A fate worse than death. That's what a human who uses a Death Note--writing people's name on it and thus killing them--is subjected to. Light Yagami, an overzealous lover of justice turns mass murderer, undoubtedly earns that. But the anticlimactic ending got me very disappointed. Because for all his ruthless killing, in the end Light Yagami simply ceases to exist. That's what "a fate worse than death" is all about.
Upon death, your brain stops sending and receiving impulses to and from its nerves, your heart stops pumping blood, etch. Death equals irreversible systemic organ failure. Many systems of belief, though, consider death not as the ultimate end but simply a gateway to another state of being. And beyond this, retribution lays.
The idea is that no good deeds go unrewarded and no bad deeds go unpunished. Hence, heaven and hell, good karma and bad karma.
Interestingly, nonexistence does have its place in this sort of concept. Just like many of us, Ancient Egyptians believed in the afterlife and judgment. It is said that a person's heart would be weighed against a single feather representing Ma'at--the concept of truth and order--by the god Anubis. If one's heart were pure, not weighed down by the guilt or sins of his actions in life, it would be lighter than the feather and he would be welcomed to the Ancient Egyptians' version of heaven (a big farmland, actually). On the contrary, if one's heart were heavier than the feather, it would be eaten by Ammit, a demon part crocodile, part lion, and part hippopotamus. Since heart was the center of reason and emotion, Ancient Egyptians believed that someone without a heart essentially ceased to exist--which was the worst possible fate they could imagine.
Let me say this: I think nonexistence is not a fate worse than death, and it is surely not a good enough retribution for a mass murderer who doesn't even repent for his crime. Oh sure, it might sound frightening now when you think about it while you're living. Imagining that your whole being is wiped out completely and that, fifty, a hundred, a thousand years from now, nobody would now that you ever existed. But nonexistence is terrifying only if it is perceived as just another state of existence, which doesn't make sense.
Okay, let's imagine that you're non-existent. If you're non-existent, it means you have no body, no conscience, no feeling. You are nothing. (Even using the word "you" is superfluous, but let's just keep it for the sake of the argument.) Simply put, you will not be around when you "experience" being non-existent. And how can someone who doesn't even exist feel happy or unhappy? The answer is: they can't.
Nonexistence is a fate worse than death? I don't think so. You should've thought of something better than that, Ooba-sensei.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Pinball (Haruki Murakami) 2/11/2010 10:20:00 PM
Reading Haruki Murakami's works is like seeing through the mist. At times you can't see anything at all, even though you have a hunch that something wonderful is out there. Other times the mist parts just enough to allow you a view of what's beyond--although you can never be really sure what it is, everything's so blur and all. Pinball--Murakami-sensei's second novel--is of the latter category.
The novel is about pinball. At least half of it is. The novel consists of two voices, first person's and third person's. Interestingly, the two stories run parallel to each other. It means that, despite taking place around the same time, these stories never come to a point where they intersect. (Flashback aside, that is.)
"I" spent his days by working for his translation company, fooling around with a pair of identical twins, and walking round the golf course. At one point he had an inexplicable urge to locate a particular Pinball machine, a three-flipper "Spaceship", with which he had had a brief period of "honeymoon". On the other hand a friend and fellow three-flipper Spaceship player, Nezumi (Rat in English) continued living uneventfully in his hometown, having an indefinable relationship with a woman, hanging out alone at J's Bar, and basically doing nothing.
You might be wondering, What the hell is it all about? What's the point in a story about people looking for a Pinball machine? I know better than to ask such question. I squint harder through the obscurity and vaguely see something within the seemingly trivial story. Suspended animation, that's what it's all about, even though--I hasten to add, again--I might be wrong.
I particularly love these lines from the book: "Pinball machines...won't lead you anywhere.... Replay, replay, replay.... So persistently you'd swear a game of pinball aspired to perpetuity. We ourselves will never know much of perpetuity. But we can get a faint inkling of what it's like. The object of pinball lies not in self-expression, but in self-revolt. Not in the expansion of the ego, but in its compression. Not in extractive analysis, but in inclusive subsumption."
You don't need a Pinball machine in order for that to happen, really. Sometimes you go on living without thinking, just going through the motions, that before you know it, you have lose yourself. That's what I call suspended animation. You're constantly doing something, but you're not really doing anything. (Still, I must confess, it's good to lose your self now and then. Playing video games--or pinball, for that matter--is a good way to achieve such sense of detachment.)
Sooner or later, some of us would have to decide whether to get out or to stick to it. The book ends with a breakthrough of some sort from both camps. "I" said goodbye to the three-flipper Spaceship and the twin girls, and Nezumi willed himself to leave his hometown because he "gotta go". For the time being, though, I'm still living in limbo, in the world of pinball.
Note: Try listening to Radiohead's "How to Disappear Completely" while reading Pinball. They make perfect match, I reckon.
The novel is about pinball. At least half of it is. The novel consists of two voices, first person's and third person's. Interestingly, the two stories run parallel to each other. It means that, despite taking place around the same time, these stories never come to a point where they intersect. (Flashback aside, that is.)
"I" spent his days by working for his translation company, fooling around with a pair of identical twins, and walking round the golf course. At one point he had an inexplicable urge to locate a particular Pinball machine, a three-flipper "Spaceship", with which he had had a brief period of "honeymoon". On the other hand a friend and fellow three-flipper Spaceship player, Nezumi (Rat in English) continued living uneventfully in his hometown, having an indefinable relationship with a woman, hanging out alone at J's Bar, and basically doing nothing.
You might be wondering, What the hell is it all about? What's the point in a story about people looking for a Pinball machine? I know better than to ask such question. I squint harder through the obscurity and vaguely see something within the seemingly trivial story. Suspended animation, that's what it's all about, even though--I hasten to add, again--I might be wrong.
I particularly love these lines from the book: "Pinball machines...won't lead you anywhere.... Replay, replay, replay.... So persistently you'd swear a game of pinball aspired to perpetuity. We ourselves will never know much of perpetuity. But we can get a faint inkling of what it's like. The object of pinball lies not in self-expression, but in self-revolt. Not in the expansion of the ego, but in its compression. Not in extractive analysis, but in inclusive subsumption."
You don't need a Pinball machine in order for that to happen, really. Sometimes you go on living without thinking, just going through the motions, that before you know it, you have lose yourself. That's what I call suspended animation. You're constantly doing something, but you're not really doing anything. (Still, I must confess, it's good to lose your self now and then. Playing video games--or pinball, for that matter--is a good way to achieve such sense of detachment.)
Sooner or later, some of us would have to decide whether to get out or to stick to it. The book ends with a breakthrough of some sort from both camps. "I" said goodbye to the three-flipper Spaceship and the twin girls, and Nezumi willed himself to leave his hometown because he "gotta go". For the time being, though, I'm still living in limbo, in the world of pinball.
Note: Try listening to Radiohead's "How to Disappear Completely" while reading Pinball. They make perfect match, I reckon.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
CRACK!!! 12/24/2009 06:49:00 PM
my computer monitor
CRACKS! at night
as its plasticizer
takes flight
CRACKS! at night
as its plasticizer
takes flight
Thursday, December 10, 2009
South of the Border, West of the Sun (Haruki Murakami) 12/10/2009 11:01:00 PM
This book has been compared to the movie Casablanca. Maybe it's because both involve a man and a woman who love each other but cannot be together (or choose not to be together) in the end. South of the Border, West of the Sun isn't a story of love, though; it is a story of life.
The thirty-seven year old Hajime had quite a pleasant life. He had a wife who loved him and two daughters whom he adored, not to mention two successful jazz bars. A happy family and a fulfilling career. This quiet life, however, changed when he met the beautiful Shimamoto-san.
Hajime and Shimamoto (one given name and one surname; I know it sounds strange, but Murakami-sensei didn't actually give full name to all his characters in this book) were childhood friends. Shimamoto had always been an important person to Hajime, even though he had never met her for twenty-five years. Meeting her again just made him realize how he needed her, to the point that he was ready to leave everything behind just to be with her. So, he was devastated upon finding out one morning that she had left. There's no way to ever find her because she refused to tell him in details about her past and present life. That last time, she disappeared from his sight for good.
Their relationship, I believe, is important not in itself but rather because of what it represents. It represents something lost that you wish wasn't but, were things to be repeated once more, would still be lost anyway. Hajime often wondered what would've happened if he had mustered the will to come over to Shimamoto's house even after they went to different junior highs. But he knew that that wouldn't have been the case; his thirteen year old self would not bother to go to a girl's home two train stops away. (And even though it hurt him to hurt his high school girlfriend, Izumi, he knew that he would've cheated on her with her cousin all over again.)
