The Great Urge... in the Words of Steinbeck

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.

"When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This art of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.

"Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process; a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has a personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognzied can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it."


Interestingly, La Framéricaine mentioned "Travels with Charley" in her thoughtful comment on my last post. I own the book and read it a couple of years ago. Her comment inspired me to pull it off the bookshelf and reread it. When I picked the book up, a receipt fell out of the book. I bought the book exactly 2 years ago to that day... June 1st! A flood of memories besieged me. I bought it at the OSU bookstore before I headed to Baltimore to drive cross country with my sister. What a great road trip that was and how it inspired me to make that first great trip to Paris just a few months after! Sometimes I like to leave receipts, photos, leaves, or notes in the pages of books as I read them. They definitely prove to be lovely memories that always surprise me much later. Ah, memories. How powerful and inspiring. I mean, there the book has been sitting for quite some time and certainly I did not forget that I had read and enjoyed it. But it was that receipt that triggered so much awareness!

This great urge to journey is as much a part of me as my brown eyes and eager smile. It doesn't diminish, it never goes away. I so feel the itch Steinbeck so wonderfully describes in this opening passage of "Travels with Charley." The heavy sound of a train in the distance, its destination unknown but its journey certain. The exciting feeling I always get when I go to the airport, even when I am not the one traveling. Driving down an unknown road, great music playing... the rush of feeling that the open road brings. It haunts me, it pleads with me, it sees right through those substitute experiences I try to appease it with.

I give in. I yield. I soar.

But... I Have Built-In Bookshelves!

A few days after my enlightened decision to become homeless, to let go of my apartment and roam Paris and the States for an undetermined amount of time, pragmatism reared its timid head. I was getting ready to go to bed. I sat on my bed and looked at my built-in bookshelves on the opposite wall. Wow. I've really given up my apartment. July 27th I will be officially homeless. But I like living here for the most part, neighbor proximity and noise aside. My studio is in a great neighborhood and I love the layout, including these built-in bookshelves which I have neatly and thoughtfully arranged my books on. I love laying here in my bed, looking at my books.

This initial and premature nostalgia for my built-in bookshelves gave way to further precipitate wistfulness, with the momentum of a downhill train. I have granite countertops in my kitchen, for God's sake! Granite! Isn't my kitchen one of the first things people comment upon when they see my apartment? How they marvel over the relatively ample size (given that it is a studio), the granite and the stainless steel appliances?! Am I not told repeatedly how fortunate I am to have such amenities in an apartment? I have a lovely window next to my dining table and a a rear door! How lovely to have a window in the kitchen, AND a rear door!

And the closet?! Haven't I always wanted such a closet? It reminds me a bit of Carrie's closet on "Sex and the City," but a bit smaller and with far less exciting contents. But it is a walk-through closet, leading to the the charming little bathroom with full sized tub and hexagon tiles! The bathroom where I've had such wonderful "revelations" standing before the adorable pedestal sink! How could I possibly consent to leave all of this?! And to leave it for what? No security, no comfort to return to after a long day, no place to watch my wonderful flat screen LCD HDTV? Really, I'm choosing such? Freely?!

This sudden and rather immense ruefulness did not last long, fortunately. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of such feelings. These are things after all! Would I really relinquish my dreams of traveling, exploring, living... for built-in bookshelves?! And they aren't even real wood! They are particle board with adjustable shelves and not even really built into the wall. They house a hideaway bed that I don't even use (after all, how then would I be able to gaze at my books if I'm laying behind them?). Do I really think that I will never have another "home" that could have such things? Ridiculous.

And I've been here before. When I was married, my husband and I had an amazing house built, a house with the most charming little den for me to write in. This den had French doors, real built-in wood bookshelves and plush Berber carpet. Did those built-ins bring me any lasting happiness? Clearly not. And they did absolutely nothing to save our marriage, either.

