Dreams of Ghosts in Nabokov

"Whenever in my dreams I see the dead, they always appear silent, bothered, strangely depressed, quite unlike their dear, bright selves. I am aware of them, withuot any astonishment in surroundings they never visited during their earthly existence, in the house of some friend of mine they never knew. They sit apart, frowning at the floor, as if death were a dark taint, a shameful family secret. 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)

This is one of my favorite passages in the first four chapters of Vladimir Naobokov's autobiography. I think he hits home with his dreams about the dead. Every time that I have had a dream about someone in my life that has passed away, I only see them as ghosts, and I only see them in states of hopelessness and sorrow, as if death has stolen their souls (which it quite literally has). Every time my subconscious mind brings these ghosts to my dreams, they are never smiling and are almost always crying. The tears are the most vivid pieces of the images. These beings must be missing me just as much as I am missing them.

When one is at his/her happiest, mortality is certainly something that comes to mind. These are the moments when a person believes that his/her life is headed in the right direction, or becoming meaningful day by day. When I am at my happiest, when I have just done something that I am particularly proud of, the cloud-nine feeling ensues. The cloud-nine feeling brings hopes of allowing myself to be suspended in time, being in that moment forever, but then I realize that tomorrow could be very different, with very different (possibly poor and depressing) outcomes. That is life!

'storytelling...

"This is an example of 'storytelling', I arranged actual events so as to make 'a good story' out of them. It is hard to overcome this temptation if you are in the habit of writing fiction, one does it almost automatically".
Mary McCarthy, pg. # 164 + 65

Discussion from Thursday, Oct. 2

Just to touch on what was discussed on Thursday...(my last post was on the same topic).

Catholic oppression seems to be a common thread through various narratives (besides this one, Angela's Ashes comes to mind). I'm Catholic and have had a much different experience, so it is interesting to me to read these accounts. Of course I believe them. I only went to Catholic School on Sundays and for camp; I never had to attend a school with nuns everyday of the week, and I also live in a different time period. I also think it has something to do with the Catholics in Mary McCarthy's life. Her grandmother, though innately a good person, used Catholicism as ammunition against others and her hostility came across to Mary. I had a very different type of Catholic grandmother. If you look for the negatives in something, you're sure to find them. But if you look for the positives, you're sure to find those too.

Another Make-Up Post for Mary McCarthy (Catholicism in General)

In class we discussed the portrayal of the Catholic Church and some of us shared our own ideas. I was able to start how I perceived it, but I feel like there's still more I would like to say.

Especially in college, many of us are subjected to novels where Catholicism is critiqued harshly or remembered by many authors as a cruel upbringing. Granted, a lot of the experiences that people have remembered are almost unbelievable. I know that I have been made to read stories about how horrible convents were, mostly in Ireland, where punishments seemed cruel and unusual. Accounts of authors such as James Joyce and Frank McCourt make Catholicism appear to be strict and harsh. In the modern days, the Catholic Church is often associated by the priests who were caught having sexual encounters with altar boys.

All of this and more does upset me, yes, but as a born and raised Catholic I was brought up with a different understanding of the church. To me, going to church was a family experience and was always followed on Sunday mornings by going out to breakfast or getting donuts to have at home. The priest at my church was a gentle and caring man who was very close to our family. It was easy for me to see him as a man rather than JUST a priest, which made it a lot less intimidating for me to see him preaching at church... and "preaching" is used very loosely here. Now that I'm away at college and getting older, I don't attend mass very often and when I do go it's usually because I'm home for the weekend and I decide to go with my parents. My religion is a comfort to me, knowing I have my beliefs and that I can practice them in my own way, and it is not being forced onto me as an obligation. It's because of this that I can read about the Catholic Church and not let it sway my decision to be Catholic.

Make-Up Post for Mary McCarthy

With all that has been happening to me and my family, the last line of Memories of a Catholic Girlhood stuck out to me.
"At that moment, the fact that my grandmother was senile became real to me."
We discussed in class how that was a fitting ending and there was no use for an italics portion after it with Mary McCarthy explaining it further. It is such a powerful last line and I think that most of us know exactly what she meant in that last line. I have had a few moments in my life where something finally became "real" to me, and one of those moments happened during the time when I was unable to be in class.

My grandfather was an amazing man and represented my idea of strength. He had a very sudden and severe fight with cancer, and I went and saw him when he was at his worst. It was then, seeing him in bed and his struggles to just speak and move, that his illness became real to me. It's an upsetting thing to see a family member completely altered by any disease, and Mary McCarthy hit the nail on the head for me. Throughout the whole book, I found things I could relate to or instances where I could almost get what she was going through without living the experience myself. However, it was that last line that really grabbed my attention, and I was almost sorry that it was the end of the book because then there was nothing more for me to follow.