While we're at it, I should mention the title. "South of the Border" refers to the Nat King Cole's song Hajime and Shimamoto used to listen to as kids. They didn't really understand what the song was all about, so they used to think that there was something amazingly wonderful south of the border. Alas, it's only Mexico. As for west of the sun, it has something to do with Siberian farmer going mental, walking on and on to the west until he collapses to the ground and dies. So, the title possibly implies the concept of hope versus despair.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? You love and be loved, you hurt and being hurt; you hope and you lose hope; you acquire something, you're missing something. The question is: can you deal with it? Or would you rather die?
The thirty-seven year old Hajime had quite a pleasant life. He had a wife who loved him and two daughters whom he adored, not to mention two successful jazz bars. A happy family and a fulfilling career. This quiet life, however, changed when he met the beautiful Shimamoto-san.
Hajime and Shimamoto (one given name and one surname; I know it sounds strange, but Murakami-sensei didn't actually give full name to all his characters in this book) were childhood friends. Shimamoto had always been an important person to Hajime, even though he had never met her for twenty-five years. Meeting her again just made him realize how he needed her, to the point that he was ready to leave everything behind just to be with her. So, he was devastated upon finding out one morning that she had left. There's no way to ever find her because she refused to tell him in details about her past and present life. That last time, she disappeared from his sight for good.
Their relationship, I believe, is important not in itself but rather because of what it represents. It represents something lost that you wish wasn't but, were things to be repeated once more, would still be lost anyway. Hajime often wondered what would've happened if he had mustered the will to come over to Shimamoto's house even after they went to different junior highs. But he knew that that wouldn't have been the case; his thirteen year old self would not bother to go to a girl's home two train stops away. (And even though it hurt him to hurt his high school girlfriend, Izumi, he knew that he would've cheated on her with her cousin all over again.)
While we're at it, I should mention the title. "South of the Border" refers to the Nat King Cole's song Hajime and Shimamoto used to listen to as kids. They didn't really understand what the song was all about, so they used to think that there was something amazingly wonderful south of the border. Alas, it's only Mexico. As for west of the sun, it has something to do with Siberian farmer going mental, walking on and on to the west until he collapses to the ground and dies. So, the title possibly implies the concept of hope versus despair.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? You love and be loved, you hurt and being hurt; you hope and you lose hope; you acquire something, you're missing something. The question is: can you deal with it? Or would you rather die?
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Propagandist Strikes Back 11/29/2009 11:04:00 PM
Nowadays people are in the habit of attending self-awareness, motivational, spirituality, and entrepreneurial "seminars". You know, events where renown experts talk about how to achieve connection with your inner-self, how to become a successful entrepreneur, how to become more motivated, that kind of thing.
I'm not--surprise, surprise--at all impressed with any of them. I make a point of never attending one. I don't quite remember if that's always the case, but I have a vague recollection about an occurrence when my suspicion towards such programs started.
My college alumni's association have this annual (or is it six-monthly?) "self-awareness" program for students and young graduates. It's very popular and quite a few of people from my department participated in it (some even took part more than once). Curious about what the fuss was all about, I asked a former participant about it. I didn't expect much, just the general outline of the program, what they were doing and the likes. You know what she said? She said, "We're not allowed to discuss it with outsiders."
You know what she reminded me of? A citizen of some Communist country that refused to divulge information about the workings of her lovely home nation. Especially considering that she didn't sign any confidentiality agreement of some sort. And to think that I wasn't nearly as skeptical as I am now!
Basically, the whole thing smelled too much like propaganda and indoctrination to me. Maybe they are. Some motivators openly admit that their program is all about instilling suggestion into people's heads. The honesty doesn't make those programs less dubious, though.
Granted, the trainers/motivators/life-coaches are probably sincere, well-intentioned people. Some of the things they say really make sense, and they're merely helping people out. What's so wrong about it? Nothing, except that their methods are against my personal convictions.
One, you learn life's lessons when you're ready to learn it. You can pay much money to partake in such programs and gain nothing out of it, simply because you're not ready to learn it yet. If you get it you get it, if you don't then you don't.
Two, nothing good can come out of indoctrination. If nothing else, it takes conscious control out of you. You do things not because you choose to, but because you're programmed to do it. (Some programs required their participants to spend several days out of town. By replacing a subject from his/her familiar territory, the implantation of new ideas to a person's subconscious mind could be performed more effectively. It's scientific, you can check that.)
All the fancy stuff being said, it all comes down to this. Shouting out corny slogans like "Supah!" just isn't my style.
I'm not--surprise, surprise--at all impressed with any of them. I make a point of never attending one. I don't quite remember if that's always the case, but I have a vague recollection about an occurrence when my suspicion towards such programs started.
My college alumni's association have this annual (or is it six-monthly?) "self-awareness" program for students and young graduates. It's very popular and quite a few of people from my department participated in it (some even took part more than once). Curious about what the fuss was all about, I asked a former participant about it. I didn't expect much, just the general outline of the program, what they were doing and the likes. You know what she said? She said, "We're not allowed to discuss it with outsiders."
You know what she reminded me of? A citizen of some Communist country that refused to divulge information about the workings of her lovely home nation. Especially considering that she didn't sign any confidentiality agreement of some sort. And to think that I wasn't nearly as skeptical as I am now!
Basically, the whole thing smelled too much like propaganda and indoctrination to me. Maybe they are. Some motivators openly admit that their program is all about instilling suggestion into people's heads. The honesty doesn't make those programs less dubious, though.
Granted, the trainers/motivators/life-coaches are probably sincere, well-intentioned people. Some of the things they say really make sense, and they're merely helping people out. What's so wrong about it? Nothing, except that their methods are against my personal convictions.
One, you learn life's lessons when you're ready to learn it. You can pay much money to partake in such programs and gain nothing out of it, simply because you're not ready to learn it yet. If you get it you get it, if you don't then you don't.
Two, nothing good can come out of indoctrination. If nothing else, it takes conscious control out of you. You do things not because you choose to, but because you're programmed to do it. (Some programs required their participants to spend several days out of town. By replacing a subject from his/her familiar territory, the implantation of new ideas to a person's subconscious mind could be performed more effectively. It's scientific, you can check that.)
All the fancy stuff being said, it all comes down to this. Shouting out corny slogans like "Supah!" just isn't my style.
Turn Off That Phone! 11/29/2009 11:04:00 PM
In 2001, when not quite so many people had cellular phones, a college friend of mine told me this. She hung out with her friends from high school. All her friends had a cell, but she didn't at that time. The point of a get-together is to catch up with each other and all, but instead of doing so, they were busy texting and almost completely ignored my friend.
Now, in 2009, the situation is worse. Cell phones are relatively cheap these days, so nearly every person has at least one cell. You also have to bear in mind the increasing number of services available on cell phone today. People are online twenty-four hours a day, checking out messages on various chat rooms and social networking sites and so on. The kind of woe my friend experienced eight years ago escalates into new heights.
I have had similar experience myself, and I didn't like it one bit. I hate it very much when someone prefers toying with his/her cell to appropriately interacting with people in his/her company. I have inkling that cell phone junkies everywhere would object to my objection, what's with personal freedom and all. But I think they're just justifying their rudeness. Everyone has the freedom to spit at somebody else's face, but that's just plain rude, so one who does not wish to offend someone else wouldn't do it.
The thing is that the way we treat someone reflects our respect for that person. Ignoring the person before you and choosing to interact with somebody else via text message or whatever shows just how much respect you have for that person, which is none at all. That includes talking to a person and doing something with your cell. You think you would do that if it's the president you're talking to? You wouldn't, right?
And because I'm such a spiteful person, my take on the subject of people glued to their cell phone is this: they deserve respect as much as their respect for others, period.
Now, in 2009, the situation is worse. Cell phones are relatively cheap these days, so nearly every person has at least one cell. You also have to bear in mind the increasing number of services available on cell phone today. People are online twenty-four hours a day, checking out messages on various chat rooms and social networking sites and so on. The kind of woe my friend experienced eight years ago escalates into new heights.
I have had similar experience myself, and I didn't like it one bit. I hate it very much when someone prefers toying with his/her cell to appropriately interacting with people in his/her company. I have inkling that cell phone junkies everywhere would object to my objection, what's with personal freedom and all. But I think they're just justifying their rudeness. Everyone has the freedom to spit at somebody else's face, but that's just plain rude, so one who does not wish to offend someone else wouldn't do it.
