Nights like these are simply not made for sleeping.
Granted, the bed is never so welcoming as when the room is well chilled by the crisp night air. But the air is invigorating. Energizing. Vivifying. The sweet scent beckons me outside, so that is where I go. The cool is bracing, bringing out gooseflesh on the backs of my arms, something that feels like adrenaline follows. The peace, the isolation, and the darkness leave the senses sharpened. A heightened state of awareness and a feeling of restless vitality stir up discontent, perhaps because I seldom have this sharpness, and now I have nowhere to apply it. I settle down to read. There might be adventure out there somewhere, but probably not the kind I am hungry for. Books will have to do.
I act like I do not get cold; that is all show. On nights like tonight, I linger constantly on the edge of discomfort, not putting on my jacket for the sole reason of feeling the discomfort. It is not pleasant, but it is an interesting sensation and strong. You can never push the sensation from the mind entirely, but you can master yourself in spite of it. The cold is pushed to the back of the mind; it is a challenge, an art. Stupidity? Yes, probably some portion of that as well, but there is also discipline involved.
The quality of my work is always so much better when it is conducted in conditions like these; I do not read books, I inhale them, even as I inhale the scent of a juniper sprig that I just shredded into teeny-tiny pieces for reasons unknowable; not a labor, nor an effort, but natural. Perhaps it is the lack of distractions?
No. Heavens no. The books are just about all that can distract me from my thoughts on nights like these. The internet is ok, but simply does not have the power to sustain my attention span for any length of time. I am finding that blogging seems to perform a similar function, although it deals mainly with voicing my fumbling attempts to understand my own frame of mind. It also serves only as a distraction from the heavier concerns that weigh on the mind.
Unfortunately, nights like these--gorgeous, solitary, and all too brief--are perfect for attempting to contemplate issues like school, work, the future, and other things that are scary to contemplate while sober. Not that any one of them is to be dreaded, but rather, they are scary because I am young and still relatively inexperienced. I do not want to let anyone down, and naive though this sounds, I should dearly like to remain happy; a goal which seems to allude many with time.
I sit in the breeze and wonder whether the discomfort I feel comes from the coolness that is slowly creeping into my arms, or from the reality that money is much more important than I like to pretend it is, and that I do not want to spend my life fighting to keep it from feeling like the center of that life.
I walk in the breeze and beat myself up over could haves and should haves of years, months, weeks, days, and hours of yore. I forgive myself and pep talk myself into doing better next time. I pray. I was not always much of one for praying, but nights like these are good for reflection, for discovering what is wanted and needed, and realizing that there is no shame or childishness in asking our Father in Heaven for it.
And for all of that, the mood is not nearly so somber as it sounds. The clearheaded sharpness remains with me the whole time. The sense is not one of impending doom, but of anticipation. So I might fret a little is something particular is bugging me. I push it down and try to re-approach it from with some perspective. Does this always work? No. But I don't pretend to have all the answers here. I just try to sort things out.
So I take my time, turn things over in my mind. I think, worry and fret, reflect and remember, plan and plot, give rein to my imagination, and sit down and read a book so I don't drive myself insane. In the end, there is at least one thing that I have figured out...
Nights like these are simply not made for sleeping.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Under the Sky so Blue
Today we--yes, the royal we--are playing hot lava. Anywhere that the sun is not shining is the hot lava, and must be avoided at all costs. The only exceptions are class periods, and getting my coffee cup refilled.
I find the sunshine most conducive to thought, including thoughts which should have occurred to me some time ago. Today, in particularly, it was just something regarding my research, which I really grasped for the first time. I had previously realized that Austrian national identity was poorly defined prior to the end of WWII and the Austrian Victim narrative. I had failed to reconcile, however, the real import of this. Austria is almost completely a post-WWII concept. The Austro-Hungarian Empire of the Hapsburg dynasty was a broad collection of regions, united under a central bureaucratic mechanism. Within that Empire, regions ethno-cultural likeness were organized into provinces; there was no Austria, as such, but Tirol, South Tirol, Salzburg, and Vienna, amongst numerous smaller entities.
