The Picture of Dorian Gray: “We have lost the abstract sense of Beauty.”

                                       

Dorian Gray was too naive in his belief about youth and beauty. He has befriended Basil Hallward, an artist who worshiped him on a  romantic level, although direct words weren’t stated. Basil had a friend named Lord Henry who displays his Hedonistic philosophy as tempting; he doesn’t necessarily practice what he preach, but he had an air of likability to him that poor Dorian became sort of a lab rat to his ‘experiments’. Lord Henry’s ideas are perhaps the most quoted in the book because a certain truth was wrapped around an otherwise morally wrong perception. Dorian idolized and succumbed to Lord Henry’s ways, his selfishness visible all throughout his exploits. His sins were reflected through his portrait, a haunting secret that shook his conscience for many years. He had to learn everything the hard way, which is tragic. The whole “forever young” mentality is one of my favorite subjects to talk about, how it triggers a human being to a false sense of innocence. The novel was a chain of obsession, vanity, and fixation upon oneself, and a sinister overemphasis to the concept of youth.

THE CATCHER IN THE RYE: HOLDEN CAULFIELD AND PHONIES

This is an unstructured analysis about The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger, particularly about Holden Caulfield. He’s a complex character, and some review discusses how they hated Holden Caulfield’s personality, how he’s “unreliable and annoying.” But I guess you can’t force yourself to give this book a thumbs up if you can’t relate; it’s just a matter of perspective. As for me, I like that it’s written in the first-person point of view because it holds the character’s original thoughts, including the profanities and slang, and not just the bird’s eye view of his behavior. Holden might go through series of puzzles when he talks about his feelings, but it adds up to the truthfulness and the essence of the book where it gets you into feeling what it’s like to be misunderstood and lost in a place full of “phonies.” I have included some parts of the book as reference so if you haven’t read CITR, this would definitely be a spoiler.

Basically, Holden Caulfield is a teenager who associates growing up with change, something he couldn’t handle. He’s also angsty and impulsive, but that is apparent even on the first chapter of the book, an essential part of narration to charm his way through getting the reader’s attention. Somewhere around the book, I always catch phrases like “I don’t give a damn” or “I didn’t care much” wherein he starts complaining about something that irritates him, followed by contradicting words like he’s somewhat indifferent. He hates most things though, but is irrational when it comes to explaining them. He’s aware he’s acting strange but doesn’t know what to do with himself and couldn’t help it.

I think his struggle with finding someone decent to talk to was a crushing disappointment for him, seeing as how he tried dropping clues but they repel at his words and end up missing his point. It could also be because his character gets disagreeable at times, the way he incessantly asks “immature” questions. He failed on four out of five of his subjects and and when one of his teachers tried to talk to him about it, he dismisses it because he fears the kind of confrontation that talks about his future, another thing he couldn’t face. Multiple times the word depressed was mentioned along with lonesome, quiet and lousy. These usually come up when he gets around to anything close to him thinking about his current state in life. He wants to get away as much as possible, even developed suicidal thoughts or mainly wishes to have another life so people would leave him to his own devices. He has a wealthy family but sometimes feels guilt over being privileged. I can’t say he has a good relationship with his parents, because if that’s the case then he wouldn’t feel afraid to go home and stall his way, getting drunk and chain smoking by himself around New York. He thinks he should give his parents space to absorb the news, especially his mom because she gets very hysterical (his words). He describes his mom as nervous and a heavy smoker – things he has acquired, I guess, although he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Mothers are all slightly insane” was expressed by Holden on the book, which I think was either his deep-rooted thoughts about his mom or his ignorance about motherhood in general. He wants to save himself from being stained with “phoniness” although he may appear hypocritical at times, seeing as how he is sarcastic and somewhat a compulsive liar.

He has notions about women, but he doesn’t entirely understand sex because he is inexperienced. How by choice he has avoided to perform－a concealed fear, one of the acts of maturity he stays away from. (“I think if you don’t really like a girl, you shouldn’t horse around with her at all..” ).
He has pure affection for his sister Phoebe and keeps on putting off talking to Jane Gallagher, but he reminisces about their childhood and how they used to share personal thoughts to each other. She’s a part of him that he’s scared to revisit, for fear of ruining a perfect memory.

