Monthly Archives: September 2012

Genesis

Posted on by

Genesis was a tough read, mostly because of the lack of action and the dry writing style, but it’s important to note that this is the first book of many books of the bible. It serves as an exposition and lays the foundation for more interesting and more notable passages of scripture. Though the book isn’t particularly interesting to read, it does outline various morals and viewpoints that have become centrepieces of controversy in the modern day.

God created all humans and all animals. He’s all knowing and all powerful, so when  the devil tempts Eve and Adam also consumes the apple, God knows. At the moment when he asks Adam and Eve why they are hiding, he knows why. God, created the tree and God created the serpent.  He knows that Adam and Eve will consume the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and there eyes will be open to ability they possess to what’s wrong and what’s right. Ultimately, The message that’s trying to be passed along is one of human choice and free will. From the start Adam and Eve have the choice to eat the apple or not to. If they no longer have the option of whether or not they will eat the apple, their actions are meaningless. i.e if the no longer have the option of whether or not they will obey God, the actions are meaningless in the eyes of God.  God gives Adam and Eve the choice to eat the apple and once they eat the apple they no what’s good and what’s evil. From that point on they have the choice to do what’s good or bad with full knowledge of the weight of their actions. In doing so, God adds a certain moralistic value to doing good and a sense of shame for doing evil.

This idea is where I find links between The Odyssey and the Bible. The divine entities, in both books, seem to gain something from human sacrifice and worship. They gain something when humans make the choice to do “good” instead of “evil”, whatever that may be in the circumstances.Though they are exceedingly more powerful than humans, they are somehow lifted higher when humans show their appreciation or their unconditional loyalty.The Odyssey and the Bible are similar in that they are both pretty hollow stories if the humans have no choice in the outcomes of their lives.

 

Genesis: punishment and blessings

Posted on by

Where do you begin with a piece of literature like The Bible? It’s the touchstone work of one of the worlds biggest religions, and there is so much here; so much to talk about, think about, recoil from, etc.   When a class of young, wide eyed first year students read The Odyssey, we all have just about the same real life context. Unless one of us is a devout worshipper of Zeus, the concept of the divine in the poem can be tossed around fairly easily. Not so with The Bible. I felt excited reading Genesis for the first time… I could almost feel the years of conflict, bias, ancestry, belief, etc. on my shoulders, all stemming from this very, very old book.

I am by no means religious, although I do like the idea that all things are connected in some way. The point is, I read this story like I would any other story. Interested in the characters, plot, dialogue, you know, that stuff. However, I am very interested in how this story in all it’s infamy effects how people live and see the world. I will not deny it, on first read I was fairly amazed. This God fellow came across as sexist, racist, and a little too comfortable with all this power he had. I did one of those indignant atheist things where I found everything I possibly could that went against human morals today, and complained about it to a friend. This friend was far more educated in the ways of Christianity then me, and explained to me the whole Old Testament thing. He told me the New Testament is fairly different, more love, and less fire and brimstone. Not sure what i’ve decided about that yet, but here’s some thoughts on Genesis, and some questions, if anyone can answer them.

The chain of wrongdoing in the Garden of Eden was interesting to me. The first decision made was the decision to gain wisdom and knowledge, and this is seen as a mistake and something that deserves punishment. What does this say about early society and The Bible? Are Adam and Eve being punished simply for disobeying Gods will or for wanting to know some of what he knows? In some sense, the idea of innocence and obliviousness seems kind of nice, but the tree also implies that there is an evil power out there, an ungodly power, which God himself might not have control of… that was interesting to me.

Starting from Eve, women are often seen as a temptation, a means through which one can commit evil, although God also sees them as important for a man to “have” God himself says “your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you”. This explains a lot about the condescending way women used to be treated, and it makes me realise how deep seated all these concepts are, which is rather scary. In fact, the sudden way God decides anything, without needing any explanation, makes me nervous.

I have a whole number of thoughts, (why is some violence condoned and others condemned? Why is there such emphasis on spreading your “blood” around the world? What does this text say about family? When does The Devil come in?) But those can wait. Writing style not included, this is one of the most interesting texts i’ve read in a while.