This return to sanity was further verified at 130am, a few hours after the wistfulness over the built-ins, when my new neighbor sharing the very wall of the built-ins cranked her stereo on at an alarming volume. It was a Monday. I awoke abruptly and with what easily could have been perceived by another (if only there were another present) as a somewhat psychotic smile spreading on my face, I muttered out loud, "I am going to move." Although this disturbance was precisely that, it felt like a wonderful indication that I was doing the right thing and I was actually glad for it. I reached over to my bedside and grabbed Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" and threw it across to the opposite wall. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. To really substantiate my decision to choose homelessness over built-in bookshelves, the next "morning" at exactly the same time, 130am, the music returned. This time I pounded against the wall with the thick binding edge of my not-so "Concise French Dictionary." The point was made and the music ceased. My conviction about homelessness strengthened.

What an insular notion... to cling to my little apartment interior and these things. I've always loved cozy little spaces and I've enjoyed my present home. I appreciate the comfort and fulfillment of a home with four walls and prominent traces of our presence in nearby books, framed photos, treasures and trinkets. But this will only be one of many homes for me. And I smile so widely when I think of the real bookshelves I might build in my own house one day. A quaint house on enough land so as to provide room for a Labrador or two to roam comfortably and without having to hear my neighbors having sex or repeatedly fighting and making up. I'm not beyond appreciating the need for home. I know I will yearn for a home while on the road. But interestingly, I just feel an intense desire to know that longing for home. I think that pain of being "homeless" makes the experience of traveling all the more gratifying. Home really is where the heart is and that can be anywhere. I need to know this feeling more deeply.

My current "backyard" is a landscaped alleyway facing another row of brick condo apartments like mine. The woman who lives directly behind me comes out to chat every now and then. She is in her 40s, single with 2 cats and heavy with regret. Her voice betrays her sadness for a life not fully lived. She talks of the two new armchairs she recently bought, how the cats have each staked out their respective chairs, and how she must work extra to pay for the chairs. She sighs and takes a sip from the can of diet Pepsi she holds. She tells me repeatedly how lucky I am to be able to go to Paris. How she wishes she could do something like that. I find it painfully difficult to talk with her at all because I know that if I cling to these built-in bookshelves, I might hold that same sad tone one day, right here in this very apartment with the granite countertops.

So, I trade my current "backyard" and these ordinary built-in bookshelves for a vast backyard, glorious, and for now.... wonderfully unknown:


*Photo, aptly titled, "Foggy Road Less Traveled," from here.

November: The Alchemist

"To realize one's destiny is a person's only real obligation. All things are one."

I read this book in two days and anyone who has read it can understand why. The simple tale consumed me and could not have come at a better time in my life. I've been reading Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra all month but am less than halfway into it, as each tale and so many singular statements send me into philosophical musings. But this weekend I knew I needed to be inspired and in a huge way. The Alchemist has been recommended to me by quite a few people and it has been sitting on my shelf for a couple of months now. After yet another mention of this book by a girl who I dork out on books with at the gym, I woke up Sunday morning and knew I needed to read it. 

The experience reminds me of when I read Herman Hesse's Siddhartha a few years ago. I read it on a plane to Baltimore, on my way to drive my sister back home cross country. It inspired me so deeply and had a profound impact on my perspective. Where Hesse's Siddhartha touched my soul and inspired me to a new level of acceptance and peace with life, Coelho's The Alchemist sparks my soul and beautifully reiterates that truly, "to realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation." 

The story of the shepherd boy and his pursuit of his Personal Legend spoke so clearly to my soul. It reiterates that when we pursue false paths, things go wrong and we are inevitably disappointed. There is a reason for that. But when we pursue our Personal Legend, the universe truly does conspire to help us achieve it and the journey proves remarkable in more profound ways than simply achieving that goal. And sadly, most people never fully pursue their Personal Legend. This tale also brings to light the reality that many people get close to their Personal Legend but recoil in fear when their courage is put to the test.

******

The boy didn't know what a person's 'Personal Legend' was.

"It's what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend. "

******

"What you still need to know is this: before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams, master the lessons we've learned as we've moved toward that dream. That's the point at which most people give up. It's the point at which, as we say, in the language of the desert, one 'dies of thirst just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon.' Every search begins with beginner's luck. And every search ends with the victor's being severely tested."

