Sarcasm. Sometimes I say things sarcastically and let it linger so that the other person doesn't know if I'm being sarcastic or not. Sometimes I do this unintentionally. I assume that they know me well enough to understand the intended sarcasm. I'll say something without the proper sarcastic voice tone and simply assume that they will understand that what I am saying is meant to be taken ironically because of the absurdity of the comment. The unfortunate thing is that the other person doesn't catch the sarcasm. Sometimes this is because they don't get it. Most of the times though it is because the person hearing my sarcasm does not know me well enough to get my irony. That happens often. I don't include enough back story for them to get my joke. But, that is often because my jokes are often meant to be self-amusement and if you happen to be in on it than you are fortunate to be on my level.
My wife does not often get my sarcasm. But, that is often for a different reason entirely. I say more ridiculous and outlandish things to her than I do to most people, other than to myself (which others often hear because most of the time that I am talking I am doing so to amuse myself rather than to convey information to another). However, even the amount of absurd claims and desires I profess to here are insignificant to the number of ideas that I keep locked away internally so that I am not locked away externally, literally or metaphorically speaking. But, I digress. The point is that often people don't get my sarcasm because I haven't given them enough space to understand that I'm being sarcastic. This is because I treat every sarcastic comment equally regardless of who happens to hear that comment. I assume they will understand the backstory. Often they don't because they have no possible way of knowing the backstory. This leads to awkward situations. I get some amusement out of the awkwardness.
If someone were to understand the entirety of my sarcasm they would have to know me very well, much better than the strangers I am often sarcastic with. Or, they would have to be with me at all points in my life to understand the necessary context into which my sarcastic jigsaw puzzle pieces often fit. Even then they would struggle to make the necessary connections because my mind works in ways that I can't always explain. The connections necessary to make sense of my sarcastic comments are often incongruous and illogical. But, they are my illogical, incongruous system. I understand it.
Other times I am vague in my declarations. This way if I see the conversation going sideways or slantways towards an avenue I don't have any intention of taking I can claim sarcasm and allow people into the context in which that comment can be taken sarcastically. Sometimes this is to allow myself to save face and shy away from the embarrassing words that have just come out of my mouth. Sometimes it is because the words have escaped my mouth before I have deemed them sarcastic or sincere. They float around in the ether as I ponder their meaning and tone. This leads to some uncomfortable and awkward silences. It produces a double laughter in me as I find amusement in awkwardness and I laugh when I am nervous. It is a vicious cycle because my nervous laughter often produces more awkwardness and the double laughter effect is amplified again and again until I am in the midst of a self-satisfying giggle fest.
I am however a relatively nice person. You simply need to understand the context and you'll agree that I'm relatively nice. However, I don't intend on giving you goal posts to measure my niceness so you'll have to come up with your own scale. Just remember, I'm relatively nice. What I'm trying to say in a long-winded way is that I'm vague only every so often and then not in a vicious way (mostly). Much of the lack of comprehension of my sarcasm comes because I, intentionally or otherwise, fail to provide enough context for someone to understand it as such. As I said before you would have to know me exceptionally well to catch all of my sarcasm because it is a bundle of innuendo and inside jokes. But even then you still might not catch all of my sarcasm. In fact, some times I'm not even sure if what I said was sarcastic or not.
Take for example the previous blog post. In it I was giving a play-by-play announcement of a classical concert. It is entirely possible that I was taking short-hand because I had to do an assignment for some class. It is also as likely that I was making a mockery of being forced to go to this concert by some person at the time. But, it is equally conceivable that I wasn't being sarcastic or forced to attend the concert for a school assignment. It is entirely possible that I was attempting to give an assessment of the concert using terrible cliches such as, "Triumphant. Exuberant, inspiring finale", and, "Masterful".
Who the hell does this 22 year-old, pretentious twat think he is? But if it was intended as sarcastic, I can picture that 22 year old kid laughing at his 32 year old counterpart hysterically. And then of course there is the option that the 22 year-old me was writing his opinions intentionally vague and experimenting with high-society language so that if he were to receive criticism he could claim sarcasm to save face. Or, if his silly language had been accepted he would have basked in the praise. And, if I had figured it out ten years ago I would have done both of these depending on whether the other party was laughing at or praising the words.
Alas, I find myself flummoxed. I don't know if it was sarcastic. The sentences and phrasing were rather awkward. Maybe that amused me at the time. Maybe it was just an experiment. It obviously wasn't an impactful one because I surely don't remember writing it. Maybe it was intentionally done that way so that the 22 year-old version of me could laugh at the 32 year-old version of me. I simply don't know. What I do know is that there is a story somewhere in all of this waiting to be carved out.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Assessment of Fahrenheit 451
I finished Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 a few weeks ago. Incredibly, I had never read this before. Maybe my copy had been burnt somewhere along the way by accident. Ha.
I would have given the book three and a half stars, but Goodreads does not provide me with the opportunity of awarding half stars. Therefore I gave it four because three seemed too low to give such a classic. The story is great and some of the mind-numbing technology Bradbury describes in the book is eerily similar to what we have achieved in the last fifteen years as a modern society. The story itself obviously stands alone on its own merits, but what I found most fascinating was the blurbs at the end where Bradbury discusses the work in his afterword and coda.
I found the book a bit boring in the beginning. It wasn't until Beatty showed up at Montag's house that I started to really enjoy the book and get into it.
When the fire chief Beatty and Montag were conversing about the dangers of society I found myself amazed at some of the things Beatty said. For instance, "'Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily let the comic books survive" (Bradbury, 57). The magazines have become a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Who reads nowadays? Society is keen on the entertainment focus. Just look at the news. A couple seconds of important stuff. A couple seconds of shit that's going on somewhere far far away. The rest of the program is mindless hollywood things and advertising.
