It's a rare day when I can say a good thing about literature that doesn't involve heaps of cranky twentieth-century angst, but here goes: dear Milton, damn straight we don't know how to stop asking for more -- I think I'll call it the Oliver Complex. The "Please, sir, I want some more complex", that is; Adam and Eve suffered from it in Paradise Lost, and I like to think that it's a particular terminal disease of mine. Think of all the things my particular North American consciousness holds dearer than McDonald's: economic growth, scientific progress, higher standard of living, pay raises (I really hope UBC Administration and CUP 2278 are tuning in for this), etc. I started asking people that espoused these values a simple "why" a little while ago, and it's amazing how hostile they can become -- I'm crying on the inside, but that's beside the point. Using my favourite opening to a question, how did we ever convince ourselves that more was better?
Putting it in terms of personal relationships, which happens to be North America's favourite pastime anyway (you got me, I'm trying to start my own reality dating show -- maybe something involving t.a.b.-bowling and the sudden disappearance of former elementary-school classmates' vital organs), doesn't the expectation of happiness defeat itself? Maybe someone can tell me if I have a psychological disease of some sort, but I don't think I can self-monitor my own happiness. So why, intelligent people out there, are we programmed to always expect more? What if I'm bordering into that dangerous red-zone on the far end of the Happy bar, and not know it? I could draw parallels with Paradise Lost and try to tie really grumpy feminist arguments on how the apple revealed Eve's unconscious self-subjugation, but my readership is low enough as it is.
Life works. That's more than enough.
Which is not to say it couldn't be significantly improved with a nice reveleation on the essential link between Eve's potential for procreation and her subsequent punishments after the Fall. Ferguson and I came up with a sure sign one's doing way too much work for an essay; when your sources start referencing each other and you know exactly what connections they're talking about, the chances of distilling the worthless knowledge you have in less than 2000 words are slimmer than me forgetting lines from Star Wars (The Empire Strikes Back, specifically).
Now seems like a seemly time to go offset oncoming depression with tea.
Putting it in terms of personal relationships, which happens to be North America's favourite pastime anyway (you got me, I'm trying to start my own reality dating show -- maybe something involving t.a.b.-bowling and the sudden disappearance of former elementary-school classmates' vital organs), doesn't the expectation of happiness defeat itself? Maybe someone can tell me if I have a psychological disease of some sort, but I don't think I can self-monitor my own happiness. So why, intelligent people out there, are we programmed to always expect more? What if I'm bordering into that dangerous red-zone on the far end of the Happy bar, and not know it? I could draw parallels with Paradise Lost and try to tie really grumpy feminist arguments on how the apple revealed Eve's unconscious self-subjugation, but my readership is low enough as it is.
Life works. That's more than enough.
Which is not to say it couldn't be significantly improved with a nice reveleation on the essential link between Eve's potential for procreation and her subsequent punishments after the Fall. Ferguson and I came up with a sure sign one's doing way too much work for an essay; when your sources start referencing each other and you know exactly what connections they're talking about, the chances of distilling the worthless knowledge you have in less than 2000 words are slimmer than me forgetting lines from Star Wars (The Empire Strikes Back, specifically).
Now seems like a seemly time to go offset oncoming depression with tea.