The boy remembered an old proverb from his country. It said that the darkest hour of the night came just before the dawn.

******

I know my Personal Legend and I choose not to ignore it any longer. 

Stay tuned...

October: Madame Bovary

I can't remember the last book I read in which I was so unsympathetic toward the protagonist. I expected to feel something more for Emma Bovary, given that I almost always do find myself forging some kind of sympathetic connection with the main characters. And at the onset, I did feel a surface compassion for Emma's restlessness and desire for new places and experiences. But, as seems to be Flaubert's intent, feeling sympathy for Emma's struggles proves increasingly difficult as the novel progresses. Even in Balzac's Lost Illusions, I was able to feel something for Lucien's naiveté and failings, to an extent that I could not even achieve with Emma. As the story progresses, Emma's actions and pursuits only become increasingly irritating, desperate, and rather senseless. With this said however, I don't believe that Flaubert necessarily wanted the reader to abhor Emma completely as there are plenty of passages in which Flaubert gives closer glimpses into Emma's dissatisfaction and there is undeniable reason in these glimpses.

Having heard of this classical work many times and knowing that it involved adultery and suicide, I also expected Flaubert to give greater consideration to morality but Madame Bovary is centered more generally upon a theme of bourgeois life. Three main characters punctuate the novel: Emma Bovary, who seems to be the one exaggerated extreme of bourgeois life...materialistic, dissatisfied, reckless. Her husband, Charles Bovary, is incredibly simple minded and ignorant. Even Charles is a pitiable character with whom Flaubert also makes difficut to sympathize with. And so Charles seems to be that other extreme...unworldly and not particularly ambitous but committed and reliable, yielding and boring. Flaubert's inclusion of Homais, the druggist, strongly reinforces the novel's central theme of bourgeois life in rural France. Homais seems to be the epitome of a bourgeois ideal. He is educated, challenges conventional religion but is principled and ambitous. Homais is very middle class but has an elevated sense of importance and purpose.

In my own reading, I certainly do not believe that Homais embodies a true bourgeois ideal held by Flaubert (juxtaposed with Emma's reckless restlessness and Charles' pathetic acceptance), but rather, I would say that Flaubert is presenting a satire on this social class. The novel ends with Homais receiving the cross of the Legion of Honour ( a very pompous affair following Emma's suicide and Charles' seeming death by extreme sadness at havingt lost Emma) and after all, it was Homais's arsenic that Emma ingested to kill herself...a fact that Flaubert clearly did not inted to be incidental.

Given that Flaubert's work belongs to the class of French Realism, it is appropriate that the book possesses a coldness and rather detached narrative. In saying this, I am only speaking from my limited reading and understanding of French Realism. As much as I love the strongly evoked sympathy for characters belonging to writers such as George Eliot, Charles Dickens or Emily Brontë, I do appreciate French realism for its starkness and focused social commentary. Whereas many of the English works evoke a strong sense of connection with humanity and draw out shared struggles with social conventions as central but almost more of a backdrop to the characters themselves, French Realism evokes a strong primary sense of social conventions and how behavior operates within those social structures. So, although I often found myself irritated with the characters of Madame Bovary, I was invested in the social commentary dominating the work. And as far as the moral element, upon fininshing the book, I was pleased that Flaubert did not assert much commentary on the moral issues. Emma's fatal outcome proves compelling enough in that regard.

**[Added 11/12/07, 920pm]: I read in a piece of criticism on Madame Bovary this evening that viewed this work of Flaubert's as almost anit-romantic. That claim being made particularly so by the fact that Emma does not ultimately commit suicide because of her unfulfilled love affairs but because she is a shopaholic. And this criticism reminded me of mental notes I had been taking during my reading of the work. Although the novel is set in the mid 1800s in rural France, the bourgeois satire does not seem far removed from today. Emma does in fact kill herself because her consumeristic habits bring an insurmountable debt that she can no longer avoid retribution for. In desperation she begs her current lover to steal from his employer for her. When he refuses, she runs to her former lover and he initially believes that she is there because she is dramatically professing her love to him but he is utterly disconcerted when instead, she asks for a large sum of money. Flaubert's satire on the middle class is one that certainly could apply to today's middle class. There is a certain middle class disillusionment that pervades time. I'm not saying that the two social extremes are not without their own dissatisfaction, but the middle class seems to possess a peculiar disillusionment. And much of that centers upon a kind of boredom with life...a boredom that finds itself drowning in consumerism and trite pleasures.

