On W. Somerset Maugham

Lately I haven’t been able to get enough of British author W. Somerset Maugham. A year or so ago I read what is considered to be one of his greatest works, “Of Human Bondage,” and was disappointed. I was also consciously disappointed by other works of his that I picked up and read, “Cakes and Ale,” and “Ah King.” I say “consciously,” because unconsciously, I believe that something in his writing attracted me. If it hadn’t, I don’t believe I would have kept reading any more of his works. I would have dropped “Of Human Bondage” more quickly than I dropped Plutarch’s “Lives” when I found myself nodding off after a couple of pages. But I didn’t… as if against my own will, I kept coming back to Maugham, reading volumes of his short stories and various random works of his that happened to be lying around the house. I told myself it was just because I was bored, and his pieces are lightly entertaining.
         Generally I am grateful when people take it upon themselves to recommend books to me. “You’ll love this,” they say, or “That book was amazing,” or “This one’s a classic, a must-read.” What they really mean is, at that point in time, that book had something to say that spoke directly to their frame of mind or current experience, that the author articulated a message so personally powerful, it captivated their mind and their energy and their concentration, and they came away from the encounter somehow changed.  What they mean is, “that book expressed ideas that coincided directly with my own, or gave voice to ideas I didn’t even know I had.” Alternatively, or additionally, “this book expressed ideas that blindsided or contradicted some of my deep-set convictions, forcing me to re-evaluate and alter them.” It’s hard to know, though, when to give up on a book or an author altogether, or to keep coming back and trying, because you know it just simply isn’t the right time. There is a season to read certain works, and there is a season to refrain from reading them. (For example, when struggling with depression, or an emotionally trying set of circumstances, I make it a personal rule to stay away from Dostoevsky.)  
         A year ago, I wasn’t ready to appreciate W. Somerset Maugham the way I have come to appreciate him now. And a year, or even a month from now, perhaps I will have ceased to appreciate him. Usually if someone whose opinion I value, and whose fundamental convictions resemble mine, keeps telling me I ought to try and read so-and-so, I will keep trying. It was this way with Herman Melville. Over and over I picked up and gave up on Moby Dick. It was never the right moment. His metaphors meant nothing to me, his analogies seemed preachy, I found his descriptions of whaling tedious and his imageries empty and dull. Then suddenly my sophomore year of high school I picked it up again, devoured it, and loved it. I found it exciting, moving, dramatic, relevant. I was glad I had persisted.

And suddenly, at this point in my life, I feel as though I can relate to Maugham's writings. It wasn't this way several years ago. I wish I could remember exactly why I didn’t like Maugham then nearly as much as I seem to now... I think the endings of his works left me feeling dissatisfied. I strongly disliked his conclusions. An author – especially an author of short stories – can do so much with his conclusions... They are the solution to the conflict. They are the grand finale. They are the apex, the answer, the elucidation of everything you've been anticipating… And Maugham’s endings always left me going, “Wait…what??” Here is an example from “The Trembling of a Leaf;”

“He wondered why he had ever loved her so madly. He had laid at her feet all the treasures of his soul, and she had cared nothing for them. Waste, what waste! And now, when he looked at her, he felt only contempt. His patience was at last exhausted. He answered her question.
         “He’s the captain of a schooner. He’s come from Apia.”
         “Yes.”
         “He brought me news from home. My eldest brother is very ill and I must go back.”
         “Will you be gone long?”
         He shrugged his shoulders.”


And?

And nothing. That was it. As in life, no dramatic conclusion, no solution, no resolution. Not a happy ending, although certainly not a tragic one… Just an ordinary one. Maugham’s writings are always that – delightfully ordinary, and incredibly readable. I have struggled through too many philosophical treatises and dense historical expositions not to appreciate readability when I see it. And the more widely I read, the more important a quality I believe readability is for an author to have. It’s all very well to say deep things in an abstruse, subtle manner, to leave readers guessing at the true meaning, and scholars arguing about your purpose in your wake for decades... But if I were an author, I think I’d much rather leave my readers perfectly clear as to my intentions. If my message is important enough to write a novel about, it should be important enough to express lucidly. And Maugham’s writing is nothing if not lucid. Someone once told me how much they hate naïve, blunt writing, writing that attempt clumsily to wrap itself in opaque metaphor, but instead results in a maladroit statement of personal ideology. There is a fine line, certainly, between trying too hard to be subtle and failing… and trying too hard to be subtle and succeeding. Either way, though, I think that you’re simply trying too hard. I think the point is not to try at all. I am no author, and I would not dare to attempt walking the fine line between subtle expression of ideas and blatant proclamation of dogma, but as a reader, it’s nice to enjoy the happy medium Maugham provides. His books have been described as “pleasure reading” – so what? Reading should be pleasurable, shouldn’t it?

And so, a year later, I come back to Maugham. Although there are lists of other books I should be reading, multitudes of authors to try, whole genres I have not explored, horizons to be expanded… I keep coming back to Maugham. Especially since his novels and short stories revolve around subjects that truly interest me at this point in my life – love and friendship and betrayal and fidelity and heartbreak and relationships between people. Ever and always, they are honest, and deal honestly with the corruption and the joy and the hypocrisy and the pleasure of being alive.  And they end at absurdly abrupt junctions, leaving you wondering at the point, the meaning of it all... as do the stories in our own lives.

No better analysis of Maugham’s writing exists than his own. In the Preface to his first novel of complete short stories, East and West, Maugham meditates on his own writing, and on the two greatest influences behind it, Maupassant and Chekov. He both criticizes and praises them, and talks about how he discovered them as a young man and how they’ve impacted his style ever since. When talking about Maupassant, you almost think that Maugham is discussing himself… “It may be that [Maupassant’s novels] have no great spiritual significance. Maupassant did not aim at that. He looked upon himself as a plain man; no good writer was ever less a man of letters. He did not pretend to be a philosopher, and here he was well-advised, for when he indulges in a reflection, he is commonplace. But within his limits he is admirable. He has an astonishing capacity for creating living people. He can afford little space, but in a few pages can set before you half a dozen person so sharply seen and vividly described that you know all about them that you need” (Maugham, East and West, 1921).

