Quote analysis

This quote from The Brothers Karamazov gives one of the more intriguing, and personally relatable, anecdotes from the novel:

"I heard exactly the same thing, a long time ago to be sure, from a doctor," the elder remarked. "He was then an old man, and unquestionably intelligent. He just as frankly as you, humorously, but with a sorrowful humor. 'I love mankind,' he said, 'but I am amazed at myself: the more I love mankind in general, the less I love people in particular, that is, individually, as separate persons. In my dreams,' he said, 'I often went so far as to think passionately of serving mankind, and, it may be, would really have gone to the cross for people if it were somehow suddenly necessary, and yet I am incapable of living the same room with anyone even for two days, this I know from experience. As soon as someone is there, close to me, his personality oppresses my self-esteem and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I can begin to hate even the best of men: one because he takes too long eating his dinner, another because he has a cold and keeps blowing his nose. I become the enemy of people the moment they touch me,' he said. 'On the other hand, it has always happened that the more I hate people individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity as a whole.'"

Dang. It's lengthy and it's paradoxical. How can one love mankind, yet not stand a single player for mankind? What type of traits does this person posses, how insightful are they? From several views, you may induce, for example, that this doctor likes sociology, but isn't social. He wants to help people, thus being a doctor, but he doesn't want to integrate himself with them, with friendship-like affiliation. He is proud person, he likes what he's made of himself, and when someone else is near he makes sure to convince himself that he's the better person. He has problems, but he doesn't want to have others create more problems for him. He gives examples of problems, slow-eater and nose-blower, but these examples seem like petty annoyances. Sure, some people eat slower than the 'status quo' and people occasionally get the common cold, but there's a difference between a petty annoyance and an inconvenience. It seems that the doctor, as intellectual, analytical, and experienced he is, is exposing his sensitivity and his long-term stress buildup through blunt conveyance, but his given everyday examples are far too petty. Henceforth on top of all of this, this doc strengthens his love for mankind. How can you strengthen this type of love when one is so proud, so sensitive, so individualized, and so secluded from a successful social interaction come to such an endgame? I'll go out on a limb and say that his pride is his downfall. Going back, if this doc believes that a single's opinion will oppress him and his freedom then I'll accept this as a valid argument if and only if some other non-petty example escapes his conscience and provides more positive insight.

Araby/Shutter Island/parallels

This past Tuesday a few friends, along with myself, happened to catch a twilight-hour flick. Naturally, Shutter Island seemed encouraging; We joined its audience. The post-two hour movie passes along with the corresponding time, then ends. Our group exits the theater with intent to interrogate others' developing opinions and theories. For the sake of simplicity, Spencer's score: 8.5/10.

My next goal was to surf the wavelengths of the interweb to research some background information. The main reason is because Shutter Island was especially solid in the "writing" category of film critique. Dennis Lehane is the adapted novelist; his other screenplay work consists of the human drama Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone, and three episodes of the most sophisticated contemporary television show The Wire. I see this, and I'm thinking I don't know what I'm thinking. This Lehane guy is a contributor to for my personal favorite television show, The Wire, and he is the original writer of one of the most heart-felt, unjust films of the past decade. All in all, at least I know to look for this guy from now on.

As for Araby, it's one of those simple, yet complex stories because, on any day, the reader misses something, yet gets something. I understood the whole story as using one of those "Blinded by Love"/"Broken Heart" themes. Why? The guy tries to do something nice for a girl, but the girl asks too much of him. It's like hitting a dartboard bullseye from fifty feet, it's a near impossible task when it comes down to the wire. That's when he turns back because he doesn't belong at the bazaar.

On another note, I liked the part with Mrs Mercer, a woman "who collected used stamps for some pious purpose." Can stamps enchant spiritual awakening. My theory is that this woman believes that her hobby, collecting stamps, collects history. This here stamp collection seems to refer to another important compilation of history, The Bible.