August/September: Lost Illusions

It dawned upon me this last year that for as much as I love all things French, I really have never read any French literature. Much of my infatuation with literature in my early college years was spent on American Lit...Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner. This was due heavily to the professors of my university's English Department. The American Lit professors were the best and evoked so much more passion for literature than I recall of the English Lit profs. Anyway, I've become increasingly partial to early 19th century literature, particularly realism, and this realization struck me recently...there are so many great French writers whom I know only by name and not by first-hand expereience of their work. I've even touched several of their tombs/memorials at the Panthéon in Paris. Balzac, Flaubert, Hugo, Stendhal, Rousseau, Voltaire, Zola, Moliere, Proust, Maupassant, Verne, Tocqueville, Dumas, etc.

So, I have started stockpiling French books (I absolutely cannot step foot into a bookstore without buying three books and if I go online, I usually end up ordering at least four at a time!) and because Balzac's Lost Illusions was one of the first I purchased and he is often regarded as one of the founders of realism in Europe, I decided to start there. The book is roughly 630 pages and sadly, it did take me about two months to read it...why must we work for a living, damnit?! Given my love of the French language, I thoroughly enjoyed saying the characters names and titles aloud...Marquise d'Espard, Blondet, Lousteau, Finot, Vernou, Dauriat, Gabusson, Fulgence Ridal, Meyraux, de Marsay, Camusot, Baron Sixte du Châtelet, etc. Names of streets, newspapers, and the highly common inclusion of French phrases and terms...all delighted my reading further.

Lost Illusions follows the young and ambitious Lucien from the provinces of France to the city of Paris. Lucien is a writer, hoping to find fame and wealth in Paris. However, he finds reality...struggle, greed, corruption, and class barriers. Despite his initial struggles in Paris, Lucien is fortunate enough to find a wonderful group of friends who possess much ambition and integrity tempered with patience. However, Lucien does not possess the integrity or patience of his friends and he thus turns to journalism to expedite his success. This is where Balzac shines...his gritty commentary on the corruption behind journalism and the inner-workings of corruption in general. Lucien is manipulated and manipulates, and despite his widely recognized writing talent, Lucien's fame and wealth do not last long.

Balzac's social commentary is prominent, fascinating, and apparently historically accurate. I enjoyed glimsping into the journalistic circles of the early 19th century. Although I enjoyed Balzac's writing style, he never really penetrated the surface of his characters. Their unique qualities and propensities were made clear but there was not the depth that George Eliot or Charles Dickens write their characters with. There are also too many convenient coincidences throughout the novel. It seemed to me that Balzac didn't want to go to the trouble to more fluidly introduce/incorporate chance encounters and events, so they become abrubt and somewhat distracting.

Despite such, I enjoyed Lost Illusions, particularly the middle section of the book (three parts comprise the entire novel). What Balzac lacks in creating depth for his characters, he makes up for with his detailed social commentary. It is perhaps unfair for me to comapre him to Eliot or Dickens, as their styles are different, and as such, offer a different "reward" to the reader. With that said, I have Balzac's Père Goriot sitting on my shelf and look forward to reading that at some point.

I have been particularly ruminative over the point in which Lucien abandons his friends of integrity for a chance at quick fame and wealth. Balzac makes it clear in the novel that these former friends of inegrity go on to true and lasting fame/success but only because of their steadfast integrity and patience. I couldn't help but think of my own past and very distinct times in my life in which I disregarded a patient path of integrity for an expedited long shot at some form of material fulfillment. Ah, hindsight. But really, in reading Balzac's biography, he spent his 20s trying and failing in many career and personal endeavors before dedicating himself fully to writing. And Balzac was a prolific writer, living on coffee and writing like mad for three days straight and then collapsing for three days. No doubt, Balzac's own failings became the material for his writing.