The stamping out of individuality is the scariest thing I saw reflected in the first part of the book. Again, Beatty is talking to Montag about the best things that a homogenized society brings us. "We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of the other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against" (Bradbury, 58). We are bombarded with a new equality movement. Let us recreate America in a new image where individuality is paramount as long as your individuality conforms to the new societal norms we are imposing.
Most of what is good in Bradbury's book is his overall story and his scarily accurate dystopian take on the future. Occasionally though his actual writing caught my eye. Usually with something short, crisp and staccato. Again, from Beatty and Montag's conversation. "Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean" (Bradbury, 60). Clean. Bright. Concise. Cutting.
In a sense Bradbury echoes French existentialists. He sees life as it is. The struggle. He takes pride in the struggle. His heroes, the walking libraries explain to Montag towards the end, "Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away" (Bradbury, 157). But, Bradbury is not Camus. Camus is French. Camus extols the virtuousness of Prometheus as he strides down defiantly, proudly after the rock has rolled down the hill. In Camus, life is pointless, repetitive and struggle. The glory is in the doing regardless of the worth. Bradbury is American. Americans, at least for most of our history, are more optimistic (for better or worse). Bradbury also has his walking libraries claim, "But that's the wonderful thing about man; he never gets so discouraged or disgusted that he gives up doing it all over again, because he knows very well it is important and worth the doing" (Bradbury, 153). It's not Prometheus pushing the boulder up the hill for all eternity and then taking pride in walking down after the rock to do it again ad infinitum. It's Prometheus pushing that stupid rock up that stupid hill over and over for what seems like ad infinitum because eventually he'll get it right. He'll push that boulder over the top and it'll roll down the other way.
Bradbury wrote in his afterword about his book on censorship being ironically censored. That coda and afterword were fascinating but his final response to it I found most telling. "For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear head or water conversationalist, pro-computerologists or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights end and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mush milk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my "Wonderful Ice Cream Suit" so it shapes "Zoot," may the belt unravel and the pants fall" (Bradbury, 178). Bradbury's dystopian future is eerie because of some of the technology he describes and the effect it had on man. We have become somewhat enslaved to the lives of Hollywood. They are our families coming into our parlors. His book is scary because of how right he is on how censorship is creeping into our society. We don't run the risk of a dictator coming out and banning the books by fiat. Our society is much to fractured for that. One group would ban a book and everyone from the other side would pick it up and hail it as the next classic. Our society is fractured because of segmentation. We have been segmented by the advertisers. Anything that will upset one group, however minor the minority may be, must be censored through cultural reprogramming and shaming. Censorship will come in slowly and then we will no longer need books because books are offensive. The ideas in them are too dangerous and therefore we will seek safer options. Bradbury was right. We have embraced the comic books recently. They're safe. We have embraced the magazines. (Yahoo! Facebook. Hellogiggles. Daily updates about the Kardashian-Swift feud, etc. etc.) This stuff is safe. This stuff is neat. Clean. Everything else. Burn it.
I would have given the book three and a half stars, but Goodreads does not provide me with the opportunity of awarding half stars. Therefore I gave it four because three seemed too low to give such a classic. The story is great and some of the mind-numbing technology Bradbury describes in the book is eerily similar to what we have achieved in the last fifteen years as a modern society. The story itself obviously stands alone on its own merits, but what I found most fascinating was the blurbs at the end where Bradbury discusses the work in his afterword and coda.
I found the book a bit boring in the beginning. It wasn't until Beatty showed up at Montag's house that I started to really enjoy the book and get into it.
When the fire chief Beatty and Montag were conversing about the dangers of society I found myself amazed at some of the things Beatty said. For instance, "'Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily let the comic books survive" (Bradbury, 57). The magazines have become a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Who reads nowadays? Society is keen on the entertainment focus. Just look at the news. A couple seconds of important stuff. A couple seconds of shit that's going on somewhere far far away. The rest of the program is mindless hollywood things and advertising.
The stamping out of individuality is the scariest thing I saw reflected in the first part of the book. Again, Beatty is talking to Montag about the best things that a homogenized society brings us. "We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of the other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against" (Bradbury, 58). We are bombarded with a new equality movement. Let us recreate America in a new image where individuality is paramount as long as your individuality conforms to the new societal norms we are imposing.
Most of what is good in Bradbury's book is his overall story and his scarily accurate dystopian take on the future. Occasionally though his actual writing caught my eye. Usually with something short, crisp and staccato. Again, from Beatty and Montag's conversation. "Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean" (Bradbury, 60). Clean. Bright. Concise. Cutting.
In a sense Bradbury echoes French existentialists. He sees life as it is. The struggle. He takes pride in the struggle. His heroes, the walking libraries explain to Montag towards the end, "Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away" (Bradbury, 157). But, Bradbury is not Camus. Camus is French. Camus extols the virtuousness of Prometheus as he strides down defiantly, proudly after the rock has rolled down the hill. In Camus, life is pointless, repetitive and struggle. The glory is in the doing regardless of the worth. Bradbury is American. Americans, at least for most of our history, are more optimistic (for better or worse). Bradbury also has his walking libraries claim, "But that's the wonderful thing about man; he never gets so discouraged or disgusted that he gives up doing it all over again, because he knows very well it is important and worth the doing" (Bradbury, 153). It's not Prometheus pushing the boulder up the hill for all eternity and then taking pride in walking down after the rock to do it again ad infinitum. It's Prometheus pushing that stupid rock up that stupid hill over and over for what seems like ad infinitum because eventually he'll get it right. He'll push that boulder over the top and it'll roll down the other way.