Again, when he lectures on Chekov and Maupassant both… (“lectures”? Is that the right word? Maugham never lectures. He muses.) he might be speaking of his own writing: “Chekov is extremely readable. That is a writer’s supreme virtue and one upon which sufficient stress is often not laid. He shared it with Maupassant. Both of them were professional writers who turned out stories at more or less regular intervals to earn their living… it was part of the day’s work. They had to please their writers. They were not always inspired, it was only now and then that they produced a masterpiece, but it is very seldom that they wrote anything that did not hold the reader’s attention to the last line… Sometimes a critic will describe a book of short stories as magazine stories and thus in his own mind damn them. That is foolish. No form of art is produced unless there is a demand for it and if newspapers and magazines did not publish short stories they would not be written…”

Right now, perhaps I’m weary of subtlety. I appreciate the effort it takes, as an author, to say what he wants to say using fables, metaphors, and elusive language. I appreciate the epic proportions of a novel like Brothers Karamazov, and the importance of themes such as Hugo's and Tolstoy's. But coming down to earth from novels like theirs leaves one with a depressing sense of anti-climax, the sneaking suspicion that life, real life, is not like that, at all... Human beings are not like that. The majority of them, unlike Levin and Alyosha and Jean Valjean, do not possess the capacity to rise above their past and become such passionate, self-sacrificing idealists. One in a hundred years, perhaps… and about these men, certainly, such novels deserve to be written. But what about the rest of us? Maybe we don’t deserve to have novels written about us, and our petty struggles and base desires and failings and small victories… and there are people like Somerset Maugham who have written about us just the same.

         “I like a story,” concluded Maugham in his introduction, “that fits...You feel that life does not dovetail into its various parts with such neatness. In life, stories straggle, they begin nowhere and tail off without a point. That is probably what Chekov meant when he said that stories should have neither a beginning nor an end. It is certain that sometimes it gives you a sensation of airlessness when you see persons who behave so exactly according to character, and incidents that fall into places with such perfect convenience. The story-teller of this kind aims not only at giving his own feelings about life, but at a formal decoration. He arranges life to suit his purposes. He follows a design in his mind, leaving out this and changing that; he distorts facts to his advantage, according to his plan; and when he attains his object produces a work of art. It may be that life slips through this fingers; then he has failed; it may be that he seems sometimes so artificial that you cannot believe him, and when you do not believe a story-teller he is done. When he succeeds he has forced you for a time to accept his view of the universe and has given you the pleasure of following out the pattern he has drawn on the surface of chaos. But he seeks to prove nothing. He paints a picture and sets it before you. You can take it or leave it.” 
             

Knowingly or unknowingly, Maugham was describing his own purpose and style as an author. Like his hypothetical writer, Maugham also does not seek to prove anything - he paints a picture - in some cases, a masterpiece - and sets it before you - and you, the reader - today, tomorrow, or years in the future - are perfectly free to either take it or leave it. 

"Gratitude," by Abba.

A post from my father on the meaning behind Thanksgiving... 

"Gratitude:

"An acknowledgement of what the L-rd has meant to us in the past and what He still means to us today, as well as an avowal of what our relationship to Him has been and should be.

"Our Sages comment that when one day in the new future that is to come, all things on earth will be in such an ideal state that there will be no more cause for prayers and offerings; even then, prayers of gratitude and offerings of thanksgiving will never cease. For it would be only under such conditions that these acts would attain their true significance. How great is gratitude, the noblest of all human traits and destined to endure throughout eternity.

"May we be made aware of the vanity of all the years of our life, of the inadequacy of all that which lies beyond us and which we think we can attain as the years go by.

"All he joy and happiness of which any of us is capable of attaining dwells in the certainty that we have lived all our days, hours, and minutes on earth in gratitude and loyalty to G-d, and that we have faithfully discharged our duty throughout time.

"And whenever G-d sees fit to call us away, we will boldly heed the summons, content in the thought that we have realized the goal for which we were created.

"May He, therefore, teach us how to number our days aright and greet each day with a heart full of gratitude for, each day is one more day in His service. What an awesome privilege to remain in His employ, unworthy servants such as we are.


"Happy Thanksgiving."

Runner Ramblings

Every run is a different adventure. When you first lace up your running shoes and head out the door, you never really know how your personal race is going to end up - what you might see, how you might feel, or even how far you will go. At least none of my runs have ever been the same.

During Montana summers (or during any season, really...) my favorite time of the day to run is, strangely, at night. I seem to have the most energy then, the air is cooler, and I get to enjoy the view of the sun setting (and believe me, where I live, this is not a view you want to miss.) Also, when it's really dark, I get the feeling that I'm running faster somehow. I think it has to do with not seeing where I'm going - I feel fitter and lighter - the illusion is created that I'm flying over the ground. I've been told I love running at night because I am young, but I think the above reasons are also contributing factors to my preference for getting out there around sunset.

I spend the first hour or so before my run getting myself mentally psyched to go the distance I plan to do. I am preparing to run my first half-marathon in a few weeks, and have spent the past month not only running longer distances than I am used to, but also trying to figure out what my personal preferences are when it comes to going beyond my usual 5 to 6-mile runs. Just as every run is different, so is every runner different. Everyone needs to figure out for themselves what will keep them going when they get tired, just how far they can push their bodies, and what tricks and tips they can use to improve their performance. For me, it's all about "mind games." My running partner (Abba) tells me that tonight we are going to run a 10-mile loop alongside the Gallatin River, and immediately I start prepping the most important part of my body for the challenge: "Tonight," I tell my brain, "you are going to run ten long miles and you're going to do it without stopping. Get ready."

