I've been thinking a lot about choices recently, probably because I just finished Matched, a novel that seems in some ways to be the child of 1984 and The Hunger Games. (Or rather, that's how I perceive its literary lineage. After finishing, I thought it had similarly dystopic elements to THG and 1984's insistence on the importance of controlling language--albeit more subtlely than 1984.)
Complete book review, by the way, will be forthcoming on the book blog. Tomorrow or the day after.
Anyway, one of the takeaway messages from the novel (unsurprisingly) revolved around the idea of making choices, i.e. there was an implication that we are defined by the sum of the choices we make.
One of the difficulties I have with books such as these is that if there are a limited range of choices a character can make, can that character only have a limited range? And what about choices that are neither good nor bad? Not all choices have a lasting moral impact.
Having grown up in an environment where I've been told that we are to respect and love people even if we don't expect and love their choices, I struggle with this conflation between character and choice. It's too easy. Too tidy. And ironically enough, entirely too complicated when put into practice.
I suppose that's an innate difficulty of assuming that any one element of a life affects character: we are all a conglomeration of choices, habits, and personality traits that we were just born with. Our interactions with others help define us in small way. There's no such things as a real-life, simply motivated human.
There can't be.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Nostalgia Isn't What It Used to Be
"Next time you look back, I really think you should look again." --from (500) Days of Summer
I've recently come to realize something: very, very few people think clearly when they're reviewing the past. It's Nostalgia Syndrome--everything becomes incredibly good or tremendously bad--and all of a sudden, our past lives seem awfully black and white. We phase out the gray in order to achieve a better narrative. One more seamless and less messy than what actually happened.
It's one of the only ways we have of imposing order onto our lives: in any given moment of the present, we're far too aware of everything. Everything, including the things we wish we weren't. The stuff that, in the present, we want to wish away--the stuff that we hope might disappear if we ignore it for long enough. When we look back, we can ignore to our hearts' content...those things may as well not have been there.
But really, I don't think there are any moments in our lives that are absolutely perfect--not on their own. Not without help. And those moments are never perfect when we are in them, which makes us wonder when we look back why we didn't appreciate what we had at the magical moment we had it.
I suppose I've been thinking about this because recently I can't help but wonder if past versions of myself were happier than my present self can sometimes be. And in all fairness, I'm sure there were times when my past self felt much happier about life than my present self. Of course, I'm sure that there are times where my present self far outshines the happiness of my past self.
Nostalgia romanticizes the past: it acts as its own type of rose-colored filter. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I've always been me. I've always had strengths and weaknesses. Talents. I've always had happy times and sad times and mad times, it's just that I don't want to remember being sad or mad--so I usually choose not to. Don't most of us? We want to be our best selves, so we remember our best selves...and we forget the best selves we remember are a product of editing and some good mental production values.
I suppose I've been thinking about this because recently I can't help but wonder if past versions of myself were happier than my present self can sometimes be. And in all fairness, I'm sure there were times when my past self felt much happier about life than my present self. Of course, I'm sure that there are times where my present self far outshines the happiness of my past self.
Nostalgia romanticizes the past: it acts as its own type of rose-colored filter. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I've always been me. I've always had strengths and weaknesses. Talents. I've always had happy times and sad times and mad times, it's just that I don't want to remember being sad or mad--so I usually choose not to. Don't most of us? We want to be our best selves, so we remember our best selves...and we forget the best selves we remember are a product of editing and some good mental production values.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Charlie St. Cloud
It's been several months since I read the wonderful novel The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud, and as I mentioned in the review: they made a movie out of it.
Let me say this, right here and right now: Hollywood doesn't get it right often. I mean, sure, they're smart enough to know a moneymaking plot when they see one. But that doesn't mean they'll do a good job of converting a masterful novel into an equally masterful movie. In rare instances, it happens. And I applaud them. But more often than not, the film misses exactly the mark the book hits.
And yet any time a book I've loved is made into a movie, I have to see it. I'm inevitably drawn toward the theater (or, you know, Netflix) and I find myself watching a visual adaptation of that work I so dearly loved when it was only printed word and all of the visuals existed in my imagination.
I found the film version of this book lacking. And this is why: it didn't allow for the idea that Sam, too, moves on in the end. One of the loveliest things about the novel's ending is that Charlie gets to see Sam one last time--actually see Sam--but it isn't the younger-brother-as-he-was. Charlie gets to see that when he moves on, Sam moves on. In the end, he sees a young adult version of Sam--someone that Sam simultaneously could have been but still gets to be, after a fashion. They both get to move forward. In their own ways, they both get to have futures.
And while yes, that makes the book ending more than a little sentimental and while yes, some people don't believe in anything after death and that makes the whole premise...difficult...I appreciate the impression Ben Sherwood left behind in the novel, which is that Sam does have somewhere to move forward and onward. He doesn't just simply stop existing. Charlie, after all, still lives. But it's difficult to think of Sam being a nebulous child-like entity, even if he's in heaven.