The thing is that the way we treat someone reflects our respect for that person. Ignoring the person before you and choosing to interact with somebody else via text message or whatever shows just how much respect you have for that person, which is none at all. That includes talking to a person and doing something with your cell. You think you would do that if it's the president you're talking to? You wouldn't, right?
And because I'm such a spiteful person, my take on the subject of people glued to their cell phone is this: they deserve respect as much as their respect for others, period.
Annoying as Hell 11/29/2009 11:02:00 PM
There's a fine line between politeness and bulls***ness. I couldn't quite tell which is which. Standard questions are put forth as a polite way to get a conversation going. But I wonder if "polite" is a correct depiction, because they seem to bug me to no end.
When I was a kid, adults used to ask the same set of questions over and over again. "How old are you?" "What grade are you in?" "Where do you go to school?" These questions bored me. If they were so interested, why couldn't they just memorize the answers? I thought.
At this point in my life the questions frequently issued for my benefit would be: "Are you married?" and "Where do you go to work?" These questions are just as mundane as the ones asked when I was younger. And they irked me more, not in themselves, but because of people's reactions towards my answers.
For your information, I'm a freelance translator. I know this is not the kind of job someone with a degree in Pharmaceutical Sciences usually takes. But I honestly can't stand people who said, "Why don't you work in a job relevant to Pharmaceutics? It's such a waste." Give me a break. Could anyone please show me one person that applies absolutely one hundred percent of the things they studied as student to the work they're doing? I bet they can't find any. And if school is all about getting a job, one needs not to bother. You need wits to become a super rich person, not a school diploma. As for why I choose a job seemingly unrelated to my education, that's my business. As if they really want to know why.
I also should mention that a surprising number of people don't understand what "freelance" means. That means I have to patiently explain to them that I'm not attached to a particular organization. But the part that makes me wonder if some people truly have a brain inside of their heads is when they asked--after I explained the above to them--again, "So, where do you work?" If there's one thing I can't put up with, it is stupidity that comes along with a lack of common sense.
Other comments that make my patience grow even thinner are: "Wow, aren't you bored? Working at home and all?" and "Why don't you look for something more stable?" The respond that I wish I have the guts to spurt out is: "As if you f****** care!" Every thing has its drawback, and I didn't comment on that aspect of their job, so why can't they just shut up?
But I guess what is bothering me the most is the fact that people who respond this way are the ones who don't know anything about me. They're not my friends or anything--we just happen to know each other due to accidental circumstances: same school, same acquaintances, that sort of thing. They don't care about me and, frankly, I don't care about them either. So why don't we all stop trying to be "polite" altogether?
Note: You might've already figured out that I'm not what you call a "nice" person. I'm not. I took the "What country hates you the most?" quiz in Facebook and my result was Switzerland. My temperament is so bad that even the good old Swiss dislike me.
When I was a kid, adults used to ask the same set of questions over and over again. "How old are you?" "What grade are you in?" "Where do you go to school?" These questions bored me. If they were so interested, why couldn't they just memorize the answers? I thought.
At this point in my life the questions frequently issued for my benefit would be: "Are you married?" and "Where do you go to work?" These questions are just as mundane as the ones asked when I was younger. And they irked me more, not in themselves, but because of people's reactions towards my answers.
For your information, I'm a freelance translator. I know this is not the kind of job someone with a degree in Pharmaceutical Sciences usually takes. But I honestly can't stand people who said, "Why don't you work in a job relevant to Pharmaceutics? It's such a waste." Give me a break. Could anyone please show me one person that applies absolutely one hundred percent of the things they studied as student to the work they're doing? I bet they can't find any. And if school is all about getting a job, one needs not to bother. You need wits to become a super rich person, not a school diploma. As for why I choose a job seemingly unrelated to my education, that's my business. As if they really want to know why.
I also should mention that a surprising number of people don't understand what "freelance" means. That means I have to patiently explain to them that I'm not attached to a particular organization. But the part that makes me wonder if some people truly have a brain inside of their heads is when they asked--after I explained the above to them--again, "So, where do you work?" If there's one thing I can't put up with, it is stupidity that comes along with a lack of common sense.
Other comments that make my patience grow even thinner are: "Wow, aren't you bored? Working at home and all?" and "Why don't you look for something more stable?" The respond that I wish I have the guts to spurt out is: "As if you f****** care!" Every thing has its drawback, and I didn't comment on that aspect of their job, so why can't they just shut up?
But I guess what is bothering me the most is the fact that people who respond this way are the ones who don't know anything about me. They're not my friends or anything--we just happen to know each other due to accidental circumstances: same school, same acquaintances, that sort of thing. They don't care about me and, frankly, I don't care about them either. So why don't we all stop trying to be "polite" altogether?
Note: You might've already figured out that I'm not what you call a "nice" person. I'm not. I took the "What country hates you the most?" quiz in Facebook and my result was Switzerland. My temperament is so bad that even the good old Swiss dislike me.
Why Writers Killed Themselves 11/29/2009 10:59:00 PM
So. It is commonly believed that the relative number of writers--novelists, poets, lyricists--who committed suicide is higher compared to that of other professions. I don't know if it's true or if anyone actually did a semi-scientific investigation on that matter.
But I guess what strikes people most about writers' suicide is their lack of apparent reason. People can understand if someone is prompted to commit suicide due to severe abuse inflicted upon him/her, financial difficulties, or chronic illness. But some of these writers were young, successful, famous, quite well-off, yet they took the plunge anyway. Writers' suicide becomes some sort of unsolved mystery that is romantic as much as it is creepy.
I'd like to say that I have a theory, a hunch if you will, about it. It's not something that needs to be taken too seriously but quite intriguing to mull over.
To become a good writer, you need to be sensitive and inquisitive. A good writer is honest in his/her works. Because of that, he will scrutinize a topic thoroughly, not just the positive aspects but also its cruel, harsh facet. He will see things unnoticeable by many, and they're not always lovely. The deeper he digs into it, the darker it gets. And, like it or not, it is this understanding that creates outstanding work of art. But it is also this understanding that can tear him into pieces.
Long story short, people of a particular profession adopt a certain mental attitude. A journalist friend of mine said that a lot of her fellow journalists ended up being pessimistic, having seen so many un-praiseworthy deeds of politicians and stuff. It's only normal for writers who deal with the subject matter of human nature to get depressed. The ones who cannot cope with it well might break down and choose to end their life instead of living the miserable existence of being.
I know it's all very complicated and hard to understand, so I'll wrap it up with a personal experience.
I wanted to write about human existence, mine in particular. So I thought long and hard about it. I finally concluded that my existence means nothing, neither to God, to my family, nor my friends. The thought threw my straight away into depression. Try to reflect on the things along that line long enough on day-to-day basis like some of those writers; it would be amazing if you don't start to want to kill yourself even when you're doing so.
Note: Speaking about writers who committed suicide, there's one writer in that category whose work I really wish to read but haven't: Yukio Mishima. Nevertheless, it seems that Mishima's suicide had nothing to do with depression. He was obsessed with bushido and eternal glory, as far as I know, and his decision was probably triggered by that kind of thing.
But I guess what strikes people most about writers' suicide is their lack of apparent reason. People can understand if someone is prompted to commit suicide due to severe abuse inflicted upon him/her, financial difficulties, or chronic illness. But some of these writers were young, successful, famous, quite well-off, yet they took the plunge anyway. Writers' suicide becomes some sort of unsolved mystery that is romantic as much as it is creepy.
I'd like to say that I have a theory, a hunch if you will, about it. It's not something that needs to be taken too seriously but quite intriguing to mull over.
To become a good writer, you need to be sensitive and inquisitive. A good writer is honest in his/her works. Because of that, he will scrutinize a topic thoroughly, not just the positive aspects but also its cruel, harsh facet. He will see things unnoticeable by many, and they're not always lovely. The deeper he digs into it, the darker it gets. And, like it or not, it is this understanding that creates outstanding work of art. But it is also this understanding that can tear him into pieces.
Long story short, people of a particular profession adopt a certain mental attitude. A journalist friend of mine said that a lot of her fellow journalists ended up being pessimistic, having seen so many un-praiseworthy deeds of politicians and stuff. It's only normal for writers who deal with the subject matter of human nature to get depressed. The ones who cannot cope with it well might break down and choose to end their life instead of living the miserable existence of being.
I know it's all very complicated and hard to understand, so I'll wrap it up with a personal experience.
I wanted to write about human existence, mine in particular. So I thought long and hard about it. I finally concluded that my existence means nothing, neither to God, to my family, nor my friends. The thought threw my straight away into depression. Try to reflect on the things along that line long enough on day-to-day basis like some of those writers; it would be amazing if you don't start to want to kill yourself even when you're doing so.
