Earlier this month, Pride and Prejudice came on TV, and I watched it and marveled at how, at one point of my life, I remotely related to it or held it in any kind of regard. Jane Austen was one of my earliest favourite authors; I grew up reading her books at an age when most children would have been gobbling down comic books. My copy of Pride and Prejudice in particular was dog-eared, I'd read it and re-read it, I'd fawned over the conversations and shuddered at the turn of events, even though I knew them by heart. On my 16th birthday, Aunt Nadia bought me "Jane Austen's Guide to Dating", and I'd treasured it as it softened the blow to the oh-so-excruciating phase of puberty. Watching it now, the parts that had once stirred my affection were ridiculous, and the characters that I once liked or cared about were dancing monkeys in an exaggerated farce. It's been so long ago, it's been 'a different person' ago. How much can one person change? It was as if I'd slipped into a different skin suit, that person long forgotten, someone I ran into down the grocery aisle unawares and promptly evaded by made-up excuses of imaginary appointments.
I spent most of today reading Frank Miller's Man Without Fear and Born Again, both Daredevil comics, and later Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The doctor was right, time IS wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. Tying in with the last revelation, I suppose we're all meant to go through so many different variations of ourselves before our time is up. Most of us just get laggy and stick to one version longer than they're meant to. But what do I know?
American Gods was disappointing. But perhaps, judging its premise of the shifting nature of faith from blood sacrifices to old Norse, Hinduist, Egyptian and Scandinavian gods to devotion to new gods of internet and highways and TV, investing time and energy in the new gods in place of ceremonies and rituals, the shift from giving to the unknown and mysterious to yielding to known and familiar, from the glorious to the boring, from the synaptic to the synoptic, all of that set against the backdrop of the spiritual desert that the American culture has become, with a protagonist that is ultimately incapable of relating to the world around him, disappointing is a medal of honor. Perhaps it was betrayed by its own premise, having old gods walk the modern world is bound to let you down; how could you portray mortal sacrifice and eternal glory in the back lot of a 7/11 on the outskirts of Nebraska, when the scuffle of blades has been replaced with tinkering of cutlery and the biggest moral question to pontificate is whether it's right to ask out your best buddy's ex?
Which brings me to the next order of business; Daredevil. Why the hell do I like it so much? The guy embodies almost every concept I hate, yet I find myself drawn to the tortured Matt Murdoch. Point in question; vigilantism. I'm against it. Not only can you not save people from themselves or stop the high order of organized crime that is the judicial system, but as the saying goes; you cut an altruist and an egotist bleeds. Next point in question; emotional creatures. They repel me, on a very primal level. Matt Murdoch is an emotional wreck of a vigilante, a highly volatile egotist and pathetically reactive grown man given to bouts of whining fit of an overgrown 10-year-old. Why is he my favourite superhero?
I spent most of today reading Frank Miller's Man Without Fear and Born Again, both Daredevil comics, and later Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The doctor was right, time IS wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. Tying in with the last revelation, I suppose we're all meant to go through so many different variations of ourselves before our time is up. Most of us just get laggy and stick to one version longer than they're meant to. But what do I know?
American Gods was disappointing. But perhaps, judging its premise of the shifting nature of faith from blood sacrifices to old Norse, Hinduist, Egyptian and Scandinavian gods to devotion to new gods of internet and highways and TV, investing time and energy in the new gods in place of ceremonies and rituals, the shift from giving to the unknown and mysterious to yielding to known and familiar, from the glorious to the boring, from the synaptic to the synoptic, all of that set against the backdrop of the spiritual desert that the American culture has become, with a protagonist that is ultimately incapable of relating to the world around him, disappointing is a medal of honor. Perhaps it was betrayed by its own premise, having old gods walk the modern world is bound to let you down; how could you portray mortal sacrifice and eternal glory in the back lot of a 7/11 on the outskirts of Nebraska, when the scuffle of blades has been replaced with tinkering of cutlery and the biggest moral question to pontificate is whether it's right to ask out your best buddy's ex?
Perhaps it was meant to be disappointing, to drive the point home, or perhaps I'm just biased. I'm too much of a Neil Gaiman fan, despite his shortcomings as a fantasy author, that I can very well see, he still holds my loyalty. I had this conversation with a friend once, about why it is I like Neil Gaiman in his mediocrity, lack of voice and hopeful strides that fall short of being literature, why I like him despite seeing all of that. I haven't found the answer yet, but the guy has soul. I gave American Gods more time than I would have given most novels to climax, but it just didn't cut it for me. This is the closest I've come to disillusionment since the last time, a couple of years back, when I started seeing the world for what it really was and sprouted a couple of grey hairs in willful protest.
