Well, anything that labels itself as being a "complete idiot's guide" sets the quality standard rather low for a non-fiction book. I don't consider myself a complete idiot, although certainly I display the characteristic traits rather more frequently than I'd like.
Regardless: I am a man of a certain age, and as such it should come as no surprise that I occasionally suffer from depression. It happens. I'm the right age for the archetypal mid-life crisis, which recent research suggests is as much a biological side effect of hormonal change as a sociological or psychological condition. It was during a particularly inconvenient down period that I took myself to the bookstore with the aim of buying something different from my usual run of speculative fiction. I'd heard that biography was quite enlightening, and I was looking for something about Gandhi or the Dalai Llama, both men who seem to have it together. Unfortunately, these are not sufficiently popular to make it onto the shelves of a back-woods small city bookstore.
I'd given up and turned away, only to find, right behind me, a cardboard display of bright orange books. Second up from the bottom on the left was one with a big flower on it and "The Psychology of Happiness" in bold letters.
Now, to understand the synchronicity here, you have to know that depression has come to visit rather a lot over the last few years. It moves right in, sleeps on the couch, cleans out the fridge, hogs the remote and uses up the toilet paper without replacing the roll. It wears out its welcome in about an hour, but lingers for days (or weeks). It is not a fun companion, and because I believe one of the measures of a man is not just being able to offer help but being able to ask for it with equal pride, I've sought professional counseling. It's helped, and for those men contemplating getting a divorce, transplanting hair, buying a Porsche and dating a twenty-year-old, I recommend it highly.
It's WAY cheaper.
But here's the thing: counseling takes the approach, "here's how you can get un-depressed, and how you can prevent recurrence." Which is all fine and good and is a life preserver any drowning man would welcome. But it's like most of therapeutic psychology in that it concentrates on treating pathology, countering the negative.
So here's a book about positive psychology, the study of what makes humans happy. This is the opposite approach, one that doesn't counter the negative but encourages the positive. Positive psychology doesn't say, "here's how you avoid depression," it says, "here's how you foster happiness."
It's the difference between running away from a thing and running toward another thing. In the first instance, you can go any direction and not many of them are going to put you in a better position than you were. In the second, there is a goal, a destination of your choosing.
So in the depths of my despair (I'm depressed, and there's no Gandhi section), a big orange book about happiness drops into my life. At $4.99 Canadian, even a complete idiot would have seen the sense in picking it up.
It contains a survey of the current research in positive psychology, a field of study just over a decade old. Although there are numerous references to scholarly papers, it's written for the layman, and provides a quick, accessible overview of some pretty complex topics. Along the way it provides a definition of happiness, breaks it down into its ingredients and includes a few tips and techniques that promote happiness in the individual.
It's not a practical guide, or a workbook, but it does provide a road map of the territory and the appendices direct the reader to outside resources that may help shape a plan to work toward happiness.
Does it work?
It's a book, folks. It's not so full of itself that it tells you one of the keys to happiness is "read more books about happiness." So, by itself, no.
Likewise, if you're expecting to learn how never to want to cry again, or feel sad, or how to be constantly "up," then you're going to be disappointed. You're also being unrealistic, but this isn't a book about how to deal with THAT.
It's a book about how people manage to increase their general happiness (called the "set level"), and condition themselves to better withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
The things that it promotes as being factors in a happy life are things of which many of us who characterize ourselves as "unhappy" (or "depressed") feel a distinct lack. It's an interesting book, and I've learned a great deal about what I should be doing to get myself a little more happiness. Herewith, a sample:
- Exercise. The release of endorphins gives a short-term emotional boost, and regular exercise creates long-term effects.
- Meditation. Analysis has documented that meditation can change the structure of the brain, adapting it to better weather stress and misfortune.
- Altruism. Giving to and helping others does as much for us as for those we help.
- Spirituality. Apparently it doesn't matter what you believe, so long as you believe it devoutly.
- Social Interaction. We are meant to connect to each-other.
- Exercising Our Skills. You know that feeling you get when you're engrossed in doing something, the hours fly by and you really don't want to interrupt yourself to eat, or sleep or go to the bathroom? Get a couple of hours of that feeling into your day and your happiness will increase accordingly.
