The post below was written on November 18, 2005. Oh, to be 21 again! Typing that up here makes me realize that I've lost something in the past ten years. I've lost an innocence, a naïve world in which everything was black and white. If I had written that now as a more mature individual, with a little more schooling and personal experience I would hope to be shred to smithereens. But, life was different for me at in 2005. The world still existed as black and white and nuance was only a word I couldn't pronounce. That said, I stand behind the conclusion of my little essay, even if that essay sounds and was pompous. To hold the notion that 'God created sin' is logically indefensible.
Ten years on I can look at that essay and see the flaws in my thinking. Ten years from now I'll probably see the same in this little rereading (hopefully I'll still be using this platform so I don't have to go through the arduous process of bringing the diaspora of my thoughts into another single volume again). But, it does mark a point in my growth where I started to think about things that still pick at my mind today.
First, Original Sin and the Problem of Evil are things that are still very relevant to my thinking today. They interest me on a number of levels. But, at 21 I thought I could tell the rational girl Penny that she was irrational and because of that inherent irrationality she would have to accept my rational argument. In that way, I would win her over back to God. That's obviously not how this works. That's not how any of this works...
Second, because those interests were just at their formative stages back then, I see that ten years on I don't have the answers still perfectly before me. That leads me to believe that either I am not capable of having all the answers or that no one in particular is capable of possessing them. Some of the naïve nature of my research and thinking is gone, which is a good thing. Some of my innocence has been lost through life, which is a bad thing.
Third, at this point in 2005 I hadn't quite figured the entrenchment of ideas thing yet. I assumed that as I was moldable so was everyone else. I still like to think that the only thing that has crystalized in me is my music taste. Every once and a while a new song will come out, or a band that I liked that existed 10-20 years ago will come out with a new album that will capture my attention, but for the most part I return to certain songs and groups from years ago. I like to think that I am ever learning and ever open to having my mind blown and my thoughts on things blown up with the explosion to begin anew. But I know that ideas are entrenched in others and to disagree with them is a personal affront. That's when the exchange of ideas ends and the personal attacks begin. My essay may have been pedantic in nature ten years ago, but it was not an attack. Though, after I wrote that last sentence I realize that telling somebody they don't always think rationally, especially somebody who prides themselves on their rationality, probably came across an attack.
But, here is the point of my interrupting the 31 year old version of me digitizing the 21 year old version of me at this point - the essay I wrote ten years ago, as naïve as it was, it came to a correct conclusion. It came to the conclusion that to blame God for the evils of this world is logically indefensible. That said, I hope that as a slightly more mature human being, I don't offer a logical argument to someone who is searching through hard stuff as an approach to evangelizing.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Notes on the Story of the Eye
The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille is the most disgusting book I've ever read. I get that there is some value to his claims, but the language he uses is disturbing. But, since I have a newfound interest in Surrealism in Literature I suffered through it. And, while I wouldn't recommend the book to anyone that I know, I did find some interesting things in it.
"But I was unable to see as far up as the cunt (this name, which I always used with Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest names for the vagina)" (Bataille, 4). This pretty much sets the tone for the book. It works to shock, which isn't that bad in and of itself. But, my problem with shock is when it is used for the sake of shock itself.
"And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had been reduced to a family portrait" (Bataille, 11). After witnessing her daughter's lewd sex acts the woman was frozen. I like the sentence and I think it's a good description of what would happen. It also has a vivid imagery.
"Little by little, I even thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I managed to lose any sense of words like hope or despair" (Bataille, 18). I like that lack of emotional context, the moment where you simply exist without hope or despair. Brute fact.
"We pedalled rapidly, without laughing or speaking, peculiarly satisfied with our mutual presences, akin to one another in the common isolation of lewdness, weariness, and absurdity" (Bataille, 31). I think this sentence sums up about what I don't like about this book. It isn't just that its shocking, or even that it's shocking solely for the sake of being shocking. It is that Bataille is celebrating what ought to be condemned. His characters are reveling in the isolation that their lewdness brings about.
"And it struck me that death was the sole outcome of my erection, and if Simone and I were killed, the the universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours, something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding point of life and death, being and nothingness), perfectly fulgurating" Bataille, 33). Here again, I find why this book disturbs me so much. Once again, Bataille is celebrating what shouldn't be celebrated. Death was going to be the outcome of his erection, but in that death he was finding nirvana. He found the point of nothingness and being colliding to be so desirable that he was willing to debase himself in any means necessary to get there.
