Shaman Sexson asked for something a little mad, a little brilliant. mad brilliance, brilliant madness.
here we are, mere mortals surrounded by the divine. the gods looking down on us, the gods among us, the god in you, and the god in me. these gods grow and develop with every thought and feeling with Nabokov we have met a high god, a god looking down on us and among us. he has become our god and Shaman Sexson his Messiah. perhaps one day we too will join that rank of gods, loosing our earthly flesh. but for now we will study and continue to be touched by their divinity and their plague.
"I confess I do not believe in time." Yes, we begin to understand and perhaps go beyond beginning.
we are lucky mortals.
Das Vidanya
Friday, December 11, 2009
universal language
in class we talked about doubt and faith, compliments, and the divine madness. in the "original of laura" eric is erasing himself, his ego (I). shaman sexson said the only universal language was the language of love(?), because you get it but you don't understand it. it's not translatable and there aren't really any words to describe. i took this to mean because emotions, like love, are universal and lack "I". so eric, the narrator, seeks to speak the universal language because he is erasing his "I".
epiphany
defined as the "sudden manifestation of the divine". a moment when whatever god you believe in reaches down and places his hand on your shoulder and says "Look." that is an 'oh, holy shit!' moment. when you touchfeelconnectsensetastehearsee everything where you feel so smallinsignificantinconsequentialunimportant that there are tears but no sadness really. it's not really a sad thing nor is it a happy one. lots of mixed emotions to the point where you can't tell one from another.
i've also heard it called a "cosmic moment" i kind of like that name better.
i've also heard it called a "cosmic moment" i kind of like that name better.
divine madness
we talked about the divine madness in class. what I've come to understand is that it's a state of inspiration, obsession, epiphany, and love. all artists have come upon it, all good art lovers touch upon its edges. this class has caught that sickness we know as the divine madness. oh, dear, whatever shall we do...
Nabokov sleep and death
nabokoc has this thing about sleep and death. well here's my answer. sort of.v
we do not know the world before and we do not know the world ahead, we can only know life. the world of dreams stands somewhere on either end of that spectrum of life. same for from what we came from and to what we go to. all of which may or may not be real.
it's not really an answer, just a gut thing.
we do not know the world before and we do not know the world ahead, we can only know life. the world of dreams stands somewhere on either end of that spectrum of life. same for from what we came from and to what we go to. all of which may or may not be real.
it's not really an answer, just a gut thing.
Darkbloom
for some reason when we say dark bloom i think of nightshade. which are poison. interesting no?
Lolita Lilith
at one point in lolita Humbert compared her to lilith, adam's first wife. there are a lot of similarities there that i found intriguiing. lolita and lilith were both child brides, nymphets (apparently), both moved on to other lovers/husbands (lolita married and Lilith eventually found a demon to take her on), and were mothers (died during birth, and lilith i believe bore multitude or at least a multitude of demons). does that mean that lolita's child would have been demonic? don't know but it's interesting.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Essay
Joan Goss
12/8/09
Dr. Sexson
Eng
The “Reality” of Gradus
Gradus. Gratus. Gratis. Jack Grey. Grey, caught between, the mix of black and white, “reality“ and fantasy, ephemeral and lasting. The Dream and The Nightmare. A man, a hunter, an assassin. A man born of fantasy, of words. Who are you? Who is this man who wears “reality” like “reality” wears its quotes like a clause? Who is the man that Vladimir Nabokov created from Pale Fire? How does he exists between the pages of that distressing novel?
We are introduced to Gradus in the Index as “Gradus, Jakob (pronounced Yakob, one presumes), 1915-1959; alias, Jack degree, de Grey, d’Argus, Vinogradus, Leningradus, etc; a Jack of small trades and a killer”(307). With the inclusion of wine, a Russian city (Leningrad), a 100 eyed giant, numerous prince/kings, a German brand of vehicle, Vladimir Ilyich, and one faithful hound one does wonder where this is going before it has even begun. This terminator-esque assassin, this Shadow wandering the world in search of his target, hunting relentlessly, always several steps behind his prey, yet relentless in his search. Such men and beasts are the stuff of nightmares. Boyd describe Gradus as a “thuggish killer for the Zemblan Extremist group the Shadows”(Boyd, 429). Perhaps he is thus, yet one finds it difficult to comprehend that such a man, such an unsuccessful assassin who has some form experience under his belt, lost a game of cards in order to do his job; one wonders at the incompetence displayed by such men. It is unreal. Ah, well, to each their own. One aught not generally hire paperboys to kill kings. Such jobs are for this of skill and experience. One after all must build up a resume.
