In response to Ash's writing prompt on talking to one's self...
I talk to myself all the time. And I mean ALL the time. Occasionally it's out loud, but most of the time my monologues are internal. I don't even realize I'm doing it most of the time. I'm also one of those annoying people who get songs or melodies stuck in my head constantly and can't help but sing (horribley) or hum the tune out loud. I did just that the other night while watching tv with my roommate, until she finally asked me to shut up. I was so wrapped up in my own little world I didn't realize I could be heard! The best places that I have found to have deep conversations with myself are in the shower and while running. Many times, my thoughts are in prayer form, which is really just a compilation of my worries, hopes, and fears, but directed in what I believed to be a helpful direction. Is prayer a one-sided conversation if you don't get a verbal response? Am I really just talking to myself?
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fate and Autobiography
"During the beginning of the summer and all through the previous one, Tamara's name had kept cropping up (with the feigned naivete of Fate, when meaning business)..." - Pg. 228
I found this statement interesting, because it brings up the issue of whether we really control our own lives. We may control our own stories, the telling of our stories, but how much do we control the events that form those stories? Nabokov admits in this passage that he is not the only motivating force behind his life experiences. What does this mean for honesty in his narrative? Does this lend us the idea that perhaps he's telling us how things happened as they seemed to him: in a mysterious, perhaps prearranged, way? Does this make us think he's a quack?
Do you believe in Fate? Destiny? Have you ever noticed the way something or someone, in retrospect, seems to have been present in your life long before you noticed it?
I found this statement interesting, because it brings up the issue of whether we really control our own lives. We may control our own stories, the telling of our stories, but how much do we control the events that form those stories? Nabokov admits in this passage that he is not the only motivating force behind his life experiences. What does this mean for honesty in his narrative? Does this lend us the idea that perhaps he's telling us how things happened as they seemed to him: in a mysterious, perhaps prearranged, way? Does this make us think he's a quack?
Do you believe in Fate? Destiny? Have you ever noticed the way something or someone, in retrospect, seems to have been present in your life long before you noticed it?
Posting! A response to a writing promt.
How do I talk to myself?
I guess I rarely create active dialogue in my head... but I think I make observations a lot, like "that was dumb" or "what the hell am I doing?" I think I swear in my head a lot, too.
When I was little I used to constantly narrate in my head. When I was actively tinking of something I didn't becuase I couldn'tdo both at once, but whenever I was doing something mindless I would narrate. Itold the sory of my life as it happend. I'd narrate getting dressed in the morning. I'd narrate brushing my teeth. I'd narrate eating breakfast. Sometimes I wonder now how I ever managed to sqeeze in a meangful thought. Perhaps I didn't.
Today, I don't talk to myself much at all. I've never done it outloud, but I guess now I always have a running stream of real thought at all times. In fact, there are many times when I wish I could shut it up.
I guess I rarely create active dialogue in my head... but I think I make observations a lot, like "that was dumb" or "what the hell am I doing?" I think I swear in my head a lot, too.
When I was little I used to constantly narrate in my head. When I was actively tinking of something I didn't becuase I couldn'tdo both at once, but whenever I was doing something mindless I would narrate. Itold the sory of my life as it happend. I'd narrate getting dressed in the morning. I'd narrate brushing my teeth. I'd narrate eating breakfast. Sometimes I wonder now how I ever managed to sqeeze in a meangful thought. Perhaps I didn't.
