow and approach of death. In this specific case, the person in question was neither old nor ripe, and reflections on childhood memories long ago were useless because he died a child.
It had to be something new. I hovered, flicking over the works, stopping when something really shifted the tectonic plates of my being. Finally, I saw it. In Part Two of "Past and Present", the final stanza ends like this:
"I know that joy will come
as a voice in a fugue returns
to enter and alter the texture
of accumulating seasons.
I feel time life and lighten
between the peace of the dead
and the living child beside us
who touches the quick of light.
What is grief but the after-blindness
of the spirit's dazzle of love?"
Perfection.
R.I.P. William, a beautiful soul.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Austen: Sense and Sensibility.
Another Penguin Classic, with introductions by Ros Ballaster and Tony Tanner.
Ok, as a die-hard 19th century literature fan, an Austen fanatic, and general enthusiast of love stories, this was hard to admit:
I hated it.
Admittedly, my hopes were high - I expected to float through another 'Pride and Prejudice', or swoon through another 'Emma', but 'Sense and Sensibility' I found really hard to read.
Edward seemed dull and vague, lacking in charisma and spine. Comparisons with Darcy are inevitable although I will try to divorce the two, if for no other reason than that the comparison will not be a kind one for Mr. Ferrars, who this blog is focused on. His distant and seemingly heartless conduct is explained toward the end of the novel, through the somewhat too-convenient marriage of Lucy and Robert. This I found particularly anticlimactic - after a novel's worth of anguish and confusion on Elinor's behalf, shared (to whatever extent possible given the bland style of writing) by the reader, the whole romantic tangle is resolved in one detached, sterile sentence: "This only need be said;- that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men". Maybe this indicates an immaturity and naivety on my behalf, but I wanted more than that. I wanted tears, drama, reunions, veiled sexual chemistry - at least to have been present in the scene when it took place! No doubt this exclusion was a deliberate act of Ms. Austen's. I would really enjoy any snippets of wisdom that could be shared in this direction.
Marianne and Willoughby served as an obvious and at times too deliberate opposite to Elinor and Edward. The contrast begins early when describing the characters of the girls: Marianne "eager in every thing; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation", Elinor on the other hand, known for a "strength of understanding, and a coolness of judgement".
This deliberate polarisation continues to outline the men, especially through the medium of opinions regarding art - Willoughy is educated, passionate and opinionated, and Edward made to seem blind to the importance of it altogether, almost ridiculous in his inability to appreciate simple things like a beautiful landscape or a 'twisted' tree trunk.
Overall though, the characters seemed to lack in anything undefined by their contrast - almost two-dimensional. If I had the time and dedication I would trawl through the book again looking for specific examples to support my arguably outlandish claims. Unfortunately I have neither - I need some time away from the book before I can muster the energy to re-read it, even from an analytical point of view rather than looking for entertainment value, which it is sadly lacking in.
Which brings me to my main point, albeit a long-winded connection. One thing caught my eye - the chronology of Austen's life. Although published in 1811, S&S was written in 1795, therefore not officially a 19th century piece. What does this mean? On one hand, it was only 5 years away from the border, and therefore may exhibit traits typical to the early 19th. On the other, are there aspects about it which give it value as an in-between-centuries piece? Could it be appreciated not for entertainment value but as a window, if dull, into the turn of the century? Despite avoiding too many comparisons with its 1813 cousin, P&P, I have to note that in general, it seems to me to be a 'primitive' version. The neat romances between the four protagonists are there, with appropriate happy endings. The faultless innocence of the sisters and the confusing behaviour, later explained, of the men, are there. The less moral/attractive/likeable characters and their romances are accordingly peripheral, and even the titles are twin trait contrasts. In every case though, P&P is like the 'better' version - the love stories more exciting, the characters more complex, challenging and likeable, the drama more gripping, the virtues in the title more dynamic and the style of writing more developed. Maybe S&S sheds light on an era beginning? A style being born? And thus Austen not just a writer of great talent whose works became the creme-de-la-creme of the century, but one who was the pioneer, rather than the product, of the movement?