The connection between these provinces broke down with the collapse of the Empire the borders of Austria were drawn rather arbitrarily, and there were almost no impetus toward a unification. Austro-Fascism was an attempt at achieving national unity, but suffered from minority support, even among Austrian Fascists, many of whom preferred a Pan-Germanistic union.
The disunity of Austria is further shown at the end of WWII. It was not a given that Austria would reunite as one, although we treat it that way now. Tirol, particularly, debated on whether to acknowledge an "Austrian" authority, or to assert Tirolean sovereignty. Similar discussions permeated the political spheres of the time.
Germany, and the Anschluss, entered at the very height of Austrian Ego-permeability. The vacuum left behind the Hapsburg Empire remained unfilled until the time of Adolph Hitler's annexation of his homeland to a "Greater Germany," and I am of the mind--though this must remain always a speculation--that a Nazi victory would have lead to the contented erasure of separate Austrian identity from a broader German identity. The Nazi defeat, however, left Austria in the ruins of a second fallen empire, and a second economic depression.
The shift of fortunes which came with victim-hood and the Marshall Plan could not have been more perfectly timed. It coupled economic recovery with a distancing from the idea of Greater Germany, and security against a clearly hostile Soviet Army.
One might question how this resulted in Austria, as opposed to a federation of Austrian provinces, which was the Allied plan originally. The answer lies in necessity. Too large a part of the Austrian population had been complicit in campaigns of Nazism, both foreign and domestic, and in addition, some provinces were much guiltier than others: South Tirol is pterhaps the one place where any credence might be lent to the idea of Austrian resistance to Nazism. But to punish some and not others would have damaged any attempt to create Austrian unity, which--due to recent developments--had become a source of preoccupation for the West, which was swiftly coming to desire an independent and neutral Austria.
I am of course alluding to the Cold War and the threat of extended Soviet influence in middle Europe. The Allies, or those of republican constitution, recognized the utility of a strong buffer nation between the communist satellite-states and the impressionable and often idiotic peoples of Italy and Greece.
In order to create such a nation, it was not expedient to cause any division amongst the provinces. The so called victim-hood of the provinces, then, was to be cast as a corporate martyrdom of the Austrian people: whole and undivided.
The provinces readily excepted this story: first, because it absolved them of their wrongdoing; Second, because it came with generous economic aid; and third, because it was a shield against soviet occupation.
What I had previously underestimated, was the malleability of the Austrian Persona, and that it had failed to take shape after the Great War. The legacy of Austrian-wictimhood may thus be considered, not as the termination of an identity crisis beginning with the Anschluss, but as the final resolution of the identity crisis left by the fall of the Hapsburgs.
There are the attendant issues of never being able to deal with the Austrian war-criminals properly, leading to celebration of Austrian service in the Wehrmacht, and ultimately Waldheim--along with who knows what other cultural disease, but it remarkable how fast the victim narrative allowed them to coalesce. They went twenty years before the Anschluss without figuring it out, but it took them months after the end of WWII to solve the problem. Remarkable.
I suppose it is nearing time for class. Time to make an end of it and enjoy these last few minutes in the sun.
I find the sunshine most conducive to thought, including thoughts which should have occurred to me some time ago. Today, in particularly, it was just something regarding my research, which I really grasped for the first time. I had previously realized that Austrian national identity was poorly defined prior to the end of WWII and the Austrian Victim narrative. I had failed to reconcile, however, the real import of this. Austria is almost completely a post-WWII concept. The Austro-Hungarian Empire of the Hapsburg dynasty was a broad collection of regions, united under a central bureaucratic mechanism. Within that Empire, regions ethno-cultural likeness were organized into provinces; there was no Austria, as such, but Tirol, South Tirol, Salzburg, and Vienna, amongst numerous smaller entities.
The connection between these provinces broke down with the collapse of the Empire the borders of Austria were drawn rather arbitrarily, and there were almost no impetus toward a unification. Austro-Fascism was an attempt at achieving national unity, but suffered from minority support, even among Austrian Fascists, many of whom preferred a Pan-Germanistic union.
