When I asked my brother to pick up a movie to watch together about three weeks ago, I knew he was not going to waste any time thinking about it, and when he handed me the 'seven pounds', I knew it was probably because it was the first one he had seen on the scattered mess of DVDs in his drawer. A little discouraged, I watched the movie, checked the new words and searched the internet for reviews. I had decided that I did not like the movie very much.
We watched about thirty minutes of the movie, then paused and started to talk about it. My brother asked me what I thought about Ben, the man who was going to donate some parts of his body to a few good people as some sort of penance, and I told him that I did not like this man at all. Naturally my brother asked me the reason, and I surprised myself with my reply. I told my brother that I did not like the way he chose the good people, because how can you tell if somebody is good? Do you even have the right? My brother gave me his idea of a good man, but I was unable to answer the same question.
Who is a good person?
Can you reel off some apparently positive characteristics from mind and whoever possesses them, or at least has some of them, is good and the others who lack them would be considered as bad? As in an honest, kind and merciful man is good, and therefore a lying, unkind and unmerciful person is bad?
Are there any preventive-directive approaches toward being good? Can anybody claim that there is an unchanging way that if you follow, you'll turn out good, and if you don't, you unavoidably turn out to be bad?
Is goodness something absolute and unconditional? Can we presume that goodness is the same in every country, every city and every home and it has been the same since the time of Adam and Eve up to the twenty first century? Can we assume that no matter what changes, good people will always stay the same?
Can we measure goodness, or can we claim that somebody is better than another? Between a martyr for his country and a mother who has given her heart to her child, which one would you pick, or would you claim that both of them had their own selfish reasons and do not pick at all?
Well, all these questions made me wonder. I personally believe that goodness is conditional. It changes all the time, and the only thing constant about it is that it is based on conditions.
Let us presume that cheating is bad, that is, it is not good. Now imagine yourself in this position: You have a classmate whom you consider a knowledgeable person who always tries hard to get what she wants. You know her mother has passes away a few days ago and she has had no chance to study. You also realize that she desperately needs that grade. Would you still consider cheating bad, or would you be willing to bend that rule a little?
Lying is bad, right? But what if a doctor lies to a committee to get his dying patient the liver he desperately needs? Lying doesn't look so bad now, does it?
This quality of goodness is why it makes it so difficult to possess. Everything changes all the time, and it takes more than following a common definition of goodness to make you a good human.
But then if this is true, then how do you know who is good and obviously who is bad, or worse, how do you try to be good?
I personally believe that there is more to this world than we see, and whatever we do and whatever we say will have an impact on the world, and consequently on us. The effect we will have on the world will be the cause of another effect and that is how important we are, and if we do not know what goodness is, we not only harm ourselves, we'd do the same to the universe.
A good man is one who tries, really at least tries, to rise above the tangled web of superficialities that we have made. A good man is one who sees there is more to this world and does whatever he can to be human, and that is not as easy as it sounds.
In order to be good, you don't have to be a bundle of joy or a ray of sunshine. You do not have to spend all your income on the abandoned children. Really, all you have to do is to be good in what you have a gift for. It doesn't matter if it's saving lives, writing a story or fixing a pipe. You can be as grumpy as you want. It wouldn't really matter as long as you save a dying girl whose only left hope is you.
My version of goodness may sound a little radical or even a little selfish, but I truly believe in the greater good. That is if you have to lie to your slow-witted boss to get the money you need to spend it where it's truly needed, then there is nothing wrong with it, because everything is relative, and everything is a tool which can be used either for a right or wrong reason.
My version of goodness means that sometimes you will do what is right and inevitably you'll make mistakes, but then you can die contented and say with a smile: 'at least I tried.'
Being good at what you do makes life much easier and all the more difficult, doesn't it?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
And The Truth Shall Set You Free.
An analytic truth is a statement which is true in all possible worlds or under all possible interpretations.
I was young and stupid, and I wanted to please everybody, and I was gifted; I could tell what people wanted to hear, and I always told them what they wanted to hear, and that made them happy, as if it was the only thing that mattered, and I always got what I wanted, which was all that mattered to me.