Note: Speaking about writers who committed suicide, there's one writer in that category whose work I really wish to read but haven't: Yukio Mishima. Nevertheless, it seems that Mishima's suicide had nothing to do with depression. He was obsessed with bushido and eternal glory, as far as I know, and his decision was probably triggered by that kind of thing.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Personality Check 10/29/2009 09:16:00 AM
Reading Gone with the Wind, I was left with an uneasy feeling. It had nothing to do with The End of the Old South, slavery, or the KKK. It's because of a character named Ashley Wilkes.
Ashley Wilkes is Scarlet O'Hara's--the story's heroine, in case you don't know--love interest. He's basically everything that Scarlett isn't. He's a very serious, polite guy who likes talking about literature and philosophy and the likes. He's supposed to be a big guy, what with his intellect and all. But the Confederacy lost, the old ways gone, and he just doesn't have what it takes to survive the new era.
The thing is, Ashley reminded me of me. The book-smart who's clueless when it comes to the ways of the world, that's me alright. I'm very idealistic, and I love engaging myself in abstract thinking. In fact, sometimes I loathe the so-called realism and opportunism and practicality of people. Just because things are going as they are, why shouldn't we try picturing what should be or might be instead of accepting them as they are? is what I think.
But the most worrying thing about Ashley's/my personality is the unworldliness aspect. We're book-smarts. We're meant to excel in classroom, achieving success academically, that sort of thing. But that's it. We are confined to the world of ideas, but we are alien to the "real" world.
And what is so wrong with that, you may ask. Truth to be told, I don't know. Maybe because it makes communication with most people impossible (it's like we're on different wavelengths or something). Maybe because it means I'm a hopeless case who badly needs institutionalization. Maybe because an individual like me has no place in the modern society. Heck, I have no idea. Enlighten me.
Ashley Wilkes is Scarlet O'Hara's--the story's heroine, in case you don't know--love interest. He's basically everything that Scarlett isn't. He's a very serious, polite guy who likes talking about literature and philosophy and the likes. He's supposed to be a big guy, what with his intellect and all. But the Confederacy lost, the old ways gone, and he just doesn't have what it takes to survive the new era.
The thing is, Ashley reminded me of me. The book-smart who's clueless when it comes to the ways of the world, that's me alright. I'm very idealistic, and I love engaging myself in abstract thinking. In fact, sometimes I loathe the so-called realism and opportunism and practicality of people. Just because things are going as they are, why shouldn't we try picturing what should be or might be instead of accepting them as they are? is what I think.
But the most worrying thing about Ashley's/my personality is the unworldliness aspect. We're book-smarts. We're meant to excel in classroom, achieving success academically, that sort of thing. But that's it. We are confined to the world of ideas, but we are alien to the "real" world.
And what is so wrong with that, you may ask. Truth to be told, I don't know. Maybe because it makes communication with most people impossible (it's like we're on different wavelengths or something). Maybe because it means I'm a hopeless case who badly needs institutionalization. Maybe because an individual like me has no place in the modern society. Heck, I have no idea. Enlighten me.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Burden to Bear 10/19/2009 10:59:00 PM
"Doing what you like is freedom, but liking what you do is happiness." I rolled my eyes when I read that line for the first time. "Liking what you do is happiness," that sounds like something someone who hates his job, co-workers, and boss would say to himself so that he'd feel less miserable. You see where my sympathy lies.
Of course, it works the other way around. People might find the "Doing what you like is freedom" part a lame excuse produced by those who simply refuse to act responsible. Some people don't have the liberty to be picky, with wife and kids at home that need to be fed. So why not try to be content with what they do?
It makes sense, if you put it that way. I admit that I sometimes can't help wondering whether I'm a spoiled-brat. It took two extra semesters in college to make me realize that I can't do things I don't like. If I was forced to do otherwise, I would only screw up. Does it make me a childish person? Or merely a terrible selfish individual?
Despite my age, which qualifies me as a legal adult, I never feel that way at all. I do think that I have become wiser, but more mature? I have no idea. What does being an adult mean anyway? I suspect it has something to do with submitting yourself to what society deems appropriate. Surrendering yourself to the will of the tribe, that kind of thing. If that is people's idea of maturity, I'd rather not being a grown-up at all.
Were I to give my take on what being a grown-up means, it is this: the courage to take full responsibility for the consequences of your choices. You might do something because you like it, or because you have to. But bear in mind that what you eventually do is what you choose yourself. Things might not go according to plan, or they might yet you're still unsatisfied. Either way, you must not blame your boss, your family, the situation, or anybody and anything else besides yourself for them.
Maybe by doing so, you can one day wake up with no regret for everything you've done so far in your life, for a life well lived. Just maybe.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Last Note on TSUBASA RESERVoir CHRONiCLE 9/30/2009 11:53:00 PM
I'm hugely disappointed. After six years and two hundred-something good chapters and elaborate storyline, I expect something more than this ... this ending but no conclusion.
The story started with a boy, Syaoran, traveled through different dimensions to collect the scattered feathers containing memories of his childhood friend, Sakura; Kurogane, a banished ninja in need of learning some manners; and Fai, a mage running away from his home country; Mokona, a cute magical being capable of crossing dimensions. And what do we get in the end? They were all stranded in Clow Country--Sakura's home--without further explanation regarding what would happen to them afterwards. Would Syaoran stay in Clow Country for good? What about Kurogane, Fai, and Mokona? Would Kurogane be able to fulfill his vow to return to Nihon? What actually happened between Clow, Yuuko, and Fei Wong?
If only we Tsubasa fans could rely on the hope that xxxHOLiC would give us a more thorough explanation. Fat chance. I haven't seen any indication of that. Oh, CLAMP, why do you let us down?
The story started with a boy, Syaoran, traveled through different dimensions to collect the scattered feathers containing memories of his childhood friend, Sakura; Kurogane, a banished ninja in need of learning some manners; and Fai, a mage running away from his home country; Mokona, a cute magical being capable of crossing dimensions. And what do we get in the end? They were all stranded in Clow Country--Sakura's home--without further explanation regarding what would happen to them afterwards. Would Syaoran stay in Clow Country for good? What about Kurogane, Fai, and Mokona? Would Kurogane be able to fulfill his vow to return to Nihon? What actually happened between Clow, Yuuko, and Fei Wong?
If only we Tsubasa fans could rely on the hope that xxxHOLiC would give us a more thorough explanation. Fat chance. I haven't seen any indication of that. Oh, CLAMP, why do you let us down?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Happy When You're Happy 9/20/2009 10:33:00 PM
I believe that most people see happiness as a kind of runner's high. You know, that exhilaration you get when you're running, on-top-of-the-world kind of feeling. When someone is asked what the single happiest moment in his life is, it's very unlikely for him to say, "Oh, the time when I wake up in the morning and hear the birds sing." Would anyone give such answer? When people say "happy moment", they usually refer to something that doesn't happen every day. They would think about special occasions, like birth, graduation, marriage, something along that line.
The funny thing is, you don't actually need something to happen in order to feel that out-of-this world joy. Just picture something good in your head, and you can feel a high as intense as if that something is a part of the physical reality. An imaginary trip to Japan, a visit to Old Trafford stadium, or anticipating the upcoming Harry Potter movie--they all can send me to cloud nine in an instant.
As far as I'm concerned, this imagined excitement constitutes a significant number of all my happiness. It doesn't mean that I live in a dream world or anything. If you consider that extraordinary events such as what I mentioned above don't happen often in real life, can I really help it if most of the joys I get come from my imagination?
But if we were to think along that logic, it would mean that nobody can truly be happy. A statement like "I'm happy with my life" would be a total crap if we were to understand "happiness" in that sense because, apart from those special occasions and wild imaginations, life was mainly pretty flat, consisted of a bunch of boring routine.
And since perpetual happiness is impossibility if we were to assume "happiness" as that endorphin-induced emotion, I shall reject that notion. We can only be happy continuously if we are unconditionally content with our being.
It seems that what prophets and spiritual teachers throughout history preach--cliché as it sounds--is true after all. Happiness is acceptance. Happiness is serenity. Happiness is being in the moment. Happiness is the lack of want. Happiness is accepting your existence. Your being you, it's all that matters.
Despite knowing that, my "ego" still gets in the way. I have yet to feel contented with the way I am, which is to say that I've got a long way to go to the place where true happiness lies.