Jakob Gradus is a man born with the first words of John Shade’s poem Pale Fire, he grows through Charles Kinbote’s commentary on Shade’s poem, and perhaps dies within it as well. Gradus, a death figure, a figure from imagination within imagination. Who is to say he is not “real,” who is to say he is not the mind behind this twisted tale?
A man born of words, as God created the world and all within it, was with God, was God… and it was good. What words went into the creation of Man, what words of Gradus? A man born from the words of man. Are not all men created thus? Something interesting. Our culture is so possessed by words they have become the center. Without words… ah, well, that’s not really what we are supposed to be discussing here is it? Yet it still has to do with this man.
But he is also born of the man we meet only with the end of this novel, this Jack Grey, Asylum escapee. Both men out for vengeance (perhaps). Born of a man already with past and present, born of words come from a mind filled with grief, born from the mind of a master who drags a twisted tangle to our attention, and born from a man who let his “real” past to rest to give himself a newer, better one. How many ways can a man be born, become “real?”
“Reality,” always quoted because it wears its quotes like a clause, like they are necessary, which Nabokov believes they are; this “reality” is so fragile it is broken within not only this novel within novels, but in our minds as well. Nabokov seems to be a master at destroying our precious “reality.” Truly the work of a genius could only do such.
Jakob is also introduced to us by Kinbote with a mere “(gradual, gray)” so very simple and introduction for so very simple a man, yet his very existence is interesting (77). “We feel doom…Never before has the inexorable advance of fate received such a sensuous form” (135-6). Verily, it much behooves that you ought feel doomed. Such men as you make this Gradus to be are not known for their ability to be turned aside.
Such fate that decided Gradus’ duty with the words of Pale Fire. Such destiny, such …coincidence. Really, Kinbote you are making it far to easy for me. If Gradus’ is so unsuccessful how did he track you down? A smart man and true king would have stayed well hidden, but no. You were found, your jewels lost, your crown is gone pitiful king. You longed for your story, your romance. A more intelligent man would have kept his head down in your position. But you stood out. With a dislike of “injustice and deception” rounded with a case of “hopeless stupidity” one wonders how Kinbote could have not gotten away scot-free from Gradus (152). Perhaps he (Gradus) is an incompetent assassin, yet he hunts arrogant prey.
Yet once again I have wandered from my path. Gradus and “reality.” Must remember.
Kinbote knows far too much of Gradus’ movements to not have made this man up from out of thin air. Yes, perhaps prediction could have lead to some basic assumptions, but to know specific details…? One believes not, especially as Kinbote has yet to show any great interest in divination. Does he “darken your pages” Kinbote, does he darken your dreams (164)? Ah, poor lad. A man made of nightmares and fantasy. Your boogey man born form your dream in reverse.
Far, far, far too many details, my dear. From his beginning to his end Gradus has been inside Kinbote’s own head, shuffling along inexorably. Perhaps it is a form of Kinbote’s own fears or nightmares. His egoism, narcissism all given their own gradual form built up over time and space as a dull little man gave up his past for a different one because he was too afraid of disappearing like a good little nobody. Psychotic breaks are something V. Botkin and Jack Grey have in common. Lord knows they have much else.
Perhaps Kinbote is projecting. Placing his own thoughts and faults into this imaginary assassin. It certainly seems so. Perhaps V. Botkin is very similar to this Jakob Gradus. Merely a thought. Two unsuccessful nobodies residing within the same story. Well, three if one counts Jack Gray.
The tin man assassin wanders and waits, as if he has nothing better to do outside his time spent in this story… which is admittedly little though his presence is felt throughout. One wonders what the choreographer thought of such a puppet. Yet, all things run a schedule.
