Obat Perangsang
9 years ago
Friday, December 11, 2009
The End Notes
- Plato's Republic-banned poets because they are liars and crazy
- James (Index of Transparent Things-must read)
- litteral level, Analogical level, Moral level, Anagogical level-4 Levels of Interpretation
Anagogical is the ultimate level of interpretation (mystical)
- Doubt is the complement of fate
What speaks to us across our own death?
- language in the Bible is the language of love
- writer writes for himself or a very close circle of friends-Lit 431 is Nabokov's circle
- James (Index of Transparent Things-must read)
- litteral level, Analogical level, Moral level, Anagogical level-4 Levels of Interpretation
Anagogical is the ultimate level of interpretation (mystical)
- Doubt is the complement of fate
What speaks to us across our own death?
- language in the Bible is the language of love
- writer writes for himself or a very close circle of friends-Lit 431 is Nabokov's circle
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
My To Read List
I can't wait to read this book. I feel that it is a very beautifully put together work. I can't wait to get my own copy and yes I intend to tear it apart when reading but we shall see. I have a hard time when the spines of my novels are broken. The cover of this book has a very mysterious feel about it. I am therefore inclined to believe that the actu
al written words inside will be a sort of mystery and I look forward to solving it slowly.
Lackluster, Lovable Lads and a Semester of Joy
I have found that Nabokov has a joy of taking what should be a seemingly average character type and making them into something close to extraordinary. I say this fully believing that if I were to read the rest of his works all of his main characters would be very average "Joes". He does this on purpose. Humbert Humbert is just a normal professor type who happens to like little girls because he can't get over his childhood love. Now, any average day to day man could have a thing for little girls and most people would be repulsed but for some reason (which I can't or maybe stubbornly refuse to explain) readers have sympathy for Humbert and yes, they even like him to some extent or other.
Then there is dear Kinbote. He is just this poor schmuck who fancies him self royalty. He is a bit arrogant and rather convincing in his portrayal of himself as deposed royalty. He is that guy at the party that no one can stand to talk to. Who's to blame? Shade on the other hand is the guy that most of us have worked with at some point in life. He is a creative type, perhaps genius, but he may not be some one you would introduce to your normal social circle. To me, he seems a tad socially awkward. It is apparent that he would prefer to spend his time writing and that is okay. We like that about him.
Finally there is Hugh Person. He is the epitome of dull American. He has very little passion in life with the exception of tennis and Armande. And let's not even discuss how he was able to bag a super model for a wife because that is beyond my comprehension. He is lackluster at best but for some reason we like him. It is as though he is that lost puppy that you bring home in hopes that mom and dad will let you keep it. We can't help but cheer for his success with a super hot chick. Go Hugh! You the MAN!
What I am trying to say is that it is nice to see an ordinary dude be the center of attention (most times). His stories are fresh in that they don't follow the typical cycle of creation (a clear cut and dry story). He likes to delight us with characters that are not larger than life and stories that could be the very meaning of ordinary. Overall, it has been a delightful semester reading about Hugh, You, Me, Kinbote, Shade, Lo, H.H, and let's not forget Gradus, and Clare. Hats off to you Mr. Nabokov, I look forward to reading more.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Gradus
He sits in the dim light of a poorly decorated hotel room. He had done his work and he had done it splendidly—or so he thought. After completing his mission he had left in a manner that did not arouse suspicion for that is how he had been trained.
“Don’t run,” his superiors had told him. “Running attracts attention and attention will be unwanted during the missions you will be on.”
This advice he had taken to heart and lived by it. ‘Don’t run’ had saved his life too many times to count.
So, he had walked away—headed back to town. He had bought a newspaper along the way and found a café to sit and relax. Really, the day had been pleasant. The news had been…inconsequential for the most part. Finally, he had returned to his hotel room. The day that he completed his mission he made the decision to stay stateside for awhile to see what the U.S. had to offer in the way of entertainment and relaxation. So, far it had been a disappointment. In his disappointment and disgust he had gone in search of a means to an end. He didn’t know exactly what kind of entertainment he was looking for but he did not expect it to be a novel. But that is what he found.
“Pale Fire,” he read. “When did this novel come out?” he asked the clerk at the bookstore. “Yesterday,” she replied. “It is supposed to be a delightful read,” she remarked in an off handed way.
As he stood there examining the cover of the novel, something, deep down inside of him, told him that he should take the time to read this particular novel. Feelings. He learned early in his life that he should always trust his feelings. So, he purchased the novel and made his way back to his dreary, small town, American hotel. He flicked on the bedside lamp and made himself comfortable on the bed. He opened the book. Finally, in the wee hours of pre-dawn he closed the book. He had been unable to put the novel down not even when he felt the urge to relieve himself.
