THROUGH
THE
VALLEY
Each character a metaphor/figure of speech/symposium of artistic thoughts on life
Emily is pissed off by the fractured nature of life - she'll write out lines from the wasteland in the guts of bugs on her windshield - she'll adore ern mally poems and call the-boy-she-meets ern - he's a young brown-hair brown-eyed enigma with two guns and a poem for each scar. She falls in love but he's on his way out to meet HST - she doesn't know about this until the last day he spends with her (i'm not coming back, i'm giong to meet HST "who is HST?" "just somebody..." "who is he???" "WHO IS HE!!!!!" "hunt and you shall find...." so yeah she spends a week or two in different motels with him - eating, fucking, lying, loving, falling for love - falling in love. they always express their deepest darkest desires and thoughts. Then he leaves. She is distraught. She turns to go back home, broken and withered. As she is driving home she falls asleep and hits a tree. A young girl comes and helps her. A young catholic girl who shares all the values emily does (deep down tho, emily dont express it) - in the presence of this girl emily is at first in awe, then she protects herself and becomes awful to her - the young catholic girl has a book on her desk - fear and loathing in las vegas - emily steals it and steals the her uncle's car too (a nice red convertable) [ the uncle is hst ] - emily drives and drives in any direction and reads the book. As she is reading she starts to halucinate during driving and she thinks she sees her father in cars and at car stops and in the sunset. Eventually she finds herself (almost suddenly it seems) in NYC city. She drives around there but finds it dificult and so she gives her car to a balding man wearing big shades. As she does this a young man (ern) runs out from an alleyway and asks the man is he is HST (emiyl doesn't see or hear this she is walking down the street, she turns the corner) ern then runs down the street looking for her but she can't be found. He looks broken and distraught as he crunches his starbucks cup and whipes his dirty eyelid. Meanwhile emily, weak and exhausted, with only the clothes on her back, a bottle of water and the copy of fear and loathing in las vegas, stumbles over to the journo statue - now delirious, mumbles three words: hunger, satisfaction, truth and then passes out on the statue.
z parakeet was her pandemonium.
Z parakeet was a feeling, a thought, gargantuan.
An underlying paradox causing heaps of pain to flood through mootblox from her keyboard garden. Where nothing but herself could be her own guardian - the peering ventures of outerwordly things just looked banal in her eyes that were usually graced by memes.
She blogged all night and slept all day. Z parakeet was her pandemonium - but Z parakeet couldn't stay.
The door lurched into Emily's room as the wafting smell of a cat frying in the sun burnt her nostrils. Her eyes started to water as whoever it was that was in her room was making a racket - not like a conniving mobster - more like a two year old wearing bucket shoes stolen from Ditzy the clown that failed to do anything better except snort cocaine and cry through her facepaint. As the tears dried up Emily saw that it was Ditzy the clown in her room, once again, doing lines off of the dresser Emily's father made for her before he left town. Emily's Father was a Cassidy. A real rip-roaring zest-filled loverboy howling beautiful charmed songs to the moon and calling nature's bosom to wrap itself around him. He bounced between his own world and Emily's, rarely staying long - always looking for a better sunset to make love too, or a bigger moon to die under. Ditzy collapsed onto Emily's comfy bed. The christmas lights painted a sordid picture of the rabid clown's face. Lumps of cocaine seemed to rumble from one cheek, across the nose, to the other as the flickering lights performed an illuminating dance trying to breed a spark in the stained eyes of the sad one. Emily thought about saying something to Ditzy, that's what any good human would do - say something, kick them, spoon feed them baby food until they blabber spit and poor out their vehemence to the world. But this had all happened time and time again - and it seemed that anything Emily did had no purpose. Her actions lead to no good consequence and so this time Ditzy's little sister emily would be of no avail. Emily let her mind crawl back into the tubes of the internet and she found happiness in the Captchart tumblr. A hilarious little blog dedicated to artwork inspired by captchas. Emily had submitted art pieces a few times and had received many notes and followers from doing so. She loved and craved the attention, this is why she regularly steals cocaine from Ditzy and sells it for cheap on the streets of Brooklyn. This is why she fucked John and took his camera, leaving him in the middle of some dried up fucking desert with a blown mind and empty car, empty wallet, empty heart. Emily was not somebody to be fucked with. She grew up with a mother like a father - a father like a walking egyptian pharaoh preaching the most insanely beautiful things but running away to fight some other fight before he could see Emily's own beauty - and her older sister is a clown, fucking literally, always has been and always will be. Ditzy is a rampant clown. Emily, in her mind, and in my mind too, is going places. She big, she notorious. She got what it takes. She is the prometheus of the twenty first century - the new gods
are fucked.