He was a different story. I could not read him, not because he was difficult, but because there was nothing to read. How do you read a blank paper? How do you read somebody who always tells the truth?
The things he said weren't always nice. I stayed away.
_________________
Truth is persistent. Once it catches a glimpse of you, it never lets you go. I tried to stay away; I really did. I wanted things to go back to normal. I tried to pretend the truth didn't exist, but every corner I turned to, it was there, waiting to find me and torment me. I didn't want it in my life, but the truth left me no choice.
_________________
I was angry at the truth; I was angry at him. It was him who spoke it all the time. It was him who had disturbed the stillness of my life and brought the chaos, and he had to lose, because I wanted him to lose.
But how do you defeat something that is already perfect?
By something equally perfect.
_________________
Truth is ugly and painful, and it leaves scars on your soul that even time cannot heal, but it stands above everything else. It surpasses everything, and in the long run, it is the only thing that matters.
I was defeated, but I was thirsty for more. Truth was like sea water to me. The more I drank, the thirstier I became. I was hurt, but I wanted more.
"Why do you need to know?" He once asked and I knew he didn't mean the question in the book.
"I don't need to eat chocolate, but it makes me happy."
He opened his mouth to say something, stared at my eyes for a moment, then turned around and answered the question in the book.
_________________
The term was over, and everybody was happy. Everybody can tell the truth, but nobody wants to be told the truth. To them, it was a good riddance. To me, it was a great loss.
He was sitting at his desk, putting all the papers in his worn out black bag. He was like a spicy food to me. You eat it, and it burns your tongue and you'll think you'll never want to eat it again, but you wake up the day after, and you want to taste it all over again.
He looked up, stared at my face, looked down on the floor and looked up again.
"If your friend did something wrong, would you tell her so? Would you tell her the truth?"
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. I knew I would.
"So you think you should always tell the truth, and what will be, will be."
"What will be should be."
"What if she's not wrong? What if it's you who's mistaken?"
"The consequences beg to differ." I answered. "You tell the truth all the time. Why shouldn't I?"
He hesitated before answering, "What I tell them is my subjective understanding of reality. I know they always choose what others have defined for them, and I shove their wrongness to their face."
"You think truth is subjective? You think it's constructed?"
"You think truth is absolute?"
I closed my eyes and tried to think. "Maybe it's out there, maybe it's not, and even if it's not, we know how it should be. Why not at least try to get there?"
"Why do you need to know?" He repeated the same old question.
"It makes me happy."
He gave me a sad smile. He looked apologetic, as if he had brought something dreadful in my life. I thought the opposite.
"When you know the truth, it means two things: you'll always be right, and you'll never be happy. You see the world as it is, and you see it as how it should be. You know it'll never be right, and you'll always be miserable. "
"Somebody has to be miserable. Somebody should be upset."
"What you are searching for, you may never find. What you are looking for may not even exist."
"Then we have to make one."
He sighed and gave me a weak smile. I saw pain in his eyes, and I didn't know if it was his or mine reflected in his.
______________________
I'm still young and stupid; I still tell people what they want to hear, but now I have a different reason. Now I know not everybody needs to know the truth, or maybe it's because I, myself, don't know the truth yet.
Somebody once told me 'ignorance is bliss.' No one can argue with that. You don't want to spend your life searching for something you doubt even exists. You don't want to feel this tightness in your chest every time you laugh, but deep down inside, you know you have no other alternative.
Ignorance is bliss, but as Clarence S. Darrow has said it, the pursuit of truth will set you free, even if you never catch up with it.
And I just want to be free.
____________________
I was young and stupid, and I wanted to please everybody, and I was gifted; I could tell what people wanted to hear, and I always told them what they wanted to hear, and that made them happy, as if it was the only thing that mattered, and I always got what I wanted, which was all that mattered to me.
He was a different story. I could not read him, not because he was difficult, but because there was nothing to read. How do you read a blank paper? How do you read somebody who always tells the truth?
The things he said weren't always nice. I stayed away.
_________________
Truth is persistent. Once it catches a glimpse of you, it never lets you go. I tried to stay away; I really did. I wanted things to go back to normal. I tried to pretend the truth didn't exist, but every corner I turned to, it was there, waiting to find me and torment me. I didn't want it in my life, but the truth left me no choice.
