Objections to Objectivism?

I know it’s been said a thousand times, but Ayn Rand really is a genius. She is the author of Atlas Shrugged, The Fountainhead, Anthem, and many more. The main theme of her books is the philosophy called Objectivism, a term she coined. Objectivism, according to Wikipedia, holds that “reality exists independent of consciousness, that human beings have direct contact with reality through sense perception, that the proper moral purpose of one's life is the pursuit of one's own happiness or rational self-interest.” Her thinking flew in the face of the popularly held beliefs in the 1950s:

 -that being unselfish makes us better people

-that our interests should come last in our hearts

-that we exist to serve others.

Ayn Rand argues that truly great men had no concern for what their fellow man thought or wanted. Instead, they walked blindly into the unknown future with nothing to guide them but their “selfish” dreams and ambitions, the true desires of their own hearts. For example:

-Robert Fulton and the steam engine

-The Wright Brothers and the airplane

-Louis Pasteur and the swan necked flasks

These men, though separated by years, cultures, and interests, relentlessly pursued the same thing: an idea. Ignoring the protests and malignant reception of their peers, they continued to pour their souls into their projects, adamant in the path of their “selfish” goals. History shows that their success contributed more than imaginable to the welfare and eventual progression and evolution of mankind. By following “one’s own interest,” they afforded more to their fellow man than if they had been unselfish from the start.

           Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead both give detailed, prolific accounts of the lives of men who understand and apply the above concept and men who do not. The struggles, loves, losses, and victories that pervade these novels are astounding. Ayn writes masterfully…with skill, precision, style, and a breathtaking ability to twist and warp your perception of all you once believed. These books were essential to my psychological development. I highly recommend them.

Also, I am not saying that Objectivism is flawless. It does fail to address certain contingencies of counterarguments, but that does not negate the profound ideas that support it. 

 Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. Fasten your brain belt.

"He who lends a book is an idiot.  He who returns the book is more of an idiot."  ~Arabic Proverb

Optical Options!

I think I was about 12 years old when I started reading "the Sarah Douglass books". 13 books, over 6 years...reading them over and over and over. Whenever I lacked good material to digest, I would reach for StarMan, Hade's Daughter, or my personal favorite, Pilgrim. Sarah Douglass has written many trilogies throughout the years, but the ones I lapped up like a dehydrated puppy were the following:

1) The Axis Trilogy
 -Book 1: The Wayfarer's Redemption
-Book 2: Enchanter
-Book 3: StarMan

2) The Wayfarer's Redemption Series
-Book 1: Sinner
-Book 2: Pilgrim
-Book 3: Crusader

3) The Troy Game
-Book 1: Hade's Daughter
-Book 2: God's Concubine
-Book 3: Darkwitch Rising
-Book 4: Druid's Sword

4) Darkglass Mountain
-Book 1: The Serpent Bride
-Book 2: The Twisted Citadel
-Book 3: Infinity Gate

Oh, they are all so fantastic! She has another couple trilogies floating around out there, but these are my pets. I could sit down right now and become enthralled for hours on end with any one of these books. After, of course, I get all my homework done...

Beyond That Thing of a Doubt

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

I’ve read this book once in my life. I tried to read it a second time last semester, but something stayed my hand. Whenever my mind would wander to it and the possibility of opening its front cover again, a warning bell would toll in my head. I circled the book like a vulture, looping around the dead or wounded prey, using extreme caution to ensure that there is no artifice in the creature’s injury.

I circled, sporadically coming closer, then backing away in hesitation.

Why? Where is this wall coming from and why is it erected around this book? I’ve pondered this question, and I think the solution, the only solution, is to bite the bullet and dive into the pages again. Maybe if I can look at the story once more with newer eyes, I’ll be able to identify the cause of my uncertainty.

Even now, I find it difficult to summarize, define, explain, or describe the plot, the characters, or the style of this novel. You probably tire of the same melodramatic, poetic descriptions I’ve been shoving down your throat about these books that I love (too bad), so maybe something more straightforward would be a nice change.

Daniel Sempere lives with his father in Barcelona, Spain, post the Spanish Civil War. Daniel’s father, thinking to sustain the life of a secret that has been entrusted to his family for centuries, takes Daniel to the Cemetery of Forgotten books. Traditionally, once one has been introduced to this conglomeration of banned literature, that person must choose a book and protect it for life. Daniel picks, or is picked, is chosen, by The Shadow of the Wind, author Julian Carax. Daniel’s life is permanently chained to this book, and the ensuing mystery that untangles will keep you up night after night, snuggled under the covers with a flashlight, hoping and praying that Mom doesn’t see the glow and force you to sleep.    

