I've had to read parts of Eagleton multiple times and still didn't get it. Is it only me? God, I feel dense and distracted. The Olympics are not making my studying any more enticing either. And even more abstruse and grounds for wanting to break something is Ferdinand Saussure's "Course in General Linguistics." What's the point of all those dumb illustrations? It's not like they're the shining light I'm waiting for, the all-appointed Messiah. Usually, I love learning through pictures, I'm a visual learner. But those pictures make me feel stupid. Am I really that dumb? Or am I of average intelligence with one part of my brain broken and malfunctioning?
Okay, so one thing I got that kind of puts things into perspective is the third paragraph of page 64 of Eagleton where he states that Romanticism and the nineteenth century focused on the author, New Criticism exclusively concerned itself with the text, and the Reception Theory brought attention to the intrinsic role of the reader.
If you asked me, it's not all or nothing. Why does one thing have to take all the credit? Why can't each theorist come to terms with the other and agree that in any reading of a text, the author, the text, and the reader contribute proportionately?
And if you want my honest opinion again, who the hell cares? Do I really have that much time in the rest of my dwindling life to break down the process of reading? Why can't I just enjoy a nice afternoon of reading a good entertaining book like Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, you know? Why must I have to wonder about all the microscopic machinations of reading? Really, if we broke down every fine minutiae of living and dissected it even further, we'd go crazy and stab ourselves to death.
So I've come to the resolution that theory and the means of survival don't go hand in hand. If you want to live to the utmost, do not read Eagleton and Rivkin and Ryan. If you want to be happy and airless, don't dare open the pages of any theory book. And if you need to take English 638, learn what you can, write the best papers you can write, let the teacher know you're trying your hardest, and let the rest fall away.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Eagleton Readings--Intro and The Rise of English
Okay, I've gotten through Eagleton's intro and first chapter and Chapter 1 of Rivkin and Ryan. I haven't read Bakhtin's links yet, but I really want to focus on Eagleton.
On page 16 of "The Rise of English," Eagleton states that the Romantics valued fiction over hard fact, that fiction gives far more pleasure than the truth.
I've always found this to be true. This is most evident in the fact that I hate reading about history or science or anything grounded in staunch reality. I love the whimsical. This is also evident in the fact that I could never have a true romance with a real man or partake in anything that is not a dream.
Let's just start with this. I thought I loved dancing in nightclubs before I ever danced in one. Then when I visited a nightclub, I realized that was not the venue for me--the noise, the smoke, the alcohol, the touchy-feely guys were far too much dirt and grime for me. I wanted something, but after getting it, I didn't want it anymore.
Now, second, I always wanted to go on a date with a man. But when I hung out with a guy or two (not a date), I didn't enjoy it one bit. Imagine, if I had gone out on a real date, how horrific that would have been!
What I love is writing about romance and love, reading novels where the underdog ends up with the smashing brooding man, and of course dwelling in my dreams.
Why does reality stink? Well, I finally figured out why. We cannot control reality. And usually, when we get involved in rather lofty endeavors, we never see the dark side. Because while reality is a mixed pot promising pain and disappointment, fantasy is always beautiful and alluring, grandiose and awe-inspiring.
Life never turns out the way we want. But fantasy is the reality we can only hope for. I love fantasy, because I can take someone unattractive like me and pair myself with the man of my dreams. And that man will not abandon me, get sick, beat me, cheat me, rob me, murder me. That man is someone I can count on to please and satisfy my whims.
Perhaps an artist's lot is to dream. I consider myself an artist, primarily a poet, not particularly an exceptional one, but a poet who writes to get by.
On page 16 of "The Rise of English," Eagleton states that the Romantics valued fiction over hard fact, that fiction gives far more pleasure than the truth.
I've always found this to be true. This is most evident in the fact that I hate reading about history or science or anything grounded in staunch reality. I love the whimsical. This is also evident in the fact that I could never have a true romance with a real man or partake in anything that is not a dream.
Let's just start with this. I thought I loved dancing in nightclubs before I ever danced in one. Then when I visited a nightclub, I realized that was not the venue for me--the noise, the smoke, the alcohol, the touchy-feely guys were far too much dirt and grime for me. I wanted something, but after getting it, I didn't want it anymore.
Now, second, I always wanted to go on a date with a man. But when I hung out with a guy or two (not a date), I didn't enjoy it one bit. Imagine, if I had gone out on a real date, how horrific that would have been!
What I love is writing about romance and love, reading novels where the underdog ends up with the smashing brooding man, and of course dwelling in my dreams.