One thing that came out of me reading that dreadful (Read: intentionally dreadful to make a point, making it amazing on scale that is not directly felt by sensory notion but rather in abstract context retrospectively where the dreadful adjective was the original intended outcome and oh my god who am I kidding this book ate a portion of my life that I desperately want back) is that I remember what I liked about the classics. What I saw in Pride and Prejudice many years ago, and somehow lost sight of along the way, what gives the classics the edge that they have in the hearts of so many that are not blind to the heaps of racism, sexism, social injustice, cliches, redundancies, histrionics and overall exaggeration these books hold, that were rampant at the time and were blissfully wiped out by time and questionable progress, is one thing and one thing only; their intensity.
When it comes down to it, the main reason why many level-headed, intelligent, modern people still relate to the completely non-relatable ballet of shittiness that make up 87% of your average classic novel is that whatever that ballet of shittiness was addressing, it was addressing it with sheer fervor...that was also wiped out by time and questionable progress. It is the mark of our time, the plague of our millennial parade; we don't care. More often than not, the winning side is determined, not by their actions, but by their in-actions, and by the admirable way by which they didn't give a shit. My god, it's thought, they don't give a shit, they're immune to mortal weapons. My god, it's said, he's still pining over her, he's such a creep, did you see that post? I heard he tried to call her. TWICE!
When it comes down to it, the main reason why many level-headed, intelligent, modern people still relate to the completely non-relatable ballet of shittiness that make up 87% of your average classic novel is that whatever that ballet of shittiness was addressing, it was addressing it with sheer fervor...that was also wiped out by time and questionable progress. It is the mark of our time, the plague of our millennial parade; we don't care. More often than not, the winning side is determined, not by their actions, but by their in-actions, and by the admirable way by which they didn't give a shit. My god, it's thought, they don't give a shit, they're immune to mortal weapons. My god, it's said, he's still pining over her, he's such a creep, did you see that post? I heard he tried to call her. TWICE!
It's hunger. Hunger that drives us to bad literature written about a worse time with flawed characters that violate every right we spent years trying to get back and every freedom people died to regain because the characters cared, sometimes comically, about anything. They cried with sheer agony, they laughed in ecstasy, the killed over indignation, they sacrificed themselves after long speeches, proclamations and declarations of love or cannibalistic remorse. They died for causes, for ideals and for mere impulses. They had the capacity for a wider range of human emotion, most of which spectrum is now either frowned upon or unheard of in the natural life span of a modern man. People run back to classics for the same reasons children run to dragon lore.
Which brings me to the next order of business; Daredevil. Why the hell do I like it so much? The guy embodies almost every concept I hate, yet I find myself drawn to the tortured Matt Murdoch. Point in question; vigilantism. I'm against it. Not only can you not save people from themselves or stop the high order of organized crime that is the judicial system, but as the saying goes; you cut an altruist and an egotist bleeds. Next point in question; emotional creatures. They repel me, on a very primal level. Matt Murdoch is an emotional wreck of a vigilante, a highly volatile egotist and pathetically reactive grown man given to bouts of whining fit of an overgrown 10-year-old. Why is he my favourite superhero?
Watching the Daredevil show did what my friends failed to do over a year and a half of constant ranting, half-assed threats and forced exposure; it successfully got me into comic books. Not only that, it got me into comic books for the sole reason of finding out more about Matt Murdoch. Of course, after the Marvel universe got a hold of me, it led me by the hand down a glittering corridor of bling and diamonds to about a dozen other fandoms that I'm now part of, the n00b that I am, but one doesn't expect less of Stan Lee's multi-billion dollar industry of bear traps.
The question of why I like Daredevil has been on my mind for a couple of days, itching away at the back of my head like a freaking shackled Cujo. My better senses tell me knowing why will open the flood gates to cognitive dissonance, since the guy is not only the intrinsic opposite of everything I believe checks out, but is - to put it simply - fucked up in the head with cuckoo birds chirping out of his nostrils twice a day. Not looking forward to that revelation, no sir.
Tumbling out of the ether and onto material ground, it's final projects week so I'm stressed out threadbare, with projects to hand in that shook digits off my life counter and witnessed the revival of dying arts of war against enemies of olden ways who wear their hairs in flowing strands that seemingly leak their IQ points with every whip, back and forth. Following that, there looms the horror of finals week, where junior hobbits explore and push the horizons of bullshit to get past the balls and hoops of the paper-shuffling Saurons and emerge on the other end even dumber than they came in.
All things considered, summer ripens with promises of an internship, a martial arts training and a beach retreat with good friends. Disclaimer: Don't jinx it, you fuckers.
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