I should reread it. I think I might be scared of discovering that the story isn’t as breathtaking as I remember.

…but I like how it stands in my memory. I like cherishing it. I don’t want a reality check. I’d rather revere it the way I do than uncover a mediocre truth. That’s what I want.

"A book is a gift you can open again and again." -Garrison Keillor

Cornfields

Little House on the Prairie? 

Not exactly. Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink.

 Blond hair, blue eyes, pink sundress. A 10 year old figure, curled up on the back porch of her parents' red brick house, immersed in the pages of the time-worn novel she found lying forgotten under the coach... 

Caddie Woodlawn, with her fiery red hair, green eyes, and blue sundress, jumped out from the pages and snatched my hand with an eager, earnest, adventurous energy I found impossible to resist. The 11 year old tomboy from Wisconsin dragged me into her world of river wading, chicken stealing, and Indian romping. Many an afternoon while the sunlight snuck through the trees in my own backyard, my parents would find me frolicking through the cornfields with Caddie and her brothers, chasing rabbits, and sometimes being chased ourselves. Every chapter provided another adventure, friends to lose and gain, and new relatives to hassle and terrorize with innocent childlike pranks. I mocked at Caddie's simpering, refined older sister, snickered at her proper, pristine mother when she would sigh and shake her head at Caddie's monstrously unladylike behavior, from stripping off her clothes to go wading through a river to beating up a boy at her school for pulling her flaming red hair.

She is certainly an endearing character, and as a young girl myself, reading about her adventures greatly influenced my growth and how I judged good entertainment in my life. (I'm pretty sure my love for muddy weather and climbing trees in the rain stems from Caddie's own interests).

Yes, it is a children's book. But it is also a window into a past, my past or your past.

To see again with the eyes of a child is one of the most beautiful contributions the written word has to offer. That's my opinion. Some may view it as a waste of time, but it's how I waste mine.

Caddie Woodlawn, by Carol Ryrie Brink...it taught me to run with another's feet.

""No two persons ever read the same book." - Edmund Wilson

Coffee and Cigarettes

            QUICK!

LOOK!

                                    OVER HERE!

Sorry, had to grab your attention. Ok, this is a special post. I was going to present you with a book called The Shadow of the Wind, but I might save that for next time. Instead, I want to use this post to introduce you to a particular friend of mine that isn’t composed of parchment. When you have the time, you really should take 3 minutes and 51 seconds to listen to “Coffee and Cigarettes”, by Jimmy Eat World.

Now I’m a little biased because Jimmy is one of my favorites, but this song feels especially applicable to this period of my life at the moment. Admit it; as college students at PSU, you’re all pretty much in the same boat.

           

**A quick overview and why you should care**

“Coffee and Cigarettes” describes Jimmy’s transition from his life at school to his aspirations of becoming a musician. His two iconic images, the memories he uses to summarize all the “good times” with the people he loved are coffee…and cigarettes. The nostalgia in the song is overwhelming, and I can’t help but think of what I’m going to feel when I graduate. What will it be for me? Apples and Diet Pepsi? Trident Gum and chocolate chip cookies?

I can see Jimmy sitting in a room cluttered with papers, books, maybe a food wrapper here and there…I can see the camera slowly panning around him as he brandishes the cigarette in one hand and cups the coffee mug in another…the face of his companion still lingers in the gloom next to him...

I’ve been curled up on the end of Allyssa’s bed until 5 in the morning, and I know how it feels to find people who you can just sit around and “smoke a cigarette” with (I don’t smoke; it’s a metaphor). Jimmy song derives so much power from his specificity in his description of what he’ll remember. Such positive evocations will come from him when he smells that rich aroma or that choking fume, either one…

If you get a chance to listen to the song, I think it would be a growing experience if you’d also try to think about what specific things tie you to the people you love, the people who you met so recently but who have become your family.  This song means a lot to me…if Jimmy hadn’t written it first, I swear I would have beaten him to it. 