Along with getting psyched to go the distance and running at night, a hugely influential factor in my running performance is my music. This, I am told, is also because I am young... but I think it's mostly just because I like music. It helps me focus on something other than what I am doing, transposes me to that mental zone that is so vital in long-distance running, provides me with a rhythm that makes me want to keep moving. My musical tastes are pretty eclectic, and also change daily. Currently, my running playlist contains a lot of rhythmic Bollywood music, along with some upbeat, mainstream pop, Latino remixes, Klezmer classics, and even a couple of country songs. It's all about finding the tunes that will get your mind off of running and onto the music - whatever weird stuff that takes.

Before I signed up for this race I was told that having a partner was also very important for marathon training. Since then I have realized how true this is. After long days on my feet at work I generally come home longing for nothing more than dinner and bed - getting outside and going for a run sounds like the opposite of fun. But when Abba says let's go, I have no choice but to kvetch a little, put on my running shoes, mentally prepare myself, and get out there alongside him. I've never regretted it, of course. Sometimes you just need a push to get you out the door, and the push is even better if it's from someone you respect, someone who is going to run beside you, challenge you, and keep you going when the going gets tough.

After a little stretching and a short walk to warm up, we take off through my tiny hometown. Houses speed by. The sidewalk feels good under my feet. I start to get into my music, mouthing the lyrics as we make our way down Main Street and up the overpass. I have to admit, I have no idea where we're going - I've never personally run this route before, so all I can do is mentally prepare myself to run for a long time wherever Abba leads me. It's enjoyable running this way sometimes. Other days it's nice to know exactly where you're going, but tonight is one of those nights where it just doesn't really matter.

It doesn't take us long to get out into the Montana countryside. Behind us, the famed sunset of classic Westerns spreading across the entire sky in an array of oranges and pinks. Before us, the outline of the Rocky Mountains tossing blue mountainous shadows and cutting a majestic line across the horizon. On either side of us, rolling green and golden farmland broken up by trees, farmhouses, the Gallatin River, the Crazies, and the Tobacco Root foothills. Mountains on every side make you feel protected and secure, a feeling I always miss when visiting mountain-less states. It's a gorgeous evening all around, one of those summer nights where you feel like the only thing you really want to be doing is running along a country road with the sunset at your back.

Eventually we turn off onto gravel that takes us alongside the river itself. The trees here are much more dense on our left, and houses, fences, and barns grace the fields on our right. Abba points out a couple whitetails feeding along the river who gaze at us placidly as we run by. I'm not sure how long the road lasts so I just keep running, using the rhythms of my breathing and my music and my pounding Asics to move me into that long-distance zone.

Like I said before, this zone is vital when it comes to running distances over three miles. It's where you start to feel like all you've ever done your whole life is run, and that's all you're ever going to do. It's where your brain disengages from your feet and sort of shambles off into a world of its own, allowing the rest of your body to go on its merry, mindless way. It's where you stop thinking about keeping your chest up and shoulders relaxed, and start thinking about your day and your life and your music instead. This zone is what helps the miles roll by.

It's completely dark now - all I can see is the bobbing light of Abba's iPod next to me, the faint outline of trees, houses, and mountains ahead, and the occasional blinding headlights of a car driving by. At about mile seven my first endorphin rush, or whatever it was that made me feel good running that distance, is over, and I start to wonder if this road has an end. Running in the dark, mile after mile, having no idea when the finish line is going to come into sight, can be frustrating when you're getting tired. Actually, anything is frustrating when you're getting tired. When the lag sets in, but you know you need to keep running, the slightest thing can annoy you. For instance, now I start to get irrationally irritated with the passing vehicles whose lights are causing me temporary blindness whenever they rush by. I put my arm up to block them but it doesn't really help and I trip and almost fall into the grass by the roadside a couple of times. Road-running at night has its advantages, but it also has its drawbacks, even in the relatively peaceful Montana countryside.

Finally a couple of twinkling lights horizontally flashing ahead clue me into where we are, and I can make out the highway cutting in front of us about a quarter mile away. I realize that we're going to turn left onto the path beside this highway, leading to a bridge over the Gallatin and to a route that is familiar to me from previous, shorter runs. Except that quarter mile stretches longer... and longer... we go around several bends and the cars on the highway don't seem any nearer. This is the part of the run - and every run has it - where I want desperately to quit. My philosophy as a fitness instructor is that if you don't experience this emotion during your workout, you haven't really worked out. At some point during all the runs I've ever done, I have desired nothing better than to stop and walk the rest of the distance... or even walk just for a few minutes until I get my second wind. But this is the point at which it's most important not to quit, because it's where your body's getting stronger. It's getting prepared - trained - conditioned - to run even faster and harder next time.

I know this, of course. However in the moment it becomes what feels like an epic inner struggle, one where my physicality battles with my mentality, and my psychological zone turns into a heated debate instead, each side stating the strengths of their case. My body wants to be done. It's tired - my lungs feel shallow, my thighs are aching, my calves are cramping up, my toes are blistered, my ribs are full of stitches, my throat is gasping for water. During these moments my mind often retreats to the lines from Kipling's poem If:

"If you can trust your heart and nerve and sinew,
"To serve your turn long after they are gone,
"And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
"Except the Will, which says to them 'Hold on!'"

A little melodramatic, perhaps, for a nightly training run, but usually it serves to remind me that the Will is always stronger than the body, no matter how weak the body thinks it is. Tonight I don't let my body fool me. I know I'm in good shape, my body can hold on a little longer. Just a little longer...

And there's the highway. We take a left, and there's the familiar bridge. I have never been so glad to see it in all my life. Now I know exactly how far I have to go before home is in sight, and the two-and-a-half miles down the path, over the hill, and into town seem short in comparison to the seven or so miles I just did. Or maybe I just experienced a second burst of endorphins. Or both. Who knows. All I know is that I feel better, and Abba starts to step up his pace, forcing me to stretch my legs out, open up my lungs, take in more air, and feel myself start to fly over the ground. Once again we are in town and houses are rushing by. Also, the feeling of victory sets in, making me feel like I can run even faster. Triumph can do a lot for a runner - if you know you've almost completely accomplished your goal, finishing it can feel like a breeze. After all, the worst is over - the longest, hardest miles are behind you.