The disunity of Austria is further shown at the end of WWII. It was not a given that Austria would reunite as one, although we treat it that way now. Tirol, particularly, debated on whether to acknowledge an "Austrian" authority, or to assert Tirolean sovereignty. Similar discussions permeated the political spheres of the time.
Germany, and the Anschluss, entered at the very height of Austrian Ego-permeability. The vacuum left behind the Hapsburg Empire remained unfilled until the time of Adolph Hitler's annexation of his homeland to a "Greater Germany," and I am of the mind--though this must remain always a speculation--that a Nazi victory would have lead to the contented erasure of separate Austrian identity from a broader German identity. The Nazi defeat, however, left Austria in the ruins of a second fallen empire, and a second economic depression.
The shift of fortunes which came with victim-hood and the Marshall Plan could not have been more perfectly timed. It coupled economic recovery with a distancing from the idea of Greater Germany, and security against a clearly hostile Soviet Army.
One might question how this resulted in Austria, as opposed to a federation of Austrian provinces, which was the Allied plan originally. The answer lies in necessity. Too large a part of the Austrian population had been complicit in campaigns of Nazism, both foreign and domestic, and in addition, some provinces were much guiltier than others: South Tirol is pterhaps the one place where any credence might be lent to the idea of Austrian resistance to Nazism. But to punish some and not others would have damaged any attempt to create Austrian unity, which--due to recent developments--had become a source of preoccupation for the West, which was swiftly coming to desire an independent and neutral Austria.
I am of course alluding to the Cold War and the threat of extended Soviet influence in middle Europe. The Allies, or those of republican constitution, recognized the utility of a strong buffer nation between the communist satellite-states and the impressionable and often idiotic peoples of Italy and Greece.
In order to create such a nation, it was not expedient to cause any division amongst the provinces. The so called victim-hood of the provinces, then, was to be cast as a corporate martyrdom of the Austrian people: whole and undivided.
The provinces readily excepted this story: first, because it absolved them of their wrongdoing; Second, because it came with generous economic aid; and third, because it was a shield against soviet occupation.
What I had previously underestimated, was the malleability of the Austrian Persona, and that it had failed to take shape after the Great War. The legacy of Austrian-wictimhood may thus be considered, not as the termination of an identity crisis beginning with the Anschluss, but as the final resolution of the identity crisis left by the fall of the Hapsburgs.
There are the attendant issues of never being able to deal with the Austrian war-criminals properly, leading to celebration of Austrian service in the Wehrmacht, and ultimately Waldheim--along with who knows what other cultural disease, but it remarkable how fast the victim narrative allowed them to coalesce. They went twenty years before the Anschluss without figuring it out, but it took them months after the end of WWII to solve the problem. Remarkable.
I suppose it is nearing time for class. Time to make an end of it and enjoy these last few minutes in the sun.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Meanderings which began with a Realization that I really had no Time for Blogging, but that I similarly had no Will to do Research.
To controvert a meme: Summer is Coming.
That is quite fortunate, because I am simply a tad bit tired. There is only so much heavy academic literature one can read before it is time to cut it with a healthy dose of talking animals. Although, I have come to believe that it is not the literature itself which is so stuffy, but rather, that it is the knowledge of coming graded work which renders the otherwise pleasurable suffocating. A prime example of this would be the work I am doing for my senior seminar. I find the topic fascinating, and I still get the familiar chills down my spine each time I discover something particularly weighty, but as the semester drags on, I come to view it more as plain drudgery, not because the topic has lost merit over the course of my studies, nor because my expanded knowledge on the topic makes each new discovery any less triumphant, but merely because I realize that the time will be coming when this is no longer just for me, and when I will have to yield up the sum-total of all of my work--imperfectly represented in my writing--for a grade.
Granted, I am yet to receive a poor grade on any paper that I have written, but in every single case I have found my own finished product insufficient. It frustrates me to no end to spend a semester reading exemplary research, only to turnout something that I do not feel entirely pleased with. Now, I might have touched on something previously unexplored in my current work, but even then, I hardly feel like my brief acquaintance with the topic is sufficient for me to posit something new in a confident manner: even when I dare to be original, doubt lies in the wings.