The funny thing is, you don't actually need something to happen in order to feel that out-of-this world joy. Just picture something good in your head, and you can feel a high as intense as if that something is a part of the physical reality. An imaginary trip to Japan, a visit to Old Trafford stadium, or anticipating the upcoming Harry Potter movie--they all can send me to cloud nine in an instant.
As far as I'm concerned, this imagined excitement constitutes a significant number of all my happiness. It doesn't mean that I live in a dream world or anything. If you consider that extraordinary events such as what I mentioned above don't happen often in real life, can I really help it if most of the joys I get come from my imagination?
But if we were to think along that logic, it would mean that nobody can truly be happy. A statement like "I'm happy with my life" would be a total crap if we were to understand "happiness" in that sense because, apart from those special occasions and wild imaginations, life was mainly pretty flat, consisted of a bunch of boring routine.
And since perpetual happiness is impossibility if we were to assume "happiness" as that endorphin-induced emotion, I shall reject that notion. We can only be happy continuously if we are unconditionally content with our being.
It seems that what prophets and spiritual teachers throughout history preach--cliché as it sounds--is true after all. Happiness is acceptance. Happiness is serenity. Happiness is being in the moment. Happiness is the lack of want. Happiness is accepting your existence. Your being you, it's all that matters.
Despite knowing that, my "ego" still gets in the way. I have yet to feel contented with the way I am, which is to say that I've got a long way to go to the place where true happiness lies.
Friday, September 04, 2009
On (The Absence of) Meaning 9/04/2009 10:06:00 AM
I was kind of frustrated when I couldn't grasp the meaning of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. The story itself was enjoyable. I literally had to force myself to stop reading or else I wouldn't sleep at all--I had that much fun. Perhaps because the story was so full of weird stuff about "flow", Toru Okada's world vs Noboru Wataya's, Manchukuo, a bird winding up the world's spring, etc, I felt that it must mean something. It was way too amazing of a narrative to be a mere story.
Of course, one can always ask if it really is the case. It's possible that the opposite is true. Just because the story is good, it doesn't necessarily mean that Murakami-sensei wrote it to say grand, albeit vague, things like "Follow the path that you believe in" or "Opposite forces are at constant war in our world". Maybe he simply woke up one day with this plot in his head, which he wrote down eventually. That's it.
This way of thinking can be applied to whatever subject we wish to scrutinize. Take human existence, for instance. A particular person's existence. Say, mine.
Because my existence as I've realized it now has been so full of wonderful experience, and because I see myself as a one-of-a-kind individual, I incline to believe that my existence is special and meaningful. But is it really? To think that I'm just one of zillion of people that have walked the earth since the beginning of time, and to think that the majority of these zillion had long since dead and forgotten, it dawned on me how unimportant I am. Even if I was never born into this world, nobody would ever miss me. The people who were supposed to be my family and friends would not miss me since they never knew me in the first place (because I've never been born). My parents would probably have a child anyway; it's just that he/she would not be me.
In the Islamic tradition with which I was brought up, the supreme purpose of one's life is to serve God. It can be said that it is the meaning of one's life. But the fact is that God Almighty doesn't need us exalting His name. For Him, one's individual existence means nothing at all. One might live without acknowledging His existence and still it would cost Him nothing--the fact that a particular person doesn't believe in Him doesn't undermine His power. I mean, He might've never created me at all and it wouldn't make any difference to Him.
To put it bluntly, my existence as an individual means nothing to anyone. Neither to God, to the people I know, to the human race, nor to the universe. I am merely a replaceable sentient being.
So. It seems that the only one for whom my existence means something is myself. But is that valid? Am I not just talking in circles here? The analogy is this. If Murakami-sensei's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle exists for the sake of itself, can we still say that the book is meaningful, since whenever we say "meaning", we refer to something an object has in connection to other things outside it? (Replace "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle" and "the book" with "I"s if you will.) Is it possible that the so-called "meaning" presents independently within an object? Because if it's not it's very likely that my existence is indeed meaningless.
Of course, one can always ask if it really is the case. It's possible that the opposite is true. Just because the story is good, it doesn't necessarily mean that Murakami-sensei wrote it to say grand, albeit vague, things like "Follow the path that you believe in" or "Opposite forces are at constant war in our world". Maybe he simply woke up one day with this plot in his head, which he wrote down eventually. That's it.
This way of thinking can be applied to whatever subject we wish to scrutinize. Take human existence, for instance. A particular person's existence. Say, mine.
Because my existence as I've realized it now has been so full of wonderful experience, and because I see myself as a one-of-a-kind individual, I incline to believe that my existence is special and meaningful. But is it really? To think that I'm just one of zillion of people that have walked the earth since the beginning of time, and to think that the majority of these zillion had long since dead and forgotten, it dawned on me how unimportant I am. Even if I was never born into this world, nobody would ever miss me. The people who were supposed to be my family and friends would not miss me since they never knew me in the first place (because I've never been born). My parents would probably have a child anyway; it's just that he/she would not be me.
In the Islamic tradition with which I was brought up, the supreme purpose of one's life is to serve God. It can be said that it is the meaning of one's life. But the fact is that God Almighty doesn't need us exalting His name. For Him, one's individual existence means nothing at all. One might live without acknowledging His existence and still it would cost Him nothing--the fact that a particular person doesn't believe in Him doesn't undermine His power. I mean, He might've never created me at all and it wouldn't make any difference to Him.
To put it bluntly, my existence as an individual means nothing to anyone. Neither to God, to the people I know, to the human race, nor to the universe. I am merely a replaceable sentient being.
So. It seems that the only one for whom my existence means something is myself. But is that valid? Am I not just talking in circles here? The analogy is this. If Murakami-sensei's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle exists for the sake of itself, can we still say that the book is meaningful, since whenever we say "meaning", we refer to something an object has in connection to other things outside it? (Replace "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle" and "the book" with "I"s if you will.) Is it possible that the so-called "meaning" presents independently within an object? Because if it's not it's very likely that my existence is indeed meaningless.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Truth Remains Revisited 8/16/2009 09:33:00 AM
Because my first attempt had clearly failed miserably--mainly because its oblique nature and irrelevant illustration--I shall use a different approach to present this issue. As to not leave everyone in the dark about what I'm trying to say, it might be worthwhile to point out that this piece addresses the not-so-scientific conduct of scientists (or those trained in science) regarding scientific matters.
So. Ever since who knows when, people have been working on making this world more intelligible. Be it mythology or science, it's basically the same. They're all means of explaining the natural phenomena. (Subjects beyond the realm of nature, the supernatural or metaphysical or whatever, will not be discussed here.) Whether it's Demeter lamenting her absent daughter or the the sunlight hitting a hemisphere at an oblique angle in that particular period, it's winter that people have in mind. It's like describing the same object with different languages. The observable fact is the same, the method with which it is rationalized is different.
Even though science has come a long way ever since the time of Aristotle, it must be realized that science remains a trial-and-error process. Once upon a time it was said that the sun and other celestial bodies moved around the earth. But guess what, the movements of planets are easier to understand if it is assumed that it's the earth that rotates the sun, and not vice versa. In the end the old geocentric theory was discarded, replaced by the heliocentric one that makes more sense. (The geocentric theory was widely accepted even though it is the latter that's true.) If one were to look upon the history of science, similar episodes were to be found in every step of its way. There's nothing wrong about that of course, that's just the way science works. It's not too much to say that constructive criticism is the essence of science.
Bearing that in mind, I consider it a disgrace when scientists reject a new, better finding out of personal sentiment alone. It's perfectly okay to do so when that new theory/finding has been proven refutable (or not much better than the old one). The problem is when novel findings are rebuffed because scientists are just too stubborn to let go of their old views. Worse still, at times it's just their egos getting in the way.
Some prominent examples are these: antibiotics' ineffectiveness in most cases of upper respiratory tract infection; bacteria being the chief culprit in peptic ulcer; continental drift. And yet, antibiotics are still prescribed profusely, thus causing more and more resistance by the day; antibacterial agents are seldom used for peptic ulcer medication; and the actuality of continental drift not acknowledged by the scientific community until thirty-something years following its originator's death.
The world--or the truth--remains, it's just our understanding that evolves. When it's been established that our current knowledge isn't sufficient enough to explain the natural phenomena, shouldn't we revise it instead of clinging to it desperately? Isn't that what science is all about? I rest my case.
So. Ever since who knows when, people have been working on making this world more intelligible. Be it mythology or science, it's basically the same. They're all means of explaining the natural phenomena. (Subjects beyond the realm of nature, the supernatural or metaphysical or whatever, will not be discussed here.) Whether it's Demeter lamenting her absent daughter or the the sunlight hitting a hemisphere at an oblique angle in that particular period, it's winter that people have in mind. It's like describing the same object with different languages. The observable fact is the same, the method with which it is rationalized is different.