Today, I don't talk to myself much at all. I've never done it outloud, but I guess now I always have a running stream of real thought at all times. In fact, there are many times when I wish I could shut it up.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
a prompt thought and a thoughtful prompt
"Just before falling asleep, I often become aware of a kind of one-sided conversation going on in an adjacent section of my mind, quite independently from the actual trend of my thoughts. It is a neutral, detached, anonymous voice, which I catch saying words of no importance to me whatever-" (page 33)
and
"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." (page 50)
after our conversation in class on tuesday, i began thinking that perhaps the secure sensation we feel, of looking in the right direction despite the unclear view from our castle tower, might be a type of self-assurance, spoken subconsciously through that seemingly anonymous voice who mumbles to us just before we fall into a state of sleep. <---- is this a periodic sentence? i admit, i was trying. but i'm not sure i'm completley clear on its criteria. i think it should be much longer and illustrative.... anway, i said this thought would be prompt: in summary, i'm now tossing around this idea: we all have a conscious, which speaks to us in a sort of guiding manner (more attainable in 'reality'). and a subconscious, which fuels the essence of our actions (more available in a 'dream'-like state). that, mixed with the above passages, has got me thinking that there might be a way to bridge these contrary scopes of perspective. talking to yourself. Prompt:
when you talk to yourself, because i believe that everyone does in some form, is it outloud or in your mind? what do you say to yourself? is it criticism or positive reinforcement? is there a balance? is it always about something constructive? do you ever talk to yourself about nothing?
what do you get out of talking with yourself.
and
"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." (page 50)
after our conversation in class on tuesday, i began thinking that perhaps the secure sensation we feel, of looking in the right direction despite the unclear view from our castle tower, might be a type of self-assurance, spoken subconsciously through that seemingly anonymous voice who mumbles to us just before we fall into a state of sleep. <---- is this a periodic sentence? i admit, i was trying. but i'm not sure i'm completley clear on its criteria. i think it should be much longer and illustrative.... anway, i said this thought would be prompt: in summary, i'm now tossing around this idea: we all have a conscious, which speaks to us in a sort of guiding manner (more attainable in 'reality'). and a subconscious, which fuels the essence of our actions (more available in a 'dream'-like state). that, mixed with the above passages, has got me thinking that there might be a way to bridge these contrary scopes of perspective. talking to yourself. Prompt:
when you talk to yourself, because i believe that everyone does in some form, is it outloud or in your mind? what do you say to yourself? is it criticism or positive reinforcement? is there a balance? is it always about something constructive? do you ever talk to yourself about nothing?
what do you get out of talking with yourself.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Writing Prompt
I was so fascinated by Nabokov's meditation on colors in association to the alphabet. I tried to think of colors in a different way, and I wanted to find a way to make a writing prompt about it. Thinking about some of the other writing prompts, I remember having to write about my favorite word. I was wondering if other people could think of colors, textures, or scents while thinking of their favorite word. So my writing prompt is:
Associate a color, texture, scent, sound, or number to your favorite word. Be creative! If your word is "dog" try not to associate it with a furry feel, a barking sound, or the number 3.
Associate a color, texture, scent, sound, or number to your favorite word. Be creative! If your word is "dog" try not to associate it with a furry feel, a barking sound, or the number 3.
A prompt for Thursday..
When I was trying to think of a prompt for Thursday's class I tried to think of subjects that came up in all three autobiographies we have already read. The first few I thought of were relatively ordinary: education, family, childhood, lifestyle, ect. Then I thought to myself if I were to write an autobiography would I write about the joyous times in my life, or the trying times?
So my prompt for Thursday is: If you were to write your autobiography to be published for all the world to see, would you be more inclined to write about the difficult times in your life or the happy times? Why?
So my prompt for Thursday is: If you were to write your autobiography to be published for all the world to see, would you be more inclined to write about the difficult times in your life or the happy times? Why?
Periodic Sentence
I'm always fascinated with the last lines of books. I find it intriguing what last words the author wanted the audience to read as a last thought, a last moment.
There, in front of us, where a broken row of houses stood between us and the harbor, and where the eye encountered all sorts of stratagems, such as pale-blue and pink underwear cakewalking on a clothesline, or a lady's bicycle and a striped cat oddly sharing a rudimentary balcony of cast iron, it was most satisfying to make out among the jumbled angles of roofs and walls, a splendid ship's funnel, showing from behind the clothesline as something in a scrambled picture - Find What the Sailor Has Hidden - that the finder cannot unsee once it has been seen.
