Friday, December 11, 2009
Finally I'm going to be honest
This class was the only class that I wanted to drowned in, but because this was my extra curricular "fun class" I couldn't give it the time I wanted to give it nor the time it deserved. I couldn't even think about dropping it because it was the only class that gave me an enjoyable type of sanity, one that made the really painful craziness a little bit more tolerable. I have taken various classes at this university, but I have never seen a class get so inmate with each other and the material in the course...but maybe more important that than all of that, was the relationship people seemed to have the author...the class clenched any information that was thrown there way, and turned it back out more impressively than when they had first gotten it. I think that people who weren't even that "into " the class had at least one "AH HA!" moment, I guess it was just great to be a part of it all...and like Dr. Sexson said, when something does come out of this class I can say " I was there".
I Know this doesn't belong here, but...
I wanted to respond to the assignment we were give o so long ago to put up the reasons we didn't like Kinbote, but I honestly found that I liked him more that I would have expected to...I mean I know he is arrogant and stuck up and ultimately absolutely nuts, but for whatever reason I like him. i though long and hard about this and I realized that the reason I like him is because he doesn't know that people don't like him. H e therefore live in a world without judgment and personal attacks, because he simple doesn't believe that they are there at all. It's not as if he even ignores these obvious dislikes of who he is, I honestly think he doesn't' know they are there. He got to be the king of his own made up land, he is admired and a brilliant commentator, I mean the guys got it all...I guess my question is why wouldn't you want to live remove from a reality that tears you down, why not live in a made up one that builds you up?
Group Projects
couldn't seem to track down my group project paper, so I'm going to add it somtime this weekend if I can find it.
Final Paper
Discontinuation Through The Continuation of Nabokov’s Works of Wonder
“She’s dead!? When did this happen?”
“I guess she died sometime last night”
“Oh, my God how is Mary and Allie doing?
They’re hanging in there…I mean I guess they were kind of just waiting for it, you know?
“Yeah, yeah I guess so”
I was 13 when my childhood friend Allie’s mother Mrs. Alesi died after a long battle with cancer, I can still go back to that exact moment, it is permanently etched into my memory and has come to the for front of my thought’s ever since we have begun this treacherously rewarding journey though Mr. Nabokov’s works of wonder. I couldn’t place the reason for this rehashed memory creeping its way to the forefront of my mind. I tried to accurately place it’s renewed existence except for maybe the fact that it was a memory, and Nabokov was quite enraptured by memories, as is transparently conveyed in our class’s first of his books. Speak Memory endlessly cites Nabokov’s multitudes of memories from his past. Then when plunging into the rest of his works the pattern of memory seemed to always make a rather grandiose appearance which never disappointed the Nabokovians of 431. But this connection between my memory of this circumstances failed to convince me of an adequate explanation, and I knew old V.D. wouldn’t have any use for contentment. So I moved on and explored deeper meanings and came to a find myself on the brink of touching comprehension.
*DISCLAIMER: I do not claim to understand Nabokov. I only claim to understand that I will never fully understand, but that will not deter me from always desiring to search explore, and sometimes discover what he has gifted to us all*
When moving past the connections that were made between my past memory and Nabokov’s mentions memory, I came to find myself diving right back into a deeper pool of further exploration.
“Whenever in my dreams, I see the dead, they always appear silent, bothered, strangely depressed, quite unlike their dear bright selves. I am aware of them, without any astonishment, in surroundings they never visited during their earthly existence, in the house of some friend of mine they never knew. They sit apart, frowning at the floor, as if death were a dark taint, a shameful family secret. It is certainly not then — not in dreams — but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle-tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction”.