What is also disturbing is some of his descriptions. It's a lengthy section so I'm just going to paraphrase. Bataille states that "I began writing with no precise goal, animated chiefly by a desire to forget, at least for the time being, the things I can be or do personally. Thus, at first, I thought that the character speaking in the first person had no relation to me" (Bataille, 89). Fine, sometimes I come up with sick things on paper, things that I never intended because I wrote something with no precise goal in mind. That's how I normally write a story. But, when you find a connection between an innocent event like your brother scaring you and a group of girls in childhood and the things written in the book there is a sickness underlying your thought process.
"I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could restore them to life except by transforming them and making them unrecognizable, at first glance, to my eyes, solely because during that deformation they acquired the lewdest of meanings" (Bataille, 96). I found much of this book absolutely repugnant. But, this paragraph I found to be profoundly sad. To reignite his memories he had to deform them and debase them. That is truly a sad thing to me.
"In 1920, I changed again, I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at any price, I was abandoning my father. Today, I know I am 'blind', immeasurable, I am man 'abandoned' on the globe like my father at N. No one on earth or in heaven cared about my father's dying terror. Still, I believe he faced up to it, as always. What a 'horrible pride,' at moments, in Dad's blind smile!" (Bataille, 101). I found this profoundly sad again. First, I disagree wholly with the premise that religion is an attempt at evasion. That is simply philosophically unfounded in spite of years of trying to make this fact. Second, to hold on to pride in the face of such things for pride's sake solely is as revolting and wrongheaded as to be shocking for the sake of being shocking.
"But I was unable to see as far up as the cunt (this name, which I always used with Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest names for the vagina)" (Bataille, 4). This pretty much sets the tone for the book. It works to shock, which isn't that bad in and of itself. But, my problem with shock is when it is used for the sake of shock itself.
"And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had been reduced to a family portrait" (Bataille, 11). After witnessing her daughter's lewd sex acts the woman was frozen. I like the sentence and I think it's a good description of what would happen. It also has a vivid imagery.
"Little by little, I even thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I managed to lose any sense of words like hope or despair" (Bataille, 18). I like that lack of emotional context, the moment where you simply exist without hope or despair. Brute fact.
"We pedalled rapidly, without laughing or speaking, peculiarly satisfied with our mutual presences, akin to one another in the common isolation of lewdness, weariness, and absurdity" (Bataille, 31). I think this sentence sums up about what I don't like about this book. It isn't just that its shocking, or even that it's shocking solely for the sake of being shocking. It is that Bataille is celebrating what ought to be condemned. His characters are reveling in the isolation that their lewdness brings about.
"And it struck me that death was the sole outcome of my erection, and if Simone and I were killed, the the universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours, something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding point of life and death, being and nothingness), perfectly fulgurating" Bataille, 33). Here again, I find why this book disturbs me so much. Once again, Bataille is celebrating what shouldn't be celebrated. Death was going to be the outcome of his erection, but in that death he was finding nirvana. He found the point of nothingness and being colliding to be so desirable that he was willing to debase himself in any means necessary to get there.
What is also disturbing is some of his descriptions. It's a lengthy section so I'm just going to paraphrase. Bataille states that "I began writing with no precise goal, animated chiefly by a desire to forget, at least for the time being, the things I can be or do personally. Thus, at first, I thought that the character speaking in the first person had no relation to me" (Bataille, 89). Fine, sometimes I come up with sick things on paper, things that I never intended because I wrote something with no precise goal in mind. That's how I normally write a story. But, when you find a connection between an innocent event like your brother scaring you and a group of girls in childhood and the things written in the book there is a sickness underlying your thought process.
"I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could restore them to life except by transforming them and making them unrecognizable, at first glance, to my eyes, solely because during that deformation they acquired the lewdest of meanings" (Bataille, 96). I found much of this book absolutely repugnant. But, this paragraph I found to be profoundly sad. To reignite his memories he had to deform them and debase them. That is truly a sad thing to me.
"In 1920, I changed again, I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at any price, I was abandoning my father. Today, I know I am 'blind', immeasurable, I am man 'abandoned' on the globe like my father at N. No one on earth or in heaven cared about my father's dying terror. Still, I believe he faced up to it, as always. What a 'horrible pride,' at moments, in Dad's blind smile!" (Bataille, 101). I found this profoundly sad again. First, I disagree wholly with the premise that religion is an attempt at evasion. That is simply philosophically unfounded in spite of years of trying to make this fact. Second, to hold on to pride in the face of such things for pride's sake solely is as revolting and wrongheaded as to be shocking for the sake of being shocking.
