The call of the rooster reverberated in the silent morning, waking up Ella as it did everyday. The sun had just barely risen over the horizon, signaling the beginning of a brand new day in the countryside. Slowly, Ella opened her eyes, allowing them to adjust to the sunlight that was beginning to stream in through her wide windows. She glanced over at the little clock on her night table: 5:25 am.
“Ungh…” she grumbled. The sun was rising earlier and earlier every day, signaling the end of Spring, and the approach of the long summer months and their accompanying days. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and hopped down to the straw-covered floor of the room she shared with her brother.
“Hey, Charlie, get up,” she said to the bottom bunk, nudging him awake. “We’ve gotta get started with chores.”
He turned over and went back to sleep. Ella rolled her eyes…typical. She went into the bathroom, her bare feet padding softly on the floor. Turning on the swinging bulb in the bathroom, she stared into the mirror, wiping sleep away from her eyes. Tying back her long, frizzy, hair into a ponytail, she washed her face with the homemade soap her Gran had made back in November. She inhaled the scent of the lavender embedded into the soap. She’d never get tired of this scent. It was the scent of the hard work that Gran put into the garden she’d tended for almost a decade—the garden that Ella had helped care for when she was little, and the garden that now belonged to her since Gran’s passing. She had always told Ella, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life, so make the best of it,” a motto that Ella tried to live by, but felt she never succeeded at fulfilling. Each day was just as plain as the last. Nothing new ever happened to her, and each mundane task she completed, she had no doubt done a thousand times before, and would no doubt to a thousand times again.
Shaking away the frustrating thoughts, she wiped her face with a washcloth embroidered with her name in swirly cursive writing (another one of Gran’s gifts), hung it back on the rack neatly—her mother wouldn’t stand for any mess—and glanced back at Charlie, who was still sound asleep, same as everyday. Going back over to the bunk bed, she swiftly pulled the blanket out from underneath him, sending him flying to the floor.
“Wha—ELLA!!” Shocked, he leapt out of bed chasing after her, with Ella laughing at her brother’s antics. Collapsing into a fit of giggles, it was obvious to see that, though she was older by three years, and he was taller by four inches, they were actually quite close. Suddenly, a bell began to violently ring outside—the product of their mother’s impatience for dilly-dallying—ending this sudden burst of tomfoolery.
“Well…back to it, I guess,” Ella said as she got up, dusting herself off. It was, after all, just another morning on the farm.
Charlie quickly got dressed and they both trudged off to the barn, where the cows, laden with milk, awaited their daily milking. They made quick work of the arduous task, milking each cow and then moving on to the next, only stopping to empty their buckets into the large barrel they lugged with them on the morning chore run. Ella liked milking the cows; they might sometimes put up a fuss, but there was a certain rhythm that Ella found calming: milk, milk, switch. Milk, milk, switch. The same pattern, repeated over and over again. It gave Ella time to think; about the dreadful math test she had that week, about how much she missed Gran, about which college she wanted to go to next year, how she was going to pay for college, about Cody, the boy of her dreams…
“ELLA!” she was suddenly jolted from her own thoughts by Charlie’s voice.
“What?”
“Hurry up! We’re going to be late for school!”
And indeed, looking at the time, Ella found she was behind schedule. “Every morning!” she thought to herself. She always allowed herself ample time in the mornings, but no matter how early she got up, it was never early enough, and she was forced to rush through the rest of her morning. Getting up and nearly overturning the milking pail she’d been working on, she emptied her bucket into the barrel, rushing to help Charlie carry the now quite heavy barrel of milk over to the main house, for their mother to package and sell to the neighbors or at the daily farmer’s market. Finally, they stumbled up the front stairs into the kitchen.
“Where have you been??” their mother demanded. “Do you hooligans know what time it is!? You’re going to be late!” Always the proverbial overbearing mother. “Don’t forget your lunches! I made you both turkey sandwiches, just like you like them. Charlie, no crusts; Ella, no mayonnaise. You know I do this because I love you so very, very, very much, and I can’t help but do everything I can for you two. Golly, I remember how little you both used to be, running around here every day getting into all sorts of mischief…I remember one time—“
“MOTHER!” they both yelled, silencing her, at least for the moment.
