The FINAL EXAM for Masterpieces of Western Literature and Philosophy, affectionately known as 'LitHum,' for first-years at Columbia University in the City of New York, will begin in T-2 hours, at 12:30pm EST Friday, May 6, 2011.
It has been a pleasure blogging my reading. I've tried to refrain from stating the obvious in my posts, so hopefully this compilation of disconnected, random thoughts have added new insight to the conversation on literature and philosophy.
Above all, thanks for reading; maybe next year I'll have another blog for Contemporary Civilization, or 'CC.'
What a glorious, sunny day it is.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
"To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf (pt. 2 of 2) and incoherent ramblings
The lighthouse. Like the thought of summer, it beckons in the distance, that shining beacon of endless possibilities and opportunities; the buzzing of cicadas, droning of the lone biplane overhead, and the smell of dried grass. I close my eyes every now and then while reading this book. Thinking about summer makes me yearn for a distant past, of a past that haunts my hopes of summer and peace. A door slams. I step out of my room into the hallway, and from the lounge at the end of the hall, the grating babble of a sports commentator suddenly washes over me, disrupting a moment of peace I had found. No; a paper to write--two papers. Have I heard back from that summer job posting? What did I forget?--No, what is the use of thinking, worrying, always chastising myself for not being the best I can possibly be. But what is the use? Yes; we are here as students. Our sole task is to absorb knowledge, learn about new ways of thinking, and maybe have a little fun. Like hampsters on a hampster-wheel, we push forward in repetition; unthinking; unfeeling--so we beat on.
Notice The Great Gatsby reference in that last line. The last line of that book was so powerful I inadvertently committed it to memory. It goes something like: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
Okay so maybe my attempt at stream-of-consciousness writing pales in comparison to Virginia Woolf's talent, but we can start to see why To the Lighthouse is sometimes referred to as one of the greatest books of the twentieth century. Woolf enters the sublime (whatever that means). Think about it. Try to catch all the thoughts that pass through your mind. Each thought may have a specific topic, but collectively, all your thoughts are an incoherent mess--only white noise. Woolf, however, has been able to catch these thoughts, and even set them down in words.
To make a profound statement, Lily's painting can be recursively interpreted as Woolf's writing: an attempt at depicting reality--things as they really are--requires an immense amount of effort and concentration. Reflection. Introspection. Meditation. And no, not hippies and yoga.
But Virignia Woolf is too real for me. I noticed that I started looking for run-ons as I was reading, trying to find that glitch in her sentence. At any rate, Woolf is great. I think I will read the book again; let the glorious waves of nostalgia wash over me. And perhaps reread The Great Gatsby while I'm at it.
It's 1:00am. Good night.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
"To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf (pt. 1 of 2)
I've come to appreciate To the Lighthouse the same way I found F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby a memorable book. Virginia Woolf is able to weave spectacularly strong imagery into her stream-of-consciousness writing, creating an interesting atmosphere of a dreamy reality; there is a nostalgic feeling that comes with the mundane description of nature. I haven't quite been able to put my finger on why Woolf's writing is so powerfully evocative, but her writing creates a sense of disconnect, detachment, or even separation between individuals. This separation, I believe, is much like the separation of individuals today; that is, this modern (if not, postmodern) movement toward fierce individualism. Although technology has connected disparate parts of the world, this close connection is taken for granted and, I believe, has also added a new element of separation (for instance, social media or virtual reality websites). Maybe that's why Woolf struck such a powerful note with me.
The first section, "The Window," was similar to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. There are similar themes of the family, of love, and of marriage. Although there were some interesting moments in this first part, I was really hit by the transition to the second part, "Time Passes." For instance, I began to understand why Mrs. Ramsy thinks that her son James, when told that they won't be going to the lighthouse, "he will remember that all his life" (62). What I had taken for granted in part one was suddenly taken away from me in the next section; as time passed, relationships wavered, and people died, the vivid contrast between part one and two suggests the major theme of this novel: change.
I will now go ahead and make a cliched and cheesy interpretation; with change, comes hope. In the distance, there is that lighthouse--that shining beacon of hope. Similar to the green light at the end of the dock that haunts Gatsby, the beacon of hope always stands against the backdrop of our everyday lives; the distant blurry silhouette of the lighthouse. Maybe that's just an obvious simple-minded reading, but the themes of change and hope are undoubtedly universal themes of humanity. Change is our only constant (cliched, I know); and if it were not for hope, why would we bother get out of bed everyday?
[note: this post has not been in anyway funded by the Obama campaign]
Sunday, April 10, 2011
"Crime and Punishment" by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Intense.
That sums it up, especially when reading alone late into the night. The forces of madness slowly creeps into the mind as silently as the plague, almost becoming real. I fell asleep reading the part where Rodya deliriously asks for his socks. I woke up around 3am only to find myself fully-dressed, stumbled about my room looking for my CU ID, and heard myself say, "Where's my socks?" For just a split-second, in the bleak fluorescent light of my dorm room, I thought I was in Rodya's grimy St. Petersburg room, and that I might have clubbed an old widow to death, and split her half-sister's skull in half. For the briefest of moments, I had entered Rodya's subconscious.
True story. But to regain my sanity, I sauntered down the hall to find a friend who--from reading Crime and Punishment as well--was in a similar state of morbid despondency, or as Joseph Conrad would probably say, a "brooding gloom" (Heart of Darkness).
The point is, these Russian (and Polish) authors really know how to get into your head. The collective emotions of Russia in the late 1800s, coupled with social tensions introduced by the Industrial Revolution and movement towards modernity, came to fruition in these powerful works of literature by Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Solzhenitsyn, and the likes. The inescapable filth of the citys' roads, and utter loss of moral judgment in individuals, create an altogether grim depiction of human nature: murder, prostitution, bankruptcy, alcoholism, domestic violence, and so on.
There is too much to talk about in Crime and Punishment, I feel like I won't be able to do it justice in so such a short post. I'm slightly delirious and rather exhausted right now, I'm positive I've gone mad already. But if I were to pick one thing that stuck out to me, it would be the strong parallels with Notes from the Underground. The Underground Man is essentially identical to Raskolnikov; they are both immensely spiteful characters. They are very rational people, but their hyperrationality has come to border the irrational. They are neurotic. In other words, they can function as normal human beings, but there is a glaring emotional imbalance. After committing his crime, Raskolnikov is repeatedly described as a "hypochondriac," he easily faints, and his health in general deteriorates. Since Notes preceded Crime and Punishment, there are similar themes of power and control. Both men seek control and power. Raskolnikov, for example, terrorizes Sonya and his family, and likens himself to Napoleon. When Porfiry questions him, Raskolnikov thinks he is control when he thinks he doesn''t fall for a trap Porfiry had set for him; he's also paranoid.
