I've had a lot of trouble trying to start this post, and I think that's precisely because the book itself is so difficult to explain.
By the end, we are still left knowing little about the main character, despite having spent 120 or so pages with him. It's almost impossible to analyze Meursault's motivations through anything in the text. Reading it, I practically can't help but attach my own meanings to his actions, make assumptions, draw up a possible back story, in a desperate attempt to make him understandable and relatable.
I feel like this is one of the interesting things about sharing thoughts about The Stranger -- everyone seems to have a different perspective on Meursault and the meaning of the book, because his completely apathetic narration encourages us to fill in the blanks ourselves.
Reading the book again with a more analytical viewpoint has gotten me to analyze my own reactions to it in a way I didn't the first time. When I originally read it, I was just sitting back and feeling whatever I felt as the novel unfolded without really wondering what the author was aiming for. This time, I find myself wondering, maybe pointlessly: what was Camus' intention in writing this kind of character, if any?
Am I supposed to relate to him? sympathize with him? despise him? be utterly confused? Are Meursault's experiences supposed to ultimately show us that life is meaningless, or the total opposite? What reaction did he want us to have upon Meursault's final revelation, his "[opening himself] to the gentle indifference of the world," his acceptance of the inevitability of death? Am I supposed to ask myself these questions?
Can I call Meursault a "good"or a "bad" person? I'm not sure. In the case of the murder he commits, he seemingly has no premeditated motivation -- no heroic intention or willful animosity. It is something that just happens. Is killing with no reason whatsoever morally worse than killing with one, even one that is hateful, because there is not even a misguided attempt at justifying it?
Is it right for Meursault to meet his death without remorse when he has committed an unnecessary crime? I don't mean in the sense of religion, but just on a level of human conscience -- how is it possible to kill another person and feel no guilt?
It's a complicated thing to think about, and I don't know what moralistic conclusion Camus would want me to come to. Is The Stranger supporting nihilism, or is it one long direct argument against it? Of course I'll never really know -- and maybe in the end all I do have are my own questions.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Who is Meursault?
This is my second time reading The Stranger, and I still wonder about Meursault's character.
In some ways, I feel like I can identify with Meursault. I remember feeling a connection when I read the first few pages originally, at this depiction of grief that wasn't full of sobbing and screaming but a detachment, a numbness that was closer to my own emotion when my dad died. I couldn't bear the real extent of my emotions and so I tried to pretend that they didn't exist.
Inside it was all I could think about. The thing I was most afraid of in the world had happened. The person who loved me more than anyone, who was so proud of me, was suddenly gone. This nameless pain filled every corner of my body and I could feel it in everything I did, but I couldn't bring myself to express it. If someone else even mentioned him, I was seized with a terrible panic my mind immediately scrambled desperately to suppress.
I wanted to cry, more than anything, but I couldn't no matter how hard I tried. I was afraid that if I let myself feel, I would never return from my grief. I was afraid to think of it and yet at the same time it was already always there, following me. In attempting to escape it, all it did was consume me. The memory of him collapsing on the kitchen floor, gasping for breath, moments after I had hugged him for the last time, played endlessly in my head. Whenever I saw or heard an ambulance my heart would start pounding. But I just kept pushing it back.
Ultimately, I can't completely relate to Meursault. I do think that his detachment comes from repressing his feelings, not lack of emotion; that he does love his mother, but that he can't allow himself to feel his true grief. He states several times that "It's not [his] fault," showing that he is defensive, that he feels guilty about their relationship and that he thinks he could have done better. As he hears Salamano crying over the loss of his dog, he says, "For some reason I thought of Maman. But I had to get up early the next morning," implying to me not that he doesn't care, but that it's too painful for him to continue thinking about her and thus he has to make up an excuse to prevent himself from going further.
However, it also seems like Meursault's detachment stems from somewhere deeper. The way he speaks about his life, it appears that he has seen the world in this listless way long before the death of his mother, though it may have amplified it. He is primarily an observer, he presents vivid pictures of others' words and movement -- but the only times he describes someone with an emotion rather than detailing their actions, it is vague and childlike: "[Marie] looked sad." It seems like something must have happened in his life that impaired his perception of feelings, both others and his own.
