The names have all changed, but the meaning is yet the same.
I am amazed at the sheer size of Jupiter, aren't you? 'Tis such an ugly planet, yet so easy to hit as a target, even with an unsteady hand. But what's most strange are those moons circling the planet. I'd never noticed them before. It is so hard to notice such insignificance next to such a huge celestial body, and yet at the same time it is this hugeness that makes such moons so easily seen now that I know how to look for them.
And yet, without the perturbations normally seen in smaller planets' orbits, what is the point? Why even bother if no perturbation is present? A star at a ninety degree andgle from our spiral galactical tilt may be twice as dim, but it is still more noticable than a star crowded out by the rest of the solar systems in our own galaxy.
If you have to use parallax to figure it out, then no one else will bother. And if no one else bothers, then why should you? Dominique is only useful if others think she is.
But what scares me most is not that I'd not noticed these moons before, but that I know not what they mean in the here and now. What am I missing? What information need I gather in order to unravel this mystery?
I just don't know.
Furthermore, what is this fascination with the most low rates? Who cares? All you need is the lowest, right? So does it matter if you know more low rates than another? What a horrible fallacious slogan. Must corporate America be so very dense?
Mayhaps not, but what of it? Others were dense. Did I mind then? But then one of them e-mailed me. Remember, Eric? Her name was DeEtta, I think. It has been a while, so I'm not entirely sure. What of her, Eric? What comment there?
No comment. No concern. Just sadness, that's all. Pure sadness. Sadness for me; sadness for her; sadness for you know whom. There is enough to go around, unfortunately.
Thank God I am now here. Thank God I have my feet planted firmly on terrestrial ground. Peter disagrees, as does Russ, and Him as well. But Jimmy understands, I think. Jimmy may not know he understands, but that doesn't make the understanding go away.
Is it enough? I'm not sure. It takes so long to get a message to and back from Mission Control. It is this that scares me second most. The length of time between rest periods.
Is rape rape if the rape weren't considered rape by the victim? I ask, because I'd like to know. Enlighten me.
25 November, 2002
Candide Versus "The Prioress's Tale"
The following is an assigned essay which was completed for a grade. Unfortunately, some formatting has been lost in the transition to LJ.
Author: Eric J. Herboso
Class: ENG 121.02 (Composition I), for Dr. Schaub
Assignment: Paper 5: Compare & Contrast Candide & “The Prioress’s Tale”
Voltaire is a simplistic writer. His finest work, Candide, exemplifies this simplicity in its acuteness of point, lack of drivel, and ruthlessness in attacks. It is rare to find an author so willing to forego suspense, realism, and subtlety for the sake of succinctness. But that doesn’t mean that Voltaire was the first to write in such simplistic elegance. Three hundred fifty years earlier, an English author named Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, a pseudo-collection of short stories of differing styles and levels of complexity. In one of these short stories, “The Prioress’s Tale”, Chaucer used a form of simplicity very similar to what Voltaire would one day come to be known for.
Like Candide, “The Prioress’s Tale” is short and to the point. No time is wasted on scenes that aren’t integral to the plot, unless the scene is present for some higher purpose. For example, the setting in Candide often changes scope dramatically in the space of but a single line of text, as can be seen when Candide first arrived in South America: "the ship made her way. They landed at Buenos Ayres” (p. 30, Candide). The only extraneous space comes in the form of semi-veiled attacks against Voltaire’s harshest critics, and even then the retaliation lasts for at most only a paragraph or two. In one particularly scathing scene, Candide asks of the Abbé, “What is a folliculaire?” to which the Abbé replies, “a pamphleteer -- a Fréron” (p. 58, Candide). “The Prioress’s Tale” is just as concise. Chaucer moves along in the story at quite a steady pace, pausing only to attack critics of Christianity (Jews) in the same manner that Voltaire attacks critics of Voltaire’s own style (Fréron, Trublet, et al). “Evil shall get what it deserves” (l. 180, “The Prioress’s Tale”).