So of the numerous themes in Crime and Punishment, power and control are two themes that really stood out to me.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
"Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen
[Update 4/10: Just finished Pride and Prejudice in its beautiful entirety. Am feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I think I have a tear in my eye...what a beautiful ending. *sniff
No, just kidding. So maybe my initial reaction may have been too rough. When I told someone that Pride and Prejudice was similar to Gossip Girl, I was received by a glaring scowl.]
Nevertheless, of the interesting cast of characters in Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth, Darcy, Mr. Bennet, and the Gardingers are characters who would be interesting to meet in real-life.
Elizabeth, as the protagonist, is a remarkably dynamic individual operating within a very static society. For instance, recall the one scene where she trudges through muddied paths and over stone walls to visit her sick sister Jane. By climbing over walls and finding the shortcuts to the Bingley's place, Elizabeth asserts her ability to transcend preconceived societal norms. She travels alone, and arrives at the Bringley residence disheveled and dirty--but she does not seem to mind at all. While the other ladies comment on her appearances, Elizabeth immediately tends to her sick sister.
There are two notable implications of this scene: Elizabeth's complete and utter disregard for social and gender norms and her ability to see past the superficial. That's why, as readers, we are generally inclined to side with Elizabeth.
Perhaps a better way of stating the issue presented in Pride and Prejudice is that social norms are superficial. The norm is to consider all things that concern surfaces; that is, there is tremendous weight placed on the appearance of clothing, apparent wealth, apparent relation to big names, and so on. Like Elizabeth, Mr. Bennett doesn't take such superficial matters so seriously. In response, he talks very little, makes fun of the women of his family, and retreats to his library. And speaking of library, the concept of books and reading is a recurring motif throughout the book. There is one scene where the Bennets, Bringleys, and Darcy retire to the living room after a massive banquet. Both Darcy and Elizabeth separately decide to while the time away by reading (while Miss Bringley, trying to flirt with Darcy, eventually gives up pretending to read).
Elizabeth, Darcy, and Mr. Bennett are all portrayed as avid readers, which attests to why they are such interesting individuals. They are critical readers, as well as critical thinkers. In a way, Darcy and Elizabeth's relationship represents that of individuals who see too much beyond surfaces. In light of the outright shallowness of their social norms, Elizabeth and Darcy struggle to figure out what aspects of their relationship are shallow (i.e. the marriage of Charlotte and Mr. Collins) and actually not shallow (i.e. not being attracted to the social stature of a person, but to personal, intrinsic attributes).
Really, I think Mr. Bennett is the most modern character of the novel. I really like him because he really doesn't give a flying hoot about anything. But that also makes him less interesting and less relevant in terms of what this book intends to do. He is cool, but is too far out. So, in terms of highlighting the major issues raised by the text, Elizabeth appropriately plays the protagonist because she can see through the superficial, but cannot quite extract herself from it. She is limited in so many respects: as a woman, a daughter, as a marriageable woman, and so on. Thus, these different roles she must cater to create a multiplicity of tensions that stretch Elizabeth in all dimensions.
And so after writing this post, I suppose that if I could look beyond the superficial--just like Elizabeth--then things start to become very interesting.
[Here's a clip we watched in class. Elizabeth explicitly asserts herself an equal to Darcy, effectively enraging Lady Catherine.]
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Selected Poetry: Keats and Wordsworth
I like poetry. I honestly do. There is a strange connection between the physical representation of words, rhymes, syntax, and so on, and the abstract feelings that are universal to all humans; joy, sorrow, passion, desire, madness. Poetry, as opposed to prose, involves a very personal and ceremonious communication of our world. The poet meticulously chooses each word. The brevity of this genre of literature provokes us to reflect and to introspect; to unplug from whatever we are wired to; to hit the pause button. Poetry, hopefully, inspires us. By kindling new feelings or introducing new perspectives, poetry provides us an opportunity to reevaluate ourselves and the world we live in.
Maybe if everyone read poetry, life would be pretty good.
But enough of my abstract musings. I like two of Keats poems: "When I have fears that I may cease to be" and "Ode on a Grecian Urn."
"When I have fears," if I remember correctly, was actually on the passage analysis section of the 2008 AP English Literature test. I don't recall what I wrote, but reading this several years later, the poem's last lines still stand out to me:
Maybe if everyone read poetry, life would be pretty good.
But enough of my abstract musings. I like two of Keats poems: "When I have fears that I may cease to be" and "Ode on a Grecian Urn."
"When I have fears," if I remember correctly, was actually on the passage analysis section of the 2008 AP English Literature test. I don't recall what I wrote, but reading this several years later, the poem's last lines still stand out to me:
Of the wide world I stand alone and think,
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Keats eloquently describes the impermanence of our world. In the first part of the poem, he describes all of his worldly ambitions as a poet and as a lover, but ultimately ends with these final two depressing lines.
The fear of death, I think, can be conversely described as an anxiety about freedom. Keats laments the fact that time limits his ability to reach a full potential; mortality is a deplorable human condition. Can there be hope, can there be freedom, when humans are unable to achieve what they can before they die? I do not think that this is a depressing question at all, rather it's entirely relevant to our knowledge of what defines us as humans. To turn the question around: what will we do, what choices will we make, to maximize our potential given this limited amount of time?
On a separate note, the last lines of "Ode on a Grecian Urn" are perhaps Keat's most famous:
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'; that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
There are numerous interpretations of these last two lines. I honestly think that these last two lines are annoyingly cryptic partly because Romantic poetry never intended to be concrete or straightforward. Instead of reading too much into what it means, I think it can be agreed that all other interpretations are just as valid as any other. One interpretation could be that Beauty is the same as Truth, and the implication is that we should stop dwelling on the Truth aspect; if we live life happy, then Truth can be understood and attained. Or another interpretation would be that Beauty and Truth are the same, but the pursuit itself of Truth limits our understanding of Beauty--which is in fact precisely the opposite of what Keats is demonstrating by describing the Beauty of the Grecian Urn. Or perhaps we can apply the same reading we did to "When I have fears," that Beauty is impermanent, and so Truth becomes superficial and irrelevant. Thus in a postmodern sense, although Keats posits that Truth and Beauty are impermanent and superficial, the events depicted on the urn are frozen in time, permanent and worthy of poetic reflection.
Reading poetry is an immensely private activity, but at the same time, poetry contains universal themes and issues everyone can relate to. Each person views the poem through his or her own narrative lens, while the poem itself is in fact representative of the poet's narrative lens--hence its element of novelty comes from being a lens within a lens. However, the poet's lens is rigid and unchanging, while our personal narrative lens are always in flux as long as we are conscious. At any rate, poetry lets us discover shared human perspectives through the poet's narrative voice, and with each new reading, we invariably gain deeper insight into our reasons for being.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Tatler/Spectator Selections
Quite frankly, I am unsure what to make of this reading.
These selections are similar to Montaigne's Essays because of their ridiculous amount of interest in mundane topics (On Polite Conversations, Criticism, Good Taste, Rakes, etc.). However, I suppose that Steele and Addison use these mundane topics as proxies for understanding human nature; as the introduction describes them, "The papers probe human nature not to reveal its bedrock depravity but to expose a common core of reason, sense, and sentiment" (pg. 44).
