Don’t Confuse the Narrator!

以一种动物化的感情去爱。低等、热烈、原始的情感,承诺人以未来 以力量。他们甚至把握不好自己感受到的 追求的 渴望的是什么。他们做出的反应只不过是一种幼儿的、小兽的、直觉的、缺乏逻辑的依赖、逃避和欲望而已呀!难道你觉察不到吗?你如此绝望的渴望认可和崇拜吗?你忘了你凝视过的漂亮期待的眼睛其实什么都看不到吗?被理解了吗?什么层次的理解?用幼稚的盲信崇拜,用服从和乞求来跟从,滥用权力来躲避痛苦!这是错误的,但是你毫无疑问的被感动、感到骄傲、感到不能辜负。

“你走进猎场,带着枪和长刀,那珍贵的猎物长得娇小可爱,走到你面前柔声呢喃并且盲目地舔你的手指。她爱上了你,她太年轻了,想让你守在她身边,在你抱着她的时候想把自己的整个生命都托付给你,她太年轻了,她无可救药的爱上了你。你转过身,对其余的猎手露出牙齿,决定保护她。”

 

“人的联想能力越强,精神文明越丰富多彩,爱情也就越高雅。”

 

动物性这个词与与动物化区分。一个简单的解释应该是这样的。情感、直觉的动物本能应该被承认、直面;动物化则偏重于自我意识、自我认识的匮乏导致的被动局面:乐观地说,或者是合适训练的严重匮乏,或者就干脆是低等的生命演化形式(古斯塔夫·勒庞)。

 

 

 

page 71/78
The playful elegance of repetition in the first paragraph of one of the loveliest pieces of French prose, the eighteenth-century novel Point delendemain (“No Tomorrow”) by Vivant Denon:
“J’aimais eperdument la Cotntesse de . ..; j’avais vingt ans, et j’etais ingenu; elle me trompa, je me fachai, elle me quitta. J’etaisingenu, je la regrettai; j’avais vingt ans, elle me pardonna: et comme j’avais vingt ans,que j’etais ingenu, toujours trompe, mais plus quitte, je me croyais l’amant le mieux aime, partant le plus heureux des hommes. . . .” 
(“I was madly in love with the Countess of  —  — ; I was twenty, and I was naive; she cuckolded me, I protested, she deserted me. I was naive, I longed for her; I was twenty, she forgave me; and because I , was twenty, was naive, was still cuckolded but no longer deserted, I thought myself the best-beloved of her lovers, and thus the happiest man alive.”

[3] It will be remarked that among the special characteristics of crowds there are several — such as impulsiveness, irritability, incapacity to reason, the absence of judgment and of the critical spirit, the exaggeration of the sentiments, and others besides — which are almost always observed in beings belonging to inferior forms of evolution — in women, savages, and children, for instance. However, I merely indicate this analogy in passing; its demonstration is outside the scope of this work. It would, moreover, be useless for persons acquainted with the psychology of primitive beings, and would scarcely carry conviction to those in ignorance of this matter. (The Crowd)

 

[4]  …能为事件或者现象赋予越来越复杂深刻和广阔的意义的能力。当我们读一段文字的时候,我们称从之引伸出来新的意义为“解释”。我们做数学的时候,称这种意义的给予为直觉和证明。我们读历史的时候,我们称之为对历史背景的感觉。我们做社会科学研究的时候,我们称之为社会学的想像力。… 给我们观察到的任何事件和现象找到新的和不同的意义的能力。…本能地去寻找新的意义,质疑旧的意义,不停地跟事件,现象和文本已有的意义做斗争的习惯。

…在时间和空间上扩充经历。学会如何安排你们所知道的有限的事情,它们不同层次的抽象和细节,技能,数据,事实和理论的综合,然后最大化你在现在可能经历的意义。

 

[5] another way to put it would be: enduring attraction, compatibility- 说智力比较粗糙– 联想能力,理解能力 –同一个(纵向的)平面; anything else to doomed to fail!

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The Art Of The Novel

1)human emotion:理解、记录

称之为理解并不准确…. 情感的“共振”、共鸣;人生经历、体验跟情感密不可分

knowledge of acquaintance

2) 米兰昆德拉:“小说的可能性”;未走过的路:thought experiment?

偶然和必然 可能性 人生经历

3)常见的人们所说的learning experience 我想的是Allen Wheelis the seeker里面的 he resort to learning philosophy, thinking it would help him find the meaning of life. “their problems are mine, but I was lost in the scholarly pursuit of their conclusion” (14/08)

 

“They are carriers, vessels of emotions, they are models to test out the human condition. That’s why I write. They are like thought experiments. And maybe that’s how everyone can see themselves in the characters, they are the shadows of ours. I, me, myself and I—my own voice is overflowing in my essays. I record down my observations in the form of such writings. Observation of myself and observation of other people, in general. We are the same, we are all lab rats. ”

 

理解有等级、层次吗?