Bradbury wrote in his afterword about his book on censorship being ironically censored. That coda and afterword were fascinating but his final response to it I found most telling. "For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear head or water conversationalist, pro-computerologists or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights end and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mush milk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my "Wonderful Ice Cream Suit" so it shapes "Zoot," may the belt unravel and the pants fall" (Bradbury, 178). Bradbury's dystopian future is eerie because of some of the technology he describes and the effect it had on man. We have become somewhat enslaved to the lives of Hollywood. They are our families coming into our parlors. His book is scary because of how right he is on how censorship is creeping into our society. We don't run the risk of a dictator coming out and banning the books by fiat. Our society is much to fractured for that. One group would ban a book and everyone from the other side would pick it up and hail it as the next classic. Our society is fractured because of segmentation. We have been segmented by the advertisers. Anything that will upset one group, however minor the minority may be, must be censored through cultural reprogramming and shaming. Censorship will come in slowly and then we will no longer need books because books are offensive. The ideas in them are too dangerous and therefore we will seek safer options. Bradbury was right. We have embraced the comic books recently. They're safe. We have embraced the magazines. (Yahoo! Facebook. Hellogiggles. Daily updates about the Kardashian-Swift feud, etc. etc.) This stuff is safe. This stuff is neat. Clean. Everything else. Burn it.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Book notes on Plato
(Originally written July 18, 2016 in Book 26)
History of Western Philosophy
Bertrand Russell
Chapter 17: Plato's Cosmogony
What can be known by the intellect and reason is unchanging. What is sensed is changing.
The world was created by God who made it patterned after the eternal.
The world is harmonized by proportion (each element is proportional to the others).
"The soul is compounded of the individisble - unchangeable and the divisible-changeable; it is a third and intermediate kind of essence" (Russell, 144).
There are four kinds of animals: gods, birds, fish and land animals
"Souls have sensation, love, fear and anger; if they overcome these, they live righteously, but if not, not. If a man lives well, he goes, after death, to live happily forever in his star. But, if he lives badly, he will, in the next life, be a woman; if he (she) persists in evil-doing, he (or she) will become a brute, and go on through transmigrations until at last reason conquers" (Russell, 145) [God created one star for every soul he created]
Future Modern Ancient Greeks - Use this, but souls got lonely and moved to planets. Through their traveling the soul picked up bits of stuff until they found themselves trapped in bodies
Man contains two souls, one mortal and created by the gods (the first creation of God) and one immortal (created by God). The gods mingled the two into one to form man.
Chapter 18 - Knowledge and perception in Plato
The dialogue, Theaetetus, is concerned with finding a suitable definition for knowledge.
Perception cannot be knowledge because everything including the perception possessor is constantly changing. Thus perceiving is constantly becoming not-perceiving and knowing becomes not-knowing. Thus, knowledge becomes and is not-knowledge.
Also knowlege cannot be perception because we can know things like sounds and different than colors even though we can't sense a color with our ears or a sound with out eyes.
"Only the mind can reach existence, and we cannot reach truth if we do not reach existence" (Russell, 152-53). Only the mind can know.
Knowlege consists of reflecting, not sensing.
The Classical Mind
W.T. Jones
Chapter 4 - Plato: The theory of forms
Plato was a product of his environment. Born in Athens circa 427 BC, he was a veteran of the Peloponnesian War and experienced the dissatisfaction associated with losing the war. He was also a nobleman by birth, descended from both Solon and the god Poseidon
The biggest impact on Plato though was Socrates
Socrates "combined an intensely realistic and down-to-earth common sense with a passionate mysticism, a cool and dispassionate scepticism about ordinary beliefs and opinions with a deep religious sense" (Jones, 110).
Socrates lived by and taught his own morals in opposition to tradition and the mores of his day.
Socrates on death: "To fear death, gentlemen, is nothing else than to think one is wise when one is not; for it is thinking one knows what one does not know. For no none knows whether death be not the greatest of all blessings to man, but they find it is the greatest of evils" (Jones, 113).
Chris - "Then we ought neither to requite wrong with wron, nor to do evil to anyone, no matter what he may have done us" (Jones, 116).
Plato believed, "The discovery of truth is always, he thought, a joint word in which friends discouss together" (Jones, 118)
History of Western Philosophy
Bertrand Russell
Chapter 17: Plato's Cosmogony
What can be known by the intellect and reason is unchanging. What is sensed is changing.
The world was created by God who made it patterned after the eternal.
The world is harmonized by proportion (each element is proportional to the others).
"The soul is compounded of the individisble - unchangeable and the divisible-changeable; it is a third and intermediate kind of essence" (Russell, 144).
There are four kinds of animals: gods, birds, fish and land animals
"Souls have sensation, love, fear and anger; if they overcome these, they live righteously, but if not, not. If a man lives well, he goes, after death, to live happily forever in his star. But, if he lives badly, he will, in the next life, be a woman; if he (she) persists in evil-doing, he (or she) will become a brute, and go on through transmigrations until at last reason conquers" (Russell, 145) [God created one star for every soul he created]
Future Modern Ancient Greeks - Use this, but souls got lonely and moved to planets. Through their traveling the soul picked up bits of stuff until they found themselves trapped in bodies
Man contains two souls, one mortal and created by the gods (the first creation of God) and one immortal (created by God). The gods mingled the two into one to form man.
Chapter 18 - Knowledge and perception in Plato
The dialogue, Theaetetus, is concerned with finding a suitable definition for knowledge.
Perception cannot be knowledge because everything including the perception possessor is constantly changing. Thus perceiving is constantly becoming not-perceiving and knowing becomes not-knowing. Thus, knowledge becomes and is not-knowledge.
Also knowlege cannot be perception because we can know things like sounds and different than colors even though we can't sense a color with our ears or a sound with out eyes.
"Only the mind can reach existence, and we cannot reach truth if we do not reach existence" (Russell, 152-53). Only the mind can know.
Knowlege consists of reflecting, not sensing.