Occasionally, their attempt at being honest (like Montaigne) made me question their motives. For instance, in Addison's discourse on Criticism, he posits, "A true Critick ought to dwell rather upon Excellencies than Imperfections" (381). A few paragraphs later he states that in his next paper on Milton's Paradise Lost, "I shall just point at the Imperfections, without endeavouring to enflame them with Ridicule" (382). This seems blatantly contradictory because he implies that he will make a petty critique, as opposed to a 'True' critique, by pointing out the "Imperfections" of Milton's writing.
At the same time, however, such inconsistencies are reminiscent of Montaigne's frankness. That is, Addison chooses to write a raw, unedited version of his thoughts and opinions. Thus staying true to the periodical's ambition of describing things as is, of treading the fine line between objective news-reporting and 'libelous scandalmongering" (41).
Having said that, I am quite convinced that the Tatler and Spectator could be accurately described as: painfully insipid 18th-century transcripts of The Colbert Report and The Daily Show.
Wouldn't you agree?
These selections are similar to Montaigne's Essays because of their ridiculous amount of interest in mundane topics (On Polite Conversations, Criticism, Good Taste, Rakes, etc.). However, I suppose that Steele and Addison use these mundane topics as proxies for understanding human nature; as the introduction describes them, "The papers probe human nature not to reveal its bedrock depravity but to expose a common core of reason, sense, and sentiment" (pg. 44).
Occasionally, their attempt at being honest (like Montaigne) made me question their motives. For instance, in Addison's discourse on Criticism, he posits, "A true Critick ought to dwell rather upon Excellencies than Imperfections" (381). A few paragraphs later he states that in his next paper on Milton's Paradise Lost, "I shall just point at the Imperfections, without endeavouring to enflame them with Ridicule" (382). This seems blatantly contradictory because he implies that he will make a petty critique, as opposed to a 'True' critique, by pointing out the "Imperfections" of Milton's writing.
At the same time, however, such inconsistencies are reminiscent of Montaigne's frankness. That is, Addison chooses to write a raw, unedited version of his thoughts and opinions. Thus staying true to the periodical's ambition of describing things as is, of treading the fine line between objective news-reporting and 'libelous scandalmongering" (41).
Having said that, I am quite convinced that the Tatler and Spectator could be accurately described as: painfully insipid 18th-century transcripts of The Colbert Report and The Daily Show.
Wouldn't you agree?
Sunday, March 20, 2011
"Twelfth Night, or What You Will" by Shakespeare
Alas! Butler upsets #1 seed Pittsburgh, Libya is getting bombed, Japan is recovering from a massive tsunamiquake, and phooey, spring break is over.
My deepest condolences and sympathy for all those who cannot find peace.
On the bright side, though, our gracious Lithum instructor has replaced Cervantes' ridiculously gargantuan Don Quixote with Shakespeare's Twelfth Night; the added bonus--it's written originally in English.
In fact, Shakespeare's Twelfth Night is a comedy--a double bonus! No more dead bodies and dark portrayals of humanity's capacity for evil. If I remember correctly, we discussed in class at some point about the purpose of comedies. The Comedy, as opposed to the Tragedy, is not only described by its comic and humor, but also by its ability to produce constructive chaos.
In other words, the chaos of jests and bawdy scenes help drive the plot forward while introducing the more 'serious' themes of truth, justice, love, gender roles, and so on.
So, in Twelfth Night, I found this chaos to be centered around the theme of deception. More specifically, I found the chaos of this deception best represented in the gender confusion of Viola. She dresses like a boy and gains the trust of Count Orsino, thus forming a close relationship with the Count (and one that is faintly homoerotic). Using the guise and alias of Cesario, Viola inadvertently causes Olivia to fall in love with her/him. Finally, Viola's long lost twin, Sebastian, in an incredulous twist of events encounters Olivia, who mistakes him for Cesario. The confusion engendered by this gender inversion drives Malvolio to act unlike himself, which raises questions around the futility of human ambitions.
Of the many human ambitions, love has been a timeless pursuit and perhaps the most powerful and mind-boggling of human emotions. Malvolio, the "puritan," abandons his strict and conservative background for "dressing in cross-garter," wearing obnoxious "yellow stockings," and "smiling" manically in his comic and futile pursuit of Olivia's love. He doesn't realize that Maria deceives him by forging Olivia's handwriting, and nonetheless highlights the hilarity of the madness that love can inspire.
Orsino's abrupt and prompt decision to make Viola his mistress shows powerful sway of love even in light of her duplicity and deception. In fact, while Viola pretends to be Cesario, Orsino already treats him/her very fondly, and even says "That say thou art a man: Diana's lip | Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe | Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, | And all is semblative a woman's part" (I. 4). Despite Viola's nifty guise, Orsino already seems to be falling in love with her. When he commands Cesario to "Unfold the passion of my love" and "Surprise her [Olivia] with the discourse of my dear faith" (I. 4), his intense passion is directed at Cesario so that Cesario could deliver such passion to Olivia; needless to say, this passionate love could subtly have been directed at the messenger Cesario/Viola herself. Count Orsino finally offers his hand to Viola at the play's conclusion, but his promptness reveals that he is not merely in love with Olivia, but perhaps seeks love for its own sake--love as its own end. Viola's deception and attempt at veiling her identity, then, appears futile and fruitless in comparison to the wild and uncontrollable force of love.
Moreover there is Feste the Fool, whose official purpose is to trick and deceive his audience, which hopefully elicits laughter. In a later part, Feste adds a new dimension to his role as lead Deceptor by dressing as Sir Topas the curate to meet with the imprisoned Malvolio, and to cure him of his madness. A strange double inversion is created when Feste, who is officially supposed to be foolish, assumes the persona of a serious member of the clergy.
These are just a few points about the narrative play between the themes of deception and love. They are common human themes, and common narrative themes, but I hope some of these ideas will be of interest and insight to you.
[Malvolio gets pwned]
My deepest condolences and sympathy for all those who cannot find peace.
On the bright side, though, our gracious Lithum instructor has replaced Cervantes' ridiculously gargantuan Don Quixote with Shakespeare's Twelfth Night; the added bonus--it's written originally in English.
In fact, Shakespeare's Twelfth Night is a comedy--a double bonus! No more dead bodies and dark portrayals of humanity's capacity for evil. If I remember correctly, we discussed in class at some point about the purpose of comedies. The Comedy, as opposed to the Tragedy, is not only described by its comic and humor, but also by its ability to produce constructive chaos.
In other words, the chaos of jests and bawdy scenes help drive the plot forward while introducing the more 'serious' themes of truth, justice, love, gender roles, and so on.