Even though science has come a long way ever since the time of Aristotle, it must be realized that science remains a trial-and-error process. Once upon a time it was said that the sun and other celestial bodies moved around the earth. But guess what, the movements of planets are easier to understand if it is assumed that it's the earth that rotates the sun, and not vice versa. In the end the old geocentric theory was discarded, replaced by the heliocentric one that makes more sense. (The geocentric theory was widely accepted even though it is the latter that's true.) If one were to look upon the history of science, similar episodes were to be found in every step of its way. There's nothing wrong about that of course, that's just the way science works. It's not too much to say that constructive criticism is the essence of science.
Bearing that in mind, I consider it a disgrace when scientists reject a new, better finding out of personal sentiment alone. It's perfectly okay to do so when that new theory/finding has been proven refutable (or not much better than the old one). The problem is when novel findings are rebuffed because scientists are just too stubborn to let go of their old views. Worse still, at times it's just their egos getting in the way.
Some prominent examples are these: antibiotics' ineffectiveness in most cases of upper respiratory tract infection; bacteria being the chief culprit in peptic ulcer; continental drift. And yet, antibiotics are still prescribed profusely, thus causing more and more resistance by the day; antibacterial agents are seldom used for peptic ulcer medication; and the actuality of continental drift not acknowledged by the scientific community until thirty-something years following its originator's death.
The world--or the truth--remains, it's just our understanding that evolves. When it's been established that our current knowledge isn't sufficient enough to explain the natural phenomena, shouldn't we revise it instead of clinging to it desperately? Isn't that what science is all about? I rest my case.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Episodes of Coincidence 8/03/2009 10:16:00 PM
I'd like to believe that there's no such thing as mere coincidence in this world. I'd like to believe that what people labeled as "coincidence" is actually a representation of some hidden connection that we all have with each other. There have been many amazing occurrences that prompt me to wish that it is so. Shrugging them off as independent incidents unconnected to one another--they simply happened in close proximity--feels no fun at all to me.
But let's end this babbling and on with the story, shall we? I pick these two because they're the most recent. Incidentally, they are somewhat music-related.
First one. I was working on the computer and as was my habit, I picked songs to listen to from the computer's library so that it wouldn't be so quiet. I normally selected songs from my own library because they're the ones that I like, obviously. But this particular day, for no reason whatsoever, I felt like to listen to UB40's "Kingston Town", courtesy of my brother. Which I listened to amongst all other songs that morning. There's really nothing funny up to this point.
The very same night, I was watching TV and playing with the remote. I couldn't bear TV commercial, that's why I kept changing the channel every time a program went into commercial break. And then, lo and behold, there they were: UB40, playing "Kingston Town". Bearing in mind that the song was released some time in late 80's or early ‘90's (I don't know what year) and that this English band is unknown to most Indonesians in this year of 2009, you could see why it is very unlikely to see the video on local TV channels. How the airing of this video coincided with my picking out the song out of hundreds available on my computer that same day is a mystery to me. If that wasn't odd, I don't know what it was.
On with the second story. It was Friday, two weeks ago. For no apparent reason, again, I took out Manic Street Preachers' This is My Truth Tell Me Yours from the drawer and played it. I just felt like listening to MSP at that time, and that's what I did. (As a matter of fact, it's been in heavy rotation ever since. I wrote this with "You Stole the Sun from My Heart" as background music.) And when I opened the Sunday paper two days later, voila, MSP's newest album Journal for Plague Lovers was reviewed on the music section. MSP was even more alien to Indonesians than UB40 that Kompas publishing an article about them or their album--of all other albums from more prominent musicians--is a fact strange enough in itself. And to come across that article when I was at the outset of an MSP frenzy--how's that?
So, what do you think? They're just too unbelievable of coincidences, aren't they?
But let's end this babbling and on with the story, shall we? I pick these two because they're the most recent. Incidentally, they are somewhat music-related.
First one. I was working on the computer and as was my habit, I picked songs to listen to from the computer's library so that it wouldn't be so quiet. I normally selected songs from my own library because they're the ones that I like, obviously. But this particular day, for no reason whatsoever, I felt like to listen to UB40's "Kingston Town", courtesy of my brother. Which I listened to amongst all other songs that morning. There's really nothing funny up to this point.
The very same night, I was watching TV and playing with the remote. I couldn't bear TV commercial, that's why I kept changing the channel every time a program went into commercial break. And then, lo and behold, there they were: UB40, playing "Kingston Town". Bearing in mind that the song was released some time in late 80's or early ‘90's (I don't know what year) and that this English band is unknown to most Indonesians in this year of 2009, you could see why it is very unlikely to see the video on local TV channels. How the airing of this video coincided with my picking out the song out of hundreds available on my computer that same day is a mystery to me. If that wasn't odd, I don't know what it was.
On with the second story. It was Friday, two weeks ago. For no apparent reason, again, I took out Manic Street Preachers' This is My Truth Tell Me Yours from the drawer and played it. I just felt like listening to MSP at that time, and that's what I did. (As a matter of fact, it's been in heavy rotation ever since. I wrote this with "You Stole the Sun from My Heart" as background music.) And when I opened the Sunday paper two days later, voila, MSP's newest album Journal for Plague Lovers was reviewed on the music section. MSP was even more alien to Indonesians than UB40 that Kompas publishing an article about them or their album--of all other albums from more prominent musicians--is a fact strange enough in itself. And to come across that article when I was at the outset of an MSP frenzy--how's that?
So, what do you think? They're just too unbelievable of coincidences, aren't they?
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Shattered Lives, Shattered Dream 7/18/2009 10:18:00 PM
It came as a shock. After five years of relative peace, you don't think such thing would happen again, but it did. Suicide bombings occurred in two of the most prominent hotels in Jakarta--the Ritz Carlton and J. W. Marriott--incidents that in themselves were unbelievable since the two hotels applied top class security and yet, such tragic incidents still happened.
Of course, it's only normal to sympathize with the victims and their families when things like this take place. Although I'd always felt sad when people were injured and killed in any terrorists' attack, I never feel this devastated before. Even the word "devastated" can't begin to describe the turmoil inside of me right now.
People who know me well enough would've realized why it is so. These particular bombings struck Jakarta three days before Manchester United--my favorite football club ever, besides Persib--were to play against Indonesian All Stars, not to mention that they were supposed to stay at the Ritz Carlton during their visit here. What do you expect would come up next? Any sensible person could see that canceling the match and the visit altogether is the best possible option.
Imagine that. I've been in reverie ever since I found out that United was going to play here. And now, this dream of mine to watch them play in person is snatched away abruptly from before my eyes. I know that it might seem inappropriate to be depressed over not seeing a football club play, and people would probably think that I'm insensitive since there are many people out there who are truly suffering, but this is just how I feel.
Yes, United might come to Indonesia one day. But there's something so particular about this tour that were the team to come five, ten years from now, its special meaning for me would be completely lost. It is this: I need to watch United now because it would probably be my only chance to witness firsthand how the lasts of the Old Guard play (too bad I'm not as rich as some Indonesians who can afford to go to England and visit Old Trafford). With Gary Neville, Giggsy and Scholesy in their mid-thirties, it's fair to assume that they would retire some time in the next couple of years. And then I could never ever see those guys--in flesh and blood rather than on TV--on the pitch playing football.
No doubt many people would find it hard to understand this sentiment of mine. People might say, "Isn't the club is bigger than any player?" or "What's the big deal with the three of them?" Well, United IS bigger than any player. As for those three, I grew up watching them and their compatriots (apart from Giggsy, who had already been a big name when I started appreciating United around 1995) rise from the youth team, witnessing how they made Alan Hansen eat dirt, how they stick together as a team in hard times, how they never give up until the end, how they refrain from being "celebrities" despite their fame. They've been great row models for me in terms of character and I have the utmost respect for them. So, is it so wrong to want to see them?
United might come to Indonesia one day, yes, but it would be like Genesis without Peter Gabriel: it's still good, but it's just not the same.
Notes: My heart goes out to the victims. May they rest in peace, and Godspeed for those who are still battling for recovery.
Of course, it's only normal to sympathize with the victims and their families when things like this take place. Although I'd always felt sad when people were injured and killed in any terrorists' attack, I never feel this devastated before. Even the word "devastated" can't begin to describe the turmoil inside of me right now.