“Well, all right, have a good day at school, and look out for one another. You two are all I have, and one day, you’re all the other will have!” her voice trailed off—the two of them had already begun to sprint down the lane, away from the house. They knew their mother loved them, but ever since Gran had passed, she never missed an opportunity to tell them so. Gran had always been the lovey-dovey, doting grandmother type, and their mother had decided that, since her passing, she would do her best to take Gran’s place in their lives. Ella sighed, knowing what a toll Gran’s death had taken on their mother, as Charlie and she slowed to a walk, grateful for the shade provided by the trees around them. The tall elms lining the lane leading to and from their house had long been trademarks of the area—tourists came in the fall to watch the leaves change colors and fall to the ground. Now, however, they were festooned with bright, healthy, green leaves, with the odd brown patch of leaves that had prematurely died preceding the hot, dry, summer months which were soon to come.
Up ahead, they saw the old, wooden benches that signified the school-bus stop, empty except for the Turner boys, neatly dressed, and sitting, staring blankly in the opposite direction, patiently waiting for the bus to arrive. Seeing them, Charlie ran up to the benches sat down next to Tommy, the younger boy, as they eagerly began to talk about their latest baseball card acquisitions.
Ella, however, had different ideas. Cody, who was engrossed in some book, was sitting on the bench next to his younger brother; Ella’s heart skipped a beat. She meandered over to him, same as every other morning.
“Whatcha readin’, Cody?” she smiled at him, hoping today would be the day that he realized how madly in love with her he was. He looked up at her inquisitive eyes, and smiled.
“Thus Spoke Zarathustra.”
“Oh…that’s nice. What’s it about?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, looking back down at his book.
“Oh…okay.” She sat down next to him. The conversation was over, as far as he was concerned. For the past six months, Ella had been desperately trying to get her to notice him, but their conversations rarely lasted more than twenty syllables. “Maybe tomorrow’ll be the day,” she thought to herself.
The bus finally pulled up, and they clamored on, finding their rightful seats on the old, decrepit vehicle. Twenty minutes later, they were at the gates to the school. This was Ella’s last year, but Charlie’s first. Whereas she was tired of the unexciting activities of the schoolyard, Charlie was only experiencing them for the first time in a high-school setting. Drama over action figures was replaced with drama over girls. Friends were easily won, and just as easily lost, even those that had been friends since grade school. Ella was tired of it all, and she eagerly anticipated going off to college next year, hopefully in a big city. New York? Los Angeles? Who knew what was in store for this young girl. Everyday, Ella wondered what locale she’d be jetted off to next year, yearning to get away from the small town life, from the people who had known her all her life, to a chance for her to start anew. But for now, she had to just make it through the rest of high school.
She made it into her first period biology class just as the bell rang.
“Ellaaaa…” her teacher’s chastisement trailed off “Almost late again!”
“Sorry…” she mumbled, sliding into her seat and propping her book up so as to hide her face. Ella, though bubbly around her friends and family, was still not comfortable around her peers. Four years with them, and she still had not come out of her shell. Perhaps it was that she’d been waiting for something to happen: a film director, strolling around campus, “discovering” her hidden acting talents, or maybe a modeling agent seeing her and stopping, pleading with her to “please-oh-please” take some head-shots to send back to his bosses in Paris. But alas, Ella was just…Ella. And she was going to remain that way until at least next year. Poor, plain, unnoticed, unrecognized Ella.
Period two: english.
Period three: music.
Period four: lunch—her only retreat from the mundaneness of the rest of her school day. A time for her to reflect on the day in general, and a time to catch up with her friends on the goings-on of their day. Amber was going out with Dylan now? Scandalous.
Period five: calculus. The one class she actually understood. Numbers made sense to Ella—two plus two could only equal four; there was no arguing that. In english, the significance of the character’s language could be debated for hours, with each student emerging a victor from the discussion, no matter how different his or her view was. Ella couldn’t understand it.
Period six: french.
And just like that, the day was over; finally, Ella could go home.
Climbing back onto the bus, she made sure Charlie was aboard as well, and found an empty seat in the back. Leaning her head against the cool glass of the window, Ella watched the elms fly by as the bus accelerated back in the direction of the students’ houses. Finally, they were at the end of the road, and she, Charlie, Tommy and Cody disembarked from the bus.
