“And if two of you are gathered together—then there is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and praise God, for if only in you two His truth has been fulfilled.”
I'm a huge fan of suspense, so I have to admit that although I actually did enjoy the Brothers Karamazov, I was a bit disappointed at who the killer actually was...because I knew. Was it “too obvious?”, or was I just thrown because normally the person that you think did it wasn't actually the killer at all? I'm used to anticipating a sudden twist at the end, a twist that you didn't see coming. Is it strange to say that not having that twist there threw me more than it would have had it been there. My thoughts were something akin to...Wait...that's it? It actually was Smerdyakov? But...I didn't want it to be... But the book was worth reading, though at times it moved at a rate that left me wondering whether there was a plot at all or whether it was a collection of tidbits reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, for that's sometimes what the little asides resembled, though in the end they became a cohesive whole. There were also quite a few quotes that I liked, the one above serving as a rather poignant example.
On another note, I had a very interesting dream last night, but after four hours of class, it's begun to dim from my memory...however, I shall attempt to reconstruct it, in all of its disturbing, violent glory. The beginning, I fear, has been lost. I only remember looking at a sheet of paper with a list of animals that we (some sort of “group” consisting of myself, a man I think was supposedly my father, and one or two other people) were required to kill. The man who was my father and yet not my father had a pistol and was double-tapping them in some sort of bizarre ritual that involved shooting them in the head to keep them from running and then shooting their stomach, which would cause the small creatures to blow in half. We had already shot two birds of some sort, I think they were ravens, and then I think twelve of some sort of rodent, and were hunting for cats when my memory picked up. I remember being somewhat disturbed at the idea of shooting cats—I happen to be a bit of a cat person myself. However, for whatever reason, I did not protest, and twenty were shot before we thought to double-check the quantity required. When we figured out that only twelve needed to be killed, I grew upset, and this jolted me awake. I had quite a few other short dreams last night, for I fear I did not sleep for more than an hour at a stretch, but I cannot remember any of the others, so I shall instead comment upon our poetry readings.
I have rather strong opinions about poetry. I either like it or I don't like it, and there's no specific qualifications for what sorts of poems I like. For example, there are some rhyming poems that are very clever and in my eyes, well-written, while there are others that I dislike intensely. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is a poem that I happen to like, especially the last quatrain. I love the repeat of the last line, And miles to go before I sleep, because it seems to me as though the visitor to those peaceful woods is whispering the line again to himself, as if he doesn't want to leave, but keeps telling himself, “I must.” My other favorite poem—don't criticize me for picking the ones that we discussed in class—was That time of year thou may'st in me behold. I love the subtle imagery used to depict the decay of a human life as we approach our end. I also stumbled across W. D. Snodgrass' “decompositions” of Shakespeare's original sonnet, and was highly disappointed by them. Sure, they were “easier” to understand, that is, the imagery pointed more clearly to growing old, but there was some sort of a fundamental beauty that was lost in it—at least in my opinion. Maybe I'm the only one that feels this way...I'd love to hear other people's opinions on the three poems on p. 64.
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