The Classical Mind
W.T. Jones
Chapter 4 - Plato: The theory of forms
Plato was a product of his environment. Born in Athens circa 427 BC, he was a veteran of the Peloponnesian War and experienced the dissatisfaction associated with losing the war. He was also a nobleman by birth, descended from both Solon and the god Poseidon
The biggest impact on Plato though was Socrates
Socrates "combined an intensely realistic and down-to-earth common sense with a passionate mysticism, a cool and dispassionate scepticism about ordinary beliefs and opinions with a deep religious sense" (Jones, 110).
Socrates lived by and taught his own morals in opposition to tradition and the mores of his day.
Socrates on death: "To fear death, gentlemen, is nothing else than to think one is wise when one is not; for it is thinking one knows what one does not know. For no none knows whether death be not the greatest of all blessings to man, but they find it is the greatest of evils" (Jones, 113).
Chris - "Then we ought neither to requite wrong with wron, nor to do evil to anyone, no matter what he may have done us" (Jones, 116).
Plato believed, "The discovery of truth is always, he thought, a joint word in which friends discouss together" (Jones, 118)
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Diary Entry 7/14/16 corresponding to 8/13/06
It's always interesting to look back and see some of the little tidbits of journaling I've thrown in with research. Not always fun. Certainly not. Apparently, on August 13th I declared "Life is shit. It will always be shit," and "never allow hope to fill you because then the shit tastes worse than ever". I may have been a bit dramatic. It's interesting to look back because it makes me wonder what was the cause of my happiness, sadness or anger. Sometimes I'm explicit enough to know what that cause was these ten years later. Sometimes I'm vague and have no idea what caused the rush of emotion. From 2006 - 2008 I can usually assume that any negative emotion was caused by she (or her or D____, or however else I've addressed the cause of my negativity on this blog). Later on in the day I wondered if she, because she was ignoring me for at least four hours was with some guy named Brad.
It's been ten years. The pain is dead. The anger is dead. There isn't really any emotional weight left in the memory. Of course there is probably some scarring and knowing myself, there is definitely some repressed fury buried deep, but it's interesting to see (I use the word interesting because I don't know what else to describe it as) that even ten years ago, before the marriage, before the destruction of the marriage and the crushing of my psyche (I may still be a bit dramatic) I knew something was wrong. I knew there was a Brad. I don't know if she was with Brad on August 13th, 2006. I know she was with Brad. I fretted that I might lose my mind if I found out she was. I found out she was. I found out that Brad was a multiplicity. Not all of them were named Brad.
And there it is. The repressed rage. It feels like the beginning of acid reflux - a tensing in the middle of my chest that will burn up and down until my whole body feels hot. Even as I type this, my body reflexively began to clench my jaw. I was grinding my teeth before I knew how tense my body had suddenly become. The pressure above my temples skyrocketed. But, I remind myself - it's been ten years. The pain is dead. The anger is dead. The rage isn't. It's hiding, but the object of the rage is long gone. I'll push it back into hiding. Deeper this time. One day I'll unleash it. Hopefully, it will be a metaphorical release. Hopefully, it will be directed at she as I create her in writing. Hopefully, I won't sound bitter. Hopefully, I'll be smart enough to channel it comedically so it doesn't sound too mean spirit. Hopefully though, it will be appropriately mean. Hopefully, she will read it.
Going to paint. Hopefully, it will work like some antacid.
It's been ten years. The pain is dead. The anger is dead. There isn't really any emotional weight left in the memory. Of course there is probably some scarring and knowing myself, there is definitely some repressed fury buried deep, but it's interesting to see (I use the word interesting because I don't know what else to describe it as) that even ten years ago, before the marriage, before the destruction of the marriage and the crushing of my psyche (I may still be a bit dramatic) I knew something was wrong. I knew there was a Brad. I don't know if she was with Brad on August 13th, 2006. I know she was with Brad. I fretted that I might lose my mind if I found out she was. I found out she was. I found out that Brad was a multiplicity. Not all of them were named Brad.
And there it is. The repressed rage. It feels like the beginning of acid reflux - a tensing in the middle of my chest that will burn up and down until my whole body feels hot. Even as I type this, my body reflexively began to clench my jaw. I was grinding my teeth before I knew how tense my body had suddenly become. The pressure above my temples skyrocketed. But, I remind myself - it's been ten years. The pain is dead. The anger is dead. The rage isn't. It's hiding, but the object of the rage is long gone. I'll push it back into hiding. Deeper this time. One day I'll unleash it. Hopefully, it will be a metaphorical release. Hopefully, it will be directed at she as I create her in writing. Hopefully, I won't sound bitter. Hopefully, I'll be smart enough to channel it comedically so it doesn't sound too mean spirit. Hopefully though, it will be appropriately mean. Hopefully, she will read it.
Going to paint. Hopefully, it will work like some antacid.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Chapter 16 - Plato's theory of immortality
(Originally written July 11, 2016 in Book 26)
History of Western Philosophy
Bertrand Russell
Chapter 16: Plato's theory of immortality
Socrates is shown by Plato not to fear death. He is wrongly condemned, but will not escape (which the Athenians who convicted him might have preferred) because he would then be returning injustice for injustice. Neither will he commit suicide because, "There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the door and run away" (Russell, 134).
Socrates is convinced (as much as possible) he will encounter gods who are wise and good in the afterlife. He is also, though less so, convinced he will encounter good men as well.
Death for Socrates is the separation of body and soul.
"The distinction between mind and matter, which has become a commonplace in philosophy, science and popular thought, has a religious origin, and began as the distinction of soul and body" (Russell, 134).
For the Platonic Socrates, existence is revealed through ure thought and not through the senses. "The soul in herself must behold things in themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say we are lovers; not while we live, but after death: for while in comany with the body the soul cannot have pure knowledge, knowledge must be attained after death, if at all" (Russell, 137).
