Cats and Dogs: What They Tell us About Our Need for Literature

   The other day I was watching a neighbor cat stalking various small creatures in our yard and thinking how much better she is at it than my dog, when I had a light bulb moment. Actually it was more of a jigsaw moment. Instead of coming up with an original idea, it was more like images and thoughts suddenly dropping in a syncrinized cascade into a unified conglamoration of previously disjointed concepts. It was very metaphysical.
   This jigsaw moment was brought on by the simple act of the cat looking up into a tree. My dog almost never looks up. If I point out a bird or tight rope walking rodent she looks for a ground based animal. I can even grap her snout and point it upwards but even then she will continue to shift her eyes from side to side, frantically looking for something on the ground. It occured to me that her understanding was limited to her plane of operations. The dog's mobility is mostly restricted to the ground. My dog does not look up because there is nothing upwards that is pertinent to her existence.
     The cat, on the other hand, is a proficient climber and so her plane of operations and her spectrum of observation are much larger than the dog's. Thus, she looks up.
     Like all other creatures, a person's understanding is limited to his or her plane of operations. People, however, have the ability to broaden that plane, both physically and mentally. We create devises for disabled people so they can move around freely. We write stories, particularly fiction, that allow one person to drink in more experiences than he or she could possibly have in one lifetime. We increase our intellectual plane of operations by reading and so increase our ability to understand. If only my dog could read she might begin to look up a little more.

   At least, this is a very rough draft of my idea, that I hope to refine in future, but for now I am still working on the morbid discussion.



http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.joy2day.com/fun-hi-fun/funny-pictures/images/cat-sleeping-dog-reading.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.joy2day.com/fun-hi-fun/funny-pictures/cat-sleeping-dog-reading.php&usg=__7gHlze8u5oALPxFEzriALS--eGs=&h=379&w=570&sz=38&hl=en&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=gIu8dM8VsrRAXM:&tbnh=131&tbnw=192&ei=TKXjTZf_N8nZgAeun_3TBg&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dcat%2Band%2Bdog%2Breading%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26biw%3D934%26bih%3D558%26rlz%3D1W1ADFA_en%26tbm%3Disch&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=272&vpy=170&dur=6591&hovh=183&hovw=275&tx=218&ty=66&page=1&ndsp=13&ved=1t:429,r:10,s:0&biw=934&bih=558

Renewing not Desensitizing Emotion - continuation of "Disturbing Literature"

    When I say "disturbing material" I don't just mean the really extreme stuff, like science fiction, which tends to have a lot of people being tortured, or Stephen King novels. Even children's books create painful sensations, we just don't think much of them because we have adjusted to the everyday disappointments and frustrations these explore. Adults are much less sensitive than children, but how did we get that way?
     Let's go back to childhood for a moment and consider the kind of storylines fed to us by publishers and parents. How often has the little birthday girl's new dress been ruined? Or did the little boy steal his classmate's new pen? Or how many times has a mother put on a sad face when her child won't give her a taste of his ice cream (in spite of the fact she's trying to lose 5 pounds) to teach him to be considerate and giving? All these elicit a response from the young reader motivated by pain: the dissapointment of the ruined dress, envy and loss, shame at having been selfish. The purpose behind creating these negative feelings is both to teach how to avoid them in future, and to desensitize the child to minor dissapointments to make everyday life a bit easier.
     Yet, there is something about that childish sensitivity that we value. We long to remember the innocence before the awakening and often do this is by creating a sympathetic character and drawing him or her through the painful process of disenchantment into maturity, reopening our own old wounds as we do so.
     Rudyard Kipling creates just such a character in The Jungle Book. Mowgli is introduced as a baby into the wild jungle and raised by wolves. He is completely unspoiled, possessed of all the unaffected self confidence and sincerity of a child who has never learned the art of deception or felt the weight of uncertainty. His days are spent actively, learning the jungle law and exploring the wonders of his own abilities, physical and mental. Unfortunately his innocence causes him to make enemies without realizing it.
     Mowgli has discovered that when he looks his adopted family memebers in the eye, they are forced to look away. Intrigued by his influence but not understanding its implications, he makes a game of it, as most children will exercise any newly discovered power far beyond the bounds of prudence. He does not know how to hide his qualities and so makes enemies for himself, as his friend Bagheera the panther points out:
    
"But why--but why should any wish to kill me?" said Mowgli.
"Look at me," said Bagheera. And Mowgli looked at him steadily between the eyes. The big panther turned his head away in half a minute.
"That is why," he said, shifting his paw on the leaves. "Not even I can look thee between the eyes, and I was born among men, and I love thee, Little Brother. The others they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet thine; because thou art wise; because thou hast pulled out thorns from their feet--because thou art a man."
"I did not know these things," said Mowgli sullenly, and he frowned under his heavy black eyebrows.
"What is the Law of the Jungle? Strike first and then give tongue. By thy very carelessness they know that thou art a man.