But those are just my thoughts. And maybe I just need to avoid filmic adaptations of my favorite works. They never turn out as well as they could.
Let me say this, right here and right now: Hollywood doesn't get it right often. I mean, sure, they're smart enough to know a moneymaking plot when they see one. But that doesn't mean they'll do a good job of converting a masterful novel into an equally masterful movie. In rare instances, it happens. And I applaud them. But more often than not, the film misses exactly the mark the book hits.
And yet any time a book I've loved is made into a movie, I have to see it. I'm inevitably drawn toward the theater (or, you know, Netflix) and I find myself watching a visual adaptation of that work I so dearly loved when it was only printed word and all of the visuals existed in my imagination.
I found the film version of this book lacking. And this is why: it didn't allow for the idea that Sam, too, moves on in the end. One of the loveliest things about the novel's ending is that Charlie gets to see Sam one last time--actually see Sam--but it isn't the younger-brother-as-he-was. Charlie gets to see that when he moves on, Sam moves on. In the end, he sees a young adult version of Sam--someone that Sam simultaneously could have been but still gets to be, after a fashion. They both get to move forward. In their own ways, they both get to have futures.
And while yes, that makes the book ending more than a little sentimental and while yes, some people don't believe in anything after death and that makes the whole premise...difficult...I appreciate the impression Ben Sherwood left behind in the novel, which is that Sam does have somewhere to move forward and onward. He doesn't just simply stop existing. Charlie, after all, still lives. But it's difficult to think of Sam being a nebulous child-like entity, even if he's in heaven.
But those are just my thoughts. And maybe I just need to avoid filmic adaptations of my favorite works. They never turn out as well as they could.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday School Thoughts
I know that I shouldn't have favorite Sunday School teachers. Logically, I know that. But nevertheless: I do. I have favorite Sunday School teachers. Well, favorite Sunday School teacher--singular. It's not the others are bad people. It's not that the others are faithless or stupid or boring. (Well, okay. Maybe sometimes the others are boring, but I sincerely doubt they're trying to be, and I'm readily willing to admit that sometimes I don't have the best attitude about sitting through their lessons.)
Anyway, I've been trying to peg lately why I like this particular Sunday School teacher. The easy answer, of course, is to say that he's cute (true) and that he's intelligent (also true) and that he has a definable and well-asserted teaching presence (true to the truest degree). But today as I sat through his latest lesson, I realized that what impresses me most is this: he knows how to ask questions.
That might seem like a weird attribute to observe in a person, but it's nevertheless true. As a teacher, he's unwilling to settle for an easy question that I can almost hear the class collectively rolling their eyes at. (Ever notice that once you get old enough the questions that hardly ever get answered are the ones we already know the clear-cut responses for?) His discussion questions do that magical thing--actually inciting a discussion--and I suppose it would be fair to say that his asking the right questions is tied to a knack for encouraging participation. (Although whether it's the question or the teacher encouraging the participation is, in my opinion, a bit of a chicken-and-egg scenario...)
One random note from the tail end of the lesson today--we ended up glossing briefly over the story of the woman at the well, mostly because our discussion had revolved around other equally good things. And perhaps I'm particularly dense, but this teacher pointed out something I'd never noticed before--the woman at the well did an excellent job of bringing people back to the well to listen. But then whether people accepted the message or not was determined by those people. Not by her.
She led them to the well, but she didn't remotely attempt to force them to drink the water (as it were). They had to drink of their own accord. This seemed to me an interesting lesson in missionary work--we, too, can direct people to the well--but we can't make them drink any more than she could. If I take this thinking to its extreme...which I do, because I'm me...I ultimately reach the conclusion that if we force someone too hard into the well water, they drown.
(I know. It's kind of a violent thought...but it nevertheless seemed pertinent.)
Anyway, I've been trying to peg lately why I like this particular Sunday School teacher. The easy answer, of course, is to say that he's cute (true) and that he's intelligent (also true) and that he has a definable and well-asserted teaching presence (true to the truest degree). But today as I sat through his latest lesson, I realized that what impresses me most is this: he knows how to ask questions.
That might seem like a weird attribute to observe in a person, but it's nevertheless true. As a teacher, he's unwilling to settle for an easy question that I can almost hear the class collectively rolling their eyes at. (Ever notice that once you get old enough the questions that hardly ever get answered are the ones we already know the clear-cut responses for?) His discussion questions do that magical thing--actually inciting a discussion--and I suppose it would be fair to say that his asking the right questions is tied to a knack for encouraging participation. (Although whether it's the question or the teacher encouraging the participation is, in my opinion, a bit of a chicken-and-egg scenario...)
One random note from the tail end of the lesson today--we ended up glossing briefly over the story of the woman at the well, mostly because our discussion had revolved around other equally good things. And perhaps I'm particularly dense, but this teacher pointed out something I'd never noticed before--the woman at the well did an excellent job of bringing people back to the well to listen. But then whether people accepted the message or not was determined by those people. Not by her.