All throughout he keeps on mentioning his brother Allie, his evident devotion to him a significant part of the story, putting him on the highest pedestal and above everyone else in his family. He also has a habit of degrading himself such as saying he’s a moron, quite illiterate, the only really dumb one, has a lousy vocabulary etc. His lack of self-esteem is what drives him to become impulsive which led to a lot of arguments.

Overall I think Holden is an admirable character. He knows he’s troubled, but there’s no one that he feels like he can divulge his feelings to. I think a lot of young people can relate with Holden’s anxieties about life, and how death in the family at a young age can make such a big and life-changing impact. We can empathize with his need to be sheltered from pain, frustrations about the world and himself. Young or old, we find isolation very depressing to the point where it begins to chew on our very core, like termites on wood.

I could go on writing about this book, but I think this is it for now. Please feel free to comment and write your opinions, so I may have a way of correcting some of my mistakes.

Subtle Insults

 

I don’t get it. Like, why did you have to ruin my day? Why did you say it in such subtle way so it sounds unnoticeable and piercing.? You can talk to me, straight up about things. We can take some time, have coffee and talk about YOUR feelings; your constructive criticisms, I got those a long time ago, even before all the obscurity. You’re not helping me do things. You think you are, but you’re not. How many times have I felt shitty over things that aren’t supposed to be highlighted? How big was my motivation not to shake you till you realize that this isn’t about YOU? See I got respect for you, but it’s slowly turning basic like a brick house built in an obverse fashion, facing a wall instead of something visually appealing.

Monologue Conversations

While you’re there talking about yourself, I was on the other end trying to listen to your sob story, interjecting a couple of questions that may make it seem like I’m interested. All that time you were talking you never asked about me, you just talked about trials and conquests while I sat there unmoved, and it’s not even like I’m a bad, sociopathic person, believe me. But sometimes it’s hard to take a person seriously when when they talk about themselves too seriously, if that makes sense. It’s not cool to be self-righteous all the time, sometimes you got to set aside vanity to have a meaningful and productive conversation. The thing about conversation is that it’s not a monologue, but why do I always catch you doing that? It’s not always fair to pin it on somebody else every time, though. I guess it would be hypocritical of me not to admit that I’ve never done it. It’s just a matter of catching yourself and pointing out the obvious, that people don’t want you to blab everything like you’re writing a manuscript for a play that no other person would pay to watch. That’s life, I guess?

Coffee break.

I always see her walking on the other side of the street every two o’clock in the afternoon, entering into her favorite bookstore right across the cafe where I work. She seems to be frowning all the time, like everything in the world pisses her off. She exudes this bad-ass exterior to which I don’t know if she really is capable of punching people who gets in her way or if she’s sensitive and harmless deep inside. Who am I to know? I’m just the guy who got into the habit of watching her come and go from a bookstore across the street while downing on my steaming cup of coffee, never having the courage to go to the other side and introduce myself, leaving an air of mystery and gap to an otherwise impossible thing to pursue. She’s this idea of enigma that I don’t want to solve for no reason other than fear.

I had no idea where I got the courage from, nor did I have any recollection of how I stormed out of the cafe and summoned enough will to cross the street, but I did. I found myself unmoved, awakened by this rapid heartbeat and fluttery feeling in my stomach. I stared at the bookstore sign like it bore words threatening to stab me, my reflection in the glass window so pale that I immediately regretted my hasty decision. I tried to latch on to my rational side, that’s why I went back to where I came from almost as quickly as I left. My palms were sweating and I’ve been holding my breath like I’ve been diving underwater the whole time. I heaved a huge sigh, not feeling relieved at all.The next day she didn’t show up, or the day after that. Days turned to a week, and what sucks is that I can do nothing about it. I don;t even know her story. It’s funny how you miss someone you don’t know, practically a stranger. The point is, I didn’t do anything. That’s the story of how I blew it.