 

 

 

 

scar

Posted on by
The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors' attempt to fill the void left by her husband's long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: "So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house" (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to "the distaff and the loom" that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power--or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host--and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: "taller, supple, young" [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: "this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!" (16:202, 206). Even after "long-enduring" Odysseus clarifies twice--"No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father" (16:209, 212)--his son continues to be skeptical. "No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!" (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: "What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?-- / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!" (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn't recognize him) was a mortal like himself: "Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot" (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: "Strangers--friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?" (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: "Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now? / Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?" (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: "Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart" (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories--discourse, narrative--are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be "only" an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he "hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies" (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about "hail[ing] from Crete's broad land" (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master's loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when "in a flash, she knew the scar" (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus's body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.

scar

Posted on by

The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors’ attempt to fill the void left by her husband’s long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: “So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house” (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to “the distaff and the loom” that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power–or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host–and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: “taller, supple, young” [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: “this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!” (16:202, 206). Even after “long-enduring” Odysseus clarifies twice–”No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father” (16:209, 212)–his son continues to be skeptical. “No, you’re not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!” (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: “What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?– / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!” (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn’t recognize him) was a mortal like himself: “Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot” (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: “Strangers–friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?” (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: “Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? / Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: “Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart” (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories–discourse, narrative–are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be “only” an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he “hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies” (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about “hail[ing] from Crete’s broad land” (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master’s loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when “in a flash, she knew the scar” (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus’s body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.


scar

Posted on by
The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors' attempt to fill the void left by her husband's long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: "So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house" (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to "the distaff and the loom" that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power--or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host--and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: "taller, supple, young" [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: "this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!" (16:202, 206). Even after "long-enduring" Odysseus clarifies twice--"No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father" (16:209, 212)--his son continues to be skeptical. "No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!" (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: "What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?-- / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!" (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn't recognize him) was a mortal like himself: "Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot" (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: "Strangers--friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?" (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: "Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now? / Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?" (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: "Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart" (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories--discourse, narrative--are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be "only" an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he "hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies" (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about "hail[ing] from Crete's broad land" (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master's loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when "in a flash, she knew the scar" (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus's body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.

Genesis

Posted on by

I honestly don’t have much to say about the general plot, so I’ll just ramble a bit (or a lot) on the topic of the tree of knowledge.

In the text, God explicitly tells Adam not to eat from the “tree of the knowledge and good and evil”. Doing so, God says, will result in his death. Now, taking out the “good and evil” part, we are left with the “tree of knowledge” which is essentially the core of what Adam and Eve consumed. By eating the fruit, they gained “knowledge” which resulted in their shame of nakedness and subsequently their banishment from Eden. The important point here is not that they gained knowledge, but that they gained knowledge that God did not want them to gain. One way of putting it is that they freed themselves from the shell of ignorance that God had cast over them—whether God did so because he wanted to remain superior, as the Serpent said, or because he wanted to protect Adam and Eve is up for debate.

Before they ate of the fruit, Adam and Eve’s knowledge constituted solely of what God provided them. Adam was given the right to name the animals by God, and Adam was given Eve as a companion by God. Their world, everything that they knew, consisted of what God allowed them to have. Because everything that they knew was brought in conjunction with everything that they had, they never had yearnings and were thus fully or mostly content. Of course, the exception to this is when God mentioned the tree of knowledge which shouldn’t be eaten from as it is a piece of knowledge that they knew existed but would not be allowed to have. The fruit of the tree, which contains “foreign” knowledge, was in essence the only link they had with the world outside their own. It was the key to the door that locked them in ignorance and, arguably, happiness.

When they eat from the tree, it becomes immediately clear that they have gained foreign knowledge due to their embarrassment at being naked. As far as I can tell, they did not wear clothes prior to this and did not have contact with anything that did wear clothes (well, maybe God did but whatever). To be embarrassed means that the embarrassed person has an ideal image of what they should be or what should be occurring and knows that the reality is lacking, and thus feel shame at not being ideal. The fact that Adam and Eve had this “ideal” image meant that they had gained knowledge of it—knowledge that God did not want them to gain. Because their world no longer consisted solely of the knowledge God granted them, God knew that they could no longer be contained in the world he created. Thus, he cast them out of Eden to enter the “real” world, or to be more accurate, the one which suited the knowledge that they had. He also made it so that they would have to suffer in order to live and make them able to die. On both the former and later, he may have given humans suffering and mortality so that they would not be able to achieve what they did in Eden—to become fully content, with everything that they now knew accompanied by everything that they had.   