She led them to the well, but she didn't remotely attempt to force them to drink the water (as it were). They had to drink of their own accord. This seemed to me an interesting lesson in missionary work--we, too, can direct people to the well--but we can't make them drink any more than she could. If I take this thinking to its extreme...which I do, because I'm me...I ultimately reach the conclusion that if we force someone too hard into the well water, they drown.
(I know. It's kind of a violent thought...but it nevertheless seemed pertinent.)
Friday, January 28, 2011
Does Anyone Share My Eccentricities?
The other day, I finished reading a novel. And then I decided that I needed to peruse my shelf for my next reading material. These two acts, at least for me, are not odd.
When my one good eye alighted on Doctor Zhivago, I thought: "That's it! I've been in the mood for some unbearably sad Russian literature!" (A co-worker corrected me later, telling me that technically Pasternak would be consider post-Soviet something-or-other...)
But it made me wonder if any other people ever have such moments of clarity about a very specific taste in genre they are experiencing right then...
When my one good eye alighted on Doctor Zhivago, I thought: "That's it! I've been in the mood for some unbearably sad Russian literature!" (A co-worker corrected me later, telling me that technically Pasternak would be consider post-Soviet something-or-other...)
But it made me wonder if any other people ever have such moments of clarity about a very specific taste in genre they are experiencing right then...
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
A Way to Be Invisible
It struck me a few days ago, and I've kept meaning to make a note: the best form of invisibility would be complete visibility. But there's a catch: the invisible person has to be completely aware of the scrutiny. I don't know if they need to want to be watched. But they need to know they're being watched.
My reasoning works basically like this: if you know that you are always, always, always, ALWAYS being watched, you don't act like a person. At least, most people don't. Under severe scrutiny, I highly doubt many of us will be--essentially--ourselves. Instead, because we are so aware we are being watched, we would don a persona. Or several.
And the best part is this: those who watch us can't ever claim we're not us. Because if they even try to make an argument that we're acting against ourselves in some way or other, there can only be one response: "Well, you've seen me, right? You've watched me? How can this NOT be me?"
My reasoning works basically like this: if you know that you are always, always, always, ALWAYS being watched, you don't act like a person. At least, most people don't. Under severe scrutiny, I highly doubt many of us will be--essentially--ourselves. Instead, because we are so aware we are being watched, we would don a persona. Or several.
And the best part is this: those who watch us can't ever claim we're not us. Because if they even try to make an argument that we're acting against ourselves in some way or other, there can only be one response: "Well, you've seen me, right? You've watched me? How can this NOT be me?"
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Questions, Answers
I love hard questions. And I hate hard questions.
I have studied English and I have always been a reader, because many great questions found in literature are unresolvable. Or if they are not unresolvable, they are tangled. Knotty, as one of my professors used to say. (I always had to auto-correct the word in my brain when he said it out loud: Not naughty. Knotty.) It's possible to reach any number of conclusions about these questions. And if you can justify the logical path from the question to the conclusion, then you have made your case. That doesn't mean the story is over (literally or metaphorically). That only means you are one amongst many voices contributing to a dialogue. Changing your mind is allowed. Modifying your original conclusion is par for the course.
Life itself, I would say, is tangled. Knotty. Complicated. Filled with many great questions for which there may well be multiple answers. It seems too easy, too simple for there to be A Meaning of Life. Must it be singular? Can't our lives hold more than one meaning? Navigating through existence seems too much of a mess too often for everything to be simple. And all the questions in the world--in my brain--can't possibly only have One Ultimate Answer.
And still I sometimes find myself wondering if it isn't somehow calming to oversimplify everything. If all roads eventually lead to exactly one destination, all of a sudden, which road I take does not seem to matter so much. It's freeing somehow. But stifling somehow, as well. What if I don't want to be headed where all of the roads are leading?
I suppose this also means: I love easy questions. I hate easy questions.
I have studied English and I have always been a reader, because many great questions found in literature are unresolvable. Or if they are not unresolvable, they are tangled. Knotty, as one of my professors used to say. (I always had to auto-correct the word in my brain when he said it out loud: Not naughty. Knotty.) It's possible to reach any number of conclusions about these questions. And if you can justify the logical path from the question to the conclusion, then you have made your case. That doesn't mean the story is over (literally or metaphorically). That only means you are one amongst many voices contributing to a dialogue. Changing your mind is allowed. Modifying your original conclusion is par for the course.
Life itself, I would say, is tangled. Knotty. Complicated. Filled with many great questions for which there may well be multiple answers. It seems too easy, too simple for there to be A Meaning of Life. Must it be singular? Can't our lives hold more than one meaning? Navigating through existence seems too much of a mess too often for everything to be simple. And all the questions in the world--in my brain--can't possibly only have One Ultimate Answer.
And still I sometimes find myself wondering if it isn't somehow calming to oversimplify everything. If all roads eventually lead to exactly one destination, all of a sudden, which road I take does not seem to matter so much. It's freeing somehow. But stifling somehow, as well. What if I don't want to be headed where all of the roads are leading?
I suppose this also means: I love easy questions. I hate easy questions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)