The Meaning of Love by Vladimir Solovyov

I won't make any comments, because the quotes speak for themselves, more than I ever could:

"Thanks to the boundless expansivity and indissolubility of the successive consciousness, a human being, still remaining his same self, may attain and realize all the limitless of fulness of being, and therefore no higher species of beings in place of him are either necessary or possible. Within the limits of his given reality a human is only a part of nature; but constantly and consistently he is infringing these limits. In his spiritual offspring- religion and science, morality and art- the human being is revealed as the center of the universal consciousness of nature, the soul of the world, the potentiality of the absolute unity-of-the-all coming to realization, and consequently, above him there can be only this same absolute in its perfect at or eternal being, that is God."

"Recognizing in love the truth of another, not abstractly, but essentially, transferring in deed the center of our life beyond the limits of our empirical personality, we by so doing reveal and realize our own real truth, our own absolute significance, which consists just in our capacity to transcend the borders of our factual phenomenal being, in our capacity to live not only in ourselves, but also in another."

"Love's primordial power here loses all its meaning, when its object is degraded from the height of the absolute center of immortal individuality to the level of a fortuitous and easily replaced demands for the production of a new generation of human beings, a generation that may be a little better or may be a little worse, but is in any case relative and transitory." 

"If, inevitably, and without our own volition, the existent idealization of love reveals to us through empirical appearance a distant ideal image of the beloved object, this is not, of course, only that we might delight in it, but that by the power of true faith, active imagination and real creativeness we might transform, in accordance with this true exemplar, the reality not corresponding to it, and might embody it in a real phenomenon."

"But it is the seperation of the sexes- not eliminated by their external and transient union in the act of generation- it is this seperation between male and female elements of the human being which is already in itself a state of disintegration, and the beginning of death"

"The elephant and the raven prove to be significantly longer-lived than even the most punctiliously virtuous human."

"But love, as I understand it, is, on the contrary, an extraordinarily compelx affair, bosure and intricate, demanding fully conscious analysis and investigation, in which one needs to be concerned not about simplicity, but about the truth..."

"If for me, who am myself on this side of the transcendental world, a certain ideal object appears to be only the product of my own imagination, this does not interfere with its full reality in another higher sphere of being."

"This living ideal fo the Divine love, antecedent to our love, contains in itself the secret of the idealization of our love. In it the idealization of the lower being exists together with an incipient realization of the higher, and in this is the truth of love's intense emotion."

"Good tidings from a lost paradise- tidings of the possibility of recovery- we accept as an invitation to become finally naturalized in earthly exile, to enter without delay into full and hereditary possession of our own minute portion, with all its thistles and briars."

"Only by consistent acts of conscious faith do we enter into real correpsondence with the realm of the turly-existent, and through it into true correlation with our "other". Only on this basis can we retain and strengthen in consciousness that absoluteness for us of another person (and consequently also the absolutelness of our union with him) which is immediately and unaccountably revealed in the intense emotion of love, for this emotion of love comes and passes away, but the faith of love abides."

"In this way, that which lies at the basis of our world is being in a state of disintegration, being dismembered into parts and moments which exclude one another."

"the body of the universe is the totality of the real-ideal, the psycho-physical, or simply (in direct agreement with the idea of Newton about the sensorium Dei) it is a mystical body,"

"Already also in the natural world everything apper tains to the idea, but the true essence of the latter demands not only that everything should belong to it, that everything should be included in it, but also that the idea itself should belong to everything, that everything, i.e., all particular and individual beings, and consequently each one of them, should really be possessed of the ideal unity-of-the-all, should comprise it in itself. Perfect unity-of-the-all, in accordance with its own conception of itself, demands complete equilibrium, equivalence and equality of right between the one and the all, be tween the whole and the parts, between the general and the particular."

"But as this organic solidarity in the animal does not reach beyond the limits of its bodily structure, so also for it the image of the complementary “other” is wholly limited to such a single body with the possibility only of a material and partial union. Therefore the supratemporal infinity or eternity of the idea, operating in the living creative power of love, assumes here the base, rectilineal form of limitless propagation, i.e., the repetition of one and the same organism in the monotonous replacement of single temporal existences."

"True union presupposes the true separateness of those being united, i.e., a separateness by power of which they do not exclude, but mutually replenish each other, each finding in the other the fulness of his own proper life. As in the love of two individual beings, diverse but enjoying equal rights and of equal worth, each serves the other, not as a negative limitation but as positive fulfillment, so in precisely the same way it must also be in all spheres of collective life; every social organism ought to be for each of its members not an external limit of his activity, but a positive support and fulfillment."

"it is requisite above all that we should have a relation to social and worldwide circles as to a real living being, with which we (never merging into inseparability) are in the closest and fullest reciprocal action."

"that any conscious activity of humanity determined by the idea of a cosmic syzygy and aimed at embodying the unity-of-the-all ideal in that sphere or another actually produces or sets free real currents of spirit and body. These currents gradually take possession of the material environment, animate it and embody in it some images or other of the unity-of- the-all—the living and eternal likenesses of absolute humanity."

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Extremely fascinating work. Sublime concept.

Pub:
Lindisfarne Press 1985

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich Solzhenitsyn

Before I begin- I would like to say that everything I say here has been discussed in a real university- so it isn't just me trying to figure things out (although that may happen).

Work was like a stick. It had two ends. When you worked for the knowing you gave them quality' wen you worked for a fool you simply gave him eyewash. Otherwise, everybody would have croaked long ago. They all knew that."

"How can you expect a man who's warm to understand a man who's cold? "

"But the years, they never rolled by; they never moved by a second."

"Who's the zek's main enemy? Another zeik. If only they weren't at odds with one another--ah, what a difference that'd make!"

"The belly is a demon. It doesn't remember how well you treated it yesterday; it'll only cry out for more tomorrow."

"And then it became clear that men like him wouldn't ever be allowed to return home, that they'd be exiled."

"A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day."

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Ivan is a special character in the book due to the fact that he is the only that one preserves his humanity. Although the circumstances would make a human being go into survival mode, and therefore turning him into a sort of animal- he still preserves himself. One can see this through the way he removes his cap before eating instead of giving into the hunger and pouncing upon the food. He is capable of disciplining himself, even something as insignificant as a slight hesitation before eating. That is a tremendous master of one's animalistic desires. In a world where sucking up to someone will get you far, Ivan still preserves his dignity and yet manages to show respect to his "superiors" and even inferiors (such as offering a cigarette to someone lower in rank than him).