At times, his responses to situations are even bizarre. "So we took our time getting back, [Raymond] telling me how glad he was that he'd been able to give the woman what she deserved. I found him very friendly with me and I thought it was a nice moment," Meursault says. He has no problem with Raymond beating and abusing his girlfriend. He is even supportive, agreeing to be a witness and state that Raymond's girlfriend was unfaithful though neither of them have any real proof whatsoever (and as if, even if they did, this would excuse the abuse).
He seems to have no real empathy whatsoever, for Raymond's girlfriend, Marie, Salamano, or anyone else. I can't imagine being totally unaffected by the emotions of others, especially to the point of condoning abuse. Meursault simply goes along with Raymond's suggestions, simply because he has "no reason not to please him," seemingly believing that his actions don't matter one way or another. Love is similarly apathetic in his eyes, judging from his conversations with Marie.
Who is Meursault? I don't think he even knows himself.
In some ways, I feel like I can identify with Meursault. I remember feeling a connection when I read the first few pages originally, at this depiction of grief that wasn't full of sobbing and screaming but a detachment, a numbness that was closer to my own emotion when my dad died. I couldn't bear the real extent of my emotions and so I tried to pretend that they didn't exist.
Inside it was all I could think about. The thing I was most afraid of in the world had happened. The person who loved me more than anyone, who was so proud of me, was suddenly gone. This nameless pain filled every corner of my body and I could feel it in everything I did, but I couldn't bring myself to express it. If someone else even mentioned him, I was seized with a terrible panic my mind immediately scrambled desperately to suppress.
I wanted to cry, more than anything, but I couldn't no matter how hard I tried. I was afraid that if I let myself feel, I would never return from my grief. I was afraid to think of it and yet at the same time it was already always there, following me. In attempting to escape it, all it did was consume me. The memory of him collapsing on the kitchen floor, gasping for breath, moments after I had hugged him for the last time, played endlessly in my head. Whenever I saw or heard an ambulance my heart would start pounding. But I just kept pushing it back.
Ultimately, I can't completely relate to Meursault. I do think that his detachment comes from repressing his feelings, not lack of emotion; that he does love his mother, but that he can't allow himself to feel his true grief. He states several times that "It's not [his] fault," showing that he is defensive, that he feels guilty about their relationship and that he thinks he could have done better. As he hears Salamano crying over the loss of his dog, he says, "For some reason I thought of Maman. But I had to get up early the next morning," implying to me not that he doesn't care, but that it's too painful for him to continue thinking about her and thus he has to make up an excuse to prevent himself from going further.
However, it also seems like Meursault's detachment stems from somewhere deeper. The way he speaks about his life, it appears that he has seen the world in this listless way long before the death of his mother, though it may have amplified it. He is primarily an observer, he presents vivid pictures of others' words and movement -- but the only times he describes someone with an emotion rather than detailing their actions, it is vague and childlike: "[Marie] looked sad." It seems like something must have happened in his life that impaired his perception of feelings, both others and his own.
At times, his responses to situations are even bizarre. "So we took our time getting back, [Raymond] telling me how glad he was that he'd been able to give the woman what she deserved. I found him very friendly with me and I thought it was a nice moment," Meursault says. He has no problem with Raymond beating and abusing his girlfriend. He is even supportive, agreeing to be a witness and state that Raymond's girlfriend was unfaithful though neither of them have any real proof whatsoever (and as if, even if they did, this would excuse the abuse).
He seems to have no real empathy whatsoever, for Raymond's girlfriend, Marie, Salamano, or anyone else. I can't imagine being totally unaffected by the emotions of others, especially to the point of condoning abuse. Meursault simply goes along with Raymond's suggestions, simply because he has "no reason not to please him," seemingly believing that his actions don't matter one way or another. Love is similarly apathetic in his eyes, judging from his conversations with Marie.
Who is Meursault? I don't think he even knows himself.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Do we live in a world that is meaningful and makes sense?
