Thoughts From a Severed Head

[I wrote this tonight, while I should have been sleeping, based on the 2-minute walk from the college's main building to my dorm. I decided to post it, as melodramatic as it is, just because I have nothing else to do with it. It's not supposed to be good writing, it's just what came out. Like barfing, but less gross. I seem to have switched to second person partway along, but never doubt, it is about me. The title was simply the first one I could think of; it's a line from a Nightwish song.]

It is a weird night. A wild, windy night. A night for ghosts. A night that makes me nostalgic enough to cry, but I'm not sure why or for what. A night where I want to go outside and scream and laugh my defiance, shout to all the ghosts that I am alive. But do I dare?

It's the type of night where you go out walking, just because you can, and the shadows sneak up on you and they're not shadows but ghosts and they're not ghosts but echoes and memories given solidity, your entire past rushing down on you with the force of a tidal wave. Your current love-- but is she? Your past love, your first love, your Heart's Desire-- she is suddenly there, over your shoulder, crying her lament in your ear. "Was I not perfect? Were we not meant to be? Did you not have every speck of my skin, every inch of my soul, mapped out in your blazing eyes? Then why did you let me go? Why am I now being courted by another? Why do I give court to him?" Perhaps, you think, she was not and never could be. Perhaps you had built her up as a statue of imagined marble, where in reality she was base clay. But no, your soul screams. No. There was nothing base about her.

It is the type of night where old friendships and old battles come rushing past the ears, past the eyes. Old enemies leer at you, the laughter of the group of morons who could not understand your brilliance echoes in your ears. But other laughter is there, too-- the laughter of friends come and gone. There, in Mitchell's eye--the sparkling admiration at your witty remark. But something else is there, too--is that a hint of the derision with which he'll come to treat me, in later days? And other friends, better friends, sparkle in my memory too. But over these images is the pall of sadness, the veil of tears. Why did they all leave? We used to marvel at the set of divine circumstances that brought us together, two who were so like one another when the whole world was so different. Two who would understand where no one else understood. But was there some force, equally divine, pulling us apart again? Must we always say goodbye, always and forever?

In the end, the night wins. This night, at least. I retreat, hole up in my small room--but open a window to show the night I am not afraid. Another night, perhaps, I would go out and fight, the fight that is frivolous and yet heals the soul. But this night, I am tired, and I must sleep.

Quantum What Now?

For anyone who's wondered about Quantum Theory--questions like, "What the crap is it," for example, might do well to read this article, by Stephen Barr, a theoretical particle physicist who also happens to be a Christian. He makes the best stab at explaining Quantum Theory I've ever seen (not that I've investigated much), and he further relates it to faith. Just... yeah, read the article.

Tristram Shandy, Again

So, the other night I was feeling rather melancholy, the type one gets from long car trips and lack of sleep and the ending of vacations. For cheering up, I turned to my beaten, battered, well-loved copy of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. I found this book hilarious from the very first page, the very first sentence; I can't understand what problem many English professors and an apparent majority of other people who read it have with it. I can't understand how one can start it and not have the urge to read the rest immediately. I wish I could eat that book, have it climb inside me and ride around for a while.

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they
begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what they were then doing;--that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;--and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost;--Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,--I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that in which the reader is likely to see me.

Book Tag

(Stolen by a cadre of ninjas from Nat.)

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.
6. Tag another person.

He held it to the light. A single bit of sediment coiling in the jar on some slow hydraulic axis. He tipped the jar and drank and he drank slowly but still he drank nearly the whole jar.

Cormac McCarthy, The Road.

EDIT: I have decided to actually tag people, which Nat didn't do, making me a slightly better person than he is.

I hereby tag Bruce, Zeke, UnFreddy Jones, Rachel D, Rachel E, and Fred Jones (just because he won't respond).

A Pairty!

It is none of my intention to turn this into a poetry blog; however, I find that today's topic is, again, poetry. For today is the 249th anniversary of the birth of Scottish poet Robert Burns.