Candide, the main protagonist of Candide, is just as his name suggests: candid and naïve. Likewise, the child protagonist of “The Prioress’s Tale” is of a singular belief beyond all reason. Because of his blind belief in the holiness of the Blessed Virgin Mary, he vows to learn a song he doesn’t even know the words of “even if [he] shall be punished for neglecting [his] primer / and shall be beaten three times in an hour” (ll. 88-9, “The Prioress’s Tale”). Of course, whereas Chaucer praises the child for such beliefs and Voltaire chastises Candide for the same, the method of making their respective points is the same; it is not so much a similarity of purpose that is seen here, but rather a similarity in proof.
But even though the intent of each author is significantly different, the syntax is quite remarkably similar. When Chaucer introduces the child hero of the story, the depiction consists of but one paragraph that describes his lineage, age, and naïvety. When Voltaire did the same for Candide, he left out Candide’s age, but the rest of the description is strikingly similar to Chaucer’s. Candide’s “countenance was a true picture of his soul. … [And he was] the son of the Baron’s sister” (p. 1, Candide). The child “was a widow’s son, / … / … / and also, whenever he saw the image / of Christ’s mother, he would … / … kneel down and say / his Ave Maria, on his way” (ll. 50-6, “The Prioress’s Tale”).
The concept of suspense is also similar from both authors’ perspectives; while not completely lost on the idea, suspense has been revamped with a higher purpose: clarity of intent. It is this clarity of intent that truly makes these two texts most similar; while it is true that the actual intent of each is different, the way each author so very concisely makes their respective points is both unusual and parallel. Suspense is not created by requiring the reader to wait overly long for the resolution of a given event, but rather by the inclusion of hints towards what will come next in the narrative.
However, it should be noted that despite all of the similarities described above, the two works are truly quite disparate. Voltaire’s Candide is written as a parody on Optimism, describing a proof against the concepts of blind belief, while Chaucer’s “The Prioress’s Tale” is written as praise for Christianity, describing the merits for blind belief. Whereas Chaucer talks negatively of Jews being allowed to live in a community “for purposes of foul usury and filthy lucre, / hateful to Christ and his followers” (ll. 39-40, “The Prioress’s Tale”), Voltaire talks sympathetically of a Manichean in a positive light, showing that Martin “was an honest man, … persecuted by the preachers of Surinam” (p. 51, Candide). But despite these many differences, the method of discourse between the two texts remains similar, even when the crux of each respective methodology is completely different.
It is this utter simplicity of style that makes both Candide and “The Prioress’s Tale” a true pleasure to read; it is not common to find such gifted authors as that can write a story so very simply and yet portray that same story so very well in one and the same text.
Author: Eric J. Herboso
Class: ENG 121.02 (Composition I), for Dr. Schaub
Assignment: Paper 5: Compare & Contrast Candide & “The Prioress’s Tale”
Voltaire is a simplistic writer. His finest work, Candide, exemplifies this simplicity in its acuteness of point, lack of drivel, and ruthlessness in attacks. It is rare to find an author so willing to forego suspense, realism, and subtlety for the sake of succinctness. But that doesn’t mean that Voltaire was the first to write in such simplistic elegance. Three hundred fifty years earlier, an English author named Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, a pseudo-collection of short stories of differing styles and levels of complexity. In one of these short stories, “The Prioress’s Tale”, Chaucer used a form of simplicity very similar to what Voltaire would one day come to be known for.
