I find Marxism utterly confusing. I believe the source of my confusion lies in what Karl Marx actually wrote, and in how Marxism is interpreted particularly in government. To be honest with you, to better grasp this philosophy (is it a philosophy?), I would have to spend a great deal of time reading more of Karl Marx’ writing and draw my own conclusions… which in itself may, again, be a misinterpretation of his theory (is it a theory?). I just know that there are times I really like Marx and other times that I think it’s a load of crap. I guess I am just really confused. If there is anyone out there who is a Marx expert, where can I go to explore Karl Marx and his theory(?)/philosophy(?)/system(?). It seems that everything I have read contradicts other things that I have read. My head is a big question mark.
I would also like to comment on something mentioned in class. One of our Cuban classmates mentioned that in Cuba, abortion is seen as not a big deal. “It is just something that you do.” I guess it kind of relates to “Abortion is Illegal.” Although I understand that this approaches abortion in political terms, it still bothers me. I feel that it is a real tragedy that in Cuba, and here, and elsewhere in the world, human beings are reduced and degenerated to a mere statistic; just a number. I mean here we are in literature class, discussing books such as The Sentimental Education and how art is viewed as a commodity being sold in the same catalogue as a pair of boots. We are all shocked at how art has been devalued and mass-produced. I don’t know, but for me, a human life is even more valuable than a painting, or a sculpture, or a book. Why, then, in certain societies, is a human being reduced to such a status? It’s sickening really.
Anyways, I just think it is very interesting that societies place value on humans based on their “wantedness” and “need” within that society. One family wants a child, another family doesn’t. Nevertheless, there is still a child involved. What makes one child’s life more valuable than the other? Money? Social Status? Race? If this child had been one year older, the thought of placing value on these children because of any of these characteristics would be frowned-upon. Also, if a family is well-off and then 2 years down the road, becomes poor, do they then have the right to get rid of a child? Of course not.
It just seems we have things backwards sometimes. Human beings should be valued, and so should differences. We are not all the same and every life counts. With war, with abortion, with mass production, with a lot of businesses, humans are dehumanized to products… to necessities… to mere objects to be disposed of as we see fit. We stand up for equality, for justice, for peace... but only for those which are “worthy” of our attention. We choose who deserves these rights. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?
Overall our society lacks personal responsibility. We are selfish beings who do what is convenient and look for excuses. Not to be a downer, but it sickens me… and sometimes, I sicken myself.
I need some chocolate ;)
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Maybe I'm not wrong all the time...
“Imagine my surprise, then, at the variety of interpretations that P.P. Cuéllar’s misadventures deserved: the parable of an important social class, castration of the artist in the under-developed world, a paraphrase of the aphasia among young people brought on by comic strip culture, a metaphor of my own ineptitude as a narrator. Why not? Any one of these may be correct. One thing I have learned from writing is that in this craft nothing is ever entirely clear: truth is a lie and the lie truth, and no one knows for whom it works. What’s certain is that literature does not solve problems—instead it creates them—and rather than happy, it makes people more apt to be unhappy. That’s how it is and it’s all part of my way of living and I wouldn’t change it for any other.” – Mario Vargas Llosa
I have always wondered what authors felt about the various interpretations of their work. I guess I assumed that there was a “correct” and “incorrect” interpretation as the author must have had a particular intention in mind. With this quote Vargas Llosa proves my reasoning to be false. Here it seems that he is saying that sometimes, authors just write and interpretation is left to the reader. Surprisingly, I am pleased with this revelation.
I remember when Dr. Conway made a comment in class regarding The Sentimental Education. He jokingly (I think) mentioned that reading this novel was a personality test. He may have been joking, but I think he has a good point. If in literature, as Vargas Llosa affirms, interpretation is in the hands of the reader, then, in fact, the revelation of the meaning behind it is really a revelation of yourself.
This leads me to my first post in a way. As readers and as individuals, we bring into our interpretations our own personal experiences. Therefore, what one piece of work means to one person, can mean something totally different to another.
