mass
yeah wow, those last two chapters or so are absolutely devastating. the ending really ties up the idea of beloved representing the past and all of the horrors of slavery, with her leaking into the present like a ‘bad dream', ultimately being ignored because recalling her existence and what she represents is so painful. it really makes you question that fine line between being entrapped by your past and simply acknowledging it and trying to create a better future despite its consequences – ultimately this is a story that needs to be shared despite how ugly it gets.
sethe having her sense of self worth being reassured at the end by paul d was also incredible. the book does a really amazing job establishing how slavery can strip someones identity away, and how establishing a sense of self worth or identity is nearly impossible without freedom. overall morrison does it again and makes me wanna bawl my eyes out, def see why this book has the reputation it does now lol.
heart wrenchingly beautiful. a lot of the poems in here were surprisingly life affirming which i wasnt expecting considering how bleak the book of disquiet was, but of course theres your fair share of despair present here as well. pessoa's ruminations on the nature of consciousness, the universe and identity are as incredible as always. the eternal search for a true self, and the purpose as to why were so aware of ourselves, and all the suffering that brings. all the heteronyms cover this topic to an extent, particularly pessoa's, which resulted in some poems that are among my favorites in the collection. it was nice to see a wider variety of heteronyms on display compared to the book of disquiet as well, with the differences in style and sheer personality really being something to behold. the alberto caeiro section in particular has some jaw dropping stuff.
pessoas work has really changed my outlook on identity and consciousness as a whole. its interesting to see how identity being this ever changing fluid thing that we construct ourselves is so present and obvious in pessoas work. i dont think any other writer has done it better. our egos are so fragile and when we take a look at the ‘nobodies' we all are you wonder where our consciousness comes from, why were even aware of this fact, and the fact that we exist at all. the universe gives us no answers, and this struggle gives pessoas work an emotional charge that i just love.
its easy to see how someone may view our self awareness and thinking as a curse and resolve to just not think at all, eliminating ego, instead purely being an “outer self”, reflected in caeiros work. its maybe rooted in a nihilistic sort of thinking but its presented as such a beautiful and powerful thing. it profoundly moved me. to just see the universe and accept it for what it is, and ask for nothing more, is what i hope to accomplish one day, although god knows im not emotionally mature enough for that.
i loved ricardo reis' portion of the book too, which took on more of a deterministic edge and had to do a lot more with fate and death. this seems to be unpopular opinion but alvaro de campos was probably my least favorite of the four voices, although thats basically like being the least shiny diamond in a pile of polished diamonds. that loud and bombastic prose style was NOT something i expected from pessoa, but man am i glad he did it.
nothing i say is going to do justice to the beauty of the passages themselves, so ill just put some of my favorites here.
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When I die and you, meadow,Become something strange to me,There will be better meadowsFor the better self I'll be.And the flowers that are beautifulIn the fields I see down hereWill be stars of many colorsIn the vast fields there.And perhaps my heart, seeingThat other nature, more naturalThan the vision that fooled usInto thinking it was real,Will, like a bird at last alightingOn a branch, look back and recallThis flight of existenceAs nothing at all. —————————————————————————— Seagulls are flying close to the ground.They say this means it's going to rain.But it's not raining yet. Right nowThere are seagulls close to the groundFlying—that's all.Likewise, when there's happiness,They say sadness is on its way.Perhaps, but so what? If todayIs full of happiness, whereDoes sadness fit in?It doesn't. It belongs to tomorrow.When it comes, then I'll be sad.Today is pure and good. The futureDoesn't exist today. There's a wallBetween us and it.Enjoy what you have, drunk on being!Leave the future in its place.Poems, wine, women, ideals—Whatever you want, if it's what is,Is for you to enjoy.Tomorrow, tomorrow . . . . Be, tomorrow,What tomorrow brings you. For nowAccept, be ignorant, and believe.Keep close to the ground, but flying,Like the seagull. —————————————————————————— What matters is to be natural and calmIn happiness and in unhappiness,To feel as if feeling were seeing,To think as if thinking were walking,And to remember, when death comes, that each day dies,And the sunset is beautiful, and so is the night thatremains . . .That's how it is and how I want it to be . . . —————————————————————————— A piano on my street...Children playing outside...A Sunday, and the sunShining golden with joy...My sorrow that makes meLove all that's indefinite...Though I had little in life,It pains me to have lost it.But my life alreadyRuns deep in changes...A piano I miss hearing,Those children I miss being! —————————————————————————— Each day you didn't enjoy wasn't yours:You just got through it. Whatever you liveWithout enjoying, you don't live.You don't have to love or drink or smile.The sun's reflection in a puddle of waterIs enough, if it pleases you.Happy those who, placing their delightIn slight things, are never deprivedOf each day's natural fortune!
a book consisting of longing for an existence beyond the physical, corporeal realm, abandoning the flawed human body and becoming something different; whether 1404er ultimately succeeds at becoming something else, or is just a “centipede grasping for nothing” is left to the reader to decide. an extremely cold book, where genuine humanity is almost nowhere to be seen. there is no genuine connection in amygdalatropolis, it portrays a world consisting only of matter, algorithms and plastic.