The name itself is very significant, because it symbolizes the peasant "simple" man. In Russian folk tales, although simpleminded Ivan always manages to be clever in the end, and trick the rest of the system. To "pull wool over the eyes of authority" so to speak. Ivan is an icon representing traditional Russian values such as honesty and restraint even when all is chaos.

So a breakdown of the "collective family" represented in the book. Because Solzhenitsyn uses the camp life to represent the the Soviet system, each character represents a certain aspect of the said society. We have each aspect of society coming from the religious, the intellectual and the Soviet socialist.

Tiurin is the squad leader- he has to do all the paperwork- referring to the bureaucracy of the system- no matter what work gets done, the paper has to meet a certain standard. In the end- the document is more important than what realistically took place. This is also referenced when the "decree" that changed nature itself.
"The sun's already reached its peak," he [Shukhov] announced.
"If it's reached its peak," said the captain reflectively, "it's one o'clock, not noon."
"What do you mean?" Shukhov demurred. "Every old-timer knows that the sun stands highest at dinner-time."
"Old-timers, maybe," snapped the captain."but since their day a new decree has been passed, and now the sun stands highest at one."
"Who passed the decree?"
"Soviet power."
This relates to the same ideology that got Ivan put into prison too. The only reason why he was imprisoned was because he signed a document that approved a lie. The ironic thing being that everyone knew it was a lie, including himself, and yet he had to sign it. A document could change reality.

Fetiukov is an example of what one can become if one loses all one's humanity. Figuring that he can get ahead, he loses all sense of morality and gives in to all instincts the system calls for. Such as spying. In his previous life, he was a boss, one in position of power, this shows that people who were in authority cannot function when demoted to a lower level. This brings up the question- how did they get that position in the first place? And what does that say about the whole system?

The Captain- Ivan says about him that "He was a newcomer. He was unused to the hard life of the zeks. Though he didn't know it, moments like this were particularly important to him, for they were transforming him from an eager, confident naval officer with a ringing voice into an inert, though wary, zek. And only that inertness lay the chance of surviving the twenty-five years of imprisonment he'd been sentenced to." The system needed to crush him first, and turn him into a monotone being so he could survive. He needed to pace himself in order to survive. His fault was in thinking that there was hope in this system- that things will eventually work out. The trick was though, to accept the fact that things were actually never going to work out. Ivan on the other hand, did not give up but turned into a passive person. He lets things go and doesn't get worked up about almost anything except spying. Spying was in fact something that was encouraged by society (socially acceptable) but in the book we can see that Ivan cannot stand Fetiukov- therefore not being passive when it comes to morality.

The way passiveness connects to the audience of that time is tremendous. It is essentially asking- is this was you have become? Is this what it takes to survive in the Soviet system? Where has our dignity gone? Something that was seen to be accepted, the fact that one would spy on someone else for the state, seems to be criticized in the book. This brought a different viewpoint to the soviet citizen of that time. Sure, people had heard of prison camps- but what really went on there? The masterpiece of this book is that not only is it a prison camp, but a prison camp that reflects the society of that time. Paralleling it also to a prison. The fact that a prison camp reflects daily life is a direct criticism against the soviet system. That one is not as free as one thinks.

Another important detail of the book is the metaphor of the oatmeal. The way the oatmeal is lessed as it goes through the hierarchy of the system- starting at the head- and by the time it reaches the prisoner it is considerably lessened. This is very ironic because the oatmeal was in fact supposed to be for the prisoners to begin with, but doesn't turn out to be so. The head of the camp also needs food, and so does his helper, and his helper, and his helper...and so on. This leads to the conclusion that what portion do they really get from this "oatmeal" by the time it reaches the bottom of the hierarchy? This can be also said for the parcel Tsezar received.
"People imagine that hte package a man gets is a sort of nice, tight sack he has only to slit open and be happy. But if you work it out it's a matter of easy come, easy go. Shukhov had known cases when before his parcel arrived a fellow would be doing odd jobs to ear a bit of extra kasah, or cadging cigarette butts- just like anybody else. He has to share with the guard and the squad leader- and how can he help giving a little something to teh trusty in the parcels office? Why, next time the fellow may mislay your parcel and a week may go by before your name appears again on the list! And that other fellow at the place where you hand in your food to be kept for you, safe from friskers and pilferers- Tsezar will be there before the morning roll call, with everything in a sack- he must have his cut too, and a good one, if you don't want him little by little swiping more than you gave him. Sitting there all day, the rat, shut up with other people's food- try to keep an eye on him! And there must be something for services like Shukhov's. And something to the bath attendant for issuing you decent underwear- not much but something. And for the barber who shaves you "with paper" (for wiping the razon on- he usually does it on your knee). Not much to him either but, still, three or four butts. And at the C.E.D., for your letters to be kept separate and not get lost. And if you want to goof off a day or two and lie in bed, instead of going to work, you have to slip the doctor something. And what about the neighbor you share a locker with (The captain, in Tsezar's case)? He must have his cut. After all, he sees every blessed ounce you take. Who'd be nervy enough not to give him his share?"

A major theme of this book is WORK REDEEMS. The fact that Ivan is a peasant isn't just a coincidence. What does a peasant do? Does he contemplate and write books? No! He works! The only time that Ivan came into himself and became a man again was when he worked. That is what he knew, that is what he was comfortable with. No one could tell him how to work, because he just knew. Ivan got into a sort of trance-like rhythm when he was building the wall. "And now Shukhov was no longer seeing that distant view where sun gleamed on snow. He was no longer seeing the prisoners as they wandered from the warming-up places all over the site, some to hack away at the holes they hadn't finished that morning, some to fix the mesh reinforcement, some to put up beams in the workshops. Shukhov was seeing only his wall- from the junction to the left where the blocks rose in steps, higher than his waist, to the right to the corner where it met Kilgas's. He showed Senka where to remove ice and chopped at it energetically himself with the back and blade of his ax, so that the splinters of ice flew all about and into his face. He worked with drive, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His thoughts and his eyes were feeling their way under the ice to the wall itself, the outer facade of the power station, two blocks thick. At the spot he was working on, the wall had preciously been laid by some mason who was either incompetent or had stunk up the job. But now Shukhov tackled the wall as if it was his own handiwork."
He has a rhythm, he derives satisfaction and work takes over. And this is the only way, it seems, that he can escape this prison of his, through his own thoughts. Emphasizing his enjoyment and satisfaction is very Tolstoyan, that truth can be found only in work. This asks the audience to go back to the time that was, and return to the only thing that can be true.

