Originality: a new rendition of an old phenomena?

'Originality': "You are unlikely in even a long life to have a single thought, however small, that is wholly original."

And yet we strive for originality with a rapacious desire, as if in achieving originality we can validate our existence. There seems to be a certain poignancy in the sensation of needing to prove oneself to bring something exclusive and innovative into the world. Yet, I cannot decide whether such a sentiment should evoke more pathos than the fact that people sincerely believe that one’s goal in life should be to achieve self-happiness. True indeed it is that one should, if possible, indulge oneself in bliss and commemorate animation and vitality of life itself, but it also goes perhaps, with the need to say, that self-happiness can never fully be achieved or at the very least left unspoiled for long; it is too ephemeral and relies too dearly on the actions of others to allow it to be sustained for a lifetime (and perhaps some of you would fairly argue that to be engulfed in pleasure forever would diminish the very experience)- no one is self-sufficient and no one, no matter however much we may be able to convince ourselves otherwise, would actually want to accept the full responsibility for our happiness, because then we would only have ourselves to blame when we are periodically not happy, and it seems to be a human tendency to not admit accountability- especially where delegation is not well-defined.

I often find it hard to express my thoughts into coherent sentences, and I guess part of the reason why I am writing this blog is to try and learn a way to do so (yes perhaps with a little eloquence and flare) However language is such an intricate and fascinating construct. It’s like a double-door matrix that exists but at the same time doesn’t exist. Have you ever thought about whether our vocabulary can ever sufficiently express our thoughts and emotions? I am not just referring to how extensive one’s language may be, but rather the denotations of the words themselves. Last year in my Religious Studies class, we briefly looked at the philosophical concept of antirealism. Whilst I have still yet to grasp the entirety of the concept, the core idea seems to be that antirealists hold two principles to be fundamentally true: 1) that nothing exists outside of the mind and 2) that if anything does exist outside of the mind, we have no access to such an independent reality. In this vein, our experience (our senses, perceptions etcetera) is very much constructed on the projection of our mind’s deliberations and thus words themselves are only a projection of the significance our minds attribute to them and who is to say that is one and the same for all. So does that mean the more jargon one acquires the better one is able to express oneself? I think not- it only really superficially makes you sound better to listen to. Nonetheless, studying languages has facilitated me to acknowledge the barriers of expressions that exist between ourselves and others. I could not, at this moment in time, communicate my contemplations in Italian as well as I can in English, nor would I ever dream of attempting to in Latin. The biggest barrier in human life is language itself- yes language is arguably a social construct, but it is not one that can be so easily overcome. There always seems to be a prodding feeling within my mind’s eye that there is a crucial connection lacking between my thoughts and my words. It’s like a loose electrical wire that I just can’t seem to repair.

You’re probably wondering, what then is even the point of writing this blog post, if manifestation is impossible?  I guess this is where I make the link back to the original topic of this blog post: originality. Since nothing is really ever original, one can hope that one’s same speculations and philosophies have also circulated through another’s head. Perception of course is coloured by experience and individuality, but ultimately it is our collective experiences of being human which enables use to explore the same feelings, notions and sentiments.

On a final note, if you’ve not yet come to realise how much this blog post is seething with irony, I take this moment now to point it out.

Life As One Long Conversation

I sometimes wonder as I sit in my university room, what the purpose of life is, it’s a recurrent conversation I have with myself that goes something along the lines of: Why am I here? There must be something more to life than simply getting a degree? Why have I signed myself up to toil and privation, only to endure this further once I finish? A little dramatic I know, but occasionally I contemplate the possibility of running away, joining a cult and living in a funky caravan. I would like to think that I have the guts to break free from the restraints of society, but the reality of the situation is that I am just as attached to the materialistic prospects of university as much as my fellow students. Let’s be honest; if one were truly taking up a study for the intrinsic value of the intellectual endeavour itself, then one would surely not be part of an institution that corrupts and manipulates the purity of the pursuit? (MacIntyre’s chapter on Virtue Ethics may be needed here to clarify this opinion of mine- but the basic idea, as far as I am able to comprehend it, is that an institution can lead to a corruption of a practice due to it’s competiveness and desire to actualise results- and so true do I hold this to be the case with many ‘mainstream’ western education systems) Therefore, when I contemplate how independent and consumeristic society has become, it makes me wonder whether anything we do, be it a job or undertaking studies, has any more value than in its end in materialistic gain.