When I look back on that memory I don’t remember the person, who told me that she had died, or the funeral, or anything that can be described in the context of exterior human consciousness. What I remember was the flood of memories that intercept my thoughts swiftly, all of which involved Mrs. Alesi. The memories began to settle and simmer, then there was a clear image in my mind of a picture that had been taken of Mrs. Alesi helping her daughter and I bake cookies. The picture was so realistic in my mind, except for one thing, Mrs. Alesi was missing. The spot in the picture that once held her image was blurred and faded, it was indistinguishable. She was gone. The idea of death finally seemed to sink in and take on its own identity. All of this being said I felt like my understanding of a one’s mortality seemed reasonable but slightly skewed, I mean how can someone live on forever in my mind, yet not have a tangible existence? This is where my I began to feel a syncing with our honored author, one might call it my “Aha!” moment. Throughout the text we read I saw the pattern of mortal’s immortality. Vladimir used so many venues to convey to his audience his grasp of the frail and ever fleeting human race.
We’ll begin with Lolita “Imagine me: I shall not exist if you do not imagine me," pleads Humbert Humbert. This line is was my entrance to the rabbit hole. Vladimir writes about his character who then addresses his audience which is any willing reader that fingers through this book. There is a layering here of the immortal and mortal communication, H.H is a character who is immortal for he was never given breath, but was given life by a man and his pen. Therefore even though he never really lived, he will also never fully die. Then we shift to his creator, who through creating a immortal being, also attains an immortal status due to the fact the Humbert’s words will always exist, which are consequently the words that were spoken through Vladimir. He will always have a connection to mortal being that pick up Lolita, he will always have words in which affect and influence those who still live and breathe. Shifting now to the mortal beings, who traffic his word and keep them alive. Just in this class alone we have confirmed the life of Humbert’s character, we have even reenacted physical replicas of him. Proving him right when he says, “I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, and the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita”.
This line took me awhile start to feel as though I was looking in the right direction through the mist, but I came to see that Humbert and Vladimir are exposing to the reader the relationship that the non-existent has with the existing. They are both transcending each other’s boundaries by superseding their own being. All of the things he list before the very last sentence have stayed intact because of we the observers, carry it over into the next day, week, month, year son on and so forth, always giving it rebirth and new breath. Humbert tells us that we are doing the same thing in regards to him and even better yet in regards to Lolita. He knows this because we know this, and we wouldn’t have known this had we not read last line.
Then moving into the next text Pale Fire beginning from the point where my mind started to grab a hold of this multi dimensional poem:
“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov starts us right off the image of death and the concept of immortality though the means of reflection. The waxwing may have been depleted from life in the tangible form, but the reflective form proves to be separated from that entirely, as if being a wholly separated word that we know exists, but are mortally prohibited from entering. Shade seems to surpass this vague but oh so apparent periphery, and sees what the waxwing sees, which is not merely dying but continuing on in the reflection of the window. The next quote also exposes that he internally comprehends that there is some other great force that is at play here.
“..A syllogism; other men die
But I am not another: therefore I'll not die”
He moves on past the realm of the living and is able to relay that the act of existences is not understood by other men, so how would they understand the afterlife. Those who can’t understand the power of living will ultimately just cease to continue on. Shade on the other hand is like his creator V.D., he understands that there is a continuum in the reflective sky, and those reflections will keep us forever alive. Shade’s reflection is Pale Fire, being that it is his poem will do what Nabokov did for himself which is creating a reflective identity that will live on past their own existence, and carry on over into another existence where in which they do cannot reside.
“What moment in that gradual decay
Does resurrection choose? What year?
Who has the stopwatch? Who rewinds the tape?
Are some less lucky, or do all escape?