Why does reality stink? Well, I finally figured out why. We cannot control reality. And usually, when we get involved in rather lofty endeavors, we never see the dark side. Because while reality is a mixed pot promising pain and disappointment, fantasy is always beautiful and alluring, grandiose and awe-inspiring.
Life never turns out the way we want. But fantasy is the reality we can only hope for. I love fantasy, because I can take someone unattractive like me and pair myself with the man of my dreams. And that man will not abandon me, get sick, beat me, cheat me, rob me, murder me. That man is someone I can count on to please and satisfy my whims.
Perhaps an artist's lot is to dream. I consider myself an artist, primarily a poet, not particularly an exceptional one, but a poet who writes to get by.
And maybe if I weren't such a dreamer, maybe if I lived life rather than ruminated over it, I wouldn't be a poet. For Jane Austen never married and she wrote about love. Perhaps I am destined to write about things I can never attain or possess. Perhaps I shall always be on the outside peering in, wishing for the magic that really is not there.
I am a control freak, and life cannot be controlled. Therefore reality is disappointing and always falls short. I need to escape this existence of ambiguity and tragedy to reach a world of perfection and tranquility. The only way I can find peace in this godforsaken wasteland is to dream up many worlds, worlds that become words on paper, words I can crawl into, words that keep me warm on cold, creepy nights, words that become my dearest companions when everyone is gone and tired.
Eagleton also touches on what we discussed in class: emotion versus reason.
While reason is more conducive to survival, it is emotion that makes us who we are--human. Emotion is the glory of being on earth. It makes us loving, feeling, pulsating, fallible creatures who experience the gaunlet of God's miracles.
We are not here merely to exist and go about life robotically. We are here to know the inside of our souls and to let our hearts be sad at times, to let our hearts nurture the hearts of others and vice versa.
I've always been a very passionate person. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And I am not ashamed of my tears or desperations, because genuine emotions only come from good, loving people, and I want to believe I am a good, loving human being.
I believe far more in emotion than in words. That sometimes we don't need literature or a canvas to have art and inspiration. Emotion is the art that decorates our internal beings, emotion is the light that leads us out of the shadowy veins, emotion is the only way we can live successfully and purposefully.
How funny it is that we are so ashamed to open ourselves to strangers--perhaps for fear of being understood and hurt. But then when we are vulnerable and attacked, the assault is not on us, but on the buffoon who cannot understand what it means to weep generously in a crowd and not apologize for it.
Reason may be preferred, perhaps even easier to attain in its shallow dimensions. But emotion is the only thing that connects us to the earth and the divine. Emotion is sublime. It is the reason we have made it this far. It is the reason we keep going.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Plato, Aristotle, and Longinus readings
I finally read the first week's readings which was the majority of Classical Literary Criticism. The book is very dense and laden, precluding me from absorbing all parts. Because of the enormity of passages, I lost track here and there, but caught glimpses of truth and wisdom when my mind suddenly focused amidst the blur.
I clearly recall the many distinctions between great and lowly men, effective poets and clowns. There were so many obscure names being dropped here and there--perhaps the equivalent to rock stars in their day.
The problem, the reason I lost focused, is like I mentioned earlier, I don't see the relevance. Sure there are the great truths, the great strengths, nobilities, and follies of man, but really, events and thought thousands of years ago are not going to prevail today.
Sure the human condition transcends space and time, but society, the sign of the times, has its reign.
Maybe good ol' sexy Plato and Aristotle captured the hearts of men and women in their heyday, but they do nothing for me. And really, what does it all matter? Do philosophy and disseminating grandiloquent ideas really contribute to the condition of man? Do they end all wars and fill the universe with love and harmony? Do they do anything, but sit pretty in the tirades of man? Are they nothing but decor of thought, separating scholars from laymen?
My gods, my muses, my great philsophers are my contempories: rock stars, movie stars, reality show contestants (yes, really), athletes, and dear profs.
All these music videos I posted don't give me wisdom directly (the lyrics can be quite corny), but they set the stage for great thought. They are the background to all my dialogues and preachings to myself, to every story I've ever written, to every fantasy I've ever had, to every paradise I stepped into.
I love idolizing men, particularly rock stars. They are removed from my reality, yet they are still real. I love them, not for their outstanding talents and attributes, but for the reason that they are like dress-up dolls. I dress them any way I please. They are mine to dictate, they are my creations.
Once I realize the reality of my human condition, I feel disgusted. I want romance, rainbows, waterfalls, lullabies, Hawaiian rain. I don't want a man who's going to piss me off and cheat on me. I want a perfect man, and that is exactly what an idol is.
