Literary resonance
Generally I don't expect to feel my soul poked at when studying for a history class. But for this class most of the required reading is in novel form, and the following paragraph just sneaked up and clubbed me over the head:
"'Broad the waves,' Thomas Buddenbrook said, 'ah, see them surging, watch them breaking, ever surging, ever breaking, on they come in endless rows, bleak and pointless, filled with woes. And yet there's something calming and comforting about them, too--like all things simple and necessary. I've learned to love the sea more and more--perhaps I preferred mountains at one time only because they were so much farther away. I wouldn't want to go there now. I think I would feel afraid and embarrassed. They're too arbitrary, too irregular, too diverse--I'm sure I'd feel overwhelmed. What sort of people prefer the monotony of the sea, do you suppose? It seems to me it's those who have gazed too long and too deeply into the complexity at the heart of things and so have no choice but to demand one thing from external reality: simplicity. It has little to do with boldly scrambling about in the mountains, as opposed to lying calmly beside the sea. But I know the look in the eyes of people who revere the one or the other. Happy, confident, defiant eyes full of enterprise, resolve, and courage scan from peak to peak; but when people dreamily watch the wide sea and the waves rolling in with mystical and numbing inevitability, there is something veiled, forlorn, and knowing about their eyes, as if at some point in life they have looked deep into gloomy chaos. Health or sickness--that is the difference. A man climbs jauntily up into the wonderful variety of jagged, towering, fissured forms to test his vital energies, because he has never had to spend them. But a man chooses to rest beside the wide simplicity of external things, because he is weary from the chaos within.'"
--Thomas Mann
This isn't something I'd ever thought of myself, but it resonates with me. I'd almost like to do a study to confirm this idea, though that does seem rather like trivializing it.
I've always attributed my own love of the ocean (and by "love" I mean I include it in My Personal Pantheon), inasmuch as I tried to analyze it at all, to the power it represents, and if pressed I'd admit that there's something horribly seductive about the idea of just yielding to that power and letting it sweep me away. Probably this stems from my having too many things in my life that need to be taken care of and too much difficulty managing to do that, leading to the desire on some level to surrender control and, more importantly, responsibility (at this time I won't even get into what that implies for me in *ahem* other areas of life)--but that actually fits, now that I think about it, with Mann's talk of seeking simplicity. After all, when life is too complex, giving up control is the ultimate means of achieving simplicity.
I'd ponder this some more, but I almost don't feel I need to; for once, it's more like I've just had something click a little more firmly into place.
"'Broad the waves,' Thomas Buddenbrook said, 'ah, see them surging, watch them breaking, ever surging, ever breaking, on they come in endless rows, bleak and pointless, filled with woes. And yet there's something calming and comforting about them, too--like all things simple and necessary. I've learned to love the sea more and more--perhaps I preferred mountains at one time only because they were so much farther away. I wouldn't want to go there now. I think I would feel afraid and embarrassed. They're too arbitrary, too irregular, too diverse--I'm sure I'd feel overwhelmed. What sort of people prefer the monotony of the sea, do you suppose? It seems to me it's those who have gazed too long and too deeply into the complexity at the heart of things and so have no choice but to demand one thing from external reality: simplicity. It has little to do with boldly scrambling about in the mountains, as opposed to lying calmly beside the sea. But I know the look in the eyes of people who revere the one or the other. Happy, confident, defiant eyes full of enterprise, resolve, and courage scan from peak to peak; but when people dreamily watch the wide sea and the waves rolling in with mystical and numbing inevitability, there is something veiled, forlorn, and knowing about their eyes, as if at some point in life they have looked deep into gloomy chaos. Health or sickness--that is the difference. A man climbs jauntily up into the wonderful variety of jagged, towering, fissured forms to test his vital energies, because he has never had to spend them. But a man chooses to rest beside the wide simplicity of external things, because he is weary from the chaos within.'"
--Thomas Mann
This isn't something I'd ever thought of myself, but it resonates with me. I'd almost like to do a study to confirm this idea, though that does seem rather like trivializing it.
I've always attributed my own love of the ocean (and by "love" I mean I include it in My Personal Pantheon), inasmuch as I tried to analyze it at all, to the power it represents, and if pressed I'd admit that there's something horribly seductive about the idea of just yielding to that power and letting it sweep me away. Probably this stems from my having too many things in my life that need to be taken care of and too much difficulty managing to do that, leading to the desire on some level to surrender control and, more importantly, responsibility (at this time I won't even get into what that implies for me in *ahem* other areas of life)--but that actually fits, now that I think about it, with Mann's talk of seeking simplicity. After all, when life is too complex, giving up control is the ultimate means of achieving simplicity.
I'd ponder this some more, but I almost don't feel I need to; for once, it's more like I've just had something click a little more firmly into place.