The novel, Crime and Punishment by Fedor Dostoevsky, is an intricate and extremely detailed look into the life of those fighting to live in poverty. The protagonist, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, is a "strikingly handsome young man" with fine dark eyes, brown hair, and a slender figure (2). He has also recieved education from an university, but unfortunately dropped out. His high degree of intelligence is felt by the many characters that he interacts with during his life. By now, people may think by now that he is a rich, influential man of nobility. However, he is anything but that. Instead, he fights day to day trying to survive in the harsh reality of life. Living in a room that is described as a cupboard due to its size, he has long overdue debts to his landlady from which he rented the place. He is unemployed, and is not even attempting to look for a job. To top it off, he wears rags for clothes that are, even in the worst part of the city, considered to be unacceptable. Raskolnikov, unlike many others would in his situation, did not seem to mind his life. Instead, he seemed to not even notice, and is instead deeply engrossed in thought. When his landlady's servant asked him what his job was, he replied that he was "thinking" (27).
From what I see right now, Raskolnikov seems to be very close to death's door. All the descriptions of Raskolnikov have a sense of darkness, as if he was plotting something during all that time spent thinking. This is further supported by the fact that Raskolnikov always hints at something that is not known to the readers, calling it "that" or "the thing" (2,4). My take on this is that he is planning to do something that would definitely not be, in societies' view, tolerable. Another thing that I have noticed while reading this novel is that Raskolnikov seems to be detached from the rest of the world, he avoids conversation and is repeatedly trying to avert the glares of others. For example, when his hat, which is a high, round hat from a famous hat shop (it is, of course, rusty from age) is subject to ridicule by a random drunken man on the street, Raskolnikov immediately withdraws from his deep thought and clings to his hat in response. This action was not executed due to the shame, but it was "more like terror" had taken hold of him (3). I feel that this is extremely important, because a relation can be drawn between this unexpected terror and his constant referral to the thing. Most of the time, when one is attempting to do something that, when seen by others, would be seen as stupid and improper, one notices even the smallest of details and is in constant anxiety, expressing panic at even a small amount of suspicion by others. From this, I feel that the thing that Raskolnikov refers to is something that should not be done, and is most likely a desperate measure that is only considered because of the poverty he is experiencing.
Raskolnikov, because of his actions, brings a sense of realism with him. But what I think really shapes up his character is the emotion that can be seen in his every thought. At times, he can be sympathetic, and yet at other times, he harshly bashes the unrealism in his own and other's ideals. At one point, he, although poor, donates what's left of his pocket change to help another family that is on the verge of starvation; a moment later, he "[repents] on his action", cursing at himself and remarking that it was a "stupid thing to do" (24). And yet, he never goes back for his money, however much he despises giving it away. I can relate to this, because at times, no matter how bad of a situation I am in, I still try to help others in whatever way I can. Another factor that contributes to the realism of this story and its characters is the mood. Everything is portrayed darkly, and when things can not seem to get any worse, it does. From this fact I can predict that, unless Raskolnikov can create a miracle, he will only go further and further into poverty. While helping others is a good deed, it does not give him money and food; lack of money will only continue to put stress on his mind, and things will only turn for the worse. As a result, Raskolnikov will further disassociate himself from society, which will, again, make him dive further into poverty.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Unstoppable Passion
I had not realized until the year of my ninth grade that some challenges could not be overcome without first confronting myself. At that time, I was like any other grade nine; I liked what others liked, and did what they did. However, there was one thing that set me apart from these people I tried so hard to imitate: my passion for music. More specifically, my passion for creating music. I spent much time pursuing this passion, but it was not long before I faced an obstacle greater than any I had encountered before--myself.
I loved creating music but could never fully express this fact. I say this because I owned a trumpet, but never really got to perform with it. By perform, I mean a performance where each and every musician can be heard, not the kind of performances I was in. The kind of performances I had were ones where everyone vomited out their music; where people blared out sounds, paying no heed to the fact that the musical score clearly stated to play softly. Of course, in these performances, my music could not be heard; it was like a single voice crying out in a crowd of thousands. I did not let this stop me though, and continued to practice playing my instrument vigorously. I practiced and practiced, all while thinking about the moment when I stand on stage, with thousands of eyes fixed on me as I play through my solo. The results of my practice became obvious; my skills improved until I could play through a piece to near perfection. Soon, the musical pieces given to me by the concert band class I was in could not make the cut. They were too easy, and I did not feel challenged. I felt that the music I was playing was being limited by the score--I needed something harder, something that I could fully express my skill with.