If one thinks about it, this book could easily fit into the social realist model. Where the hero is simple but takes over and solves problems for the common good, concluding with an uplifting ending. The only difference is that the ending is not uplifting just because it fits into this model. The ending seems to be everlasting, as if this passiveness is eternal, and we have trapped ourselves in this prison forever. What have we done?- It seems to be asking. This one day seems like a lifetime, and yet it still is one day. Ending it with "Almost a happy day." (Because he managed to survive) There were three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days like that in his stretch. From the first clang of the rail to the last clang of the rail. Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days. The three extra days were for leap years."


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Solzhenitsyn, Alexander Isaievich, Ralph Parker, Marvin L. Kalb, and Alexander Tvardovsky. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. New York: Signet Classic, 1963. Print.

To Journey to the Harz by Heine

"It was as yet very early in the morning when I left Göttingen, and the learned ——, beyond doubt, still lay in bed, dreaming as usual that he wandered in a fair garden, amid the beds of which grew innumerable white papers written over with citations.On these the sun shone cheerily, and he plucked up several here and there and laboriously planted them in new beds, while the sweetest songs of the nightingales rejoiced his old heart."

"One lady was evidently his wife—an altogether extensively constructed dame, gifted with a rubicund square mile of countenance, with dimples in her cheeks which looked like spittoons for cupids. A copious double chin appeared below, like an imperfect continuation of the face, while her high-piled bosom, which was defended by stiff points of lace and a many-cornered collar, as if by turrets and bastions, reminded one of a fortress. Still, it is by no means certain that this fortress would have resisted an ass laden with gold, any more than did that of which Philip of Macedon spoke."

"And, like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means. She has, after all, only a sun, trees, flowers, water, and love to work with. Of course, if the latter be lacking in the heart of the observer, the whole will, in all probability, present but a poor appearance; the sun is then only so many miles in diameter, the trees are good for firewood, the flowers are classified according to their stamens, and the water is wet."

It is all how one perceives it.

""Children," thought I, "are younger than we; they can remember when they were once trees or birds, and are consequently still able to understand them. We of larger growth are, alas, too old for that, and carry about in our heads too many sorrows and bad verses and too much legal lore."

"This little book was very badly printed, so that I greatly feared that the doctrines of faith made thereby but an unpleasant blotting-paper sort of impression upon the children's minds. I was also shocked at observing that the multiplication table—which surely seriously contradicts the Holy Trinity—was printed on the last page of the catechism, as it at once occurred to me that by this means the minds of the children might, even in their earliest years, be led to the most sinful skepticism."

"We Prussians are more intelligent, and, in our zeal for converting those heathen who are familiar with arithmetic, take good care not to print the multiplication table in the back of the catechism."

"Young Dollar, what a destiny awaits thee! What a cause wilt thou be of good and of evil! How thou wilt protect vice and patch up virtue! How thou wilt be beloved and accursed! How thou wilt aid in debauchery, pandering, lying, and murdering! How thou wilt restlessly roll along through clean and dirty hands for centuries, until finally, laden with tresspasses and weary with sin, thou wilt be gathered again unto thine own, in the bosom of an Abraham, who will melt thee down, purify thee, and form thee into a new and better being, perhaps an innocent little tea-spoon, with which my own great-great-grandson will mash his porridge."

I don't know how fitting this may be- but this reminds me of this song that I was introduced to in class.

"Other people may be wittier, more intelligent, and more agreeable, but none is so faithful as the real German race."

"Did I not know that fidelity is as old as the world, I would believe that a German heart had invented it."

"Tranquil even to stagnation as the life of these people may appear, it is, nevertheless, a real and vivid life. That ancient trembling crone who sits behind the stove opposite the great clothes-press may have been there for a quarter of a century, and all her thinking and feeling is, beyond a doubt, intimately blended with every corner of the stove and the carvings of the press. And clothes-press and stove live—for a human being hath breathed into them a portion of her soul."

"Clouds of evil flee before him, And those cobwebs of the brain Which forbade us love and pleasure, Scowling grimly on our pain."

"Thousand startling, wondrous flowers, Leaves of vast and fabled form, Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering, As if thrilled with passion's storm. In a crimson conflagration Roses o'er the tumult rise; Giant lilies, white as crystal, Shoot like columns to the skies. Great as suns, the stars above us Gaze adown with burning glow; Fill the lilies' cups gigantic With their lights' abundant flow."

"The sun poured down a cheerful light on the merry Burschen, in gaily colored garb, as they merrily pressed onward through the wood, disappearing here, coming to light again there, running across marshy places on trunks of trees, climbing over shelving steeps by grasping the projecting tree-roots; while they thrilled all the time in the merriest manner and received as joyous an answer from the twittering wood-birds, the invisibly plashing rivulets, and the resounding echo. When cheerful youth and beautiful nature meet, they mutually rejoice."

"We feel infinite happiness when the outer world blends with the world of our own soul, and green trees, thoughts, the songs of birds, gentle melancholy, the blue of heaven, memory, and the perfume of herbs, run together in sweet arabesques. Women best understand this feeling, and this may be the cause that such a sweet incredulous smile plays around their lips when we, with scholastic pride, boast of our logical deeds—how we have classified everything so nicely into subjective and objective; how our heads are provided, apothecary-like, with a thousand drawers, one of which contains reason, another understanding, the third wit, the fourth bad wit, and the fifth nothing at all—that is to say, the Idea."

"I also did well in mythology, and took a real delight in the mob of gods and goddesses who, so jolly and naked, governed the world."

"There was here, too, many a hard nut to crack; and I can remember as plainly as though it happened but yesterday that I once got into a bad scrape through la religion. I was asked at least six times in succession, "Henry, what is French for 'the faith?'" And six times, with an ever increasing inclination to weep, I replied, "It is called le crédit." And after the seventh question the furious examinator, purple in the face, cried, "It is called la religion"—and there was a rain of blows and a thunder of laughter from all my schoolmates. Madame, since that day I never hear the word religion without having my back turn pale with terror, and my cheeks turn red with shame. And to tell the honest truth, le crédit has during my life stood me in the better stead than la religion. It occurs to me just at this instant that I still owe the landlord of The Lion in Bologna five dollars. And I pledge you my sacred word of honor that I would willingly owe him five dollars more if I could only be certain that I should never again hear that unlucky word, la religion, as long as I live."