_________________
I was angry at the truth; I was angry at him. It was him who spoke it all the time. It was him who had disturbed the stillness of my life and brought the chaos, and he had to lose, because I wanted him to lose.
But how do you defeat something that is already perfect?
By something equally perfect.
_________________
Truth is ugly and painful, and it leaves scars on your soul that even time cannot heal, but it stands above everything else. It surpasses everything, and in the long run, it is the only thing that matters.
I was defeated, but I was thirsty for more. Truth was like sea water to me. The more I drank, the thirstier I became. I was hurt, but I wanted more.
"Why do you need to know?" He once asked and I knew he didn't mean the question in the book.
"I don't need to eat chocolate, but it makes me happy."
He opened his mouth to say something, stared at my eyes for a moment, then turned around and answered the question in the book.
_________________
The term was over, and everybody was happy. Everybody can tell the truth, but nobody wants to be told the truth. To them, it was a good riddance. To me, it was a great loss.
He was sitting at his desk, putting all the papers in his worn out black bag. He was like a spicy food to me. You eat it, and it burns your tongue and you'll think you'll never want to eat it again, but you wake up the day after, and you want to taste it all over again.
He looked up, stared at my face, looked down on the floor and looked up again.
"If your friend did something wrong, would you tell her so? Would you tell her the truth?"
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. I knew I would.
"So you think you should always tell the truth, and what will be, will be."
"What will be should be."
"What if she's not wrong? What if it's you who's mistaken?"
"The consequences beg to differ." I answered. "You tell the truth all the time. Why shouldn't I?"
He hesitated before answering, "What I tell them is my subjective understanding of reality. I know they always choose what others have defined for them, and I shove their wrongness to their face."
"You think truth is subjective? You think it's constructed?"
"You think truth is absolute?"
I closed my eyes and tried to think. "Maybe it's out there, maybe it's not, and even if it's not, we know how it should be. Why not at least try to get there?"
"Why do you need to know?" He repeated the same old question.
"It makes me happy."
He gave me a sad smile. He looked apologetic, as if he had brought something dreadful in my life. I thought the opposite.
"When you know the truth, it means two things: you'll always be right, and you'll never be happy. You see the world as it is, and you see it as how it should be. You know it'll never be right, and you'll always be miserable. "
"Somebody has to be miserable. Somebody should be upset."
"What you are searching for, you may never find. What you are looking for may not even exist."
"Then we have to make one."
He sighed and gave me a weak smile. I saw pain in his eyes, and I didn't know if it was his or mine reflected in his.
______________________
I'm still young and stupid; I still tell people what they want to hear, but now I have a different reason. Now I know not everybody needs to know the truth, or maybe it's because I, myself, don't know the truth yet.
Somebody once told me 'ignorance is bliss.' No one can argue with that. You don't want to spend your life searching for something you doubt even exists. You don't want to feel this tightness in your chest every time you laugh, but deep down inside, you know you have no other alternative.
Ignorance is bliss, but as Clarence S. Darrow has said it, the pursuit of truth will set you free, even if you never catch up with it.
And I just want to be free.
____________________
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
My Secret Hiding Place
Around the university there is an alley that I call my secret hiding place. There is nothing secret about it; you just need to walk a few feet away from the entrance door, and it will be in plane sight, yet nobody seems to care there actually is another path to reach the campus beside that crowded, noisy lane everybody seems to be deeply interested in.
Whenever I feel misanthropic and dealing with people becomes too much, I run to my save haven. It is such a quiet place that it is almost surreal. Sure, every now and then cars pass by, and I see some pedestrians once in a while, but there seems to be an unspoken rule that nobody should make a noise.
The alley is wide, and the mighty trees of the autumn stand tall, their heavy branches bending, trying to reach the ground to get free of the restraint they have been bound in from birth. The fallen leaves dance with the rhythm of the wind, and I feel a shiver down my spine.
I walk along the alley, careful not to make a noise to disturb the silence. I think about everything and nothing at all and stare at the tall, dark colored buildings, wondering if they know how I feel. Sometimes I feel like one of them; surrounded by so many like me, yet alone.
