Differences In Style

Recently, as I was reading The Brothers Karamazov, I stumbled upon the thought that made me think about modern literature quite unlike I have ever thought about it before. How brief would a novel like Karamazov be if it was written in, say, Hemingway's style?

For all of you that do not know, Ernest Hemingway's writing style is a style that, at first, appears blunt and straightforward, however upon re-reading his work and finding the motifs behind it, you realize there is a nearly bottomless well of deep thought put into the work. Nevertheless, his signature sentence structure is curt and to the point. I am sitting. I am writing a blog. It is very late in the night. Something like that.

Think for a second about Dostoyevsky's style now. How long and drawn out would a short novel like The Old Man And The Sea (Hemingway's best work) be if it was written in that style? First off, it would be 800 pages instead of the ~120. Also, we would become intricately familiar with every detail of the old man, of the boy, even the boat and the cracks in the boat. That is the difference in style- Dostoyevsky uses his imagination to determine every detail of a work in a very meticulous way that characterizes figures in the book through a three-dimensional lens, and Hemingway tells you just enough about a character, through the eyes of another, and leaves the experiences in the book infer about them what it is you want to infer.

I have thought about the vast parity between styles of literature, and although I prefer Hemingway's style, Dostoyevsky's is definitely much more difficult to develop and use. It is also rare, which is probably what draws people to his works. You should all (those that are misguided enough to have read the blog I wrote through half-open eyes at 2 a.m.) try writing a short piece, and have it interpreted by yourself and others, to determine your writing style. Some of you may be surprised to know who exactly you write most alike.

A Good Man Is Hard To Find?

This quotation intrigues me, as I have no idea what it means. What, by definition, is a good man? Is it a buff, heroic, grizzled male with a statuesque figure who fishes, hunts, and has more hair on his chest than on his head? Or is it a sensitive turtle-neck wearing coffee shop revolutionary? Who really knows what a "good man" is?

The truth in this situation is the fact that it is not hard to find a good mate, but that in human psychology, it is innately greener on the other side. Despite our higher intelligence and Ipods, we are still very much animal. And animals (for the most part) do not stay with the same mate their entire life. So we are not intended to, either. It is the greatest challenge next to raising a child our species experiences, and it invariably makes one of the partners question why they are with the person they are with, even though they once loved them. It is not that a good man is hard to find, but rather that our psyche is not meant to handle one personality from marriage to the end of our lives. Think about when you had a favorite toy, and one day you got tired of that toy and asked your mother or father for another toy. When you got that new toy you thought life couldn't get any better than this, but the cycle simply repeated. The situation with mating is the same; we like a certain person for a certain amount of time, but after that time is over, it is like the expiration date on the milk- it is simply, by nature, time to move on. Yet we do not, either because we do not want to go through with the legal tribulation of divorce, or because we do not want our children to have to experience a life without two parents, so we are locked into a lifestyle we weren't meant to live, and be with a partner we realistically, as a mammal, are not meant to be with for extended periods of time.

So in conclusion, it is not that males are inherently difficult to put up with, but that we should all go through at least one generation where males run around to every woman, courting her and having a child, and then moving on to the next within a year or so. Then we should go back to the whole stupid marriage thing, and see how much better life as a primal being really is. Wouldn't that rock though?

Good Literature vs Good Stories

Many of you might be wondering why books like Ulysses and The Brothers Karamazov are considered the greatest novels ever written. I myself wondered this for most of my life, since the stories they told were relatively normal, and not very immersing (at least not for me or anyone I know). Then I had what can be called an epiphany - its not the story they tell that makes them great, but the style in which the novels were written.

That being said, none of the "greatest" novels tell a decent story - not a single one. Personally, I read books for a temporary respite from our world, not to read about the worst parts of it. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the style of writing in a book, but I don't read a book for the style - I read it for the story. Maybe its my personal bias coming through, but the only books I can bear to read are either fantasy, adventure, or science fiction. Many people talk down on these genres, saying its not "great writing". That doesn't matter to me, or anyone growing up in my generation. Youth is no longer reading what their parents recommend them, they are now reading good stories rather than good literature, and they (we) are choosing stories of grandeur that free us from the binds and chains of real life, and send us to a world that does not follow these rules, and embraces us with imaginative characters, terrible evils, heroes, and incredible conflicts, and people are flipping the pages like they are on fire.

Let's take a look at probably one of the greatest stories ever told - The Lord of the Rings. What Tolkien has done surpasses every mason, every government, and everyone in general. He has created a world - one so believable that it truly lives in anyone who has read his books. The story told is so vast, so grand, and so detailed, that it surpasses any tale anyone has ever told before.