Anyways, this causes me to begin my viscous cycle of questioning on how literature should be taught and received... or any non-quantitative subject area. At the same time, it helps me to understand that perhaps I am not crazy for having completely different interpretations than the majority of my classmates when it comes to certain pieces of literature. In the end, even if conclusions are different, it still evokes thought. And isn’t that the whole point?
I have always wondered what authors felt about the various interpretations of their work. I guess I assumed that there was a “correct” and “incorrect” interpretation as the author must have had a particular intention in mind. With this quote Vargas Llosa proves my reasoning to be false. Here it seems that he is saying that sometimes, authors just write and interpretation is left to the reader. Surprisingly, I am pleased with this revelation.
I remember when Dr. Conway made a comment in class regarding The Sentimental Education. He jokingly (I think) mentioned that reading this novel was a personality test. He may have been joking, but I think he has a good point. If in literature, as Vargas Llosa affirms, interpretation is in the hands of the reader, then, in fact, the revelation of the meaning behind it is really a revelation of yourself.
This leads me to my first post in a way. As readers and as individuals, we bring into our interpretations our own personal experiences. Therefore, what one piece of work means to one person, can mean something totally different to another.
Anyways, this causes me to begin my viscous cycle of questioning on how literature should be taught and received... or any non-quantitative subject area. At the same time, it helps me to understand that perhaps I am not crazy for having completely different interpretations than the majority of my classmates when it comes to certain pieces of literature. In the end, even if conclusions are different, it still evokes thought. And isn’t that the whole point?
Notebook
After reading Notebook of a Return to the Native Land, I admit that I was a bit confused as to what the purpose of the novel was and its underlying meaning. I believe my main source of confusion stemmed from that way in which is was written. It was more of a long poem, or a mesh of differing thoughts with no ouvert connection. It wasn’t written with the same structure that my mind was trained to comprehend.
Initially, because of this unique style of writing unfamiliar to me, I wasn’t blown away by the book. To be honest, when a classmate asked me what I thought, I responded with “I didn’t understand it. So, I assume it’s brilliant.” However, after the lecture given by Dr. Sol, I began to understand it a bit better. Indeed, this style of writing served a purpose. I suppose the best description of it would be in its title: a “Notebook.” This made more sense to me. After all, my journals and notebooks are full of thoughts without fluidity or consistent structure. I just write what I feel, perhaps with a hope of understand myself better, resolving an internal struggle of mine or to simply play around with different ideas. After making this connection, Césaire’s search for personal identity through his writing helped in my comprehension.
In conclusion, I find post-colonial literature fascinating… culturally and historically fascinating in that this time period consists of a grand collision of completely different people. And through their writing, I am better able to understand their struggles and individual perspectives.
Initially, because of this unique style of writing unfamiliar to me, I wasn’t blown away by the book. To be honest, when a classmate asked me what I thought, I responded with “I didn’t understand it. So, I assume it’s brilliant.” However, after the lecture given by Dr. Sol, I began to understand it a bit better. Indeed, this style of writing served a purpose. I suppose the best description of it would be in its title: a “Notebook.” This made more sense to me. After all, my journals and notebooks are full of thoughts without fluidity or consistent structure. I just write what I feel, perhaps with a hope of understand myself better, resolving an internal struggle of mine or to simply play around with different ideas. After making this connection, Césaire’s search for personal identity through his writing helped in my comprehension.
In conclusion, I find post-colonial literature fascinating… culturally and historically fascinating in that this time period consists of a grand collision of completely different people. And through their writing, I am better able to understand their struggles and individual perspectives.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
If these walls could talk...
Although a complex novel, I absolutely loved Pedro Páramo. Had this been a few years ago, I may not have said that since I had never been exposed to Magical Realism. However, after having read García Marquez’ “Cien años de soledad”, Cortázar’s “La noche boca arriba” and Fuentes’ “Chac-mool,” I felt much more comfortable with the novel. (It’s crazy how education can do that!) Well, maybe comfortable is not the right word, as I still had to review many passages. I believe the most confusing aspect was the chronology. I mean I am still wondering if the priest was dead and came back, or if it was a flashback. I am also not sure if some of the characters were spirits, or humans. Now that I think about it, do I have a better grasp on magical realism? Aw man.