My feet carry me to the stone stairs of the park at the end of the alley. They're wide and clean as if they are the stairs of a grand castle. The park is small and the highway can be seen in front of it. It is as if the park is the end of the world where serenity ends and reality begins.
There is nothing unique about the park; there are a few trees here and there and some benches that are colored red, green and orange with shiny paints. Nobody walks in there except a gardener in green that mows the yellow loan from time to time.
In the corner of the misshaped park, there is a slide for children. I calmly walk there and sit on the small steps, turning my back on the park. I rest my chin on my hands and stare at blue sky, the white clouds and the gray asphalt, the trees and the people that pass by. They do not notice me, but I watch them carefully, trying to understand what is going on in their minds. They look so busy that most of them do not even notice the park.
A glance at my old watch reminds me that my time is up. I stand up, wipe the dust from my clothes and walk back to the campus, to people and to everything that seems to matter.
Whenever I feel misanthropic and dealing with people becomes too much, I run to my save haven. It is such a quiet place that it is almost surreal. Sure, every now and then cars pass by, and I see some pedestrians once in a while, but there seems to be an unspoken rule that nobody should make a noise.
The alley is wide, and the mighty trees of the autumn stand tall, their heavy branches bending, trying to reach the ground to get free of the restraint they have been bound in from birth. The fallen leaves dance with the rhythm of the wind, and I feel a shiver down my spine.
I walk along the alley, careful not to make a noise to disturb the silence. I think about everything and nothing at all and stare at the tall, dark colored buildings, wondering if they know how I feel. Sometimes I feel like one of them; surrounded by so many like me, yet alone.
My feet carry me to the stone stairs of the park at the end of the alley. They're wide and clean as if they are the stairs of a grand castle. The park is small and the highway can be seen in front of it. It is as if the park is the end of the world where serenity ends and reality begins.
There is nothing unique about the park; there are a few trees here and there and some benches that are colored red, green and orange with shiny paints. Nobody walks in there except a gardener in green that mows the yellow loan from time to time.
In the corner of the misshaped park, there is a slide for children. I calmly walk there and sit on the small steps, turning my back on the park. I rest my chin on my hands and stare at blue sky, the white clouds and the gray asphalt, the trees and the people that pass by. They do not notice me, but I watch them carefully, trying to understand what is going on in their minds. They look so busy that most of them do not even notice the park.
A glance at my old watch reminds me that my time is up. I stand up, wipe the dust from my clothes and walk back to the campus, to people and to everything that seems to matter.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Consent
The young woman tried to take in everything around her with frightened eyes. The hallway was crowded. People in white passed her without taking a glance at her; she felt invisible.
"Can I help you?"
The woman looked at the nurse and nodded. She just wanted the pain to be over. Before she had a chance to talk, her neighbor-she didn't know her much; she even didn't know why the older woman had volunteered to help-replied.
"Yes, she's having a baby." The neighbor pointed her finger at the woman. She didn't seem to know or care that the pale-looking woman was in great pain.
"All right, where is her husband? We need him to sign this form." The nurse waved a piece of paper in the air.
"Oh, he's not here. He's in the garrison. You see, he's a soldier, and he's under duty until tomorrow."
"What about her father?"
"Her parents live in another city. She's alone."
"We have to wait until her husband comes back. There's nothing we can do without his consent."
"I can't stand anymore." The pregnant girl whimpered and fisted her sweaty hands.
"You can take her to that empty room." The nurse pointed to a room a few feet away and went back to writing on a big notebook.
She felt her neighbor-she didn't even know her name-painfully grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the room. Her back hit the hard bed, and she whimpered once more. How much longer did she have to take this pain?
"Is there anyway we can call your husband?" She shook her head, trying to concentrate on the neighbor's voice.
"Well, you better try to sleep then. They won't call the doctor until your husband's here." The woman lay down on the bench in the corner of the room. She was already half asleep.
"But I can't sleep. It hurts too much." She protested as she felt the cramps. Everything was getting blurry.
"Somebody help me, please!" The woman finally screamed, tears escaping her eyes and running down her hollow cheeks. The nurse came to her room after a few minutes of agony.
