Twentieth Post / Unimpressive Yields

I have got a lot of work to do if I want to live up to my blogging goal for this semester, but I have so much work to do elsewhere...

I am finding that the most remarkable feature of literature studies is its endlessness. The finality of mathematics has always been a comfort to me. As far as concrete calculations are concerned, one should eventually come to an answer beyond which you cannot go. There are fundamentals, truths that, once proven, cannot be denied except through ever-more rigorous calculations.

The best word I have for the study of literature is "bullshit," but this word does not capture my feelings accurately. The reasonable possibilities for interpretation have a finite limit, but that limit is often far above the limits of human patience and perseverance. What's especially interesting is that this vaulted ceiling of possibility is, itself, mirrored; you have the nearly infinite intentions of the author, who is working within a space that has few true resctrictions, and then you have the less permissive but still vast space for coming to understand, not only the author's first intentions, but any unconscious schema that have found there way into the text.

Literary analysis, when veiwed as a sort of "black box", can be used to produce any quasi-logical conclusion you want. As long as you avoid putting words into the mouths of sentient beings (ie. the author), nearly anything goes. I could not, for instance, say that "Cash" by Johnny Cash expresses the author's love for homosexual men, while advocating a re-initiation of the Holocaust of the Jews. I could, however, suggest that Marlowe in "Heart Of Darkness" could be reinterpreted in the modern era as a chronic public masturbator, trying to compensate for his impotence through sexual overexpression and denying the sexual nature of his obsession with Kurtz.

The sheer power of it. It's intoxicating.

That is all, for now.

-Vlad

Nineteenth Post / While Away

I have returned to the Suite after a very long delay. It seems that much has happened here, in the Suite itself rather than in its online iteration. But before I get to that, allow me to explain what has kept me so long.

My home is far less stable place than America. For all the fear your government has instilled in you, not a terrible amount of what happens here can be considered true "instability". On my side of the world, we have the Soviet aftermath, we have Winter as you will never know it, and we have the fallout from American foreign policy. You may have heard about the explosion of a gas pipeline between Russia and Georgia. You may even have heard the accusations made by certain radical groups, claiming that the explosion was organized by Russia herself. Much of the weight of these accusations fell on my father's head. It has been a difficult week for my family, and I would not have left them to suffer it alone.


And so I returned late last night, spending most of my day begging the forgiveness of my professors and mentors. I assured them that I am fully capable of making up any work I missed, and I look forward to impressing them with my efforts.

But, if I may indulge in the practice of gossip, what on Earth has happened to my dear suitemates. Alan has sunk, and is sinking further, into stagnancy and depression. Alfonzo has, seemingly, walked as far along the mobius strip of his idiosyncracies as could be tolerated, and now finds that he is his own opposite; happy without reason, devoid of rage, and eager to interact with others. Chaz is not as skewed as the other two, but he is showing a previously unseen affection for his textbooks. I wonder what courses he is taking.

When I made my way back to the Suite this afternoon, I found Alfonzo watching TV in the common room. He said "Hey, Vlad. Welcome back," and I'm sure I looked as perplexed as he did. Soon after, Alan opened his door (a door, I must point out, which was hardly known to close last semester) to welcome me back. What little room I saw, through the open slice of the door, was filthy, piled high with boxes, paper, clothing, and some sort of enormous red bag. Though he seemed truly glad to see me back--this is something for which I much admire Alan; his sincerity--I can see that there is a primal spark, a light from within, that has dimmed since I last saw him. Hearing the commotion, Chaz came out and recieved me with a very strong embrace. "Allo, Comrade. How is the Motherland, da?" he said; Chaz, much of the time, does not know enough to be truly offensive, so I accept his jokes with their intended humor intact.

Chaz and Alan returned to their rooms to study, and I retired to the couch to watch TV with Alfonzo. He watched me with a certain tension apparent in his shoulders and eyebrows. I asked him how his time off was, and he winced, seeming to chew on his words before saying, "Good." My further questions produced much the same result. I promise that I will someday understand Alfonzo. For now, I'm glad he has stopped trying to live in the shopping mall.

I hope that my new curriculum will open the veins of my creativity, so that I may better play a role on the blog. I regret that I posted so little last semester, and aim, tenetively, to post thirty times before the semester's end.

-Vlad