I am glad this is not an essay to be submitted in any form - I don't have the historical knowledge, literary prowess or paradigmatic insight to be able to take this any further. It's infuriating having ideas without being able to make them three-dimensional!!
Ok, as a die-hard 19th century literature fan, an Austen fanatic, and general enthusiast of love stories, this was hard to admit:
I hated it.
Admittedly, my hopes were high - I expected to float through another 'Pride and Prejudice', or swoon through another 'Emma', but 'Sense and Sensibility' I found really hard to read.
Edward seemed dull and vague, lacking in charisma and spine. Comparisons with Darcy are inevitable although I will try to divorce the two, if for no other reason than that the comparison will not be a kind one for Mr. Ferrars, who this blog is focused on. His distant and seemingly heartless conduct is explained toward the end of the novel, through the somewhat too-convenient marriage of Lucy and Robert. This I found particularly anticlimactic - after a novel's worth of anguish and confusion on Elinor's behalf, shared (to whatever extent possible given the bland style of writing) by the reader, the whole romantic tangle is resolved in one detached, sterile sentence: "This only need be said;- that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men". Maybe this indicates an immaturity and naivety on my behalf, but I wanted more than that. I wanted tears, drama, reunions, veiled sexual chemistry - at least to have been present in the scene when it took place! No doubt this exclusion was a deliberate act of Ms. Austen's. I would really enjoy any snippets of wisdom that could be shared in this direction.
Marianne and Willoughby served as an obvious and at times too deliberate opposite to Elinor and Edward. The contrast begins early when describing the characters of the girls: Marianne "eager in every thing; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation", Elinor on the other hand, known for a "strength of understanding, and a coolness of judgement".
This deliberate polarisation continues to outline the men, especially through the medium of opinions regarding art - Willoughy is educated, passionate and opinionated, and Edward made to seem blind to the importance of it altogether, almost ridiculous in his inability to appreciate simple things like a beautiful landscape or a 'twisted' tree trunk.
Overall though, the characters seemed to lack in anything undefined by their contrast - almost two-dimensional. If I had the time and dedication I would trawl through the book again looking for specific examples to support my arguably outlandish claims. Unfortunately I have neither - I need some time away from the book before I can muster the energy to re-read it, even from an analytical point of view rather than looking for entertainment value, which it is sadly lacking in.
Which brings me to my main point, albeit a long-winded connection. One thing caught my eye - the chronology of Austen's life. Although published in 1811, S&S was written in 1795, therefore not officially a 19th century piece. What does this mean? On one hand, it was only 5 years away from the border, and therefore may exhibit traits typical to the early 19th. On the other, are there aspects about it which give it value as an in-between-centuries piece? Could it be appreciated not for entertainment value but as a window, if dull, into the turn of the century? Despite avoiding too many comparisons with its 1813 cousin, P&P, I have to note that in general, it seems to me to be a 'primitive' version. The neat romances between the four protagonists are there, with appropriate happy endings. The faultless innocence of the sisters and the confusing behaviour, later explained, of the men, are there. The less moral/attractive/likeable characters and their romances are accordingly peripheral, and even the titles are twin trait contrasts. In every case though, P&P is like the 'better' version - the love stories more exciting, the characters more complex, challenging and likeable, the drama more gripping, the virtues in the title more dynamic and the style of writing more developed. Maybe S&S sheds light on an era beginning? A style being born? And thus Austen not just a writer of great talent whose works became the creme-de-la-creme of the century, but one who was the pioneer, rather than the product, of the movement?
I am glad this is not an essay to be submitted in any form - I don't have the historical knowledge, literary prowess or paradigmatic insight to be able to take this any further. It's infuriating having ideas without being able to make them three-dimensional!!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Plato: The Last Days of Socrates
Starting small, I know.
I found this book sitting on my brother's desk and nicked it straight away. I felt that any hopeful student of Philosophy should be well acquainted with these most epic of names.