My plea for higher limits was soon answered. I had discovered jazz, another type of music. Everything was different with jazz: more freedom, faster paces, higher notes, and better flow. With jazz, there would be no limit to how well I could play, and I could play a certain piece in many different ways. Jazz seemed to define me, and it seemed to be exactly what I was seeking. When I saw that my school had a Jazz Band club, something inside of me knew instantly--I had to join. And what do you know, I did. It was only after I joined that I started having doubts. What if they aren't good at all? What if even this newly found band cannot help me express my passion? What if I drag them down? Needless to say, most of my thoughts were not very optimistic. When the time came to practice, however, the band did not fall short of my expectations; in fact, it was multitudes better than what I thought it would be. With seven players, the band was extremely small. When playing, however, it seemed as if even a band of hundreds could not compare. At times, music would flow elegantly through the air, before suddenly changing into a storm of high pitched notes. I felt a cold sweat as I heard this band that I myself was playing with, and then I knew. I knew that with the jazz band, there would be no obstacles to stand in my way. And, when the music teacher told us that we would be having a performance two weeks from then, I knew that I would finally be able to perform the solo I had always wanted. And yet something inside me stirred. I didn't want to perform. There were no obstacles, and yet I didn't want to perform.
Not long after, it became apparent what had obstructed my path. It was myself. Because of my nature to be extremely shy, combined with my fear of criticism from others, I didn't want to perform. As the assigned date for the performance moved closer, my nervousness grew more and more uncontrollable. I tried to calm myself down, but it was like I was fighting against a typhoon. This single problem was millions of times more difficult to solve compared to ones I was faced with in the past. And before long, it was time for the performance. My pathetic attempts to rid myself of my nervousness had completely failed, and in fact the problem had grown even worse. However, I could not stop time, so I had to go to the performance even without fixing that major problem.
The location was at the Gateway Theatre and the performance started at 7:00PM. The event was something held annually by the jazz bands of all the schools nearby, so there was planned to be many performers. I got off my car at 6:50PM and as I started walking towards the theatre, I sighed and looked at the sky, hoping to find some sort of answer. There was nothing but darkness that greeted my eyes, and I could not find one ray of hope waiting for me. Things got worse from there. Negative thoughts swarmed into my mind soon, words like "impossible" and "hopeless" became my new vocabulary. And as I opened the doors to the theatre, I stared at the area where the audience was to be at, and my heart sank even further than it already did. Hundreds of people were seated, all waiting in anticipation of the music people like myself were to create. I spotted my band members, and rushed over to them. Then I found out something comforting. It seemed that I was not the only one nervous, and my club members too were feeling like the end of the world was near. Since there were many bands, an order in which to play was necessary. Our band was to play near the end. I died a little bit on the inside after finding that out. Imagine having clammy hands, a mindset on the verge of breaking down, uncontrollable shaking, and an enormous amount of pressure. Then imagine having to go through all that for two hours, knowing that your turn to play comes closer by the second. As you may know by now, it was quite rough for me to endure. After the hellish wait, our turn came. I walked onto the stage, feeling the heat of the lights above me as if I was being baked alive. Soon after, the curtains in front of me pulled, revealing thousands upon thousands of eyes that were staring straight at me. My eyes rushed back and forth, as if surveying the room. Deep inside, I knew that I was not surveying the room; I was frantically looking for an escape. But at the same time I knew that I had none. I started fidgeting with the keys on my trumpet, and found out that it was nearly impossible to even fidget because my hands were shaking so much. I was so nervous that I wanted to die. Then I remembered. Everyday, for months, I had practiced playing the instrument that I was holding in my hands. Everyday, I had played music with as much emotion as possible, and had played until it was drilled into my mind. Everyday, I had wished to stand on the stage, and perform an awesome solo. And then I came back into reality. The music had started, and it was almost time for me to play. For some strange reason, my nervousness calmed down, and I regained my composure. And then, I played my first note, followed by the second, and then the third. Soon, the audience faded from my eyes, and I was standing on the stage, by myself, playing what I had always dreamed to--my own solo.
Looking back, I laugh at how miniscule the problem was. But at the time, it was the greatest obstacle blocking me, and I would not have been able to confront it without first confronting myself. I had many doubts, and was scared of criticism from others. Soon, I thought pessimistically and over exaggerated these doubts, and then everything started to have a snowball effect. My doubts soon grew into fear, and my fear encaged me and prevented me from expressing who I actually was.
I loved creating music but could never fully express this fact. I say this because I owned a trumpet, but never really got to perform with it. By perform, I mean a performance where each and every musician can be heard, not the kind of performances I was in. The kind of performances I had were ones where everyone vomited out their music; where people blared out sounds, paying no heed to the fact that the musical score clearly stated to play softly. Of course, in these performances, my music could not be heard; it was like a single voice crying out in a crowd of thousands. I did not let this stop me though, and continued to practice playing my instrument vigorously. I practiced and practiced, all while thinking about the moment when I stand on stage, with thousands of eyes fixed on me as I play through my solo. The results of my practice became obvious; my skills improved until I could play through a piece to near perfection. Soon, the musical pieces given to me by the concert band class I was in could not make the cut. They were too easy, and I did not feel challenged. I felt that the music I was playing was being limited by the score--I needed something harder, something that I could fully express my skill with.