“Well…see you tomorrow, Cody,” Ella said as she attempted to catch his eye. She was acknowledged with a swift nod and then he and Tommy were off in the path to their own farm, on the opposite end of the lane from Ella and Charlie.
Ella and Charlie meandered slowly back home, admiring the already cool evening air and reveling in the colors of the sunset. Purples and yellows reflected off of the green elm leaves, casting strange dancing shadows on the ground beneath them. They made it home as the final rays of the sun slipped behind the horizon, and were greeted by the smell of their mother’s “famous” home cooking. Another scent Ella would never grow tired of for as long as she lived. Walking into their home, they were assaulted with hugs and kisses and overwhelming motherly good wishes of “I missed you today, my darlings! Come, tell mommy how your days were over a nice bowl of vegetable soup!” Ella ran upstairs and quickly threw off her backpack and tucked her shoes neatly into the closet, at the same time pulling out slippers and putting them on. Dinner, as always, would be full of love from their mother and laughs shared between all three of them over delicious food, complemented with vegetables fresh from her own garden. Afterwards, she would do her homework, saving calculus for last, as always, so she would have something to look forward to after finishing the rest of her work. Then, tired, she would slip into her pajamas and climb up onto her top bunk, flip open a book, and read until she could no longer keep her eyes open (by flashlight, even, if need be). As she would drift off into sleep, letting the book slide out of her hands, Ella would quickly say a prayer, as she did every night, for her beloved Gran, hoping that all was well with her in Heaven, and that she hoped that Gran didn’t miss them as terribly as Ella and Charlie missed her. Her final thoughts as she slipped into unconsciousness would no doubt revolve around the day awaiting her in only a few hours, where she would start all over again. (2,193)
Monday, October 6, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Curiouser and curiouser...
Also, I wonder what it says about my writing habits that my last 3 posts have all been posted between 1 and 2 am? Yikes.
Bravo, Ibsen. Bravo.
I’m going to be perfectly honest: Nora bugged me for most of “A Doll’s House.” I’m sorry to be so curt and unprofessional about the matter, but it’s true. She was flat, two-dimensional, self-centered, child-like, and blissfully ignorant of the world around her for a vast portion of the play. Everything was a game, from her marriage, to her relationships with other people (such as with Christina and Dr. Rank.) Such tendencies bother me to my core. I can’t stand people who allow people to walk all over them! Unlike apathy, Nora exhibited just sheer ignorance to the world around her. Up until the beginning of the third act, I couldn’t stand Nora when she was onstage. Almost everything she said was either so uninformed or so self-centered that I wanted to cry out in frustration! Now, I know that having been raised in modern society have influenced this view. I’ve always been told to stand up for myself and that my ideas were as valid as any man’s. So, to find a character who exhibits such tendencies that so completely counteract my own justifiably set me on edge. I understand that “A Doll’s House” is set in the mid to late 19th century, when society’s views on women were drastically different than today’s, yet I still could not comprehend how she could idly sit back and allow herself to be a almost a plaything for her husband. Although on the surface, Nora seemed happy, and the play had an easy-going tone, I was disturbed by the scenes unfolding on the pages in front of me. It was not until the last act that I felt any sort of emotion towards Nora other than disgust and annoyance. These feelings that had overshadowed almost all others for a good part of the play, and had undeniably distorted my perceptions of all of her actions were suddenly overturned. From being heavily biased against Nora, and everything that she did, to unexpectedly seeing a human character emerge within the last twenty pages actually threw me for a loop.
Nora as a human, and no longer a ‘doll’ wearing a façade of happiness was a pleasant surprise. I was happy to see her actually stand up for herself, and against her husband, whereas she’d been a pushover for the rest of the play. Realizing that her husband was not the man she thought him to be, Nora’s reaction was exactly what I would’ve hoped. She was intimidating, powerful, and assertive, all characteristics which made up a woman whom I felt a connection to; she was scared and soon-to-be alone, but she held her head high and honestly answered Torvald’s arguments. Suddenly, the character I disliked most was not Nora, but her once-doting husband. How could he treat someone he claimed to love with such contempt? I was at a loss for words.