So, in Twelfth Night, I found this chaos to be centered around the theme of deception. More specifically, I found the chaos of this deception best represented in the gender confusion of Viola. She dresses like a boy and gains the trust of Count Orsino, thus forming a close relationship with the Count (and one that is faintly homoerotic). Using the guise and alias of Cesario, Viola inadvertently causes Olivia to fall in love with her/him. Finally, Viola's long lost twin, Sebastian, in an incredulous twist of events encounters Olivia, who mistakes him for Cesario. The confusion engendered by this gender inversion drives Malvolio to act unlike himself, which raises questions around the futility of human ambitions.
Of the many human ambitions, love has been a timeless pursuit and perhaps the most powerful and mind-boggling of human emotions. Malvolio, the "puritan," abandons his strict and conservative background for "dressing in cross-garter," wearing obnoxious "yellow stockings," and "smiling" manically in his comic and futile pursuit of Olivia's love. He doesn't realize that Maria deceives him by forging Olivia's handwriting, and nonetheless highlights the hilarity of the madness that love can inspire.
Orsino's abrupt and prompt decision to make Viola his mistress shows powerful sway of love even in light of her duplicity and deception. In fact, while Viola pretends to be Cesario, Orsino already treats him/her very fondly, and even says "That say thou art a man: Diana's lip | Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe | Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, | And all is semblative a woman's part" (I. 4). Despite Viola's nifty guise, Orsino already seems to be falling in love with her. When he commands Cesario to "Unfold the passion of my love" and "Surprise her [Olivia] with the discourse of my dear faith" (I. 4), his intense passion is directed at Cesario so that Cesario could deliver such passion to Olivia; needless to say, this passionate love could subtly have been directed at the messenger Cesario/Viola herself. Count Orsino finally offers his hand to Viola at the play's conclusion, but his promptness reveals that he is not merely in love with Olivia, but perhaps seeks love for its own sake--love as its own end. Viola's deception and attempt at veiling her identity, then, appears futile and fruitless in comparison to the wild and uncontrollable force of love.
Moreover there is Feste the Fool, whose official purpose is to trick and deceive his audience, which hopefully elicits laughter. In a later part, Feste adds a new dimension to his role as lead Deceptor by dressing as Sir Topas the curate to meet with the imprisoned Malvolio, and to cure him of his madness. A strange double inversion is created when Feste, who is officially supposed to be foolish, assumes the persona of a serious member of the clergy.
These are just a few points about the narrative play between the themes of deception and love. They are common human themes, and common narrative themes, but I hope some of these ideas will be of interest and insight to you.
[Malvolio gets pwned]
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
"The Decameron" by Giovanni Boccaccio (selected readings pt. 2)
The reading for the rest of the Decameron follows the similar format and contains similar themes from the first part of the reading. I shall not bore you by repeating my last post.
Here is a big word from class: "paratextual mechanics"
or "forming apparatus." This refers to the surrounding context of the story at hand, and is enormously helpful in understanding the motivation of a narrative. In the Decameron, we can read the plague as the embodiment of chaos, while the group of ten kids provide us a microcosm of contemporary moral views. Furthermore, there was a real anxiety during Boccaccio's time about the vulgar, corrupting nature of books, especially when women are the one's reading. Even if a story isn't as explicit as any of Boccacio's, most tales written for entertainment build up to a catharsis, a release, a moment where the story ends and the plot is fulfilled. What is especially terrifying is how personal of an activity reading is. Those who are in positions of power, whether of the state or of the household, felt that the intimate act of reading silently could potentially stir readers to scheme and rebel against higher powers.
The other thing discussed was the nature of love: fleeting; unavoidable; coping mechanism; we submit to it. We could even think of this in terms of a love versus ingenuity relation. Ingenuity signifies 'art' and 'creativity,' and the word 'art' is related to 'artifice' and 'artificial.' The word love is loaded and carries with it numerous different interpretations.
Finally, the other major point is the power relationships found in these tales; specifically, the narrative form Boccaccio writes of by creating a relation between the duped and the deceiver (Bernabo and Ambrogliuo in II. 9 is a good example). Is deception motivated by love, or vice versa? In the stories, who gets the last laugh? These are some useful ideas to bear in mind.
Here is a big word from class: "paratextual mechanics"
or "forming apparatus." This refers to the surrounding context of the story at hand, and is enormously helpful in understanding the motivation of a narrative. In the Decameron, we can read the plague as the embodiment of chaos, while the group of ten kids provide us a microcosm of contemporary moral views. Furthermore, there was a real anxiety during Boccaccio's time about the vulgar, corrupting nature of books, especially when women are the one's reading. Even if a story isn't as explicit as any of Boccacio's, most tales written for entertainment build up to a catharsis, a release, a moment where the story ends and the plot is fulfilled. What is especially terrifying is how personal of an activity reading is. Those who are in positions of power, whether of the state or of the household, felt that the intimate act of reading silently could potentially stir readers to scheme and rebel against higher powers.
The other thing discussed was the nature of love: fleeting; unavoidable; coping mechanism; we submit to it. We could even think of this in terms of a love versus ingenuity relation. Ingenuity signifies 'art' and 'creativity,' and the word 'art' is related to 'artifice' and 'artificial.' The word love is loaded and carries with it numerous different interpretations.
Finally, the other major point is the power relationships found in these tales; specifically, the narrative form Boccaccio writes of by creating a relation between the duped and the deceiver (Bernabo and Ambrogliuo in II. 9 is a good example). Is deception motivated by love, or vice versa? In the stories, who gets the last laugh? These are some useful ideas to bear in mind.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
"The Decameron" by Giovanni Boccaccio (selected readings pt. 1)
I just finished the tenth story of Day 3 about putting the devil in hell. And I LOLed.
It actually made me LOL more than did Aristophane's Lysistrata.
LOLs aside, I think the comical aspect of The Decameron speaks to the general loss off faith during Boccaccio's time. Augustine's Confessions is arguably the most pro-religion book we've read so far, second only to the Bible. Dante's Inferno also presents religious ideas, but struggles to deal with theological inconsistencies. Finally, we have here The Decameron which, to me, is a sharp critique on religion and divinity in general. That is not to say that religion loses its appeal over time, but that the ideas of the people that make up religion are inevitably influenced by the circumstances of their time.
The Black Death, as was touched upon in Thucydide's History of the Pelopennesian War, wreaks havoc, inspires carnage, and tears apart the most fundamental of human ethics. It is, after all, death parading through the streets of Boccacio's Florentine, forcing people to decide how they will live life in the face of imminent death. Traditions are forgotten, and people naturally come to question the Justness of God for allowing the plague to claim the lives of innocent good Christians. This is all well-documented and explained by Boccaccio himself in the Introduction.
Irony governs most, if not all, of the stories told by this band of ten young Florentines. More specifically, these ribald tales of love and lust intertwined with Christianity invariably end in some wicked twist of Fate, which often originates from some form of human deception. For instance, in the first story from the first day, Ser Ciapelletto blatantly lies during his confession. When he cries to the Father that he had one last grave sin to confess, I half-expected him to say that the whole confession was a lie. Ciapelleto dies but is made a Saint. This immediately brings into question the authenticity of the church.