So many details you know Kinbote, how? Did you read his mind? Or is he, as one must believe, a mere shadow of your already clouded mentality? Especially New York, you must have read the newspaper and run with your idea as to what your imaginary hunter was doing. You are so… there are not words, my dear, for you self delusions.
The convergence of space and time, comes at the end of this novel, where a mad Jack Grey and an equally mad Charles Kinbote meet. The sheer self absorption is nauseating.
This Gradus, so Terminator like, he knows only his mission, believes only in his own thoughts and his duty. To stop him one must melt him down. Yet ill-luck and indignity plague the assassin. It is ridiculous. Only a vindictive, self indulgent soul would imagine the sorts of failures and sufferings on a man, even this man. Imagine being the key word.
Kinbote does not know the form of his attacker? How silly. One means he did not know until he met Jack Grey who sought the death of the Judge Goldsworth who set him in the Institute for the Criminal Insane. Jack Grey hunted Goldsworth, Gradus hunted Kinbote and poor John Shade stuck in the middle of it all. That man had ill luck as a choke collar. It is not lacking in imagination it is merely too convenient.
At John Shade’s death, Gradus would never have “cowered on [Kinbote’s] porch step” (299). That is not the type of character/man he is even dazed by a good solid whack to the skull. That is not the man I read him as, as Kinbote has set him up as. He is cold, mistakes do not phase him. In fact, the character laid before us would not have cared at all at such a mistake. His, Gradus, only incompetence was in his aim. Jack Grey, however aimed true, so he thought. Wrong man, good aim. Though the similarities in looks between Shade and Goldsworth have been marked upon, Jack Grey is as one unaware. Kinbote’s delusions show once again.
I also doubt that Gradus would have cut his throat with a safety razor, if that is even possible. Is it? It would be damned difficult if it was, as well as slow considering the size of the blade. Blood causes slippage. Anyway, Gradus and suicide? Unlikely. Gradus was a simple man, I doubt suicide would have occurred to him. Failure is not unfamiliar, so he simple would have waited for aid or a chance to try again. Even broken the terminator still did its damnedest to try and kill Sarah Connor. So would have Gradus. Kinbote’s reasoning is more akin to what his own thoughts would have been. With his failure as V. Botkin, he started over as Kinbote. Gradus is not one to start over, even as death is an implied new beginning. He would continue. Gradus does not have the same view of shame and failure that Kinbote has.
So Kinbote waits while this Jack Grey fades out of existence; the real version of Kinbote‘s incompetent Gradus is buried or perhaps cremated to disappear as ashes on wind. He waits for “a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus” (301). Honestly, my dear, you had only to ask.
J. G.
12/8/09
Dr. Sexson
Eng
The “Reality” of Gradus
Gradus. Gratus. Gratis. Jack Grey. Grey, caught between, the mix of black and white, “reality“ and fantasy, ephemeral and lasting. The Dream and The Nightmare. A man, a hunter, an assassin. A man born of fantasy, of words. Who are you? Who is this man who wears “reality” like “reality” wears its quotes like a clause? Who is the man that Vladimir Nabokov created from Pale Fire? How does he exists between the pages of that distressing novel?
We are introduced to Gradus in the Index as “Gradus, Jakob (pronounced Yakob, one presumes), 1915-1959; alias, Jack degree, de Grey, d’Argus, Vinogradus, Leningradus, etc; a Jack of small trades and a killer”(307). With the inclusion of wine, a Russian city (Leningrad), a 100 eyed giant, numerous prince/kings, a German brand of vehicle, Vladimir Ilyich, and one faithful hound one does wonder where this is going before it has even begun. This terminator-esque assassin, this Shadow wandering the world in search of his target, hunting relentlessly, always several steps behind his prey, yet relentless in his search. Such men and beasts are the stuff of nightmares. Boyd describe Gradus as a “thuggish killer for the Zemblan Extremist group the Shadows”(Boyd, 429). Perhaps he is thus, yet one finds it difficult to comprehend that such a man, such an unsuccessful assassin who has some form experience under his belt, lost a game of cards in order to do his job; one wonders at the incompetence displayed by such men. It is unreal. Ah, well, to each their own. One aught not generally hire paperboys to kill kings. Such jobs are for this of skill and experience. One after all must build up a resume.