This line comes from canto two in John Shade’s Pale Fire, which was only one of countless examples of Nabokov’s speaking through his character to convey his feelings towards the act of death and dying. He intricately takes apart the frailty of life and how people have such little control over what happens to them when their number is drawn. When I first read through the poem this was made clear, but I had not really paid enough attention to all of the assorted and complex layers that were stacked one on top of other. There is so much going on the first time you read through the entire book that it becomes difficult to look closely at the multitudes of meanings that are at work here. During one of my re-reads of this book (there seemed to be a few times that I had to go back and re-read in order to be reborn as a reader and discoverer) I chose to read Shade’s poem and only Shade’s poem. This might have been a mistake on my part, for I went a little mad after realizing all of the skillfully placed associations there were in regards to the poem and other Nabokovian pieces which we have submitted our minds to this semester. One association comes from a line in Speak Memory. “The cradle rocks above an abyss and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour)”. I think that Nabokov is using the questions as posed by Shade to ask the question of whether or we are aware of life all encompassing, where we originated, where we’re at, and where we’ll go. There is so much uncertainty, but then why not ask questions and search for answers. We continue on in this small crack of light, but there are two eternities that exist on either sides of that small crack of what might be considered life, which only gives a shy glimpse of what is undoubtedly a bigger picture.
I guess that is where I now find myself reflecting with only a minuscule view of a conclusion to this initial question that all began with a memory. There may not have been a person in my recollection of that photograph, but I think that is because I was unable to see the big picture. That will only lead me to search more and cause great pains when feeling as though I am running around in circles with disillusioned attempts of being able to catch my own tail. But I guess it’s only fair to say that I feel as though…
“She’s dead!? When did this happen?”
“I guess she died sometime last night”
“Oh, my God how is Mary and Allie doing?
They’re hanging in there…I mean I guess they were kind of just waiting for it, you know?
“Yeah, yeah I guess so”
I was 13 when my childhood friend Allie’s mother Mrs. Alesi died after a long battle with cancer, I can still go back to that exact moment, it is permanently etched into my memory and has come to the for front of my thought’s ever since we have begun this treacherously rewarding journey though Mr. Nabokov’s works of wonder. I couldn’t place the reason for this rehashed memory creeping its way to the forefront of my mind. I tried to accurately place it’s renewed existence except for maybe the fact that it was a memory, and Nabokov was quite enraptured by memories, as is transparently conveyed in our class’s first of his books. Speak Memory endlessly cites Nabokov’s multitudes of memories from his past. Then when plunging into the rest of his works the pattern of memory seemed to always make a rather grandiose appearance which never disappointed the Nabokovians of 431. But this connection between my memory of this circumstances failed to convince me of an adequate explanation, and I knew old V.D. wouldn’t have any use for contentment. So I moved on and explored deeper meanings and came to a find myself on the brink of touching comprehension.
*DISCLAIMER: I do not claim to understand Nabokov. I only claim to understand that I will never fully understand, but that will not deter me from always desiring to search explore, and sometimes discover what he has gifted to us all*
When moving past the connections that were made between my past memory and Nabokov’s mentions memory, I came to find myself diving right back into a deeper pool of further exploration.
“Whenever in my dreams, I see the dead, they always appear silent, bothered, strangely depressed, quite unlike their dear bright selves. I am aware of them, without any astonishment, in surroundings they never visited during their earthly existence, in the house of some friend of mine they never knew. They sit apart, frowning at the floor, as if death were a dark taint, a shameful family secret. It is certainly not then — not in dreams — but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle-tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction”.
When I look back on that memory I don’t remember the person, who told me that she had died, or the funeral, or anything that can be described in the context of exterior human consciousness. What I remember was the flood of memories that intercept my thoughts swiftly, all of which involved Mrs. Alesi. The memories began to settle and simmer, then there was a clear image in my mind of a picture that had been taken of Mrs. Alesi helping her daughter and I bake cookies. The picture was so realistic in my mind, except for one thing, Mrs. Alesi was missing. The spot in the picture that once held her image was blurred and faded, it was indistinguishable. She was gone. The idea of death finally seemed to sink in and take on its own identity. All of this being said I felt like my understanding of a one’s mortality seemed reasonable but slightly skewed, I mean how can someone live on forever in my mind, yet not have a tangible existence? This is where my I began to feel a syncing with our honored author, one might call it my “Aha!” moment. Throughout the text we read I saw the pattern of mortal’s immortality. Vladimir used so many venues to convey to his audience his grasp of the frail and ever fleeting human race.
