Why I would go insane if I tried to major in English
Epistemology - The study of what is meant by "knowledge". What does it mean to "know" something as opposed to merely having an opinion. This issue has been at the core of Western philosophy since before Socrates, since, until it has been answered, all other questions become unsolvable.
Today in AP English lit, we got our essays on the Book of Job back. Our prompt was to write about how irony shapes meaning in the Book of Job. Fair enough. I looked at this confusing story from a point of view as analytical as I could - the authors of it, I figured, must have written it to address the question of why the pious suffer. It must have been an object of some wonderment to the ancient Hebrews, since there was obviously more than the simple on-the-surface reading that God had made a bet with Satan and Job, an innocent man, got ground up in God's quest to satiate His own ego.
However, it became clear when I got my essay back that by assuming that I knew anything about the Book of Job, I was in the place of Job's friends, who looked at previous doctrines and thought they knew a thing about the way God functioned. We look at Job's friends from an omniscient perspective- we know that Job is innocent, and that Job's friends are wrong- aren't we clever? But just because we're provided with this perspective doesn't mean we know anything either. The only point that the Book of Job is trying to make is that there doesn't have to be a point. Simply by trying to write an essay on the meaning of the Book of Job we are falling into the logical fallacy inherent in it- we can never truly know anything.
This doesn't make me feel awed or inspired by the profundity of the Book of Job, but it does make me feel a bit angry. I just spent an entire couple of months in my English class trying to create a point out of something that doesn't have a point. The study of literature is infinitely recursive. We make our own meaning out of things, that's what makes them worth reading. But when everyone is making their own meaning and the author's true intention not only becomes impossible to know, but also ceases to matter, what are we doing?
Nothing in the Universe matters. We can't know anything. The question 'why?' is a construct of the human psyche. Nothing in our English class is ever really resolved - Mr. Brennan will let us argue for hours, shooting ideas back and forth, posing opinions and tearing them down. And then after we've worn out every avenue of discussion that has ever occurred to us on the topic - sometimes it doesn't even have to be on the topic - Mr. Brennan will say something like "Two very interesting perspectives! Anyway, onto our next work." My only conclusion is that professors of literature and philosophy are in love more with staring deep into a black pit of nothing and seeing spots than with the actual subject matter. The higher I climb in the ivory tower the more horrified I am at what I see. No wonder people have gone insane with the concept of infinity.
I still love to read, of course. And, I guess, like the English and philosophy professors about whom I've just been complaining, I love to think and see where it takes me. And ultimately I guess it is all meaningless, like the Book of Job. No matter how much we think about something we'll never know anything. In fact I may be more confused about what I resent about English class now than when I started this entry. But you know what I know? I know that hot chocolate at 2 AM will always taste better than hot chocolate any other time of the day.
Cheers,
- Jessica
Today in AP English lit, we got our essays on the Book of Job back. Our prompt was to write about how irony shapes meaning in the Book of Job. Fair enough. I looked at this confusing story from a point of view as analytical as I could - the authors of it, I figured, must have written it to address the question of why the pious suffer. It must have been an object of some wonderment to the ancient Hebrews, since there was obviously more than the simple on-the-surface reading that God had made a bet with Satan and Job, an innocent man, got ground up in God's quest to satiate His own ego.
However, it became clear when I got my essay back that by assuming that I knew anything about the Book of Job, I was in the place of Job's friends, who looked at previous doctrines and thought they knew a thing about the way God functioned. We look at Job's friends from an omniscient perspective- we know that Job is innocent, and that Job's friends are wrong- aren't we clever? But just because we're provided with this perspective doesn't mean we know anything either. The only point that the Book of Job is trying to make is that there doesn't have to be a point. Simply by trying to write an essay on the meaning of the Book of Job we are falling into the logical fallacy inherent in it- we can never truly know anything.
This doesn't make me feel awed or inspired by the profundity of the Book of Job, but it does make me feel a bit angry. I just spent an entire couple of months in my English class trying to create a point out of something that doesn't have a point. The study of literature is infinitely recursive. We make our own meaning out of things, that's what makes them worth reading. But when everyone is making their own meaning and the author's true intention not only becomes impossible to know, but also ceases to matter, what are we doing?
Nothing in the Universe matters. We can't know anything. The question 'why?' is a construct of the human psyche. Nothing in our English class is ever really resolved - Mr. Brennan will let us argue for hours, shooting ideas back and forth, posing opinions and tearing them down. And then after we've worn out every avenue of discussion that has ever occurred to us on the topic - sometimes it doesn't even have to be on the topic - Mr. Brennan will say something like "Two very interesting perspectives! Anyway, onto our next work." My only conclusion is that professors of literature and philosophy are in love more with staring deep into a black pit of nothing and seeing spots than with the actual subject matter. The higher I climb in the ivory tower the more horrified I am at what I see. No wonder people have gone insane with the concept of infinity.
I still love to read, of course. And, I guess, like the English and philosophy professors about whom I've just been complaining, I love to think and see where it takes me. And ultimately I guess it is all meaningless, like the Book of Job. No matter how much we think about something we'll never know anything. In fact I may be more confused about what I resent about English class now than when I started this entry. But you know what I know? I know that hot chocolate at 2 AM will always taste better than hot chocolate any other time of the day.
Cheers,
- Jessica