Even though this is all one complete sentence, what struck me was the last bit about "something in a scrambled picture... that the finder cannot unsee once it has been seen." I remember seeing a lot of "I Spy" pictures when I was younger, or those images where you stare at it enough and see an image that appears to be popping out. You would struggle to see it, and then all of a sudden it came to you, and you were so proud of yourself. The next time you looked at that picture, you'd see the image or find the object right away. It felt like you couldn't even trick yourself to work at it like you once did. I don't know about other people, but I always felt sort of lost when I knew exactly where Waldo was in all of my books. What an interesting last image for Nabokov.
There, in front of us, where a broken row of houses stood between us and the harbor, and where the eye encountered all sorts of stratagems, such as pale-blue and pink underwear cakewalking on a clothesline, or a lady's bicycle and a striped cat oddly sharing a rudimentary balcony of cast iron, it was most satisfying to make out among the jumbled angles of roofs and walls, a splendid ship's funnel, showing from behind the clothesline as something in a scrambled picture - Find What the Sailor Has Hidden - that the finder cannot unsee once it has been seen.
Even though this is all one complete sentence, what struck me was the last bit about "something in a scrambled picture... that the finder cannot unsee once it has been seen." I remember seeing a lot of "I Spy" pictures when I was younger, or those images where you stare at it enough and see an image that appears to be popping out. You would struggle to see it, and then all of a sudden it came to you, and you were so proud of yourself. The next time you looked at that picture, you'd see the image or find the object right away. It felt like you couldn't even trick yourself to work at it like you once did. I don't know about other people, but I always felt sort of lost when I knew exactly where Waldo was in all of my books. What an interesting last image for Nabokov.
Back to Nabokov's Spiral
I feel like I'm behind on posts, but I still want to share my thoughts.
We had a discussion in class about the spiral, and though my book is a bit different in pages, I want to bring up the first two sentences of Chapter 14 in "Speak, Memory"
The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, unwound, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.
I would like to point out that "spiritualized" is not even an official word, probably along the same lines as the term "chronophobe." With that aside, I would like to point out that in a spiritual or religious sense, circles are used as symbols of eternity. Here, Nabokov sees circles as vicious and only until it's uncoiled is it free. I always saw circles as peaceful things myself, so I tried to think of it the way Nabokov seems too. A circle is made of a line that is perfectly curved that finishes where it starts so it is continuous and you can not find the beginning or end. Then I thought, that even though a circle is eternal, it is also so finite. You can't travel beyond that line of that circle, and it just keeps looping you through the same path, just over and over and over again. A spiral, though still looping, moves you progressively forward, or back for those that see the glass half empty. Either way, there is something more than that same area, and you just keep going and going like the Energizer Bunny.
I guess circles are vicious... I know there are some events I'd rather not repeat exactly the same.
We had a discussion in class about the spiral, and though my book is a bit different in pages, I want to bring up the first two sentences of Chapter 14 in "Speak, Memory"
The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, unwound, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.
I would like to point out that "spiritualized" is not even an official word, probably along the same lines as the term "chronophobe." With that aside, I would like to point out that in a spiritual or religious sense, circles are used as symbols of eternity. Here, Nabokov sees circles as vicious and only until it's uncoiled is it free. I always saw circles as peaceful things myself, so I tried to think of it the way Nabokov seems too. A circle is made of a line that is perfectly curved that finishes where it starts so it is continuous and you can not find the beginning or end. Then I thought, that even though a circle is eternal, it is also so finite. You can't travel beyond that line of that circle, and it just keeps looping you through the same path, just over and over and over again. A spiral, though still looping, moves you progressively forward, or back for those that see the glass half empty. Either way, there is something more than that same area, and you just keep going and going like the Energizer Bunny.
I guess circles are vicious... I know there are some events I'd rather not repeat exactly the same.
Humor in Nabokov...YES, PLEASE.
There are quite a few passages from this autobiography that jumped off the page for me, for one reason or another.
The one I find most humorous is Nabokov's anecdote in chapter 5 about his "wicked plan." (page 103)
"I explained to my brother a wicked plan and persuaded him to accept it...my brother declared he was cold and tired, but I urged him on and finally made him ride the dog (the only member of the party to be still enjoying himself)."
