yo
so here's my question: why does pip have so much self-hatred?
or maybe more specifically, does pip ONLY hate the 'old' him; that is, the 'younger' and 'ingrateful' pip. or does he (narrator pip) still 'hate' himself (narrator pip). so many pips, so little time.
andy
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
moral purity?
I stand firm that Eugenie is morally blameless in Balzac's novel of which she lends her name to the title. If we take the story at face value, as Balzac presents it to us, her intentions are pure, and she lives the life of a secular nun, surrounded by jealous, phony, imperfect humans.
Okay, so Eugenie is great, but the question is this: where do we go from there?
I don't really know the answer to this, and maybe that's what makes this book (and Balzac?) so bleak: is it better to live the good life like Eugenie and do nothing, really, or to live the bad life, like Charles, and simply become caught up in petty, meaningless Parisian society.
I'm really not sure.
And it makes me think of something that I've often thought about: is it better to live in the city or the country? The feeling I have is that, sure, things would be better in the country (no smog, no traffic, slower pace, better quality of life, more space, people are nicer), but I just can't bring myself to move there.
I think this something a lot of people, specifically intellectuals, artists, and writers have struggled with.
They seem to say (and I would agree) that the city is "corrupt"; that is, it is more base than the country. But it's hard to leave, and this brings us back to our old friend Balzac: it may be better to live dynamically, even if the struggle is only a rat race in the end, than to be bored. This is an extremely dubious argument, and I must admit, I'm both guilty of using it and weary of it myself.
Okay, so Eugenie is great, but the question is this: where do we go from there?
I don't really know the answer to this, and maybe that's what makes this book (and Balzac?) so bleak: is it better to live the good life like Eugenie and do nothing, really, or to live the bad life, like Charles, and simply become caught up in petty, meaningless Parisian society.
I'm really not sure.
And it makes me think of something that I've often thought about: is it better to live in the city or the country? The feeling I have is that, sure, things would be better in the country (no smog, no traffic, slower pace, better quality of life, more space, people are nicer), but I just can't bring myself to move there.
I think this something a lot of people, specifically intellectuals, artists, and writers have struggled with.
They seem to say (and I would agree) that the city is "corrupt"; that is, it is more base than the country. But it's hard to leave, and this brings us back to our old friend Balzac: it may be better to live dynamically, even if the struggle is only a rat race in the end, than to be bored. This is an extremely dubious argument, and I must admit, I'm both guilty of using it and weary of it myself.
who's the REAL capitalist?
Who is the real capitalist, or symbol for capitalism, in Balzac's Eugenie Grandet? The obvious answer is Grandet himself, but I don't think this is right. Capitalism is all about exchange, and even though Grandet sells his products, he buys almost nothing; that is, everything he consumes (in a literal sense) comes from his own land. He is a miser because his relationship to trade is one-sided: he receives without giving.
Charles, on the other hand, is the perfect embodiment of "modern capitalism." I say this because the only morality in capitalism is profitability, and is not the sole guiding force in Charles' travels to the French Indies? He trades slaves, Chinese, birds nests, etc., not because he has any interest in these things themselves, but only in the money that they bring in.
And this, my dear friends, is the end of the "craft" as we know it (or knew it, I should say!) We are all intermediary players in the line of production and consumption. People own businesses, trade stock, advertise, market, research products, develop products, but does anyone actually make the product? This "secondary" task is relegated to unskilled laborers in far-off lands. The important thing is not what is selling, but simply that it is selling.
Charles, on the other hand, is the perfect embodiment of "modern capitalism." I say this because the only morality in capitalism is profitability, and is not the sole guiding force in Charles' travels to the French Indies? He trades slaves, Chinese, birds nests, etc., not because he has any interest in these things themselves, but only in the money that they bring in.
And this, my dear friends, is the end of the "craft" as we know it (or knew it, I should say!) We are all intermediary players in the line of production and consumption. People own businesses, trade stock, advertise, market, research products, develop products, but does anyone actually make the product? This "secondary" task is relegated to unskilled laborers in far-off lands. The important thing is not what is selling, but simply that it is selling.
tedious or not tedious?
I had a hard time getting into Eugenie Grandet and it has to have been because of the pages and pages of description of the house, without Balzac introducing any character, let alone presenting dialog.