I'm going to assume that James Joyce is a Caltholic/Christian, considering he's definitely from Scotland or Ireland, fallaciously speaking. A writer most likely writes with strong consideration of their family granted religion, their ancestral religious context. Naturally, Joyce's written characters are of his religion. If it's the case that the main character in Araby is Catholic, then it would make some sense of why he was blinded by love. Assuming there was some church-related, personal, or cultural beef between the Jewish church and the Catholic church in Joyce's personal pretext before writing this story, it would make sense that the main character feels blinded in the end. He chose the wrong girl. She's a tease. She thinks he's the wrong religion. She's Jewish, and he's Catholic. This may be a motive for the girl ending up with the guy. On the contrary, I caught a fun fact from the most reliable Wikipedia; James Joyce, at the tender age of 16, rejected the Catholic Church. Did religious affiliation have anything to do with the characters' choices? I don't know where or how to analyze with all of these possible motives for Joyce's writing choices.

In Shutter Island, the island's hospital is Araby's bazaar. By the end, both main characters are looking for belonging, and they're looking for some meaning or another (with them girls always in mind). With both stories coming to conclude, the characters have had the tables turned on them, and they're still searching for something, a deeper side of things.

Hard to be Good

A simile (at least the best one from A Good Man is Hard to Find):

"She could hear the wind move through the tree tops like a long satisfied insuck of breath."

The context: There was a pistol shot, and a part of the family had been moved into the woods.

The word here which is interesting is "satisfied." Does this mean that the killers are satisfied? Or does this mean that a part of that family is satisfied with their fate? You could argue either, obviously, but I think, if we appeal to the induced majority, that choosing the killers may be a more sought choice. I beg to differ, but first we must investigate in to when a person becomes satisfied with death. In this story, the man, assumptuously, becomes satisfied at gun point, thus hopelessness. We could discuss, but that might get groteque, huh?

psyche-ology vs. psychology

If I'm not mistaken, Sigmund Freud was atheist, right? (If I'm wrong then tough, he's going to be in this misinformed blog.) Furthermore, Freud is the architect of modern psychology, the study of the mind, how people think, and stuff. To study the soul wasn't Freud's interest, but his subject psychology began with the soul, not the mind. Psyche is a word from some other language, probably Latin, and it means "soul." So how and why did "psyche-ology" morph into psychology when modern psychology doesn't have much or anything to do with the soul?

We do use philosophy to inquire about the soul, the meaning of life, and whatever preference one has about life or the world. Now I'm not a religious person, so to speak, but I'm more of a fan of the soul than the mind. (When I'm not in Bozo) I attend church to hear the good word, but call me a skeptic. Churchgoers support the soul. Skepticism supports agnosticism. I go to church to listen, think, question, and, on a good day, understand a little more of life's meaning. I "believe" meaning lies within the soul, and this makes the soul more intriguing than the mind.

But there's still a problem. Psychological and philosophical studies do not and cannot provide concrete answers. Freud started a movement, but what has psychology done since it's initiation? I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it hasn't done much. What's the point if we're jotting in stone mostly correlation, not causation. I'm not saying philosophy gives more answers because it's probably a more frustrating subject. Psychology and philosophy's problem is that they study what might be, not what is. From this claim, simply we just don't know. The mind is smarter than us, and the soul is better at hide-and-seek than us. Call me a philosopher.

No morals necessary.

There is no such thing as a "moral of the story." Morals are non-existent because they cannot justify a story. People ask for a moral or synopsis, but all they get is empty words because they do not know the story. To know the story is to have the story know you as well. You have to care about the characters because they are the story, and they're the audience's teachers. Sure, these characters advocate numbers of so-called "morals" through their words and actions, but the thing is that a story has so much more than just morals. If you give your attention to the characters then they'll teach you all about themselves, their plans, and stuff like that then maybe you'll apply some of what you learned in the story.

The story is about the experience, not the moral.

...just morals. Are we allowed to use "just" when it's describing "morals"?

Should probably write this down...

...my conscience tells me to write this down. I wake up.

"Ughhh..."

There's shuffling. The clock is teasing me. It's much too early to do anything. I smack my lips. Remember, what's tonight's story?

My thoughts:

"There's a lake. A familiar lake? No. There's a dog. My dog. Hi, dog. Name's Cloudie.

His name is Odie, but he's gone blind and now has cloudy eyes. Thus the nickname, Cloudie.

I'm on the lake's beach sitting in a sun-lounger. And a fishing pole...reel...whatever is dug into the sand next to my chair. I don't even fish in real life.

Real life, what am I thinking?

Cloudie has a leash which is knotted around the pole.