We’ll begin with Lolita “Imagine me: I shall not exist if you do not imagine me," pleads Humbert Humbert. This line is was my entrance to the rabbit hole. Vladimir writes about his character who then addresses his audience which is any willing reader that fingers through this book. There is a layering here of the immortal and mortal communication, H.H is a character who is immortal for he was never given breath, but was given life by a man and his pen. Therefore even though he never really lived, he will also never fully die. Then we shift to his creator, who through creating a immortal being, also attains an immortal status due to the fact the Humbert’s words will always exist, which are consequently the words that were spoken through Vladimir. He will always have a connection to mortal being that pick up Lolita, he will always have words in which affect and influence those who still live and breathe. Shifting now to the mortal beings, who traffic his word and keep them alive. Just in this class alone we have confirmed the life of Humbert’s character, we have even reenacted physical replicas of him. Proving him right when he says, “I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, and the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita”.
This line took me awhile start to feel as though I was looking in the right direction through the mist, but I came to see that Humbert and Vladimir are exposing to the reader the relationship that the non-existent has with the existing. They are both transcending each other’s boundaries by superseding their own being. All of the things he list before the very last sentence have stayed intact because of we the observers, carry it over into the next day, week, month, year son on and so forth, always giving it rebirth and new breath. Humbert tells us that we are doing the same thing in regards to him and even better yet in regards to Lolita. He knows this because we know this, and we wouldn’t have known this had we not read last line.
Then moving into the next text Pale Fire beginning from the point where my mind started to grab a hold of this multi dimensional poem:
“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov starts us right off the image of death and the concept of immortality though the means of reflection. The waxwing may have been depleted from life in the tangible form, but the reflective form proves to be separated from that entirely, as if being a wholly separated word that we know exists, but are mortally prohibited from entering. Shade seems to surpass this vague but oh so apparent periphery, and sees what the waxwing sees, which is not merely dying but continuing on in the reflection of the window. The next quote also exposes that he internally comprehends that there is some other great force that is at play here.
“..A syllogism; other men die
But I am not another: therefore I'll not die”
He moves on past the realm of the living and is able to relay that the act of existences is not understood by other men, so how would they understand the afterlife. Those who can’t understand the power of living will ultimately just cease to continue on. Shade on the other hand is like his creator V.D., he understands that there is a continuum in the reflective sky, and those reflections will keep us forever alive. Shade’s reflection is Pale Fire, being that it is his poem will do what Nabokov did for himself which is creating a reflective identity that will live on past their own existence, and carry on over into another existence where in which they do cannot reside.
“What moment in that gradual decay
Does resurrection choose? What year?
Who has the stopwatch? Who rewinds the tape?
Are some less lucky, or do all escape?
This line comes from canto two in John Shade’s Pale Fire, which was only one of countless examples of Nabokov’s speaking through his character to convey his feelings towards the act of death and dying. He intricately takes apart the frailty of life and how people have such little control over what happens to them when their number is drawn. When I first read through the poem this was made clear, but I had not really paid enough attention to all of the assorted and complex layers that were stacked one on top of other. There is so much going on the first time you read through the entire book that it becomes difficult to look closely at the multitudes of meanings that are at work here. During one of my re-reads of this book (there seemed to be a few times that I had to go back and re-read in order to be reborn as a reader and discoverer) I chose to read Shade’s poem and only Shade’s poem. This might have been a mistake on my part, for I went a little mad after realizing all of the skillfully placed associations there were in regards to the poem and other Nabokovian pieces which we have submitted our minds to this semester. One association comes from a line in Speak Memory. “The cradle rocks above an abyss and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour)”. I think that Nabokov is using the questions as posed by Shade to ask the question of whether or we are aware of life all encompassing, where we originated, where we’re at, and where we’ll go. There is so much uncertainty, but then why not ask questions and search for answers. We continue on in this small crack of light, but there are two eternities that exist on either sides of that small crack of what might be considered life, which only gives a shy glimpse of what is undoubtedly a bigger picture.