Jakob Gradus is a man born with the first words of John Shade’s poem Pale Fire, he grows through Charles Kinbote’s commentary on Shade’s poem, and perhaps dies within it as well. Gradus, a death figure, a figure from imagination within imagination. Who is to say he is not “real,” who is to say he is not the mind behind this twisted tale?
A man born of words, as God created the world and all within it, was with God, was God… and it was good. What words went into the creation of Man, what words of Gradus? A man born from the words of man. Are not all men created thus? Something interesting. Our culture is so possessed by words they have become the center. Without words… ah, well, that’s not really what we are supposed to be discussing here is it? Yet it still has to do with this man.
But he is also born of the man we meet only with the end of this novel, this Jack Grey, Asylum escapee. Both men out for vengeance (perhaps). Born of a man already with past and present, born of words come from a mind filled with grief, born from the mind of a master who drags a twisted tangle to our attention, and born from a man who let his “real” past to rest to give himself a newer, better one. How many ways can a man be born, become “real?”
“Reality,” always quoted because it wears its quotes like a clause, like they are necessary, which Nabokov believes they are; this “reality” is so fragile it is broken within not only this novel within novels, but in our minds as well. Nabokov seems to be a master at destroying our precious “reality.” Truly the work of a genius could only do such.
Jakob is also introduced to us by Kinbote with a mere “(gradual, gray)” so very simple and introduction for so very simple a man, yet his very existence is interesting (77). “We feel doom…Never before has the inexorable advance of fate received such a sensuous form” (135-6). Verily, it much behooves that you ought feel doomed. Such men as you make this Gradus to be are not known for their ability to be turned aside.
Such fate that decided Gradus’ duty with the words of Pale Fire. Such destiny, such …coincidence. Really, Kinbote you are making it far to easy for me. If Gradus’ is so unsuccessful how did he track you down? A smart man and true king would have stayed well hidden, but no. You were found, your jewels lost, your crown is gone pitiful king. You longed for your story, your romance. A more intelligent man would have kept his head down in your position. But you stood out. With a dislike of “injustice and deception” rounded with a case of “hopeless stupidity” one wonders how Kinbote could have not gotten away scot-free from Gradus (152). Perhaps he (Gradus) is an incompetent assassin, yet he hunts arrogant prey.
Yet once again I have wandered from my path. Gradus and “reality.” Must remember.
Kinbote knows far too much of Gradus’ movements to not have made this man up from out of thin air. Yes, perhaps prediction could have lead to some basic assumptions, but to know specific details…? One believes not, especially as Kinbote has yet to show any great interest in divination. Does he “darken your pages” Kinbote, does he darken your dreams (164)? Ah, poor lad. A man made of nightmares and fantasy. Your boogey man born form your dream in reverse.
Far, far, far too many details, my dear. From his beginning to his end Gradus has been inside Kinbote’s own head, shuffling along inexorably. Perhaps it is a form of Kinbote’s own fears or nightmares. His egoism, narcissism all given their own gradual form built up over time and space as a dull little man gave up his past for a different one because he was too afraid of disappearing like a good little nobody. Psychotic breaks are something V. Botkin and Jack Grey have in common. Lord knows they have much else.
Perhaps Kinbote is projecting. Placing his own thoughts and faults into this imaginary assassin. It certainly seems so. Perhaps V. Botkin is very similar to this Jakob Gradus. Merely a thought. Two unsuccessful nobodies residing within the same story. Well, three if one counts Jack Gray.
The tin man assassin wanders and waits, as if he has nothing better to do outside his time spent in this story… which is admittedly little though his presence is felt throughout. One wonders what the choreographer thought of such a puppet. Yet, all things run a schedule.
So many details you know Kinbote, how? Did you read his mind? Or is he, as one must believe, a mere shadow of your already clouded mentality? Especially New York, you must have read the newspaper and run with your idea as to what your imaginary hunter was doing. You are so… there are not words, my dear, for you self delusions.
The convergence of space and time, comes at the end of this novel, where a mad Jack Grey and an equally mad Charles Kinbote meet. The sheer self absorption is nauseating.