Burns is one of my favorite poets. He was brilliant in his ability to be eloquent about commonplace topics, and in his ability to be sentimental while maintaining an aura of toughness. He's the only person I know of to write a song with great sentimental power that is also one of the greatest drinking songs the world has ever known. Also, reading his poems aloud is great fun, what with the Scotch dialect an' all.

So, the Burns mini-pendium:

A column about him at AllPoetry, with links to some of his best poems.

The only decent version of Auld Lang Syne on apparently all of YouTube.

Great Real McKenzies song from a great Burns poem, The Smokin' Bowl (the song, I'm not sure if that's the poem's name).

My New Favorite Poem

Just thought I'd share. Ask Nat if you want it explained. :P

if i believe
by: e.e. cummings

if i believe
in death be sure
of this
it is

because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold creshendo and silver muting

of seatides
i trusted not,
one night
when in my fingers

drooped your shining body
when my heart
sang between your perfect
breasts

darkness and beauty of stars
was on my mouth petals danced
against my eyes
and down

the singing reaches of
my soul
spoke
the green--

greeting pale
departing irrevocable
sea
i knew thee death.

and when
i have offered up each fragrant
night,when all my days
shall have before a certain

face become
white
perfume
only,

from the ashes
then
thou wilt rise and thou
wilt come to her and brush

the mischief from her eyes and fold
her
mouth the new
flower with

thy unimaginable
wings,where dwells the breath
of all persisting stars

From "Tulips and Chimneys", 1923

Late Night Literary Stream-of-Conciousness

So, first week back here has been fine. I could write an update, but I'm not interested in being more verbose on that subject at the moment.

I was thinking again of Octavia Butler. I'm probably picking on her more than I have any right to, given the extent of my reading of Parable of the Sower, but she is currently the unfortunate catalyst for my thoughts.

I described the aforementioned book as "really annoying," which it is, for reasons listed in a previous post. It occurred to me that this was a form of angering me, and further that couldn't it be argued that that is what literature is supposed to do? Pull one out of one's element, force one to think about sensitive topics--in a sense, make one mad?

I do believe that literature should make people mad, and that a book is intrinsically worth very little save light entertainment unless it offends someone. But, and here's the difference between Butler's book and, say, A Canticle for Leibowitz, bad literature pretending to be good literature is like an annoying little brother repeating "[your name] and [theoretical lover's name] sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g" over and over--annoying, yes, perhaps even angering, but not at all life-shattering, or at least contributing nothing new to the argument. A good book, on the other hand, is like having a trusted friend say to you, "I think you like [theoretical lover's name]," and outline exactly why they think this. They may not be right, and they may make you mad, but at least they have thoughtfully contributed to the argument and, if they're wrong, they've at least forced you to think about it, and think of reasons why they're wrong.

This may be literature's function, after all: to ask questions. I've heard it said that literature cannot be a persuasive argument-good literature is always interpretive. A novel that tries to force you to think one thing and one thing only is not a novel-it is, at best, a parable or a sermon. But what literature can do is force you to face those big questions-what is life? Is there a God? What is happiness? And so forth.

My analogy is imperfect, and except for the previous paragraph, I think this is mostly stuff I've said before. But it is where my thoughts have led me, this newly-minted morning.

(Exit, pursued by a bear)

Back to School...

Well, I couldn't resist one last post.

A few days ago, I saw the movie The Great Debaters. There was a line therein that made me not mind going back to school (I didn't mind that much already, but it made me mind even less). One of the characters is kind of a waif, but he keeps ending up coming back to college. When one of his professors asks him why, he replies, "College is the only place you can read all day."

Hm. Never thought of that.

I mean, if you count class lectures as reading, and good lectures (in most subjects) are very akin to that, it's basically true. At home, I couldn't really read all day because I was doing family stuff, or whatever. Were I not in school, I'd be working, and that would take up my days. But now... yeah. I'm glad I was shown this now, rather than, say, four years on.

Books! Pt. 2.

Books I actually finished. Haha.