I guess that is where I now find myself reflecting with only a minuscule view of a conclusion to this initial question that all began with a memory. There may not have been a person in my recollection of that photograph, but I think that is because I was unable to see the big picture. That will only lead me to search more and cause great pains when feeling as though I am running around in circles with disillusioned attempts of being able to catch my own tail. But I guess it’s only fair to say that I feel as though…
Midterm Paper
The End or the Beginning?
“I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality that you or I may share, my Lolita” (309). The last line in the Vladimir Nabokov’s work of genius Lolita and one of the most poetic lines in the entirety of the book, but what does it mean. After having to memorize this passage for a certain exam in a certain English class, I could not get the words out of my head. I’d play them over and over in my head like a broken record, but this repetitive record was music to my ears rather than an annoyance, the only annoyance was my inability to fully grasp the meaning that I knew had to lie behind these words. So here it goes I guess, without hesitation I’ll dive head first into this labyrinth, with hopes of coming out with some understanding, and maybe sanity.
An auroch is an extinct primeval animal and angels are the messengers of God to mortals, which I can see as representing the end of any mortal connection with not only Humbert Humbert’s audience, but more importantly with his Lolita. Upon further exploration of the Auroch I uncovered various facts about the absent beast. The auroch is historically associated with the Mithras who has been visually depicted sacrificing the auroch in an act of taurobolium, which is the representation of confessing truth or upholding an oath. This I interpret as being a confession of Humbert, and apology to the reader as well as Lolita, he is finalizing not only the book but all that happened to him and Lolita.
The next part of the passage, “the secret of durable pigments” seems to be a Humbert’s way of thinking about what it would be like if one could exist longer, if any living being has durable long lasting pigment their color stays away from fading, therefore their life is longer. If Humbert knew the secret to living longer than he would not have to end this book or the time spent with Lolita.
“…prophetic sonnets and the refuge of art”. This line is another way that he knows that his story has been written before he even knew it existed, throughout the sonnet that was his life. There was no way of changing what fate had already planned for him, but he exposes that through this piece of writing, this work of art he will be able to shelter the moments and memories he experienced with his little Nymphet.
So this is the only way that we can live on forever in this world, even past our point of extinction, the written word is a life form all its own. In this way we do share immortality, we share it through the one the only Lolita.
“I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality that you or I may share, my Lolita” (309). The last line in the Vladimir Nabokov’s work of genius Lolita and one of the most poetic lines in the entirety of the book, but what does it mean. After having to memorize this passage for a certain exam in a certain English class, I could not get the words out of my head. I’d play them over and over in my head like a broken record, but this repetitive record was music to my ears rather than an annoyance, the only annoyance was my inability to fully grasp the meaning that I knew had to lie behind these words. So here it goes I guess, without hesitation I’ll dive head first into this labyrinth, with hopes of coming out with some understanding, and maybe sanity.
An auroch is an extinct primeval animal and angels are the messengers of God to mortals, which I can see as representing the end of any mortal connection with not only Humbert Humbert’s audience, but more importantly with his Lolita. Upon further exploration of the Auroch I uncovered various facts about the absent beast. The auroch is historically associated with the Mithras who has been visually depicted sacrificing the auroch in an act of taurobolium, which is the representation of confessing truth or upholding an oath. This I interpret as being a confession of Humbert, and apology to the reader as well as Lolita, he is finalizing not only the book but all that happened to him and Lolita.
The next part of the passage, “the secret of durable pigments” seems to be a Humbert’s way of thinking about what it would be like if one could exist longer, if any living being has durable long lasting pigment their color stays away from fading, therefore their life is longer. If Humbert knew the secret to living longer than he would not have to end this book or the time spent with Lolita.