I have to ask myself a few questions about the question.
I can't help it.
So, here goes:
Does something have to make sense in order for it to be meaningful? Conversely, does something have to be meaningful in order for it to make sense?
I really don't think so. Some things that I find meaningful seem to make no sense whatsoever to most other people. So many things and constructs that allegedly make sense are utterly meaningless to me. 'Sense' and 'meaning' can go hand in hand, but they certainly don't have to, and sometimes it's frankly impossible for them to.
Does life make sense to me? No. Hell no.
I don't mean the fact that we physically exist (though I guess you could say that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, either) -- I mean life as in what we are living at this moment, the events and situations that we go through, the emotions that we feel. A lot of this is simply unexplainable, whether because it is so beautiful, so cruel, so completely bewildering, or something else entirely.
I can't really say that anything I do makes sense, or that it serves some objective function. There have been times where I have felt so hopeless, so worthless because it seemed like I had no purpose. Like my existence was just superfluous.
I came to realize that perhaps existence is inexplicable, but that doesn't mean it has to lack meaning -- you have to let yourself be open to meaning if you expect it to present itself to you, and sometimes you have to seek it. I guess it doesn't have to have meaning, either. But sometimes it's already there right in front of us, or even inside of us.
And-- if you truly believe that there is no meaning anywhere whatsoever, why keep going? Even in our darkest moments, I think we must see that something could be out there.
In the movie, Caterine states that life is "chaos and meaninglessness," but obviously her beliefs are meaningful to her, because she's working to spread them. If life was completely pointless, why would she continue to live it? Tommy, similarly, asserts that life has no real meaning, but why would sweatshops and petroleum matter to him if that was the case? As his girlfriend says, "If nothing matters, how can I matter?"
He is clearly affected by her leaving, and being kept away from his daughter, so clearly his family is important to him. Tommy also says that people can't really connect to each other, but he and Albert simultaneously become closer in the process of following Caterine; just as Albert's attempt to be "liberated" from Brad leads to him discovering that they are ultimately bonded.
Life is made up of all these contradictions. It makes sense, it doesn't make sense, it's meaningful, it's not meaningful, you feel like you can't go on, but you do. All of it is true and none of it is true. I think this is why it succeeds as a comedy -- life isn't explainable, humor isn't explainable...and we just keep taking ourselves so seriously. :)
At the end of I ♥ HUCKABEES, Albert recognizes that it's all made up of "two overlapping, fractured philosophies." He's gone through believing that it's all connected and believing that it's all not, believing that it's all meaningful and believing that it's all not, and is left with the understanding that, well, it's kind of both and kind of neither.
I agree.
I can't help it.
So, here goes:
Does something have to make sense in order for it to be meaningful? Conversely, does something have to be meaningful in order for it to make sense?
I really don't think so. Some things that I find meaningful seem to make no sense whatsoever to most other people. So many things and constructs that allegedly make sense are utterly meaningless to me. 'Sense' and 'meaning' can go hand in hand, but they certainly don't have to, and sometimes it's frankly impossible for them to.
Does life make sense to me? No. Hell no.
I don't mean the fact that we physically exist (though I guess you could say that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, either) -- I mean life as in what we are living at this moment, the events and situations that we go through, the emotions that we feel. A lot of this is simply unexplainable, whether because it is so beautiful, so cruel, so completely bewildering, or something else entirely.
I can't really say that anything I do makes sense, or that it serves some objective function. There have been times where I have felt so hopeless, so worthless because it seemed like I had no purpose. Like my existence was just superfluous.
I came to realize that perhaps existence is inexplicable, but that doesn't mean it has to lack meaning -- you have to let yourself be open to meaning if you expect it to present itself to you, and sometimes you have to seek it. I guess it doesn't have to have meaning, either. But sometimes it's already there right in front of us, or even inside of us.
And-- if you truly believe that there is no meaning anywhere whatsoever, why keep going? Even in our darkest moments, I think we must see that something could be out there.