When it comes right down to it, I can tolerate mediocrity from others, but when I find it in my own efforts, I hate it, quite passionately. More than that, it makes me feel ashamed. Failure could mean that you are just not quite good enough in your person, which is itself a horrible thought, and one I've always tried to cut out of the calculations. It might also signify that I simply did not try, which is sometimes the case.
The one that really gets me is option the third: failure through inadequate means. The means in this case are primarily time and access to research material. There is nothing more frustrating than turning out a weak paper because of insufficient access to the desired research materials. I remember doing an African research paper for one professor, which came out merely ok. This result stemmed from greater than anticipated difficulty in getting my hands on the sources I wanted, many of which simply were not readily available to those who did not speak Spanish or Portuguese.
I suppose my problem is rooted entirely in ego. I, much like everyone else, do not object to being respected by my betters, and confident though I generally am in my abilities, there is always the possibility that I will offer up something which leads a professor to puncture my inflated view of self.
It is the constant danger to my ego, then, which I find so tiring. People have wondered before, why I spend so much more time and effort than is necessary on the little things. While the main part of it is that I do indeed prefer to do a good job for it's own sake, and for the feeling of having done something worthwhile, there is always an element that voraciously desires acclaim.
Here is the odd thing: I cannot think of another field, outside the academic, where I feel quite the same drive. I really do not feel the need for the acclaim of my boss, nor have I particularly needed to worry about securing the affection of my family: that is in the bag, and what drive I feel rises more the desire to make them happy. I do not particularly care for the acclaim of strangers; I always find it a little awkward. Nope, just my professors, and maybe--from time to time--my pastors.
Perhaps there is a certain level at which my desire, then, is tied in a way to the way I experience it with my family.
My professors (I have been fortunate) and my pastors have looked to my care and growth: the pastors, theologically; the professors, academically--okay, the pastors get academic motivation kudos too. As these people have poured their time, efforts, and talent into my development, I am aware, to a certain extent, that what I do, say, write, etc, reflects on them as well. Poor theology reflects poorly on my pastors, and poor academic work reflects on my professors. And as I work and live with these people, gratefulness and a certain measure of affection naturally grows, and it feels like the height of ungratefulness not to repay their effort with the validation of their work which comes with the success of the student.
I would not have any mistake on my part read into as an inadequacy in my teachers; I am more than capable of making my own mistakes. I compare the difference in my attitude in Political Crimes and Trials, or even my Music for the Listener class, in both of which I had great respect for my professors, with my attitude toward my English writing course, where I felt a certain antipathy for the instructor. My effort and attention to detail where much greater in the former.
H'anyway. That was totally a tangent that carried on much longer than expected as I explored it. Entschuldigung.
The reason why it is so good that summer is coming, is that I will be glad of the time that I haven't had in awhile. Between work and school I leave the house 7 days a weak, for between 8 and 15 hours (looking at you, Friday) a day. My time on campus is largely spent on research and other homework, 'cause I'm an insufferable little streber, equipped with a genuine interest in history. Other time on campus is spent talking to people, sometimes for school, but largely social. A decent chunk is also spent just walking around, trying to draw meaning from/reconcile/order everything that I have just read; have to understand something before you write about it, dontcha know.
These routines grow old, and the reality is that I see a lot less of any people who fall outside of that sphere of those whom I see at school; this can even include people who go to IPFW, as our schedules are not always compatible. So there are some people who I just haven't really talked to in awhile; people who I should give a phone call at the very least. But that can wait. There is blogging to be done.
My upswing in social feeling is still going pretty strong, but it is hard when I have to choose between spending time with my peoples, or else getting a couple hours of downtime after a long day at school, work, or both. I need time to spend with my peoples, when I am not already burnt out by sleep shortages, or by work. There are such people, M'aiq has been told, who unwind by surrounding themselves with throngs of people. Alas, I am not one of them. Don't get me wrong; I like the people, but I prefer them when I am well rested and fed.