Finally, on the topic of the “good and evil” part of the tree of knowledge (which I realize I brushed off without much fanfare), I will give an explanation using society’s general definition of both terms. In Eden, the reason why there was no good or evil was because their contentment—that of Adam of Eve’s—were fully realized. They had everything that they wanted and nothing that they did not want (again, the tree being the exception), and thus had no reason to commit either the act of good or evil; in a sense, they were simply “existing”. However, as they gained the “forbidden” knowledge and their world extended to the one beyond Eden, limitations (suffering and mortality) were put on them by God and as a result a discrepancy arose between what they knew existed and what they actually had. Thus, assuming that it is human nature to attempt to close this discrepancy and gain everything that they know exists, they chose methods to do so that suited each individual. Those who try to close the gap in conjunction and co-operation with others and for the benefit of society as a whole are considered “good,” while those who try to close the gap in opposition to and by taking from others and for the harm of society as a whole are considered “evil”. Of course these are ridiculously simplified definitions, but they serve their purposes here. In any case, because “good and evil” comes from the yearning of humanity to gain what they do not have, I consider it to be a byproduct rather than the core of the tree of knowledge. What’s important is the knowledge itself and that it goes beyond humans means and what God originally intended.

Rambling over. 


«Genesis», Julianna`s Thoughts

Posted on by

Similarily to Vincent, this has not been my first time reading the book of Genesis. I too am a Catholic, so I am very familiar with the stories it entails.

I must say that I find it very difficult to analyse or critique this work seeing as for the most part I believe in the stories it dictates. But, I`ll try my best :)

Firstly, I noticed similarities between the God of Genesis and the gods of The Odyssey. Primarily, it was the acceptation of sacrifices. Both the God of Genesis and those of Homer`s work rely upon sacrifices given up by the people in order to stay appeased. However, unlike The Odyssey, Genesis`God appears to truly care for his people. Yes, he does wipe out Sodom, and flood the Earth, but he does so in order to cleanse the Earth of the evil that is growing upon it. He also possesses the qualities of justice and mercy, in that he spares the innocent, and even will pardon the most wicked city for the sake of the righteous. In The Odyssey, however, the gods create a perception that they have little to no concern for humanity, except when it adversely affects them, such as Poseidon hunting down Odysseus. Also, the God of Genesis is portrayed in a far more traditional manner; he is far less endowed with human traits, such as jealousy or lust, reflecting a more common view of a deity. This portrays the discrepancies between different cultures regarding religious beliefs and values.

Another aspect that I noticed is the authority that God desires to possess over His people. The Lord only becomes angry with Adam and Eve when they obtain the knowledge that He has. This portrays the dominance that all Lords wish to have. In an attempt to see this from a non-religious perspective, one could say that the only reason the Lord abhors sin and wickedness is because it is contrary to what he dictates as law. As soon as God feels his authority is lost, such as with Sodom, and with the story of Noah and the ark, he must wipe out any opposition to his will.

Finally, it was interesting to note the discrepancy between what is considered justifiable. For example, when Cain commits the first murder of his brother, Abel, the Lord abhors the action, yet when the sons of Jacob kill Shechem, Hamor, and the rest of the city, all for raping Dinah, the Lord pays no heed. Perhaps adultery is considered horrible enough to justify such atrocious actions, but at the moment, I am a tad perplexed as to how one deems actions as acceptable…

All in all, I look forward to some heated literary and religious discussions in class :)

Genesis

Posted on by

I didn’t grow up religious and my family never owned a Bible, so this was my first time reading it. Although I was familiar with the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden (having read a portion of “Paradise Lost” in a high school Literature class), I knew next to nothing about Isaac, Abraham, Jacob, or Joseph.