In the movie, Caterine states that life is "chaos and meaninglessness," but obviously her beliefs are meaningful to her, because she's working to spread them. If life was completely pointless, why would she continue to live it? Tommy, similarly, asserts that life has no real meaning, but why would sweatshops and petroleum matter to him if that was the case? As his girlfriend says, "If nothing matters, how can I matter?"
He is clearly affected by her leaving, and being kept away from his daughter, so clearly his family is important to him. Tommy also says that people can't really connect to each other, but he and Albert simultaneously become closer in the process of following Caterine; just as Albert's attempt to be "liberated" from Brad leads to him discovering that they are ultimately bonded.
Life is made up of all these contradictions. It makes sense, it doesn't make sense, it's meaningful, it's not meaningful, you feel like you can't go on, but you do. All of it is true and none of it is true. I think this is why it succeeds as a comedy -- life isn't explainable, humor isn't explainable...and we just keep taking ourselves so seriously. :)
At the end of I ♥ HUCKABEES, Albert recognizes that it's all made up of "two overlapping, fractured philosophies." He's gone through believing that it's all connected and believing that it's all not, believing that it's all meaningful and believing that it's all not, and is left with the understanding that, well, it's kind of both and kind of neither.
I agree.
Friday, October 2, 2009
HOMEWORK #5
So. Part IV of this lecture made me want to rip my hair out.
After telling us that we are absolute individuals, we cannot understand one another, we act in 'bad faith' and try to convince ourselves that external influences govern us, but true happiness is only found within, Banach suddenly asserts that "we must choose courses of action that we would wish all humans to take," and, to top it off, this:
"[To] act authentically [...] one must act in a way that ignores the differences between oneself and other people. These differences are merely external and do not affect our identity as free agents, within our islands of subjectivity."
Does not compute.
Am I just missing something here, or is Banach now stating that internally we are all essentially the same? How does this fit in with his idea of being an absolute individual, unable to feel what anyone else feels or vice versa? If we are to think of how we would want others to act before we act, doesn't that involve external influences?
Doesn't acting as I would have others act entail judging how others act based on my subjective morals or thoughts? Or would you be judging how closely their actions align with their ideals?
If we are individuals, is it even possible for us to look at our actions objectively and base them upon what we would have others do? Or is doing that inherently subjective? Is that subjectivity the point, is that what makes it authentic? But is it authentic to think about your actions universally?
What if what you personally want to do or think you should do is different from what you would have someone else do?
He also says that for a person to be free, "everyone must be free". Again, how does this support his prior rendering of individualism? If as he says an individual can find happiness from within, why not freedom? Wouldn't this imply that no one is free, because it's obviously impossible for everyone in the world to be free, or even to contemplate freedom? Who decides what freedom is? If someone finds freedom inside a cage, what does that mean?
Is it possible to be free but not happy, or happy but not free? Is one more important than the other?
Can we be truly be happy if others are unhappy? If true happiness comes only from within, does unhappiness, also? Is being unhappy a choice, a decision, a state you are resigning yourself to? "You say that I choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me." Or is unhappiness based upon external influence, and thus not 'true'? Is there any true unhappiness? Is unhappiness ultimately false, as we fool ourselves into thinking that there is no way we can make ourselves happy? Or is it perhaps the other way around?
...As usual, I'm left with more questions than answers.
After telling us that we are absolute individuals, we cannot understand one another, we act in 'bad faith' and try to convince ourselves that external influences govern us, but true happiness is only found within, Banach suddenly asserts that "we must choose courses of action that we would wish all humans to take," and, to top it off, this:
"[To] act authentically [...] one must act in a way that ignores the differences between oneself and other people. These differences are merely external and do not affect our identity as free agents, within our islands of subjectivity."
Does not compute.
Am I just missing something here, or is Banach now stating that internally we are all essentially the same? How does this fit in with his idea of being an absolute individual, unable to feel what anyone else feels or vice versa? If we are to think of how we would want others to act before we act, doesn't that involve external influences?
Doesn't acting as I would have others act entail judging how others act based on my subjective morals or thoughts? Or would you be judging how closely their actions align with their ideals?