So yes, I often find myself asking, what is the purpose of life, if it is not about nourishing the connection we make with one another, and engaging in the experiences, and the memories we create. I had my second driving lesson today, and I’ll admit, I’m not the best driver. I’ve had lessons before when I lived in London, but I’ve found the first few lessons in Scotland equally distasteful. I realised, it’s not so much the fact that I disliked both my instructors, so much as I loath the process of actually learning to drive. Coupled with this, my desire to build a connection with my driving instructor (I have always been one of those annoying people who has always felt the necessity to prove to a teacher or ‘superior’ being that I am worthy of their commendation), whilst adding to my apprehension, made me realise that life is about people. They affect the way we act, and influence how we perceive not only the world and others, but perhaps most significantly of all how we see ourselves.

When I find myself questioning what the purpose of university is, it seems to me the only rational way in which I am able to justify spending an extortionate amount of money, and to reject the idea that we are all just living a mechanistic life (following what society decrees to be important), is that in expanding our knowledge we expand our horizons- we open our minds to the unusual and we bring something more to our interactions with other people- It’s at least what I say to stop myself from becoming depressed by the thought that this intellectual endeavour is just for materialistic gain-because ultimately materialistic ‘things’ are not permanent things.

A permanent thing which has stuck with me however is a scene from The History Boys between Hector and Posner.  At the time I was studying this play in Sixth form, I do not think I truly appreciated the significance of this scene, or realised how relevant it would become for me now. That's precisely what Hector tries to convey when he says "learn it now, know it now and you will understand it...whenever." It's only now that I've come to 'understand' Hector’s demonstration of exactly what humanity is, or at the very least, what it should be, as he articulates:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something- a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things- that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

I believe I’ve only felt like this once or twice in my life- when reading The Song of Achilles and Augustus by John Williams (I exclude here my reading of The End of the Affair by Greene, only because I have not yet finished the entirety of the book. Nonetheless my favourite line from the novel has to be: “Is it possible to fall in love over a dish of onions? It seems improbable yet I could swear it was just then that I fell in love”- yes, I did fall in love with my best friend at university over our mutual passion for onion based dishes, so these lines holds quite some significance for me.) I guess this may be one justification for the reason why I have been propelled to study Latin? When I study classical texts I sometimes get a flicker of that unblemished connection with the author- it’s always a brief moment and I know sooner than it’s begun that it will be irrevocably lost until the next time, but even now I’m left in awe and reverence at just thinking how human and real those dead authors are for me- how much alike we all are in our experience, perhaps with time alone being the only divergent factor. Fundamentally we are all desperate to rekindle this feeling of unity with something bigger than oneself as a means, I think, to eliminate our inexorable loneliness as humans.

I say “loneliness” with caution however, because I believe as humans, we do pity ourselves excessively and constrain ourselves to believe that no one can truly understand our emotions and ‘what we’re going through’. Heartbreak is one of the most extraordinary human emotions that demonstrates exactly this. We read about it all the time: by the Romantic poets, Keats, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, even as far as the Classical poets Sappho, Ovid, Catullus- the feeling and sentiment is depicted the same by all these poets, and yet we believe that we suffer it in isolation:

Dicebas quondam solum te nosse Catullum,

     Lesbia, nec prae me velle tenere Iovem.

dilexi tum te non tantum ut vulgus amicam,

     sed pater ut gnatos diligit et generos.

nunc te cognovi: quare etsi impensius uror,

     multo mi tamen es vilior et levior.

qui potis est, inquis? quod amantem iniuria talis

     cogit amare magis, sed bene velle minus. 

(Carmen 72)

(In my own rough translation) 
You said once that you only knew Catullus,

   Lesbia, and did not want to embrace Jupiter before me,

I valued you then not only as a common girlfriend,

    but as a father values his children and his sons-in-law

Now I know you: therefore although I burn more fiercely 

  Nevertheless, you are much more worthless to me and slighter,

How is it possible, you ask? Because the pain of such love
compels the lover to love more, but to like less.