I later understood why this Balzac is so insistent on pages of description (or at least got to see one of the advantages of this literary strategy). When Charles first comes to the Grandet house on that such fateful of nights, the contrast between his Parisian aristocratic lifestyle and the Saumaurian lifestyle is so utterly stark. While reading the description of each exquisite piece of finery owned by Charles, I understood why the narrator had previously described in equal detail the drabness of that empty, cold country house. The contrast was painful, visceral. It literally hurt my stomach when Charles wakes up "early" (around 11A.M.) and comes to breakfast asking for "anything, a pheasant, a bird," not knowing that his "modest" request would serve to be the finest banquet for his country hosts. Truly heartbreaking.
I later understood why this Balzac is so insistent on pages of description (or at least got to see one of the advantages of this literary strategy). When Charles first comes to the Grandet house on that such fateful of nights, the contrast between his Parisian aristocratic lifestyle and the Saumaurian lifestyle is so utterly stark. While reading the description of each exquisite piece of finery owned by Charles, I understood why the narrator had previously described in equal detail the drabness of that empty, cold country house. The contrast was painful, visceral. It literally hurt my stomach when Charles wakes up "early" (around 11A.M.) and comes to breakfast asking for "anything, a pheasant, a bird," not knowing that his "modest" request would serve to be the finest banquet for his country hosts. Truly heartbreaking.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
extremely "uncanny" thoughts
One question continues to "haunt" me (pardon the pun): what is scary? This question goes into an eternal category of impossible questions in the company of two others: What is cute? And (perhaps hardest of all) what is funny? I know it's shocking, but I don't plan to answer all three of these eternal questions in a fifty word blog post (I know, I'm letting everybody down), but what I do hope is to probe a bit into the nature of "what is scary."
In his article on "The Uncanny," Freud takes a typically Freudian (I know, we're full of surprises here today) angle on that which we find "haunting," or "spooky," or "freaky": the experience reminds us of some experience from long ago, nestled deep in the subconscious or unconscious.
Maybe this is right, but I want to zoom out a bit and instead look at what makes something scary, not just uncanny. In high school, an English teacher told his class, "All fears are rooted in death," and I don't think I believe this. But I do believe all fears are rooted in uncertainty; that is, in the future (which by nature is uncertain). For example, I never wake up in the middle of the night worrying, "Oh my God, am I going to get accepted into NYU?!" because I'm already here.
Even now as I write that though I'm thinking about the recurring dream that no doubt haunts each and every one of us: looking for the classroom where a final exam is to be held, and never finding it. So I think I just completely contradicted myself, but hey, what the hell, it's just a blog, I'm not sure anyone is reading this so I'll just go with it...
In this case, the dream can bring up a fear that is already been realized/not realized... So maybe there is truth to what Freud is saying... that is, fears, or this idea of the "uncanny," is a very strong bridge between the conscious and the unconscious (God it's so hard to talk about this stuff without sounding like I'm talking about a conspiracy theory) but the point is, the feeling of noticing something that is "uncanny" has an intrinsic sense of vagueness associated with it; that is, something isn't uncanny if it's merely hard recognition... i.e. "I have that bike, and this guy on the street has the same bike..." It's more of "I have that bike and this guy on the street... who looks strangely, eerily similar to me also has the same bike." It's not conclusive.. it's just kind of a hazy coincidence, a shadowy blur... The tension without the release.
So maybe a huge part of Freud's uncanny is this liminal nature of the experience... and maybe this is why horror movies so often deal with teenagers (is this not the most liminal phase of all?)... Things are spooky, ambiguous. Anything can happen, and usually, it does.
In his article on "The Uncanny," Freud takes a typically Freudian (I know, we're full of surprises here today) angle on that which we find "haunting," or "spooky," or "freaky": the experience reminds us of some experience from long ago, nestled deep in the subconscious or unconscious.
Maybe this is right, but I want to zoom out a bit and instead look at what makes something scary, not just uncanny. In high school, an English teacher told his class, "All fears are rooted in death," and I don't think I believe this. But I do believe all fears are rooted in uncertainty; that is, in the future (which by nature is uncertain). For example, I never wake up in the middle of the night worrying, "Oh my God, am I going to get accepted into NYU?!" because I'm already here.
Even now as I write that though I'm thinking about the recurring dream that no doubt haunts each and every one of us: looking for the classroom where a final exam is to be held, and never finding it. So I think I just completely contradicted myself, but hey, what the hell, it's just a blog, I'm not sure anyone is reading this so I'll just go with it...