It is the Penguin Classics version - translated by Hugh Tredennick and Harold Tarrant, with notes by Harold Tarrant. Is this the most well known/only version available?
I have just finished "Apology". According to Tarrants' notes, Socrates did himself no favours during the trial, and this much became evident in reading "Apology". Although I speak no Greek, I assume the tone of superiority and almost flippancy in the English translation was very well preserved from the original.
"I tried to persuade each one of you not to think more of practical advantages than of his mental and moral well-being... What do I deserve for behaving in this way? Some reward, gentlemen, if I am bound to suggest what I really deserve". Although this is a short quote and not representative of the whole text (in which far more time is spend professing his lack of wisdom than making inflammatory comments like this one), it is evident that Socrates' concern was not life or death, but upholding his moral standards at any cost. I imagine this is what sets him apart, and renders his name a household term, setting him down in history as one of those incredible people whose mind was not constricted by context, and who ultimately pays the ultimate Earthly price.
Of course, this is Plato's recreation of the scene, and as Tarrants' introduction specifies, the work was not necessarily written within a decade of Socrates' death. Obvious consequences aside, such as the possible warping of memories over time, and the purpose for which Plato wrote this, I would really like to know of ay other recounts by Socrate's other followers - perspectives other than Plato's, just to try and piece together a broader picture of the philosopher himself. Any suggestions?
One more thing: Socrates is obviously a pious man by his own definition, if not by that of the Athenian court. As a modern reader and an atheist, how should process his claims of divine instruction? This "voice" of God that speaks to him whenever he is about to do wrong. I don't want my immediate assumption that such things are not possible to influence my reading or valuing of the text or the man himself. Is it possible that he was using this as an excuse to simply act as he pleased in Athenian life? Did he have a highly developed sense of intuition, or a mental capacity simply so enormous that he was able to objectively evaluate and predict the outcomes of his actions as he was undertaking them? Is he mocking the people of Athens and their comparatively blind faith?
I found this book sitting on my brother's desk and nicked it straight away. I felt that any hopeful student of Philosophy should be well acquainted with these most epic of names.
It is the Penguin Classics version - translated by Hugh Tredennick and Harold Tarrant, with notes by Harold Tarrant. Is this the most well known/only version available?
I have just finished "Apology". According to Tarrants' notes, Socrates did himself no favours during the trial, and this much became evident in reading "Apology". Although I speak no Greek, I assume the tone of superiority and almost flippancy in the English translation was very well preserved from the original.
"I tried to persuade each one of you not to think more of practical advantages than of his mental and moral well-being... What do I deserve for behaving in this way? Some reward, gentlemen, if I am bound to suggest what I really deserve". Although this is a short quote and not representative of the whole text (in which far more time is spend professing his lack of wisdom than making inflammatory comments like this one), it is evident that Socrates' concern was not life or death, but upholding his moral standards at any cost. I imagine this is what sets him apart, and renders his name a household term, setting him down in history as one of those incredible people whose mind was not constricted by context, and who ultimately pays the ultimate Earthly price.
Of course, this is Plato's recreation of the scene, and as Tarrants' introduction specifies, the work was not necessarily written within a decade of Socrates' death. Obvious consequences aside, such as the possible warping of memories over time, and the purpose for which Plato wrote this, I would really like to know of ay other recounts by Socrate's other followers - perspectives other than Plato's, just to try and piece together a broader picture of the philosopher himself. Any suggestions?
One more thing: Socrates is obviously a pious man by his own definition, if not by that of the Athenian court. As a modern reader and an atheist, how should process his claims of divine instruction? This "voice" of God that speaks to him whenever he is about to do wrong. I don't want my immediate assumption that such things are not possible to influence my reading or valuing of the text or the man himself. Is it possible that he was using this as an excuse to simply act as he pleased in Athenian life? Did he have a highly developed sense of intuition, or a mental capacity simply so enormous that he was able to objectively evaluate and predict the outcomes of his actions as he was undertaking them? Is he mocking the people of Athens and their comparatively blind faith?
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