Now he sits in the dim half light of early morning fully absorbing the information he had just read. The king was still alive! He had assassinated the wrong man! This was a debacle—the first of his life, excluding the one mentioned in the novel by that pompous king Charles. The king didn’t even tell the story properly. As he remembers it he was forced into the debacle and then later blamed for it. The king wouldn’t know that thought, but he was obviously willing to think that he did.
“One day in his early youth,” penned Kinbote “ when he worked as messenger boy fro a large and deqressing firm of cardboard box manufacturers, he quietly helped three companions to ambush a local lad whom they wished to beat up for winning a motorcycle at a fair.” (150)
“Yes, that is how the story started,” Gradus acknowledged to himself.
As he sat there in the ever increasing daylight that day from his youth sprung to life. The memory was as clear as if it had just happened yesterday. Gradus had been let go from work early that day and so he had decided to head to the park that was just off the main square in Onhava. He had just found a nice patch of shade under the largest weeping willow he had ever seen. He was settling down for nice nap when his buddies had found him. They were excited about something that much Gradus had been able to discern.
Yury, Boris, and Vladimir all piled on to the grass next to Gradus and for a time they were all content to just sit there and relax enjoying the shade. Eventually, Vladimir stirred—he had an idea, Gradus could tell. Vladimir was easily identified as the ring-leader, he always came up with the ideas—usually good ones.
“Damn Lorrainers,” snorted Vladimir. “They think they are so much better than us humble folk of Onhava.” Now Vladimir was really in a mood. “Come here to our fair, prizes that should rightfully go to Onhavans, and then what do they do?” Vladimir was starting to get worked up.
“They flaunt their winnings in front of us.” It isn’t right,” he mumbled darkly.
“We should do something about,” was Yury’s comment.
“That is your answer for everything, Yury,” replied Boris, rolling his eyes
Gradus distinctly remember this minute detail. They say it is the small details that people remember most and this time Gradus was aware of how true that statement really was.
“I’ve got it.” That was Vladimir. “Let’s ambush him. With the four of us we will be able to give him a proper beating. One fit for a Lorrainer.” Vladimir was now deep in thought, picturing every bruise the Lorrainer would receive by his hand.
So, they had sat there in the pleasant shade of a mid-Onhavan afternoon and planned the assault. In theory it had been perfect, but in practice it had been terribly flawed. The king had gotten the next part right for the most part:
“Gradus obtained an axe and directed the felling of a tree: it crashed improperly, though not quite blocking the country lane down which their carefree prey used to ride in the growing dusk.” (150)
This was true; the king had gotten this fact right in his novel. However, he was wrong when it came to the actual fight. Gradus had not fallen asleep like the king suggested in his novel. On the contrary, he had been as wound as Vladimir himself. When it came time to actually jump the unwary Lorrainer, Gradus had caught his foot on a tree root and tripped. Well luck would have that was when he fell hitting his head on a rock, knocking him unconscious and therefore unable to help deliver the beating. His friends did receive the beating that the king said they did. It was terrible really, for they never really forgave Gradus for being a klutz, especially Vladimir.
“If you hadn’t been so stupid Gradus, we would have had him,” snarled Vladimir. “This is all your fault, the blame is yours to bear.”That had been the last day Gradus had seen his buddies.
“He was better off without them,” Gradus thought as his hotel surrounding came flooding back.
He checked the time it was almost noon. He had been reminiscing for the entire morning. He was back to reality now and he needed a plan. He could not return to Zembla without completing his mission. That was not how he operated and the Shadows would not be forgiving. He knew what he must do.
He sat down and wrote a short message to the Shadows:
The king has proven a more slippery foe than I thought possible. He has recently eluded my grasp but left his trail blatantly obvious. I will not return to Zembla until I have completed my mission. I will return with proof of his demise.
Gradus
Gradus packed his belongings into his bag; he stepped out of his rented, “mom and pop” hotel room. He knew what he had to do and where he had to go. The king had slipped through his grasp for the last time. This time he would not rest until the king was dead. Then he would return home to Onhava and never leave. For now, home would have to wait. Utana was where he was headed.
“Don’t run,” his superiors had told him. “Running attracts attention and attention will be unwanted during the missions you will be on.”
This advice he had taken to heart and lived by it. ‘Don’t run’ had saved his life too many times to count.
So, he had walked away—headed back to town. He had bought a newspaper along the way and found a café to sit and relax. Really, the day had been pleasant. The news had been…inconsequential for the most part. Finally, he had returned to his hotel room. The day that he completed his mission he made the decision to stay stateside for awhile to see what the U.S. had to offer in the way of entertainment and relaxation. So, far it had been a disappointment. In his disappointment and disgust he had gone in search of a means to an end. He didn’t know exactly what kind of entertainment he was looking for but he did not expect it to be a novel. But that is what he found.