July/August: Narcissus and Goldmund

"You should not envy me, Goldmund. There is no peace of the sort you imagine. Oh, there is peace of course, but not anything that lives within us constantly and never leaves us. There is only the peace that must be won again and again, each new day of our lives."- Narcissus

This beautiful story has easily found its way into my favorite books of all time and undoubtedly, has earned a favorite place in my soul. As with Hesse's Siddhartha, Narcissus and Goldmund is a tale that one would benefit from reading annually...as a touchstone for the soul. There are many profoundly simple philosophies tied into this narrative but two of the most powerful themes for me are: acceptance and awareness. Narcissus and Goldmund seem to be opposites. Narcissus is a reserved and highly intellectual monk. He governs his actions with utmost discipline. Yet, he is so beautifully accepting and loving. Goldmund is a creative wanderer. He does not govern his actions but is rather, highly feeling and free in his explorations. He is so aware and loving and a tremendous beauty emerges in that awareness.

The story primarily follows Goldmund's journey but Narcissus is very integral and thus very "present" in all that Goldmund feels and does. The distinctive natures of the two friends serves as the great binding force of the story. Their love for each other is magnificent despite strong differences of character and a great lapse of time in which they are physically separated from one another. They each teach the other so much about life and in that sense, complement what the other seems to be lacking. Goldmund's journey is one of self-discovery. So many of his general thoughts and struggles with life resonate with my own, and likely with that of most humans, for the story effortlessly embodies humanity as a whole. Here is one such moment:

"The childlike life of the wanderer, its mother-origin, its turning away from law and mind, its openness and constant secret intimacy with death had long since deeply impregnated and molded Goldmund's soul. But mind and will lived within him nevertheless; he was an artist, and this made his life rich and difficult. Any life expands and flowers only through division and contradiction. What are reason and sobriety without the knowledge of intoxication? What is sensuality without death standing behind it? What is love without the eternal mortal enmity of the sexes?"

Truly, this story is such a profound one and the themes of awareness and acceptance undeniably shake the reader's own awareness and acceptance. No review can do this work justice, as it is the soul's work and thus, for the soul to absorb. As we know, the soul transcends all that is explicable in words.

June: The Mill on The Floss

It just occured to me that I never posted on my June reading. June was a busy month with moving and numerous birthdays, so sadly it took me quite awhile to get through George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. But it was nevertheless always obliging when I returned to it, thankfully.

Eliot has such a captivating style of writing. The way in which she brings a character's deepest emotions and nature to the surface is poetic. She beautifully and fluidly evokes compassion for the complexities of consequence and self. The narrative is beautiful and the story unwinds in a powerful way. I could not have forseen the conclusion at all. But it is perfect...it is as it should be.

I was also particularly drawn to Eliot's ability to almost pull you aside as an intimate friend throughout the novel, forging a connection with a side narrative. This isn't merely a side note or clarification of what is taking place. Rather, it has a seemingly philosophical purpose in its own simple way, often drawing upon analogies. In this sense, there are these great, simple "moments" between the reader and Eliot. And they are not overdone in my opinion. They work very well with the narrative and purpose of the story.

One such moment arrives about midway through the book. I like this particular moment for obvious reasons. The first paragraph is part of the story narrative (illustrating Eliot's powerful ability) and then second paragraph is where Eliot goes into one of these moments with the reader:

"Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other secrets - here was a sublime height to be reached without the help of outward things - here was insight, and strength, and conquest, to be won by means entirely within her own soul, where a supreme teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of a problem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central necessity of the universe.... She read on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength; returning to it after she had been called away, and reading till the sun went down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deepening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entire devotedness, and in the ardour of first discovery, renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long been craving in vain. She had not perceived - how could she until she had lived longer? - the inmost truth of the old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sorrow, through a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still panting for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she had found the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines or systems - of mysticism or quietism: but this voice out of the far-off middle ages, was the direct communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message.