More than anything, I am ready for some sunshine. I have been reduced to something pale and pasty; like some kind of weird albino. It is only a matter of time before women and children start screaming at my approach. I wonder that my eyes have not yet lost their color. I just want to spend time by the pool, get my color back, and do some gardening.
Is there a point to any of this rambling? Yes, on the one hand, it is a necessary outlet for my whining, which would otherwise fall on those dear to me. I have also written it to say: bear with me. I might be a little hard to get a hold of for the next month--or else not so pleasant as I should be, in the cases that you do--but spring is coming, and with spring comes time, and with time? Well, only the summer will tell.
That is quite fortunate, because I am simply a tad bit tired. There is only so much heavy academic literature one can read before it is time to cut it with a healthy dose of talking animals. Although, I have come to believe that it is not the literature itself which is so stuffy, but rather, that it is the knowledge of coming graded work which renders the otherwise pleasurable suffocating. A prime example of this would be the work I am doing for my senior seminar. I find the topic fascinating, and I still get the familiar chills down my spine each time I discover something particularly weighty, but as the semester drags on, I come to view it more as plain drudgery, not because the topic has lost merit over the course of my studies, nor because my expanded knowledge on the topic makes each new discovery any less triumphant, but merely because I realize that the time will be coming when this is no longer just for me, and when I will have to yield up the sum-total of all of my work--imperfectly represented in my writing--for a grade.
Granted, I am yet to receive a poor grade on any paper that I have written, but in every single case I have found my own finished product insufficient. It frustrates me to no end to spend a semester reading exemplary research, only to turnout something that I do not feel entirely pleased with. Now, I might have touched on something previously unexplored in my current work, but even then, I hardly feel like my brief acquaintance with the topic is sufficient for me to posit something new in a confident manner: even when I dare to be original, doubt lies in the wings.
When it comes right down to it, I can tolerate mediocrity from others, but when I find it in my own efforts, I hate it, quite passionately. More than that, it makes me feel ashamed. Failure could mean that you are just not quite good enough in your person, which is itself a horrible thought, and one I've always tried to cut out of the calculations. It might also signify that I simply did not try, which is sometimes the case.
The one that really gets me is option the third: failure through inadequate means. The means in this case are primarily time and access to research material. There is nothing more frustrating than turning out a weak paper because of insufficient access to the desired research materials. I remember doing an African research paper for one professor, which came out merely ok. This result stemmed from greater than anticipated difficulty in getting my hands on the sources I wanted, many of which simply were not readily available to those who did not speak Spanish or Portuguese.
I suppose my problem is rooted entirely in ego. I, much like everyone else, do not object to being respected by my betters, and confident though I generally am in my abilities, there is always the possibility that I will offer up something which leads a professor to puncture my inflated view of self.
It is the constant danger to my ego, then, which I find so tiring. People have wondered before, why I spend so much more time and effort than is necessary on the little things. While the main part of it is that I do indeed prefer to do a good job for it's own sake, and for the feeling of having done something worthwhile, there is always an element that voraciously desires acclaim.
Here is the odd thing: I cannot think of another field, outside the academic, where I feel quite the same drive. I really do not feel the need for the acclaim of my boss, nor have I particularly needed to worry about securing the affection of my family: that is in the bag, and what drive I feel rises more the desire to make them happy. I do not particularly care for the acclaim of strangers; I always find it a little awkward. Nope, just my professors, and maybe--from time to time--my pastors.
Perhaps there is a certain level at which my desire, then, is tied in a way to the way I experience it with my family.
My professors (I have been fortunate) and my pastors have looked to my care and growth: the pastors, theologically; the professors, academically--okay, the pastors get academic motivation kudos too. As these people have poured their time, efforts, and talent into my development, I am aware, to a certain extent, that what I do, say, write, etc, reflects on them as well. Poor theology reflects poorly on my pastors, and poor academic work reflects on my professors. And as I work and live with these people, gratefulness and a certain measure of affection naturally grows, and it feels like the height of ungratefulness not to repay their effort with the validation of their work which comes with the success of the student.