Emily poked around for a bit until the car kicked into life. Pulling out from the dreary side walk she beat down on the gas and blasted a big thick smoke cloud as she grinded further into the outskirts of the city until she burst out into the wild open. The sun warmly stroked her neck as she cruised on like a missile seeking to destroy something big, something beautiful. Emily drove with the windows down even thought huge swarms of locusts were moving across the road like green wild fire. Splattering and digging into the car with their pokey little legs and gooey bodies. About an hour into the drive a healthy little infestation of locusts were buzzing around the dash - Emily quickly got pissed off by the droning sound so she grabbed her deoderant spray, lit herself a cig and then used her lighter and the deoderant to welcome those dirty little peasant-nibblers to Hell. The commotion awoke her pet Iguana, Latex and he crawled out from under the passenger seat. Emily forgot about putting him in the car and now she realized that he can eat up all the shit-eating buzz-fuckers not littered all over her dash. She placed him on the dash to gobble and munch like a swine as she herded her car deeper into the rainbow desert - a colourful world but filled with vitriol and vehemence. Like oil in the water - Emily can see a rainbow where others see dead birds with feathers matted together and lungs drowned in thick black liquid, Emily sees different.
Hours passed by in a blurred haze as she beat down the long stretches of highway. Tunes thumping through the speakers, no more locusts in sight now. About an hour earlier Emily had pulled over at a small rest stop on the side of the road. She hauled in with a storm of dust that covered a medium sized van full of what looked like donut boxes. A man leapt out from behind the van with wild eyes and yelled "harrrrrr penises!!!" and then stashed back away into some dank little cranny of his van.Emily walked past as wild-eyed man's vehichle started to rock back and forth and she thought she heard some ghastly soul-piercing wailing coming from inside, but it could have just been the wind blowing through the rank looking outhouse. It was a monument to the rude brutality of Western World Economics. Don't shit where you eat. Look left, look right and then write a sexually charged message on the dirty old green door that swings like a horny stripped on the hot zephyr reaching over the land like some great wind god. Emily pulled her pants down to her knees and perched on the crust toilet, hovering powerfully in ancient gargoyle styles. As she was peeing she inspected the pissed-on-toilet-paper and the little note written on possibly the only dry piece of toilet paper in 100 miles; the note said: "eh eh cabron, eh cabron, eh eh? you dont want to touch his tibula?(insert upside down question mark somewhere) eh eh eh" Emily scrunched it up and used it to dry herself off. She contemplated leaving a message on an empty spot on the door but before she could decide she found herself running back out to the carpark because she heard the revving of an engine and the churning of tires on dirt gravel. She thought somebody had taken her old junkheap. A beat up conglomeration of history, pain, hopes and dreams. The way it rattled as it gained speed was like a beautiful song to Emily. She calmed down and then went back into the toilet, scratching "Fuck your tibula, cabron." on the door and then leaving.
When she got back to the car she noticed a particularly large amount of bug-guts on the wind shield. The wind was howling intensely now and Emily found herself writing words in the goo with her finger:
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
She didn't know where those words came from but she knew that had arrived in her life from somewhere, in a more solid and better form... But that was all she could remember for that moment and so it had to be. She opened up the car door and strong wind blew her into the car with a hot gust. She turned the key and the car burst into song, the bug-guts words slowly but surely being blown into oblivion as she once again cruised on down the highway.
The sun had begun to dip below the horizon and the sweat on Emily's forehead was going slowly cold in the shade, but still, there was a lingering heat around the area that Emily knew would last throughout the night - this area around her body. This was good because she wanted to continue driving through the burnt-out end of this day and into the witching hours. She was excited about the stars and the possibility of a midnight sun-shower or a ghost hurling back towards some ancient place where relics of vulcanic juggernaughts still roam the old world. The bullshit and ennui of homelife was dripping away with each consecutive mile that brought her further and further into the heart of the dark country - away from the vapid and cold extremities that are called cities but in reality are simply gargantuan cemetries of the future; wise menn preach this as they drive they hollywood hell.
Emily drove and drove as buzzing lights bounced, danced and raced past her and around her.
She was in corn country now. An alien in a place full of 'em. Ghoul-like lights hung and dazzled around her vision - they might have been her lack of sleep, her hunger, or the drugs/alcohol she had been consuming - or it might just have been some mother fucking aliens; it was never entirely clear as all the best things aren't.
When she woke she wondered why the narrator hadn't dressed in his best clothes - he smelt of hard liquor and cigarettes. Luckily for her he cooked her bacon and eggs for breakfast. When she was well fed and happy she was suitably content to continue the story.
Emily with Catholic Girl
Emily pondered the corrupted minds. Those that could insinuate and divide and the conspire to bring together the hate they embroidered in their mind. She found disgust in the ways that humans could be two-faced and fake and so she laced her hate into a positive guidance. She linked her fears and her hatred into an undying love and forgiveness that relinquished her of the pain she faced and allowed her to spread and to share positivity amongst her peers and the wider world. Welcome to the saving grace, there is a sunset on the road.
Weeping in NY on the plintch or statue or whatever the fuck the journo thing is.
“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly-that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty one owes to one’s self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it.”
— Oscar Wilde ; The Picture of Dorian Gray
It was the Hunger.