 

 

Lucid

 

Lightning struck for what seem like a never-ending flicker, a scene on hospital hallways come to mind, a grim presentation of a horrifying and chilling night, the stench of formaldehyde lingering in the stale air, windowless rooms and ancient floor tiles, an overall aesthetic of decline and abandonment. Shaking, I sat down opposite the unoccupied wooden chair, looking at the lit candle, not batting an eye like I am on a staring contest, for it is the only source of light illuminating the room, provoking me to get lost with my own thoughts. I’m damp from head to foot, feeling the coldness and the hair-raising silence all at once. The absence of noise seemed hypnotic. I feel like the deterioration of the whole building is mirroring my sadness,  taunting me, and there’s nothing I can do except to watch it cave in, with me in it.

Hate.

                                

I romanticize most things, that’s why I prefer dreams over reality. The symbolism, trying to decipher our mind’s genius, getting surprised at what we are hiding inside. But escaping it only makes us cowards, looking up at the sky doesn’t mean dark clouds wouldn’t form and rain wouldn’t fall on our faces, nor getting wet with it doesn’t guarantee safety from the diseases this world seem to never run out of. Everywhere there’s misfortune, but that’s just for the conscious minds. Rich people don’t get wet with money, they just get drowned with it, swimming in dry land, gasping for air while their self-righteous beings won’t even humbly extend their hands up and ask for help, because everyone is their enemy. They say selfish souls inhabit the earth, and all the good people die young, generalizing everything, but what about the rest? walking with no direction and talking to oneself, sometimes I hate us, but most of all, I hate me. How many miles have I ran, I’m sick of it, sweating with lies and shame it’s disgusting.

Lost.

I led myself to the dim lighted part of the hallway, wanting to be as far as possible from this wretched party and away from the crowd. I found a deserted section, where a floor lamp was illuminating the small area, clothed in canvas, yellow light seeping through it, providing a sunset kind of glow. With shoulders stiffened, I tried to hold on to self-restraint and not let myself burst into tears. Finally I surrendered and released everything through sobs, my head facing the wall with my hands covering my face, concealing the tears that quickly came like a rush of waves disturbing the sea’s calm. I’ve made a reservoir of ache for so long, and I realized I’m suffocating, holding on to it longer, as if it wouldn’t punish me for it.”

Fear and other stoppers.

Like most of us I’m scared of the truth, I’m scared of admitting its pain and thrive on delusions instead, convincing myself that these are dreams, if I take a ladder and climb up I could reach it. But the truth is, there’s nothing to hold that ladder, nothing to support it. Why am I jumping to conclusions when I can’t even analyze things and turn it into and agreeable logic? I live on these ideas, through the words I hear on music and the theories I read on books, but it’s like swimming on a muddy water where everything beneath is undiscernible and murky, claiming to enjoy the swim but my tears are joined by dirt, drenched with lies that are unconvincing like a kid telling his mama that he didn’t eat the cake when his face is stuffed with icing.

Who are we to live up to society’s standards? More people are taking their own lives everyday because they can’t compete with the world anymore, they can fit the mold. They commit suicide but what really is the cause of death? To name a few things, too much pressure and the feeling of isolation. How many teenagers hurt themselves because of insecurities brought about by these unreachable hype? Tricking them into believing their own corrupt version of beautiful. Emphasizing the wrong thing on magazines, television and internet, our doubts followed by crash diets and binge eating, and instead of helping they treat us with disrespect with their misinformed and ignorant opinions. They ought to be ashamed, when it’s the mind that should be celebrated, our individuality and strengths multiplied. But instead, our weaknesses are used against us, our wrongs tallied and our positivity crushed. We have a right to be scared but when our self-esteem is being challenged and pulled down for some reason, isn’t it our reflex to get up and continue? This is from me to you, sending a message that it’s not out of the ordinary to lock yourself up in a room and cry, it’s okay to change our minds, have different plans than the rest, and most importantly, it’s okay to fuck up. We should be able to look fear in the eye and say “I can overcome you.”