Like Candide, “The Prioress’s Tale” is short and to the point. No time is wasted on scenes that aren’t integral to the plot, unless the scene is present for some higher purpose. For example, the setting in Candide often changes scope dramatically in the space of but a single line of text, as can be seen when Candide first arrived in South America: "the ship made her way. They landed at Buenos Ayres” (p. 30, Candide). The only extraneous space comes in the form of semi-veiled attacks against Voltaire’s harshest critics, and even then the retaliation lasts for at most only a paragraph or two. In one particularly scathing scene, Candide asks of the Abbé, “What is a folliculaire?” to which the Abbé replies, “a pamphleteer -- a Fréron” (p. 58, Candide). “The Prioress’s Tale” is just as concise. Chaucer moves along in the story at quite a steady pace, pausing only to attack critics of Christianity (Jews) in the same manner that Voltaire attacks critics of Voltaire’s own style (Fréron, Trublet, et al). “Evil shall get what it deserves” (l. 180, “The Prioress’s Tale”).
Candide, the main protagonist of Candide, is just as his name suggests: candid and naïve. Likewise, the child protagonist of “The Prioress’s Tale” is of a singular belief beyond all reason. Because of his blind belief in the holiness of the Blessed Virgin Mary, he vows to learn a song he doesn’t even know the words of “even if [he] shall be punished for neglecting [his] primer / and shall be beaten three times in an hour” (ll. 88-9, “The Prioress’s Tale”). Of course, whereas Chaucer praises the child for such beliefs and Voltaire chastises Candide for the same, the method of making their respective points is the same; it is not so much a similarity of purpose that is seen here, but rather a similarity in proof.
But even though the intent of each author is significantly different, the syntax is quite remarkably similar. When Chaucer introduces the child hero of the story, the depiction consists of but one paragraph that describes his lineage, age, and naïvety. When Voltaire did the same for Candide, he left out Candide’s age, but the rest of the description is strikingly similar to Chaucer’s. Candide’s “countenance was a true picture of his soul. … [And he was] the son of the Baron’s sister” (p. 1, Candide). The child “was a widow’s son, / … / … / and also, whenever he saw the image / of Christ’s mother, he would … / … kneel down and say / his Ave Maria, on his way” (ll. 50-6, “The Prioress’s Tale”).
The concept of suspense is also similar from both authors’ perspectives; while not completely lost on the idea, suspense has been revamped with a higher purpose: clarity of intent. It is this clarity of intent that truly makes these two texts most similar; while it is true that the actual intent of each is different, the way each author so very concisely makes their respective points is both unusual and parallel. Suspense is not created by requiring the reader to wait overly long for the resolution of a given event, but rather by the inclusion of hints towards what will come next in the narrative.
However, it should be noted that despite all of the similarities described above, the two works are truly quite disparate. Voltaire’s Candide is written as a parody on Optimism, describing a proof against the concepts of blind belief, while Chaucer’s “The Prioress’s Tale” is written as praise for Christianity, describing the merits for blind belief. Whereas Chaucer talks negatively of Jews being allowed to live in a community “for purposes of foul usury and filthy lucre, / hateful to Christ and his followers” (ll. 39-40, “The Prioress’s Tale”), Voltaire talks sympathetically of a Manichean in a positive light, showing that Martin “was an honest man, … persecuted by the preachers of Surinam” (p. 51, Candide). But despite these many differences, the method of discourse between the two texts remains similar, even when the crux of each respective methodology is completely different.
It is this utter simplicity of style that makes both Candide and “The Prioress’s Tale” a true pleasure to read; it is not common to find such gifted authors as that can write a story so very simply and yet portray that same story so very well in one and the same text.
21 November, 2002
A Normal Entry
Cartoon Network decided to run reruns in favor of new DragonBall Z episodes today, meaning that the continuation of the series I've been watching since I first came to school here at Spring Hill College will not be aired until sometime next year. Needless to say, this has made me more than a bit upset, as the last show they aired yesterday afternoon ended on quite a cliffhanger. To make up for it, David invited me over to his dorm to watch DragonBall Z movies. We ended up watching six hours worth before I left.
His dorm is extremely nice, too... It's the newest dorm facilities on campus, and they are nice enough to almost make me want to forego my apartment and instead live on campus.