This is one of the few passages where I felt like Nabokov was a relatable person, and I appreciated this. It was surprisingly humorous and almost like a "break" from the rest of the narrative, which spends a large amount of time focusing on his thoughts and specific images rather than seemingly "normal" child behavior, like this passage shows. It's something you could expect of any little boy, and because up until this point I found him, yes, I'll say it....pretentious, it was like a breath of fresh air. A point for Nabokov!
The one I find most humorous is Nabokov's anecdote in chapter 5 about his "wicked plan." (page 103)
"I explained to my brother a wicked plan and persuaded him to accept it...my brother declared he was cold and tired, but I urged him on and finally made him ride the dog (the only member of the party to be still enjoying himself)."
This is one of the few passages where I felt like Nabokov was a relatable person, and I appreciated this. It was surprisingly humorous and almost like a "break" from the rest of the narrative, which spends a large amount of time focusing on his thoughts and specific images rather than seemingly "normal" child behavior, like this passage shows. It's something you could expect of any little boy, and because up until this point I found him, yes, I'll say it....pretentious, it was like a breath of fresh air. A point for Nabokov!
Writing Prompt for Thursday, Oct. 16
Keeping with the theme of autobiography and why one would want to read another's thoughts, feelings, experiences, and memories, write about why you think you're a worthwhile person. Why should someone care to read about your life, or even get to know you in a non-literary sense? What makes you special?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A Prompt for Thursday
This morning I was in the computer lab printing a paper, and I saw a single sheet of paper on the ground below the printer. I picked up the paper and found the following quote on it listed with many other Orwellian quotations:
"An autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful. A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying, since any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats."
-George Orwell
Think about how this quote may apply to the texts we have already covered in this course. Did Douglass, McCarthy, or Nabokov share any disgraceful memories or thoughts? If not, can we trust these individuals? Are they lying to us? Can you describe some moments in the autobiographies that can be considered "good accounts," and do you think these particular occurrences are accurate and factual?
Nabokov's Nostalgia
"The story of my college years in England is really the story of my trying to become a Russian writer. I had the feeling that Cambridge and all its famed features, venerable elms, blazoned windows, loquacious tower clocks, were of no consequence in themselves but existed merely to frame and support my rich nostalgia. Emotionally, I was in the position of a man who, having just lost a fond kinswoman, realized, too late, that through some laziness of the routine-drugged human soul, he had neither troubled to know her as fully as she deserved, nor had shown her in full the marks of his not quite conscious then, but now unrelieved, affection...And I thought of all I had missed in my country, of the things I would not have omitted to note and treasure, had I suspected before that my life was to veer in such a violent way."
(Page 261)
I suppose this passage caught my attention, because it reminded me of the time in my life that really developed my desire of wanting to be a writer. My high school years made me take a nostalgic look back at my carefree childhood in an Idaho small town. High school made me want to escape back to that time in my life that was seemingly stressless (I don't know if that's a word!) and when everyone seemed to know and admire me. My high school years ignited a fire in me that seemed to burn in the direction of my past. It's smoke pointed to the times in my life that were simpler. I knew then that I wanted to write those memories down, cherish and keep them forever, either for myself in a diary of sorts, or share them with the world. Perhaps some day I will, but I know exactly what Nabokov was feeling. When I moved to New Hampshire, I felt like a girl without a real home. New Hampshire was as foreign to me as the Far East and that is what made me yearn for the 1990s, the years when I didn't have to worry about exams, career paths, and what to make for dinner.
I also love Nabokov's personification usage in this passage. He personifies his time spent in Russia by using the kinswoman metaphor. The kinswoman (his past) leaves him and he didn't realize how much he had adored and appreciated it until it was long gone. You never know how great something is until it's gone. Sometimes we forget to appreciate life's pleasant, simple surprises, because we become so caught up in the turmoil going on around us and the difficult decisions we are forced to make every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