This Gradus, so Terminator like, he knows only his mission, believes only in his own thoughts and his duty. To stop him one must melt him down. Yet ill-luck and indignity plague the assassin. It is ridiculous. Only a vindictive, self indulgent soul would imagine the sorts of failures and sufferings on a man, even this man. Imagine being the key word.
Kinbote does not know the form of his attacker? How silly. One means he did not know until he met Jack Grey who sought the death of the Judge Goldsworth who set him in the Institute for the Criminal Insane. Jack Grey hunted Goldsworth, Gradus hunted Kinbote and poor John Shade stuck in the middle of it all. That man had ill luck as a choke collar. It is not lacking in imagination it is merely too convenient.
At John Shade’s death, Gradus would never have “cowered on [Kinbote’s] porch step” (299). That is not the type of character/man he is even dazed by a good solid whack to the skull. That is not the man I read him as, as Kinbote has set him up as. He is cold, mistakes do not phase him. In fact, the character laid before us would not have cared at all at such a mistake. His, Gradus, only incompetence was in his aim. Jack Grey, however aimed true, so he thought. Wrong man, good aim. Though the similarities in looks between Shade and Goldsworth have been marked upon, Jack Grey is as one unaware. Kinbote’s delusions show once again.
I also doubt that Gradus would have cut his throat with a safety razor, if that is even possible. Is it? It would be damned difficult if it was, as well as slow considering the size of the blade. Blood causes slippage. Anyway, Gradus and suicide? Unlikely. Gradus was a simple man, I doubt suicide would have occurred to him. Failure is not unfamiliar, so he simple would have waited for aid or a chance to try again. Even broken the terminator still did its damnedest to try and kill Sarah Connor. So would have Gradus. Kinbote’s reasoning is more akin to what his own thoughts would have been. With his failure as V. Botkin, he started over as Kinbote. Gradus is not one to start over, even as death is an implied new beginning. He would continue. Gradus does not have the same view of shame and failure that Kinbote has.
So Kinbote waits while this Jack Grey fades out of existence; the real version of Kinbote‘s incompetent Gradus is buried or perhaps cremated to disappear as ashes on wind. He waits for “a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus” (301). Honestly, my dear, you had only to ask.
J. G.
Yeah! New Computer!
so yeah, my new computer is up and running and i can now continue on with my blogging... even though i lost all of my other papers... sucky.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
kinbote
if you break down kinbote you get kin- family/relative and bote- a compensation or amends...
charles means "man"
man, family compensation...? a compensation for the loss of Hazel, only male? he's not much of one...
charles means "man"
man, family compensation...? a compensation for the loss of Hazel, only male? he's not much of one...
Final Essay...?
Well, I have been playing around with the idea of the Devil's Advocate with either Nabokov, Humbert, or Kinbote. Kinbote and Humbert stand as their own advocate, Nabokov as theirs...
Also, there's the idea of the personified Death/Destroyer figure...
And then there's the idea of Pale Fire, the poem and story, being a communication from the living to the dead. A kind of Prayer.
Nattochdag- night and day... kinbote and shade, kinbote/hazel and shade...
So, yeah. I have few ideas floating around.
Ooooh, new idea! Just got it during class. Gradus and "reality" who wears its quotes like a clause... yeah not too sure where this is going but there it is.
Also, there's the idea of the personified Death/Destroyer figure...
And then there's the idea of Pale Fire, the poem and story, being a communication from the living to the dead. A kind of Prayer.
Nattochdag- night and day... kinbote and shade, kinbote/hazel and shade...
So, yeah. I have few ideas floating around.
Ooooh, new idea! Just got it during class. Gradus and "reality" who wears its quotes like a clause... yeah not too sure where this is going but there it is.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
My God died young.
My God died young.
you know, atheism is not the first thing that leaps to mind when this line comes up. it's not that simple, it can't be.
it's My God.
my God died young. he was 6'2", gentle giant, blond hair and warm brown gray eyes.
my god died young. 18 with his life ahead of him, a full ride football scholarship to California state. a pediatrician, musician, engineer...
my god died young. 12 years old attending the funeral of a man that terrified me, though i did not why at the time, i learned that my god had died coming to attend that same funeral of the patriarch of our clan.