An idol has nothing to do with the person idolized. An idol is an extension of my desires and dreams. An idol is me alone. So I do not love the actual Pat Monahan, Raine Maida, and Charles Kelley. I love how I've painted them--how many realities removed?
I don't believe in human endeavors to be great. I don't believe in greatness at all. Who are we to be great? Who are we to rule the universe? Who are we to be remembered? In the end, we will be expunged and forgotten, if best repainted ghouls.
It is not reality that matters, the layout of time and events. What matters is our artistry, our depiction of a far distant place and time, a far distant mind. I believe that reality does nothing but contribute ill will and ill health and much grueling unhappiness. I believe our imagination is our greatest solace, our greatest outlet, our biggest means of enduring tragedy and moving past the scars and tears.
I am fine being small. I have resigned myself to mediocrity, poverty, and obscurity. My dreams of leaving behind any mark have faded into dreams of escaping the world for periods where I am queen.
Life can only be beautiful if we stop seeing the world in its natural depravity. Life is beautiful, because it allows our hearts to travel to other lives even more radiant. Life keeps us from being content, it keeps us passionate and battling and flailing, and it is hell. I am an optimist--this is the worst it's ever gonna get. We live in hell with portals to a world one day we may possess. And I'm hoping to stop dwelling and believing and wishing and hoping. I'm hoping to be in my dream world without the concept of dreams. Emotions are hell. In an ideal world, we'll just be. It's so simple. And that's heaven.
I clearly recall the many distinctions between great and lowly men, effective poets and clowns. There were so many obscure names being dropped here and there--perhaps the equivalent to rock stars in their day.
The problem, the reason I lost focused, is like I mentioned earlier, I don't see the relevance. Sure there are the great truths, the great strengths, nobilities, and follies of man, but really, events and thought thousands of years ago are not going to prevail today.
Sure the human condition transcends space and time, but society, the sign of the times, has its reign.
Maybe good ol' sexy Plato and Aristotle captured the hearts of men and women in their heyday, but they do nothing for me. And really, what does it all matter? Do philosophy and disseminating grandiloquent ideas really contribute to the condition of man? Do they end all wars and fill the universe with love and harmony? Do they do anything, but sit pretty in the tirades of man? Are they nothing but decor of thought, separating scholars from laymen?
My gods, my muses, my great philsophers are my contempories: rock stars, movie stars, reality show contestants (yes, really), athletes, and dear profs.
All these music videos I posted don't give me wisdom directly (the lyrics can be quite corny), but they set the stage for great thought. They are the background to all my dialogues and preachings to myself, to every story I've ever written, to every fantasy I've ever had, to every paradise I stepped into.
I love idolizing men, particularly rock stars. They are removed from my reality, yet they are still real. I love them, not for their outstanding talents and attributes, but for the reason that they are like dress-up dolls. I dress them any way I please. They are mine to dictate, they are my creations.
Once I realize the reality of my human condition, I feel disgusted. I want romance, rainbows, waterfalls, lullabies, Hawaiian rain. I don't want a man who's going to piss me off and cheat on me. I want a perfect man, and that is exactly what an idol is.
An idol has nothing to do with the person idolized. An idol is an extension of my desires and dreams. An idol is me alone. So I do not love the actual Pat Monahan, Raine Maida, and Charles Kelley. I love how I've painted them--how many realities removed?
I don't believe in human endeavors to be great. I don't believe in greatness at all. Who are we to be great? Who are we to rule the universe? Who are we to be remembered? In the end, we will be expunged and forgotten, if best repainted ghouls.
It is not reality that matters, the layout of time and events. What matters is our artistry, our depiction of a far distant place and time, a far distant mind. I believe that reality does nothing but contribute ill will and ill health and much grueling unhappiness. I believe our imagination is our greatest solace, our greatest outlet, our biggest means of enduring tragedy and moving past the scars and tears.
I am fine being small. I have resigned myself to mediocrity, poverty, and obscurity. My dreams of leaving behind any mark have faded into dreams of escaping the world for periods where I am queen.
Life can only be beautiful if we stop seeing the world in its natural depravity. Life is beautiful, because it allows our hearts to travel to other lives even more radiant. Life keeps us from being content, it keeps us passionate and battling and flailing, and it is hell. I am an optimist--this is the worst it's ever gonna get. We live in hell with portals to a world one day we may possess. And I'm hoping to stop dwelling and believing and wishing and hoping. I'm hoping to be in my dream world without the concept of dreams. Emotions are hell. In an ideal world, we'll just be. It's so simple. And that's heaven.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
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