Essay On Autobiography Of A Notebook

Essay On Autobiography Of A Notebook-86
Still, if the star is more important than the team, the clan closer to our real concerns than the wider community; if minorities are to be promoted to major, and sects gain sole possession of the holy; then perhaps we should embrace the ultimate plurality our selfishness suggests and each perform our person to an empty house. Even my mirror puts just that bit of me before my gaze that I permit to fall there. elf-absorption, we are told, is the principal preoccupation of our age. I imagine a blotter soaking up its own absorbency and disappearing like a Cheshire cat by slow degrees. See me take my initial toddle, use the potty, scratch my sister; win spin the bottle. That surely deserves a commemorative marker on the superhighway of my life. The power to see ourselves as others see us is granted only to such disengaged observers as arrive from France by slow sail.Yet if my tooth aches, it is after all my ache, though you may be better informed than I of the swelling; if my heart is sore, that soreness is unique, though its heaviness does not even tremble the balance bar; if I am afraid, do not complacently say you share my fear and understand my state, for how can you know how I feel? Isn’t that how we reject so much sympathy-stale candy on a staler plate? If we leap rapidly enough from one side of this insistence to its denial from the belief that only I can know how I am to the view that only another can see me really-we can quickly persuade ourselves that neither self-knowledge nor any other kind is possible, and, so persuaded, sink dizzily to the floor. And the consequent division of the self into the-one-who-was and the-one-who-is.

Still, if the star is more important than the team, the clan closer to our real concerns than the wider community; if minorities are to be promoted to major, and sects gain sole possession of the holy; then perhaps we should embrace the ultimate plurality our selfishness suggests and each perform our person to an empty house. Even my mirror puts just that bit of me before my gaze that I permit to fall there. elf-absorption, we are told, is the principal preoccupation of our age. I imagine a blotter soaking up its own absorbency and disappearing like a Cheshire cat by slow degrees. See me take my initial toddle, use the potty, scratch my sister; win spin the bottle. That surely deserves a commemorative marker on the superhighway of my life. The power to see ourselves as others see us is granted only to such disengaged observers as arrive from France by slow sail.Yet if my tooth aches, it is after all my ache, though you may be better informed than I of the swelling; if my heart is sore, that soreness is unique, though its heaviness does not even tremble the balance bar; if I am afraid, do not complacently say you share my fear and understand my state, for how can you know how I feel? Isn’t that how we reject so much sympathy-stale candy on a staler plate? If we leap rapidly enough from one side of this insistence to its denial from the belief that only I can know how I am to the view that only another can see me really-we can quickly persuade ourselves that neither self-knowledge nor any other kind is possible, and, so persuaded, sink dizzily to the floor. And the consequent division of the self into the-one-who-was and the-one-who-is.

Which, do you think then, really hatches chicks in the yard?

Yes, as Aristotle insisted, the Good is what the Good Man does.

How often, in one’s second childhood, does one tum back to the first.

Nostalgia and grief, self-pity and old scores, then compete to set the stage and energize each scene. “I pooped in my pants, I was betrayed, I made straight A’s.” The chroniclers of childhood are almost always desperate determinists.

I think I have a winning smile, but to those on whom my smile is so winsomely conferred, the slightly turned-down corners of its lips convey despair, disgust, disdain-I know not what uninvited attitude in addition-and invariably, if in tears, though I argue my happiness like William Jennings Bryan on behalf of God, the weeping will convict me of a lie, as far as mere onlookers are concerned; because we really believe in no other consciousness than our own, and must infer the contents of another’s mind from the perceptions that arrive in ours: from an overheard voice, its screams and groans and heavy breathing; from a body, its weight and posture; from someone’s gait, the swagger; and from the face, its signs.

Sign in to Customer Care using your account number or postal address. Nor is the ugliness of my gnarled feet evident anywhere within my skin, where I alone can feel what splendid shape they’re in.iography, the writing of a life, is a branch of history.It requires quite a lot of labor, and therefore, when such a work is undertaken, one would expect the subject to be of some significance to history as a whole.That blood caked, that blood colored, only the blades.Biography, the writing of a life, is a branch of history, but a broken branch, snapped perhaps heartlessly from the trunk, at the moment when Montesquieu directed the historian’s eye to larger themes and toward those general social aspects from which the individual’s traits, he believed, had more specifically sprung. Biographies are sometimes written with the aid of the biographee, and these few are therefore open-ended too, centrally incomplete, for death normally does the summing up, the bell tolls for the tale beneath whose telling the deceased shall be buried, with the faith that he or she shall rise again on publication day, all ancient acts only pages then, every trait an apt description, every quality of character an anecdote, the mind squeezed within a quip, and the hero’s, or heroine’s, history headed not for heaven but for the shelf.Yet, except for the encyclopedia of the dead, as Danilo Kiš imagined it, where everybody’s obit is already complete or in meticulous construction, the majority of mankind rest, as George Eliot wrote, in unvisited tombs and have left behind them nothing of their former presence but perhaps a hackneyed scratch upon a stone. Caesar’s assassins did not stab him with their souls.In Hades, their shades are not stained by the murdered man’s blood.Does the geologist need to infer an interior to his rock to read its past? Does the zoologist attribute suffering to his frogs as he runs his scalpel round their gizzards?Why, we could weep a world of pain into a thimble and have hollow enough left over for a finger, since consciousness never struts and frets upon the stage or occupies a locker in the dressing room.The autobiographer thinks he knows his subject and doesn’t need to create a calendar of the kind the biographer feels obliged to compile so she may boast she knows what her subject did on every day of his life beyond kindergarten and his first fistfight.He is likely to treat records with less respect than he should, and he will certainly not investigate himself as if he had committed a crime and ought to be caught and convicted; rather he’ll be pleased he’s got his defense uttered early, because he understands that the biographer’s subjects all end in the pen.

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