Yet at the same time, Panfilo (the story-teller) had earlier invoked the power of God for creating the world, and goes on to say that his story less concerned with "the judgment of God, but with that of men" (I. 1. 25). Despite the more obvious attack on the church, Boccaccio presents a potentially redeeming value of Christianity in Panfilo's disclaimer. This could be understood in two ways: one is that people misunderstand God's doing, and are unable to fully comprehend the rationale of God since he is All-knowing; this puts an emphasis on God's judgment. The second interpretation places an emphasis on the judgment of people. Poor judgment has caused them to sin without shame, consequently provoking God to send down a plague to cleanse the world of sinners. In either case, the reasons for the plague relate to human fault, which explains the corruption of Church members as ruining the Church's image.
On a different note, The Decameron to Dante's Inferno similarly place marked emphasis on the sinfulness of deception. Just as Boccaccio's tales highlight the issue of deceit and hypocrisy at both the individual level (Ambrogiuolo the swindler II. 9) and institutional level (corrupt Papacy I. 2), Dante's lower levels of Hell correspond with counterfeiting frauds and traitors of the state. There is a notable connection between the two texts because they equally frown upon the same evils and sins that threaten to subvert a stable society and weaken the Church's standing by forcing paranoia and suspicion upon the masses.
I would rather not read too much into the countless subtexts hidden in Boccaccio's stories. From the reading thus far, I've come under the conclusion that these stories are analytically as rich as Aesop's Fables, where common themes of human nature are quite explicitly suggested. Instead of looking too much into each story (there are one hundred and we have only one week!), it is helpful to think about them in terms of the similar themes that arise--of deception, fraud, lies, corruption, and even of hope.
[After-class notes]
It actually made me LOL more than did Aristophane's Lysistrata.
LOLs aside, I think the comical aspect of The Decameron speaks to the general loss off faith during Boccaccio's time. Augustine's Confessions is arguably the most pro-religion book we've read so far, second only to the Bible. Dante's Inferno also presents religious ideas, but struggles to deal with theological inconsistencies. Finally, we have here The Decameron which, to me, is a sharp critique on religion and divinity in general. That is not to say that religion loses its appeal over time, but that the ideas of the people that make up religion are inevitably influenced by the circumstances of their time.
The Black Death, as was touched upon in Thucydide's History of the Pelopennesian War, wreaks havoc, inspires carnage, and tears apart the most fundamental of human ethics. It is, after all, death parading through the streets of Boccacio's Florentine, forcing people to decide how they will live life in the face of imminent death. Traditions are forgotten, and people naturally come to question the Justness of God for allowing the plague to claim the lives of innocent good Christians. This is all well-documented and explained by Boccaccio himself in the Introduction.
Irony governs most, if not all, of the stories told by this band of ten young Florentines. More specifically, these ribald tales of love and lust intertwined with Christianity invariably end in some wicked twist of Fate, which often originates from some form of human deception. For instance, in the first story from the first day, Ser Ciapelletto blatantly lies during his confession. When he cries to the Father that he had one last grave sin to confess, I half-expected him to say that the whole confession was a lie. Ciapelleto dies but is made a Saint. This immediately brings into question the authenticity of the church.
Yet at the same time, Panfilo (the story-teller) had earlier invoked the power of God for creating the world, and goes on to say that his story less concerned with "the judgment of God, but with that of men" (I. 1. 25). Despite the more obvious attack on the church, Boccaccio presents a potentially redeeming value of Christianity in Panfilo's disclaimer. This could be understood in two ways: one is that people misunderstand God's doing, and are unable to fully comprehend the rationale of God since he is All-knowing; this puts an emphasis on God's judgment. The second interpretation places an emphasis on the judgment of people. Poor judgment has caused them to sin without shame, consequently provoking God to send down a plague to cleanse the world of sinners. In either case, the reasons for the plague relate to human fault, which explains the corruption of Church members as ruining the Church's image.
On a different note, The Decameron to Dante's Inferno similarly place marked emphasis on the sinfulness of deception. Just as Boccaccio's tales highlight the issue of deceit and hypocrisy at both the individual level (Ambrogiuolo the swindler II. 9) and institutional level (corrupt Papacy I. 2), Dante's lower levels of Hell correspond with counterfeiting frauds and traitors of the state. There is a notable connection between the two texts because they equally frown upon the same evils and sins that threaten to subvert a stable society and weaken the Church's standing by forcing paranoia and suspicion upon the masses.
I would rather not read too much into the countless subtexts hidden in Boccaccio's stories. From the reading thus far, I've come under the conclusion that these stories are analytically as rich as Aesop's Fables, where common themes of human nature are quite explicitly suggested. Instead of looking too much into each story (there are one hundred and we have only one week!), it is helpful to think about them in terms of the similar themes that arise--of deception, fraud, lies, corruption, and even of hope.
[After-class notes]
- Boccaccio is an Ovidian Scholar, and he must also have been influenced by Dante and Augustine
- Like Ovid, Boccaccio presents a situation, but does not explicitly take sides.
- The Decameron was considered a work of 'extended fiction;' the term 'novel' didn't exist yet
- Love here is primarily understood in its 'eros' aspect
- Love <=> Plague
- Augustine abhors love that has nothing to do with God; he is disgusted with the body
- Dante expresses sympathy for those who fall in love
- Boccaccio takes a less serious tone; love becomes less of an immoral concept
- The idea of "end justifies the means," or pragmatism
- Ciapelleto (I. 1) is venerated despite his immoral past
- Alatiel (II. 7) lies to her father that she is a virgin, but this allows her a happy marriage and gives her family stability
- contrary to Augustine, who is concerned with the individual
- This book is aimed at a female audience, but what problem does it address? Is it the problem of love itself, or the confinement of women? How does Boccaccio view women?
- Lady Zinerva (II. 9) must disguise herself as a man to bring justice to her honor
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Dante's "Inferno" (last half)
As I was finishing reading about people getting mutilated and tortured, I was drifting in and out of this semi-conscious trance. I only realized how tired I was after reading the same five lines over and over.
Speaking of which, I'm not sure if Dante would have been tired after traversing the numerous levels, pockets, and sections of Hell. Book 17 onwards seemed a bit repetitive, but I suppose that's because the ghastly novelty of Hell had lost its initial appeal.
Nevertheless, I wish to touch some ideas from the last half of Inferno.
The main theme surrounding Dante's deeper levels of hell revolves around this idea of sinning against other people, the community, or the state. Terms like 'fraud,' 'falsify,' and 'traitor' bear a significance in that they affect not only the sinner, but also the community at large. Perhaps this lends itself to Dante's Judeo-Christian ideology that places an emphasis on God's creations. That is, to betray your country or to disseminate vast amounts of counterfeit money is ultimately a betrayal of God's trust as well as an ill-treatment of God's subjects, all of whom owe their existence to him.
