If there ever was a fascinating character in Mrs. Dalloway, it would be the overlooked Peter Walsh. With his fumbling knives, with his childish sayings, and his dull letters, Peter has arguably had the greatest influence on Clarissa. He knows Clarissa better than she knows herself, and yet still manages to be "passionately" in love with her. His adoration of her isn't blind, and that is what makes it so compelling; it takes one glance for him to realize that the woman of his dreams will marry another man, and it will take him much more than a lifetime to forget her haunting. For even though he has given his love to a faraway Daisy, it is Clarissa whom he weeps before.
Peter, for me, symbolizes the complex and varying shades of human love. The feelings he possesses for Clarissa is far more complicated than any Disney movie; he hates her, derides her, and pities her. But it is her who stirs the most curious spark within him. After reuniting with her for the first time in years, he leaves, miserable, and dreams of "a solitary traveller" wandering down a path with the majestic "sky and branches" endowed with womanhood; he hears murmurs of "sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves" and sees his past, so tragically romantic. There are no perfect love stories, only snapshots. There is perhaps a human instinct that clings to the happier side of romance, but it is only the complete story that can be so compelling.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Virginia; Woolf
There are many things one can enjoy in Mrs. Dalloway: the writing ("to watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy"), the characters (oh Septimus!), and even the endless semicolons (this; is; a; great; example). But my personal love for this book springs from the beauty it creates. Take, for instance, the quote: "As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand (48)." From beginning to end, this sentence brews in one's mind like a relentless painter, its every word washes over like millions of brush strokes. When one reads Woolf, one reads the words; any of them is beautiful enough to be a novel; every turn of phrase worthy of a poem.
And yet, the author somehow manages to assemble a book out of all these perfect expressions - unimaginable! Now these words become parts of a greater picture, a masterpiece no doubt, and the sentences swirl together effortlessly into an splendid painting. It's incredible, enviable, and notably Woolf-esque. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to read ahead! (Sssh.)
And yet, the author somehow manages to assemble a book out of all these perfect expressions - unimaginable! Now these words become parts of a greater picture, a masterpiece no doubt, and the sentences swirl together effortlessly into an splendid painting. It's incredible, enviable, and notably Woolf-esque. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to read ahead! (Sssh.)
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
(nichols)On Baker
"Observe, in short, how transient and trivial is all mortal life; yesterday a drop of semen, tomorrow a handful of spice and ashes."
Marcus Aurelius, short for Marcus Aurelius Annius Catilius Severus Antoninus Augustus with a Caesar thrown in somewhere given that he was a Roman emperor, was first and foremost a Stoic philosopher, which, and please forgive my crude summary, meant that he repressed most if not all emotions to achieve intellectual perfection; in the modern era, we would have called him antisocial. Given this background, one can almost forgive Aurelius's depressing account of life. Spending most of your impressive life purposefully shunning personal enjoyment and sensory pleasures would give anyone the impression that life is nothing more than a bore.
Howie on the other hand is damn cheerful that it hurts to pick up The Mezzanine on a gloomy day. His enthusiasm for everything that crosses his path and his remarkable ability to convey that to the reader make me equally nauseous and envious. Here is a guy with a curiosity that didn't just kill the cat - it suffocated whales - and life seems to shimmer off of him as naturally as breathing. The fact that he's even in close proximity with a book authored by Stoic should be labeled as a paradox; there is a fundamental, universal, and atomical difference between him and Aurelius a galaxy wide and a black hole deep.
In fact, The Mezzanine seems like a complete refutation of Meditations. Even on a surface level, the contrast between the titles is almost comical: whereas "meditations" ring out with austereness and grandeur, there is something light and vivacious about "mezzanine." Where Aurelius counsels against indulging in sensory affections, Howie is not afraid to pause and examine every ordinary object, always managing to marvel over something worthwhile hidden in the simplicity. Yet although Baker never advises anyone to follow Howie's mode of living, no one can help but smile at the happiness his character exudes. Look, Baker seems to say, I took a lunch hour that occurred years ago and made a sort-of-novel out of it! Don't praise me, he would protest, try it yourself! Had Aurelius ever picked up The Mezzanine, there is no doubt on my mind that he would have had it banned and its author burned.
Marcus Aurelius, short for Marcus Aurelius Annius Catilius Severus Antoninus Augustus with a Caesar thrown in somewhere given that he was a Roman emperor, was first and foremost a Stoic philosopher, which, and please forgive my crude summary, meant that he repressed most if not all emotions to achieve intellectual perfection; in the modern era, we would have called him antisocial. Given this background, one can almost forgive Aurelius's depressing account of life. Spending most of your impressive life purposefully shunning personal enjoyment and sensory pleasures would give anyone the impression that life is nothing more than a bore.
Howie on the other hand is damn cheerful that it hurts to pick up The Mezzanine on a gloomy day. His enthusiasm for everything that crosses his path and his remarkable ability to convey that to the reader make me equally nauseous and envious. Here is a guy with a curiosity that didn't just kill the cat - it suffocated whales - and life seems to shimmer off of him as naturally as breathing. The fact that he's even in close proximity with a book authored by Stoic should be labeled as a paradox; there is a fundamental, universal, and atomical difference between him and Aurelius a galaxy wide and a black hole deep.
In fact, The Mezzanine seems like a complete refutation of Meditations. Even on a surface level, the contrast between the titles is almost comical: whereas "meditations" ring out with austereness and grandeur, there is something light and vivacious about "mezzanine." Where Aurelius counsels against indulging in sensory affections, Howie is not afraid to pause and examine every ordinary object, always managing to marvel over something worthwhile hidden in the simplicity. Yet although Baker never advises anyone to follow Howie's mode of living, no one can help but smile at the happiness his character exudes. Look, Baker seems to say, I took a lunch hour that occurred years ago and made a sort-of-novel out of it! Don't praise me, he would protest, try it yourself! Had Aurelius ever picked up The Mezzanine, there is no doubt on my mind that he would have had it banned and its author burned.
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