I would not have any mistake on my part read into as an inadequacy in my teachers; I am more than capable of making my own mistakes. I compare the difference in my attitude in Political Crimes and Trials, or even my Music for the Listener class, in both of which I had great respect for my professors, with my attitude toward my English writing course, where I felt a certain antipathy for the instructor. My effort and attention to detail where much greater in the former.
H'anyway. That was totally a tangent that carried on much longer than expected as I explored it. Entschuldigung.
The reason why it is so good that summer is coming, is that I will be glad of the time that I haven't had in awhile. Between work and school I leave the house 7 days a weak, for between 8 and 15 hours (looking at you, Friday) a day. My time on campus is largely spent on research and other homework, 'cause I'm an insufferable little streber, equipped with a genuine interest in history. Other time on campus is spent talking to people, sometimes for school, but largely social. A decent chunk is also spent just walking around, trying to draw meaning from/reconcile/order everything that I have just read; have to understand something before you write about it, dontcha know.
These routines grow old, and the reality is that I see a lot less of any people who fall outside of that sphere of those whom I see at school; this can even include people who go to IPFW, as our schedules are not always compatible. So there are some people who I just haven't really talked to in awhile; people who I should give a phone call at the very least. But that can wait. There is blogging to be done.
My upswing in social feeling is still going pretty strong, but it is hard when I have to choose between spending time with my peoples, or else getting a couple hours of downtime after a long day at school, work, or both. I need time to spend with my peoples, when I am not already burnt out by sleep shortages, or by work. There are such people, M'aiq has been told, who unwind by surrounding themselves with throngs of people. Alas, I am not one of them. Don't get me wrong; I like the people, but I prefer them when I am well rested and fed.
More than anything, I am ready for some sunshine. I have been reduced to something pale and pasty; like some kind of weird albino. It is only a matter of time before women and children start screaming at my approach. I wonder that my eyes have not yet lost their color. I just want to spend time by the pool, get my color back, and do some gardening.
Is there a point to any of this rambling? Yes, on the one hand, it is a necessary outlet for my whining, which would otherwise fall on those dear to me. I have also written it to say: bear with me. I might be a little hard to get a hold of for the next month--or else not so pleasant as I should be, in the cases that you do--but spring is coming, and with spring comes time, and with time? Well, only the summer will tell.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Tipping.
I will keep this brief.
I have my feelings on tipping. If one does not have money, one should not got out. If one feels that there is indeed money to justify going out, then I see no reason why one should budget on the tip. If one can not include a generous tip and remain within means, why go out in the first place.
I admit, a quasi-theological idea has worked it's way into my tipping, and I cannot bring myself to regret it. When I tip, I hope that my generosity borders on the level where it would appear to be prodigality. Even as we receive grace beyond what is expected, much less deserved, so also, one should tip one's waiters and waitresses, giving gladly, just for the sheer joy of giving, and in the hope of bringing some pleasure to others.
There are places I can cut, but tips will never be one of them.
I have my feelings on tipping. If one does not have money, one should not got out. If one feels that there is indeed money to justify going out, then I see no reason why one should budget on the tip. If one can not include a generous tip and remain within means, why go out in the first place.
I admit, a quasi-theological idea has worked it's way into my tipping, and I cannot bring myself to regret it. When I tip, I hope that my generosity borders on the level where it would appear to be prodigality. Even as we receive grace beyond what is expected, much less deserved, so also, one should tip one's waiters and waitresses, giving gladly, just for the sheer joy of giving, and in the hope of bringing some pleasure to others.
There are places I can cut, but tips will never be one of them.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Musings on a Favourite Book
Since having heard about the upcoming radio Drama of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, and since having learned that the Shewoof does not esteem it so highly as she ought, I have been considering what it is about that book which spoke to me so.
At a basic level, it is escapist. It is an adventure story set outside the realms of everyday life. The world is fantastic, and magic satisfies in a way that no crime drama or spy/military thriller ever will. But it is not a world so vague and separate as Middle Earth; it coexists with the world of the known, and therefore, taps into the realm of daydreams in a way high-fantasy never can. In Neverwhere, the remarkable lurks just beneath the surface, out of sight of the ordinary, but waiting to bubble up through the cracks.