My plea for higher limits was soon answered. I had discovered jazz, another type of music. Everything was different with jazz: more freedom, faster paces, higher notes, and better flow. With jazz, there would be no limit to how well I could play, and I could play a certain piece in many different ways. Jazz seemed to define me, and it seemed to be exactly what I was seeking. When I saw that my school had a Jazz Band club, something inside of me knew instantly--I had to join. And what do you know, I did. It was only after I joined that I started having doubts. What if they aren't good at all? What if even this newly found band cannot help me express my passion? What if I drag them down? Needless to say, most of my thoughts were not very optimistic. When the time came to practice, however, the band did not fall short of my expectations; in fact, it was multitudes better than what I thought it would be. With seven players, the band was extremely small. When playing, however, it seemed as if even a band of hundreds could not compare. At times, music would flow elegantly through the air, before suddenly changing into a storm of high pitched notes. I felt a cold sweat as I heard this band that I myself was playing with, and then I knew. I knew that with the jazz band, there would be no obstacles to stand in my way. And, when the music teacher told us that we would be having a performance two weeks from then, I knew that I would finally be able to perform the solo I had always wanted. And yet something inside me stirred. I didn't want to perform. There were no obstacles, and yet I didn't want to perform.
Not long after, it became apparent what had obstructed my path. It was myself. Because of my nature to be extremely shy, combined with my fear of criticism from others, I didn't want to perform. As the assigned date for the performance moved closer, my nervousness grew more and more uncontrollable. I tried to calm myself down, but it was like I was fighting against a typhoon. This single problem was millions of times more difficult to solve compared to ones I was faced with in the past. And before long, it was time for the performance. My pathetic attempts to rid myself of my nervousness had completely failed, and in fact the problem had grown even worse. However, I could not stop time, so I had to go to the performance even without fixing that major problem.
The location was at the Gateway Theatre and the performance started at 7:00PM. The event was something held annually by the jazz bands of all the schools nearby, so there was planned to be many performers. I got off my car at 6:50PM and as I started walking towards the theatre, I sighed and looked at the sky, hoping to find some sort of answer. There was nothing but darkness that greeted my eyes, and I could not find one ray of hope waiting for me. Things got worse from there. Negative thoughts swarmed into my mind soon, words like "impossible" and "hopeless" became my new vocabulary. And as I opened the doors to the theatre, I stared at the area where the audience was to be at, and my heart sank even further than it already did. Hundreds of people were seated, all waiting in anticipation of the music people like myself were to create. I spotted my band members, and rushed over to them. Then I found out something comforting. It seemed that I was not the only one nervous, and my club members too were feeling like the end of the world was near. Since there were many bands, an order in which to play was necessary. Our band was to play near the end. I died a little bit on the inside after finding that out. Imagine having clammy hands, a mindset on the verge of breaking down, uncontrollable shaking, and an enormous amount of pressure. Then imagine having to go through all that for two hours, knowing that your turn to play comes closer by the second. As you may know by now, it was quite rough for me to endure. After the hellish wait, our turn came. I walked onto the stage, feeling the heat of the lights above me as if I was being baked alive. Soon after, the curtains in front of me pulled, revealing thousands upon thousands of eyes that were staring straight at me. My eyes rushed back and forth, as if surveying the room. Deep inside, I knew that I was not surveying the room; I was frantically looking for an escape. But at the same time I knew that I had none. I started fidgeting with the keys on my trumpet, and found out that it was nearly impossible to even fidget because my hands were shaking so much. I was so nervous that I wanted to die. Then I remembered. Everyday, for months, I had practiced playing the instrument that I was holding in my hands. Everyday, I had played music with as much emotion as possible, and had played until it was drilled into my mind. Everyday, I had wished to stand on the stage, and perform an awesome solo. And then I came back into reality. The music had started, and it was almost time for me to play. For some strange reason, my nervousness calmed down, and I regained my composure. And then, I played my first note, followed by the second, and then the third. Soon, the audience faded from my eyes, and I was standing on the stage, by myself, playing what I had always dreamed to--my own solo.
Looking back, I laugh at how miniscule the problem was. But at the time, it was the greatest obstacle blocking me, and I would not have been able to confront it without first confronting myself. I had many doubts, and was scared of criticism from others. Soon, I thought pessimistically and over exaggerated these doubts, and then everything started to have a snowball effect. My doubts soon grew into fear, and my fear encaged me and prevented me from expressing who I actually was.
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