Notes on Trimalchio's Feast
I was hitherto unfamiliar with The Satyricon by Petronius. On my good reads I gave this 80p Penguin Classics a so-so rating. This was because the satire was particularly blunt and it felt a bit overdone. Second, it was because of my unfamiliarity with Petronius. So I've put his complete book on my to read list and hope that it has a little more oomph than this section of the whole book.
But that said, it was enjoyable and there were a few things I rather enjoyed in it. I liked Trimalchio's extravagance when he said "Wine has a longer life than us poor folks. So let's wet our whistles" (Petronius, 8).
I don't pay much attention (or give any worth) to astrological readings, but every now and then I find a capricorn reading to be mildly humorous when I apply it to my circumstances. "Under Capricorn, people in trouble who sprout horns through their worries" (Petronius, 15). I might be myself a little devilish under worries...
A funny line that was actually a little more subtle in the satire than the rest was, "I damned my own stupidity and asked no more questions in case I looked like someone who had never dined in decent company" (Petronius, 16).
"People today are lions at home and foxes outside" (Petronius, 19). That's funny.
"Nobody believes in heaven, see, nobody fasts, nobody gives a damn for the Almighty. No, people only bow their heads to count their money" (Petronius, 20). This was probably the best piece of satire in the book. Here we have people living lavish lives condemning the lavishness of the common folk. Hypocritical and timeless. It could be leveled against a number of the pious today.
But that said, it was enjoyable and there were a few things I rather enjoyed in it. I liked Trimalchio's extravagance when he said "Wine has a longer life than us poor folks. So let's wet our whistles" (Petronius, 8).
I don't pay much attention (or give any worth) to astrological readings, but every now and then I find a capricorn reading to be mildly humorous when I apply it to my circumstances. "Under Capricorn, people in trouble who sprout horns through their worries" (Petronius, 15). I might be myself a little devilish under worries...
A funny line that was actually a little more subtle in the satire than the rest was, "I damned my own stupidity and asked no more questions in case I looked like someone who had never dined in decent company" (Petronius, 16).
"People today are lions at home and foxes outside" (Petronius, 19). That's funny.
"Nobody believes in heaven, see, nobody fasts, nobody gives a damn for the Almighty. No, people only bow their heads to count their money" (Petronius, 20). This was probably the best piece of satire in the book. Here we have people living lavish lives condemning the lavishness of the common folk. Hypocritical and timeless. It could be leveled against a number of the pious today.
I Finished The Trade
Today, July 15, 2015 I finished a short story. Well, I finished the first draft of the story. Now I'm going to give it to my wife to edit for grammatical mistakes.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Aesthetic Notes on Nadja
There is much about surrealist aesthetics that I don't understand. Here are some notes on Aesthetics from André Breton's Nadja.
Aesthetics:
"Chirico
acknowledged at the time that he could paint only when surprised (surprised
first of all) by certain arrangements of objects, and that the entire enigma of
revelation consisted for him in the word: surprise" (Breton, 15). Breton
goes on to note that the art that Chirico created certainly was linked with the
object that inspired it, but only in a way that two brothers resemble on
another or as a dream about a person resembles the actual person. Firstly, the
dream part is a part of the surrealist fascination with dreams. But, the
element of surprise seems to be essential to understanding the Surrealist
aesthetic desire as well. I was not familiar with De Chirico until I looked him
up, but after seeing some of his more famous paintings like Love Song,
The Red Tower and The
Disquieting Muses I realized I had at least seen some of his works. They encapsulate
(at least his work during his 'metaphysical' period) what I've always
considered surrealism's enjoyable aspects.
"I
insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like
doors; I will not go looking for keys" (Breton, 18). This seems an
interesting aesthetic ideal for Breton considering the surrealist paintings. I
guess in some extent the door is left ajar in that a painting or drawing in
that style naturally opens itself to multiple vantage points and
interpretations. But, on the other hand the door seems firmly closed to getting
to the meaning behind the works.
There
is a long passage on Breton's concept of beauty after the dots on page 159
through the final page 160. But the final sentence of the book seems to
articulate Breton's view on beauty well enough. "Beauty will be convulsive
or will not be at all". If something therefore, doesn't cause an unconscious
reaction then it isn't beauty at all. Convulsions aren't usually something that
I incorporate into my ideas of pleasurable experiences, but there are of course
muscle convulsions that are. It's just an ugly word to associate with
beauty.