The story has the magic of a rainy day in a foreign city; total anonymity and the simultaneous thrill and fear of leaving everything behind and striking out into the unknown. For the protagonist, everything is new and frightening, and at the same time, so much is a twisted reflection of the world he already knows.
I think part of the appeal to me is the very notion of adventure. In the America of the 21st century, adventure and danger--especially to my demographic--means "let us go do stupid stuff." One does not get many opportunities to prove one's incipient heroism these days, outside of fighting wars, without objectives, in far removed lands, without the appropriate legal sanctions of the Congress. I applaud those who serve, and while I would rather many of our campaigns not be embarked upon, I am glad they are prosecuted--by and large--by men of honor. Perhaps a topic for another time.
That is not the adventure for me, but there is a definite hunger for adventure, which will only find vicarious satisfaction.
The protagonist is not prepared for his adventure, he does not want it, and yet it takes his goodness, purifies it by trial, and makes a hero out of him. And even then, part of Gaiman's genius, he sits weeping brokenly against that wall, scrabbling to return. He is lost to that adventure, and he could never return to the ordinary. That is just another aspect of the danger, the thrill of the story. He became something more in that other reality, and he did not want to lose it.
It is a story about an ordinary, boring, fellow who gets pulled into a world where the ordinary cannot survive; he must become extraordinary or perish on the way. It isn't as though I'm dreaming about getting pulled into the sewers, or chased around by Croup and Vandemar, but there is some kind of uralt primordial craving for a test. The feats of strength simply are not enough.
You take the slow burn of this psychological subtext, and then toss on the accelerant of Gaiman's master wordsmanship, and it is no surprise that it speaks to me as it does.
Plus, I think that Gaiman has mastered, more than any writer I have ever read, the vocabularies of anonymity and shabbiness. I have to think of American Gods as well; it isn't just shabbiness, rather, resplendent shabbiness. I am thinking of the Marquis de Carabas and Odin in particular. Both are unknown and unknowable, obviously powerful, and yet, wear all of their power veiled. Everyone in their world knows who they are, yet no one outside, and yet, that anonymity does not make them any less than what they are.
Curious, I will need to consider further.
At a basic level, it is escapist. It is an adventure story set outside the realms of everyday life. The world is fantastic, and magic satisfies in a way that no crime drama or spy/military thriller ever will. But it is not a world so vague and separate as Middle Earth; it coexists with the world of the known, and therefore, taps into the realm of daydreams in a way high-fantasy never can. In Neverwhere, the remarkable lurks just beneath the surface, out of sight of the ordinary, but waiting to bubble up through the cracks.
The story has the magic of a rainy day in a foreign city; total anonymity and the simultaneous thrill and fear of leaving everything behind and striking out into the unknown. For the protagonist, everything is new and frightening, and at the same time, so much is a twisted reflection of the world he already knows.
I think part of the appeal to me is the very notion of adventure. In the America of the 21st century, adventure and danger--especially to my demographic--means "let us go do stupid stuff." One does not get many opportunities to prove one's incipient heroism these days, outside of fighting wars, without objectives, in far removed lands, without the appropriate legal sanctions of the Congress. I applaud those who serve, and while I would rather many of our campaigns not be embarked upon, I am glad they are prosecuted--by and large--by men of honor. Perhaps a topic for another time.
That is not the adventure for me, but there is a definite hunger for adventure, which will only find vicarious satisfaction.
The protagonist is not prepared for his adventure, he does not want it, and yet it takes his goodness, purifies it by trial, and makes a hero out of him. And even then, part of Gaiman's genius, he sits weeping brokenly against that wall, scrabbling to return. He is lost to that adventure, and he could never return to the ordinary. That is just another aspect of the danger, the thrill of the story. He became something more in that other reality, and he did not want to lose it.
It is a story about an ordinary, boring, fellow who gets pulled into a world where the ordinary cannot survive; he must become extraordinary or perish on the way. It isn't as though I'm dreaming about getting pulled into the sewers, or chased around by Croup and Vandemar, but there is some kind of uralt primordial craving for a test. The feats of strength simply are not enough.