This is why we turn our run into a sprint once we cross the railroad tracks. We haul it down the past couple of blocks like we're the first two competitors in a race, digging deep within ourselves to go as fast as we can possibly go. Being a short-distance runner I love doing this. Sprinting short distances makes you feel powerful, even if it's just for a matter of meters. You can go all out, give it all you got... and then you're done. Except now I have ten miles behind me, and the sprint feels that much more potent.

Until we stop. Then the tiredness - the real tiredness - sets in, and I'm just glad that it's over. Every runner, every athlete, knows this feeling. You've finished, not just a race or a run or a workout, but a journey, complete with inner struggles and highs and low... and now you're done. Sometimes I feel like I didn't even really do it. Those past ten miles carry a sense of vague unreality, now that they are behind me.

But I don't actually notice these deep emotions when I'm cooling down - generally all I am really thinking is "Water. Water. Water." And then it's off to stretching and resting and psychologically prepping for the next big adventure that is my nightly run.

A Personal Post For New Year's Eve

I haven’t written anything on this blog for a long time. I have a variety of reasons for my absence, which are mostly covered by the excuse “Life Got In The Way.” College, new blogs, working too many jobs to count, and family obligations, among other things. But now it’s New Year’s eve, I don’t have to work or study tomorrow, and thus have absolutely no excuse for not taking a few moments to write a short(ish) contemplative post.

Except I’m not really sure what to write. 2012 is almost over, and I have no idea how I am supposed to feel about that. When I start musing about this year and everything that it brought forth, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia, gratitude, sadness, regret, ecstatic happiness, fear, hope, and anger, among other emotions. So I’m having a hard time deciding what I think about this past year and how I feel about the coming year.

I can certainly say that last December lots of things were very different… I was in my senior year of high school, hell bent on going to an Ivy League college, experiencing painful jealousy, bitterness, and disillusionment in my personal life, questioning the most important of my foundational values, doing a lot of writing, reading a lot of poetry I didn’t understand, and listening to a lot of Maroon 5. They were interesting times, albeit the darkest times of my life thus far. But I think I learned a lot about life last December, nonetheless…

Personally, 2012 was a year of new beginnings. Starting college was a big one. I graduated high school in May, and I think since then I’ve been learning to cease worrying (somewhat) about people’s opinions and instead learn to love the path I’ve chosen for myself. (Not an easy lesson.) I learned to only worry about the opinions of the people I’ve come to respect and love – people who have earned my trust – instead of giving credence to every opinion with which I come into contact.

And that’s another thing. (Pardon my whimsical rambling here… I’m just writing down these thoughts as they come into my head.) I’ve learned not to give away trust, but to instead allow others to earn it. This doesn’t mean I’ve become untrusting. I’m merely learning that, especially in this culture and country, people have no idea what it means to stick with commitments. I’ve learned the hard way that when the going gets tough, the solution for most people is to leave. I’m not bitter about that – (well, at least I try not to be.) Rather, the realization has embedded within me the firm belief that trust should be earned, not given away.

In 2012, I lost a great deal and learned a ton. I fell in love with life, and made a (probably momentous) decision to take that life in both of my hands and stop quantifying/qualifying it by numbers. My GPA, exact hours of study, daily compliments, minutes of practice, followers on my blogs, professional or educational accomplishments, pats on my back, places I’ve been, things I’ve done… I’m not so sure the numbers of those things matter so much anymore. They’re still relatively important, but 2012 taught me not to let them define my success.

I guess I better wrap this up, because 2013 is coming on, bringing with it all the new battles I’ll be fighting, all the new hills I’ll be climbing, all the tests I’ll fail and pass, all the lessons I’ll learn. I’m afraid, but I’m also excited. So much lies before me, and I can’t wait to see what it is.

L’Shana Tova!