- Gratitude. Habitual recognition of the good in your life provides a perspective that places even misfortune in a positive context.
The most interesting thing about this study of happiness is the conclusion that anyone can be happy. Money is not required. None of the suggestions it makes require material outlay or access to facilities that may not be available. It takes a desire (particularly difficult for those who suffer from depression, as one of the primary symptoms of the disease is a "can't do" attitude), dedication of time and effort, and a willingness to step outside our own sphere of comfort.
Possibly the best news I've ever had.
Ulysses Rating: 4 - I loved this. How could I not?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Hearts
Current Reading: Shifter, by Janice Hardy
Inspirational Quote: "He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began." -- Tolstoy
Ah, Valentine's Day, that one day in the year when we are encouraged to throw caution to the wind and declare our passion via conspicuous consumerism.
Fields of flowers are amputated on this day because tradition tells us that a handful of dying weeds is a suitable way to convey esteem. Buckets of chocolate in all its forms are consumed in the fervent hope that pancreatic shock will somehow lead to intimate bliss (Yeah, okay, so it works on me... but that's just the way I am). Jewelry stores are emptied of things that sparkle on the off chance that polished rocks might inspire passion. Trees are leveled for card stock and dime-store poets squeezed to produce high-saccharine verse in order to somehow convey depth of insubstantial emotion.
Of course, they're using a language that grew out of the need to tell other monkeys where the good fruit hangs and where the tigers prowl, so conveying abstract concepts is no mean feat.
Does it work? It seems to. It's like a self-fulfilling prophesy. Because we believe these things convey affection, they convey affection.
I myself got a card with a very sappy verse, and was happy to have it. Penelope got a hand-written sheet of notepaper on which were scribbled the top ten reasons why being her husband is a decent gig. She accepted it with her usual inspiring grace.
Of course, neither missive yielded the archetypal rush of passion. At the time, Cassandra was feverishly scribbling class names on mass-produced Valentines cards, Aeneas was demanding we tell him on which floor he dropped his shirt last night, Telemachus was complaining that unloading the dishwasher was a task simultaneously beyond and beneath him, Penelope was making breakfast and I was on my way out the door.
We didn't exactly fall into each other's arms.
On the other hand, we did that twenty-one years ago and it seems we did it well enough to last a lifetime.
So: I'm happy. I think she is too. And really, what more can anyone ask?
Inspirational Quote: "He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began." -- Tolstoy
Ah, Valentine's Day, that one day in the year when we are encouraged to throw caution to the wind and declare our passion via conspicuous consumerism.
Fields of flowers are amputated on this day because tradition tells us that a handful of dying weeds is a suitable way to convey esteem. Buckets of chocolate in all its forms are consumed in the fervent hope that pancreatic shock will somehow lead to intimate bliss (Yeah, okay, so it works on me... but that's just the way I am). Jewelry stores are emptied of things that sparkle on the off chance that polished rocks might inspire passion. Trees are leveled for card stock and dime-store poets squeezed to produce high-saccharine verse in order to somehow convey depth of insubstantial emotion.
Of course, they're using a language that grew out of the need to tell other monkeys where the good fruit hangs and where the tigers prowl, so conveying abstract concepts is no mean feat.
Does it work? It seems to. It's like a self-fulfilling prophesy. Because we believe these things convey affection, they convey affection.
I myself got a card with a very sappy verse, and was happy to have it. Penelope got a hand-written sheet of notepaper on which were scribbled the top ten reasons why being her husband is a decent gig. She accepted it with her usual inspiring grace.
Of course, neither missive yielded the archetypal rush of passion. At the time, Cassandra was feverishly scribbling class names on mass-produced Valentines cards, Aeneas was demanding we tell him on which floor he dropped his shirt last night, Telemachus was complaining that unloading the dishwasher was a task simultaneously beyond and beneath him, Penelope was making breakfast and I was on my way out the door.
We didn't exactly fall into each other's arms.
On the other hand, we did that twenty-one years ago and it seems we did it well enough to last a lifetime.
So: I'm happy. I think she is too. And really, what more can anyone ask?
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Unillustrated Man
Current Reading: The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Psychology of Happiness, by Arlene Matthews Uhl
Inspirational Quote: "Your body is a temple, but how long can you live in the same house before you redecorate?" -- Anonymous
Last Sunday, Cassandra and I went swimming at the local pool. We were splashing around in the water surrounded by scores of other parents and children and teens all doing much the same thing.