Furthermore, as was discussed in class previously, fraud and acts of cunning are deliberately planned by the perpetrator. They require premeditation and willful intent. Lust and rage, on the other hand, deserve less severe punishments because they are impulse-driven and the extent of damage reaches to the familial level at most. Traitors and frauds undermine the social and economic stability of an empire. And so in a time when empires conquered and were conquered, Dante accordingly suggests that subverting the security of a society is an egregious act deserving of supreme punishment.
Another thing I noticed was that Virgil's role as a guide expanded to take on many other tasks. Several times, Virgil is actually leading Dante by the hand, or even carrying Dante. At one point, Dante compares Virgil to a mother protecting her child. This perhaps speaks to Dante's reverence of Virgil as a great poet.
Speaking of which, I'm not sure if Dante would have been tired after traversing the numerous levels, pockets, and sections of Hell. Book 17 onwards seemed a bit repetitive, but I suppose that's because the ghastly novelty of Hell had lost its initial appeal.
Nevertheless, I wish to touch some ideas from the last half of Inferno.
The main theme surrounding Dante's deeper levels of hell revolves around this idea of sinning against other people, the community, or the state. Terms like 'fraud,' 'falsify,' and 'traitor' bear a significance in that they affect not only the sinner, but also the community at large. Perhaps this lends itself to Dante's Judeo-Christian ideology that places an emphasis on God's creations. That is, to betray your country or to disseminate vast amounts of counterfeit money is ultimately a betrayal of God's trust as well as an ill-treatment of God's subjects, all of whom owe their existence to him.
Furthermore, as was discussed in class previously, fraud and acts of cunning are deliberately planned by the perpetrator. They require premeditation and willful intent. Lust and rage, on the other hand, deserve less severe punishments because they are impulse-driven and the extent of damage reaches to the familial level at most. Traitors and frauds undermine the social and economic stability of an empire. And so in a time when empires conquered and were conquered, Dante accordingly suggests that subverting the security of a society is an egregious act deserving of supreme punishment.
Another thing I noticed was that Virgil's role as a guide expanded to take on many other tasks. Several times, Virgil is actually leading Dante by the hand, or even carrying Dante. At one point, Dante compares Virgil to a mother protecting her child. This perhaps speaks to Dante's reverence of Virgil as a great poet.
Monday, February 14, 2011
"The Divine Comedy: Inferno" by Dante Alighieri (Bk 1-17)
I found Dante's Inferno very intriguing, just as anyone would be curious to know what hell is like--supposing it exists. I also found myself wondering why I found it so. Perhaps we are captivated in the same way horror films and roller coasters hold mysterious sway over us--either out of sheer curiosity or for thrill's sake. Or may be it's really a genuine desire to understand the mysterious, something that distinguishes us as humans in search of "truth" and "meaning."
Anyway, just putting this out there because it was such a LitHum moment.
From a very big-picture perspective, the major contrast in Inferno is the juxtaposition of the world and the underworld; and by extension, reality and fantasy. The story itself is reminiscent of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, where the story begins in ambiguous fashion. The reader is unsure of what Dante means by "I had lost the path that does not stray" (1. 3). It could be taken literally, meaning that Dante really lost his way and randomly ended up in Hell. It could be taken figuratively, meaning Dante had strayed from the path of goodness, and is given a sinner's tour of Hell. Or it could be that Dante has been sleeping all along, and this could end up just being an elaborate dream. The first few pages of Inferno seem deliberately vague, giving the reader tremendous freedom in choosing how to contextualize the story.
After the first few Cantos, however, the underworld becomes more real and tangible, while the living world fades into a misty past--as Dante descends deeper into Hell, Hell becomes 'real-er.' One way to think of this is the increasing amount of fear Dante has at each level. In the upper echelons of Hell, Dante's encounter with sinners of incontinence happens in a disconnected manner; the conversations with the Shades (souls of dead people) is very detached, making Dante more connected with the living-world. At the Wall of Dis, however, Dante becomes genuinely fearful that Virgil will be forced to abandon him in the underworld forever. Several levels deeper, Virgil warns Dante that looking at the Gorgon sister Medusa would really petrify him. The increase in depth is followed by an increase in the concreteness of the underworld, making the above-world seem a dim memory far away.
Inferno also conveys a more developed notion of fear than do the other books we've read. The Old Testament calls for a devotee to fear God, so do Aeneas and Augustine subject themselves to the will of God(s) out of fear. Dante was literally pissing himself while at Dis when he thought he'd be doomed there forever, so in response Virgil comforts him, "Forget your fear, no one can hinder our passage; One so great has granted it" (8. 104-5). Instead of fearing God for his magnificence and power, Dante is told that he should be fearless simply because God is so great and powerful that there is nothing to fear. At the same time, by the choice of God and three women above, it could be that Dante is given this special tour of the underworld because he is inherently less sinful than other people. In this case, the concept of being 'good' becomes more developed because a true subject of God is implied to be fearless since there is nothing to fear.
On a final less abstruse note, the placement of characters from other books we've read into different levels of hell is something worth noting because it reveals Dante's position on these books. For instance, Achilleus is found at the level of Lust, while Hektor is above him in limbo. The Aeneid counterpart of Achilleus, daring Turnus, however, is found in limbo along with Aeneas. The Aeneid argues that Turnus was driven mad by the gods to make war with the Trojans, so Dante accordingly absolves him of any sin by placing him in limbo.
Dido, on the other hand, is found at the level of Lust. But wasn't she 'infected' with mad love and 'wounded' by the shafts of Cupid's arrows of wild passion? Dante, again, could really just be expressing his interpretation of the Aeneid, because Virgil anyway comes across in writing as an ardent misogynist.
[After-class edit]:
Actually, Dido is found in the level of Suicides. So although she was caused to be lustful by the gods, she ultimately still brought about her own end.
Some things as discussed:
In short, Dante lived far later than did Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. This picture tries to contextualize Dante's influences.
Anyway, just putting this out there because it was such a LitHum moment.
From a very big-picture perspective, the major contrast in Inferno is the juxtaposition of the world and the underworld; and by extension, reality and fantasy. The story itself is reminiscent of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, where the story begins in ambiguous fashion. The reader is unsure of what Dante means by "I had lost the path that does not stray" (1. 3). It could be taken literally, meaning that Dante really lost his way and randomly ended up in Hell. It could be taken figuratively, meaning Dante had strayed from the path of goodness, and is given a sinner's tour of Hell. Or it could be that Dante has been sleeping all along, and this could end up just being an elaborate dream. The first few pages of Inferno seem deliberately vague, giving the reader tremendous freedom in choosing how to contextualize the story.
After the first few Cantos, however, the underworld becomes more real and tangible, while the living world fades into a misty past--as Dante descends deeper into Hell, Hell becomes 'real-er.' One way to think of this is the increasing amount of fear Dante has at each level. In the upper echelons of Hell, Dante's encounter with sinners of incontinence happens in a disconnected manner; the conversations with the Shades (souls of dead people) is very detached, making Dante more connected with the living-world. At the Wall of Dis, however, Dante becomes genuinely fearful that Virgil will be forced to abandon him in the underworld forever. Several levels deeper, Virgil warns Dante that looking at the Gorgon sister Medusa would really petrify him. The increase in depth is followed by an increase in the concreteness of the underworld, making the above-world seem a dim memory far away.