Socrates reasons for believing in the survival of the soul after death:
1) Opposites generate one another. Life generates death. Death generates life.
2) Knowledge is recollection (hence we know what things like true equality or logical truths are without experiencing them)
The soul of the philosopher (the one who disdains the body for truth) will depart the body and enter into bliss with the gods. The impure soul will restlessly haunt as a ghost or enter the body of an animal.
The fate of souls after heaven:
good -> Heaven
Bad -> Hell
Intermediate -> Purgatory
History of Western Philosophy
Bertrand Russell
Chapter 16: Plato's theory of immortality
Socrates is shown by Plato not to fear death. He is wrongly condemned, but will not escape (which the Athenians who convicted him might have preferred) because he would then be returning injustice for injustice. Neither will he commit suicide because, "There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the door and run away" (Russell, 134).
Socrates is convinced (as much as possible) he will encounter gods who are wise and good in the afterlife. He is also, though less so, convinced he will encounter good men as well.
Death for Socrates is the separation of body and soul.
"The distinction between mind and matter, which has become a commonplace in philosophy, science and popular thought, has a religious origin, and began as the distinction of soul and body" (Russell, 134).
For the Platonic Socrates, existence is revealed through ure thought and not through the senses. "The soul in herself must behold things in themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say we are lovers; not while we live, but after death: for while in comany with the body the soul cannot have pure knowledge, knowledge must be attained after death, if at all" (Russell, 137).
Socrates reasons for believing in the survival of the soul after death:
1) Opposites generate one another. Life generates death. Death generates life.
2) Knowledge is recollection (hence we know what things like true equality or logical truths are without experiencing them)
The soul of the philosopher (the one who disdains the body for truth) will depart the body and enter into bliss with the gods. The impure soul will restlessly haunt as a ghost or enter the body of an animal.
The fate of souls after heaven:
good -> Heaven
Bad -> Hell
Intermediate -> Purgatory
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Short Story Ideas - The Heat, July 4th, The Problems of a Vivid Imagination
Some short story ideas before bed:
The Heat of the Car (working title)
The anger was rising in him with every degree in his non air-conditioned car. Who rents an non air-conditioned car in the 21st century anyway?
It is a common trait among Americans to believe that they are in fact, a good driver. The reality though is that 95% of Americans are in fact, not good drivers. They are inherently incapable of being a good driver.
The natives of the northeastern cities are good drivers, driven along by the societal pressures that demand aggressive natures. New Yorkers are always in a rush because time is money. New Yorkers can cram their tiny little vehicles into even tinier little spots and at speed. Washingtonians have grown up in an environment that completely revolves around power. They have been cultivated to believe that they are each the most powerful being in existence and this extends to when they are behind the wheel. They are uncompromising to the last in their own minds, but like any true politician they are hypocritically able to defer to the other at the last possible section to avoid disaster. Bostonians are generally speaking, ass holes. They talk like ass holes. They eat like ass holes. They drink like ass holes. And, they drive like ass holes. But, that last part isn't necessarily their fault. Boston's roads are just a bunch of roundabouts that demand you drive like an asshole to escape an eternity of driving in the same circle.
On the opposite coast Angelenos tend to be good drivers, not because societal pressures have forged them into aggressive drivers, but simply because they spend two-thirds of their Adult lives behind the wheel. While Bullitt would have you believe that all San Franciscans are incredible drivers, I think that this is myth. In the middle of the country, Chicagoans can claim to be good drivers for most of the year. There are no other Americans that can drive like a native of the second city in inclement weather. While Chicagoans might wear this as a badge of honor, the rest of us Americans can take comfort in the fact that we don't have to live in that shitty weather. I'm not sure if Chicagoans are good drivers when there isn't a whole bunch of snow on the ground because as soon as the snow melts the construction crews block off eighty-seven percent of the roads to pretend to work and natives of the city and tourists alike simply sit in traffic.
The rest of America are shaky drivers at best, but usually atrocious and dangerous behind the wheel for a litany of reasons. Brett, like the vast majority of drivers in America believed he was a fantastic driver. He had even grown up just outside of DC and had that sense of being more powerful than everyone else on the road and the snakelike ability of politicians to turn on a dime. But, he had learned to drive as a Hoosier and as such, was constitutionally incapable of driving well. Besides that, Atlanta traffic was enough to turn a good driver into a poor one and a poor one into an abysmal one. Plus, Hertz had managed to rent him a car without A/C and it was 106 degrees outside. The heat and traffic was making Brett, a poor driver by nature, an abysmal driver. And the heat was rising inside of that car with every fifteen feet he was able to drive without having to come to a complete stop because some yahoo Georgian had never mastered the art of merging at speed.
July 4th
July 4th in an election year always brings out the worst in Americans. This is the story of the conservative pastor, the liberal pastor, the conservative parishioner in the liberal church, the liberal parishioner in the conservative church, the presumptive nominee of the Republican Party and the sitting Democratic president and how each of them is exactly the same person - a bundle of inconsistencies and hypocrisy.
The Problems of a Vivid Imagination
Tony was terrified of speaking in public, but being the valedictorian meant that he had to give a speech in front of the whole of the seniors, their families, the faculty and their families, and the random people who like to torture themselves by going to graduations when they are not otherwise obligated to go. Tony would eventually become a critically acclaimed writer and win a whole slew of awards for his fiction, which in turn would bring him more public speaking opportunities to be anxious over. But, not one of these many speaking duties would produce a disaster on par with his valedictorian speech. He would become a critically acclaimed writer because he had such a vivid imagination. He would fail so spectacularly in his valedictorian speech because he had such a vivid imagination. He would fail so spectacularly in his valedictorian speech that in spite of becoming a famous and acclaimed writer he would never give another speech at his college again. The problem was the old advice of imagining everyone in their underwear while speaking.