"I can't take this anymore. Do something!" She was breathing heavily. A white blur came closer to her bed.
"You must be patient until the doctor comes."
"You don't understand! Do something!" She screamed as she grabbed a handful of the woman's uniform in her fist.
"What do you want me to do? It's your first child, isn't it? How old are you?"
"Seventeen," She whispered as she lay her head down on the pillow. It suddenly hurt to speak.
"You need to relax. I'll see if I can find a doctor." The nurse was gone, the neighbor was asleep and she felt abandoned. It seemed she was the only one left on the planet.
She closed her eyes and opened them, again and again. The scenes kept changing, but the pain was there. It was always there and never went away, as long as she remembered.
She could hear screams, but she could not recognize the voice; it was a stranger, but his voice was gentle and his cold hand on her feverish forehead was soothing, and he kept repeating that it was going to be all right, and everything was black and then nothing.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
She opened her eyes slowly. There was no sign of sun; rain drops were hitting against the window, making a soft, rhythmic sound.
"You're awake." She turned her head to the right; the muscles in her neck protested. She knew that woman; it was that nurse.
"Your husband is not here yet." She could not understand what the nurse meant. She felt numb and frozen.
"You have a baby boy. The doctor decided to do the operation without your husband's permission. You were dying, but you're fine now. Everything's fine. I'll go get your baby."
The tired woman stared at the rain drops and slowly nodded as she cleaned the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Yes, everything was fine.
The neighbor on the bench was softly snoring.
"Can I help you?"
The woman looked at the nurse and nodded. She just wanted the pain to be over. Before she had a chance to talk, her neighbor-she didn't know her much; she even didn't know why the older woman had volunteered to help-replied.
"Yes, she's having a baby." The neighbor pointed her finger at the woman. She didn't seem to know or care that the pale-looking woman was in great pain.
"All right, where is her husband? We need him to sign this form." The nurse waved a piece of paper in the air.
"Oh, he's not here. He's in the garrison. You see, he's a soldier, and he's under duty until tomorrow."
"What about her father?"
"Her parents live in another city. She's alone."
"We have to wait until her husband comes back. There's nothing we can do without his consent."
"I can't stand anymore." The pregnant girl whimpered and fisted her sweaty hands.
"You can take her to that empty room." The nurse pointed to a room a few feet away and went back to writing on a big notebook.
She felt her neighbor-she didn't even know her name-painfully grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the room. Her back hit the hard bed, and she whimpered once more. How much longer did she have to take this pain?
"Is there anyway we can call your husband?" She shook her head, trying to concentrate on the neighbor's voice.
"Well, you better try to sleep then. They won't call the doctor until your husband's here." The woman lay down on the bench in the corner of the room. She was already half asleep.
"But I can't sleep. It hurts too much." She protested as she felt the cramps. Everything was getting blurry.
"Somebody help me, please!" The woman finally screamed, tears escaping her eyes and running down her hollow cheeks. The nurse came to her room after a few minutes of agony.
"I can't take this anymore. Do something!" She was breathing heavily. A white blur came closer to her bed.
"You must be patient until the doctor comes."
"You don't understand! Do something!" She screamed as she grabbed a handful of the woman's uniform in her fist.
"What do you want me to do? It's your first child, isn't it? How old are you?"
"Seventeen," She whispered as she lay her head down on the pillow. It suddenly hurt to speak.
"You need to relax. I'll see if I can find a doctor." The nurse was gone, the neighbor was asleep and she felt abandoned. It seemed she was the only one left on the planet.
She closed her eyes and opened them, again and again. The scenes kept changing, but the pain was there. It was always there and never went away, as long as she remembered.
She could hear screams, but she could not recognize the voice; it was a stranger, but his voice was gentle and his cold hand on her feverish forehead was soothing, and he kept repeating that it was going to be all right, and everything was black and then nothing.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
She opened her eyes slowly. There was no sign of sun; rain drops were hitting against the window, making a soft, rhythmic sound.
"You're awake." She turned her head to the right; the muscles in her neck protested. She knew that woman; it was that nurse.
"Your husband is not here yet." She could not understand what the nurse meant. She felt numb and frozen.