People who know me well enough would've realized why it is so. These particular bombings struck Jakarta three days before Manchester United--my favorite football club ever, besides Persib--were to play against Indonesian All Stars, not to mention that they were supposed to stay at the Ritz Carlton during their visit here. What do you expect would come up next? Any sensible person could see that canceling the match and the visit altogether is the best possible option.
Imagine that. I've been in reverie ever since I found out that United was going to play here. And now, this dream of mine to watch them play in person is snatched away abruptly from before my eyes. I know that it might seem inappropriate to be depressed over not seeing a football club play, and people would probably think that I'm insensitive since there are many people out there who are truly suffering, but this is just how I feel.
Yes, United might come to Indonesia one day. But there's something so particular about this tour that were the team to come five, ten years from now, its special meaning for me would be completely lost. It is this: I need to watch United now because it would probably be my only chance to witness firsthand how the lasts of the Old Guard play (too bad I'm not as rich as some Indonesians who can afford to go to England and visit Old Trafford). With Gary Neville, Giggsy and Scholesy in their mid-thirties, it's fair to assume that they would retire some time in the next couple of years. And then I could never ever see those guys--in flesh and blood rather than on TV--on the pitch playing football.
No doubt many people would find it hard to understand this sentiment of mine. People might say, "Isn't the club is bigger than any player?" or "What's the big deal with the three of them?" Well, United IS bigger than any player. As for those three, I grew up watching them and their compatriots (apart from Giggsy, who had already been a big name when I started appreciating United around 1995) rise from the youth team, witnessing how they made Alan Hansen eat dirt, how they stick together as a team in hard times, how they never give up until the end, how they refrain from being "celebrities" despite their fame. They've been great row models for me in terms of character and I have the utmost respect for them. So, is it so wrong to want to see them?
United might come to Indonesia one day, yes, but it would be like Genesis without Peter Gabriel: it's still good, but it's just not the same.
Notes: My heart goes out to the victims. May they rest in peace, and Godspeed for those who are still battling for recovery.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Istanbul: Memories of a City (Orhan Pamuk) 7/02/2009 10:21:00 PM
After My Name is Red and The White Castle, I swore I would never read any Orhan Pamuk's books ever again. I pretty much felt that I had had enough of "trapped between worlds" and "searching for one's identity", which seem to be present in all his works (or so I thought, since I have only read two of them). But when I saw Istanbul: Memories of a City and read the synopsis on its back cover, I said to myself, "Heck, I'll give it a try. It's not a fiction anyway." Well, the spirit of the book is not that different from that of the previous two I've read. But since it's a memoir, everything is much clearer compared to Pamuk's novels (at least that's what I think), which sometimes too full of symbolisms that they're hard to understand.
Speaking about Istanbul, this is what Lonely Planet's co-founder Tony Wheeler had to say, his impression upon visiting the city for the first time in 1972: "Istanbul was our first taste of the exotic east and even though most of the city, and almost all of its historic parts, lies on the European side, there was a distinctly different flavor from the purely European cities we had passed through." I reckon its inhabitants--excluding the nouveau riche coming to live in it from smaller towns--would cringe upon hearing such statement. Because if any, one thing that people of Istanbul wished to be was to be Western.
After the Ottoman Empire (or the "Khalifate", some people like to say) collapsed in the early twentieth century, replaced by the new Republic of Turkey, it was imperative for the Turkish to let go of the old traditions and embrace the new ones (it's a government policy, mind you), setting their eyes to the West as their main goal. If you're a member of the middle or upper class, like the Pamuks, you'd be more likely to embrace this sentiment whole-heartedly. To be modern was to be Western, end of the deal. Bearing that in mind, no wonder the Western's view on them and their city became very important for the people of Istanbul.
This feeling, this longing to be a part of the Western world, sometimes materialized in great fires. During Pamuk's childhood, in the fifties and the sixties, many old houses and mansions that once belonged to prominent Ottoman families burned to the ground. Oftentimes these fires were deliberate. The government that sought to modernize the city or those old families that wished to obtain insurance money since they're now broke eventually built new, modern, Western-style buildings on the spot. It's one of their ways to erase their history, their past.
Yet, no matter what they did, Istanbul could never be Western enough. How could it be, when remnants of old life scattered about it? And before they knew it--or whether they realized it or not--an odd feeling started creeping up on them. Pamuk called it hüzün, or melancholy. Hüzün isn't your typical kind of melancholia. It's a feeling shared by every inhabitant of the city, borne from a sense of loss that refuses to let go--just like the remains of old glory refuse to vanish completely; and yet, it is bore with pride, and with quiet submission.
I've never been to Istanbul--and if I have, I doubt I could feel any of the melancholy shared by its people, because hüzün can only be felt by those who have lived long enough in the city--but as I read the book, I could feel the gloominess run through the course of its narration: in Pamuk's journey through Istanbul, in the stories of his personal life living in Istanbul. Pamuk said that, despite it being hard to understand by outsiders, it was precisely Istanbul's melancholy--including the dismal ruins that made it not "Western" enough--that made him love the city so much.
Truth to be told, I think it's kind of romantic: looking around, seeing faces of different people all around you, and realizing that they all share the same feeling as you. At least, that's a lot healthier than being depressed over something that's too complex to say into words and then getting more depressed upon finding out that nobody--no one among the faces you see around you--shares this feeling. Pamuk's sorrow is a communal one that he shares with every single person who lives in Istanbul that only needs to be dealt with acceptance, while mine is a personal one that needs to be solved or else I'll go crazy.
Speaking about Istanbul, this is what Lonely Planet's co-founder Tony Wheeler had to say, his impression upon visiting the city for the first time in 1972: "Istanbul was our first taste of the exotic east and even though most of the city, and almost all of its historic parts, lies on the European side, there was a distinctly different flavor from the purely European cities we had passed through." I reckon its inhabitants--excluding the nouveau riche coming to live in it from smaller towns--would cringe upon hearing such statement. Because if any, one thing that people of Istanbul wished to be was to be Western.
After the Ottoman Empire (or the "Khalifate", some people like to say) collapsed in the early twentieth century, replaced by the new Republic of Turkey, it was imperative for the Turkish to let go of the old traditions and embrace the new ones (it's a government policy, mind you), setting their eyes to the West as their main goal. If you're a member of the middle or upper class, like the Pamuks, you'd be more likely to embrace this sentiment whole-heartedly. To be modern was to be Western, end of the deal. Bearing that in mind, no wonder the Western's view on them and their city became very important for the people of Istanbul.
This feeling, this longing to be a part of the Western world, sometimes materialized in great fires. During Pamuk's childhood, in the fifties and the sixties, many old houses and mansions that once belonged to prominent Ottoman families burned to the ground. Oftentimes these fires were deliberate. The government that sought to modernize the city or those old families that wished to obtain insurance money since they're now broke eventually built new, modern, Western-style buildings on the spot. It's one of their ways to erase their history, their past.
Yet, no matter what they did, Istanbul could never be Western enough. How could it be, when remnants of old life scattered about it? And before they knew it--or whether they realized it or not--an odd feeling started creeping up on them. Pamuk called it hüzün, or melancholy. Hüzün isn't your typical kind of melancholia. It's a feeling shared by every inhabitant of the city, borne from a sense of loss that refuses to let go--just like the remains of old glory refuse to vanish completely; and yet, it is bore with pride, and with quiet submission.
I've never been to Istanbul--and if I have, I doubt I could feel any of the melancholy shared by its people, because hüzün can only be felt by those who have lived long enough in the city--but as I read the book, I could feel the gloominess run through the course of its narration: in Pamuk's journey through Istanbul, in the stories of his personal life living in Istanbul. Pamuk said that, despite it being hard to understand by outsiders, it was precisely Istanbul's melancholy--including the dismal ruins that made it not "Western" enough--that made him love the city so much.
Truth to be told, I think it's kind of romantic: looking around, seeing faces of different people all around you, and realizing that they all share the same feeling as you. At least, that's a lot healthier than being depressed over something that's too complex to say into words and then getting more depressed upon finding out that nobody--no one among the faces you see around you--shares this feeling. Pamuk's sorrow is a communal one that he shares with every single person who lives in Istanbul that only needs to be dealt with acceptance, while mine is a personal one that needs to be solved or else I'll go crazy.
Friday, June 26, 2009
If I'm Not Good Enough, Don't Hire Me 6/26/2009 09:43:00 AM
I'd like to think that I really am getting better at doing what I'm doing now. At least I can confidently say that my translation is improving. I shudder every time I think about my first translations. They're so full of flaws it's embarrassing. Nevertheless, I thank the publishers for giving me the chance to actually work on something. Without actually having translation works at my disposal, I'm not sure if my work would ever advance in quality. Of course, it doesn't mean that I can feel satisfied with what I've done (and will do) just now. I've still got many areas in which to improve.