Then, looking over the rest of the story, I realized that Ibsen had been giving us, as readers, clues as to the true nature of this almost disturbingly twisted relationship all throughout the play. Little things, once regarded as perfectly normal, took on a more disturbing tone: his forbidding Nora to have macaroons or holding on to the letterbox keys helped show us the extent of the secrecy and lies in the marriage. His childlike pet names for Nora no longer symbolized the love and affection that we had come to expect from Torvald, but rather illustrated his perception of Nora as no more than a simpleton with whom he could toy. This almost idyllic husband became a symbol for everything that was wrong with Norwegian society concerning the role of women at the end of the 19th century. At the end of the play, as Nora was shedding her costume, as well as her previous life, I realized that I no longer hated her. This character, whom I once detested, was suddenly the character that I was rooting for! She became a character with a backbone and a sense of what was right for her own self emerged as the final scene unfolded. As she turned her back on this past chapter of her life, she became a beacon for women everywhere that there is no point in life too late to make a change. As the door slams behind her in the final scene, we realize that we have seen the full transformation of a woman, from her childlike tendencies in the first act, to the awareness she begins to comprehend of the gravity of the situation in the second act, to the mature woman we see leave her husband in an attempt to better her own life in the third act. I, for one, was happy for as well as proud of Nora; emotions which I never would have thought I’d experience while reading this play. (807)
Nora as a human, and no longer a ‘doll’ wearing a façade of happiness was a pleasant surprise. I was happy to see her actually stand up for herself, and against her husband, whereas she’d been a pushover for the rest of the play. Realizing that her husband was not the man she thought him to be, Nora’s reaction was exactly what I would’ve hoped. She was intimidating, powerful, and assertive, all characteristics which made up a woman whom I felt a connection to; she was scared and soon-to-be alone, but she held her head high and honestly answered Torvald’s arguments. Suddenly, the character I disliked most was not Nora, but her once-doting husband. How could he treat someone he claimed to love with such contempt? I was at a loss for words.
Then, looking over the rest of the story, I realized that Ibsen had been giving us, as readers, clues as to the true nature of this almost disturbingly twisted relationship all throughout the play. Little things, once regarded as perfectly normal, took on a more disturbing tone: his forbidding Nora to have macaroons or holding on to the letterbox keys helped show us the extent of the secrecy and lies in the marriage. His childlike pet names for Nora no longer symbolized the love and affection that we had come to expect from Torvald, but rather illustrated his perception of Nora as no more than a simpleton with whom he could toy. This almost idyllic husband became a symbol for everything that was wrong with Norwegian society concerning the role of women at the end of the 19th century. At the end of the play, as Nora was shedding her costume, as well as her previous life, I realized that I no longer hated her. This character, whom I once detested, was suddenly the character that I was rooting for! She became a character with a backbone and a sense of what was right for her own self emerged as the final scene unfolded. As she turned her back on this past chapter of her life, she became a beacon for women everywhere that there is no point in life too late to make a change. As the door slams behind her in the final scene, we realize that we have seen the full transformation of a woman, from her childlike tendencies in the first act, to the awareness she begins to comprehend of the gravity of the situation in the second act, to the mature woman we see leave her husband in an attempt to better her own life in the third act. I, for one, was happy for as well as proud of Nora; emotions which I never would have thought I’d experience while reading this play. (807)
Friday, September 12, 2008
Pride Cometh Before the Fall
“Wisdom is by far the greatest part of joy
and reverence towards the gods must be safeguarded.
The mighty words of the proud are paid in full,
with mighty blows of fate, and at long last
those blows will teach us wisdom.”
Wisdom: (noun) defined as “having gained knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding, along with a capacity to apply these well. It is the judicious application of knowledge.” Its definition and its application vary from individual to individual, along with the way in which each person receives said piece of wisdom. In Antigone, the chorus does not adequately cover the scenarios from which wisdom can be garnered. It simply implies that wisdom can only become known to a person after he or she reaps the consequences of a bad decision, so that they are better able to “judicious[ly] appl[y] knowledge” to their everyday lives. But what about the kind of wisdom absorbed through the passing on of information, from generation to generation? Wisdom gained early on in life from parents or peers is often information that has, too, either been passed down or gleaned from a memorable experience.