After organizing his notes he froze as he gazed out into the audience and saw twenty-three hundred and sixteen individual human beings in their underwear. He imagined all kinds of underwear - new and old, trendy and not, silky and not, coarse hair shirts, assless chaps, thongs, granny panties, boxers, briefs and everything in between. It was so distracting that he froze. His mind broke. His mouth began to relay the thoughts of his broken mind and after ten minutes of this unconscious rambling twenty-two hundred and ninety-nine individuals were offended. Seven had fallen asleep. Two had gone to the bathroom and missed the speech. The remaining eight were childish and immature and found the speech hilarious. I was one of those remainders.
The prepared speech would have sounded like this:
The actual speech sounded like this:
The Heat of the Car (working title)
The anger was rising in him with every degree in his non air-conditioned car. Who rents an non air-conditioned car in the 21st century anyway?
It is a common trait among Americans to believe that they are in fact, a good driver. The reality though is that 95% of Americans are in fact, not good drivers. They are inherently incapable of being a good driver.
The natives of the northeastern cities are good drivers, driven along by the societal pressures that demand aggressive natures. New Yorkers are always in a rush because time is money. New Yorkers can cram their tiny little vehicles into even tinier little spots and at speed. Washingtonians have grown up in an environment that completely revolves around power. They have been cultivated to believe that they are each the most powerful being in existence and this extends to when they are behind the wheel. They are uncompromising to the last in their own minds, but like any true politician they are hypocritically able to defer to the other at the last possible section to avoid disaster. Bostonians are generally speaking, ass holes. They talk like ass holes. They eat like ass holes. They drink like ass holes. And, they drive like ass holes. But, that last part isn't necessarily their fault. Boston's roads are just a bunch of roundabouts that demand you drive like an asshole to escape an eternity of driving in the same circle.
On the opposite coast Angelenos tend to be good drivers, not because societal pressures have forged them into aggressive drivers, but simply because they spend two-thirds of their Adult lives behind the wheel. While Bullitt would have you believe that all San Franciscans are incredible drivers, I think that this is myth. In the middle of the country, Chicagoans can claim to be good drivers for most of the year. There are no other Americans that can drive like a native of the second city in inclement weather. While Chicagoans might wear this as a badge of honor, the rest of us Americans can take comfort in the fact that we don't have to live in that shitty weather. I'm not sure if Chicagoans are good drivers when there isn't a whole bunch of snow on the ground because as soon as the snow melts the construction crews block off eighty-seven percent of the roads to pretend to work and natives of the city and tourists alike simply sit in traffic.
The rest of America are shaky drivers at best, but usually atrocious and dangerous behind the wheel for a litany of reasons. Brett, like the vast majority of drivers in America believed he was a fantastic driver. He had even grown up just outside of DC and had that sense of being more powerful than everyone else on the road and the snakelike ability of politicians to turn on a dime. But, he had learned to drive as a Hoosier and as such, was constitutionally incapable of driving well. Besides that, Atlanta traffic was enough to turn a good driver into a poor one and a poor one into an abysmal one. Plus, Hertz had managed to rent him a car without A/C and it was 106 degrees outside. The heat and traffic was making Brett, a poor driver by nature, an abysmal driver. And the heat was rising inside of that car with every fifteen feet he was able to drive without having to come to a complete stop because some yahoo Georgian had never mastered the art of merging at speed.
July 4th
July 4th in an election year always brings out the worst in Americans. This is the story of the conservative pastor, the liberal pastor, the conservative parishioner in the liberal church, the liberal parishioner in the conservative church, the presumptive nominee of the Republican Party and the sitting Democratic president and how each of them is exactly the same person - a bundle of inconsistencies and hypocrisy.
The Problems of a Vivid Imagination
Tony was terrified of speaking in public, but being the valedictorian meant that he had to give a speech in front of the whole of the seniors, their families, the faculty and their families, and the random people who like to torture themselves by going to graduations when they are not otherwise obligated to go. Tony would eventually become a critically acclaimed writer and win a whole slew of awards for his fiction, which in turn would bring him more public speaking opportunities to be anxious over. But, not one of these many speaking duties would produce a disaster on par with his valedictorian speech. He would become a critically acclaimed writer because he had such a vivid imagination. He would fail so spectacularly in his valedictorian speech because he had such a vivid imagination. He would fail so spectacularly in his valedictorian speech that in spite of becoming a famous and acclaimed writer he would never give another speech at his college again. The problem was the old advice of imagining everyone in their underwear while speaking.
After organizing his notes he froze as he gazed out into the audience and saw twenty-three hundred and sixteen individual human beings in their underwear. He imagined all kinds of underwear - new and old, trendy and not, silky and not, coarse hair shirts, assless chaps, thongs, granny panties, boxers, briefs and everything in between. It was so distracting that he froze. His mind broke. His mouth began to relay the thoughts of his broken mind and after ten minutes of this unconscious rambling twenty-two hundred and ninety-nine individuals were offended. Seven had fallen asleep. Two had gone to the bathroom and missed the speech. The remaining eight were childish and immature and found the speech hilarious. I was one of those remainders.
The prepared speech would have sounded like this:
The actual speech sounded like this:
Notes on Breakfast of Champions
I just finished Breakfast of Champions today and what a fantastic book. Y-O-U have got to read it. Seriously though, it is truly fantastic for numerous reasons. Firstly, it skewers us as humans and us especially as Americans in a delightfully painful way. I'm not advocating masochistic pleasure-seeking when I recommend this book, but if you want to have your patriotic thought processes unnerved a bit (which you should so you don't end up goose-stepping your way through life) this is a great book to achieve that. Secondly, it's a brilliant description of life. I have been working to make myself a good storyteller recently. In fact, that's what this whole blog is essentially about - it's a repository of all my previous notes and current thoughts in the hopes that my future self will be able to easily look back at categorized notes in order to pull something worthy of putting into a story. Vonnegut hates storytellers. He blames storytelling on all the ills that America faces and his argument is pretty sound. Nonetheless, Vonnegut wrote one hell of a story. Thirdly, I love the meta-narrative he does of inserting himself into the story and explaining why he writes the way he does and so on and so forth. It's a fascinating literary device and has instructional value for me as an aspiring writer.