What struck me was the abundance of tattoos. It seemed like everywhere I looked, I saw ink. This pool is close to a military base, and the military has always had a tradition of marking themselves. However, that alone couldn't account for the sheer volume and variety of stuff on display. It wasn't just men, of course, but women too and one of the teenage lifeguards had the Chinese character for luck emblazoned on one shoulder.
Why is this so popular? I think my head is the wrong shape for this idea.
In the old days, a tattoo marked you as part of a social group... usually something a little more formidable than the bridge club, maybe even actually dangerous: bikers, criminals, and for some reason, sailors (my father was a sailor, but he remains unmarked. I think that, had he gotten one, something along the lines of "If found, please return to..." would have been appropriate). Now, anyone and everyone seems to sport ink.
I've seen everything from microdots of butterflies to half-body dragons in blue and red and yellow and green. They're impressive for the sheer ingenuity and stamina required to create them and inject them onto the human body, but I don't find them attractive and so I wonder what the incentive is.
I'm not a particularly handsome man, and if someone were able to tattoo a picture of someone who WAS a handsome man over my features, why then I'd go right out and get one today. Sadly, that seems to be beyond the current state of the art.
I wonder if anyone's ever gone out and gotten a tattoo done in flesh-colored ink?
My sister-in-law has a butterfly just east of her collarbone. It's "cute," I guess, in the way that small bugs often can be. However, I have no desire to decorate my body with members of the order insecta. I have enough nightmares about bugs on my body as is without waking up to discover one permanently etched on my skin.
The same goes for just about every species of fauna, real or imaginary. I have no need of tigers, dragons, or snakes in real life so I don't see any reason to carry their image around with me. True, such images speak to one's courage or ferocity, but if the only way you can display those characteristics is to go under the needle, then a tattoo isn't going to do much for your insecurity.
Some tattoos I see are very small. When I ask why so small, the usual reply is, "I didn't want anything gaudy." My audible reaction is polite acknowledgment, but inside I'm thinking, "oh, then you shouldn't have gotten a tattoo." Some are very large, taking up a quarter of the body or more and demanding some degree of nakedness to be fully appreciated. I figure, if you're beautiful naked, then don't colorize perfection. If you're not beautiful naked, coloring your skin blue and black and red isn't going to improve things. It's just going to make you look like a victim of incredibly precise and artistic domestic violence.
I've seen a lot of Chinese characters. Few people, including some of my Chinese friends, know what they mean. 'Luck' is popular, supposedly, but if you don't read Chinese ideograms how do you know what you've really got? You might think you're walking around with the word 'Brave' on your ankle, but the first time you run into someone with a translation fetish you might find out you've labeled yourself 'Spongecake' by mistake.
Words and phrases are common as well, beloved quotes or names of significant people. I'd be honored if someone immortalized me by inking my name on their skin, but I think far too many people have inked someone's name on themselves only to regret the action after they've fallen out. I suppose "Mom" is safe. She loves you even if you're practically invisible under all that markup. The quotations are a neat idea too, although I'd stop at one or two lines. War and Peace, for example, would be almost unreadable due to the required font size. I suppose you could end with "Continued on next body," down around your heel...
And who reads these? The owner? I think that if you have to write something down on your body in permanent ink in order to remember it, then you have issues that a tattoo won't solve. Casual passers-by are unlikely to stop long enough to read what's been written. They rarely stop long enough to read billboards, and saying to someone "Stop a moment, I want to read your body," is likely to get you a slap or a punch depending on the sex of your reading material.
I have an Oriental friend who has no tattoos, but once considered getting "Made in Taiwan" tattooed on the bottom of her foot.
One thing I see a lot is stylized spiky things. Like barbed wire. I've encountered barbed wire in real life, courtesy of an upbringing in farm country. I've been marked by it sufficiently that I feel no need to wrap an imaginary strand around what passes for my biceps. If you think it looks tough, try wrapping real barbed wire around your arm. THAT will impress just about anyone.