Feed, by MT Anderson. Yes, of Whales on Stilts fame. This book is less loopy than the Thrilling Tales. It is set in what has become a fairly common SF future: virtual reality, chips implanted directly into the brain, an internet-ish Feed displayed directly across the eyeballs, etc. Anderson uses the setting excellently, taking a set of kids two or three generations on from ours and showing the kind of vapid little buggers they seem almost destined to be. This book is an indictment of the profane, ignorant, unthinking, willfully unintelligent side of our society; the side that is seemingly becoming the dominant mode. Don't get me wrong, though, there are some very funny bits. Further, the subversive character, the one who likes to think independently, etc, is homesechooled.

Extras, by Scott Westerfeld. The sequel to the Pretties trilogy, and not a particularly good one. The characters in this book aren't that interesting, and there is none of the transformation or emotional depth of the other three to keep one involved. The story is rather dopey; it seems like it was drawn from an old issue of Galactic Science Fiction. The most interesting bit is the futuristic setting and scenery, the descriptions of various incredibly advanced body-mod surgeries available four hundred years from now. But apart from the surgeries, the ultra-computerized setting is something I've seen done a hundred times, and Westerfeld does nothing particularly new with it. Recommended? If you've read the other three, and have nothing else do to for an afternoon. *shrug*

Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein. One of those classics of sci-fi, that also happens to be fairly entertaining. A novel of the army in the future, obviously written by someone who's been in the army. At times, it almost seems like Army propaganda, and at others, like propaganda for Heinlein's own philosophy. However, while the author's views are strongly there, they're always thought-provoking, and he never quite gets to shoving them down your throat. A good book.

Battle Royale, by Koushun Takami (translated from the Japanese). Now here's an interesting book. The totalitarian Republic of Greater East Asia takes 9th-grade classes, strands them on deserted islands with weapons and survival packs, and has the kids kill each other. The last one standing wins. This book is not for the weak of stomach; things are described with what I found an unnecessary level of detail. Despite this, the scenario itself is almost irresistibly intriguing, at least for a while. (The book is about 1/3rd too long.) Whether there are any redemptive qualities, that is the question. There are a couple interesting points. Ultimately, whatever redemption is achieved is done so through trust, but not a sort of hippie "free love" trust--it is trust that comes at a great cost.

There were a couple scenes that had the aura of life in a microcosm: the boy who has a crush on a girl, seeks her throughout the game despite sustaining several wounds, finally finds her-and she, having no idea, shoots him. There is something infinitely-and classically-tragic about the way this scene plays out. Worth reading if you don't mind the violence.

No Country For Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy. An incredibly interesting book. I'm tempted to also label it "incredibly good," recommend it, and leave it at that, for it is also hard to summarize. It's about a hunt for treasure, a battle of wits between two desperate men, crime. It's about a guy who goes around murdering people. It's about a world that is quickly becoming no country for old men. And yet, it's about none of these things. Violent in places, though rather a let-down after the last book. Ah well. Read it.

Light, by M. John Harrison. I'm actually in the middle of this one now, and will hopefully have it done by the time I start school again. This is a really bizarre sci-fi novel, the kind of mind-blowing story that could only be told by someone with a good grasp on quantum theory, and a similar willingness to throw it all out the window. This is the kind of book that while you can read it fast, you can't skim. Harrison creates both a future and a present where everything seems alien, and if you skip one paragraph you might as well have missed a key chapter. This is rare, these days. (Ubiquitous warning: as with too much modern fiction, there are some sexually explicit scenes.) Recommended if you already read books that ought to have the previous warning attached.

In summary,

Avoid: Parable of the Sower

Must-reads: Feed, No Country For Old Men, Starship Troopers.

Only read if you must: Extras.

Books! Pt. 1.

As a parting shot before I return to Radio Silence, I figured I would post some quick reviews of stuff I've been reading over break. I set out to catch up on my reading, and while I am not caught up and probably never will be, apart from that I think I succeeded spectacularly. Highlights to follow.

