Reason #1 why I like books so much
The nature of reality trips me up a lot, to the point where sometimes I can’t say stuff because I’m confused about what’s real or not. So I figured I’d say stuff about the nature of reality. This is kind of teenage existential angst stuff, the stuff I was worrying about when I was sixteen, the kind of stuff I think you’re supposed to get over by now, unless you take up a career in philosophy, religion, or theoretical physics.
I’m aware the fact that I sit around contemplating the universe probably comes off pretentious. I’m also aware that other people before me have done so better and already thought of (and probably have specific jargon for) all the things I’m saying.
Mostly I must just like to hear myself talk. I love words and I love writing and I love saying things and things being said. So I do also love to discuss, so I have a request for trippy existential books and discussion of trippy existential books at the end. You can skip to that part if you want. Or just not read at all. I won’t be hurt!
Here we go.
So I'm there's this pen sitting on the table. If the pen is there, it is a collection of atoms. The only difference between the pen and the table is the composition and number of said atoms. I percieve that difference, because I notice the shape and size of the pen. But when I percieve the pen, I’m not actually thinking, “there are some atoms which have a different composition than those other atoms.” I’m thinking, “that is a pen: a tool for writing.”
We actually could perceive the pen as anything we want. We could perceive it has having nothing to do with the number of its atoms or composition; we could perceive the pen as the table if we wanted.
But we can also perceive the pen as a myriad of things that have to do with its shape and size. It could be a stick or a lever or a spoke or a very small dildo or a container. We could also perceive the millions of things the pen is like or could symbolize due to its shape and size. We could also perceive millions of uses besides the one we use to define the pen, and we can also perceive the millions of things that each use is like or could symbolize.
For instance, we use a pen to write. Writing is something we perceive as a discrete thing with a specfic use: a method of communication. But we can perceive writing as independent of its use just by looking at the shape and size of writing. The black and white the pen creates is a pattern, a design, a stain, and could symbolize morality, racism, Earth’s rotation, a zebra. The shape of an “s” is that of a road, a snake, a pregnant woman; the “s” itself is also an integral and a musical notation.
But we use writing to communicate, and what can be represented in communication is everything, really. We can write about the universe and we can write about a pen. Because a pen enables this it has been compared to a sword; it can be a weapon and a mother and a creator. The pen could be the universe, if we consider everything it represents, everything it can do, and what everything it can do represents.
I guess that's a big question: whether reality exists, or whether we just perceive it to exist. For all intents and purposes, we accept it to exist in order that we may function in our daily lives. But whether the pen exists or not, our perception of the pen is not based on objective reality. It’s based on a choice we make, again, in order that we may function in our daily lives.
Unless we’re contemplating the nature of the universe, and/or have had some weed, we perceive the pen as a tool for writing. This is because to perceive the pen as a table would be useless to us. To perceive the pen as the universe would be similarly useless and inconvenient, if we just need to jot down a phone number really fast.
However, our perception of the pen fluctuates according to our need. If we do happen to need a lever or a spoke or a very slender dildo, we can choose to perceive the pen in a different way according to its properties. If we want to contemplate the universe, the pen can be the universe. So whether the pen exists, or whether we just perceive it to exist, our perception is never objective. ( That's what Plato was talking about, right? Objective reality exists but can’t be perceived.)
So whether reality exists or not, in some ways the reality we experience is all in our heads. I love that: my brain is vast; it contains multitudes. My one brain is the universe.
So, I love that. I love to think about the pen, and think about everything the pen represents, to think about the pen being everything, and about everything being everything. I love everything. I loved school, because you got to find out about everything, and everything was connected to everything. Once I learned one thing I always felt like I learned a million other things. And for me, literature was more about everything than everything else.
In philosophy, science might come up. But you’re not going to study the chemical properties of uranium when studying philosophy. Similarly, in science, you might mention the historical significance of the A-bomb, but you’re not going to talk about why WWII happened. These subjects, while connected to all other subjects, we treat as discrete areas with specific meanings, so that we can function. We could not learn much about the chemical properties of uranium if we’re also studying WWII, the philosophy of history, and psychology all at the same time.