Humility is not an emotion that can be intrinsically known. It is an sentiment that is carefully taught, cultivated, and reinforced throughout a person’s lifetime by the people surrounding him or her, as well as the experiences that help shape him or her. Both humility and wisdom, though occasionally occurring too late to save a person from a terrible fate, are not specifically always left until the end of a person’s life to be discovered, as if by magic. By reading Antigone, for example, the lessons learned by Creon are passed on to the reader. Knowing how “pride cometh before the fall” in the case of this archetypal Greek tragedy only reinforces the reader’s own sense of humility as well as his or her stores of wisdom, but without their directly experiencing the loss of a son, wife, almost daughter-in-law, and the respect of one’s peers, but rather through watching or reading about such an occurrence.
The fact that pride leads to suffering and pain is an overwhelmingly vague statement. Pride is a necessary part of life; pride in one’s work, in one’s character, in the way one person treats another. However, while toeing the very thin line between having an appropriate amount of pride in one’s daily life and being an egotistical jerk who boasts about everything they do in great detail, it is very easy to fall into the side of hubris. Overweening pride is infamous in most stories, and especially Greek tragedies, as the cause for the eventual downfall of a person, whether it be the protagonist of a story, or the antagonist. Creon’s arrogant manner won him no friends, only enemies, and it kept him from witnessing the scene around him with completely open, impartial eyes. He was so quick to judge Antigone’s actions, and so firm in his belief that he was right, that anyone who stood up against him was quickly torn down and/or threatened by the proud tyrant standing before them. By the time he realized that he was, in fact, wrong, about the way he went about treating Antigone, “[t]he mighty words of the proud [were] paid in full.” Creon lost everything that he held near to his heart: his family, the love of his peers, and the respect of his country. (526)
and reverence towards the gods must be safeguarded.
The mighty words of the proud are paid in full,
with mighty blows of fate, and at long last
those blows will teach us wisdom.”
Wisdom: (noun) defined as “having gained knowledge, experience, and intuitive understanding, along with a capacity to apply these well. It is the judicious application of knowledge.” Its definition and its application vary from individual to individual, along with the way in which each person receives said piece of wisdom. In Antigone, the chorus does not adequately cover the scenarios from which wisdom can be garnered. It simply implies that wisdom can only become known to a person after he or she reaps the consequences of a bad decision, so that they are better able to “judicious[ly] appl[y] knowledge” to their everyday lives. But what about the kind of wisdom absorbed through the passing on of information, from generation to generation? Wisdom gained early on in life from parents or peers is often information that has, too, either been passed down or gleaned from a memorable experience.
Humility is not an emotion that can be intrinsically known. It is an sentiment that is carefully taught, cultivated, and reinforced throughout a person’s lifetime by the people surrounding him or her, as well as the experiences that help shape him or her. Both humility and wisdom, though occasionally occurring too late to save a person from a terrible fate, are not specifically always left until the end of a person’s life to be discovered, as if by magic. By reading Antigone, for example, the lessons learned by Creon are passed on to the reader. Knowing how “pride cometh before the fall” in the case of this archetypal Greek tragedy only reinforces the reader’s own sense of humility as well as his or her stores of wisdom, but without their directly experiencing the loss of a son, wife, almost daughter-in-law, and the respect of one’s peers, but rather through watching or reading about such an occurrence.
The fact that pride leads to suffering and pain is an overwhelmingly vague statement. Pride is a necessary part of life; pride in one’s work, in one’s character, in the way one person treats another. However, while toeing the very thin line between having an appropriate amount of pride in one’s daily life and being an egotistical jerk who boasts about everything they do in great detail, it is very easy to fall into the side of hubris. Overweening pride is infamous in most stories, and especially Greek tragedies, as the cause for the eventual downfall of a person, whether it be the protagonist of a story, or the antagonist. Creon’s arrogant manner won him no friends, only enemies, and it kept him from witnessing the scene around him with completely open, impartial eyes. He was so quick to judge Antigone’s actions, and so firm in his belief that he was right, that anyone who stood up against him was quickly torn down and/or threatened by the proud tyrant standing before them. By the time he realized that he was, in fact, wrong, about the way he went about treating Antigone, “[t]he mighty words of the proud [were] paid in full.” Creon lost everything that he held near to his heart: his family, the love of his peers, and the respect of his country. (526)
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
And so it goes with God.