You take the slow burn of this psychological subtext, and then toss on the accelerant of Gaiman's master wordsmanship, and it is no surprise that it speaks to me as it does.
Plus, I think that Gaiman has mastered, more than any writer I have ever read, the vocabularies of anonymity and shabbiness. I have to think of American Gods as well; it isn't just shabbiness, rather, resplendent shabbiness. I am thinking of the Marquis de Carabas and Odin in particular. Both are unknown and unknowable, obviously powerful, and yet, wear all of their power veiled. Everyone in their world knows who they are, yet no one outside, and yet, that anonymity does not make them any less than what they are.
Curious, I will need to consider further.
Shaggy II
You must understand, I was not prepared to like it initially, mostly because my sister had some withering comments to level at my previous attempts to grow facial hair. It has never turned out well in the past, and I was prepared, generally, for it to look abysmal.
What I am saying, in basic, is that I was not nuts about it, and I am still not totally convinced, but having been told many--no, really--many times that it looks really good, I have wandered into the unknown.
What I am saying, ya'll, is that: if I start looking like trapper john, or a large animal, or a NASCAR fan, for the love of all that is good and holy, tell me. I am operating under the effects of peer opinion and am not entirely within my mind.
Hey, Brother. Crag.
When I was younger I had alter egos. My brothers and I envisaged other planets in a far off world, where these characters lived. That world was an analogy for our own and we created it, not out of whole cloth, but using the materials supplied by the world around us. So also, those alter egos were not wholly outside of us, but aspects of our personalities.
The alter egos in particular were interesting, because, though they were prone to exaggeration, everything that they said was merely a caricature of something we actually thought. Speaking as an alter ego--we could tell by voice change, slight or extreme, depending on the character--we could put an often humorous twist on whatever we were thinking. We would say something ridiculous, but beneath it, we could immediately find the kernel of truth that the other had spoken.
And, have I been using the past tense? I beg your pardon. Our alter egos are not nearly dead yet, nor do I expect they ever will be.
In the first part, I have no intent to surrender my imagination, nor my sense of the ridiculous, both of which have definitely been sharpened through our playacting. It is extraordinary good fun, and it is a mechanism we often use to take something that annoys us, and laugh heartily at it. And, more importantly, it is the particular language which I speak with my brothers. There are certain words, phrases, faces, tones, and gestures that speak volumes.
I really see no reason why growing older means putting the kibosh on imagination, and it really is not like I could surrender my alter egos; they are kind of attached. Plus, they really come in handy from time to time
So, until further notice, the Dragons are still protecting humanity from imminent "justice." The Two are scheming, and the Saint is probably being chastened as we speak, even whilst Junior and Eddie execute a glorious reverse charge. Jonathan and Andrew will know what I mean.
The alter egos in particular were interesting, because, though they were prone to exaggeration, everything that they said was merely a caricature of something we actually thought. Speaking as an alter ego--we could tell by voice change, slight or extreme, depending on the character--we could put an often humorous twist on whatever we were thinking. We would say something ridiculous, but beneath it, we could immediately find the kernel of truth that the other had spoken.
And, have I been using the past tense? I beg your pardon. Our alter egos are not nearly dead yet, nor do I expect they ever will be.
In the first part, I have no intent to surrender my imagination, nor my sense of the ridiculous, both of which have definitely been sharpened through our playacting. It is extraordinary good fun, and it is a mechanism we often use to take something that annoys us, and laugh heartily at it. And, more importantly, it is the particular language which I speak with my brothers. There are certain words, phrases, faces, tones, and gestures that speak volumes.
I really see no reason why growing older means putting the kibosh on imagination, and it really is not like I could surrender my alter egos; they are kind of attached. Plus, they really come in handy from time to time
So, until further notice, the Dragons are still protecting humanity from imminent "justice." The Two are scheming, and the Saint is probably being chastened as we speak, even whilst Junior and Eddie execute a glorious reverse charge. Jonathan and Andrew will know what I mean.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)