There could be a lot of metaphorical ink wasted if I were to point out every little jib and jab of this book that I particularly enjoyed so I will save the metaphorical carbon black by highlighting only a few of my favorites. In the introduction his discussion of Armistice Day and how the soldiers heard God was great.
"When I was a boy, and when Dwayne Hoover was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering each one another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind" (Vonnegut, 6).
This little blurb sums up for me what Vonnegut does in this book. First, he successfully makes himself a part of the story, which I like. Second, he touches on a brutal subject (WWI) with levity and jokes (stopped butchering one another) without being mean. It's dark, but not mean. Third, his wit and dark humor is amplified through dissonant sarcasm - the Voice of God is silence.
In a little jab at men and women and their roles with each other he writes "'I don't wonder you're tired and nervous,' Francine went on. 'If I was a man, I'd be tired and nervous, too. I guess God made women so men could relax and be treated like little babies from time to time.' She was more than satisfied with this arrangement." (Vonnegut, 154). That's just funny.
His shot at how wealth is accumulated is funny too. "With the passage of time, his shares had become one hundred times as valuable, simply lying in the total darkness and silence of a safe-deposit box. There was a lot of money magic like that going on. It was almost as though some blue fairy were flitting about that part of the dying planet, waving her magic wand over certain deeds and bonds and stock certificates" (Vonnegut, 161).
In contemplating the meaning of life as he is slowly starting to lose his grip on his sanity, Dwayne tells Francine about his visit to the Pontiac factory and the impact that the destruction tests had on him. He recalls seeing (and Vonnegut so kindly drew for us a rendition of it) a door labeled "Destructive Testing" where all the torture of the cars took place. "'I saw that sign,' said Dwayne, 'and I couldn't help wondering if that was what God put me on Earth for - to find out how much a man could take without breaking'" (Vonnegut, 166).
Again in pondering the meaning of life, Vonnegut inserted a story about a greyhound. Forgive me, this is a lengthy quotation but it's funny and can't really be pared down well and retain its hilarity. "The girl with the greyhound was an assistant lighting director for a musical comedy about American history, and she kept her poor greyhound, who was named Lancer, in a one-room apartment fourteen feet wide and twenty-six feet long, and six flights of stairs above street level. His entire life was devoted to unloading his excrement at the proper time and place. There were two proper places to put it: in the gutter outside the door seventy-two steps below, with the traffic whizzing by, or in a roasting pan his mistress kept in front of the Westinghouse refrigerator. Lancer had a very small brain, but he must have suspected from time to time, just as Wayne Hoobler did, that some kind of terrible mistake had been made" (Vonnegut, 198).
In discussing truth a Novelist (Beatrice) and a painter (Karabekian) a sad conclusion about truth is raised. Karabekian had just sold a minimalist painting entitled The Temptation of St. Anthony for an exorbitant price and Beatrice admitted to Karabekian that she had no idea who St. Anthony was. Karabekian responded, "'I don't know, and I would hate to find out,' said Karabekian. 'You have no use for truth?' said Beatrice. 'You know what truth is?' said Karabekian. 'It's some crazy thing my neighbor believes. If I want to make friends with him, I ask him what he believes. He tells me, and I say, Yeah, yeah - ain't it the truth?'" (Vonnegut, 209). Funny. But sad.
Vonnegut places the blame of what makes America a dangerous and unhappy place squarely on the shoulders of the story tellers. The government treated Americans as disposable (a war reference) because authors treated their bit-part players like that. The reason why some details in life are important and others are trivial and the reason why some people in life are important and others are trivial is because authors makes some details important and others trivial and some people important and others trivial in their stories. Vonnegut swore off storytelling. Instead he chose to write about life. "I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out" (Vonnegut, 210). That's why Vonnegut stories have so many seemingly unimportant side passages.
"Milo now used a line from a television show which had been popular a few years back. The show wasn't on air anymore, but most people still remembered the line. Much of the conversation in the country consisted of lines from television shows, both present and past" (Vonnegut, 230). That's funny because it's true.
"I gazed at the Keedsler mansion, never dreaming that a volcanic dog was about to erupt behind me" (Vonnegut, 287). That's funny because of the wording.
As a hopeful writer, as a hopeful storyteller, I find I've often inserted myself into a story or two. But, I've not found a way to do it later in the story. Either I'm in it from the beginning or I'm not it at all. Vonnegut is present from the beginning in this book in theory, but really jumps into the story when Dwayne, Wayne and Kilgore Trout are all in or around the Holiday Inn in Midland City. His entrance is flawless and I read and reread it about fifteen times. "'Give me a Black and White and water,' he heard the waitress say, and Wayne should have pricked up his ears at that. That particular drink wasn't for any ordinary person. That drink was for the person who had created all Wayne's misery to date, who could kill him or make him a millionaire or send him back to prison or do whatever he damn pleased with Wayne. That drink was for me" (Vonnegut, 192). From this point on, Vonnegut is a character with a major role to play in the conclusion of the story - which I won't reveal in case you haven't read it.
Maybe it's the sheer weirdness of Vonnegut's stories. Maybe it's his literary style. Maybe it's the fact that he's a Hoosier. Maybe its a je ne sais quoi amalgamation of all three and other unknown factors, but I'm really starting to see Vonnegut as among my favorite writers. Currently, I find myself enjoying and thus, emulating, however poorly, four writers more than anyone else: Voltaire, Douglas Adams, Raymond Queneau and Vonnegut. Voltaire has long been among my favorites, so he holds a sentimental place in my heart. But, between the other three I can't decide who I like the most.