And of course despite the availability of laser removal, tattoos are permanent. Which means that whatever you acquire when you're twenty will still be there when you're thirty, or fifty, or seventy. As a result, I think that before you get a tattoo, you should give some serious thought to what it will look like on that loose, baggy skin you're going to be sporting in the distant future. That eagle on your chest is going to devolve into a gothic vulture after forty years, which is going to send a very different message to viewers than I suspect you intended.
I am unmarked, as should be obvious, but I deny no one the right to decorate themselves as they see fit. Those of you who have chosen to be tattooed have your reasons, and I respect that.
I just don't get it.
Inspirational Quote: "Your body is a temple, but how long can you live in the same house before you redecorate?" -- Anonymous
Last Sunday, Cassandra and I went swimming at the local pool. We were splashing around in the water surrounded by scores of other parents and children and teens all doing much the same thing.
What struck me was the abundance of tattoos. It seemed like everywhere I looked, I saw ink. This pool is close to a military base, and the military has always had a tradition of marking themselves. However, that alone couldn't account for the sheer volume and variety of stuff on display. It wasn't just men, of course, but women too and one of the teenage lifeguards had the Chinese character for luck emblazoned on one shoulder.
Why is this so popular? I think my head is the wrong shape for this idea.
In the old days, a tattoo marked you as part of a social group... usually something a little more formidable than the bridge club, maybe even actually dangerous: bikers, criminals, and for some reason, sailors (my father was a sailor, but he remains unmarked. I think that, had he gotten one, something along the lines of "If found, please return to..." would have been appropriate). Now, anyone and everyone seems to sport ink.
I've seen everything from microdots of butterflies to half-body dragons in blue and red and yellow and green. They're impressive for the sheer ingenuity and stamina required to create them and inject them onto the human body, but I don't find them attractive and so I wonder what the incentive is.
I'm not a particularly handsome man, and if someone were able to tattoo a picture of someone who WAS a handsome man over my features, why then I'd go right out and get one today. Sadly, that seems to be beyond the current state of the art.
I wonder if anyone's ever gone out and gotten a tattoo done in flesh-colored ink?
My sister-in-law has a butterfly just east of her collarbone. It's "cute," I guess, in the way that small bugs often can be. However, I have no desire to decorate my body with members of the order insecta. I have enough nightmares about bugs on my body as is without waking up to discover one permanently etched on my skin.
The same goes for just about every species of fauna, real or imaginary. I have no need of tigers, dragons, or snakes in real life so I don't see any reason to carry their image around with me. True, such images speak to one's courage or ferocity, but if the only way you can display those characteristics is to go under the needle, then a tattoo isn't going to do much for your insecurity.
Some tattoos I see are very small. When I ask why so small, the usual reply is, "I didn't want anything gaudy." My audible reaction is polite acknowledgment, but inside I'm thinking, "oh, then you shouldn't have gotten a tattoo." Some are very large, taking up a quarter of the body or more and demanding some degree of nakedness to be fully appreciated. I figure, if you're beautiful naked, then don't colorize perfection. If you're not beautiful naked, coloring your skin blue and black and red isn't going to improve things. It's just going to make you look like a victim of incredibly precise and artistic domestic violence.
I've seen a lot of Chinese characters. Few people, including some of my Chinese friends, know what they mean. 'Luck' is popular, supposedly, but if you don't read Chinese ideograms how do you know what you've really got? You might think you're walking around with the word 'Brave' on your ankle, but the first time you run into someone with a translation fetish you might find out you've labeled yourself 'Spongecake' by mistake.
Words and phrases are common as well, beloved quotes or names of significant people. I'd be honored if someone immortalized me by inking my name on their skin, but I think far too many people have inked someone's name on themselves only to regret the action after they've fallen out. I suppose "Mom" is safe. She loves you even if you're practically invisible under all that markup. The quotations are a neat idea too, although I'd stop at one or two lines. War and Peace, for example, would be almost unreadable due to the required font size. I suppose you could end with "Continued on next body," down around your heel...
And who reads these? The owner? I think that if you have to write something down on your body in permanent ink in order to remember it, then you have issues that a tattoo won't solve. Casual passers-by are unlikely to stop long enough to read what's been written. They rarely stop long enough to read billboards, and saying to someone "Stop a moment, I want to read your body," is likely to get you a slap or a punch depending on the sex of your reading material.