"You have a baby boy. The doctor decided to do the operation without your husband's permission. You were dying, but you're fine now. Everything's fine. I'll go get your baby."
The tired woman stared at the rain drops and slowly nodded as she cleaned the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Yes, everything was fine.
The neighbor on the bench was softly snoring.
My Mother Never Worked
Version: Two
After hearing that my mother had to do undergo surgery on Thursday, I tried to imagine my life without having her around. I tried not to picture her running around, doing endless chores with that small smile on her face. I tried to imagine going home without her standing at the doorway, waiting for me patiently. I tried to forget the feeling of her cool hand on my feverish forehead whenever I was sick, but that seems impossible. My life without her would be empty and miserable.
Yet, it is funny that I usually don't bother to thank her for the delicious meal she has cooked or the kitchen that she has cleaned. I don't bother to ask her if she needs any help or if there is anything wrong in her life. Yes, I know you and I have taken our mothers for granted, and I'm afraid when we finally realize what a treasure they are, it just might have been too late.
People expect too much from housewives: "Be a perfect cook, perfect woman, perfect wife, perfect mother. Be perfect in everything you can think of. It is your duty! You do not have any jobs, what are you doing with your time?" Have you ever heard them complain? Have you ever seen them give up? It is just who they are: Loveable creatures who will love you until the last day of their lives.
No insurance, no payment, no holidays, it sounds insane to me; it is as if they are machines, designed to work and suffer silently; still, I believe the biggest sacrifice they make is giving up on their dreams. Can you imagine yourself doing that, giving up on something you love? But you and I know they do that every day, because to them it is the family that matters the most.
Knowing that women give all they have to make living comfortable for their family without asking anything in return, or even accepting the tragic ending of "My mother never worked" makes me certain that just because we live in the twenty first century does not mean that injustice does not exist anymore.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Mr. Hussein said this sentence in the critical and creative writing class. For some unknown reason, I've been unable to stop thinking about it. It somehow reminds me of Dostoyevsky's famous sentence in brothers Karamazov which was something like: "If God does not exist, everything is permitted."
In my opinion these two sentences are pretty much the same. We can say that God is the ultimate truth, right? Then if we claim that the first sentence is true, could we claim that God does not exist?
Let's forget about Dostoyevsky for a second. Can we say that there is no truth? Mr. Abednia argued that that there is no single truth. Every body sees things differently, ergo nobody can be purely objective.
I do not like this explanation very much.
Let me give you an example: In the class, I said that there is a board on the wall. Mr. Abednia asked me what the color of the board was and I did not answer, because I was aware that each of the students would have a different opinion about the color, which is exactly my point! We have different opinions! Just because I think the board is green and somebody else blue does not mean that there is no board.
I think truth is like water. If we pour it in a glass, it would be in a shape of a glass. If we pour it in a bowl, it would become like the bowl, but that does not mean that water has become something else. Water is water no matter how it looks.
Ok, I don't know what I'm writing anymore.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
What is writing and what should it involve?
Version: Two
According to some dictionaries, writing is a method of representing language in visual or tactile form. Writing systems use sets of symbols to represent the sounds of speech, and also have symbols for such things as punctuation and numerals.
Writing, in its textual form, began after accounting, calendaring and trading became too complex, and a need for recording historical events emerged. Throughout history, writing developed from ancient scripts on stone and clay tablets to parchments, to the form which we are familiar with nowadays.
Indeed, the description above seems solid and concrete, but why something seems to be amiss? Is this what writing really is?
If we accept that the definition of literacy, according to National Council of Teachers of English, is the ability to read and write and use numeracy, to handle information, to express opinions, to make decisions and solve problems, as family members, workers, citizens and lifelong learners, then we must also accept that our classification of writing is too limited.
The problem starts with the fact that along with writing, we always imagine pen and paper, and in modern times, computers and text messages, whereas I believe it has a much broader meaning. Billboards, prescriptions, restaurant menus, equations and even road signs can be considered pieces of writing that we fail to notice in our everyday life.
Let's broaden our view even further; have you ever heard people say that their life is written, or do you agree with existentialists on the fact that humans are the authors of their own destiny? Do you think that the notes on a music sheet are a form of writing, or a ballet dancer is writing something with each movement of their body?