Nostalgia. The past. Heritage. History. Conscience. All of these ideas crossed my mind repeatedly while reading this book. I imagined a young man (I assume he was young) tracing the path of his ancestors. Upon returning to his past, he was enveloped with an abundance of varying emotion. Was it his conscience? Were there truly spirits? Or perhaps, every time he took a nap or went to sleep, his mind escaped and he dreamt of what may have happened.
I suppose I can relate. Maybe this is weird but I think of the poem “Tintern Abbey.” When I am in front of a ruin, when I am standing in the midst of a historical monument, when I walk through an Indian burial ground, when I open an old book passed down to me by my family, or even when I moved into an older house, I am taken back to an earlier time. I imagine scenarios, and try to immerse myself into what “was”. It helps me to understand history better by putting myself right in it, or at least trying to. Afterall, every place has a story. At times I can almost hear the murmurs of its people… much like Juan. (I am not psycho, I swear)
Revisiting the past is always an emotional, almost spiritual experience for me. It is surreal. History is a part of us, whether we acknowledge it or not, whether we accept it or not, or whether we understand it or not.
Silence can speak millions and there is no better story than one told by a vine-devoured stone wall. Very cool book.
Nostalgia. The past. Heritage. History. Conscience. All of these ideas crossed my mind repeatedly while reading this book. I imagined a young man (I assume he was young) tracing the path of his ancestors. Upon returning to his past, he was enveloped with an abundance of varying emotion. Was it his conscience? Were there truly spirits? Or perhaps, every time he took a nap or went to sleep, his mind escaped and he dreamt of what may have happened.
I suppose I can relate. Maybe this is weird but I think of the poem “Tintern Abbey.” When I am in front of a ruin, when I am standing in the midst of a historical monument, when I walk through an Indian burial ground, when I open an old book passed down to me by my family, or even when I moved into an older house, I am taken back to an earlier time. I imagine scenarios, and try to immerse myself into what “was”. It helps me to understand history better by putting myself right in it, or at least trying to. Afterall, every place has a story. At times I can almost hear the murmurs of its people… much like Juan. (I am not psycho, I swear)
Revisiting the past is always an emotional, almost spiritual experience for me. It is surreal. History is a part of us, whether we acknowledge it or not, whether we accept it or not, or whether we understand it or not.
Silence can speak millions and there is no better story than one told by a vine-devoured stone wall. Very cool book.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Beckett makes a fool of me.
During this week’s class, I have to admit that I found myself giggling a lot. This had nothing to do with Dr. Van Noordt because I thought she did a FANTASTIC job. I was giggling because I found it a bit funny that we spent 3 hours analyzing “Endgame” by Beckett.
I was reminded of an activity that I did a year ago with one of the classes I teach. It was an AP Spanish Language class and it was during May, after they had already taken the AP Exam. We had been working extremely hard up to that point, so we were a bit relieved, and worn out, after the test had been taken. You know the feeling. It is that gigantic sigh of relief where exhaustion and insanity hit you. Basically, I was at the point where my brain had reached its maximum temporal capacity and I was kind of in a surreal, delirious, on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown state. In other words, my brain went nuts for the day. So, I decided to have some fun and wrote down the most random nonsense on the board. Now, at the time I thought this was hilarious, but now looking back, I realize that I should have gotten more sleep ;) Anyways, I wrote down this babble on the board in the form of a poem. I then told my students, in a very serious voice, that this was called “abstract poetry.” The students were then to attempt to make sense of the poem and share their interpretations with the class. This lasted about 5 minutes, as I just couldn’t hold in my laughter any longer. Finally, I told them that I had simply written down arbitrary nonsense and they all started laughing hysterically as they, too, had gone insane. Then, they decided to write their own abstract poem, and it was actually kind of fun… and I am sure there is a lesson in their somewhere. If not, oh well because we needed a break.