"The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Indian Sea lies his lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too narrow lies silently under a little hillock, where five weeping willows shake out their green hair, and a gentle little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with unerring style, has written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like ghostly tones, through the centuries."

"As for the Germans, they need neither freedom nor equality. They are a speculative race, ideologists, prophets, and sages, dreamers who live only in the past and in the future, and who have no present."

"Should Freedom ever vanish from the entire world—which God forbid!—a German dreamer would discover her again in his dreams."

Wonderful description of the English. Capitalism

"Every age is a sphinx, which casts itself into the abyss when man has guessed its riddle."

"Truly Rome, the Hercules among races, was so thoroughly devoured by Jewish poison that helm and harness fell from its withered limbs, and its imperial war-voice died away into the wailing cadences of monkish prayer and the soft trilling of castrated boys."

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I enjoyed this narrative so much. I actually enjoyed his narrative as much as I did his poems. He is so witty in describing cultural differences, and viewpoints. The way he described the Germans is absolutely genius! He says, "The German loves liberty as though she were his old grandmother." And as though that would be a negative thing, he further supports it, "Dear sir, do not scold the Germans! If they are dreamers, still many of them have conceived such beautiful dreams that I would hardly incline to change them for the waking realities of our neighbors. Since we all sleep and dream, we can perhaps dispense with freedom; for our tyrants also sleep, and only dream their tyranny. We awoke only once—when the Catholic Romans robbed us of our dream-freedom; then we acted and conquered, and laid us down again and dreamed. O sir! do not mock our dreamers, for now and then they speak, like somnambulists, wondrous things in sleep, and their words become the seeds of freedom."
Heine expresses this devout love for his people in his narratives. The way he describes the German- in a sympathetic and tender way, clearly portrays the extent of his love for Germany. I mean, you get this really adorable description of this confused dreamer that in the end does stand up for what he believes in- no matter what happens. That is what makes the dreamer special- he may not be all "there" and yet when he is called up to protect his "ideals" he would fight until the death. What is more admirable than that?

Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme by Molière

I can see why Molière is so appreciated. This play was extremely entertaining. In reading the introduction of this book "Great farces", one starts to wonder what makes a good farce. "For true farces must have serious purpose." Is it really just humor or is there something behind it all? This play automatically answers that question. Molière is hilarious but at the same time criticizes society so strategically. Who ever said good humor cannot be extremely intelligent, and even get to the point where it becomes serious? That is the beauty behind this play. Because at the same time as we laugh at these comical characters one realizes that there ARE people STILL like that. In every stage of society. People that try to become something they never were. One cannot simply mimic good breeding. Good breeding is learned. Take fashion for example. Since the middle ages, fashion is used as a way of representing status. When the higher class came up with a new "trend", suddenly everyone was trying to mimic it. Everyone, including, and especially, the lower classes. One can see the corset worn by the higher classes, where it stifled and deformed bodies, to the lower ones where it was a slight version of that but at the same time giving flexibility for working in the fields. Isn't that fascinating? They brought down something from the higher classes into the lower ones...evolving, or even devolving it, to fit their needs. No matter what stage, one can pick up on the motive. The motive being the hope of reaching something they can never have. They tried to mimic good breeding in their own way, always hoping that they could someday be the real thing.

That is more of an "apparent" hope. But what can one say of the mentality? Sure, one always wants to look nice, no matter how poor one is. This can be seen in the way everyone else was in on the joke. and in the end profited from it. one doesn't need to set these people straight because more fun will come out of it. showing that there is no limit it is all about the idea of something. for instance if i tell you that a tea-kettle is fashionable to be worn on the head and that everyone is doing it. well then that puts you in a very interesting position. you have two choices. one would be to do what normal people do and condemn me as an imbecile. And declare that even if people do wear it they are stupid for doing so. A simple person would not hesitate to laugh into my face. The other choice would be to take me seriously. And that inside of you would ever believe such a lie? Your insecurities will. The insecurity that you aren't good enough for society. As in, "Oh really? Oh well that sounds odd... (here is the point where it separates) no matter, if everyone is doing it, well they know better than I. I need to conform. Come to think of it, wearing a teakettle wouldn't be at all bad. It actually strikes me as extremely fashionable, even genius." The power of rationality!!

I love the energy and fast-pace of this piece- a true farce.

Goodness, so apparently someone went and put kettles in random pictures? I don't know why I had to go and google it... anyways! They look rather fashionable don't they! I find the rust especially appealing.




And of course, as this is the first time that I have ever read Molière, I have to talk about the movie. I have never really heard of Molière in my daily life. Well...that is not surprising, since I am living in an extremely uncultured society. But as it is, I am not drawn to plays as much as I am to prose, and even the french authors I have read- they are the most "common" classics. Therefore, I came to read this book with a sort of "idea" in mind, about who Molière really was. And this farce so rightfully stands up for that. In the movie, everything was so fast-paced, and yet extremely sophisticated. The way all the facial features were so dramatic, and everything seemed to be so light and unimportant. While true daily emotions and thoughts were being exchanged. Yes, I know this is extremely vague...but from what I remember... I know that I was left with such an energy. The character portrayed such life and humor. Just as this play does.

Right You Are! (If You Think So) by Pirandello

"Laudisi. Never mind your husband, madam! Now, you have touched me, have you not? And you see me? And you are absolutely sure about me, are you not? Well now, madam, I beg of you; do not tell your husband, nor my sister, nor my niece, nor Signora Cini here, what you think of me; because, if you were to do that, they would all tell you that you are completely wrong. But, you see, you are really right; because I am really what you take me to be; though, my dear madam, that does not prevent me from also being really what your husband, my sister, my niece, and Signora Cini take me to be -- because they also are absolutely right!"

All realities are right

"Signora Sirelli. In other words you are a different person for each of us.
Laudisi. Of course I'm a different person! And you, madam, pretty as you are, aren't you a different person, too? Signora Sirelli [hastily]. No siree! I assure you, as far as I'm concerned, I'm always the same always, yesterday, today, and forever!
Laudisi. Ah, but so am I, from my point of view, believe me! And, I would say that you are all mistaken unless you see me as I see myself; but that would be an inexcusable presumption on my part -- as it would be on yours, my dear madam!"