"I suppose that is the reason why the small old-fashioned book, for which you need only pay sixpence at a book-stall, works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness; while expensive sermons and treatises newly issued leave all things as they were before. It was written down by a hand that waited for the heart's prompting, it is the chronicle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust and triumph - not written on velvet cushions to teach endurance to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it remains to all time, a lasting record of human needs and human consolations, the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt and suffered and renounced - in the cloister perhaps, with a serge gown and tonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from ours - but under the same silent far-off heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weariness."

May: Crime and Punishment

With all the exciting things going on lately, I haven't posted on my May reading yet. It proves increasingly difficult to adequately discuss my initial impressions of a book as time goes on and it is no longer as fresh in my mind and I've moved on to the next book. But regardless, here goes...

Most of May was spent reading Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. It is a rather hefty book but such a great read. Rich with philosophical and psychological dimensions, I was deeply engaged in the evolving psyche of the main character, Raskolnikov. Because the book is written in the third person omniscient, the aspects of psyche are made particularly profound.

What struck me most within this novel was Raskolnikov's consideration of ordinary people vs. the extraordinary people in society:

"In short, I argued that all people- not only the great, but even those who deviate only marginally from the common rut, that's to say who are only marginally capable of saying something new, are bound, by their very nature, to be criminals- to a greater or lesser degree, of course. Otherwise they would find it hard to get out of the rut, and it goes without saying that, again because of their nature, they could not possibly agree to remain in it, and indeed, in my view, they have a positive duty not to agree to remain in it.... That idea consists in the notion that, by the law of their nature, human beings in general may be divided into two categories: a lower one (that of the ordinary), that is to say raw material which serves exclusively to bring into being more like itself, and another group of people who possess a gift or a talent for saying something new, in their own milieu. There are within these categories infinite subdivisions, of course, but the distinguishing features of each are quite clearly marked: the people of the first category, the raw material, that is, are in general conservative by nature, sedate, live lives of obedience and like to be obeyed. In my view, they have a duty to be obedient, as that is their function, and there is really nothing about this that is degrading to them. The second category all break the law, are destroyers, or have a tendency that way, depending on their abilities. The crimes of these people are, of course, relative and multifarious; for the most part what they are demanding, in highly varied forms, is the destruction of the present reality in the name of one that is better." (Part III, Chapter V)

Raskolnikov's discussion goes on for a few pages but that particular portion really struck me and continues to linger in my thoughts. I've so often felt that distinction among members of society...not specifically in Raskolnikov's terms as "ordinary" and "criminal," but that general sense of those who obey and steadfastly (whether consciously or subconsciously) maintain the status quo and those who resist and challenge the status quo. Interestingly, it seems that the former group often suppresses the latter's efforts and truly do label them as "criminals." Hence, opposers of the war in Iraq get labeled as "anti-American." I've always felt like the criminal/extraordinary. And in saying that, I truly do not attempt to assert a superiority whatsoever. As Dostoyevsky articulates through Raskolnikov, in the nature of the ordinary, "there is really nothing about this that is degrading to them." There is a sense of duty in many of the "ordinary" members of society. I think religion does much to perpetuate the "ordinary" group and maintain the status quo. But that is a huge topic of discussion I will get into some other time.

Profound reading.

The Secret

After hearing about The Secret from Kim and Manifesting Jack, I decided to go check it out at the bookstore. I was admittedly hesitant but after reading about and encouraging MJ's quest to break away from the stigma of "self-help" as a writer, I decided that it was time to shed my own prejudices about self-help. I bought a copy and skimmed through it.

Initially it all seemed too common sense to me and I was immediately turned off by the portion of the book devoted to the possibility of finding wealth through The Secret. But this conditioned opposition was soon thwarted. What I immediately picked up in this initial skimming was the fact that our mind is a powerful thing and that which we devote our thoughts to, we bring about. I am a highly overactive thinker. It is disgusting how many thoughts about how many various things are constantly running through my head. It is no wonder that I am such a restless sleeper with the most convoluted dreams! But this seemingly over-simple idea marinated in my mind for a mere hour or two before I realized how powerful The Secret really is.