I had a paper due this morning, but instead of writing it last night like I had intended to, I stayed up all night arguing with a friend. It was fun, but it came at a price: now I have multiple papers due, and I've yet to start on any of them. And look at me now, writing in my diary in lieu of writing my papers.
I am eternally stupid, you know that?
Actually, this is my attempt at writing a 'normal' diary entry. It's more hard than it at first seems. I've had to delete entire sentences and rewrite them just to make them sound more 'normal'. It reminds me of when I tried to write a Dr. Seuss narrative once. It seems so easy, yet it is instead quite hard.
::sigh::
One more thing before I end this entry: in the forums I frequent, stupid people keep posting in a physics thread, proposing outrageous claims that I needn't even really respond to since everything that I could say had already been posted before they typed what they did in their post. How exactly do you stop such moronic people? I just don't get it.
Oh, well.
I hope you've found this journal entry to be 'normal', because I've worked very hard to make it that way. (c;
G'day.
His dorm is extremely nice, too... It's the newest dorm facilities on campus, and they are nice enough to almost make me want to forego my apartment and instead live on campus.
I had a paper due this morning, but instead of writing it last night like I had intended to, I stayed up all night arguing with a friend. It was fun, but it came at a price: now I have multiple papers due, and I've yet to start on any of them. And look at me now, writing in my diary in lieu of writing my papers.
I am eternally stupid, you know that?
Actually, this is my attempt at writing a 'normal' diary entry. It's more hard than it at first seems. I've had to delete entire sentences and rewrite them just to make them sound more 'normal'. It reminds me of when I tried to write a Dr. Seuss narrative once. It seems so easy, yet it is instead quite hard.
::sigh::
One more thing before I end this entry: in the forums I frequent, stupid people keep posting in a physics thread, proposing outrageous claims that I needn't even really respond to since everything that I could say had already been posted before they typed what they did in their post. How exactly do you stop such moronic people? I just don't get it.
Oh, well.
I hope you've found this journal entry to be 'normal', because I've worked very hard to make it that way. (c;
G'day.
20 November, 2002
Carnal Pleasure
Sometimes, she makes me smile.
We'll be talking of whatever subject we happen to be on at that moment, and she will make some point of logic that just hits home. Most of the time, I thought of it before she did, but the very fact that she thought of it at all sends shivers down my spine.
Hearing the cold logic of a beautiful woman is breathtaking; but it is even more so when she beats me to the logic -- on those few occasions when she says something and I've not considered it before, an almost orgasmic feeling comes over me, and I cannot help but enjoy it.
Sometimes, she makes me smile. And after I smile, I am forced to excuse myself from the room, lest she realize how much I enjoy partaking in her intelligence.
::sigh:: ... It is too bad that I do not get to argue with her more often... And it is doubly too bad that I know of no other woman who is willing to argue with me like this. ... ::sigh::
C'est la vie.
We'll be talking of whatever subject we happen to be on at that moment, and she will make some point of logic that just hits home. Most of the time, I thought of it before she did, but the very fact that she thought of it at all sends shivers down my spine.
Hearing the cold logic of a beautiful woman is breathtaking; but it is even more so when she beats me to the logic -- on those few occasions when she says something and I've not considered it before, an almost orgasmic feeling comes over me, and I cannot help but enjoy it.
Sometimes, she makes me smile. And after I smile, I am forced to excuse myself from the room, lest she realize how much I enjoy partaking in her intelligence.
::sigh:: ... It is too bad that I do not get to argue with her more often... And it is doubly too bad that I know of no other woman who is willing to argue with me like this. ... ::sigh::
C'est la vie.
19 November, 2002
Anarchy Versus ... Me?
He is there every day when I go to the cafeteria for food. Forty hours a week he toils, sometimes more. Yes, he gets paid, but so what? How does he get out?
"How does he evade the system?" my friend asks me.
I'm stumped. I sit for five or so seconds, and the smile on his face grows as others at the table snicker at my expense. It is the first time they've ever seen me hesitate.