12 years old standing at a casketless wake with not even ashes to spread of my god, his mother and his father, who were also my gods. with the woman who would have been my god's wife, my god's brother, both of whom are lost to me now, dampening my mourning clothes with salt tears that i could not shed.
my god was gentle to the crawling toddler. he was teasing to the bright child. he was comforting to the coming teen. he was my god. and he died young. my god died young and i can never have him back no matter how much i beg or curse or pray. My God died young.
shade did not just mean atheism. he can't have. he meant that the focus of his devotion, his world died young and he had to be the one to bury her. Hazel was Shade's god despite her flaws, or her perfections; she was his god and she died young, too early. no one should have to bury their children. not one should have to say goodbye too soon to their gods. but they do. because gods, mortal or theological, die young. and they can never come back.
you know, atheism is not the first thing that leaps to mind when this line comes up. it's not that simple, it can't be.
it's My God.
my God died young. he was 6'2", gentle giant, blond hair and warm brown gray eyes.
my god died young. 18 with his life ahead of him, a full ride football scholarship to California state. a pediatrician, musician, engineer...
my god died young. 12 years old attending the funeral of a man that terrified me, though i did not why at the time, i learned that my god had died coming to attend that same funeral of the patriarch of our clan.
12 years old standing at a casketless wake with not even ashes to spread of my god, his mother and his father, who were also my gods. with the woman who would have been my god's wife, my god's brother, both of whom are lost to me now, dampening my mourning clothes with salt tears that i could not shed.
my god was gentle to the crawling toddler. he was teasing to the bright child. he was comforting to the coming teen. he was my god. and he died young. my god died young and i can never have him back no matter how much i beg or curse or pray. My God died young.
shade did not just mean atheism. he can't have. he meant that the focus of his devotion, his world died young and he had to be the one to bury her. Hazel was Shade's god despite her flaws, or her perfections; she was his god and she died young, too early. no one should have to bury their children. not one should have to say goodbye too soon to their gods. but they do. because gods, mortal or theological, die young. and they can never come back.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Midterm essay- Faithful Hound
Joan Goss
Eng 431
Dr. Sexson
10/13/09
"Faithful Hound"
I am nature’s faithful hound."
Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov- pg. 135
These particular words jumped out at me. Mostly because it is hunting season and one of our neighbors has hounds that he uses to hunt cats. To hunt mountain lions. One of which we saw the other day, a beautiful, rich mahogany tom, large about 130-140 lbs. Beautiful animal. The neighbor has a handful of hounds of varying breeds. In this case, hunting lions, more is better. A cat will pick off a small pack, but will run from a larger one, only killing a few. But we are not really talking about hunting lions, are we?
A Hound. An obsessive, blood tracker. An animal that knows nothing but the trail. It hunts relentlessly, neither food nor drink not pain will distract it from it’s chosen path. You would think a hound would be an easy going animal, but they are not. No, these beasts, no matter how they are portrayed on TV, are no lazy porch mutt. They hunt. They hunt fiercely. They track and stalk. Their teeth are not for show, they are a predator. They are dedicated and faithful. Rather a bit like Humbert. Obsessive, faithful tracker who hunted for Lolita, who hunted Lolita.
While I am not as admiring of Humbert I am rather of hounds. Nature’s trackers. Perhaps he believes that he is what nature has made him rather than experience?
Faithful. Full of faith. Filled with it, overflowing and overwhelming. Faith in god, self and other. A "faithful hound." All hounds are faithful until they loose a scent and then they will still wander restlessly until the trail is picked back up or a new one is presented. You cannot pull a hound off of a trail. They are strong and determined creatures and can be vicious. They will take on a larger predator without hesitation. While Humbert and Quilty may be reflections, evil twins, doppelgängers, what have you they are also different it is hunter and hunted, which is the better predator, which is "real". I use quotes because, as has been stated "reality" wears is quotes like claws/a clause, and I
use italics because of the idea of which ever of the twins remains after a battle is the "real" one, the actual person and not a mere shadow of reflection.
Oops. Got distracted. Right! "Faithful hound." Hounds are also very loyal to their masters/handlers. They can get along with other people but they really only belong to one person or family. It is rather difficult to adopt them due to this, and I do not mean legally but emotionally. Lassie might run and fetch help but the hound would pull Timmy out of the well or die trying.