If we are individuals, is it even possible for us to look at our actions objectively and base them upon what we would have others do? Or is doing that inherently subjective? Is that subjectivity the point, is that what makes it authentic? But is it authentic to think about your actions universally?
What if what you personally want to do or think you should do is different from what you would have someone else do?
He also says that for a person to be free, "everyone must be free". Again, how does this support his prior rendering of individualism? If as he says an individual can find happiness from within, why not freedom? Wouldn't this imply that no one is free, because it's obviously impossible for everyone in the world to be free, or even to contemplate freedom? Who decides what freedom is? If someone finds freedom inside a cage, what does that mean?
Is it possible to be free but not happy, or happy but not free? Is one more important than the other?
Can we be truly be happy if others are unhappy? If true happiness comes only from within, does unhappiness, also? Is being unhappy a choice, a decision, a state you are resigning yourself to? "You say that I choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me." Or is unhappiness based upon external influence, and thus not 'true'? Is there any true unhappiness? Is unhappiness ultimately false, as we fool ourselves into thinking that there is no way we can make ourselves happy? Or is it perhaps the other way around?
...As usual, I'm left with more questions than answers.
Monday, September 28, 2009
HOMEWORK #4: Comment 2
Binta,
I liked how you directly argue with Banach's ideas about people being absolute individuals and I definitely agree with you...I don't think there's any way we could possibly avoid being impacted or influenced by other people!
Despite whether "existence precedes essence" or not, how can you not be affected by how you were raised or what you experience as a kid? As a baby, or even as say an 6-year-old, do you really have the ability to 'choose' who you are, what to believe, and how to interpret your surroundings? A traumatic occurrence as a baby can subconsciously follow someone for the rest of their life, and of course who we are raised by has a huge effect on us.
Like you said, even if we decide to go against what we learn as children we still have to had been influenced by some other external thing to have made that decision. If you never had the opportunity to see that another view even existed, how would it be possible to rebel?
I thought your talking about about the "first human being" was really interesting. If religion is taken out of the picture, the first human must have had parents. But how can the 'first' anything have parents? wouldn't the parents have had to be there first? Anyway, I guess that's kind of an unrelated topic but what I'm getting at is that it's hard to imagine anyone being completely individual. If you kept someone in an isolated room from the time they were born and kept them fed and healthy somehow without any direct connection with another creature, what kind of thoughts would they have?
To sum up, I really enjoyed your post -- it really got me thinking further. :)
I liked how you directly argue with Banach's ideas about people being absolute individuals and I definitely agree with you...I don't think there's any way we could possibly avoid being impacted or influenced by other people!
Despite whether "existence precedes essence" or not, how can you not be affected by how you were raised or what you experience as a kid? As a baby, or even as say an 6-year-old, do you really have the ability to 'choose' who you are, what to believe, and how to interpret your surroundings? A traumatic occurrence as a baby can subconsciously follow someone for the rest of their life, and of course who we are raised by has a huge effect on us.
Like you said, even if we decide to go against what we learn as children we still have to had been influenced by some other external thing to have made that decision. If you never had the opportunity to see that another view even existed, how would it be possible to rebel?
I thought your talking about about the "first human being" was really interesting. If religion is taken out of the picture, the first human must have had parents. But how can the 'first' anything have parents? wouldn't the parents have had to be there first? Anyway, I guess that's kind of an unrelated topic but what I'm getting at is that it's hard to imagine anyone being completely individual. If you kept someone in an isolated room from the time they were born and kept them fed and healthy somehow without any direct connection with another creature, what kind of thoughts would they have?
To sum up, I really enjoyed your post -- it really got me thinking further. :)
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
HOMEWORK #3
Banach states that we all have a "freedom of synthesis" -- we cannot choose our experiences or our characteristics, but we can interpret them however we want to, we can make of them what we wish. Technically, sure, you can interpret anything in the world in any way you'd like. Who can contest an interpretation?