I have an Oriental friend who has no tattoos, but once considered getting "Made in Taiwan" tattooed on the bottom of her foot.
One thing I see a lot is stylized spiky things. Like barbed wire. I've encountered barbed wire in real life, courtesy of an upbringing in farm country. I've been marked by it sufficiently that I feel no need to wrap an imaginary strand around what passes for my biceps. If you think it looks tough, try wrapping real barbed wire around your arm. THAT will impress just about anyone.
And of course despite the availability of laser removal, tattoos are permanent. Which means that whatever you acquire when you're twenty will still be there when you're thirty, or fifty, or seventy. As a result, I think that before you get a tattoo, you should give some serious thought to what it will look like on that loose, baggy skin you're going to be sporting in the distant future. That eagle on your chest is going to devolve into a gothic vulture after forty years, which is going to send a very different message to viewers than I suspect you intended.
I am unmarked, as should be obvious, but I deny no one the right to decorate themselves as they see fit. Those of you who have chosen to be tattooed have your reasons, and I respect that.
I just don't get it.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Year End Round-up
Current Reading: The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Psychology of Happiness, by Arlene Matthews Uhl.
Inspirational Quote: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," -- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
My third annual year in review is a month late. Why? Um... okay, so here's the thing. You know how, when the new millennium began on Jan 1, 2000, many people were of the opinion (rightly so) that the millennium didn't actually begin until Jan 1, 2001 because Jan 1, year 1 was actually one year after the calendar started counting?
Yeah, like that. So Feb 1, 2011 is actually the first day of the new year. Sure. That's the ticket...
Entertainment:
Best Movie I've Seen: Despicable Me. It's a 3D computer animated kid's movie that's just a lot of fun and silliness without ever sinking into stupidity.
Worst: The Last Airbender. The cartoon had so much going for it: the rich world, entertaining characters, and a plot that gripped right up to the end. It's hard to believe that a director who has given us such good films as The 6th Sense and Unbreakable could take that kind of material and deliver a film as empty of quality as this.
Best Book I've Read: Tough call. There have been some great ones. Time-Traveller's Wife, Mainspring, Coyote Horizon... but I'm going to have to go with Stein's The Art of Racing in the Rain. 'Tis a tale told by a dog, full of soul and fury, signifying a great deal, actually.
Best Song I've Heard: I've really been enjoying Ash Koley's Brighter at Night. Their music is upbeat and catchy. Coldplay is still entertaining me as well.
Worst: Eminem's Recovery album. I get that he's had some tough times, and I'm glad he's making it through. I just don't need him screaming obscenities at me through my speakers while he's telling me about it. My sons love him. I think he should spend some time in Somalia, or Ethiopia, the slums of Calcutta or Mexico City in order to get a little perspective.
Best Television Show I've Seen: I'm not actually watching much. I'm watching "The Cape," which is super hero stuff a couple of silly-steps more serious than the 60's Batman TV series, so I guess that'll have to qualify. Doctor Who is better, though.
Worst: Any "reality" television show. Vacuous instant celebrities trying to make me believe for an hour that their problems are somehow important. What a waste of the E-M spectrum.
News:
Best News I've Heard: Chevrolet's Volt is a battery-powered car that actually looks practical.
Worst News: Publishing's dire straits has me looking at the Magnus Somnium and wondering if there's much point in finishing it.
Personal Stuff:
Best Thing that Happened: My cat's going to live. According to the vet, you'd never know he'd been sick.
Worst: The Republicans gained control of the senate by appealing to the stupid and mean-spirited among the electorate. How can one not be disappointed by that?
Most Fun Thing I've Done: Walked every conservation area in the local river valley with Cassandra. Beautiful scenery and some GREAT company.
Least: Tried to enforce some kind of homework discipline on two teenage boys. It's like pulling their teeth, but I feel the pain.
Most Surprising Occurrence: Again, the readership here. 23 of you now.
New Year's Resolution: Same as last year, which ought to depress me, but... huh. To finish the new book, finish "final" (yeah right) edits on the Magnus Somnium, and begin querying agents.
I hope your 2011 is off to a good start. Mine is, for all kinds of reasons.
Truly, every day is a good day.
