As you probably know, I finished reading The war of the worlds a few days ago. Just like it happened to me when I finished A brave new world or Animal Farm, I thought it´s awesome how a book written by the end of the nineteenth century can still be so valid today. I mean, you can well read and enjoy many classics, but with these ones, you could even think they have been written only a few decades ago...
Anyway, this is mostly my impression. I enjoyed reading, even if the story is not thrilling and is kind of slow. And I also liked the "poof!-type" ending.
I would like to share a short text here. I don´t know if you know, but sometimes my favorite part of a book is not the most brilliant one, but the one that makes me think the most, especially about things that are not closely related to the story... The part that makes my mind maunder to philosophical matters and such. I think that´s also why I like paintings such as Richter´s Tote, not because of the esthetics of it in itself.
Ok, here it goes.
All these--the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way--they'd be no good. They haven't any spirit in them--no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn't one or the other--Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work--I've seen hundreds of 'em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they'd get dismissed if they didn't; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays--fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these.
I will probably get philosophical here very soon... I have a lot of things whirling in my mind these days. But this is it for today.
[Suggested readings (other than, of course, A brave new world and Animal Farm):
Childhood´s End by Arthur C. Clarke
From the Earth to the Moon by J. Verne (I will have to get this one)]
miércoles, 27 de agosto de 2014
jueves, 21 de agosto de 2014
And what about aliens?
It´s been so long again. I have wanted to write about many things these days, but my mind was somewhere else (it still is, actually) and I wasn´t too motivated.
I wanted to write about (in order of appearance in my mind along the days) Coetzee and Foe, my new residency, ebola, african immigration to spain, spain, relativeness (I don´t think that exists as a word in spanish either, at least not with this meaning of "everything being relative"), unfinished stories and aliens.
About my new residency I will just say, I don´t know how it will end up being, but right now I´m so happy with the choice I made: I like what I do, I´m getting to know great people and I think I can be quite good at it (with time and effort, of course).
About ebola and immigration, not today.
About spain, not a great place to live but definitely an awesome place to visit, I will write some other day.
About relativeness, here it goes:
When I worked with oncology patients I used to think I was so lucky to be healthy. I used to think about those unfortunate people I was trying to help, some times succeeding, some others not so much. Some of them died, some of them lived, a few got cured. Many of them were even younger than I was. But then, as they say, while there´s still life, there´s still hope.
What I´m seeing now is what comes next: they are already dead. We get these bodies that were real people just a few hours ago, people with hopes that turned out to be useless. People we don´t know, people we have not treated, people we don´t care about. People who, by the moment we put our hands on them, are just inanimate things. We cut them, open their bodies, slice them. (Yes, the happy group of people you just saw in the photo, we do that). And then we learn about the medical tragedy behind each case. I mean, they wouldn´t demand an autopsy if it was an expected death of a long time sick patient.
And then you think, no matter how bad things are, I´m not that person on the autopsy table, not even a relative of his/hers. I´m not a grieving mom whose dead fetus is being sliced to be later stored in a plastic container. And there´s no guarantee that I won´t be there, it could just happen any day. You might think it´s macabre, but it actually helps. And I develop a whole philosophical theory every time I go down there.
Changing subject, I know I have to write about Coetzee´s Foe, but I don´t have the book right now and there were a few lines I wanted to transcribe, so that will come later, soon.
So about unfinished stories now. This goes in relation to this book I read a few months ago, Atmospheric disturbances, which I really liked. I have already posted about it, but I published it without saying a word about this. It´s not that the story in the book is unfinished, and I don´t want to spoil it. But it was something I thought about as I was approaching the last pages. And I guess this is also, and again, a reflection about happiness. We always hope to get this "happily ever after" ending, and most of the times we don´t realise that such thing just doesn´t exist. That after the movie ends, after that last love kiss they show us on the screen, the characters will still have to cope with their everyday lives. The happy ending won´t last, because it´s not an ending. Unless the characters die at that very instant, which, on the other hand, would not exactly be happy (though it would definitely be "ever after"). So, what I mean is, we all aspire to happiness, but all we´ll get is, at most and if we´re lucky, a few happy instants that will only last in our memories, and I don´t think we can ever be satisfied with our lives if we don´t keep that in mind, if we keep hoping and suffering for an imaginary happiness that we´ll never reach, not as a final condition. We all survive the best way we can.
That, or I´m particularly gloomy these days.
I wanted to write about (in order of appearance in my mind along the days) Coetzee and Foe, my new residency, ebola, african immigration to spain, spain, relativeness (I don´t think that exists as a word in spanish either, at least not with this meaning of "everything being relative"), unfinished stories and aliens.
About my new residency I will just say, I don´t know how it will end up being, but right now I´m so happy with the choice I made: I like what I do, I´m getting to know great people and I think I can be quite good at it (with time and effort, of course).About ebola and immigration, not today.
About spain, not a great place to live but definitely an awesome place to visit, I will write some other day.
About relativeness, here it goes:
When I worked with oncology patients I used to think I was so lucky to be healthy. I used to think about those unfortunate people I was trying to help, some times succeeding, some others not so much. Some of them died, some of them lived, a few got cured. Many of them were even younger than I was. But then, as they say, while there´s still life, there´s still hope.
What I´m seeing now is what comes next: they are already dead. We get these bodies that were real people just a few hours ago, people with hopes that turned out to be useless. People we don´t know, people we have not treated, people we don´t care about. People who, by the moment we put our hands on them, are just inanimate things. We cut them, open their bodies, slice them. (Yes, the happy group of people you just saw in the photo, we do that). And then we learn about the medical tragedy behind each case. I mean, they wouldn´t demand an autopsy if it was an expected death of a long time sick patient.
And then you think, no matter how bad things are, I´m not that person on the autopsy table, not even a relative of his/hers. I´m not a grieving mom whose dead fetus is being sliced to be later stored in a plastic container. And there´s no guarantee that I won´t be there, it could just happen any day. You might think it´s macabre, but it actually helps. And I develop a whole philosophical theory every time I go down there.
Changing subject, I know I have to write about Coetzee´s Foe, but I don´t have the book right now and there were a few lines I wanted to transcribe, so that will come later, soon.
So about unfinished stories now. This goes in relation to this book I read a few months ago, Atmospheric disturbances, which I really liked. I have already posted about it, but I published it without saying a word about this. It´s not that the story in the book is unfinished, and I don´t want to spoil it. But it was something I thought about as I was approaching the last pages. And I guess this is also, and again, a reflection about happiness. We always hope to get this "happily ever after" ending, and most of the times we don´t realise that such thing just doesn´t exist. That after the movie ends, after that last love kiss they show us on the screen, the characters will still have to cope with their everyday lives. The happy ending won´t last, because it´s not an ending. Unless the characters die at that very instant, which, on the other hand, would not exactly be happy (though it would definitely be "ever after"). So, what I mean is, we all aspire to happiness, but all we´ll get is, at most and if we´re lucky, a few happy instants that will only last in our memories, and I don´t think we can ever be satisfied with our lives if we don´t keep that in mind, if we keep hoping and suffering for an imaginary happiness that we´ll never reach, not as a final condition. We all survive the best way we can.
That, or I´m particularly gloomy these days.
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