But how much does this relate to living, in reality? Say something tragic happens to you, or someone you love -- do you truly have the "freedom" to interpret the situation in a positive way? Or, even if you have the "freedom" to, is anyone emotionally able to? How much sway can you actually exert over your feelings? Or are these questions irrelevant, as Banach advises us to "BE AUTHENTIC"?
How can one even know what is authentic (or, if you like, "AUTHENTIC")? Even if we are "absolute individuals," it's clear that there are cultural, societal, and moral rules we're expected to follow. Is the decision to follow them distinctly un-authentic? Can we really "always rebel against [the outside world's] influence"? Is the decision to not act upon my emotions un-authentic, even if the results would be disastrous? Can I get angry and punch you in the face in the name of authenticity?
Is being authentic more about accepting your own emotions for what they are internally, or about how you portray yourself externally?
People are complex beings. We can feel so many emotions at the same time; we can feel one thing and then another in a matter of seconds, and each can be genuine in its own right. Our feelings, opinions, and perceptions are apt to change over time, sometimes without any notice at all. How does our authenticity pertain to to our fluidity, when it's impossible to act upon multiple emotions at once?
Banach talks about how "we all play roles, [...] letting other people determine what we are instead of deciding, ourselves, what we will be." I know that I play roles of my own every day, trying to meet expectations, whether they're real or not, in attempts to please others or maybe just my own self. There's no way for me to deny that. But I can't pass up this chance to argue a little with Banach's phrasing again. :) Are we "letting" other people tell us who to be? By his logic, that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, considering we can't as "absolute individuals" know what other people want us to be.
As I see it, we impose most of these expectations on ourselves. I feel like it's mostly self-created. We think we understand what other people want from us and what will get them to accept us, and we scramble desperately to satisfy, pulling on one skin and then another; engaging in fake relationships and interactions because we're afraid to expose ourselves. I feel like this relates to the concept of being an "absolute individual" directly, too -- are we literally unable to see beyond subjectivity, or are we unable to just because we're scared of sharing our real selves with other people?
But in the end, wouldn't we really rather just be honest with one another?
Or is that maybe just me?
I know I get tired of putting on a front or keeping my mouth shut when I have something to say, tired of protecting myself from fears of rejection that only come from my own insecurity. Sometimes I just don't want to bother, and I have to wonder:
Wouldn't it be easier to just open up?
---
"And then it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing."
-- Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
But how much does this relate to living, in reality? Say something tragic happens to you, or someone you love -- do you truly have the "freedom" to interpret the situation in a positive way? Or, even if you have the "freedom" to, is anyone emotionally able to? How much sway can you actually exert over your feelings? Or are these questions irrelevant, as Banach advises us to "BE AUTHENTIC"?
How can one even know what is authentic (or, if you like, "AUTHENTIC")? Even if we are "absolute individuals," it's clear that there are cultural, societal, and moral rules we're expected to follow. Is the decision to follow them distinctly un-authentic? Can we really "always rebel against [the outside world's] influence"? Is the decision to not act upon my emotions un-authentic, even if the results would be disastrous? Can I get angry and punch you in the face in the name of authenticity?
Is being authentic more about accepting your own emotions for what they are internally, or about how you portray yourself externally?
People are complex beings. We can feel so many emotions at the same time; we can feel one thing and then another in a matter of seconds, and each can be genuine in its own right. Our feelings, opinions, and perceptions are apt to change over time, sometimes without any notice at all. How does our authenticity pertain to to our fluidity, when it's impossible to act upon multiple emotions at once?
Banach talks about how "we all play roles, [...] letting other people determine what we are instead of deciding, ourselves, what we will be." I know that I play roles of my own every day, trying to meet expectations, whether they're real or not, in attempts to please others or maybe just my own self. There's no way for me to deny that. But I can't pass up this chance to argue a little with Banach's phrasing again. :) Are we "letting" other people tell us who to be? By his logic, that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, considering we can't as "absolute individuals" know what other people want us to be.
As I see it, we impose most of these expectations on ourselves. I feel like it's mostly self-created. We think we understand what other people want from us and what will get them to accept us, and we scramble desperately to satisfy, pulling on one skin and then another; engaging in fake relationships and interactions because we're afraid to expose ourselves. I feel like this relates to the concept of being an "absolute individual" directly, too -- are we literally unable to see beyond subjectivity, or are we unable to just because we're scared of sharing our real selves with other people?