Inspirational Quote: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," -- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
My third annual year in review is a month late. Why? Um... okay, so here's the thing. You know how, when the new millennium began on Jan 1, 2000, many people were of the opinion (rightly so) that the millennium didn't actually begin until Jan 1, 2001 because Jan 1, year 1 was actually one year after the calendar started counting?
Yeah, like that. So Feb 1, 2011 is actually the first day of the new year. Sure. That's the ticket...
Entertainment:
Best Movie I've Seen: Despicable Me. It's a 3D computer animated kid's movie that's just a lot of fun and silliness without ever sinking into stupidity.
Worst: The Last Airbender. The cartoon had so much going for it: the rich world, entertaining characters, and a plot that gripped right up to the end. It's hard to believe that a director who has given us such good films as The 6th Sense and Unbreakable could take that kind of material and deliver a film as empty of quality as this.
Best Book I've Read: Tough call. There have been some great ones. Time-Traveller's Wife, Mainspring, Coyote Horizon... but I'm going to have to go with Stein's The Art of Racing in the Rain. 'Tis a tale told by a dog, full of soul and fury, signifying a great deal, actually.
Best Song I've Heard: I've really been enjoying Ash Koley's Brighter at Night. Their music is upbeat and catchy. Coldplay is still entertaining me as well.
Worst: Eminem's Recovery album. I get that he's had some tough times, and I'm glad he's making it through. I just don't need him screaming obscenities at me through my speakers while he's telling me about it. My sons love him. I think he should spend some time in Somalia, or Ethiopia, the slums of Calcutta or Mexico City in order to get a little perspective.
Best Television Show I've Seen: I'm not actually watching much. I'm watching "The Cape," which is super hero stuff a couple of silly-steps more serious than the 60's Batman TV series, so I guess that'll have to qualify. Doctor Who is better, though.
Worst: Any "reality" television show. Vacuous instant celebrities trying to make me believe for an hour that their problems are somehow important. What a waste of the E-M spectrum.
News:
Best News I've Heard: Chevrolet's Volt is a battery-powered car that actually looks practical.
Worst News: Publishing's dire straits has me looking at the Magnus Somnium and wondering if there's much point in finishing it.
Personal Stuff:
Best Thing that Happened: My cat's going to live. According to the vet, you'd never know he'd been sick.
Worst: The Republicans gained control of the senate by appealing to the stupid and mean-spirited among the electorate. How can one not be disappointed by that?
Most Fun Thing I've Done: Walked every conservation area in the local river valley with Cassandra. Beautiful scenery and some GREAT company.
Least: Tried to enforce some kind of homework discipline on two teenage boys. It's like pulling their teeth, but I feel the pain.
Most Surprising Occurrence: Again, the readership here. 23 of you now.
New Year's Resolution: Same as last year, which ought to depress me, but... huh. To finish the new book, finish "final" (yeah right) edits on the Magnus Somnium, and begin querying agents.
I hope your 2011 is off to a good start. Mine is, for all kinds of reasons.
Truly, every day is a good day.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Means to Meaning
Current Reading: The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Psychology of Happiness, by Arlene Matthews Uhl
Inspirational Quote: "We breathe. We pulse. We regenerate. Our hearts beat. Our minds create. Our souls ingest. 37 seconds, well used, is a lifetime." -- Edward Magorium, Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium (written by Zach Helm)
Words aren't worth much. They're about the only things you can still buy at a few cents a pop. And if you look at the straight economics, you'll see that supply greatly exceeds demand.
So why are there so many words? Why do we go through so much trouble to find the right ones when, really, the right ones are worth pretty much exactly the same as the wrong ones?
Because words are priceless, really. They are one of the most eloquent ways we connect to each other, they are the way we convey experience and knowledge and insight and all those things that raise us above the level of animals, that mark us as unique individuals.
The right word in the right place can change a mind. The right word at the right time can fortify a heart and turn despair into hope. We produce so many words in the belief that somewhere in all that verbiage is a collection of them with the power to affect another human being.
"Although the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. For words offer a means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth." -- V, from "V for Vendetta," written by Alan Moore.
I've never heard (sorry, I've only ever seen the movie) the point made more beautifully than that. Words have the ability to inspire, to open the mind to the vistas of the possible, to reorder our perspective and make us see new things in new ways.