“…prophetic sonnets and the refuge of art”. This line is another way that he knows that his story has been written before he even knew it existed, throughout the sonnet that was his life. There was no way of changing what fate had already planned for him, but he exposes that through this piece of writing, this work of art he will be able to shelter the moments and memories he experienced with his little Nymphet.
So this is the only way that we can live on forever in this world, even past our point of extinction, the written word is a life form all its own. In this way we do share immortality, we share it through the one the only Lolita.
Tranparent Things: the meaning behind the art
I feel like this piece turned out to be aesthetically pleasing to me and was one of the closest pieces to what was going on in my mind. I wanted to symbolizes the idea that Nabokov wanted to address everyone with Hugh's character. I t was the line that immediately sucked me in..."Here's the person I want. Hullo, person! doesn't hear mm." this story was probably my most favorite of Nabokov's work, not that the others weren't immensely entertaining or enjoyable, but the change of style in this piece allowed for me to feel better connected, I'm not sure why but I like it.
Speak Memory: the meaning behind the art
This piece was my least favorite...I just could not for the life of me figure out how I wanted to convey the quote that inspired me in regards to this piece. the Quote ended up becoming a part of the art it's self...
"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tell us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more clam than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heart beats an hour).
I was really enraptured by this quote, it helped me put into words my own feeling about life...whether it is easy to admit or not, there is truth in the existing identities that lie on both sides of our existence that are sole identities all their own, and they are both so foreign to us that we may often times react our pre-existences and intrigues and almost comforting, but then were think of death in terms of fear and uncertainty. But during the semester I felt as though Nabokov began to re-shape those preconceptions, especially in regards to death. That is why I just had it almost leaked on to the photograph, to show that it touched everything on the cover.
"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tell us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more clam than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heart beats an hour).
I was really enraptured by this quote, it helped me put into words my own feeling about life...whether it is easy to admit or not, there is truth in the existing identities that lie on both sides of our existence that are sole identities all their own, and they are both so foreign to us that we may often times react our pre-existences and intrigues and almost comforting, but then were think of death in terms of fear and uncertainty. But during the semester I felt as though Nabokov began to re-shape those preconceptions, especially in regards to death. That is why I just had it almost leaked on to the photograph, to show that it touched everything on the cover.
Pale Fie: the meaning behind the art
So this one was one of the ones where I started off with an idea and I slowly began to realize that I would not be able to express what was going on in my mind, but that didn't meant I wasn't going to try. so the different elements that are going on here stars with the fact that half the image is underneath a piece of glass, and half them are on the surface of the glass. i guess this was my interpretation of not only the reflection that Shade mentions, but also of the way I see Nabokov writing, let me explain...so while the written text is clearly present to be seen by any and all who want to look at it, there are so many things that are going on underneath, and while a person's initial reaction is to look on the surface and find those images interesting, they must not forget how much is going on underneath. And to push that thought even more, at least for our class there is another element that exist beyond the surface, and what it is hidden underneath...it is the reflection of the glass that also holds a story, and I think Nabokov has shown our class that that is very much the case, because even when you think you've got it there is still so much more.
Lolita: the meaning behind the art
Every time we would speak those famous opening lines my mouth would move to the melodic written words LO-LEE-TA. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think that is the only way to speak, think or here the name. I felt like I was connected to the text because my mouth was reacting to the words Nabokov wrote... it was a feeling that was more unique than any other text that I had read before. I mean don't get me wrong, I have responded emotionally and mentally to a text before, but never physically, it was kinda crazy, and still as I'm writing this I feel my mouth moving to speak the immortal name " Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta"
I then added the envelope which is addressed to us as readers, and included inside there is a note card which has the last lines of Lolita scribbled on it...which I like because I feel like that is exactly what he had intended, his books as personal letters addressed to all of his various readers.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Light Of My Curiosity
Well My first impression upon reading Lolita was that it was an immensely enjoy able read, and it really gave me an insight into the type of man that Nabokov was through his identity as a writer, but all the while I couldn't help but feel as though I was missing something, and I think that feeling was more telling than I had thought. I walked into class after the first reading of Lolita, and I had a child like excitement to share my discoveries with the class as if we were 2nd grade all over again and it was show-and-tell time...Well I wasn't the only one who had things to show and tell, Dr. Sexson then brought up the Jared's blog in which revealed his discoveries of us as characters in the story that will never cease to exists, thane the class bobbed and weaved though all of one another discoveries and questions, it felt like we all were gaining substantial ground, but at the same time I felt as though the rug was being pulled out from underneath me. Normally this kind of feeling would make me uncomfortable and give me the feeling that can only be described as unpleasant, but alas these feeling were unfamiliar to me, and I actually enjoyed them. It was the feeling of trekking out into unknown territory(and good god that doesn't even hold a candle to reading Nabokov) while at the same time knowing that what you'll discover there will change, push, stretch, and delight you...I'm very excited for where V.D. is leading us, and this is only the beginning.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Speak Memory as Spoken To Me.