But, as I've mentioned many times before, translating something to your mother language and translating something from your mother language are two completely different processes. And since I'm not experienced in the latter, it's only normal if I doubt my capability in it. Would I do the job well, with the cultural gap and all? Which was why I didn't jump off with joy when I got the offer in the first place. What I did instead was asking the editor to refrain judgment until he saw a sample of my translation. If it was good enough then fine, let's go from there. But if it's not, feel free to drop me.
Long story short, the editor found my work quite satisfactory and I was hired. And I worked on the project for two and half months and was pretty proud of it, although I still question myself from time to time.
And then I found out just recently--from the newspaper, mind you!--that my work isn't going to be used anyway because the original author thinks it doesn't quite capture the spirit of the book or something. In short, the translation isn't to his liking. And hear, hear, mine isn't the only translation that he found unsatisfactory. (Mine is one out of two, in fact.)
What irks me big time is not the fact that the author doesn't like it. He has every right to choose what's best to represent his bloody writing. It's just that the whole ordeal makes me look like some sort of mercenary that only works for money. Just so you know, I did my best while working on the project. And--and!--I thought the editor had communicated at an early stage with the author regarding the translation. I mean, come on, I did give a sample before I accepted the job. Would it be so hard to e-mail it to the author and said, "Hey, we found this translator. Would you mind taking a look at her work and see if it's agreeable?" It's just ten-page long and I reckon it wouldn't take more than an hour to read it and decide whether it's good enough or not. That way we'd save a lot of time and energy and money (at the publisher's side of equation).
What I'm saying is, if my work wasn't good enough, you shouldn't hire me in the first place, bub!
But, as I've mentioned many times before, translating something to your mother language and translating something from your mother language are two completely different processes. And since I'm not experienced in the latter, it's only normal if I doubt my capability in it. Would I do the job well, with the cultural gap and all? Which was why I didn't jump off with joy when I got the offer in the first place. What I did instead was asking the editor to refrain judgment until he saw a sample of my translation. If it was good enough then fine, let's go from there. But if it's not, feel free to drop me.
Long story short, the editor found my work quite satisfactory and I was hired. And I worked on the project for two and half months and was pretty proud of it, although I still question myself from time to time.
And then I found out just recently--from the newspaper, mind you!--that my work isn't going to be used anyway because the original author thinks it doesn't quite capture the spirit of the book or something. In short, the translation isn't to his liking. And hear, hear, mine isn't the only translation that he found unsatisfactory. (Mine is one out of two, in fact.)
What irks me big time is not the fact that the author doesn't like it. He has every right to choose what's best to represent his bloody writing. It's just that the whole ordeal makes me look like some sort of mercenary that only works for money. Just so you know, I did my best while working on the project. And--and!--I thought the editor had communicated at an early stage with the author regarding the translation. I mean, come on, I did give a sample before I accepted the job. Would it be so hard to e-mail it to the author and said, "Hey, we found this translator. Would you mind taking a look at her work and see if it's agreeable?" It's just ten-page long and I reckon it wouldn't take more than an hour to read it and decide whether it's good enough or not. That way we'd save a lot of time and energy and money (at the publisher's side of equation).
What I'm saying is, if my work wasn't good enough, you shouldn't hire me in the first place, bub!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Channeling 5/28/2009 10:27:00 PM
I don't get offended easily, but when I do it's hard for me to forgive and forget. I still find myself fuming every time I remember what a teacher said to me almost ten years ago, despite proving that he's wrong by passing the University Entrance Exam.
It only took one small comment to ruin my completely perfect mood and to send me into rage. I know it was an innocent remark, but I couldn't help feeling insulted. I was so mad--I'm still mad as a matter of fact--that I wanted to scream on top of my lungs. It's not in my character to openly say, "Hey, I don't like what you just said to me back then. It's offending, you know!" I only kept silent while fury was burning deep inside of me. United losing to Barca didn't help either; nothing good to distract me and keeps me euphoric for the next week or so.
This is what I want to say: SORRY FOR NOT HAVING OH-SO-INTERESTING LIFE LIKE YOU DO! SORRY FOR NOT HAVING SUCH COLORFUL BAND OF CONTACTS LIKE YOURS! SORRY FOR MY MUNDANE LIFE AND ITS LAME INHABITANTS! SORRY FOR MY BORING ACCOUNT THAT'S NOTHING IN COMPARISON TO YOUR REMARKABLE STORIES!
I'M SO BLOODY ANGRY I WANT TO SPILL THE MOST OBSCENE CURSES IN THE WHOLE WORLD SO THAT YOU'LL KNOW HOW INFURIATED I AM!
Whether it can help me exorcise this maddening anger, only time will tell. The end.
It only took one small comment to ruin my completely perfect mood and to send me into rage. I know it was an innocent remark, but I couldn't help feeling insulted. I was so mad--I'm still mad as a matter of fact--that I wanted to scream on top of my lungs. It's not in my character to openly say, "Hey, I don't like what you just said to me back then. It's offending, you know!" I only kept silent while fury was burning deep inside of me. United losing to Barca didn't help either; nothing good to distract me and keeps me euphoric for the next week or so.
This is what I want to say: SORRY FOR NOT HAVING OH-SO-INTERESTING LIFE LIKE YOU DO! SORRY FOR NOT HAVING SUCH COLORFUL BAND OF CONTACTS LIKE YOURS! SORRY FOR MY MUNDANE LIFE AND ITS LAME INHABITANTS! SORRY FOR MY BORING ACCOUNT THAT'S NOTHING IN COMPARISON TO YOUR REMARKABLE STORIES!
I'M SO BLOODY ANGRY I WANT TO SPILL THE MOST OBSCENE CURSES IN THE WHOLE WORLD SO THAT YOU'LL KNOW HOW INFURIATED I AM!
Whether it can help me exorcise this maddening anger, only time will tell. The end.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Voice of a Frustrated Soul 4/30/2009 01:12:00 PM
I hate to sing the same old song again and again, but I need to get this one out, or else I will erupt. (I’ve just read Before Green Gables, in which the heroine--Anne Shirley--repeatedly used the word “erupt” instead of the more mundane “explode” to describe her feelings. In case you’re wondering, Before Green Gables is a “sequel” to Anne of Green Gables initiated by Penguin Canada to celebrate Anne’s one hundredth anniversary.)
My story began in a rather innocent fashion when I realized that what I really wanted in life was to learn. I always get this sense of awe recently--every time I make a discovery, every time I get a revelation. I long to feel this way forever, and that’s why I want to spend my whole life learning.
Of course, “learning” in itself is a very broad term. You can learn from everything--from what you see, what you hear, what you think, what you experience. It’s very shallow-minded to think that you can only learn by means of one specialized method, e. g. going to school.
Bearing that in mind, I shouldn’t be upset upon finding out that this path I’m intending to take is a closed road for me. If all I want to do is learning, there shouldn’t be any problem; I could always take another approach. Yet, I can’t help feeling frustrated.
The dilemma I’m facing right now is basically like this: if one wants to study, he has to know things; but in order to know things he has to study certain things first. (It’s pretty much like the problem with not getting a job because you don’t have any work experience, which is impossible to obtain if you never get a job in a first place.) See what I mean?
It’s unfair! People with less intelligence and worldly motivation can easily take this approach because situation permits them to do so. It’s all about supply and demand these days. When your demand is in low supply, things become more complicated and difficult. Why oh why?
My story began in a rather innocent fashion when I realized that what I really wanted in life was to learn. I always get this sense of awe recently--every time I make a discovery, every time I get a revelation. I long to feel this way forever, and that’s why I want to spend my whole life learning.
Of course, “learning” in itself is a very broad term. You can learn from everything--from what you see, what you hear, what you think, what you experience. It’s very shallow-minded to think that you can only learn by means of one specialized method, e. g. going to school.
Bearing that in mind, I shouldn’t be upset upon finding out that this path I’m intending to take is a closed road for me. If all I want to do is learning, there shouldn’t be any problem; I could always take another approach. Yet, I can’t help feeling frustrated.
The dilemma I’m facing right now is basically like this: if one wants to study, he has to know things; but in order to know things he has to study certain things first. (It’s pretty much like the problem with not getting a job because you don’t have any work experience, which is impossible to obtain if you never get a job in a first place.) See what I mean?
It’s unfair! People with less intelligence and worldly motivation can easily take this approach because situation permits them to do so. It’s all about supply and demand these days. When your demand is in low supply, things become more complicated and difficult. Why oh why?