So, in a celebration of that, I present a handful of movie clips that contain words I've found inspiring. If you've come across clips, passages or other collections of words that have stirred your blood, please leave them in the comments.
William Wallace's speech stirring the pride of his countrymen in Braveheart...
Henry V giving courage to his men before the battle of Agincourt. Although the filmed version is dramatic and moving, it is an edited version of the one that appears in the play.
I stumbled across this recently, from the movie Rocky Balboa. Unfortunately, I can't embed it, however, the link is worth following. "Life is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward."
And, last for no particular reason, Red's words from the Shawshank Redemption...
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get busy livin'.
Inspirational Quote: "We breathe. We pulse. We regenerate. Our hearts beat. Our minds create. Our souls ingest. 37 seconds, well used, is a lifetime." -- Edward Magorium, Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium (written by Zach Helm)
Words aren't worth much. They're about the only things you can still buy at a few cents a pop. And if you look at the straight economics, you'll see that supply greatly exceeds demand.
So why are there so many words? Why do we go through so much trouble to find the right ones when, really, the right ones are worth pretty much exactly the same as the wrong ones?
Because words are priceless, really. They are one of the most eloquent ways we connect to each other, they are the way we convey experience and knowledge and insight and all those things that raise us above the level of animals, that mark us as unique individuals.
The right word in the right place can change a mind. The right word at the right time can fortify a heart and turn despair into hope. We produce so many words in the belief that somewhere in all that verbiage is a collection of them with the power to affect another human being.
"Although the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. For words offer a means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth." -- V, from "V for Vendetta," written by Alan Moore.
I've never heard (sorry, I've only ever seen the movie) the point made more beautifully than that. Words have the ability to inspire, to open the mind to the vistas of the possible, to reorder our perspective and make us see new things in new ways.
So, in a celebration of that, I present a handful of movie clips that contain words I've found inspiring. If you've come across clips, passages or other collections of words that have stirred your blood, please leave them in the comments.
William Wallace's speech stirring the pride of his countrymen in Braveheart...
Henry V giving courage to his men before the battle of Agincourt. Although the filmed version is dramatic and moving, it is an edited version of the one that appears in the play.
I stumbled across this recently, from the movie Rocky Balboa. Unfortunately, I can't embed it, however, the link is worth following. "Life is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward."
And, last for no particular reason, Red's words from the Shawshank Redemption...
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get busy livin'.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Book Report: I Shall Wear Midnight, by Terry Pratchett
As should be obvious by now, I'm a huge fan of Terry Pratchett's work and await each new book with the anticipation and impatience that most people normally associate with Christmas. Coincidentally, I got this one for Christmas, so there's some synchronicity here.This is the latest entry in the Tiffany Aching cycle, a series for middle-grade readers that includes Wee Free Men, Hatful of Sky and Wintersmith. As you'll see from the sidebar, if you go back far enough, I loved these books and reread them on occasion. In fact, to "prepare" myself for this book, I skimmed through Wee and Sky, and read Wintersmith through before settling down to I Shall Wear Midnight.
The book contains much of the trademark Pratchett wit, but it incorporates an unaccustomed darkness that has informed a great deal of his later work. I suspect this has a great deal to do with his prognosis, but it is not a welcome incorporation for this reader. And as I neared the end of the book, I had to face the realization that I held in my hands a Pratchett I could not love. There are so many things to love about this book: the characters and humor, the wit, the writing... that I'm a little disappointed by myself.
[SPOILER]
The story concerns Tiffany, who is trying to get over being replaced in the affections of the Baron of the Chalk and dealing with how much of a witch's life is given over to altruistic service. As it progresses, one-time friends grow increasingly hostile and she finds herself encountering again and again a revenant in the form of a long-dead priest with a fanatic desire to see her dead. At one point, things seem hopeless for Tiffany as the revenant seems to inspire foaming-at-the-mouth witch hatred in everyone around it. At points, the narrative comes close to horror in its bleak outlook.
I could not love the book because the obstacles are overcome with little difficulty and hardly any tension. The anti-witch sentiment is resolved about 2/3 of the way through the book and proves to have quite a different source than the specter. Likewise, Tiffany disposes of the ghost, who is built up to be a challenge for even Granny Weatherwax, the Discworld's greatest witch, within a handful of pages. There follows an overlong epilogue in which Tiffany is allowed to dole out rewards to the deserving, and finds a new object for her affection.