In this case, the dream can bring up a fear that is already been realized/not realized... So maybe there is truth to what Freud is saying... that is, fears, or this idea of the "uncanny," is a very strong bridge between the conscious and the unconscious (God it's so hard to talk about this stuff without sounding like I'm talking about a conspiracy theory) but the point is, the feeling of noticing something that is "uncanny" has an intrinsic sense of vagueness associated with it; that is, something isn't uncanny if it's merely hard recognition... i.e. "I have that bike, and this guy on the street has the same bike..." It's more of "I have that bike and this guy on the street... who looks strangely, eerily similar to me also has the same bike." It's not conclusive.. it's just kind of a hazy coincidence, a shadowy blur... The tension without the release.
So maybe a huge part of Freud's uncanny is this liminal nature of the experience... and maybe this is why horror movies so often deal with teenagers (is this not the most liminal phase of all?)... Things are spooky, ambiguous. Anything can happen, and usually, it does.
short musings on "the best"
I recently got in a fight with a friend after telling him that I was going to Buenos Aires for a semester. Without hesitating, he quipped, "Oh, of course you are... Going to 'Williamsburg of the South.'" Yes, this comment reveals how incredibly wrapped up this friend is in a certain subculture of New York to even make this comment (i.e. New York "anti-Hipster" culture), but there's something deeper here: the idea of what is best? Can someone decide what is best? Who decides the "canon"?
These questions are all floating around in my head because Frankenstein is such a ridiculously good book. I had never read it until this semester, but for some reason, I just assumed, "Oh, it's one of those books you just read 'cause you're 10th grade English teacher says that it has a lot of SAT words in it." And this is fundamentally connected to the idea of Buenos Aires as one of the "best" cities in South America (sound familiar... i.e. New Yorkers claiming NYC to be the "best city in the world"?)
What I'm saying is this: there's a reason something is known as "the best," and that's not a bad thing(!). Diclaimer: this isn't always right, but it shouldn't be attacked outright. And the irony is, it's especially hard to give something known as "the best" a chance in this self-devouring Indie culture that hates something the second it gets "big."
I'll sum it up in the words of another friend, named Nick: "It pisses me off when people say their favorite Beatle is Ringo, just to be different. If your favorite Beatle is Paul, then just fucking say it."
These questions are all floating around in my head because Frankenstein is such a ridiculously good book. I had never read it until this semester, but for some reason, I just assumed, "Oh, it's one of those books you just read 'cause you're 10th grade English teacher says that it has a lot of SAT words in it." And this is fundamentally connected to the idea of Buenos Aires as one of the "best" cities in South America (sound familiar... i.e. New Yorkers claiming NYC to be the "best city in the world"?)
What I'm saying is this: there's a reason something is known as "the best," and that's not a bad thing(!). Diclaimer: this isn't always right, but it shouldn't be attacked outright. And the irony is, it's especially hard to give something known as "the best" a chance in this self-devouring Indie culture that hates something the second it gets "big."
I'll sum it up in the words of another friend, named Nick: "It pisses me off when people say their favorite Beatle is Ringo, just to be different. If your favorite Beatle is Paul, then just fucking say it."
Friday, October 19, 2007
emma and clueless
Okay, so I started reading Emma, and I was really enjoying it. The world that Austen creates for the reader is at once tranquil yet restless. Ordered, but in flux. Maybe I'm not explaining it well, but I could feel the charm of Austen. Just getting into her world, ya know?
Then a line in the book (maybe around page 40) triggered a distant memory: Oh my God! Wasn't the movie Clueless based on Emma?
It was.
And this has been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I am astounded at how true the movie is to the book and how relevant the story is still today. But it's a weird feeling... I'm reading the book for the 'first' time, but not.
It's a great jumping-off point to ponder the question that recently came up in class: why is Jane Austen still read and adapted into movies like mad today?
I'll let you know what I find.
Then a line in the book (maybe around page 40) triggered a distant memory: Oh my God! Wasn't the movie Clueless based on Emma?
It was.
And this has been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I am astounded at how true the movie is to the book and how relevant the story is still today. But it's a weird feeling... I'm reading the book for the 'first' time, but not.
It's a great jumping-off point to ponder the question that recently came up in class: why is Jane Austen still read and adapted into movies like mad today?
I'll let you know what I find.
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