The Only Free Man

I don't presume to be a writer on the same level or of the same quality as W. Somerset Maugham, one of the greatest English authors of the twentieth century. I don't claim to hold all of his views or admire all of his ideas. However when I came across this passage in one of his greatest novels, (though one of his most depressing and satirical,) "Cakes and Ale", its profundity and truth gave me cause to stop reading and contemplate it for a few moments.
                 "She embarked upon a conversation which, I gathered from her tone, was of a facetious and even flirtatious character. I did not pay much attention, and since it seemed to prolong itself,  I began to meditate upon the writer's life. It is full of tribulation. First he must endure poverty and the world's indifference; then, having achieved a measure of success, he must submit with a good grace to its hazards. He depends upon a fickle public. He is at the mercy of journalists who want to interview him... of editors who harry him for copy... of persons of quality who ask him to lunch and secretaries of institutes who ask him to lecture, of women who want to marry him and women who want to divorce him, of youths who want his autograph... of agents, publishers, managers, bores, admirers, critics and his own conscience. But he has one compensation. Whenever he has anything on his mind, whether it be a harassing reflection, grief at the death of a friend, unrequited love, wounded pride, anger at the treachery of someone to whom he has shown kindness, in short any emotion or any perplexing thought, he has only to put it down in black and white, using it as the theme of a story or the decoration of an essay, to forget all about it. He is the only free man."
                I am not sure if any English professors or literary analysts would agree with me, but to my mind this idea as Maugham expresses it here actually encapsulates the whole of this particular work. "Cakes and Ale" satirizes the social and personal lives of authors in twentieth century England through the characters of Alroy Kear, William Ashenden, Edward and Rosie Driffield. The long-suffering author Edward Driffield is forced to put up with the antics of his coarse and wayward wife Rosie as she flouts the conventions of the times and carries on affairs with all of his friends, including Ashenden. Maugham leads one to believe that Edward has no idea of what is going on, and indeed, not even Rosie suspects that Edward is aware of her behavior until the very end after she has run away with another man. Edward then publishes a book in which the heroine, obviously Rosie, is unfaithful to her husband in his time of deepest need, describing her actions with the greatest of detail. This leaves Rosie to wonder in the end how much her husband really knew, and moreover, why he never gave any indication of his knowledge. Driffield offers no explanation, and Rosie, leaving the past behind and moving on with life, remains untroubled by too much speculation. But the answer is given to us the readers by the narrator Ashenden in the passage above.
              Driffield was, in every sense of the term, an author. His refuge was his writing. He was "the only free man", because no matter what happened to him, it could go down in black and white and he would be untroubled by it forever after. Friends could disappoint and betray him - his wife could run away with another man - his child could die - he would pay heavily the price of fame. And yet none of this could ever inhibit his one true gift, nor quench his one true passion - it could only fuel it and enhance its quality. This is why Maugham describes the author as "the only free man."
              This led me to reflect upon the real true freedom of writing. I have never had to pay the price of fame, and I hope that I never will. Yet in some small measure I can understand what Maugham meant when he said that the writer has one compensation, because the most significant freedoms of the writer are his freedoms of thought and expression, and these are the liberties that are the most precious and the most useful to him. They are also the most precious and useful to those around him privileged to share in his thoughts. A truly gifted author stands above the common folk only because he has found a way to express thoughts and experiences that everyone has in an eloquent, poignant, and unique way - he has a voice that people want to listen to. This is his liberty - that when he encounters life's pitfalls he is merely given more words for that voice.
              Some people express themselves through music - some through their clothing - some through their speech. Most of us express ourselves partly through all of these things. But the author is unique. He expresses himself by taking to pen and paper (or nowadays, to Microsoft Word) and literally expressing his opinions, his thoughts, his experiences, and his ideas to the world. Sometimes the world listens. Sometimes it doesn't. It really shouldn't matter. The writer writes because he loves writing for its own sake, because it is a sweet freedom to him, as essential to him as food.
            But don't envy the writer this unique freedom, for it comes at a heavy cost, as Maugham expresses above, a cost that includes "persons of quality who ask him to lunch, and secretaries of institutes who ask him to lecture, women who want to marry him and women who want to divorce him, of youths who want his autograph..." Only an author can understand the longing to express life's turmoil in order to be free of it; only a gifted writer can live contently in his rich inner world while the rest of mankind tumbles head over heels attempting to make sense of life. The author's refuge enables him to analyze what has gone wrong - and if not fully understand, at least relocate it to a solid black-and-white place where it can bother him no longer. When I think about the unique refuge the writer has in his writing, I realize that indeed, the writer is as Maugham claims -  "the only free man."

The Internet Is Creating A More Intelligent Society

         Though I may be dating myself by this anecdote, I feel compelled to share it anyway in order to demonstrate how far our society has progressed along the road of the Information Age in the past decade. Whenever I was assigned an essay in 5th grade, I was forced to take a trip to the bookshelves in the basement, locate the shelf creaking under the weight of the enormous Encyclopedia series, run my finger along the alphabetized titles until I found the desired word category, summon all my strength to pull out the gigantic volume, heave it onto the floor, flip through the pages and then proceed to laboriously copy out the encyclopedic entry using paper and a pencil. I would then use this information in my essay to make it more credible and informative. That is how it was done when I was ten years old, and for this reason I loathed writing essays.

       Now, obviously, things are different. As I stated in my last post on this subject, all I need to do now to supply my essays with authoritative sources and facts is to open up my MacBook Pro, get onto Google, type a few words, and there, I have sources and facts in abundance, usually more than I ever want or need. We possess a wealth of information literally at our fingertips, and this is truly amazing to one who has grown up watching the progress of this Information Age unfold. 

      The internet has undeniably altered the way that our society learns, thinks, understands, and researches. Some argue that this change has been for the worse - that because of the internet, now we have shorter attention spans, weaker memorization skills, and shallow minds incapable of deep thought. However true these claims may be, we also can learn much more quickly, we can access a multitude of data in a matter of seconds, we can multi-task easily, we can understand the complex mathematical and physical science that is computer programming, we are able to connect with more people and different cultures around the world, and save so much time and effort through the use of Google, Bing, and Wikipedia. Perhaps we retain less information, but why do we need to? The information is at our fingertips at all times. The internet is not making us less smart, it is "simply challenging us to become smarter in new ways." ("Is the Internet Making Us Smarter or Dumber? Yes.", by Matthew Ingram, June 6th, 2010, Gigaom.com)

      First of all, simply take a moment to stop and contemplate the overwhelming and exhaustive amount of data that exists on cyberspace purely for our cognitive benefit. Contemplating Google alone is enough to blow one's mind. You can literally ask anything, ("Does God exist?", "How do I freeze strawberries?", "Why should I get married?", and "Where can I find Tom's shoes?" are just a few search suggestions that I've seen, meaning that someone out there has actually asked Google these ridiculous questions,) and receive a million answers in a few seconds. Frequently at the dinner table when my little brother asks my dad some random question about why the toilet bubbles when it flushes or what year King Peter the Great died, all my dad has to do it pull out his iphone and find the answer. Our essays and articles are more thoroughly researched and the quality and quantity of our daily information intake is much improved. If the internet is not making us smarter, it is certainly making us much more well-informed. 

      Along those lines I propose my second support of the thesis that that internet is not making us stupider; the internet has proved to be a valuable asset to education. Not only are vast amounts of historical and scientific data available for easy access to the student, but helpful learning websites, educational software, and school gadgets exist in abundance. Throughout high school I benefited enormously through website programs such as Sparknotes' study guides, Collegeboard's SAT and CLEP prep, StudyBlue's easy and efficient online flashcards, and Rosetta Stone's online language games. Reading and writing have become more central to our culture with the use of email, blogs, twitter, facebook, online newspaper sites, and yes, even texting. We can say what we want to say more quickly and efficiently. 