I have to answer with something... anything. "Well, ..." I imagine a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead, but it is too cool for any such thing to happen. "... he shouldn't procreate. If he can't give a good life to his children, then he shouldn't have any; this will break the cycle, and the children that are born into this world will be better off than otherwise."
"So we should round up all the poor people and have them spayed? Then we can use them for slave labor afterwards and it'll all be good, right?" The snickers become outright bursts of laughter, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
"No, no -- they should n't be forced into it, but surely you see why --"
"No, I don't see, Eric. What do you mean? What are you getting at?"
...
I look at him, and I see what I see everyday that I come to the cafeteria. He walks from table to table, fixing chairs and sweeping floors and rearranging ketchup bottles.
Am I really doing this to him? Is it really people like me who have dictated that his life be as it is? My glass of tea is empty, so I excuse myself for another round. Is this what capitalism really means? That I am better than him? Why am I better than him? I can't stop glancing at him as I walk through the cafeteria. I worked hard to get where I am; I am working hard even now. Why should he get what I get if all he does is rearrange ketchup bottles? I fill my glass with tea. But he has no choice; where else can he go? This is the best job he can get? Could you do better if you were in his position?
I pour out the tea, disgusted with myself. I look at my hand, quivering in the bland light of the cafeteria, and I see the scar. Greg's scar. It was his sword that pierced me that night; it was my thoughts that night that scared me more than any other night I've ever been alive. I lied that night. I know not why, but I did. It wasn't a big deal at the time, but now, looking back, I know how important that night was to my life. On that night, I was the one rearranging ketchup bottles. By choice.
What am I here for? Why do I do what I now do? Why do I have such thoughts? ...such hurt?
Absalom? No. God, I hope not.
Tyson? Perhaps. I don't think so, though.
Conan? ... Maybe. Maybe so.
That's scary, you know. Really scary.
Love me, please. Don't ignore me.
Please.
"How does he evade the system?" my friend asks me.
I'm stumped. I sit for five or so seconds, and the smile on his face grows as others at the table snicker at my expense. It is the first time they've ever seen me hesitate.
I have to answer with something... anything. "Well, ..." I imagine a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead, but it is too cool for any such thing to happen. "... he shouldn't procreate. If he can't give a good life to his children, then he shouldn't have any; this will break the cycle, and the children that are born into this world will be better off than otherwise."
"So we should round up all the poor people and have them spayed? Then we can use them for slave labor afterwards and it'll all be good, right?" The snickers become outright bursts of laughter, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
"No, no -- they should n't be forced into it, but surely you see why --"
"No, I don't see, Eric. What do you mean? What are you getting at?"
...
I look at him, and I see what I see everyday that I come to the cafeteria. He walks from table to table, fixing chairs and sweeping floors and rearranging ketchup bottles.
Am I really doing this to him? Is it really people like me who have dictated that his life be as it is? My glass of tea is empty, so I excuse myself for another round. Is this what capitalism really means? That I am better than him? Why am I better than him? I can't stop glancing at him as I walk through the cafeteria. I worked hard to get where I am; I am working hard even now. Why should he get what I get if all he does is rearrange ketchup bottles? I fill my glass with tea. But he has no choice; where else can he go? This is the best job he can get? Could you do better if you were in his position?
I pour out the tea, disgusted with myself. I look at my hand, quivering in the bland light of the cafeteria, and I see the scar. Greg's scar. It was his sword that pierced me that night; it was my thoughts that night that scared me more than any other night I've ever been alive. I lied that night. I know not why, but I did. It wasn't a big deal at the time, but now, looking back, I know how important that night was to my life. On that night, I was the one rearranging ketchup bottles. By choice.
What am I here for? Why do I do what I now do? Why do I have such thoughts? ...such hurt?
Absalom? No. God, I hope not.
Tyson? Perhaps. I don't think so, though.
Conan? ... Maybe. Maybe so.
That's scary, you know. Really scary.
Love me, please. Don't ignore me.
Please.
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