Prompts:
1) One of Virginia Wolfe's best known short stories, The Death of the Moth is centered around (as the title implies) a seemingly inane plot. Yet, it's a very interesting piece and it ultimately reveals worth and substance. Has something insignificant ever fixated you in a similar way? Write about what it was, why it struck you, and what it made you think about or realize.
2) Books are among the oldest and most effective ways of human communication, and there are books of every genre, from self-help to science fiction. If they are written well, most fictional books, even if they're not realistic, will force the reader to think about real-life applications of the book's subjects and themes. Write about a time when you discovered a relation between a fictional book and something in your life.
3) Everyone has times when they feel like they might pull their hair out, either over an assignment, a frustrating person, or some kind of situation of catastrophe--but many times, we don't stop to think about why we are so affected. Recall a time when you experienced this kind of stress and reflect on it. What was it specifically that made it so daunting or infuriating?Did you learn anything from the experience? Why/Why not?
Prompt 2 response
Over the summer I would often end up with days on end to burn--I had no license, my mother and father worked, and many of my friends were off on summer trips to other states or in summer programs (and by my luck, they were absent only in the weeks when I was not busy). One particular day I decided what I needed was a nice long walk and the outdoors. So I took my dog to the nearest park and sat under a tree to read.
I was reading a book about travel and Buddhism, a relaxing subject. I finished a chapter or two and decided to just enjoy my surroundings and look over the playground. This might sound creepy, but I've always loved to watch children play. They have a way of simple humor and easygoing nature that reminds me of what I sometimes consider my happiest times, when I was oblivious to the meaning of stress and when all of my objectives were centered around crafts and games. In those days, my best friends lived just a few houses down, where the opportunity for an exhilarating game of tag was always open.
There's a phrase in the book, or more like a theme, that says "comparisons are odious," which in essence, says that people shouldn't compare situations, because all things are essentially the same in nature--they consist of the same matter and cannot be changed. Now, this doesn't seem to make sense-- how is a rainy, ugly day the same thing as a bright, sunny day? And the Earth isn't a void--it's full of objects and ideas, all of which are distinct from one another. Right?
Thinking about childhood and the past is a wistful thing, and I'd always been aware of its futility. But when I realized that this kind of reflection and mourning on my past was exactly the same thing that my book had been talking about, it was an incredible thing. It's the same philosophy that says the presence of "yesterday" and "tomorrow" do not exist, because only the physical and literal "today" is happening-- all else is a reflection or an apprehension. I saw that things could not be any different from the way they are, and only attitude and perception could be altered--emotions and reactions can be changed, whereas ignorance and knowledge are two equal and opposite, and inevitable, states of life. To compare my life back then with my life now wouldn't be fair; I no longer experience yesterday, I only recall it by faulty memory. The only things which can be compared are existence and consciousness, which are consistent and equal. By the same note, a rainy day might not hold the same events as a sunny day, might not be recalled like a sunny day, but the perception and the substance, the worth of the day itself has the same potential.
I do not always buy this whole message; I'm not always an optimist, and (sadly) I am not always at peace. Here I might contradict myself and say that it's much easier to be so peaceful on a warm summer afternoon than on the first of December writing a blogpost. But the thought itself, the experience of relating the book to life was exciting, and somewhat eye-opening. To me, that's what makes reading worth my time (in comparison, of course, to other things).
1) One of Virginia Wolfe's best known short stories, The Death of the Moth is centered around (as the title implies) a seemingly inane plot. Yet, it's a very interesting piece and it ultimately reveals worth and substance. Has something insignificant ever fixated you in a similar way? Write about what it was, why it struck you, and what it made you think about or realize.
2) Books are among the oldest and most effective ways of human communication, and there are books of every genre, from self-help to science fiction. If they are written well, most fictional books, even if they're not realistic, will force the reader to think about real-life applications of the book's subjects and themes. Write about a time when you discovered a relation between a fictional book and something in your life.
3) Everyone has times when they feel like they might pull their hair out, either over an assignment, a frustrating person, or some kind of situation of catastrophe--but many times, we don't stop to think about why we are so affected. Recall a time when you experienced this kind of stress and reflect on it. What was it specifically that made it so daunting or infuriating?Did you learn anything from the experience? Why/Why not?
Prompt 2 response
Over the summer I would often end up with days on end to burn--I had no license, my mother and father worked, and many of my friends were off on summer trips to other states or in summer programs (and by my luck, they were absent only in the weeks when I was not busy). One particular day I decided what I needed was a nice long walk and the outdoors. So I took my dog to the nearest park and sat under a tree to read.
I was reading a book about travel and Buddhism, a relaxing subject. I finished a chapter or two and decided to just enjoy my surroundings and look over the playground. This might sound creepy, but I've always loved to watch children play. They have a way of simple humor and easygoing nature that reminds me of what I sometimes consider my happiest times, when I was oblivious to the meaning of stress and when all of my objectives were centered around crafts and games. In those days, my best friends lived just a few houses down, where the opportunity for an exhilarating game of tag was always open.
There's a phrase in the book, or more like a theme, that says "comparisons are odious," which in essence, says that people shouldn't compare situations, because all things are essentially the same in nature--they consist of the same matter and cannot be changed. Now, this doesn't seem to make sense-- how is a rainy, ugly day the same thing as a bright, sunny day? And the Earth isn't a void--it's full of objects and ideas, all of which are distinct from one another. Right?
Thinking about childhood and the past is a wistful thing, and I'd always been aware of its futility. But when I realized that this kind of reflection and mourning on my past was exactly the same thing that my book had been talking about, it was an incredible thing. It's the same philosophy that says the presence of "yesterday" and "tomorrow" do not exist, because only the physical and literal "today" is happening-- all else is a reflection or an apprehension. I saw that things could not be any different from the way they are, and only attitude and perception could be altered--emotions and reactions can be changed, whereas ignorance and knowledge are two equal and opposite, and inevitable, states of life. To compare my life back then with my life now wouldn't be fair; I no longer experience yesterday, I only recall it by faulty memory. The only things which can be compared are existence and consciousness, which are consistent and equal. By the same note, a rainy day might not hold the same events as a sunny day, might not be recalled like a sunny day, but the perception and the substance, the worth of the day itself has the same potential.
I do not always buy this whole message; I'm not always an optimist, and (sadly) I am not always at peace. Here I might contradict myself and say that it's much easier to be so peaceful on a warm summer afternoon than on the first of December writing a blogpost. But the thought itself, the experience of relating the book to life was exciting, and somewhat eye-opening. To me, that's what makes reading worth my time (in comparison, of course, to other things).
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