     However sincerely Mowgli may love his family, his relationship with them is tainted by their mistrust and he is forced to take a position of dominance when he would have willingly remained subject to the rule of the wolf pack. At a counsil meeting he asserts his role as an authoritative man among animals.
     "Listen you!" he cried. "... Ye have told me so often tonight that I am a man (and indeed I would have been a wolf with you to my life's end) that I feel your words are true. So I do not call ye my brothers any more, but sag [dogs], as a man should. What ye will do, and what ye will not do, is not yours to say. That matter is with me;"

Mowgli is merciful to his unfaithful brothers but takes revenge on the tiger Shere Khan for turning them against him. He bears himself strongly through his speech, but having never known betrayal, he is deeply disturbed.

"Then something began to hurt Mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face.
"What is it? What is it?" he said. "I do not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?"
"No, Little Brother. That is only tears such as men use," said Bagheera. "Now I know thou art a man, and a man's cub no longer... Let them fall, Mowgli. They are only tears." So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before."

     There is a profound sweetness in this whole ordeal. Though Mowgli is forced to leave his family, the seperation emphasises the beauty of his affection for them. Perhaps it also helps the reader feel the innocence of their own childhood with a potency mere memory cannot provide.


arielpadilla
http://arielpadilla.deviantart.com/art/Mowgli-and-Bagheera-132252423

Reading disturbing literature- Schadenfreude or something else?

     There are probably a lot of different reasons we read literature with disturbing, morbid, frightening, or just emotionally taxing content. It seems the most popular theory is that our interest stems from some latent morbid enjoyment of seeing other people suffer. The Germans call it schadenfreude.
     My senior project for my English major has led me to question my preferences in literature and I have been forming my own theories.
     There is probably something of the mad scientist in all great authors. We may not like pain, but it is a universal experience among human kind, and because it exists we feel the urge to explore it. It is a twisted extension of the third grade boy who sticks his tonge to the frozen metal bar on the playground. Literature provides a controlled testing environment for these otherwise dangerous urges. Insanity (an affliction that is quite serious and something I would never wish on anyone in reality) is one area of intense fascination for many artists.
    Consider a scene from Charlse Dickens' Our Mutual Friend in book 3 chapter 10. For those who don't know the book, in one of the many sub stories of the novel two men of questionable character are in love with the same girl. One of them, Eugene, is a selfish idle gentleman with very little money and the other is a self made man who scratched his way up to a position as a school teacher. Unfortunately this man, Bradley, is mentally very unstable. The woman they love is of the lower working class and she recognizes the danger posed by the interest of both men. The school teacher is obviously unstable. The gentleman has no regard for how damaging his careless infatuation is to her reputation. She runs away. Both men become desperate to find her.
     In the scene I mentioned Eugene is explaining to his friend how he is being followed. Almost every night he goes out walking all over London, knowing that his unstable rival follows him in the hopes that he will lead her to the woman.

"I goad the schoolmaster to madness.
I make the schoolmaster so ridiculous, and so aware of being made
ridiculous, that I see him chafe and fret at every pore when we cross
one another. The amiable occupation has been the solace of my life,
since I was baulked in the manner unnecessary to recall. I have derived
inexpressible comfort from it. I do it thus: I stroll out after dark,
stroll a little way, look in at a window and furtively look out for the
schoolmaster. Sooner or later, I perceive the schoolmaster on the watch;
sometimes accompanied by his hopeful pupil; oftener, pupil-less. Having
made sure of his watching me, I tempt him on, all over London. One
night I go east, another night north, in a few nights I go all round the
compass. Sometimes, I walk; sometimes, I proceed in cabs, draining the
pocket of the schoolmaster who then follows in cabs. I study and get
up abstruse No Thoroughfares in the course of the day. With Venetian
mystery I seek those No Thoroughfares at night, glide into them by means
of dark courts, tempt the schoolmaster to follow, turn suddenly, and
catch him before he can retreat. Then we face one another, and I pass
him as unaware of his existence, and he undergoes grinding torments.
Similarly, I walk at a great pace down a short street, rapidly turn the
corner, and, getting out of his view, as rapidly turn back. I catch him
coming on post, again pass him as unaware of his existence, and again
he undergoes grinding torments. Night after night his disappointment is
acute, but hope springs eternal in the scholastic breast, and he follows
me again to-morrow."

     The scene is emotionally horific, especially in context of the whole work. I remember having to put the book down for a few seconds after reading that passage for the first time. Yet it is one of my favorite scenes. Eugene is obviously enjoying Bradley's suffering, but I don't. I am disgusted by it. So why do I like the concept so much?

     To be honest, I'm slightly intrigued by insanity. (Great thing to put in my first blog, right?) As a very controlled person, I would link my interest to my fascination with dreams and what the unconsious mind can concoct when reason or consciousness frees it from restraint. But my afinity for this scene is really even more basic than that. Since I am safely in the position of detached observer, I find the fact that Bradley can be goaded into insanity interesting from a amateur psychologist's standpoint. I feel sorry for Bradley (even though I don't like him) and I hate Eugene for being so cruel, but the whole situation is irrisistably interesting.

     Perhaps that cold interest is no better than the schadenfreude, but I believe there can even be what we would consider positive motivations for reading about people in pain. I don't just mean a desire to not be igonrant of reality and other people's suffering. I am talking about the human potential and need to sympathize and nurture other people, whether real or imaginary.

    to be continued...



Stone, Marcus. Better to be Abel than Cain. http://dickens.ucsc.edu/OMF/cain.html