But in the end, wouldn't we really rather just be honest with one another?
Or is that maybe just me?
I know I get tired of putting on a front or keeping my mouth shut when I have something to say, tired of protecting myself from fears of rejection that only come from my own insecurity. Sometimes I just don't want to bother, and I have to wonder:
Wouldn't it be easier to just open up?
---
"And then it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing."
-- Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
HOMEWORK #2: Comment
Hey Binta --
Your post here is so interesting. I love how you connected the ideas you're talking about to your state of mind directly at the time you were writing it.
The points you bring up about what we're willing to show about ourselves to other people, I can really relate to that. It reminds me of a thought I was having while reading the lecture - are we actually "absolute individuals" who cannot fully understand each other because we can't see beyond subjectivity or are we only unable to fully understand each other because we are afraid to expose ourselves to the people around us or believe that they won't understand (self fulfilling prophecy kind of thing)?
Your talking about people "hiding things about themselves" and questioning whether doing so is two-faced or not also connects to the later parts of the lecture...playing roles and making excuses and whether those roles and excuses are actually 'real'.
I especially like how you discuss the feeling of really loving somebody else and wondering what that could mean if we can't really connect to somebody else. I guess that's something no one will ever really be able to figure out. Even not thinking about it in an existential way, it's clear that it's impossible to have the entirety of someone else's mind spelled out to you. Maybe that's part of what it's all about -- the total vulnerability of loving someone when you can never know exactly what they're thinking or how they feel and or if their feelings will change.
I hope this actually made some sense, haha. :)
- Amanda
Your post here is so interesting. I love how you connected the ideas you're talking about to your state of mind directly at the time you were writing it.
The points you bring up about what we're willing to show about ourselves to other people, I can really relate to that. It reminds me of a thought I was having while reading the lecture - are we actually "absolute individuals" who cannot fully understand each other because we can't see beyond subjectivity or are we only unable to fully understand each other because we are afraid to expose ourselves to the people around us or believe that they won't understand (self fulfilling prophecy kind of thing)?
Your talking about people "hiding things about themselves" and questioning whether doing so is two-faced or not also connects to the later parts of the lecture...playing roles and making excuses and whether those roles and excuses are actually 'real'.
I especially like how you discuss the feeling of really loving somebody else and wondering what that could mean if we can't really connect to somebody else. I guess that's something no one will ever really be able to figure out. Even not thinking about it in an existential way, it's clear that it's impossible to have the entirety of someone else's mind spelled out to you. Maybe that's part of what it's all about -- the total vulnerability of loving someone when you can never know exactly what they're thinking or how they feel and or if their feelings will change.
I hope this actually made some sense, haha. :)
- Amanda
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
HOMEWORK #1
Sometimes, I feel completely lost --
It's like my brain is out of focus. Nothing around me seems to make sense. Everyday events are incomprehensible. I see other people and can't seem to even feel that understanding that I, too, am a human being. Utter alienation. Everything is blurry, scattered; though somehow, pain still resonates.
In this way, I guess I can relate to Banach's metaphor of being "trapped in a dark room with no windows" -- temporarily, being utterly cut off from others. But he endlessly repeats, "each of us is trapped in our own mind"-- "imperceptible ourselves to anyone outside of us". As I see it, when I feel incapable of connecting to others, it has to do with detaching from my own self. If I'm not willing to tap into into my own emotions and thoughts, how can I possibly even begin to understand someone else?
Can we truly understand ourselves, at any given time? He never seems to address this, focusing only on the fact that he believes we can't truly understand others. Most of the time, I can't control my own thought processes. I can't choose what to feel at a certain moment or in a certain situation. Sometimes I make no sense to myself; I surprise myself; I say or do things I didn't mean to -- "imperceptible ourselves to anyone outside of us," Banach says, but what of when I am imperceptible to myself?
And when I am imperceptible to myself? Most of the time, it takes a connection with someone else to help me try to understand me!