 Click to Listen

Mind Games

Have you ever surfaced from a conversation and realized that you were probably just manipulated into acting a certain way or saying certain things by the actions or words of your partner? Although Ender's Game is absolutely a science fiction novel, packed so full of outer space concepts and futuristic ideas to the point of explosion, one fascinating aspect of this book is that you can extract perhaps a hundred moments in which one character subtly but purposefully moves another character like a chess piece across the board.
The subplots distract the reader from the bigger picture, but those pesky subplots do nothing but mimic the "grand scheme": manipulation. A big hand manipulates a smaller hand, which in turn manipulates a smaller hand, which functions to manipulate a multitude of other little hands. In a sweltering chain of events, you are led from conclusion to another shattering conclusion, and the realization of the depth and intricacy of the webs weaved by these big hands leaves your brain basically imploding. Just when you think you have all the little threads untangled and the strings separated, a mighty gust of wind sweeps through your cute little pile of organization and mucks it all up again.

Don't be fooled: though it is disguised as a children's book, you have to read it more than once and with great comprehension if you want to get those threads untangled in any semblance of finality. Once you do...oh, once you do, you envy to the core of your being the ability to powerful manipulate in the manner of these characters. I've tried...I've failed. My meager mind cannot handle the pressure; I can simply observe others at work. You should join me!

Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card. Take a nap before opening this book.

The best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.  ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

Between the Bindings

          Great Expectations. What comes to mind? Required reading list? Unnecessary exposure to a book that has no applicability to your life? Perhaps you see the face of your mother as she pushes the Barnes & Nobles remastered copy into you hands, reminding you that, “It’s a classic.”

            I read the book because I wanted to know what Charles Dickens’ pen actually composed. I was sick of hearing summaries from old people, reading the abridged version, or sitting through the many movie versions. I chased down the images he physically created, and the world I entered was entirely mine and his. No one else had any influence on my experience with this book.

            Just me and Chuck.

            Books give you this freedom to merge into the mind of another person without any external interruption. Your imagination is unrestrained; the pictures in your head are your creations. The stimulus is not your making, of course, but few fantastic things have one father. Chuck and I worked together, and I would turn page after page, eagerly digesting the material he provided. Literary classics are obviously already reputed for their depth and worth, but sometimes you have to remind yourself that it is just a book like any other…yet so totally distinct from any other.

            The next time you refrain from reading a book because of its reputation or because you think you already know the plot, let me remind you that nothing can replace the hours which you spend sitting alone in your room, face to face with someone you’ve never met, thoroughly immersed in his voice as it elicits a response from yours.

            I’ve stolen bread and wine from the sister’s cupboard with Pip, sat next to a bitter and desolate Miss Havisham in a room of emptiness, and I've watched Estella tear hearts to pieces. I’ll never lose those moments. Thank you, Chuck. I appreciate the introduction.

Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens.

Now tell me what comes to mind.

"Classic—a book people praise and don’t read." - Mark Twain

Stolen

I could tell from the moment I inhaled that it was love. The fragrance that graced my nostrils sent shivers down my spine…that unmistakable smell of a new book. My fingers gently stroked the parchment and I tenderly flipped a few pages. I cherished the moment, relishing the unknown adventure on which I was about to embark. Closing the book, I marveled at the title’s strange font and the mysterious, unsettling tone of the picture on front. I ran my hand slowly down the length of the cover, letting my fingers glide to a smooth halt in a quiet caress. Poised, careful, expectant, I opened The Book Thief to Chapter ONE.

Death and Chocolate

My eyes alighted on the peculiar shape of the first paragraph.

First the colors.

        Then the humans.

        That’s usually how I see things.

        Or at least, how I try.

            ***HERE IS A SMALL FACT***

                    You are going to die.

Clarification: This is not a book that convinces the weak to hurt themselves. There are no damaging subliminal messages, like if you take every third letter of every 500^th word and spell it backwards, the result says, “Marijuana is fun; you should try dying.” Nothing like that. 

This book adopted me. It chose me.

I won’t summarize the plot for you because I don’t want to mar its beauty with my own hollow, powerless words. I can tell you that it sucked me into a black whirlwind of textures, sounds, voices, images, memories, futures, anything, all of it and none of it, and I emerged wishing I had written this book, that this was my child. Instead, I must settle for it as a friend, one that follows me, rarely the center of attention but rather hovering on the periphery.

Markus Zusak harnesses his words and uses their actual physical shapes to mold pictures. He forges sentences with absolute mastery and incorporates words with no regard for their intended meaning. Instead, he infuses them with his own language, letting their natural sound and aura speak for them as opposed to some culturally accepted interpretation. For years, this book has been bouncing around in my pocket, seeping into my life subtly, but with great impact. I am honored to share it with you.

Beautiful, beautiful. I wish I had the words.

My tools for communication pale in comparison.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak….Five Hundred and Forty Seven Pages.

Dear God, if I could only have Five Hundred and Forty Seven more.  

Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.  ~P.J. O'Rourke

The Power of Sea Power

The soft, blue cover is slowing but unmistakably separating from its pages, a testimony to the hands of my predecessors which have carelessly or delicately leafed through it to soak knowledge from this book.

NAVSC102: mandatory reading: SEA POWER.

 Yes, I know school books are boring, but what caught my attention about this book is that it discusses and analyzes the roles of the world’s Navies throughout major conflicts in history (American Revolution, Civil War, WWI and WWII, for example).

Growing up, I learned about the Civil War and the American Revolution through books like Silver for General Washington, Stonewall, etc. Those wars were heroic stories to me, full of colonial images influenced by occasional visits to Williamsburg, where my family and I pet sheep, gawked at cannons, and conversed with actors dressed as the civilians of that particular time. In any exhibit we visited, we were transported back to that age by uniforms of the 1700s, 1800s, and early 1900s. We made wax candles, wrinkled our noses at the smell of animal feces from the reinvented farms, and stared out along the coastline of Fort McHenry. We pressed our noses up against the glass box in which sat a pompous model of a German U-Boat. I recall almost losing my lunch after a visit to a WWII submarine; the enclosed space was too much for me.

These memories, these impressions of these wars that these experiences left on me, were by no means unpleasant. History was something I marveled at, I revered. I didn’t understand history in context of that time period. 

The content of Sea Power is nothing pretty or entertaining. The authors discuss the tactics of varying sea captains as they strategically plan battles and try to pummel enemy fleets into submission. The cool, mature, levelheadedness with which the authors treat this subject which had formerly seemed like a fairy tale to me shocked me to my core. This really happened. This is what was really going on. Just as the war in Iraq has our attention with its controversies and tragedies, so did these wars on the nation at that time. Just because they are crystallized in our past doesn’t mean I can treat them like a good adventure tale. These sailors were terrified as they fired their cannons, cannons I found adventurous. They were weapons, not artifacts. Men as young as me fought and died, merely nameless particles that compose the battles we like to summarize and interpret for our own benefit. My childhood creation, history as my pet, has faded in light of the clear view in which my maturing eyes can now see.

Sea Power, edited by E. B. Potter. I would check this book out if I were you. There was a lot more going on during the American Revolution then Mel Gibson portrayed. (I did love the Patriot).

A good book should leave you slightly exhausted at the end.  You live several lives while reading it.  ~William Styron

Introduction to an Introduction

I just finished this book called The Blood of the Fold. 

Well, actually, I had already read it, so I guess you can say I re-finished it. Anyway, the author is Terry Goodkind. It’s not a wildly original tale, nor is the writing brilliant and the theme fresh, but it is a good read, and by good I mean engaging and fluid and full of adventure and blunt humor. Characters with inhuman strength and human weakness sail into your heart, and you feel compelled to finish the book (even though you may find the story a little droll in places) just to witness the end of their struggles.

             

I’ve always been an avid reader. Books are my friends in a way that none of my “real” friends can fathom. I’ve read through a variety of genres and authors, including works such as Ender’s Game, The Giver, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Sherlock Holmes, 1984, and The Other Boleyn Girl.

The professor of my English class last semester had us read several articles per week by many distinguished authors in the field of journalism. Now because I’m accustomed to giving my time to this pursuit that stimulates little action and much brain power, I had no trouble treating each article as a kind of short story. However, the objective had changed from one of entertainment to education.These authors had something pertinent to contribute to the rhetorical world at that immediate point in time ( not to say novelists don’t, only that journalists make it obvious). Writers like George Saunders, Joann Beard, and Ian Frazier (if you don’t know who these people are, not to worry. I had no idea myself until taking ENGL215, which I highly recommend) task themselves to grab your attention, teach you to understand and appreciate their language, and ultimately unravel their words to form an understanding of your own.                           

To me, each essay was a puzzle. I had to find the patterns, forge connections, grasp allusions, but I learned how to read. I mean How To Read, not how to read. How to comprehensively soak in information, mull it around, interpret it, and then write about your reaction to it (for you grammatical Nazis out there, I am aware that the previous sentence is not a complete sentence. One thing you learn from reading professionals is that if you can bend or break the rules with stealth and precision, you gain power). 

 From a little girl who loved her old friends, her books, to a college student looking for her English minor credits, one thing has changed; oh, I still love to read. However, I am beginning to learn how to love to write about what I read. I hope you will learn to love to read what I love to write about. (preposition!) (you can’t end with a preposition!)

You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.  ~Paul Sweeney