Ok, so the point of this embarrassing story is that sometimes I wonder if we have a tendency to overanalyze things. Sometimes in my crazy head, when I am not daydreaming about new salsa dance moves, I fantasize about writing a “profound” novel or essay just for the heck of it. Then I wonder about how people will analyze my work and try to better understand my “message.” I’d probably find it amusing. Or maybe someone could actually figure me out, in which case I wish they could let me know what they find!
It sort of reminds me of that famous artist who wrote his name on a toilet bowl just to see if people truly appreciated his art, or if it was just his name that attracted them. Well, the toilet bowl is now in the Centre Pompidou in Paris, so obviously it was considered to be an amazing piece of inspirational art!
I enjoyed “Endgame.” I could sit here and analyze it and try to interpret its message, but I question if there really is one. Maybe Beckett just wanted to write a crazy play, and played with language and common themes that people are familiar with because he knew we would try to make connections. Maybe he just wanted to see what nonsense we could come up with… or maybe he wanted us to get what we, personally, wanted out of it. Or better yet, perhaps the reaction we have is the art. I don’t know. Sometimes, I think Beckett is somewhere laughing at us. I have to admit, I may join him in his absurdity and laughter. Earth can definitely be amusing... or depressing.
I was reminded of an activity that I did a year ago with one of the classes I teach. It was an AP Spanish Language class and it was during May, after they had already taken the AP Exam. We had been working extremely hard up to that point, so we were a bit relieved, and worn out, after the test had been taken. You know the feeling. It is that gigantic sigh of relief where exhaustion and insanity hit you. Basically, I was at the point where my brain had reached its maximum temporal capacity and I was kind of in a surreal, delirious, on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown state. In other words, my brain went nuts for the day. So, I decided to have some fun and wrote down the most random nonsense on the board. Now, at the time I thought this was hilarious, but now looking back, I realize that I should have gotten more sleep ;) Anyways, I wrote down this babble on the board in the form of a poem. I then told my students, in a very serious voice, that this was called “abstract poetry.” The students were then to attempt to make sense of the poem and share their interpretations with the class. This lasted about 5 minutes, as I just couldn’t hold in my laughter any longer. Finally, I told them that I had simply written down arbitrary nonsense and they all started laughing hysterically as they, too, had gone insane. Then, they decided to write their own abstract poem, and it was actually kind of fun… and I am sure there is a lesson in their somewhere. If not, oh well because we needed a break.
Ok, so the point of this embarrassing story is that sometimes I wonder if we have a tendency to overanalyze things. Sometimes in my crazy head, when I am not daydreaming about new salsa dance moves, I fantasize about writing a “profound” novel or essay just for the heck of it. Then I wonder about how people will analyze my work and try to better understand my “message.” I’d probably find it amusing. Or maybe someone could actually figure me out, in which case I wish they could let me know what they find!
It sort of reminds me of that famous artist who wrote his name on a toilet bowl just to see if people truly appreciated his art, or if it was just his name that attracted them. Well, the toilet bowl is now in the Centre Pompidou in Paris, so obviously it was considered to be an amazing piece of inspirational art!
I enjoyed “Endgame.” I could sit here and analyze it and try to interpret its message, but I question if there really is one. Maybe Beckett just wanted to write a crazy play, and played with language and common themes that people are familiar with because he knew we would try to make connections. Maybe he just wanted to see what nonsense we could come up with… or maybe he wanted us to get what we, personally, wanted out of it. Or better yet, perhaps the reaction we have is the art. I don’t know. Sometimes, I think Beckett is somewhere laughing at us. I have to admit, I may join him in his absurdity and laughter. Earth can definitely be amusing... or depressing.
Modernismo, will you marry me?
Modernismo, I love you! I love your passion! After reading literature from this movement, I am fired up! I either want to drop everything and rally with you, or against you! There is no middle of the road, no riding the fence. For me, your message is always loud and clear. I like that. I respect that. It keeps things exciting.
After reading Darío and Martí, I am left with a burst of varying emotions. It’s like a roller-coaster ride where, even within the same piece of literature, I am battling extremities. I laugh, I cry, I gasp, I nod my head yes, I nod my head no, I yell, I want to give them a high five or I want to spray them with a water hose to wake them up from their dream world … yet no matter the insane emotion I am feeling at the time, when I am finished, I always want more!