Piscine Molitor, “known to all as Pi,” Patel’s discussions and ponderings on the subject of religion truly struck me while I was reading this book, not only because of the simple, beautiful, prose in which they were written, but also in the sheer honesty of Pi’s first-person narration. What struck his parents, his religious figures, and his peers as strange or unnatural, Pi explained in very few words that which made perfect sense to him. When he is confronted about his infatuation with all three religions, as a teenager, Pi cannot understand why there is a problem. Why can’t a person worship three separate religions? “I just want to love God!” he blurts out, trying to appease a furious imam, priest, and pandit. Before entering a long account of how he exactly came to be a practicing Muslim, Christian, and Hindu, the novel cuts to the author’s point of view, of him sitting in Pi’s home absorbing the motley assortment of religious paraphernalia decorating his living room. The Hindu god, Ganesha, on the mantle, an Islamic prayer mat rolled up in a corner, and a Bible on Pi’s nightstand, yet nothing seems out of place. Somehow, there is harmony between these three different, and often conflicting, religions in this one dwelling.
The ending of the book, as well, only tries to reiterate Pi’s emphasis on the fact that stories and the use of one’s imagination are coping mechanisms for humans, so that they are able to be satisfied with the lives they lead. But Pi has chosen what he considers “the better story.” Why settle for the “dry, yeastless factuality,” when one can have the “better story,” filled with elaboration and exaggeration, and ample usage by one’s imagination. Isn’t that the story that most would rather listen to? While being interviewed for a report on the sinking of the ship he was traveling on, his elaborate story is cast aside as fiction by two skeptical Japanese officials. They demand the real story, and no less. So Pi tells them a story, one where the animals with whom he originally embarked upon this journey with were, in fact, human survivors of the sinking cargo ship. There was the maternal orangutan, now played by Pi’s own mother; the vicious, disgusting hyena became a cowardly, beastly French cook who was on the ship; the majestic zebra, a beautiful Chinese sailor; and the Bengal tiger, now Pi Patel. This story strikes the two Japanese officials as gruesome, disgusting, immoral, and downright revolting, but one that makes more sense than that of a teenager stranded on a lifeboat for 227 days with a Bengal tiger. The Japanese officials seem pleased that they now have, in their minds, a concrete story to report back to their supervisors at the Maritime Department. Yet, as they are leaving, Pi asks them which of his two stories they liked better. Thinking about it, they reply that they enjoyed the first one better. “And so it goes with God.” replies Pi with a knowing smile. Sometimes, for one’s own sake, it is rewarding and more fulfilling to believe the crazier version of a story, even if it doesn’t have some of its facts straight. (534)
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
And as a side note, since this is a blog and it doesn’t waste any paper to put this here, I have decided to include this passage I quite enjoy by Carl Sagan, as I feel that it is relevant to Pi’s discussion about religion in the book. Hopefully, someone else might enjoy it as I have.
The Dragon In My Garage
by Carl Sagan
"A fire-breathing dragon lives in my garage"
Suppose I seriously make such an assertion to you. Surely you'd want to check it out, see for yourself. There have been innumerable stories of dragons over the centuries, but no real evidence. What an opportunity!
"Show me," you say. I lead you to my garage. You look inside and see a ladder, empty paint cans, an old tricycle--but no dragon.
"Where's the dragon?" you ask.
"Oh, she's right here," I reply, waving vaguely. "I neglected to mention that she's an invisible dragon."
You propose spreading flour on the floor of the garage to capture the dragon's footprints.
"Good idea," I say, "but this dragon floates in the air."
Then you'll use an infrared sensor to detect the invisible fire.
"Good idea, but the invisible fire is also heatless."
You'll spray-paint the dragon and make her visible.
"Good idea, but she's an incorporeal dragon and the paint won't stick."
And so on. I counter every physical test you propose with a special explanation of why it won't work.