“Pale Fire,” he read. “When did this novel come out?” he asked the clerk at the bookstore. “Yesterday,” she replied. “It is supposed to be a delightful read,” she remarked in an off handed way.
As he stood there examining the cover of the novel, something, deep down inside of him, told him that he should take the time to read this particular novel. Feelings. He learned early in his life that he should always trust his feelings. So, he purchased the novel and made his way back to his dreary, small town, American hotel. He flicked on the bedside lamp and made himself comfortable on the bed. He opened the book. Finally, in the wee hours of pre-dawn he closed the book. He had been unable to put the novel down not even when he felt the urge to relieve himself.
Now he sits in the dim half light of early morning fully absorbing the information he had just read. The king was still alive! He had assassinated the wrong man! This was a debacle—the first of his life, excluding the one mentioned in the novel by that pompous king Charles. The king didn’t even tell the story properly. As he remembers it he was forced into the debacle and then later blamed for it. The king wouldn’t know that thought, but he was obviously willing to think that he did.
“One day in his early youth,” penned Kinbote “ when he worked as messenger boy fro a large and deqressing firm of cardboard box manufacturers, he quietly helped three companions to ambush a local lad whom they wished to beat up for winning a motorcycle at a fair.” (150)
“Yes, that is how the story started,” Gradus acknowledged to himself.
As he sat there in the ever increasing daylight that day from his youth sprung to life. The memory was as clear as if it had just happened yesterday. Gradus had been let go from work early that day and so he had decided to head to the park that was just off the main square in Onhava. He had just found a nice patch of shade under the largest weeping willow he had ever seen. He was settling down for nice nap when his buddies had found him. They were excited about something that much Gradus had been able to discern.
Yury, Boris, and Vladimir all piled on to the grass next to Gradus and for a time they were all content to just sit there and relax enjoying the shade. Eventually, Vladimir stirred—he had an idea, Gradus could tell. Vladimir was easily identified as the ring-leader, he always came up with the ideas—usually good ones.
“Damn Lorrainers,” snorted Vladimir. “They think they are so much better than us humble folk of Onhava.” Now Vladimir was really in a mood. “Come here to our fair, prizes that should rightfully go to Onhavans, and then what do they do?” Vladimir was starting to get worked up.
“They flaunt their winnings in front of us.” It isn’t right,” he mumbled darkly.
“We should do something about,” was Yury’s comment.
“That is your answer for everything, Yury,” replied Boris, rolling his eyes
Gradus distinctly remember this minute detail. They say it is the small details that people remember most and this time Gradus was aware of how true that statement really was.
“I’ve got it.” That was Vladimir. “Let’s ambush him. With the four of us we will be able to give him a proper beating. One fit for a Lorrainer.” Vladimir was now deep in thought, picturing every bruise the Lorrainer would receive by his hand.
So, they had sat there in the pleasant shade of a mid-Onhavan afternoon and planned the assault. In theory it had been perfect, but in practice it had been terribly flawed. The king had gotten the next part right for the most part:
“Gradus obtained an axe and directed the felling of a tree: it crashed improperly, though not quite blocking the country lane down which their carefree prey used to ride in the growing dusk.” (150)
This was true; the king had gotten this fact right in his novel. However, he was wrong when it came to the actual fight. Gradus had not fallen asleep like the king suggested in his novel. On the contrary, he had been as wound as Vladimir himself. When it came time to actually jump the unwary Lorrainer, Gradus had caught his foot on a tree root and tripped. Well luck would have that was when he fell hitting his head on a rock, knocking him unconscious and therefore unable to help deliver the beating. His friends did receive the beating that the king said they did. It was terrible really, for they never really forgave Gradus for being a klutz, especially Vladimir.
“If you hadn’t been so stupid Gradus, we would have had him,” snarled Vladimir. “This is all your fault, the blame is yours to bear.”That had been the last day Gradus had seen his buddies.
“He was better off without them,” Gradus thought as his hotel surrounding came flooding back.
He checked the time it was almost noon. He had been reminiscing for the entire morning. He was back to reality now and he needed a plan. He could not return to Zembla without completing his mission. That was not how he operated and the Shadows would not be forgiving. He knew what he must do.
He sat down and wrote a short message to the Shadows:
The king has proven a more slippery foe than I thought possible. He has recently eluded my grasp but left his trail blatantly obvious. I will not return to Zembla until I have completed my mission. I will return with proof of his demise.
Gradus
Gradus packed his belongings into his bag; he stepped out of his rented, “mom and pop” hotel room. He knew what he had to do and where he had to go. The king had slipped through his grasp for the last time. This time he would not rest until the king was dead. Then he would return home to Onhava and never leave. For now, home would have to wait. Utana was where he was headed.
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