     Thus teens like me, though accused of being shallow-minded zombies addicted to the internet, have benefited perhaps more than any other social group from its use, because we've had myriads of sources to aid our learning. We've learned quickly how to best utilize those sources; we've been able to connect more widely with people all over the world through social networking sites; we've been able to virtually travel to places we never dreamed of; and we've been able to freely share our ideas, express our opinions, and publish our thoughts via the internet. For these purely selfish reasons I'm thankful to have had the internet as an additional teacher during high school.

      What about the accusation that before the internet people were smarter, more learned, more educated, and less distracted? Well to this I can only retort that even during the Middle Ages shallow distractions existed in abundance as well: they always will exist where shallow minds can be found to desire them. This is pure human nature. The internet has given knowledge to those with the wisdom to desire it, just as Gutenberg's printing press gave the Bible to religious and devout individuals. But Gutenberg's printing press also eventually gave issue to cheap sensation newspapers, vulgar fiction and erotic novels, just as the internet is also the source of much pornographic material, misleading advertisements, and shallow distractions. (Angry Birds, anyone??) Something as multi-faceted as the internet cannot be blamed for lowering the IQ level of an entire society. If you are unfocused, scatterbrained, or have weak memorization skills, don't blame the internet - blame yourself. There is a lot of knowledge and learning to be found on the internet if you have the discipline and focus to search for and find it. 

          My final conclusion then, is the same as the title of an online article by Matthew Ingram; "Is the Internet Making Us Smarter or Dumber? Yes." There are numerous good things and numerous bad things about the internet, so its goodness or badness really depends upon how you, as an individual, choose to utilize it. In fact the internet is so double-sided that I discovered I am not the only one to write a debate on the subject - the Wall Street Journal also recently published two articles arguing opposing views about whether the internet is making us smarter or more ignorant. As Ingram concluded his article; "To the extent that we want to use them to become more intelligent, they are doing so; but the very same tools can just as easily be used to become dumber and less informed, just as television can, or the telephone or any other technology, including books." But the advantages, I believe, certainly outweigh the disadvantages. We don't outlaw all books because some of the books contain superficial or inappropriate material, and with the same logic, we can make the best use of all the wonderful things that the internet has to offer.

The Internet Is Creating a More Ignorant Society

Sunday, March 11, 2012

 The other day I was struggling to remember a funny quote from a movie I had just seen the previous night. Did I have to engage in this mental battle with my faculties for long? Of course not. All I had to do was pull out my handy laptop, click on a little google button, and type in my question. Immediately dozens of answers were available at my disposal. Finding this answer required no more than a superficial browsing of my memory and very little physical effort other than moving my fingers over a keyboard.

        In rhetoric class, I felt more than a little guilty learning about the fourth canon of classical rhetoric Memoria, and the ability of the Greeks and Romans to train their minds to remember whole series of poetry, to chant the entirety of the Iliad or the Odyssey from memory, (in Greek, nonetheless!!) and to retain extensive stocks of definitions and progymnasmata, commonplaces to be used in argument. No doubt about it, those dudes had astounding memories, made even more retentive and accurate by constant training, both everyday and formal.

       Contrast it to our culture today... Do we even memorize our friends' phone numbers or emails anymore? No, we just "edit contact" and there: the computer has done the memorization for us. Do we quote poetry or readily offer answers to questions about historical data? Sometimes, but more often it is more convenient to google it, is it not? Google has eliminated the need to remember things, whether it be historical dates, friends' emails, that funny quote you heard on "Psych", or the name of that one character in that one book that I just read that one night... what was his name again? Hold on, let me look it up really quick... But lest we digress.

      The internet has not only decreased our need to retain information, it has also greatly reduced our ability to retain information. Perhaps this is less obvious, but it becomes apparent. After all, our memory is a muscle - if it is not used, it becomes weak and ineffective. It may become sore when you suddenly make use of it after it has spend a long period lying in inactivity. Author Nicholas Carr expresses a common effect of this disuse in his famous article "Is Google Making Us Stupid?"; "I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle." Our unused memories are suffering and so are our attention spans, which are becoming shorter and shorter as our need to concentrate is being reduced by short articles, quick links, and fast-paced images of the internet.

      Has it ever bothered you when you go to type a search into google and it comes up with a million suggestions before you finish the sentence, or even the word? It irritates me that a soulless yet complex machine is haughtily predicting what I, a reasoning human being, want to find. What irritates me even more is that it's usually right; my query is almost always one of the suggestions, so I am able to gratefully cease the strenuous activity of actually typing it out and simply click...The internet therefore is making our society's memories weaker, our attention spans shorter, and individuals themselves lazier. All of this contributes to a stupider society. (Wow, I didn't even know "stupider" was a word until no squiggly red lines appeared underneath it!) We certainly "click too much, read too little, and remember even less."

      Yet another feature of the internet fostering ignorance is that it has reduced creative thought, which is related to the laziness factor. Take me, for example. Not all of the ideas and objections in this post are my own. Obviously that quote from the article above was not stored word for word in my human memory. It was the product of the process 1.) google, 2.) click, 3.) read, 4.) copy, 5.) paste, 6.) and add quotation marks. Instead of talking to people who share my ideas and who could contribute to the arguments in this post, all I need to do is search for similar articles online. Instead of having mental progymnasmata ready to use as did the ancient Greeks and Romans, it's extremely more convenient to utilize the pre-packaged arguments formulated by others. I do it myself often because it saves time and energy, (i.e., because I am lazy and uncreative, having few of my own ideas to offer.) But wait, this is the internet's fault. Or is it?

     This post isn't an environmental sermon attempting to convince readers to "unplug" and spend more time taking walks in the woods and looking up info in encyclopedias instead of online. I have just been thinking about the pros and cons of technology and decided to explore the arguments an anti-internet proponent would use to convince us that google is detrimental to our cognitive processes. In my next post I plan to play the advocatus diaboli and argue that the internet is, in fact, creating a more intelligent society - because this is not an issue I have made up my mind upon, and perhaps never will.