Is it impossible for me to fully know another person, to fully feel what they feel? Of course -- as I said, I have enough trouble with my own mind. But can anyone possibly contest that beautiful feeling of sympathy? The kind where you can feel it in not only your mind, but in your heart, in your bones, in your skin? The kind of bond that is so earnest it's almost tangible? Whether it's "true" or not, "real" or not -- is there anything more worth living for than that feeling? Isn't it maybe what we're all searching for every day of our lives? Aren't we all yearning for some kind of belonging?
How can someone explain away empathy so great that it's overwhelming?
"No one else can feel what we feel, and we cannot feel what is going on in anyone else's mind," Banach states. If we are all "absolute individuals" as he apparently thinks we are, how can he make these generalizations about humankind, if he believes we can't truly know anyone else? "When you think of it, the only thing we ever perceive immediately and directly is ourselves," he says. "You," "you," "you," ad nauseam.
When "you" think of it -- so Mr. Banach here is somehow so enlightened that he has access to the thoughts and perceptions that "you" have? Sure, I'm guilty of "we"s and "you"s, too, in what I'm writing right here. But I'm not attempting to convince anyone of anything, to portray what I'm saying as ultimate truth (just to try to get my own thoughts sorted out) -- I'm not the one with any authority.
He has some very interesting things to say. But to tell me what I think and what I see when he's expounded on about how it's not possible?
Well, I'd say it's kind of hypocritical. :)
It's like my brain is out of focus. Nothing around me seems to make sense. Everyday events are incomprehensible. I see other people and can't seem to even feel that understanding that I, too, am a human being. Utter alienation. Everything is blurry, scattered; though somehow, pain still resonates.
In this way, I guess I can relate to Banach's metaphor of being "trapped in a dark room with no windows" -- temporarily, being utterly cut off from others. But he endlessly repeats, "each of us is trapped in our own mind"-- "imperceptible ourselves to anyone outside of us". As I see it, when I feel incapable of connecting to others, it has to do with detaching from my own self. If I'm not willing to tap into into my own emotions and thoughts, how can I possibly even begin to understand someone else?
Can we truly understand ourselves, at any given time? He never seems to address this, focusing only on the fact that he believes we can't truly understand others. Most of the time, I can't control my own thought processes. I can't choose what to feel at a certain moment or in a certain situation. Sometimes I make no sense to myself; I surprise myself; I say or do things I didn't mean to -- "imperceptible ourselves to anyone outside of us," Banach says, but what of when I am imperceptible to myself?
And when I am imperceptible to myself? Most of the time, it takes a connection with someone else to help me try to understand me!
Is it impossible for me to fully know another person, to fully feel what they feel? Of course -- as I said, I have enough trouble with my own mind. But can anyone possibly contest that beautiful feeling of sympathy? The kind where you can feel it in not only your mind, but in your heart, in your bones, in your skin? The kind of bond that is so earnest it's almost tangible? Whether it's "true" or not, "real" or not -- is there anything more worth living for than that feeling? Isn't it maybe what we're all searching for every day of our lives? Aren't we all yearning for some kind of belonging?
How can someone explain away empathy so great that it's overwhelming?
"No one else can feel what we feel, and we cannot feel what is going on in anyone else's mind," Banach states. If we are all "absolute individuals" as he apparently thinks we are, how can he make these generalizations about humankind, if he believes we can't truly know anyone else? "When you think of it, the only thing we ever perceive immediately and directly is ourselves," he says. "You," "you," "you," ad nauseam.
When "you" think of it -- so Mr. Banach here is somehow so enlightened that he has access to the thoughts and perceptions that "you" have? Sure, I'm guilty of "we"s and "you"s, too, in what I'm writing right here. But I'm not attempting to convince anyone of anything, to portray what I'm saying as ultimate truth (just to try to get my own thoughts sorted out) -- I'm not the one with any authority.
He has some very interesting things to say. But to tell me what I think and what I see when he's expounded on about how it's not possible?
Well, I'd say it's kind of hypocritical. :)
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