Literary Notes on Nadja
There are a number of ways of reading a book. But, the whole purpose of this blog was to hone my skills as a writer and glean literary technique to incorporate into my own style. Basically this is my fake book to steal other writers' style. I want to read as much and incorporate as much in such a subtle manner that nobody notices that I've stolen it. That said, the main reason to read a work of fiction is to enjoy the book and revel in its literary beauty. So, here are some of the literary qualities about Nadja by André Breton that I enjoyed the most.
Literary:
"I
insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like
doors; I will not go looking for keys" (Breton, 18). I love the word
'ajar'. It just seems to make everything pop out from around it. But, the
imagery about not wanting to search for keys to unlock a book is just a good
image.
"I
cannot see, as I hurry along, what could constitute for me, even without my
knowing it, a magnetic pole in either space or time" (Breton, 32). In this
little passage of the book Breton notes that if you visit Paris you can't help
but see him because he always ends up in a single place. This struck me because
of my idea to write a story about the Maria Maggiore, a basilica in Rome that
no matter what happened on our vacation, Erin and I would inevitably end up in
its piazza when we were lost. This happened every day of our Rome vacation.
Perhaps, there was a magnetic pole in either space or time located somewhere
beneath it? Or it was itself a magnetic pole?
"A
faint smile may have been wandering across her face" (Breton, 64). This is
just a beautifully simple sentence that encapsulates the moment.
"Those
provisional moments of grace, real death-traps of the soul, an abyss, an abyss
into which the splendidly mournful bird of divination has vanished again"
(Breton, 91). It's a good juxtaposition of opposites and the unexpected.
Normally one would associate grace, even momentary grace as something to enjoy,
but Breton calls them death-traps and an abyss.
"Be
careful: everything fades, everything vanishes Something must remain of
us..." (Breton, 100). I think this might be the highlight of the love
Nadja has for Breton. At this point things are breaking down, both Nadja's
sanity and Breton's stomach for being with her. His fear is beginning to win
over his love, which is sad. Nadja holds on for the immortality of the love by
begging him to write a book about her (which she gains because he has). Nadja
achieves immortalization of their love, even as the love is breaking
down.
"The
well-known lack of frontiers between non-madness and madness does not induce me
to accord a different value to the perceptions and ideas which are the result
of one or the other" (Breton, 144). Once again Breton achieves an
excellent juxtaposition.
"For
fear of being fettered, never to be embraced at all" (Breton, 159). What a
profoundly sad notion.
Philosophical Notes on Nadja
I finished Nadja by André Breton yesterday and am somewhat still digesting it. It is pretty out there in literary style, but it was not nearly as difficult in reading Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar. But there were stylistic similarities - the most notable of which were the various asides that the main characters had when you weren't sure if they were speaking or using interior monologue. I wish I had read Nadja first because I think that it would have helped me read Hopscotch. But, I'll read a couple more Surrealist novels before I reread Hopscotch and hopefully that will make the hopscotching reading of Hopscotch a little easier. But, that is neither here nor there.
Philosophical Concepts:
"What I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am" (Breton, 11). This idea of renunciation or to put it in economic terms, the opportunity cost of becoming who you are by ceasing who you were was just a fascinating thought for me.
"I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them" (Breton, 13). In this we see Breton struggling to discover once again who he is, by comparing himself to others to see who he is by negation. He is not the other by necessity.
The slope facts and the cliff facts that Breton references on page 20 is interesting to think about. Here he has a hierarchy of facts, some of which only he can be the witness of and others he flatters himself that he possesses the full details. But, some of those facts deny a person rational acknowledgement and it is only by "our very instinct of self-preservation to enable us to do so" (Breton, 20). Breton seems to state that some facts are so inescapable, so brute and thus, so horrifying that we can only escape them through a matter of self-preservation.
Breton has some interesting views on the moral value of work. "I am forced to accept the notion of work as a material necessity, and in this regard I strongly favor its better, that is its fairer, division. I admit life's grim obligations make it a necessity, but never that I should believe in its value, revere my own or that of other men" (Breton, 59-60). To Breton, work is a means to an end, a necessary evil. The only good that can come from work is the material gains that come from it, not the character that it can provide.
"But it's so easy to return slowly toward the Rue Lafayette, the Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere - to begin by going back to the very spot where we were" (Breton, 74). Interestingly, after leaving Nadja at her door where he discovers that she is at the extreme limit of the surrealist aspiration, he questions what now? So he goes back to where he was; to begin again anew. I'm not sure if this is to repeat the cycle, or if it is an act of cowardice.