I felt that the character and the situation required more drama than that which unfolded in the pages.
[/SPOILER]
In all, this book feels like a swansong, a last tying up of threads, even to the point where Eskarina Smith, the heroine of Equal Rites (the first Discworld book featuring Granny Weatherwax) makes a cameo to bring closure to Tiffany's story. Understandable, given Pratchett's situation, but I have been spoiled by the high quality of books like Mort, Wee Free Men, Thud, Interesting Times and Small Gods (one of my favorites), and I don't feel this one belongs in their number.
Ulysses Rating: 3 - I Enjoyed This
Monday, January 17, 2011
Christmas Stress
Current Reading: The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Psychology of Happiness, by Arlene Matthews Uhl
Inspirational Quote: (to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
[Chorus]
Christmas bills, Christmas bills, piled on the floor,
Everyday the mailman comes to bring a dozen more, oh!
Christmas bills, Christmas bills, I'll go broke and then,
When next Christmas rolls around I'll do it all again.
Dashing off the cheques, all in great amounts,
Mailing them today, knowing they will bounce!
Bill collectors come, notify my boss,
Now they've got my salary, my life's a total loss!
[Repeat chorus]
-- From a Mad Magazine I read as a kid.
Studies have shown that Christmas is one of the most consistently stressful times of year. I can understand why. Although my present-buying chores are quite restricted (I only need to ensure Penelope has something to open Christmas morning. She handles gift selection for everyone else), I'm lousy at coming up with good ideas for things to give. This is compounded by her birthday, which falls only a few days before Christmas, and forces me to double-up on my gift-seeking angst. Every year, I tell myself I'm going to get her the perfect present, one that tells her “I love you,” and “You're amazing,” and all those other things that sound so true when they're inside my head, but always sound so trite when they finally make their way out. Every year, I scour the stores and the ads and the internet for the apex of perfection.
Every year she gets a book and some clothes.
She accepts them with grace and enthusiasm such as only can be displayed by someone who genuinely feels that way, or by a woman who's had years to perfect her acting skills. So we have a situation where reality collides with unrequited desire and results in tension: stress. Although she never seems to be let down by my choices, I always am, and vow to do better next year.
Of course, after 21 years, if she doesn't know how I feel about her, I doubt very much that wrapping up the entire contents of the jewelry store would make the point.
Thus I perpetuate the equation of happiness to material possession, and feed the cycle of consumerism.
Yay me.
Inspirational Quote: (to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
[Chorus]
Christmas bills, Christmas bills, piled on the floor,
Everyday the mailman comes to bring a dozen more, oh!
Christmas bills, Christmas bills, I'll go broke and then,
When next Christmas rolls around I'll do it all again.
Dashing off the cheques, all in great amounts,
Mailing them today, knowing they will bounce!
Bill collectors come, notify my boss,
Now they've got my salary, my life's a total loss!
[Repeat chorus]
-- From a Mad Magazine I read as a kid.
Studies have shown that Christmas is one of the most consistently stressful times of year. I can understand why. Although my present-buying chores are quite restricted (I only need to ensure Penelope has something to open Christmas morning. She handles gift selection for everyone else), I'm lousy at coming up with good ideas for things to give. This is compounded by her birthday, which falls only a few days before Christmas, and forces me to double-up on my gift-seeking angst. Every year, I tell myself I'm going to get her the perfect present, one that tells her “I love you,” and “You're amazing,” and all those other things that sound so true when they're inside my head, but always sound so trite when they finally make their way out. Every year, I scour the stores and the ads and the internet for the apex of perfection.
Every year she gets a book and some clothes.
She accepts them with grace and enthusiasm such as only can be displayed by someone who genuinely feels that way, or by a woman who's had years to perfect her acting skills. So we have a situation where reality collides with unrequited desire and results in tension: stress. Although she never seems to be let down by my choices, I always am, and vow to do better next year.
Of course, after 21 years, if she doesn't know how I feel about her, I doubt very much that wrapping up the entire contents of the jewelry store would make the point.
Thus I perpetuate the equation of happiness to material possession, and feed the cycle of consumerism.
Yay me.
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