One cannot see us as we see ourselves

" You see, he is in love with my daughter . . . so much so that he wants her whole heart, her every thought, as it were, for himself; so much so that he insists that the affections which my daughter must have for me, her mother -- he finds that love quite natural of course, why not? Of course he does! -- should reach me through him -- that's it, through him -- don't you understand?
Agazzi. Oh, that is going pretty strong! No, I don't understand. In fact it seems to me a case of downright cruelty!
Signora Frola. Cruelty? No, no, please don't call it cruelty, Commendatore. It is something else, believe me! You see it's so hard for me to explain the matter. Nature, perhaps . . . but no, that's hardly the word. What shall I call it? Perhaps a sort of disease. It's a fullness of love, of a love shut off from the world. There, I guess that's it . . . a fullness . . . a completeness of devotion in which his wife must live without ever departing from it, and
into which no other person must ever be allowed to enter."

Everyone has their own rationality for their reality...until it becomes true to them

"Laudisi. Deny? Why . . . why . . . I'm not denying anything! In fact, I'm very careful not to be denying anything. You're the people who are looking up the records to be able to affirm or deny something. Personally, I don't give a rap for the documents for the truth in my eyes is not in them but in the mind. And into their minds I can they say to me of themselves. Laudisi. Well, which one? You can't tell, can you? Neither can anybody else! And it is not because those documents you are looking for have been destroyed in an accident -- a fire, an earthquake -- what ou will; but because those people have concealed those documen in themselves, in their own souls. Can't you understand that? She has created tor him, or he for her, a world of fancy which has all the earmarks of reality itself. And in this fictitious reality they get along perfectly well, and in full accord with each other; and this world of fancy, this reality of theirs, no document can possibly destroy because the air they breathe is of that world. For them it is something they can see with their eyes, hear with their ears, and touch with their fingers. Oh, I grant you -- if you could get a death certificate or a marriage certificate or something of the kind, you might be able to satisfy that stupid curiosity of yours. Unfortunately, you can't get it. And the result is that you are in the extraordinary fix of having before you, on the one hand, a world of fancy, and on the other, a world of reality, and you, for the life of you, are not able to distinguish one from the other. But what are you for other people? What are you in their eyes? An image, my dear sir, just an image in the glass! They're all carrying just such a phantom around inside themselves, and here they are racking their brains about the phantoms in other people; and they think all that is quite another thing! Laudisi. Let me finish. -- It's the phantom of the second wife, if Signora Frola is right. It's the phantom of the daughter, if Signor Ponza is right. It remains to be seen if what is a phantom for him and her is actually a person for herself. At this point it seems to me there's some reason to doubt it."

"Signora Ponza [slowly, and with clear articulation]. Tell you what? The truth? Simply this: I am the daughter of Signora Frola . . . All [with a happy intake of breath]. Ah! Signora Ponza. . . . and the second wife of Signor Ponza . . . All [amazed and disenchanted, quietly]. . . . What? Signora Ponza [continuing]. . . . and, for myself, I am nobody!'
The Prefect. No, no, madam, for yourself you must be either one or the other!
Signora Ponza. No! I am she whom you believe me to be. [She looks at them all through her veil for a moment, then leaves. Silence.]
Laudisi. And there, my friends, you have the truth! [With a look of derisive defiance at them all.] Are you satisfied? [He bursts out laughing.]"
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Pirandello so entertainingly portrays such deep philosophical concepts. Basically in this play he stresses the reality that we perceive, and how it is all relative and subjective. The plot of the play is comic and at the same time quite true. The fact that both of the characters, the mother-in-law and the son-in-law, ended up as crazy is interesting. How can both fancies exist in one reality? That is my question. Because as Laudisi said, it is a product of their imaginations, and their imaginations both exist in this reality. In fact, their created worlds are codependent on each other's existence. For instance, if the old woman refused to play along with the son-in-law (perceiving him as crazy and amusing him) then the son-in-law would not have been able to also "amuse" the mother by pretending SHE is insane... That is a remarkable mutual understanding in a world outside of themselves- the world of fancy. They understand each other in another world, but fail to understand each other in this reality. The fascinating part of this play is that reality is trying to penetrate this created word of theirs. Reality being practically played by the "gossip" party. The gossip party wants to "prove" the other two's insanity by documents and testimonies. Throughout the whole play, Laudisi sympathizes with the supposed "crazy" characters, saying that it is all relative. He also warns them that the reality of it all won't be enough, because they will go so far as not to believe the facts to satisfy this concept they have created in their minds. Similarly, they have also created an illusion of the mother and son that needs to be satisfied. So for instance if they decided the son-in-law was crazy, then even if the facts were to the contrary, they will somehow rationalize themselves out and still believe in this imaginary idea. In the end, they are doing the same thing as the mother and son. Which brings us to the main idea, being: we all create our own realities, and use this reality to feed the other. So in the end, everything is true to us, because we perceive it as true. If the mother was perceived to be insane, then to us she really is. Which is why the wife/daughter says, that everything is true, that both of them are insane, because the party thought they both were. It is as you perceive it to be. Then, which one is the "real" reality?
" But what are you for other people? What are you in their eyes? An image, my dear sir, just an image in the glass! They're all carrying just such a phantom around inside themselves, and here they are racking their brains about the phantoms in other people; and they think all that is quite another thing" We are all carrying phantoms of our perceptions. They are all illusions, and concepts and nothing is as we think it is to be, because to another person this illusion does not exist. Then, is it worth existing for us and does that lessen its "reality" for ourselves? I think it is as real to us, as their perceptions are real to them. What wonderful flexibility and individualism!

--
THREE PLAY: Six Characters in Search of an Author - Henry IV (Enrico Quarto) - Right You Are! (If You Think So) (Luigi Pirandello, Edward Storer and Arthur Livingston)
Published by E.P. Dutton and Company, Inc.

Henry IV by Pirandello

"The green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars."

"LANDOLPH. Cheer up, my dear fellow! We don't any of us know who we are really. He's Harold; he's Ordulph; I'm Landolph! That's the way he calls us. We've got used to it. But who are we? Names of the period! Yours, too, is a name of the period: Berthold! Only one of us, poor Tito, had got a really decent part, as you can read in history: that of the Bishop of Bremen. He was just like a real bishop. Tito did it awfully well, poor chap!"

"We're worse than the real secret counsellors of Henry IV.; because certainly no one had given them a part to play--at any rate, they didn't feel they had a part to play. It was their life. They looked after their own interests at the expense of others, sold investitures and-- what not! We stop here in this magnificent court --for what?--Just doing nothing. We're like so many puppets hung on the wall, waiting for some one to come and move us or make us talk."

