Catching Up

Despite the fact that I haven't updated my blog in far too long (oops) I'd like to think that I have been doing all right with keeping up with the readings. It might take me a while to get my blog posts caught up to the reading, at least if I intend to write something about each of the stories—although, I could probably manage to tie at least most of them together. Last week I had about twenty-five hours of work outside of class time on an art project, so I claim that excuse for the fact that I haven't been blogging. I have finished the first book of the Brothers Karamazov, and I am proud to report that so far it does not find me too boring. I will admit that there is a bit more setup before the story begins that I am accustomed to, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. The Lot series was, I hate to admit, a bit too familiar to me. It should not be possible to hear a story too many times, but it seems that most of the versions of this story are quite close to the same. Gomorrah was my personal favorite, though there was not much of a contest. The best part of this tale, though, is that it is a prime illustration of the business of stories—that is, doing something that you have been told not to do. Don't eat that apple, don't speak to the wolf, don't turn back and look at the city, don't fly too close to the sun. But if you don't break the rules, you will never experience the conflict that causes a story to be set into motion. Rules, it seems, are made to be broken, for if everyone obeyed them, there would be no storytelling! Icharus learned the unfortunate consequences that come from doing what you're “not supposed to.” His story did not turn out as well as Little Red Cap's. Neither did Lot's wife's.


I hate to admit, however, that A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings found me to be a horribly confusing reader. I have never been a big fan of Gabriel García Márquez, for I was far too young to read 100 Years Of Solitude when I did. I fear it scared me from his writings for life. The story was...intriguing. The idea of the old man's frail humanity was very striking, yet, the ending seemed for some reason not to make sense. He was, indeed, an angel? And one day he just up and flew away? I have to admit that I had some idea of where the story might be going, but my suspicions turned out to be wrong. The old man—or angel—did not mean to cause any harm after all. Perhaps I am unusual for desiring a less-than-happy ending, but it almost seemed to end too well. Despite my confusion as to what exactly was going on, the story held promise, but the ending seemed almost too clean-cut for my preferences. This is definitely an example of a story where the moral is the story itself, that is, there is no moral to the story, no greater life lesson to be learned. It is simply a story, to provoke thought and provide a few moments of distraction. At least that's my opinion. A Good Man is Hard to Find is another one that stretches the brain cells a little. I was a bit curious to hear more of the Misfit's story. What had actually happened to his father, and why was he accused of the crime if, as he claimed, there was no crime committed? Where was he planning to go? If he knew that he was going to kill the family if he stopped, why did he?

He seems to take no pleasure from the killings, telling Bobby Lee that it wasn't such a good thing after all. Yet he must have known that if he stopped, the family would die. Is he really such a good man after all? The statement “She'd have been a good woman if there had been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life” got me thinking. What would I do differently with my life if I realized that every moment could be my last? Humans have a horrible tendency to act as though they'll live forever. They do not seem to understand just how fragile, how temporary life is. If every moment was our last, I have to wonder if we wouldn't be more interesting people. Which leads me to recall that I haven't mentioned conversations that I've overheard. I know that this will make me sound vain, but honestly, the most interesting conversations that I have overheard happen to be some of my own. I hang out with a rather entertaining group of people—there's never a dull moment when they're around. And although sometimes the same jokes get told more than once, I never get tired of listening to them. Or retelling them. Honestly, I consider myself lucky, as a person who doesn't usually have very much to say in a crowd, to have friends who are so talkative as to fill the silence around me. It takes a lot of work for me to speak up enough to gain other people's attention—I am an altogether forgettable character, and I do not try to deny it. However, my part in the story, I think, is to listen, and I'm definitely okay with that.