    Well, now I need to go chat with my friend, bookmark some interesting articles to aid me on my next post, look up that funny quote I couldn't remember off the top of my head, post a few tweets, research Emerson on RWE.com for my lit. class, edit a few contacts and answer a few emails. It's also a beautiful day so perhaps I'll turn on my ipod, put in my headphones, and listen to my favorite pop tunes while I look out the window.

Tidbit from Tennyson for a Melancholy Day

I never thought of happy memories as being sad until the people giving them significance were taken away. Now "the days that are no more" and the reminders of them are painful. Yet, if I could go back in time, would I do without them? I think not, for as Tennyson points out in another poem; "I hold it true whate'er befall, I feel it when I sorrow most - 'tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." 

                                                                  
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

   Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

   Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

   Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Happy Hanukkah

"Miracles are the retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." (C.S. Lewis)

           Hanukkah is the season of miracles. Every year, for as long as I can remember, the melodies of “Maoz Tzur” and “Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah”, the smells of latkes and sufganyot, the sights of the lit hanukkiah in the window and falling snow, yes even gentile Christmas lights, have served to recall to mind miracles of the past. As we sit around the table and sing and light the hanukkiah with friends and family, we recount the great works of Hashem and the things He has wrought, not only in our lives, but in those of our ancient ancestors – the Maccabees, David, Moses, Abraham – in the life of every Jew throughout the ages. Moreover, we do not only reminisce about the past, but we pray for miracles to be wrought for us once again during this season.

            Meditating on miracles, have we ever asked ourselves what a miracle actually is? Have we contemplated the nature of what we deem “a miraculous act”, an “act of God”,  etc.? Do miracles consist of small things that are initiated by God, such as a sunrise or a rainbow, or are they only apparent in the big things, the out-of-the-ordinary events, the unexplainable occurrences, like the splitting of the Red Sea? Is the ebb and flow of the ocean’s tide miraculous, or can we only call an amazing feat such as David’s felling of Goliath, a miracle? Are some miracles more miraculous than others, i.e., are there “levels” of miracles? Do miracles consist of interruptions in God’s laws of nature?

            To answer these questions, we must define what a miracle is. To do this, I will rely mainly upon C.S. Lewis’ book “Miracles”, his classic work in defense of miraculous happenings. Without going into the heavily sophisticated philosophical thought into which Lewis delves (which includes the ideas of Plato, Aristotle, and Augustine,) I will attempt to outline his definition of the events which we call “miracles”. (Lewis goes on to argue that miracles prove the existence of God, but there’s no need to discuss that aspect of his argument.)

            Lewis begins his discussion of miracles by first stating what a miracle is, what it isn’t, and why. The most comprehensive passage answering these questions is the one in which he states, “I use the word Miracle to mean an interference with Nature by supernatural power…It is therefore inaccurate to define a miracle as something that breaks the laws of Nature. It doesn't. ... If God creates a miraculous spermatozoon in the body of a virgin, it does not proceed to break any laws. The laws at once take it over. Nature is ready. Pregnancy follows, according to all the normal laws, and nine months later a child is born. ... The divine art of miracle is not an art of suspending the pattern. ... The great complex event called Nature, and the new particular event introduced into it by the miracle, are related by their common origin in God, and doubtless, if we knew enough, most intricately related in his purpose and design, so that a Nature which had had a different history, and therefore been a different Nature, would have been invaded by different miracles or by none at all. In that way the miracles and the previous course of Nature are as well interlocked as any other two realities, but you must go back as far as their common Creator to find the interlocking…The rightful demand that all reality should be consistent and systematic does not therefore exclude miracles: but it has a very valuable contribution to make to our conception of them. It reminds us that miracles, if they occur, must, like all events, be revelations of that total harmony of all that exists. Nothing arbitrary, nothing simply “stuck on” and left un-reconciled with the texture of total reality, can be admitted. By definition, miracles must of course interrupt the usual course of Nature; but if they are real they must, in the very act of so doing, assert all the more the unity and self-consistency of total reality at some deeper level. ... In calling them miracles we do not mean that they are contradictions or outrages; we mean that, left to her [Nature] own resources, she could never produce them.”

            In other words, Lewis is rejecting the idea that supernatural intervention disrupts God’s creation.  He states there are “rules behind the rules” – instead of portraying a God who must mess with His Creation in order to correct its mistakes, miracles reveal a God who can basically do what He wants with His Nature because, while miracles to us seem to be an interruption of the “Laws of Nature”, they are not interruptions but rather intricate and vital pieces of God’s bigger plan. In fact, it is rather arrogant of us to assume that we know so much about the flow of God’s system that we view anything out-of-the-ordinary as a snag in a fabric that is not our own.

            In the latter part of this passage – which can be a little difficult to follow – Lewis is arguing that if a miracle were an invasion from a hostile outside source, Nature would not be as accommodating as it is. Using his example of the virgin birth, in which the “Laws” of Nature immediately take over once the miracle has occurred, we see that Nature is, as he puts it, “an accomplished hostess.” Does this accommodation thus point towards a hostile invasion? No, I believe it implies the opposite; “If God annihilates or creates or deflects a unit of matter He has created a new situation at that point. Immediately all Nature domiciles this new situation, makes it at home in her realm, adapts all other events to it.”

In a chapter on “Natural Laws” Lewis again addresses this issue – whether or not miracles are incompatible with the “Laws of Nature”. If they are incompatible, then God would not allow them to happen, because that would be a disturbance of the systems He has set in place. But if they are compatible, then miracles are definite "interventions" that go beyond natural laws. Thus miracles are consistent with nature, but beyond natural law. Ergo, they point to a new law, a different law, one that transcends the laws of Newton and science's fundamental absolutes. This Higher Law is revealed through miracles. In a miracle such as the splitting of the Red Sea, (an occurrence that is definitely impossible when we take into account the “laws” of water molecules, hydrogen bonding, and gravity,) we see a greater Power at work than that with which we are commonly familiar. As Lewis stated in the passage above, “left to her [Nature] own resources, she could never produce them.”

