Ouch

Prof. Griggs ripped my draft apart. He said that I have a beautiful style, but that I can't quite control it. I think he also accused me of "logorrhea." He said that my first paragraph was full of crap statements that didn't really mean much (my words, not his). It wasn't all bad. He commended me on being literate, and told me that he was going to hold me to a higher standard than my colleagues, because I was obviously more capable. He fussed over a few phrases I had used, and challenged me to closely examine every word to make sure it has the feeling and definition that I need and want. He also jokingly said that I would be really good at writing really bad novels. :)

Thus, after two more hours of work and rewriting:

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box, or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Because of this longstanding relationship between mortality and tragedy, sorrow is often a central theme in ancient writings. Homer’s Iliad – despite the fact that a large portion of it is devoted to records of violence and hostility – is not the quintessential “war epic” it first appears to be, but rather an astute commentary on the import of sorrow not only in mortal lives, but in immortal lives as well, and in the drawing together of the two.

The lives of the humans in The Iliad are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is sometimes acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus (Il. VI, XXIV).

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “For me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With the help of divinities who pity his sorrow, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by a war, share the tears that are blind to such division. Together, they weep for what has already come to pass and cannot be undone.

These two examples portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of war. While the audience is accosted with accounts of battle after battle, until they all run together into a mass of angry chaos, these two interludes are quite distinct (Griggs, class). Homer describes these sad scenes with a softer tone, and the gravity of such emotion is evident in its contrast to the repetitive feeling of the war passages. When tragic situations such as these arise, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story bears a semblance to the account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept” (Moses 7:28). The great and powerful God of men sat and wept on behalf of all his children. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

So what is the purpose of sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. If mankind didn’t know sorrow, deities would have no need for pity; conversely, if gods knew no sadness, they would not understand humans, and man would be left alone. The role of sorrow is absolutely crucial.

As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in the process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us, and that their sorrows will sympathize with our own. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Unfortunately our mortality gets in the way, sometimes. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through appreciation of divine joy in addition to sorrow, we may be tempted to settle for the sorrow alone. This pain, while as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by ending our search for new causes of sorrow, and acknowledging the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

I think it reads much better now. Yay constructive criticism!

Liar

I'm a liar. I didn't post this dumb thing this morning. Rather, I spent the majority of the day screwing around with it myself, before actually getting it down in a form that other people can comprehend. Still, here it is, to read and enjoy.

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Oddly, though humans have lived with it for so long, the role of this sorrow is frequently downplayed. People tend to view it as nothing more than the result of a larger issue, the unimportant aftermath of a more noteworthy situation. Despite the fact that a large portion of ancient texts are devoted to records of war and hostility, sorrow itself is often the writer’s true focus.

Homer’s Iliad is a perfect example of this idea. While at first it appears to be the quintessential “war epic,” upon further examination of the story, concepts far beyond simple contention become apparent. The lives of the mortals in this epic are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is generally acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus.

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “And for me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With an entirely broken heart, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by war, share the mutual tears that seep up from battlegrounds, born from the blood of the fallen.

These two scenes portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of War. But when the audience is confronted with situations such as these, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story mirrors almost exactly the Christian account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses 7:28, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept.” The great and powerful God of all men sat and wept on our behalf. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, of one in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

But why is mankind doomed to sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in a process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us and allow us to be raised up to more than we naturally are. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Such a pursuit – to actualize our potential – is hardly of small import. Unfortunately, as humans, we are often overwhelmed by the intensity of our task. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through divine joy in addition to sorrow, we settle for the tragedy alone. This pain, while equally as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by recognizing our mistake of searching for new causes of sorrow rather than appreciating the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

Phoo. It's sort of ambiguous, no? Hopefully the teacher is into that sort of thing.

Overanalysis

I was driving home from work, thinkin' about my Civ paper and how I wanted to word different parts, when suddenly, Snow White popped into my head.

So then I was thinking about Snow White, and how the 7 dwarfs must be a metaphor for the 7 days it took God to create the world, and how the poison apple was a symbol for . . . well, duh. And then the whole "true love's kiss" was a representation of the love of Christ, and that His is the only way to salvation.

And then I remembered that Snow White is a Disney movie, and that I was really tired. Then I felt foolish.

Such are my thought processes on a daily basis.

P.S. My paper is due on Tuesday, but I'll hopefully have a finished draft on Monday morning, so comments and editing things are welcome. :)

Beatlemania

Over the past month, I have come to a realization that I feel will be a defining shift in my life:

I love the Beatles.

I've always liked them, but something just snapped and now I absolutely ADORE them.

Especially Paul McCartney. He's a lyrical god, and a vegetarian. How awesome is that?

Hard Days Night is now one of my favorite movies, and Help! wasn't bad either. The LRC folks think I'm a bit crazy, though, as in the past two days I have come in and rented two Beatles movies, and then sat at the desk laughing my butt off at the Fab Four's crazy antics.

Sure, I've missed the "real" Beatlemania by about 45 years, but what I lack in timing I intend to make up for with passion!

Art

"The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.

This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless."

-Oscar Wilde, Preface to "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

So, what is art really? I'm intrigued by this whole idea. I wish I could meet Oscar Wilde, and shake his hand, and talk to him about life.

Also, should literature be considered art if you accept Wilde's definition? "All art is quite useless," makes me think that if something is used as a teaching tool, it's no longer art, as it serves another purpose. We can criticize it, sure, but we mustn't learn. Or, on the opposite end, if we do learn something from it, it is useful, and therefore shouldn't be admired.

I, personally, am of the opinion that something can have both beauty and purpose, but Wilde portrays his ideas with such gorgeous writing, that I can't help being a bit giddy. All through that book, Lord Henry spouts off the most immoral things, but they're so lovely, I find myself nodding along.

If the devil is a poet, I need to watch out.