I was immediately made more aware of my negative thoughts. Fears and general worries were more clearly and powerfully realized, even trivial thoughts I had about things like traffic. As soon as I acknowledged these thoughts, I would instantly redirect negative thoughts to positive ones. And I was, and have been, absorbed in this practice since. As common sense as the practice of diverting negative thoughts to positive ones seems, it takes constant application. Some days are still harder than others and require a much more concerted effort, but overall...this simple Secret is so paramount to shifting things. I feel more at ease and more focused. I feel that I am more effectively managing the many thoughts that run through my mind. And that which I wish to realize, I am devoting so many more of my thoughts to. My dreams seem more attainable and that gives me a greater sense of hope.

Even more impactful than my own experience since picking up The Secret was the expierience I've had in sharing The Secret. After reading through the beginning of the book, I realized how wonderful this would specifically be for two of my siblings. So I went out and bought them each a copy, after they had looked briefly through mine and had a similar experience (reading just a quote or two at the onset of the book and immediately realizing the potential). It has been just two weeks since I got The Secret and one week since buying it for my siblings. I notice such a difference it is already making in each of our lives. I am so inspired to see my siblings more confident and more positive than I've seen them in quite awhile. And I feel that change in me too. I am a naturally optimistic person but I definitely benefit from focusing my thoughts more actively, versus just allowing them to run unchecked as I too often do.

April: The Picture of Dorian Gray

"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect -- simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must analyze it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up."

Meet Lord Henry, a hedonistic and most powerful influence over the young Dorian Gray. Lord Henry's world view undoubtedly dominates this work by Oscar Wilde (Wilde's only novel). It is Lord Henry's influential esteem of beauty and pursuit of the senses that instills a sudden fear in Dorian Gray of losing his own remarkable youth and beauty. This fear causes Dorian to cry out his desire that the portrait painted of him carry the mark of age and sin, not his own body and face. Dorian receives his wish but quite unsatisfactorily. Dorian's existence is dark and brings him no fulfilment, regardless of the youth and beauty he retains. As he watches the portrait change before his eyes (his sins decidedly marking the face in the portrait), Dorian realizes that his wish has not protected his soul from being hideous. In fact, the fulfillment of his wish has led to his gradual and wretched demise.

As interesting as it was following Dorian Gray's wretched development, I was far more consumed by Lord Henry's world view. The novel is full of notions such as the one quoted above. And while Lord Henry's notions are corrupt, they still carry an underlying reality that is difficult (and actually undesirable) to dismiss. In the quote above, I kept rereading the last sentence, "There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up." How true that seems. Through Lord Henry's hedonistic perspective, those dark aspects of character are revealed and serve as wonderful points of departure for the examination/philosophizing of human nature. And in that fact lies Wilde's greatest triumph with this work.

March: Candide

After visiting the crypt at the Panthéon in Paris, I added Voltaire to my substantial mental list of authors whose works I would like to read. I know...a somewhat strange way of being turned on to a particular writer. But there really is something powerful about visiting the crypts of great writers, particularly when you know they were once shunned by their country and are now highly celebrated. It seems such a grand French thing to do...exile a writer and then years later, celebrate and proudly claim him as French.

Candide, also known as Optimism, is a satire featuring the incredibly naïve optimist Candide. The satire follows Candide through a multitude of adventures which he constantly measures against the canon that, "all is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds." Voltaire clearly and strongly attacks political and religious systems in this satire (and is imprisoned for doing so), as well as the precepts held by specific philosophers, namely Leibniz.

I really don't know that I've read a satire before this one. Maybe I've read excerpts of satirical works but I've just never been drawn to that particular form of writing. However, I did enjoy the mental exercise required in reading Candide and have a new appreciation for satire. There was constant referencing of the footnotes and lengthy pauses in which I ruminated upon the context. In doing so, a greater sense of what took place in Voltaire's time was revealed through his persepctive and I often gain a greater sense of history through personal accounts (whatever the medium and how varied the perspective might be). Freedom of speech was not a liberty in Voltaire's time and constant awareness of that fact makes his work even more momentous. His not so allusive innuendos where government and religion are concerned must have been potent in their time.

