last-minute thoughts

So, right now, I'm sitting in class and thanking God for whoever invented my phone. I completely forgot that I had a blog due until, well, a few minutes ago.

Then, I couldn't think of what to write about. I thought about making more comments on "Under The Dome" (because I truly miss reading that book), but everything in that book is depressing. Then I thought, "Most things we read are depressing."

Why is that? Why are we so attracted to the gloom in doom, the drab and droll? Naturally, humans pay close attention to the "bad" in order to prepare for conflict; it is our instinctive defense. But why do we rejoice in others' pain?

Maybe the safety of a book also prepares us. Our pain in reality is sharp and precise; the kindness of literature's atrocities is that we can close it at any time. Trauma is always detailed: you remember every bit of bitterness, every heartache, every headache, every tearshed... you savor it. If we first live our disappointments through our favorite characters, the piercing sting of reality fades to a dull ache. There is comfort in knowing you are not alone, and it is only human nature to seek comfort.


"Books are humanity in print." --Barbara W. Tuchman

Making Sense of Outside Reading

Segwaying from my last blog, I have chosen to postpone reading Stephen King's Under the Dome until further notice. I have over 750 pages left to read and not enough time in the week to do it. So, instead, I'm going to read Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five since it is already laying on my bookshelf and the novel in its entirety is less than a third of my remainder of Under the Dome.

The moment is bittersweet: though I love Stephen King's book, I am intrigued by this new one. All I can currently remember about it is Dresden Bombings and space porn stars; that alone is enough to perk someone's interest.

Hopefully I can make my way through this novel quickly and happily this weekend; this week will be devoted to Crime and Punishment, which I have not been able to pick up once outside of class. I read too slowly and too for-pleasure-ly for this amount of literature.

"She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain." --Louisa May Alcott

my grammatically-correct rant and Rally for Sanity

Whoever said senior year was easy didn't go to college.

For a few hours Saturday and Sunday, I sat on the couch and watched whatever football game my dad was interested in. It was the first time in what feels like forever I could relax and return to my natural state of teenage laziness. (Of course, I am now behind on my homework because I didn't take advantage of those few precious hours.)

During the practice AP test, I took my time reading about the Now and Laters. Honestly, I loved it; I felt people could relate to both sides--particularly seniors who want to take it easy their last year of high school yet want to make sure they've had the full "high school experience." Unfortuantely, these past eight weeks have all been NOW, NOW, NOW; any Later results in some major catastrophe.

My biggest Later catastrophe: college applications.

Can't we have a day in school where all college-bound students are pulled out of class and made to work on their applications? We'd have a plethora of English teachers and peer editors, a student body urging us forward with each tedious question, and counselors at our disposal for questions and psychological help for any break downs. For anyone who has finished all of their applications: let them do homework or read Under the Dome--that will suck their time.

Perhaps, since the school district would really never consider my last paragraph, we, being you, whoever else reads this, and me, should camp out in some WiFi-clad coffeehouse and just get to work--we could have our own Rally for Sanity. We wouldn't have a bunch of English teachers and counselors, but we would have a well-rounded collection of acquaintences willing to answer questions or look for spelling mistakes.


The irony of this blog is, six paragraphs and twenty-five minutes later, I've wasted quite a bit of time. Good luck with those applications you've been putting off.

What Makes Me Believe In Domes

This weekend, I was a murderer, a pacemaker-clad police chief, a self-mutilating priest, an evil car salesman, a soon-to-be-dead girl, a soldier, a widower, a drugged-up lesbian, a father, a woodchuck, and a republican. Stephen King's Under the Dome took me on a whirlwind adventure through the lives (and final moments) of the residents of Chester's Mill, Maine.

I think, by far, my favorite rhetorical technique King has used throughout the book is his point of view--each character (no matter of importance or life span) was allotted his or her own narrative style, tricking the reader into believing the event relayed to them first-hand instead of the typical third-person POV King uses. The "true" Christians were given a protective bubble, free of curse words; the sweet little old lady who was sent flying through her windshield was described with the same kindly simplicity as if she were instead knitting a sweater. The intensity of a headache pounds on every syllable, and the beauty of love caresses every letter. King's storytelling is so personal, so real, it makes believable the random barrier popping up one afternoon, massacring a third of the town's population who just so happened to be on or near the city limit.

I won't say much about the actual plot in case anybody wants to read it, but I will commend King (as if he were worried about my literary criticism) on his successful duty of dispelling disbelief.