看小说、读诗的时候两种情况:1)rationalisation式的理解 2)resonance 共振式的理解-以个人人生、情感经历、状况为前提 文学作品作为(表现)表达、延伸、扩展

感受不同,结果不同。像是被散乱的拼图,片段重新被放回去,由点到线到面。

Image: Delphic Sibyl

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Elpis

“Hope is the most important thing!” exclaimed the Optimist, the Visionary, the Faithful.

At the start of time, the mortal woman who was moulded from earth and water was ready, and she was sent down the hills of the Olympian Gods. When the lid is closed, all evil started to spread on earth which would plague men forever.

“Alone there, Elpis, in her indestructible home…”[1]

 

 

Cara [2] closed her eyes. The loss of her lover left her where she started, shattering her newly found identity, throwing her into an absurdist void. She lost 3kg in a week. She barely slept. But she had never cried once—maybe the blaze of passion and pain dried up the tears within her. At the same time, she began to wonder about the nihilism and absurdism mist which surrounded her and seemed to smother her. Where was the romance leading her towards? What had it done to her? What lied ahead? How to find the purpose and meaning (if there is any)? Just like it was for all those people who think, thoughts about suicide adorned her sleepless nights.

It went on for about a week, the time she spent seeking solace in human intellect. It made her more miserable than ever: If human life is truly meaningless, why was she still alive? The feeling of futility and hopelessness crept up her spine like vines. How could she live without love, which offers such powerful distractions! She ceased the painful practice of seeking and thinking and she only responded to stimuli. There was no way!

One day, one of her optimistic friend, who got enough of her spiritlessness half-coaxed, half-compelled to talk to her and give her advice. “You need to cheer up,”she said, “After all, there are plenty of guys like him out there. Picture yourself being with someone else now! You will soon fall in love again before you know it!”

Voila! Simple and brainless the advice seemed, it struck a special chord with her. Ah, a whole new world unravelled itself before her eyes! Finally, Finally! All colour, movement and vibrancy rushed back to her mind again, like the unstoppable current in Аму́р, in spring!

She buried her face in her hands, for she was too happy. It was also an action of necessity: it was only when she no longer looked could she see. Hope, oh hope, what picture it paints! The power of human imagination provides us with images so bright, so vivid, so true, especially when one sees herself in it. The picture in my head, how beautiful it is! The cheerful tune of a gale, the thing with features! How desperate had men clutched to you, with trembling hands! But here I am—here I am! I submit myself to you, I embrace you now! I demand you to perch in my soul and occupy the whole of me! [3]

Thorough elevation. And she was happy again.

 

However, her sublimity deserted her soon enough, and she entered a melancholy resolution period. What hope granted her seems so near yet so far away—always on the other side the dock, when one gaze into the distance from the grand mansion. For fleeting moments her heart sank so deep in the abyss of despair, she couldn’t see her expectation anymore, she was in a state of anxiety. But before long the birds of hope started chirping again and her heart was filled with gratitude towards it. “So we beat on—and one fine morning…..”

Her life had become an iodine clock reaction. Since she was 18, she hoped and she feared, but she clutched to hope nonetheless. The reaction stopped finally when the reactants are used up. So was her life after many years. She fell in love and she broke up, and though she never found love, she always fell in love nonetheless. She thought she was happy—she thought she was truly aware of her life, of her predicaments—she thought her positive attitude towards life had truly been a blessing. For there was no way for her to know, once men clutch to hope, they lost control over their own fate. For there was no way for her to know, hope is the greatest of all evil, which only drags men into a prolonged, repetitive model of suffering.

And as there was no way for her to know…”From now on, hope would live with man forever, to give him succour, just when he felt that everything was coming to an end.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1]Pandora: Hesiod, Works and Days:

Hermes gave a gilded and intricately carved box, a gift from Zeus with an explicit warning that she must never open it, come what may. Draped in raiment fit for the gods, she was presented to Epimetheus, Prometheus’ half-brother.

 

[2]The name Cara means the beloved. It was a random choice…

 

[3]Hope is the thing with feathers (254)

Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

 

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

[4] Now man has this box of happiness perpetually in the house and congratulates himself upon the treasure inside of it; it is at his service: he grasps it whenever he is so disposed, for he knows not that the box which Pandora brought was a box of evils. Hence he looks upon the one evil still remaining as the greatest source of happiness—it is hope.