There could be a lot of metaphorical ink wasted if I were to point out every little jib and jab of this book that I particularly enjoyed so I will save the metaphorical carbon black by highlighting only a few of my favorites. In the introduction his discussion of Armistice Day and how the soldiers heard God was great.
"When I was a boy, and when Dwayne Hoover was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering each one another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind" (Vonnegut, 6).
This little blurb sums up for me what Vonnegut does in this book. First, he successfully makes himself a part of the story, which I like. Second, he touches on a brutal subject (WWI) with levity and jokes (stopped butchering one another) without being mean. It's dark, but not mean. Third, his wit and dark humor is amplified through dissonant sarcasm - the Voice of God is silence.
In a little jab at men and women and their roles with each other he writes "'I don't wonder you're tired and nervous,' Francine went on. 'If I was a man, I'd be tired and nervous, too. I guess God made women so men could relax and be treated like little babies from time to time.' She was more than satisfied with this arrangement." (Vonnegut, 154). That's just funny.
His shot at how wealth is accumulated is funny too. "With the passage of time, his shares had become one hundred times as valuable, simply lying in the total darkness and silence of a safe-deposit box. There was a lot of money magic like that going on. It was almost as though some blue fairy were flitting about that part of the dying planet, waving her magic wand over certain deeds and bonds and stock certificates" (Vonnegut, 161).
In contemplating the meaning of life as he is slowly starting to lose his grip on his sanity, Dwayne tells Francine about his visit to the Pontiac factory and the impact that the destruction tests had on him. He recalls seeing (and Vonnegut so kindly drew for us a rendition of it) a door labeled "Destructive Testing" where all the torture of the cars took place. "'I saw that sign,' said Dwayne, 'and I couldn't help wondering if that was what God put me on Earth for - to find out how much a man could take without breaking'" (Vonnegut, 166).
Again in pondering the meaning of life, Vonnegut inserted a story about a greyhound. Forgive me, this is a lengthy quotation but it's funny and can't really be pared down well and retain its hilarity. "The girl with the greyhound was an assistant lighting director for a musical comedy about American history, and she kept her poor greyhound, who was named Lancer, in a one-room apartment fourteen feet wide and twenty-six feet long, and six flights of stairs above street level. His entire life was devoted to unloading his excrement at the proper time and place. There were two proper places to put it: in the gutter outside the door seventy-two steps below, with the traffic whizzing by, or in a roasting pan his mistress kept in front of the Westinghouse refrigerator. Lancer had a very small brain, but he must have suspected from time to time, just as Wayne Hoobler did, that some kind of terrible mistake had been made" (Vonnegut, 198).
In discussing truth a Novelist (Beatrice) and a painter (Karabekian) a sad conclusion about truth is raised. Karabekian had just sold a minimalist painting entitled The Temptation of St. Anthony for an exorbitant price and Beatrice admitted to Karabekian that she had no idea who St. Anthony was. Karabekian responded, "'I don't know, and I would hate to find out,' said Karabekian. 'You have no use for truth?' said Beatrice. 'You know what truth is?' said Karabekian. 'It's some crazy thing my neighbor believes. If I want to make friends with him, I ask him what he believes. He tells me, and I say, Yeah, yeah - ain't it the truth?'" (Vonnegut, 209). Funny. But sad.
Vonnegut places the blame of what makes America a dangerous and unhappy place squarely on the shoulders of the story tellers. The government treated Americans as disposable (a war reference) because authors treated their bit-part players like that. The reason why some details in life are important and others are trivial and the reason why some people in life are important and others are trivial is because authors makes some details important and others trivial and some people important and others trivial in their stories. Vonnegut swore off storytelling. Instead he chose to write about life. "I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out" (Vonnegut, 210). That's why Vonnegut stories have so many seemingly unimportant side passages.
"Milo now used a line from a television show which had been popular a few years back. The show wasn't on air anymore, but most people still remembered the line. Much of the conversation in the country consisted of lines from television shows, both present and past" (Vonnegut, 230). That's funny because it's true.
"I gazed at the Keedsler mansion, never dreaming that a volcanic dog was about to erupt behind me" (Vonnegut, 287). That's funny because of the wording.
As a hopeful writer, as a hopeful storyteller, I find I've often inserted myself into a story or two. But, I've not found a way to do it later in the story. Either I'm in it from the beginning or I'm not it at all. Vonnegut is present from the beginning in this book in theory, but really jumps into the story when Dwayne, Wayne and Kilgore Trout are all in or around the Holiday Inn in Midland City. His entrance is flawless and I read and reread it about fifteen times. "'Give me a Black and White and water,' he heard the waitress say, and Wayne should have pricked up his ears at that. That particular drink wasn't for any ordinary person. That drink was for the person who had created all Wayne's misery to date, who could kill him or make him a millionaire or send him back to prison or do whatever he damn pleased with Wayne. That drink was for me" (Vonnegut, 192). From this point on, Vonnegut is a character with a major role to play in the conclusion of the story - which I won't reveal in case you haven't read it.
Maybe it's the sheer weirdness of Vonnegut's stories. Maybe it's his literary style. Maybe it's the fact that he's a Hoosier. Maybe its a je ne sais quoi amalgamation of all three and other unknown factors, but I'm really starting to see Vonnegut as among my favorite writers. Currently, I find myself enjoying and thus, emulating, however poorly, four writers more than anyone else: Voltaire, Douglas Adams, Raymond Queneau and Vonnegut. Voltaire has long been among my favorites, so he holds a sentimental place in my heart. But, between the other three I can't decide who I like the most.
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