"Evidently, because that immediate lucidity that comes from acting, assuming a part, at once put him out of key with his own feelings, which seemed to him not exactly false, but like something he was obliged to valorize there and then as--what shall I say--as an act of intelligence, to make up for that sincere cordial warmth he felt lacking. So he improvised, exaggerated, let himself go, so as to distract and forget himself. He appeared inconstant, fatuous, and--yes--even ridiculous, sometimes."

"and he--look at him--(points to portrait)--ha! A smack on the head, and he never moves again: Henry IV. for ever!"

"Have you always been the same? My God! One day...how was it, how was it you were able to commit this or that action? (Fixes her so intently in the eyes as almost to make her blanch) : Yes, that particular action, that very one: we understand each other!"

"But we all of us cling tight to our conceptions of ourselves, just as he who is growing old dyes his hair. What does it matter that this dyed hair of mine isn't a reality for you, if it is, to some extent, for me?"

We create our own version of reality

"BELCREDI (laughing). Oh, as for the dress, doctor, it isn't a matter of twenty years! It's eight hundred! An abyss! Do you really want to shove him across it (pointing first to Frida and then to Marchioness) from there to here? But you'll have to pick him up in pieces with a basket! Just think now: for us it is a matter of twenty years, a couple of dresses, and a masquerade. But, if, as you say, doctor, time has stopped for and around him: if he lives there (pointing to Frida) with her, eight hundred years ago...I repeat: the giddiness of the jump will be such, that finding himself suddenly among us..."

"Don't you see, idiot, how I treat them, how I play the fool with them, make them appear before me just as I wish? Miserable, frightened clowns that they are! And you (addressing the valets) are amazed that I tear off their ridiculous masks now, just as if it wasn't I who had made them mask themselves to satisfy this taste of mine for playing the madman!"

The joke is on them

"Words, words which anyone can interpret in his own manner! That's the way public opinion is formed! And it's a bad look out for a man who finds himself labelled one day with one of these words which everyone repeats; for example "madman," or "imbecile." Don't you think is rather hard for a man to keep quiet, when he knows that there is a fellow going about trying to persuade everybody that he is as he sees him, trying to fix him in other people's opinion as a "madman"--according to him? Now I am talking seriously!"

"Crush a man with the weight of a word--it's nothing --a fly! all our life is crushed by the weight of words: the weight of the dead."

"I speak, and order you live men about! Do you think it's a joke that the dead continue to live?"

"You will do nothing but repeat the old, old words, while you imagine you are living."

"It's convenient for everybody to insist that certain people are mad, so they can be shut up. Do you know why? Because it's impossible to hear them speak!"

"Do you know what it means to find yourselves face to face with a madman--with one who shakes the foundations of all you have built up in yourselves, your logic, the logic of all your constructions? Madmen, lucky folk! construct without logic, or rather with a logic that flies like a feather. Voluble! Voluble! Today like this and tomorrow--who knows? You say: "This cannot be"; but for them everything can be. You say: "This isn't true!" And why? Because it doesn't seem true to you, or you, or you...(indicates the three of them in succession)...and to a hundred thousand others! One must see what seems true to these hundred thousand others who are not supposed to be mad! What a magnificent spectacle they afford, when they reason! What flowers of logic they scatter!"

"Because it's a terrible thing if you don't hold on to that which seems true to you today--to that which will seem true to you tomorrow, even if it is the opposite of that which seemed true to you yesterday."

This goes back to knowing which mask you are wearing, no matter how life has changed you. Because we are all puppets and therefore helpless. We need to cling to the only thing we have- the role of the moment.

"You ought to have known how to create a fantasy for yourselves, not to act it for me, or anyone coming to see me; but naturally, simply, day by day, before nobody, feeling yourselves alive in the history of the eleventh century, here at the court of your emperor, Henry IV!"

Personalize his fantasy. it was a chance for him to live out a fantasy. and yet the held on to reality

"You Ordulph (taking him by the arm), alive in the castle of Goslar, waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, and entering straightway into the dream, clothing yourself in the dream that would be no more a dream, because you would have lived it, felt it all alive in you. You would have drunk it in with the air you breathed; yet knowing all the time that it was a dream, so you could better enjoy the privilege afforded you of having to do nothing else but live this dream, this far off and yet actual dream!"

"All history that cannot change, understand? All fixed for ever! And you could have admired at your ease how every effect followed obediently its cause with perfect logic, how every event took place precisely and coherently in each minute particular! The pleasure, the pleasure of history, in fact, which is so great, was yours."

A consistent dream.

"I preferred to remain mad--since I found everything ready and at my disposal for this new exquisite fantasy. I would live it--this madness of mine--with the most lucid consciousness; and thus revenge myself on the brutality of a stone which had dinted my head."

"I am cured, gentlemen: because I can act the mad man to perfection, here; and I do it very quietly, I'm only sorry for you that have to live your madness so agitatedly, without knowing it or seeing it."

Without knowing one is in fact mad. It is "invisible" and his was "visible". That is the irony.
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This play was extremely fascinating. The play between madness and reality is exceptional, and it ends up even tricking the audience- whether Henry IV is really mad or not.

The concept of this play was to expose our own masquerades. Does one have to necessarily be insane to live in a masquerade? Aren't our own lives merely a stage for our roles?
The way the play begins is also extremely clever, because the audience has no idea what they are seeing. Is it really during the time of Henry IV? At first that is what I thought- which meant that everything the valets were saying was a sort of metaphor of our own lives. As if we each were caught in our own time periods, and are programmed to play a certain role. "We stop here in this magnificent court --for what?--Just doing nothing. We're like so many puppets hung on the wall, waiting for some one to come and move us or make us talk." So many of us are just stuck, stuck in a certain role and only react when something has an effect on us...

There is so much truth in this supposed apparent madman! Everything he says pierces the deepest hidden parts of ourselves. He addresses our hypocrisy in front of others, and more importantly in front of ourselves. Especially being hypocritical towards ourselves. We actually do everything to sustain this role within ourselves for ourselves. The only difference for Henry IV is that he brought this life-long "invisible" masquerade that we play a part in, into the realm of the real. He first asks the lady- "Has it never happened to you, my Lady, to find a different self in yourself?' As if he asks, is it really you who are playing? It's really ironic, because she is in fact literally pretending to be this queen, but in real life she also creates her environment to fit this same role. She tries to keep the days when she had "reigned" and was beautiful still after she had lost them. He calls her out on it, "But I assure you that you too, Madam, are in masquerade, though it be in all seriousness; and I am not speaking of the venerable crown on your brows or the ducal mantle. I am speaking only of the memory you wish to fix in yourself of your fair complexion one day when it pleased you--or of your dark complexion, if you were dark: the fading image of your youth!" He clearly separates her from her "costume" even as a supposed madman. This had nothing to do with what she was playing- this was whom she really was or tried to act as in reality. Meaning, that whatever we try to appear as is not our only act, because we are also acting as ourselves. And so we have to ask- are we truly ourselves or is just another act? An act within an act. So the fact that he addresses this same question, and at the same time appearing "mad" is astounding. This of course is taken out of context, because he knew what was going on the whole time... or did he? I'll come back to that.