the internet by design does not encourage sincerity or genuine connection, but instead enables people to engage in depravity through anonymity. amygdalatropolis is unflinching in its portrayal of this, going into great detail in portraying the worst of what humanity has to offer, depicting actions so vile that i probably couldn't mention them in this review even if i wanted to. amygdalatropolis documents a certain internet subculture in which lonely, disillusioned young men propagate their nihilistic views in an endless echo chamber/feedback loop. they join the internet partly due to a fear of external reality, the computer encourages to stay locked in their rooms, their parents enable them, etc... to this extent, this is probably the most accurate depiction of chronic internet indoctrination that ive ever engaged with. as the novel progresses 1404er becomes more and more of a husk, and by the time his conscious nags at him or when he's kneeling at his father's dust and recognizing the importance of his love, it's all too late.
the shadow of death is written everywhere in amygdalatropolis. both of 1404er's parents suffer and die due to failures of the body, 1404er orders decayed teeth from the internet, corpses are posted online and only live on through algorithms, etc. the nihilistic internet subculture 1404er finds himself in contributes to his jaded worldview and his total rejection of any real human connection.
this brings us to the video game sequence that even makes 1404er uneasy. in it, 1404er controls a dementia stricken farmer named henry. henry's wife suddenly dies one night and he can no longer recognize his own son. the sequence highlights the failings of the physical body, and calls into question the nature of free will and the amount of control we have over our own fate. we are just the byproduct of synapses and algorithms firing in our own brains and, depending on your viewpoint, this could mean that true free will doesn't exist at all. this outlook could potentially inform nihilistic internet subcultures and encourage their users to become mere husks, the receivers of info and stimuli. after all, if we're all merely puppets to things like external circumstances, our bodies or our consciousness, then why try to form deeper connections or engage with other people at all? we are no different from the computer, all we are is matter and plastic. the only answer is to succumb to total annihilation or surrender to stimuli and assimilate with the algorithm. amygdalatropolis obviously isnt advocating for this worldview, however acknowledging it gives the novel an extra layer of philosophical depth and addresses why people may come to these radical conclusions in the first place.
amygdalatropolis shows us how the internet may encourage an individual to discard their humanity. in the final chapter 1404er attempts to take his own life and wrestles with his conscious (i.e the “ghosts” in his head) before giving up and returning to his computer. the last scene really takes this idea of rejecting your humanity up a notch, eluding to some sort of transcendence beyond the flesh and becoming a being that exists purely through digital space or perhaps somewhere even greater. “a space perfect and vacuous, encasing him and his world and all that had ever belonged to it.”
This second read really solidified this book as possibly the greatest novel ever written in my mind. Very few novels seem to capture the very essence of existence, the ephemerality of our lives and our attempts to make something important out of it all. To the Lighthouse captures the paradoxical core of existence, the fact that love and connection is necessary to provide tangible meaning to our lives and yet is perhaps the hardest thing to accomplish, let alone maintain. If the main purpose of our lives involves living metaphysically through and making a lasting impact on others, how do we do this when the distances between us all are so vast, and the interior worlds of others forever unknown?
A lot of people describe this novel as bleak and depressing and while that's true, there's also definite glimpses of beauty and hope throughout it as well. I think the fact that the novel acknowledges the beauty present in the world while also acknowledging how the universe is chaotic and indifferent prevents it from feeling too lopsided. There are instances in Ms and Mr Ramsay's life where they even understand each other's interior worlds, despite all odds. Things like Mr Ramsay's feelings upon reaching the lighthouse being purposefully left ambiguous also give the reader angles to view the story from thematically, which really benefit the work in my opinion. It doesn't feel like a declaration of defeat in the face of our ephemeral lives and the marching presence of time and moreso an open ended exploration on how to find meaning in spite of it, and I believe that this is something that Woolf struggled with herself, resulting in this vision.
The way memory is described in this novel and how the past bleeds into the story is so beautiful and poetically described. That entire chapter where Lily is painting after revisiting the Ramsay house and is reflecting on Ms. Ramsay's life is one of my favorite chapters in the novel because of this. And that's not even getting into the form of this thing, my god. The past and present in this novel intermingle like streams of a river intertwining and it's so easy to get lost in it. Interiority vs exteriority is handled so well not only through the content of the story itself but the prose and form – the way Woolf will describe an incredibly profound and complex thought that one of the characters are having only to briefly describe some mundane thing happening in the external world, like lights flickering dimly outside a window or a character glancing at a potted plant, is just incredible. The prose itself is gets borderline surreal and psychedelic at points (despite obviously nothing fantastical happening story wise), as Woolf really knows how to craft unique similes and metaphors.
I feel like anything else I say about To the Lighthouse wouldn't really do it justice. It profoundly impacted me. We're all struggling against the tide in some way or form and are grasping for a distant light of our own. We may drown in the waters, alone, although we'll try our best to drown together – but there's always that vague hope that we'll one day reach that distant light, and be able to stand tall, just to finally say “I have reached it, I have found it.”