So back to my initial question – is a sunrise a miracle? According to this definition, that miracles are interventions in the commonly accepted Laws of Nature, I would say not. Is the splitting of the Red Sea a miracle? As it goes against the known Laws of Nature, yes, it is one of the most obvious exemplifications of a miracle. But with this definition, we must not see miracles as God’s abeyances or interferences with the day-to-day occurrences of His Creation. Exceptions, yes – disruptions, no. Even these exceptions are not God saying, “Well I suppose I can change My Law of gravity for you this one time…” Rather He is communicating to us; “These are My Laws – this is My Creation and I can do with it as I wish, and so doing, reveal My immeasurable power.” As the book of Job queries: “Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? Their measure is longer than the earth and wider than the sea…” (Job 11: 7, 9)

Much of society has ceased to believe in miracles, because they have ceased believing in God. They do not understand how the laws of science can be “broken” by the Being who set them in place. As C.S. Lewis said, “Belief in miracles, far from depending on an ignorance of the laws of nature, is only possible in so far as those laws are known. We have already seen that if you begin ruling out the supernatural you will perceive no miracles. We must now add that you will equally perceive no miracles until you believe that nature works according to regular laws. If you have not yet noticed that the sun always rises in the East you will see nothing miraculous about his rising one morning in the West.” The atheists have observed these natural laws but have failed to recognize the Prime Mover.

But as us Jews meditate on the mighty deeds of Hashem in our people’s past and present, we can’t help but see the God who has done so much for us throughout the ages – we can’t help but see the bigger Picture behind these events – and we can’t help but recount His acts with wonder and gratitude. This definition of miracles, which reveals the large and powerful God running our world, gives an even deeper meaning to the awesome deeds He has performed.

Happy Hanukkah.

Reflections On Turning Eighteen

Eighteen is a landmark age. It seems so… old!! 

If I so desired, I could smoke cigarettes, have an unrestricted driver’s license, and join the military without my parents’ permission! Such exciting times.

            Unlike most teenagers however, I find myself looking at my birthday with a little sadness and apprehension. So much is expected of us eighteen year-olds in the adult world… So many standards have been set for the things I am supposed to have accomplished, the challenges I am supposed to have faced, the degrees and accreditation I am supposed to have earned. Why so much pressure on living? Why does everyone I meet find it imperative to know where I’m going to college, if I am driving, if I am working, when I finish high school, if I have a boyfriend; what exactly the blueprint for my future looks like? I don’t understand why They feel like They have a right to critique my choices as a neo-adult, just because I seem to have survived another 365 days on this planet we call Earth. From whence springs this attitude?

            Funnily enough, I display the same attitude towards other eighteen-year olds… “What are you going to do with your life? That? Oh, that’s… interesting…” - while the script in my thought bubble is running something like this… “What an idiot. He/she will never get anywhere in life.” Then again, where exactly are all us teens supposed to be “going” in life anyway? The Ivies?

       
 This mentality, this emphasis on SAT scores and diplomas and degrees and GPAs and titles, is undoubtedly not an exclusively American attitude, but it seems to seriously pervade American culture and living more than any other nation’s. I never noticed it before high school, but as soon as my freshman year began, I started to hear and perceive this attitude everywhere, even, eventually, in myself. Americans really are obsessed with the idea of legitimacy – whether you can prove “it” by official-looking papers or sheets of numbers doesn’t matter, as long as you can prove “it.” One of my favorite movies, Catch Me If You Can, makes much fun of this attitude – its famous and appropriate phrase is, “looking at the pinstripes”… Do we not all look at the pinstripes, the letters after the name, the biographies, the test results, the uniform… just a little too hard, while excluding the important things - the conversation, the personality, the good deeds, the speech…? As I reflect on turning eighteen, I become conscious of this exclusion more than ever.

            These pinstripers believe, not so much that you are what you have done, but that you are the hoop through which you have jumped, like a circus dog or something.  These pinstripers can be partially excused for this mentality for two reasons – a), in some cases, there really is no way of measuring a person’s ability and intelligence from a distance unless they pass a certain standardized test that will give the tester some idea as to what the testee is capable of: and b) because, to a certain extent, tests such as the SAT, or college degrees such as the master’s, do prove that you have worked hard to do well and obtain a certain legitimacy. But in many ways They have taken this rationale too far… as have many of us. I believe firmly that institutions such as public school have only exacerbated the shallowness and rigidity of this approach.

           It isn’t only outside pressure that causes me apprehension about my maturing age… It is the realization of how time marches on and we are powerless to stop, or to even slow, its winding course. I realize of course that I have my entire life in front of me and that it’s pointless to moan about having one foot in the grave when I’m only eighteen. But it is good for us, whether we are eight years old or eighty, to occasionally stop and contemplate the futility and terminality of this play we call Life, on this stage we call World, in which, as Shakespeare famously put it, we are but actors. Looking back upon my first act, I realize that I have some regrets, along with a bit of wistfulness – after all, I can never get that time back, and that is somewhat a depressing thought.

            When I think about being older, sometimes it frightens me. This is because it seems as though an older “me” won’t really be “me” at all – that in reality I am who I am now, and when I become an old woman, it will be like I am disguised as someone I’m not. This idea of course, like all fear, is illogical. Though I was Anna when I was eight, I am still Anna ten years later, and I will still be Anna when I am twenty-eight, no matter how much my persona has altered. If our powerlessness to halt Time is a problem, the solution is to make the most of the Time we do have, and to “let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.” Is that not all we can do?

            So, I conclude these musings with excitement, for eighteen is an exciting age, on the brink of the real adult world, full of promise and uncertainties and hopeful dreams. My personality is virtually formed. Hopefully I possess that common sense which is, according the Einstein, “the collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen."
And to put this excitement into yet another quote, this one by my favorite poet….

 “So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be!” 

To Autumn

This ode was written by John Keats, an English romantic poet. "Ode to Autumn" is known as the most simple of Keats' odes, depicting the features of fall in quiet, poetic terms. 
Keats was born in 1795 and died young from tuberculosis in 1821. He was only twenty-six years old. 

                          SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.