I found that while I was reading “Genesis”, the God in “Genesis” didn’t exactly fit into my image of God. I always think of God as an omniscient Being who is very loving, wise, and gives unconditionally. The God in “Genesis” was often angry (well, not exactly angry, but rather stern). Someone who doesn’t laugh or smile very much. When He created the giant flood to wipe out humanity and the animals on Earth except for Noah and the creatures in the ark, I felt that He didn’t fit into my image at all. This God in “Genesis” was someone who gives, but wants and expects something in return. He was much more reasonable and mature than the Ancient Greek gods who have about the reasoning level of a three year old, but He just didn’t seem very nice. He seemed very condescending towards many of the male characters in “Genesis”, often treating them as if they were servants. And I always thought of God as a friend, a mentor, a person who genuinely cares about you and plans out things accordingly. This God was almost like a dictator. But he was certainly more caring towards people in general than, say, Stalin or Hitler.

“Genesis” itself wasn’t very action-packed. I felt that it was like a list of events that happened to a family that went on for generations. It wasn’t particularly interesting and for now, it’s hard for me to pick out the morals. Are we supposed to not listen to snakes? It wasn’t especially illuminating on human psychology or social structures, unlike “The Odyssey” or “Medea” where there’s more material to delve and discuss. “Genesis” was just… like reading family history. It’s a great read for those who enjoy reading about creation stories though. Other than that, I didn’t see a great deal of depth or substance in the “Genesis”. For those who are religious, I felt that “Genesis” wasn’t particularly religious in any way. “Genesis”… was basically a story where the characters simply obeyed God’s words and it’s about a family, generation after generation. I’m not quite sure why so many church people have to read this book because in my opinion, a book like “Harry Potter” has far more to say about religion and love than “Genesis”.

On the other hand, I felt that “Genesis” was one of those books that may not be entirely thrilling (“Paradise Lost” wasn’t very thrilling either, but it’s considered a masterpiece) but it’s definitely worth reading just to have a general background knowledge of some of the stories that take place in the Bible. Many novels and poems in modern day society will have some reference to mythology or the Bible, so it’s worth knowing about the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, and Adam and Eve.


Julian Figueroa’s Thoughts on Medea

Posted on by

I found Medea to be a very interesting play. For something as short as 40 pages, it seems to have even more themes than The Odyssey to it. Don’t get me wrong (and again, this is just an opinion) but  there is such a vast range of mature themes found in Medea (Passion, Revenge, Pride, Manipulation, etc.) that it almost makes The Odyssey seem like a children’s tale. Death doesn’t play near as big of a role in The Odyssey as it does in Medea, and the characters in Medea seem a lot more morally ambiguous in comparison to Odysseus, Penelope, or Telemachus.

Enough with comparisons though… let’s get into the meat and potatoes of what stood out to me in Medea.

One major thing to touch upon is the history behind this play. It was written by a man, and for the longest time, all the female characters were still played by men. For Euripedes to write lines about a character more willing to fight three wars than to give birth shows how clever he is at writing for a powerful female character. And that is what Medea is; powerful, cunning, and vengeful. In fact, one could touch upon how she seems more of a man than Jason; she’s much more intimidating, she doesn’t get to keep control of her children (which in case of divorce nowadays, it is almost unheard of for men to have custody of children under the age of 12). So what spoke to me about this play is how it really defies the history of the time; Medea doesn’t play into any of the tropes of the classic female.

Another aspect that stood out to me was the theme of pride that Medea encompassed throughout the play. Her pride drove her to make irrational decisions and drove her to cause unnecessary bloodshed. There is a tremendous sense of waste to her actions, as she fully exacts her revenge on Jason with the poisoning of Glauce and her father, and then takes the brutality a step further, beyond the bounds of myth, by slaying her own children. She has the damaged and twisted pride of a woman, condescended to for her gender and her barbaric roots, who is nonetheless superior to everyone around her. After all she has suffered, in some ways Medea is most perturbed when she is ridiculed by fools. Her pride only adds to the tragedy in this play as well, and I almost felt sorry for her actions by the end.

A really good television show that encompasses the theme of pride in Medea is “Breaking Bad”. Yes, if you know me, you’ll know that I gawk over every second of the show. But it is true; how Medea starts out as a simple character, and grows into a murderous fiend by the end, in similar ways that Walter White turns from an innocent chemistry teacher in Albuquerque into the most powerful, callous drug lord in the south-west. Pride gets the best of both of these characters, and the influence of Medea is definitely in Breaking Bad. It further proves the point that Medea is great piece of literature and I am very thankful for this course for introducing me to it among other things.

And it’ll only get better from here :) .