Now tell me, what would you rather read, The Lord of the Rings or the maze of strange and uninspiring paragraph sentences that is Ulysses? The answer is obvious. Great writing doesn't make a great story. And everyone loves a great story.

February 2nd

I woke up at 6 a.m. to my annoyingly loud alarm. Shutting it off, I thought I could get thirty winks without falling asleep again - how wrong I was. I awoke again at 7:30 and started hastily preparing for my Human Development class. It was the type of class that meets once a week, expects students to actually learn something, and drills us on exams with material we were supposed to look at "outside of class", load of horse crap, I know. In any case, I walked to class amid other half-awake students and tried not to slip on the icy paths. When I got to class, I pulled out my notebook and prepared for the onslaught of presentations that would invariably end up on the exams, and started writing down all the notes as fast as my hand would go without tearing the paper. That's just how lecture classes are - you get Carpal tunnel writing notes or you fail the course.

8:50. Good, time to go to bowling. Yes, I have bowling class, and I love the break from actual work. The other guys that are usually in my lane don't even try, and most of the time we talk about football or the upcoming draft. I tell them "The Raiders should just pick Tebow for kicks" - this garnered laughter, because Tim was probably the best college football player of all-time, but unfortunately his pro stock is low because he doesn't have a quick release (but he is still a great QB). After class I relaxed and read some more Ovid's Metamorphoses, the book assigned in my other literature class. Lunch goes by fairly quickly, and amid some studying, dinner does too. 6 rolls along, and its time to get ready for boxing.

Boxing is my greatest passion, the only sport I have ever been fully committed to, and fortunately I am very good at it. I have trained with former and current pro fighters - including a pro boxer and one of my hometown friends who fought in the UFC. The workout goes very well, and we practice some strafing and duck unders to finish off the day. To wrap up my tuesday, I watch some Family Guy and go to sleep to the sound of my Ipod.

Earliest Memory

My earliest memory isn't much - I was playing with my toy soldiers and I asked my mom if I could go to my friend's house. She said I could only if I put all the toy soldiers back in their tub. Yeah, the toy soldiers had their own tub. It was camo.

Also, I've had times where I would look at a home video or a picture of things I did before this earliest memory, and I would recall them. Isn't that odd? It proves how little humans know about themselves. I think it is ironic that we call this the age of information, consider ourselves intelligent life forms, and yet we know so very little about our own psyche. To prove this, scientists still do not know why we yawn or why we dream. Hell, we don't even know how we got here. Our best scientific theory so far consists of an enormous explosion that somehow occurred out of nothing - yeah, nothing. It would be a pretty swank theory except that it isn't.. you know.... possible. And then those crazy biologists are telling us that our only purpose in life is to make babies. To me, it sounds like our entire species is collectively saying things we know absolutely nothing about. To all those supposed scientists, I'm going to remind them Socrates' most famous theme - to be the wisest and most intelligent is to realize that you know almost nothing. So while our information age is sitting around concocting more ingenious ideas about explosions out of nothing and making more babies, I'm going to sit here and think about the time when I played with my toy soldiers. Those were good times.

My Wierd Dream

I've had a very odd and horrific dream twice. It starts off with me at my friend's apartment back in Russia (my friend lived one floor up from me). Me and my friend Igor are talking, and suddenly we get a supernatural chill and both look at the fridge. We both feel a presence there that doesn't make sense, it is difficult to explain. Think of a Jedi sensing a disturbance in the force, except we weren't Jedi. But it would be pretty sweet if we were, now that would be a dream I'd like to have more than once.

Anyways, we both feel this presence, and start moving towards the fridge. Then suddenly my friend turns to me, and with a completely serious face sais "It posesses people", as if he knew what it was. Suddenly, his grandmother, who was lying on the sofa, starts shaking demonically, as if in the grips of a terrible seizure. My friend is still standing there, completely focused on me, completely disregarding the fact that his grandmother is being posessed by this evil force. I see his grandmother go still, and know at that moment who the force is going to go for next. I run out of the room, as fast as my legs can carry me, flying around corners, as I feel the demonic spirit nip at the back of my head. Down the stairs I go, skipping four steps a jump, hoping and praying I can get back to my apartment before I end up as my friend's grandmother did. I fling open the door with all my might, and fly inside, slamming the door and latching both locks with a flustered alacrity. Just as the second lock is in, the door slams and bends at the edges, almost unable to contain the incredible force from the other side. I wake up.