Do you think that animals will ever be able to write? For example, do you think that if we teach a monkey the alphabet of a certain language, it would be able to write, or do you believe that writing is exclusively a human ability?
In my point of view, writing is a means of creation, and creation is a unique gift that makes mankind different from any other living thing. Creation is what brings us closer to what our souls seek, and writing is the language that helps us reveal this in different forms, even if it's something as simple as a note on a get-well card.
Considering our second question, do you believe that what we learn is enough to make us good writers? And by good writers, I mean writers that can create something valuable and original that can have an impact, if not on the world, their society or the people they associate with, then at least on themselves to show they indeed want to understand and change. Do you think that learning Grammar, punctuation and understanding what supporting sentences are is enough to make a writer out of us?
The answer is no. Of course, these are some of the tools we need to have, for if we create something that is full of flaws, our efforts would be fruitless and the disadvantages would be much more than the benefits, but by no means are they enough.
In order to be a good writer, first, we need to develop our understanding of the world, our ways of thinking, analysis and criticism, and learn to voice our objections and support them when needed. We need to see and read well, gain knowledge, evaluate the information and finally write something-it doesn't necessarily have to be on a piece of paper-that shows that we indeed want to change the world for better.
I do realize that my definition of a good writer appears idealistic or even impractical, but then again maybe that is why we are here. Perhaps we need to bend some rules, break some others and pay a price to make humans, even if it is just ourselves, into writers they are meant to be.
Version: Two
According to some dictionaries, writing is a method of representing language in visual or tactile form. Writing systems use sets of symbols to represent the sounds of speech, and also have symbols for such things as punctuation and numerals.
Writing, in its textual form, began after accounting, calendaring and trading became too complex, and a need for recording historical events emerged. Throughout history, writing developed from ancient scripts on stone and clay tablets to parchments, to the form which we are familiar with nowadays.
Indeed, the description above seems solid and concrete, but why something seems to be amiss? Is this what writing really is?
If we accept that the definition of literacy, according to National Council of Teachers of English, is the ability to read and write and use numeracy, to handle information, to express opinions, to make decisions and solve problems, as family members, workers, citizens and lifelong learners, then we must also accept that our classification of writing is too limited.
The problem starts with the fact that along with writing, we always imagine pen and paper, and in modern times, computers and text messages, whereas I believe it has a much broader meaning. Billboards, prescriptions, restaurant menus, equations and even road signs can be considered pieces of writing that we fail to notice in our everyday life.
Let's broaden our view even further; have you ever heard people say that their life is written, or do you agree with existentialists on the fact that humans are the authors of their own destiny? Do you think that the notes on a music sheet are a form of writing, or a ballet dancer is writing something with each movement of their body?
Do you think that animals will ever be able to write? For example, do you think that if we teach a monkey the alphabet of a certain language, it would be able to write, or do you believe that writing is exclusively a human ability?
In my point of view, writing is a means of creation, and creation is a unique gift that makes mankind different from any other living thing. Creation is what brings us closer to what our souls seek, and writing is the language that helps us reveal this in different forms, even if it's something as simple as a note on a get-well card.
Considering our second question, do you believe that what we learn is enough to make us good writers? And by good writers, I mean writers that can create something valuable and original that can have an impact, if not on the world, their society or the people they associate with, then at least on themselves to show they indeed want to understand and change. Do you think that learning Grammar, punctuation and understanding what supporting sentences are is enough to make a writer out of us?
The answer is no. Of course, these are some of the tools we need to have, for if we create something that is full of flaws, our efforts would be fruitless and the disadvantages would be much more than the benefits, but by no means are they enough.
In order to be a good writer, first, we need to develop our understanding of the world, our ways of thinking, analysis and criticism, and learn to voice our objections and support them when needed. We need to see and read well, gain knowledge, evaluate the information and finally write something-it doesn't necessarily have to be on a piece of paper-that shows that we indeed want to change the world for better.
I do realize that my definition of a good writer appears idealistic or even impractical, but then again maybe that is why we are here. Perhaps we need to bend some rules, break some others and pay a price to make humans, even if it is just ourselves, into writers they are meant to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)