     

(I would definitely recommend reading Catullus- even in translation his work is amazing)

A friend and I recently started a written communication via letters (there seems to be something pure and unadulterated in not having to depend on the internet for correspondence) I, mainly because I should like to bury it somewhere before I die and let another human being in the future rediscover my thoughts and words- I guess it’s just another way to try and connect with another human being (and live beyond the grave one could say.)

Eventually, life just becomes one long conversation, with oneself, with others- dead and living. And for me personally, making that conversation as interesting as possible ought to be purpose enough. 

Survival of The Opportune- A Lonely Existence (Entry #1)

Did you ever reach 'that age' (I quote 'that age', as it does not come at a particularly indicative age, but rather it comes for some, earlier than others) when you emphatically decided that now would be the time to start the composition of your very own epic story?

Well it did for me. Embarrassingly enough, I actually recently recollected the existence of my very own composition and by virtue of the magical powers of the World Wide Web, I was able to once again retrieve this less than mediocre piece of 'art'. (back then I sent all my favourite pictures and poems to myself via email, and for some pernicious, yet slightly appealing reason, Hotmail has not performed the regular routine of periodically deleting these messages- it also seems to me if they too intend to ridicule me.) I play no game at fake modesty when I state that these manuscripts were absolutely appalling- they had all the elements that make up a sleazy American teen drama (girl meets boy- girl falls in love- girl and boy can't be together- *cue dramatic music*) Nevertheless, it was in finding my very own Romeo and Juliet-esque story that I was actually inspired to give it all another go.

Now, be kind...I know that my story is not at all original (if you do persevere to read my extract you'll understand precisely what I mean), or in any way complete, but since this piece of work was just me 'testing the waters' at my creative writing skills, I thought at the very least it would be amusing, if not at all commendable.

I do, with all sincerity hope that my writing style will not be completely grievous to you.

1

“The honeycomb succulence of vivacity fuelled my thirst”.

 How much of a beautiful piece of literature, an art in itself, it does sound my darling Beatrice- so distinguished, so piercing, so inviting: so unreal.  I fear that this is not a story of zest and fervor; it is meekly the story of life, as true and honest as it may be. It is a story of the inevitable thwarted passion that clambers upon one in old age, the caverns of illusions, which imprisons the insubstantial soul and compels it to return to the irrevocable age of youth.

My story is not an extraordinary one; in fact it has no reason to provoke any genuine curiosity in anyone. I came to the same dull and mundane realization in my fifty-seventh year that no one truly knows how to live, and we all die afraid to have tried, lest ineffectiveness indeed discloses to us the ineptness and squandering nature of the human life itself. I write this little admission therefore, perhaps in vain, to enable you to understand why things are the way they are, and why, my darling Beatrice, they must be so.

            I guess our story must commence the summer of my relocation to the South of London, for it is there that I was met with the perplexing decision to either join the national fire brigade service, or to work preposterous hours for board and house and continue my substandard education at Southfield community college. When I was faced with this decision, I dismissed, what I was told would be a life of excitement and adventure, for the life of tutelage over fresh, juvenile minds. You may think me foolish, for choosing the path that I did, but then I was, of that age, indeed young and foolish, and up until that point had been fed on the ambrosia of dreams, truly believing deep in my heart that I would be the one to make a change to the world; that I was the exception to every rule. And so, I came full of exuberance and prospect that the life I was living behind in Yorkshire was greatly inferior to the life I was to build for myself in the golden paved roads of London.  I arrived at Victoria Station midday, and by 11 past the hour I had recoiled what few things belonged to me from the baggage carrier, and was stepping out into the streets of London.  At once my senses were engulfed by the pungent fragrance of street food; my vision diminished by the muted grey tones, in which the whole city seemed to be immersed into one big patch of murkiness, and with some difficulty I dredged my boots through the gritted slime of food discard, attempting to avoid the bottomless potholes dotted almost everywhere. But still, I caught the sound of the distance murmur, the unwearied and unsullied sounds of vitality and strength, and I was invigorated.