Inferno also conveys a more developed notion of fear than do the other books we've read. The Old Testament calls for a devotee to fear God, so do Aeneas and Augustine subject themselves to the will of God(s) out of fear. Dante was literally pissing himself while at Dis when he thought he'd be doomed there forever, so in response Virgil comforts him, "Forget your fear, no one can hinder our passage; One so great has granted it" (8. 104-5). Instead of fearing God for his magnificence and power, Dante is told that he should be fearless simply because God is so great and powerful that there is nothing to fear. At the same time, by the choice of God and three women above, it could be that Dante is given this special tour of the underworld because he is inherently less sinful than other people. In this case, the concept of being 'good' becomes more developed because a true subject of God is implied to be fearless since there is nothing to fear.
On a final less abstruse note, the placement of characters from other books we've read into different levels of hell is something worth noting because it reveals Dante's position on these books. For instance, Achilleus is found at the level of Lust, while Hektor is above him in limbo. The Aeneid counterpart of Achilleus, daring Turnus, however, is found in limbo along with Aeneas. The Aeneid argues that Turnus was driven mad by the gods to make war with the Trojans, so Dante accordingly absolves him of any sin by placing him in limbo.
Dido, on the other hand, is found at the level of Lust. But wasn't she 'infected' with mad love and 'wounded' by the shafts of Cupid's arrows of wild passion? Dante, again, could really just be expressing his interpretation of the Aeneid, because Virgil anyway comes across in writing as an ardent misogynist.
[After-class edit]:
Actually, Dido is found in the level of Suicides. So although she was caused to be lustful by the gods, she ultimately still brought about her own end.
Some things as discussed:
- Dante is more of a protagonist than a hero.
- What compels Dante?
- Ambiguity of the plot-->representative of the "restlessness of the human spirit."
- Courtly love-relationship of Dante and Beatrice precedes 'Godly' relationship/spiritual progress.
- Emphasis on Faith over good-work
- Levels of Hell: emphasis on
- intent (e.g. fraud apparently requires more intent than does wrath)
- extent of sin (e.g. traitors/counterfeiters completely undermine stability of society, thus affecting more people)
- Why is Virgil the guide, instead of St. Augustine or some other angel?
In short, Dante lived far later than did Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. This picture tries to contextualize Dante's influences.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
"Confessions" by Saint Augustine (Bk 6-10)
Books 1-7 follow a rather monotonous storyline. Most of it is a litany of Augustine's confessions. But from Book 8 onwards, things start picking up. And then things start to get real in Book 10 (and 11).
There were three instances in the reading that stuck out to me: Augustine's conversion, the death of his mother, and his thoughts on why there is evil in the world. I found these to be major 'plot drivers' in the sense that they marked major points of tension that arose in his spiritual maturation.
One way to understand the structure of Confessions is to think of each of Augustine's stories as tension points. They build up in pressure and suspense but are always followed by a cathartic release. Each time he is troubled, he finds solace and support in God. Book 8 is where Augustine's search for truth reaches a culmination as he chooses the word of God over the secular. The equivalent of a climax could perhaps be found in 8.29, where he hears a child singing "Pick up and read," which inspires him to pick up a religious book containing a quote that galvanizes his instant conversion to God and renunciation of the secular.
This leads to the second point about Monica, Augustine's mother. The single term I would ascribe to Monica after reading all this is "servant." Although somewhere in the footnotes there is mention that she had done un-Christian things and engaged in alcoholism, she is portrayed by Augustine as the single most important reason he finally believed in God. And she is, for the most part, somewhat the ideal Christian homemaker. In Augustine's words, "She exercised care for everybody as if they were all her own children. She served us as if she as a daughter to all of us." (8. 22)
In one of Monica's final intimate conversations with her son, she says that Augustine's submission to God was all she wanted her whole life, and so she had nothing else to live for. She says, "I see you despising the world's success to become his servant. What have I to do here?" (8. 26) The key point here is the word "servant." Being a good Christian is, apparently, being one who is subservient to one's Creator and His will. And so, the interesting point I see here is that Monica embodies subservience. Augustine's conversion in a garden at Milan marks a similar transition into becoming a servant of God.
Finally, the discussion on evil in Book 7 marks another major point that is less of a plot-driver, and more of an example where the "confessions" of Augustine become a rhetorical device; he seems to be doing more introspection and thinking and less confessing. He begins to describe a major theological problem that still faces the church today: that is, if there is an Almighty Creator, and if he is perfect and good in every aspect, then why are his creations so horribly wretched and capable of great evil?
He so far seems to only describe the problem, and does not directly address it. Augustine topically addresses this issue by saying that in the universe, "there are certain elements which are thought evil because of a conflict of interest." (7. 19). It's not a clear-cut answer he gives, but I do realize that he delves more into this issue later on. [In Book 11 he goes on to say that there was "no time before creation" and how the nature of time can be used to resolve this issue. I myself am not clear about it.]
[If you're interested ten-dollar philosophy terms like "distension of time," you should definitely read into Book 11. I thought it was part of the required reading so I read into it, and it was mind-blowing to say the least.]
There were three instances in the reading that stuck out to me: Augustine's conversion, the death of his mother, and his thoughts on why there is evil in the world. I found these to be major 'plot drivers' in the sense that they marked major points of tension that arose in his spiritual maturation.
One way to understand the structure of Confessions is to think of each of Augustine's stories as tension points. They build up in pressure and suspense but are always followed by a cathartic release. Each time he is troubled, he finds solace and support in God. Book 8 is where Augustine's search for truth reaches a culmination as he chooses the word of God over the secular. The equivalent of a climax could perhaps be found in 8.29, where he hears a child singing "Pick up and read," which inspires him to pick up a religious book containing a quote that galvanizes his instant conversion to God and renunciation of the secular.
This leads to the second point about Monica, Augustine's mother. The single term I would ascribe to Monica after reading all this is "servant." Although somewhere in the footnotes there is mention that she had done un-Christian things and engaged in alcoholism, she is portrayed by Augustine as the single most important reason he finally believed in God. And she is, for the most part, somewhat the ideal Christian homemaker. In Augustine's words, "She exercised care for everybody as if they were all her own children. She served us as if she as a daughter to all of us." (8. 22)
In one of Monica's final intimate conversations with her son, she says that Augustine's submission to God was all she wanted her whole life, and so she had nothing else to live for. She says, "I see you despising the world's success to become his servant. What have I to do here?" (8. 26) The key point here is the word "servant." Being a good Christian is, apparently, being one who is subservient to one's Creator and His will. And so, the interesting point I see here is that Monica embodies subservience. Augustine's conversion in a garden at Milan marks a similar transition into becoming a servant of God.