Humbert may be a beast but he is a specific kind of beast. Elvis Presley probably summed Humbert up rather well. "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, crying all the time." Though perhaps not crying but certainly constantly commenting and talking, even if it is only to us, dear readers.
Even in the end Humbert would have been put down, like a "faithful hound" had he not died. A rabid, obsessive, "faithful hound." It is, I suppose, something amusing, this Humbert the hound, this dedicated monster. A child bride, and her faithful pet. Well, let them to rest then, and let them not wake.
It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake. -Chaucer, Geoffrey.
Eng 431
Dr. Sexson
10/13/09
"Faithful Hound"
I am nature’s faithful hound."
Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov- pg. 135
These particular words jumped out at me. Mostly because it is hunting season and one of our neighbors has hounds that he uses to hunt cats. To hunt mountain lions. One of which we saw the other day, a beautiful, rich mahogany tom, large about 130-140 lbs. Beautiful animal. The neighbor has a handful of hounds of varying breeds. In this case, hunting lions, more is better. A cat will pick off a small pack, but will run from a larger one, only killing a few. But we are not really talking about hunting lions, are we?
A Hound. An obsessive, blood tracker. An animal that knows nothing but the trail. It hunts relentlessly, neither food nor drink not pain will distract it from it’s chosen path. You would think a hound would be an easy going animal, but they are not. No, these beasts, no matter how they are portrayed on TV, are no lazy porch mutt. They hunt. They hunt fiercely. They track and stalk. Their teeth are not for show, they are a predator. They are dedicated and faithful. Rather a bit like Humbert. Obsessive, faithful tracker who hunted for Lolita, who hunted Lolita.
While I am not as admiring of Humbert I am rather of hounds. Nature’s trackers. Perhaps he believes that he is what nature has made him rather than experience?
Faithful. Full of faith. Filled with it, overflowing and overwhelming. Faith in god, self and other. A "faithful hound." All hounds are faithful until they loose a scent and then they will still wander restlessly until the trail is picked back up or a new one is presented. You cannot pull a hound off of a trail. They are strong and determined creatures and can be vicious. They will take on a larger predator without hesitation. While Humbert and Quilty may be reflections, evil twins, doppelgängers, what have you they are also different it is hunter and hunted, which is the better predator, which is "real". I use quotes because, as has been stated "reality" wears is quotes like claws/a clause, and I
use italics because of the idea of which ever of the twins remains after a battle is the "real" one, the actual person and not a mere shadow of reflection.
Oops. Got distracted. Right! "Faithful hound." Hounds are also very loyal to their masters/handlers. They can get along with other people but they really only belong to one person or family. It is rather difficult to adopt them due to this, and I do not mean legally but emotionally. Lassie might run and fetch help but the hound would pull Timmy out of the well or die trying.
Humbert may be a beast but he is a specific kind of beast. Elvis Presley probably summed Humbert up rather well. "You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, crying all the time." Though perhaps not crying but certainly constantly commenting and talking, even if it is only to us, dear readers.
Even in the end Humbert would have been put down, like a "faithful hound" had he not died. A rabid, obsessive, "faithful hound." It is, I suppose, something amusing, this Humbert the hound, this dedicated monster. A child bride, and her faithful pet. Well, let them to rest then, and let them not wake.
It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake. -Chaucer, Geoffrey.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Waxwing
I had a moment of embarrassment when i went to look up a picture of a waxwing. you know that pair of tawny and gold birds i found? yeah well they were waxwings. Cedar Waxwings. really bad blonde moment. well here's a picture.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Moths Icarus
Ooh, 'nother brain storm. moths and Icarus who flew too close to the sun and got burned and feel to his death. does than mean that HH is Icarus and instead of pride its obsession/lust/love/perversion? hmm something to think about.
kay. the reason i'm having all these thought blurbs is i'm down with a sinus infection. no it's not the flu, and it's minor but i dont think anyone wants to listen to me being stuffy and miserable in the middle of class.
kay. the reason i'm having all these thought blurbs is i'm down with a sinus infection. no it's not the flu, and it's minor but i dont think anyone wants to listen to me being stuffy and miserable in the middle of class.