First, I would like to note that it seems to have become even more difficult for a book to satisfy me. I have read too many, perhaps, and so unless a certain book is in one way or another (prose, plot, setting, ideas) though preferably in several ways really good, I have trouble staying interested. Further, there are so many books to get through, that I feel no compunction to waste time on a book unless it is 1. Necessary or Valuable To Have Read (ie, classics--I will slog through various "classics" because they are greatly helpful to be familiar with if one wants to be well-read; similar with various fairly bad sci-fi books, if they're part of the founding-stones of the genre), and/or 2. Enormously Entertaining (this is pretty self-explanatory). (How's that for a sentence, Nat? ;)) So, perhaps appropriately, we will start off with a couple books I didn't completely read.

Wild at Heart, by John Eldredge. This book, as its subtitle suggests, is about "discovering the secret to a man's soul." Eldredge is searching for the "mystery of masculinity," from a Biblical perspective. Now, I'm not going to pretend to give a fair review here, seeing as I got through no more than Chapter 1. The author gets points for being well-read, and he is right about a lot of things (the feminization of both society and the church, etc). But he is incredibly, annoyingly melodramatic, and he makes sweeping generalizations that often don't quite work, and I just don't trust him. I don't particularly like this sort of psychological "soul-searching," so to continue reading this sort of thing the author has to be someone I wouldn't mind being strongly influenced by (probably part of the reason the only book in this vein I ever really liked was The Four Loves, by CS Lewis). I agree with Eldredge that masculinity is a great mystery; I'm just not really interested in his solution.

Parable of the Sower, by Octavia E. Butler. I believe Butler was the first black female sci-fi writer to be published, or at least to make it big in the genre. She gets kudos for that, as well as for having a cool name. Additionally, she is a good writer. That is where my praise ends. I read the first fifty pages of this book, before putting it aside. I wasn't fed up, but was getting there. The main character has all the metaphysical answers to life the universe and everything all worked out, at fifteen years of age. Her theological ramblings are not only pastiche and idiotic, they are internally illogical. The semi-post-apocalyptic setting is interesting, but it too is pastiche, save for a certain unnecessary grittiness. Just, really annoying.

The Princess and the Goblin, by George MacDonald. I know, I know, I know. MacDonald is one of the founding-stones of fantasy, he's a classic, all sorts of people love this book, and on anon ad nauseam. After fifty pages, though, I couldn't get past the condescending style (or seemingly so) and the general loopiness of the prose. Ah well; I'll read MacDonald's Lillith yet. It was more influential anyway; hopefully it will go better. (And no, this isn't a contradiction of my statement three paragraphs ago. This particular book wasn't all that influential; anyway, I will probably return to it when I have a bit more time.)

<_< This post seems almost to have gotten out of hand. Very well. It will be its own, negative, with the balancing post containing books I actually finished to follow.

Idyll

If it seems like I have been blogging an inordinate amount this past week, it's because I have been. I've been posting all the stuff I should have posted over the course of the past four months, but have been prevented by the need to keep a respectable GPA and so forth. So this makes up for the general silence, and will hopefully make up for the fact that I'm unlikely to post much between now and late March. So if one wanted to read a post or two at a time between now and then, pretending they were showing up periodically rather than in a torrential aggregation, one could. ;)

(Exit, pursued by a bear)

True Love ("Twue Wove")

Some people, I've noticed, seem to consider this concept of "True Love" as if it were a theological point--something worth mulling at length, considering, forming an opinion on, and trying to argue others out of their opinions if they think them wrong. This is all, in my opinion, incredibly stupid.

Love itself, especially the romantic kind, is an incredibly slippery concept. It seems that no matter what brilliant conclusion you've reached about it, no matter what platitude you decide to subscribe to and spew forth, there is always something--a historical precedent, a possible scenario, logic--something to disrupt said conclusion.

Asking someone if they believe in "True Love" is liking asking them if they believe in the Hero With a Thousand Faces.

Ask me to explain that sentence. I won't. It is its own explanation.