One of my favorite pieces is “El Rey Burgues” by Darío. While I was reading it, I felt this weird bittersweet sentiment that finally, someone could relate to how I felt about society… and people in general. We are all turning into quantitative machines. (Now that I think of it, it would be interesting to do a comparison of this poem with Sentimental Education in regards to art.) However, with “A Roosevelt,” I felt myself rolling my eyes and shaking my head in frustration, as I grow tired of U.S.-bashing. It's easy to criticize someone or something (especially when he/she/it is the center of attention), yet so difficult to come up with effective solutions. We are so quick to point out the flaws of others, yet so slow to acknowledge our own.
Oh Darío, why must you toy with my emotions! Can’t you just agree with me the whole time? Nah, then you’d be boring.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Flaubert, say it already!
Dr. Pelletier commented on the Realism novel. She stated that during this time period, change came so fast that writers used the novel to describe something they didn’t quite understand. After reading Flaubert’s Sentimental Education, I certainly empathize.
At the novel’s conclusion, I was left questioning its significance. I felt bombarded with historical context that I did not fully understand as well as a plethora of characters whose names and individual representations I would not be able to remember. There was just too much going on. Dr. Pelletier mentioned that Flaubert wrote slowly. This is certainly evident in the richness of this text in terms of quantity of detailed information. To fully grasp this novel, I would have to spend a great deal of time doing research and filter through the abundance of description. Therefore, I feel I did not understand the novel to the extent that Flaubert, perhaps, had hoped.
I believe Flaubert was successful with his notion that his literature should not be “entertaining” and “available for all.” Though a bit of a pompous statement, it was true in my case as I am an ignorant fool who does not appreciate the genius of Flaubert.
If reading this novel reveals my true character, much like a personality test, I guess I am a simple-minded dope who gets bored when people talk too much.
Oh and I must make one more comment in regards to Frederic. I became rather annoyed during a particular part of the novel. It has to do with the scene near the end where Frederic finally admits his love for Madame Arnoux. The narrator comments on her grey hair, which causes Frederic to question his love for her. God forbid that a woman grow old! I mean, without beauty, what good is a woman? And I am sure Frederic is just the hottest guy in all of France. I got a bit upset at that remark as my eyes rolled in the back of my head numerous times.
Perhaps this reveals even more of my character… or maybe I was just ticked off that day because I was told women shouldn’t be president because we are too “emotional,” particularly in regards to war. After all, men have done such a great job… women might ruin it! But I digress.
At the novel’s conclusion, I was left questioning its significance. I felt bombarded with historical context that I did not fully understand as well as a plethora of characters whose names and individual representations I would not be able to remember. There was just too much going on. Dr. Pelletier mentioned that Flaubert wrote slowly. This is certainly evident in the richness of this text in terms of quantity of detailed information. To fully grasp this novel, I would have to spend a great deal of time doing research and filter through the abundance of description. Therefore, I feel I did not understand the novel to the extent that Flaubert, perhaps, had hoped.
I believe Flaubert was successful with his notion that his literature should not be “entertaining” and “available for all.” Though a bit of a pompous statement, it was true in my case as I am an ignorant fool who does not appreciate the genius of Flaubert.
If reading this novel reveals my true character, much like a personality test, I guess I am a simple-minded dope who gets bored when people talk too much.
Oh and I must make one more comment in regards to Frederic. I became rather annoyed during a particular part of the novel. It has to do with the scene near the end where Frederic finally admits his love for Madame Arnoux. The narrator comments on her grey hair, which causes Frederic to question his love for her. God forbid that a woman grow old! I mean, without beauty, what good is a woman? And I am sure Frederic is just the hottest guy in all of France. I got a bit upset at that remark as my eyes rolled in the back of my head numerous times.
Perhaps this reveals even more of my character… or maybe I was just ticked off that day because I was told women shouldn’t be president because we are too “emotional,” particularly in regards to war. After all, men have done such a great job… women might ruin it! But I digress.
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