I also love the way this play addresses time. The first realm is our real time- our day to day existence. Then there is the past that is trying to be recreated in our present. For instance Henry IV tried to recreate the best time of his life (the masquerade) and the Lady tried to recreate her lost youth within her present. That is also why she refused to believe that Henry IV really did talk about her daughter instead of herself- because she in fact was jealous of her daughter's youth. This is when these "lost" times and the present actually parallel and in the end result in the same thing: a masquerade. "This dress (plucking his dress) which is for me the evident, involuntary caricature of that other continuous, everlasting masquerade, of which we are the involuntary puppets (indicates Belcredi), when, without knowing it, we mask ourselves with that which we appear to be...ah, that dress of theirs, this masquerade of theirs, of course, we must forgive it them, since they do not yet see it is identical with themselves..." This goes back to the "puppets on the wall" metaphor. We are actually those puppets in our own masquerade, our own time frame. We are constantly playing a role in our own lives. And the beauty of this is that it is involuntary!! We are somehow programmed to act out something. This actually relates to Pirandello's other play "Six Characters in Search of an Author"- because that in fact is also acting in our own play.

Yes we are just puppets in our own masquerade, and "fate" is the deciding factor of what role we are going to play. "The parts may be changed tomorrow. What would you do then? Would you laugh to see the Pope a prisoner? No! It would come to the same thing: I dressed as a penitent, today; he, as prisoner tomorrow! But woe to him who doesn't know how to wear his mask, be he king or Pope !" We all need to realize that we are wearing masks in this masquerade called our lives, and we need to realize that it is not constant. Like Henry IV said, it can be changed in a blink of an eye...we can all just as quickly become our opposites.

It is interesting because the ones that were the most "stable" in this play were the ones that actually "knew" about the masquerade, which were the valets. They knew what they had to do, what parts to play. Everyone else was lying to themselves and trying to be something they are not. Which brings us to the final question- was Henry IV really mad? Did he know the whole time that he was sane?
I actually think he was sane in some parts of it, and through the end the "role" he was trying to play caught up with him and actually took over. Because he himself said, that he found another self within himself. Maybe this other "self" was the role he was acting, and took over his "real" self.
Let's take a look at the ending. Henry IV stabs Belcredi. Why? Why particularly him? Because from the beginning he picked up that Belcredi was Donna Matilda's lover. In the real masquerade, back when it happened for the first time, Donna and Henry IV were lovers. This shows that the "real" self, the one that feels and reacts to the present, was still inside of himself. The "real" self used the role of Henry IV as the "madman" to get rid of the one that hurt him the most. Basically saying, time has passed, Donna has moved on, and this masquerade of yours is all a lie-because you in fact have not stopped time. That is why Frida for him did resemble this eternal masquerade he was trying to forever recreate, because she was the image of her mother in her youth. Now it becomes clear- when he says one needs to know what mask they are wearing- if you're going to do it, make sure you do it right. This all comes back to:


"I mean, those desires where the will is kept within the limits of the possible. Not one of us can lie or pretend. We're all fixed in good faith in a certain concept of ourselves."

--
THREE PLAY: Six Characters in Search of an Author - Henry IV (Enrico Quarto) - Right You Are! (If You Think So) (Luigi Pirandello, Edward Storer and Arthur Livingston)
Published by E.P. Dutton and Company, Inc.

Six Characters in Search of an Author by Luigi Pirandello

"Exactly, perfectly, to living beings more alive than those who breathe and wear clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer! I agree with you entirely."

"Nowhere! It is merely to show you that one is born to life in many forms, in many shapes, as tree, or as stone, as water, as butterfly, or as woman. So one may also be born a character in a play."

"I marvel at your incredulity, gentlemen. Are you not accustomed to see the characters created by an author spring to life in yourselves and face each other? Just because there is no "book" [Pointing to the PROMPTER'S box.] which contains us, you refuse to believe"


"In the sense, that is, that the author who created us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially to put us into a work of art."


"The Manager. That is quite all right. But what do you want here, all of you? The Father. We want to live. The Manager [ironically]. For Eternity? The Father. No, sir, only for a moment . . . in you."

the transfer to reality through ones imagination

"The Manager. And where is the "book"? The Father. It is in us! [The ACTORS laugh.] The drama is in us, and we are the drama. We are impatient to play it. Our inner passion drives us on to this."

the characters are inventing the stories

"But don't you see that the whole trouble lies here. In words, words. Each one of us has within him a whole world of things, each man of us his own special world. And how can we ever come to an understanding if I put in the words I utter the sense and value of things as I see them; while you who listen to me must inevitably translate them according to the conception of things each one of you has within himself. We think we understand each other, but we never really do."

"Each of us when he appears before his fellows is clothed in a certain dignity. But every man knows what unconfessable things pass within the secrecy of his own heart. One gives way to the temptation, only to rise from it again, afterwards, with a great eagerness to re-establish one's dignity, as if it were a tombstone to place on the grave of one's shame, and a monument to hide and sign the memory of our weaknesses."

"Woman -- for example, look at her case! She turns tantalizing inviting glances on you. You seize her. No sooner does she feel herself in your grasp than she closes her eyes. It is the sign of her mission, the sign by which she says to man: "Blind yourself, for I am blind.""

"For the drama lies all in this -- in the conscience that I have, that each one of us has. We believe this conscience to be a single thing, but it is many-sided. There is one for this person, and another for that. Diverse consciences. So we have this illusion of being one person for all, of having a personality that is unique in all our acts. But it isn't true. We perceive this when, tragically perhaps, in something we do, we are as it were, suspended, caught up in the air on a kind of hook. Then we perceive that all of us was not in that act, and that it would be an atrocious injustice to judge us by that action alone, as if all our existence were summed up in that one deed."