"The green one, by a mere whirl of the wrist, could be made to produce a ruffled tree, or the eddy left by a submerged crocodile. The blue one drew a simple line across the page -- and the horizon of all seas was there. The brown one was always broken, and so was the red, but sometimes, just after it had snapped, one could still make it serve by holding it so that the loose tip was propped, none too securely, by a jutting splinter. . . . The white one alone, that lanky albino among pencils, kept its original length, or at least did so until I discovered that, far from being a fraud leaving no mark on the page, it was the ideal implement since I could imagine whatever I wished while I scrawled".
This quote just about knocked me off my ass...WOW.
What I guess I find so phenomenal about this quote is that it is something that I have experience my entire life in regards to creating. There are all of these different aspects in which help you tread along your path of creating just as colors work perfectly to assist you in conjuring up that one crocodile, or ocean horizon line, but the white one is limitless in assistance. With that one white paintbrush your imagination can experience its full unleashed potential. There is freedom by being given the gift of creation without limits. I think this is very reflective in Nabokov work, he is able to write and give meaning to his work as if there were no limits prohibiting his natural creative flow, and in my opinion he really breaks through any limits that might come between him and his connection to his work. I have always had a hard time being able to conjure up the creativity that is in my mind, I feel as though there is so much to express, but I don't know how to fit it into a format that makes sense to everyone. This is just one of many ways in which Nabokov inspires me. He is able to create these master pieces in forms and styles that fit no style I have ever experienced.To me he is the shining example of why English is so enjoyable. I am going to be an English teacher and he has given me hope that I can actually offer my student interesting,engaging, and life altering texts.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A Letter
Dear Amanda,
Well I can see why one might question why there is a book that is not only written about a pedophile, but furthermore one that is written in such harmless yet great detail.I recently had to kind of defend Lolita very recently in regards to this question of perversion that one might derive from the text, and the only thing I could come up with was that might have been Vladamir's point. By choosing this subject matted on which to write, he aimed for more than just a best seller, he aimed for greatness that was not found in common places. The people who have read Lolita know this to be true because they experience far more than a group of words strung together in order to form sentences and stories that may all have different elements, but when they're stripped down to their core are just replica's of some original somewhere. This is were Nabokov takes a drastic leap away from the conventional type of writing and gives his reader more to take away than a moral lesson. I feel like to most people the rational behind picking up a book like Lolita and actually enjoying it is completely absent, and while that rationale is completely wrong, it is worth it to step away and become irrational. to be quite honest i don't think Nabokov ever wanted the rationale in the first place, for the irrational always seems to make everything more interesting.