Philosophically, Candide challenged my conception of the world. How do I view the world? I certainly do not possess the optimism of Candide but I see a constant beauty in humanity. Yet, I also see how political and religious forces work in powerfully deceptive ways and the way in which Voltaire satirizes such is not only amusing but very apt.

March: The Good Earth

It seems that one of the greatest universal themes of classic literature is the proverbial account of the poor man who comes into great wealth and just how destructive that wealth is. Pearl S. Buck's The Good Earth is another such classic. Somehow, this universal theme is not overdone to me. Although the theme may be the same, the characters and their circumstances are always unique.

The Good Earth follows Wang Lung, a Chinese farmer, through good and bad fortune. At the onset of the novel, Wang Lung is hardworking and modest, reverent and peaceful. At the height of his fortune, Wang Lung becomes a restless and unfulfilled man, losing his connectivity with the earth and thus, seemingly his soul.

It seems so natural as a reader to connect to these characters, however different the time or culture in which they exist. There is always that basic and universal element of humanity. The struggles, yearnings, values, and evolution of character (for better or worse)...always make more conspicuous my own journey in life.

February: Wuthering Heights

So, the one concrete New Year's resolution I made for myself, to read a book a month, I've managed to keep and exceed. I'm really devouring books right now. I am reading two to three a month. It is such a great feeling, to really devote myself to reading again. I often find that the only time I have to read is right before bed but I almost always manage to get a good hour or two of reading in at night. And I love it!

For February, I decided I had to read Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights. What struck me as I read this classic was the difference between Heathcliff's love for Catherine and Edgar's love for Catherine. The former was passionate and seemingly destructive. The later was by no means ideal but had a lasting quality to it. And this sent me wondering about various forms of love. I think we so often yearn for that passionate and reckless love because it seems all consuming and grand. But for me, that kind of love too often leaves me feeling empty and insecure. It is the enduring love that I long for. Passions are fleeting but that steadfast quality has an amazing beauty to it that the former cannot match.

February: Heart of Darkness

The second book I read this month was Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. I was inclined to read it because I discovered that Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now was based loosely on Conrad's dark tale.

The narrative style of Heart of Darkness is very engaging. But I honestly had a hard time blocking out the harrowing images of Apocalypse Now as I read this. I'm not sure if the imagery from the movie helped or hurt my reading of the book. I'm sure the book was considered quite dark and disturbing when it was released but it really seemed mild compared to the movie. And not that I was eagerly anticipating darkness and gore, but it is hard to enter into a book with that preconception there. This is why I really try to avoid watching the movie version of any book. Although, again, Apocalypse Now was quite loosely based upon Heart of Darkness.

Overall, a good read, particularly for the narrative style and the vivid descriptions.

January: Great Expecations

Not being a particular fan of New Year's Resolutions, I didn't make some grand, overly ambitious list of things to accomplish this year. But every new year, like every change in season, does bring about a natural inclination to reflect upon where I am at in life, etc. Instead of over-analyzing all the things I want to change or improve about myself (which only leads to extreme dejection), I simply thought about what things inspire and fulfill me. Of course, reading was the first thing that came to mind and so I resolved to read one book a month.

I love reading but I often allow myself to get sidetracked by life. I tell myself that I'm far too busy to start a new book and before I know it, a couple of months pass and I look longingly at my shelf of unread books and feel miserable. But this is ridiculous. Reading is such a constant and fulfilling friend and (as with many things we wrongly convince ourselves, out of guilt, that we must relinquish) it is simply a matter of making time for it.

So, I thought that Great Expectations was particularly apropos to start the year off, given my own great expectations...hey, just because I didn't make a list of resolutions for the new year doesn't mean those really hefty goals aren't rolling around in my head! Of course it is a classic and was a great read. It is always rewarding to be reminded that money and status don't ever really set a person free, but rather, often bind them to ridiculous things and often at the price of those truly fulfilling aspects of life.