But literature is the one thing that’s about everything else. It can be about history and psychology and philosophy and science all in one. And while I can perceive the table as the pen or the universe, if I wanted, it won’t help me function. But the use of a book is to explore the universe, to contain the universe, and expand on that which cannot be contained. While it might not be useful to perceive a table as universe, there is a great deal of use in perceiving a book as the universe. That’s what a book is for.
What really trips me out is how we as fans treat the universe of a book (or fiction) as a “real” universe. For instance, I will make arguments about a character’s motivations; e.g. so-and-so did such-and-such because he has daddy issues. This might be something the author did not include purposely, but I can treat the character as an individual who has his own psychology.
However all of the characters in a book-and all of the universe-is merely the product of one’s person’s mind. And by examining the psychology of one character I am examining a facet of the author’s psychology, which can say nothing about the author since the author is not her characters. But all of her characters are she.
With every book you’re holding a universe in your hands, but some make me think about it more than otherse. Two of my favorites are Gravity’s Rainbow and One Hundred Years Of Solitude. Gravity’s Rainbow makes me think about it because it does have everything. There’s a lot of math in there, and physics, and chemistry, and rocket science, and history, and film, and psychology, and sex, and sexual psychology, and movie stars, and war, and paper, and the meaning of paper, and contemplation of existence, and poo. Pynchon manages to make everything interrelate in sad way and funny ways and puntastic ways and wonderful and horrible ways.
One Hundred… is about a family, which becomes a town, which could be a nation, which could be the world. There’s a lot of science and history in there too, but it’s not as explicit as Gravity’s…, which actually has physics equations in the middle of its pages. Marquez instead addresses all these subjects from a spiritual angle. But it’s super cool.
Anywho, what book makes you feel like you just opened up the universe? It doesn’t have to be a book that is vast or contains multitudes. Sometimes the smallest stories can make you feel that way. Are there books that make you existentially angsty? Is it books that are trying to be existentially angsty? (Perhaps obviously I don’t really mean the want-to-kill-yourself type of existential angst. Though I do enjoy Hamlet, because that play is both.) Do you like those books, or did you get over your existential angst in your teen years, and should I be a theoretical physicist?
This entry was originally posted to Dreamwidth. Read Comments | Reply
I’m aware the fact that I sit around contemplating the universe probably comes off pretentious. I’m also aware that other people before me have done so better and already thought of (and probably have specific jargon for) all the things I’m saying.
Mostly I must just like to hear myself talk. I love words and I love writing and I love saying things and things being said. So I do also love to discuss, so I have a request for trippy existential books and discussion of trippy existential books at the end. You can skip to that part if you want. Or just not read at all. I won’t be hurt!
Here we go.
So I'm there's this pen sitting on the table. If the pen is there, it is a collection of atoms. The only difference between the pen and the table is the composition and number of said atoms. I percieve that difference, because I notice the shape and size of the pen. But when I percieve the pen, I’m not actually thinking, “there are some atoms which have a different composition than those other atoms.” I’m thinking, “that is a pen: a tool for writing.”
We actually could perceive the pen as anything we want. We could perceive it has having nothing to do with the number of its atoms or composition; we could perceive the pen as the table if we wanted.
But we can also perceive the pen as a myriad of things that have to do with its shape and size. It could be a stick or a lever or a spoke or a very small dildo or a container. We could also perceive the millions of things the pen is like or could symbolize due to its shape and size. We could also perceive millions of uses besides the one we use to define the pen, and we can also perceive the millions of things that each use is like or could symbolize.
For instance, we use a pen to write. Writing is something we perceive as a discrete thing with a specfic use: a method of communication. But we can perceive writing as independent of its use just by looking at the shape and size of writing. The black and white the pen creates is a pattern, a design, a stain, and could symbolize morality, racism, Earth’s rotation, a zebra. The shape of an “s” is that of a road, a snake, a pregnant woman; the “s” itself is also an integral and a musical notation.
But we use writing to communicate, and what can be represented in communication is everything, really. We can write about the universe and we can write about a pen. Because a pen enables this it has been compared to a sword; it can be a weapon and a mother and a creator. The pen could be the universe, if we consider everything it represents, everything it can do, and what everything it can do represents.