Group 4
Group 4 is meeting at the ITC on College St. Wednesday September 30th at 6:00 PM
Bring notes and Laptops if you want.
Bring notes and Laptops if you want.
Butterflies and Moths
if Nabokov thinks the butterfly representative of the soul, then the heart must be a moth. moths continually dare to reach for the light only to be burned much like the human heart which constantly reaches out to find connections. the soul can flit happily about in the bright day spreading cheer, but the heart must be able to survive even in the middle of the night. about five minutes ago i had this little epiphany about moths and butterflies while rescuing an injured moth out of the Hannon stairwell. it was an adorable dusky gray thing very bright and alert for being stunned, and probably injured. his little antennae waving and crawling all over my hands. a bit like juggling a delicate hot potato.
injured butterflies aren't like that. they're too fragile and once they are hurt they pretty much die, at least that's from what I've seen. but a moth can survive. butterflies don't seek out the light because that is where they live, but moths, like hearts, must because otherwise all they will know is darkness, loneliness.
mini spiel
injured butterflies aren't like that. they're too fragile and once they are hurt they pretty much die, at least that's from what I've seen. but a moth can survive. butterflies don't seek out the light because that is where they live, but moths, like hearts, must because otherwise all they will know is darkness, loneliness.
mini spiel
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Picture
here it is. i have a feeling this is going to be an ongoing project but let's see what i can come up with. well for starters the comment that came with the photo is "Hello Horse Creek Hotsprings! Just had a lovely soak." its from a few years ago 3-4, certainly, probably the winter of '05. the snowmobile, my mother's '06 with that lovely metallic orange color i love so much is stopped about 25 feet from the spring shed. that's that brown building there between those two fir trees, i think. beyond that is the Horse Creek road. any way it's an orange '06 RMK that im riding with, and don't quote me on this, but i think it's a 156" track(?). the lovely, durable, and more importantly it fits on the back, tool chest/tub with lunch of salami, crackers, and cheese coated in snow is bolted down with a small coffe thermos, thats actually filled with hot water for cider, on the far side.
i remember my father saying something about the housing for the springs being built sometime in the '60s, '69, i think.
as for myself, my -100 packs and snowmobile bibs are coated with snow and the rest of me is clean as a whistle. it wasn't too cold that day, about 20 or so. just about perfect. an old hoodie head band and my same glasses. one glove because i hate betting fuzzies on my food. chipmunk cheeked and with my usual "oh your taking a picture of me" expression. i had braces for too many years to ever again grin fully. longer hair.
i have seen those trees many many times and yet they never seem to change, even though i know they must. still, i suppose fifteen odd years are truly nothing to a tree. sugar frosted trees, right out of a fairytale with the faintest hint of mist from the springs. a rather marvelous winter wonderland.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Picture
i have to wait for someone to email me the picture i want becasue it's back home. so it could be a while for that to get up.
Earliest memory
let's see i think i was about 3 or 4 and we had just moved into our new home. it's really more of a sensory thing than a thought thing. but i remember moving, being carried i think and then set down in warm golds and pinks and reds, like a sunset really but of wood and fabric. there's a vague feeling as if someone had told me to look around. so i did. i started pivoting slowly, taking in the picture covered, pine and red wood walls (it was my grandparents home and we had moved in with them), the dark furniture, the soft pink carpet, the open windows and green pastures. i started to spin faster and faster, blood rushing, stinging to my fingertips and my pale, pale blond hair whipping around and smacking me in the face when i got to dizzy to stand and simply fell to the thick carpet. i remember looking at my hair, white blonde, white gold i thought and all the colors and the warmth. home.
very vague but still about as early as i can remember.
very vague but still about as early as i can remember.
pondering vs probing
personally i prefer pondering to probing so i'm just going to run with it. probing's a bit to clinical for me and since i'm not one for scientific introspection i'll stick with pondering
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Welcome
welcome to Pondering Eternity the eng 431 blog featuring the major author Vladimir Nabokov, emphasis on the 'kov'. being as this is the first blog by me for this class it's just going to be this short greeting but i'll get back with more interesting things latter. like obsession...
anyway 'ta
anyway 'ta
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