Now, what's the difference between an invisible, incorporeal, floating dragon who spits heatless fire and no dragon at all? If there's no way to disprove my contention, no conceivable experiment that would count against it, what does it mean to say that my dragon exists? Your inability to invalidate my hypothesis is not at all the same thing as proving it true. Claims that cannot be tested, assertions immune to disproof are veridically worthless, whatever value they may have in inspiring us or in exciting our sense of wonder. What I'm asking you to do comes down to believing, in the absence of evidence, on my say-so.
The only thing you've really learned from my insistence that there's a dragon in my garage is that something funny is going on inside my head. You'd wonder, if no physical tests apply, what convinced me. The possibility that it was a dream or a hallucination would certainly enter your mind. But then, why am I taking it so seriously? Maybe I need help. At the least, maybe I've seriously underestimated human fallibility.
Imagine that, despite none of the tests being successful, you wish to be scrupulously open-minded. So you don't outright reject the notion that there's a fire-breathing dragon in my garage. You merely put it on hold. Present evidence is strongly against it, but if a new body of data emerge you're prepared to examine it and see if it convinces you. Surely it's unfair of me to be offended at not being believed; or to criticize you for being stodgy and unimaginative-- merely because you rendered the Scottish verdict of "not proved."
Imagine that things had gone otherwise. The dragon is invisible, all right, but footprints are being made in the flour as you watch. Your infrared detector reads off-scale. The spray paint reveals a jagged crest bobbing in the air before you. No matter how skeptical you might have been about the existence of dragons--to say nothing about invisible ones--you must now acknowledge that there's something here, and that in a preliminary way it's consistent with an invisible, fire-breathing dragon.
Now another scenario: Suppose it's not just me. Suppose that several people of your acquaintance, including people who you're pretty sure don't know each other, all tell you that they have dragons in their garages--but in every case the evidence is maddeningly elusive. All of us admit we're disturbed at being gripped by so odd a conviction so ill-supported by the physical evidence. None of us is a lunatic. We speculate about what it would mean if invisible dragons were really hiding out in garages all over the world, with us humans just catching on. I'd rather it not be true, I tell you. But maybe all those ancient European and Chinese myths about dragons weren't myths at all.
Gratifyingly, some dragon-size footprints in the flour are now reported. But they're never made when a skeptic is looking. An alternative explanation presents itself. On close examination it seems clear that the footprints could have been faked. Another dragon enthusiast shows up with a burnt finger and attributes it to a rare physical manifestation of the dragon's fiery breath. But again, other possibilities exist. We understand that there are other ways to burn fingers besides the breath of invisible dragons. Such "evidence"--no matter how important the dragon advocates consider it--is far from compelling. Once again, the only sensible approach is tentatively to reject the dragon hypothesis, to be open to future physical data, and to wonder what the cause might be that so many apparently sane and sober people share the same strange delusion.
The ending of the book, as well, only tries to reiterate Pi’s emphasis on the fact that stories and the use of one’s imagination are coping mechanisms for humans, so that they are able to be satisfied with the lives they lead. But Pi has chosen what he considers “the better story.” Why settle for the “dry, yeastless factuality,” when one can have the “better story,” filled with elaboration and exaggeration, and ample usage by one’s imagination. Isn’t that the story that most would rather listen to? While being interviewed for a report on the sinking of the ship he was traveling on, his elaborate story is cast aside as fiction by two skeptical Japanese officials. They demand the real story, and no less. So Pi tells them a story, one where the animals with whom he originally embarked upon this journey with were, in fact, human survivors of the sinking cargo ship. There was the maternal orangutan, now played by Pi’s own mother; the vicious, disgusting hyena became a cowardly, beastly French cook who was on the ship; the majestic zebra, a beautiful Chinese sailor; and the Bengal tiger, now Pi Patel. This story strikes the two Japanese officials as gruesome, disgusting, immoral, and downright revolting, but one that makes more sense than that of a teenager stranded on a lifeboat for 227 days with a Bengal tiger. The Japanese officials seem pleased that they now have, in their minds, a concrete story to report back to their supervisors at the Maritime Department. Yet, as they are leaving, Pi asks them which of his two stories they liked better. Thinking about it, they reply that they enjoyed the first one better. “And so it goes with God.” replies Pi with a knowing smile. Sometimes, for one’s own sake, it is rewarding and more fulfilling to believe the crazier version of a story, even if it doesn’t have some of its facts straight. (534)
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
And as a side note, since this is a blog and it doesn’t waste any paper to put this here, I have decided to include this passage I quite enjoy by Carl Sagan, as I feel that it is relevant to Pi’s discussion about religion in the book. Hopefully, someone else might enjoy it as I have.