I guess that's a big question: whether reality exists, or whether we just perceive it to exist. For all intents and purposes, we accept it to exist in order that we may function in our daily lives. But whether the pen exists or not, our perception of the pen is not based on objective reality. It’s based on a choice we make, again, in order that we may function in our daily lives.
Unless we’re contemplating the nature of the universe, and/or have had some weed, we perceive the pen as a tool for writing. This is because to perceive the pen as a table would be useless to us. To perceive the pen as the universe would be similarly useless and inconvenient, if we just need to jot down a phone number really fast.
However, our perception of the pen fluctuates according to our need. If we do happen to need a lever or a spoke or a very slender dildo, we can choose to perceive the pen in a different way according to its properties. If we want to contemplate the universe, the pen can be the universe. So whether the pen exists, or whether we just perceive it to exist, our perception is never objective. ( That's what Plato was talking about, right? Objective reality exists but can’t be perceived.)
So whether reality exists or not, in some ways the reality we experience is all in our heads. I love that: my brain is vast; it contains multitudes. My one brain is the universe.
So, I love that. I love to think about the pen, and think about everything the pen represents, to think about the pen being everything, and about everything being everything. I love everything. I loved school, because you got to find out about everything, and everything was connected to everything. Once I learned one thing I always felt like I learned a million other things. And for me, literature was more about everything than everything else.
In philosophy, science might come up. But you’re not going to study the chemical properties of uranium when studying philosophy. Similarly, in science, you might mention the historical significance of the A-bomb, but you’re not going to talk about why WWII happened. These subjects, while connected to all other subjects, we treat as discrete areas with specific meanings, so that we can function. We could not learn much about the chemical properties of uranium if we’re also studying WWII, the philosophy of history, and psychology all at the same time.
But literature is the one thing that’s about everything else. It can be about history and psychology and philosophy and science all in one. And while I can perceive the table as the pen or the universe, if I wanted, it won’t help me function. But the use of a book is to explore the universe, to contain the universe, and expand on that which cannot be contained. While it might not be useful to perceive a table as universe, there is a great deal of use in perceiving a book as the universe. That’s what a book is for.
What really trips me out is how we as fans treat the universe of a book (or fiction) as a “real” universe. For instance, I will make arguments about a character’s motivations; e.g. so-and-so did such-and-such because he has daddy issues. This might be something the author did not include purposely, but I can treat the character as an individual who has his own psychology.
However all of the characters in a book-and all of the universe-is merely the product of one’s person’s mind. And by examining the psychology of one character I am examining a facet of the author’s psychology, which can say nothing about the author since the author is not her characters. But all of her characters are she.
With every book you’re holding a universe in your hands, but some make me think about it more than otherse. Two of my favorites are Gravity’s Rainbow and One Hundred Years Of Solitude. Gravity’s Rainbow makes me think about it because it does have everything. There’s a lot of math in there, and physics, and chemistry, and rocket science, and history, and film, and psychology, and sex, and sexual psychology, and movie stars, and war, and paper, and the meaning of paper, and contemplation of existence, and poo. Pynchon manages to make everything interrelate in sad way and funny ways and puntastic ways and wonderful and horrible ways.
One Hundred… is about a family, which becomes a town, which could be a nation, which could be the world. There’s a lot of science and history in there too, but it’s not as explicit as Gravity’s…, which actually has physics equations in the middle of its pages. Marquez instead addresses all these subjects from a spiritual angle. But it’s super cool.
Anywho, what book makes you feel like you just opened up the universe? It doesn’t have to be a book that is vast or contains multitudes. Sometimes the smallest stories can make you feel that way. Are there books that make you existentially angsty? Is it books that are trying to be existentially angsty? (Perhaps obviously I don’t really mean the want-to-kill-yourself type of existential angst. Though I do enjoy Hamlet, because that play is both.) Do you like those books, or did you get over your existential angst in your teen years, and should I be a theoretical physicist?
This entry was originally posted to Dreamwidth. Read Comments | Reply