Sincerely your classmate,
- Chelsea Diem
Well I can see why one might question why there is a book that is not only written about a pedophile, but furthermore one that is written in such harmless yet great detail.I recently had to kind of defend Lolita very recently in regards to this question of perversion that one might derive from the text, and the only thing I could come up with was that might have been Vladamir's point. By choosing this subject matted on which to write, he aimed for more than just a best seller, he aimed for greatness that was not found in common places. The people who have read Lolita know this to be true because they experience far more than a group of words strung together in order to form sentences and stories that may all have different elements, but when they're stripped down to their core are just replica's of some original somewhere. This is were Nabokov takes a drastic leap away from the conventional type of writing and gives his reader more to take away than a moral lesson. I feel like to most people the rational behind picking up a book like Lolita and actually enjoying it is completely absent, and while that rationale is completely wrong, it is worth it to step away and become irrational. to be quite honest i don't think Nabokov ever wanted the rationale in the first place, for the irrational always seems to make everything more interesting.
Sincerely your classmate,
- Chelsea Diem
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Picture, A Memory, A Loss.
July Fourth, 2007...A group of my friends from various walks of life gathered on my roof top to celebrate Independence day. Our eyes were fixed on the exploding sky as someone began to quietly hum the national anthem...the humming was picked up and before long the entire roof was belting out with pride and enthusiasm. Hands were placed over hearts, hats were removed from heads, the moment was nothing short of intoxicating. The group that was gather on the roof that night was what really made this memory unique...a fair amount of the attend were not even United States citizens, so hearing them sing with all their heart in broken English was quite frankly a wonderful sound to take in. Outside of the international attendees, some of the Americans present were just as diversified...some were patriotic conservative church goers, some were borderline anarchist, while others were politically indifferent...but regardless of standpoints and beliefs we all stood together that night and celebrated the country we live in and the fact that despite all of our differences, we were standing with each other in friendship and oddly enough in song...those friendships have changed a bit over the last two years, being that all of the relationships had begun in a college town it was to be expected...but that night still sticks out in my mind as something beautiful that could not be replicated, for it was naturally wonderful.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Memory
I'm not sure what my first memory was , but when I attempted to dig it up out of the neglected caverns of my memory I kept circling back to not one specific memory, but rather a specific time period...we'll call this the time of "The Yellow House".
My sister and I are lying in our room for what my mother has attempted to create as our designated nap time, I only knew this as the most boring hour of my young life. I'm looking at the shadows of the cherry tree as it waves back and forth against the side of our house, it seems to be mocking my confinement as it revels in its freedom of being outside getting softly kissed by the warm sunlight...Now I'm suddenly taken to the street where my sister and I are in front of the yellow house, we're on our bikes and we are the wind. We maneuver our handle bars from side to side creating imaginary figure eights, there is a feeling of power and limitlessness...Then I'm in the overgrown grass which is littered with lady bugs and morning dew, the towering grass is a powerful force that stretches and climbs up the sides of our plywood fortress that my dad had built for us one blessed summer day...I'm now peering through the spy holes that are scattered randomly about our weather beaten fence which is grasped by green grape vines and remains to be our only protection against the yard next door, which we were convinced belongs to a wretched witch who would stick us in her swamp and keep us as captors as soon as she had an opportunity....This is where I go in search of my childhood memories, I go to the time of "The Yellow House".
My sister and I are lying in our room for what my mother has attempted to create as our designated nap time, I only knew this as the most boring hour of my young life. I'm looking at the shadows of the cherry tree as it waves back and forth against the side of our house, it seems to be mocking my confinement as it revels in its freedom of being outside getting softly kissed by the warm sunlight...Now I'm suddenly taken to the street where my sister and I are in front of the yellow house, we're on our bikes and we are the wind. We maneuver our handle bars from side to side creating imaginary figure eights, there is a feeling of power and limitlessness...Then I'm in the overgrown grass which is littered with lady bugs and morning dew, the towering grass is a powerful force that stretches and climbs up the sides of our plywood fortress that my dad had built for us one blessed summer day...I'm now peering through the spy holes that are scattered randomly about our weather beaten fence which is grasped by green grape vines and remains to be our only protection against the yard next door, which we were convinced belongs to a wretched witch who would stick us in her swamp and keep us as captors as soon as she had an opportunity....This is where I go in search of my childhood memories, I go to the time of "The Yellow House".
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