The Dragon In My Garage
by Carl Sagan
"A fire-breathing dragon lives in my garage"
Suppose I seriously make such an assertion to you. Surely you'd want to check it out, see for yourself. There have been innumerable stories of dragons over the centuries, but no real evidence. What an opportunity!
"Show me," you say. I lead you to my garage. You look inside and see a ladder, empty paint cans, an old tricycle--but no dragon.
"Where's the dragon?" you ask.
"Oh, she's right here," I reply, waving vaguely. "I neglected to mention that she's an invisible dragon."
You propose spreading flour on the floor of the garage to capture the dragon's footprints.
"Good idea," I say, "but this dragon floates in the air."
Then you'll use an infrared sensor to detect the invisible fire.
"Good idea, but the invisible fire is also heatless."
You'll spray-paint the dragon and make her visible.
"Good idea, but she's an incorporeal dragon and the paint won't stick."
And so on. I counter every physical test you propose with a special explanation of why it won't work.
Now, what's the difference between an invisible, incorporeal, floating dragon who spits heatless fire and no dragon at all? If there's no way to disprove my contention, no conceivable experiment that would count against it, what does it mean to say that my dragon exists? Your inability to invalidate my hypothesis is not at all the same thing as proving it true. Claims that cannot be tested, assertions immune to disproof are veridically worthless, whatever value they may have in inspiring us or in exciting our sense of wonder. What I'm asking you to do comes down to believing, in the absence of evidence, on my say-so.
The only thing you've really learned from my insistence that there's a dragon in my garage is that something funny is going on inside my head. You'd wonder, if no physical tests apply, what convinced me. The possibility that it was a dream or a hallucination would certainly enter your mind. But then, why am I taking it so seriously? Maybe I need help. At the least, maybe I've seriously underestimated human fallibility.
Imagine that, despite none of the tests being successful, you wish to be scrupulously open-minded. So you don't outright reject the notion that there's a fire-breathing dragon in my garage. You merely put it on hold. Present evidence is strongly against it, but if a new body of data emerge you're prepared to examine it and see if it convinces you. Surely it's unfair of me to be offended at not being believed; or to criticize you for being stodgy and unimaginative-- merely because you rendered the Scottish verdict of "not proved."
Imagine that things had gone otherwise. The dragon is invisible, all right, but footprints are being made in the flour as you watch. Your infrared detector reads off-scale. The spray paint reveals a jagged crest bobbing in the air before you. No matter how skeptical you might have been about the existence of dragons--to say nothing about invisible ones--you must now acknowledge that there's something here, and that in a preliminary way it's consistent with an invisible, fire-breathing dragon.
Now another scenario: Suppose it's not just me. Suppose that several people of your acquaintance, including people who you're pretty sure don't know each other, all tell you that they have dragons in their garages--but in every case the evidence is maddeningly elusive. All of us admit we're disturbed at being gripped by so odd a conviction so ill-supported by the physical evidence. None of us is a lunatic. We speculate about what it would mean if invisible dragons were really hiding out in garages all over the world, with us humans just catching on. I'd rather it not be true, I tell you. But maybe all those ancient European and Chinese myths about dragons weren't myths at all.
Gratifyingly, some dragon-size footprints in the flour are now reported. But they're never made when a skeptic is looking. An alternative explanation presents itself. On close examination it seems clear that the footprints could have been faked. Another dragon enthusiast shows up with a burnt finger and attributes it to a rare physical manifestation of the dragon's fiery breath. But again, other possibilities exist. We understand that there are other ways to burn fingers besides the breath of invisible dragons. Such "evidence"--no matter how important the dragon advocates consider it--is far from compelling. Once again, the only sensible approach is tentatively to reject the dragon hypothesis, to be open to future physical data, and to wonder what the cause might be that so many apparently sane and sober people share the same strange delusion.
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