"We act that rôle for which we have been cast, that rôle which we are given in life. And in my own case, passion itself, as usually happens, becomes a trifle theatrical when it is exalted."

we all play a role

"The Father. Then why not turn author now? Everybody does it. You don't want any special qualities. Your task is made much easier by the fact that we are all here alive before you . . . The Manager. It won't do. The Father. What? When you see us live our drama . . .
The Manager. Yes, that's all right. But you want someone to write it. The Father. No, no. Someone to take it down, possibly, while we play it, scene by scene! It will be enough to sketch it out at first, and then try it over."

they write the story. how an artist writes out his vision from something that already existed.

"What a joke it'll be for the others! But for you, alas! not quite such a joke: you who are real, baby dear, and really play by a real fountain that is big and green and beautiful, with ever so many bamboos around it that are reflected in the water, and a whole lot of little ducks swimming about . . ."

she isn't playing but existing

"The Father. Exactly! It will be difficult to act me as I really am. The effect will be rather -- apart from the make-up -- according as to how he supposes I am, as he senses me -- if he does sense me -- and not as I inside of myself feel myself to be. It seems to me then that account should be taken of this by everyone whose duty it may become to criticize us ."

characters explain themselves as characters

"The Father [irritated]. The illusion! For Heaven's sake, don't say illusion. Please don't use that word, which is particularly painful for us.. The Manager [astounded]. And why, if you please? The Father. It's painful, cruel, really cruel; and you ought to understand that. The Manager. But why? What ought we to say then? The illusion, I tell you, sir, which we've got to create for the audience . . . The Leading Man. With our acting. The Manager. The illusion of a reality. The Father. I understand; but you, perhaps, do not understand us. Forgive me! You see . . . here for you and your actors, the thing is only -- and rightly so . . . a kind of game ..."

that the actors reality is really fictional

"The Father [with dignity, but not offended]. A character, sir, may always ask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked with his especial characteristics; for which reason he is always "somebody." But a man -- I'm not speaking of you now -- may very well be "nobody.""


"Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it were to end . . . then why, all would be finished."

so they're always living in the essence of the moment. what would that be like?


do they resent the author?

is the son thereto provide contrast? which one is better between the two?

"The Son. Yes, but haven't you yet perceived that it isn't possible to live in front of a mirror which not only freezes us with the image of ourselves, but throws our likeness back at us with a horrible grimace?"

without the son everything would have gone perfectly. they could have acted out their drama without him. why is he there?

"The Son [almost crying from rage]. What does it mean, this madness you've got? [They separate.] Have you no decency, that you insist on showing everyone our shame? I won't do it! I won't! And I stand for the will of our author in this. He didn't want to put us on the stage, after all!"

hes the truest manifestation of the author

'The Manager [pushing the ACTORS aside while THEY lift up the BOY and carry him off.] Is he really wounded? Some Actors. He's dead! dead! Other Actors. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only pretence! The Father [with a terrible cry]. Pretence? Reality, sir, reality! The Manager. Pretence? Reality? To hell with it all! Never in my life has such a thing happened to me. I 've lost a whole day over these people, a whole day!'
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I had to read this for class, and usually when that happens, I end up hating the book. I couldn't help being intriguied by this one...so much so, that I ended up thinking about it throughout the day... What is reality, what is fiction?
This story is genius in its cleverness. For the first time, that I have read at least, it seperates the character completely from the author. Yes, I loved it when Gogol and Turgenev would say "shh don't disturb our hero", but this goes beyond that. It physically embodies the characters, and stresses the fact that they're alive. Throughout the whole play the characters insist that they are more alive than the actors. The Father is the most entertaining and philosophical characters out of all of them- he says something that is extremely astounding- that a character continues living in the imagination. "
And this was a real crime, sir; because he who has had the luck to be born a character can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the writer, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to have extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders. Who was Sancho Panza? Who was Don Abbondio? Yet they live eternally because -- live germs as they were -- they had the fortune to find a fecundating matrix, a fantasy which could raise and nourish them: make them live for ever!" The word "matrix" is so symbolic because it signifies another real world, another universe. They just have to "find" one. He goes on to say, "When the characters are really alive before their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in their words, in the situations which they suggest to him; and he has to will them the way they will themselves -- for there's trouble if he doesn't. When a character is born, he acquires at once such an independence, even of his own author, that he can be imagined by everybody even in many other situations where the author never dreamed of placing him; and so he acquires for himself a meaning which the author never thought of giving him.." Imagine how flexible! Oh, the almost infinite number of different realms we humans tap into! And yet, it is also limited, for our imaginations are limited. The only difference being, characters can be "immortal" in as many limited minds as there are people.

And so, in the end, the characters are still limited: not only are they limited by their essence, but by their continuation as well. Their essence being, that they can only act the way they were created to act. They can't ever act in an unpredictable manner- something apart from themselves. They will always be only themselves. It is very interesting that they know themselves so well they start to explain their own actions. They know themselves so extensively that there is nothing else for them to discover.

The most interesting part about this story was the contrast between reality and fiction. The ending was just an echo of the whole story. The fact that these fictional beings wanted to be part of reality, and to try to teach the actors how to be "fictional" shows the constant play between these two realms. Which one is more real? Why is reality necessarily more real than the fiction, if everything is relative? And no, I'm not going to get into the whole "everything is what you want it to be" (crap). The Father says it clearly, "But only in order to know if you, as you really are now, see yourself as you once were with all the illusions that were yours then, with all the things both inside and outside of you as they seemed to you -- as they were then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions that mean nothing to you now, of all those things which don't even seem to you to exist any more, while once they were for you, don't you feel that -- I won't say these boards -- but the very earth under your feet is sinking away from you when you reflect that in the same way this you as you feel it today -- all this present reality of yours -- is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow?" Our past is an illusion of our perceptions. Then, what part of us is really real? What part of our being has really happened? And is it truly real? These fictional beings make us question our own reality, and whether it is just as real as their lives. "Thus, sir, you see when faith is lacking, it becomes impossible to create certain states of happiness, for we lack the necessary humility. Vaingloriously, we try to substitute ourselves for this faith, creating thus for the rest of the world a reality which we believe after their fashion, while, actually, it doesn't exist. For each one of us has his own reality to be respected before God, even when it is harmful to one's very self." We create our own reality, and therefore, in a way we are our own Authors, of our own fiction. We are actually the characters in our own fictional world. Hm, that's quite a revelation.

--
Published by Coyote Canyon Press (June 5, 2009)