Cloudie needs a leash because he cannot wander off in unknown minds because he'll get lost because he's blind. Also, Cloudie does not like his leash although he understands that his human feels like he needs it for safety.

The leash is gaining slack, and Cloudie emerges from the lake shallows with a small rainbow trout. And he's dripping and his breath stinks. I see that Cloudie unsuccessfully opened the trout for its meat. That must be my job now. I take the fish from his stanky mouth and work the fish. Here you go, Cloudie. I give him some trout meat to eat. He moves in for seconds, then begs, then whines.

Cloudie pleads, begs, and whines because he is spoiled. He's gone through a lot. He's a pound dog who lived on the streets his first three human years; he's also tough because of this. Now and again he'll quarrel with the neighborhood ecosystem, mostly porcupine. My mom's a quilter and Cloudie loves my mom. Hence, Cloudie loves quilting thus Cloudie loves needles. Therefore, if Cloudie loves needles then he must love porcupines. I tell him not to quibble with them, but he can't help it. And I won't stop him because he's spoiled.

I throw some meat in the lake for fetching. Cloudie gobbles all of it and rushes back.

I have an idea.

I take some slack from the fishing pole and attach a hook, then place some meat on the hook. I untie the leash. I let Cloudie smell the fish. He breathes deeply, exhales, and I cast the pole. Cloudie thoughtlessly takes off for it, but he doesn't care because there's no leash. Little time passes and Cloudie returns. I happen to be reeling in a large prize, too. Cloudie and I give one another puppy smiles. And there's a hook in his cheek. I remove the hook, and he stays by my side."

"Ugh..."

There's shuffling. Time passes. There's wheezing. It's much too early to do anything.

Account of memory one

The earliest memory coming to mind is my first injury, two years of age.

I was in our house's playroom with my brother Graham jumping on the bed. Grammie jumped down off the bed to leave the room distracting me from my activity. As my eyes wandered with Graham my bouncing body misshaped the bed's surface and I took a tumble. My body fell horizontally towards the ground, and my head lined up with the bed-side table. Then thud, on the ground my eyebrow area was bleeding. I screamed, scooped myself up, and scrambled along my brother's path to track down my mother who was promptly pacing towards the racket.

My mum, dad, and I took a drive up to the health clinic, and I was subject to a shot and stitches. This is a memory filled with firsts: an injury, a shot, some stitches, and a scar.

Ain't it quaint that this is the earliest memory I remember. Do I remember this first because of the pain, or the scar? This point in my life is memorable because many things that happened that day were new. I was in shock that day. The event took a toll on me because my life was young, I had much to learn and experience, and everything that happened ceased to be forgotten.

We remember pivotal points in our lives and those points become memories. Instances with unexpected outcomes easily implant themselves in our minds as memories. The world shocks people every moment of every day, good and bad. Being a subject of [any] shock is always good because it allows us, the people involved and their overseers, to learn. The good and bad acts of the world create a context for everyone, of happiness and pain and the latter. People learn from their own good and bad experiences, and they learn from those who are willing to share theirs, of happiness and of pain and of the latter.

From this memory I've learned to not replicate it.

Two-Two-Twoten

It's that day that Professorman told us to pay special attention to (because Bill Murray is so charming). It's midnight, does this mean I should start celebrating? I've just finished an episode of the best television show, The Wire. I've done enough tonight. I'll start celebrating tomorrow.

So I wake up to this Bob Dylan song.

That's untrue and a cheap reference, but I do awake to a crescendoing alarm. (Snooze smack). I do remember to start celebrating.

Again, I wake up to this Bo...I mean, this steady ambiance underneath my pillow. Aside from all of the moaning and complaining, there is a gameplan for today.

This is an abridged play-by-play of today.

Improvised To Do List:

- Sleep

- Eat

- Think about attending class

- Skip class

- Hang with my homies

- Talk to my family homies

- Quit video games when losing

- Do homework, with spite [and please, don't hold it against me, haters]

- Figure out other stuff to do

- Eat

- Sleep

Despite my wordy coverage, this day is more important to live than to write about. I'm not James Joyce, but we have one thing in common. I probably didn't do what he did on his twentieth, and I probably didn't write about it as much as he would've. Although I cannot recall all of today's quirks, it's a day that will be nonetheless remembered.