Finally, the discussion on evil in Book 7 marks another major point that is less of a plot-driver, and more of an example where the "confessions" of Augustine become a rhetorical device; he seems to be doing more introspection and thinking and less confessing. He begins to describe a major theological problem that still faces the church today: that is, if there is an Almighty Creator, and if he is perfect and good in every aspect, then why are his creations so horribly wretched and capable of great evil?
He so far seems to only describe the problem, and does not directly address it. Augustine topically addresses this issue by saying that in the universe, "there are certain elements which are thought evil because of a conflict of interest." (7. 19). It's not a clear-cut answer he gives, but I do realize that he delves more into this issue later on. [In Book 11 he goes on to say that there was "no time before creation" and how the nature of time can be used to resolve this issue. I myself am not clear about it.]
[If you're interested ten-dollar philosophy terms like "distension of time," you should definitely read into Book 11. I thought it was part of the required reading so I read into it, and it was mind-blowing to say the least.]
Sunday, February 6, 2011
"Confessions" by Saint Augustine (Bk I-V)
For the most part, the Confessions is reminiscent of the Book of Job in the Old Testament, except that in this case it's written in the first-person, and Satan is more like a guilty conscience, or a superego if you will. Bear in mind that Augustine would have been in his mid-forties when he wrote this, so I'm making a guess that he is going through some kind of mid-life crisis, and realizes that he's growing old, perhaps becoming subconsciously more aware of the stark reality of death.
I don't know whether that is true or not, but at least for me it helps contextualize his depressingly melodramatic confessions to god.
Augustine praises god profusely and continuously scolds himself for having sinned so much. I found it particularly funny when he began to recount his juvenile days. He had stolen some tasteless pears from a nearby orchard with his friends and in his confession seemed genuinely shameful of something he did over 20 years ago. Augustine describes how "Wickedness filled me" (2. 29) as he and his boys furtively stole into the night. I have to admit I chuckled a bit as I was reading this part.
Of course it was stealing nonetheless. But including juvenile delinquencies in your confessions to God seems borderline extreme to me; may be even comical. In any case, I suppose he's using this trivial example to elaborate on a more profound point--the inherently sinful nature of humans.
The Confessions (so far) follows the general arc of a strictly chronological autobiography that is dictated by how sinful Augustine's life has been. Early on in Book 1, he investigates selfish instincts in infants as a proxy for his own infancy. One brother would jealously "glare" (1. 9) at his other baby brother as he is given milk. He also describes how newborn babies would, because they lack the ability to communicate, violently thrash about to get what they want (1.70), further attesting to early signs of selfishness. In school at Carthage, Augustine describes how he disliked Greek literature because of how hypocritically adulterous the gods are portrayed as. He admits that he only did well in reciting Greek stories to escape the cane and be praised for his intelligence. As a young boy, he was defiant of god and only concerned with personal self-benefit.
The other general theme that all of Augustine's confessions seem to point to, besides the nature of human imperfections, is the wholly perfect nature of god. God, to Augustine, is both transcendent and immanent, which creates a theological inconsistency. The death of his close friend (Bk 4) naturally makes Augustine very sad. The problem is, god created all of this. All humans, and thus all human relations and emotions, are god's creations. If god is ultimately perfection embodied, then how can he create something imperfect, or how can the products of his creation possibly be unhappy?
So these are the two concepts, or themes, I picked up in my reading of the first five books: inherently sinful humans in juxtaposition with an immaculate and transcendent Creator. They are two intricately bound notions, and are mutually dependent--one cannot exist without the other (the absence of one would at the very least detract from the agency of the other.) In this sense, they could possibly relate as binary opposites.
The plot of Confessions does not pick up speed, unlike other epics we've read so far. But Augustine does go into meticulous detail in his confessions on why he claims that his mistakes define him as a human. So far, his confessions represent a struggle to find out what why the Creator made humans, and whether humans could even conceivably come close to perfection.
I don't know whether that is true or not, but at least for me it helps contextualize his depressingly melodramatic confessions to god.
Augustine praises god profusely and continuously scolds himself for having sinned so much. I found it particularly funny when he began to recount his juvenile days. He had stolen some tasteless pears from a nearby orchard with his friends and in his confession seemed genuinely shameful of something he did over 20 years ago. Augustine describes how "Wickedness filled me" (2. 29) as he and his boys furtively stole into the night. I have to admit I chuckled a bit as I was reading this part.
Of course it was stealing nonetheless. But including juvenile delinquencies in your confessions to God seems borderline extreme to me; may be even comical. In any case, I suppose he's using this trivial example to elaborate on a more profound point--the inherently sinful nature of humans.
The Confessions (so far) follows the general arc of a strictly chronological autobiography that is dictated by how sinful Augustine's life has been. Early on in Book 1, he investigates selfish instincts in infants as a proxy for his own infancy. One brother would jealously "glare" (1. 9) at his other baby brother as he is given milk. He also describes how newborn babies would, because they lack the ability to communicate, violently thrash about to get what they want (1.70), further attesting to early signs of selfishness. In school at Carthage, Augustine describes how he disliked Greek literature because of how hypocritically adulterous the gods are portrayed as. He admits that he only did well in reciting Greek stories to escape the cane and be praised for his intelligence. As a young boy, he was defiant of god and only concerned with personal self-benefit.
The other general theme that all of Augustine's confessions seem to point to, besides the nature of human imperfections, is the wholly perfect nature of god. God, to Augustine, is both transcendent and immanent, which creates a theological inconsistency. The death of his close friend (Bk 4) naturally makes Augustine very sad. The problem is, god created all of this. All humans, and thus all human relations and emotions, are god's creations. If god is ultimately perfection embodied, then how can he create something imperfect, or how can the products of his creation possibly be unhappy?
So these are the two concepts, or themes, I picked up in my reading of the first five books: inherently sinful humans in juxtaposition with an immaculate and transcendent Creator. They are two intricately bound notions, and are mutually dependent--one cannot exist without the other (the absence of one would at the very least detract from the agency of the other.) In this sense, they could possibly relate as binary opposites.
The plot of Confessions does not pick up speed, unlike other epics we've read so far. But Augustine does go into meticulous detail in his confessions on why he claims that his mistakes define him as a human. So far, his confessions represent a struggle to find out what why the Creator made humans, and whether humans could even conceivably come close to perfection.
Welcome to the Oracle
This blog is intended for anyone in LitHum, whether you're currently in my section, cramming for the final sometime in the very near future, or an alumni so painfully nostalgic of the core that you must find an outlet to relive your undergraduate experience.
These posts will contain merely fragmented notes and thoughts I have on the reading. Hopefully, if I have the time, I can start making mini book summaries that should come in handy during finals week.
Cheers.
These posts will contain merely fragmented notes and thoughts I have on the reading. Hopefully, if I have the time, I can start making mini book summaries that should come in handy during finals week.
Cheers.
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