"Unless you have been inside a sanitarium you do not know that madmen are made there, just as criminals are made in our reformatories. Is there anything more detestable than these systems of so-called social conservation which, for a peccadillo, some initial and exterior rejection of respectability or common sense, hurl an individual among others whose association can only be harmful to him and, above all, systematically deprive him of relations with everyone whose moral or practical sense is more firmly established than his own?" (Breton, 139). This is such a scathing rebuke of Breton's societal surroundings about prisons and mental health professionals. Madmen are made in the madhouse. Criminals are made in the prison system. And, what's worse, its done systematically. It's not an accident. The system is tragically flawed and will always produce those results. In spite of Breton writing in 1928 France, the same still stands here in 21st century. The criminals are hardened in their reforming prisons. Criminals are made in the prison system.
"The most absolute sense of love or revolution...involved the negation of everything else" (Breton, 153). This is a very true thing. Love and revolution require total commitment to the cause. That said, I find the surrealist touch here a bit interesting. There seems to be an equating going on between love and revolution as if they are one in the same.
"But that is the way of the world, isn't it, the outer world, that is - a matter of sleep-walking" (154). Again the surrealist applies the opposite of reality. The outer world is the sleep-walking world. Does this mean that the inner world, the world of sleep and dreams is the world of awareness?
The Hegel quote in the end is interesting: "each man hopes and believes he is better than the world which is his, but the man who is better merely expresses this same world better than the others" (Breton, 159).
Philosophical Concepts:
"What I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am" (Breton, 11). This idea of renunciation or to put it in economic terms, the opportunity cost of becoming who you are by ceasing who you were was just a fascinating thought for me.
"I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them" (Breton, 13). In this we see Breton struggling to discover once again who he is, by comparing himself to others to see who he is by negation. He is not the other by necessity.
The slope facts and the cliff facts that Breton references on page 20 is interesting to think about. Here he has a hierarchy of facts, some of which only he can be the witness of and others he flatters himself that he possesses the full details. But, some of those facts deny a person rational acknowledgement and it is only by "our very instinct of self-preservation to enable us to do so" (Breton, 20). Breton seems to state that some facts are so inescapable, so brute and thus, so horrifying that we can only escape them through a matter of self-preservation.
Breton has some interesting views on the moral value of work. "I am forced to accept the notion of work as a material necessity, and in this regard I strongly favor its better, that is its fairer, division. I admit life's grim obligations make it a necessity, but never that I should believe in its value, revere my own or that of other men" (Breton, 59-60). To Breton, work is a means to an end, a necessary evil. The only good that can come from work is the material gains that come from it, not the character that it can provide.
"But it's so easy to return slowly toward the Rue Lafayette, the Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere - to begin by going back to the very spot where we were" (Breton, 74). Interestingly, after leaving Nadja at her door where he discovers that she is at the extreme limit of the surrealist aspiration, he questions what now? So he goes back to where he was; to begin again anew. I'm not sure if this is to repeat the cycle, or if it is an act of cowardice.
"Unless you have been inside a sanitarium you do not know that madmen are made there, just as criminals are made in our reformatories. Is there anything more detestable than these systems of so-called social conservation which, for a peccadillo, some initial and exterior rejection of respectability or common sense, hurl an individual among others whose association can only be harmful to him and, above all, systematically deprive him of relations with everyone whose moral or practical sense is more firmly established than his own?" (Breton, 139). This is such a scathing rebuke of Breton's societal surroundings about prisons and mental health professionals. Madmen are made in the madhouse. Criminals are made in the prison system. And, what's worse, its done systematically. It's not an accident. The system is tragically flawed and will always produce those results. In spite of Breton writing in 1928 France, the same still stands here in 21st century. The criminals are hardened in their reforming prisons. Criminals are made in the prison system.
"The most absolute sense of love or revolution...involved the negation of everything else" (Breton, 153). This is a very true thing. Love and revolution require total commitment to the cause. That said, I find the surrealist touch here a bit interesting. There seems to be an equating going on between love and revolution as if they are one in the same.
"But that is the way of the world, isn't it, the outer world, that is - a matter of sleep-walking" (154). Again the surrealist applies the opposite of reality. The outer world is the sleep-walking world. Does this mean that the inner world, the world of sleep and dreams is the world of awareness?
The Hegel quote in the end is interesting: "each man hopes and believes he is better than the world which is his, but the man who is better merely expresses this same world better than the others" (Breton, 159).
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