The Satisfaction.
the truth
catch singlasses behind back
Nation To Nation
All The World
Must Come Together
Face The Problems
That We See
Then Maybe Somehow We Can Work It Out
I Asked My Neighbor
For A Favor
She Said Later
What Has Come Of
All The People
Have We Lost Love
Of What It's About
I Have To Find My Peace Cuz
No One Seems To Let Me Be
False Prophets Cry Of Doom
What Are The Possibilities
I Told My Brother
There'll Be Problems,
Times And Tears For Fears,
We Must Live Each Day
Like It's The Last
Go With It
Go With It
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
The World Keeps Changing
Rearranging Minds
And Thoughts
Predictions Fly Of Doom
The Baby Boom
Has Come Of Age
We'll Work It Out
I Told My Brothers
Don't You Ask Me
For No Favors
I'm Conditioned By
The System
Don't You Talk To Me
Don't Scream And Shout
She Pray To God, To Buddha
Then She Sings A
Talmud Song
Confusions Contradict
The Self
Do We Know Right
From Wrong
I Just Want You To
Recognize Me
In The Temple
You Can't Hurt Me
I Found Peace
Within Myself
Go With It
Go With It
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
[Rap Performed By Heavy D]
Jam Jam
Here Comes The Man
Hot Damn
The Big Boy Stands
Movin' Up A Hand
Makin' Funky Tracks
With My Man
Michael Jackson
Smooth Criminal
That's The Man
Mike's So Relaxed
Mingle Mingle Jingle
In The Jungle
Bum Rushed The Door
3 And 4's In A Bundle
Execute The Plan
First I Cooled Like A Fan
Got With Janet
Then With Guy
Now With Michael
Cause It Ain't Hard To...
[Michael]
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
Get On It
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't Stop
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
It Ain't Too Hard For Me
To Jam [9x]
Get On It
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
Too Much
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Get On It
Get On It
Give It Baby
Give It To Me
Come On
You Really Give It Too Me
Got To Give It
You Just Want To Give It
it was weird. He told her of some story about abandoned russian nuclear lighthouses that were loaded up with radioactivity and apparently there were
lighthouse out in the cane fields
she writes her own journal
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Friday, 17 September 2010
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Thomas S. Kuhn, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1970, Second Edition Enlarged,
Kuhn, T.S The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Chicago & London. The University of Chicago Press. 1970. Second Edition.
Thomas Kuhn's aim is to debunk the outdated and ill-fitting descriptions of Science, replacing them with a new understanding provided by a historiographical approach to science study. Kuhn's theory extrapolates the pitfalls of inadequate methodologies that were not, and to this day are not, able answer important questions relating to the history of science. Kahn endeavors to show readers that the true nature of 'Science' has not been properly understood due to a failure to critique 'Science' from the right angle. Kuhn's opinion is that rhetoric and social constructs developed a fake identity, that is, 'Science'; 'Science' does not exist in reality. It is a construct designed to try to explain and argue for the idea that all scientists are working towards the goal of progress using the scientific method. Kuhn does not believe in the scientific method and as such the idea of capital s science falls short. Kuhn's theory is one developed from an analysis of the history of science and it describes the fluid nature of the scientific world; the importance of 'normal science' and the way paradigm shifts work.
Kuhn's thesis is accurate at describing the complex nature of the history of science. But it is let down by inadequate of Kuhn's sometimes wild and vague remarks about revolutions and the inconsistencies found in his work when he writes about paradigms. Overall, the work is decent and lends itself to appraisal for actually thinking outside the square and noticing the pitfalls of 'Science' - post-Kuhnian scientists, historians and philosophers have also been spurred on to rectify the mistakes Kuhn made and their developments have led to a wider and deeper understanding about the nature scientific world; specifically John A. Schuster who explicates that the nature of science is not as black and white as Kuhn believes. (page 136)
In the introduction Kuhn sheds light on problems of science. Immediately it is shown that for a long time society has been drenched in a naive understanding of science bred and shared by ignorant scientists who believe in the simple and wrong idea that all science is moving towards progress through the use of a common scientific method. Kuhn shakes off this idea and in the wake of it he elaborates upon a complex and interesting idea about science that has come not from within the community of science itself, but from without. Kuhn used history to elucidate problems of the scientific community and through this he has shown that science is a fluid creature that has a repeating lifestyle: pre-science, normal science, revolution, normal science 2, revolution, normal science 3, revolution (ad infinitum).
Kuhn then spends several chapters describing the stages of science as he sees them. He starts with the time of 'normal science', elaborating how normal science develops and the role it plays. Kuhn describes 'normal science' as the time when "research firmly based upon one or more past scientific achievements" is undertaken by scientists. Normal science is the time when scientists engage in problem solving tasks. According to Kuhn the scientists work within the paradigm, it is necessary to do so, because a scientist that is constantly challenging, or does not believe in the truth of the paradigm, cannot do good "puzzle-solving" scientific work. If they don't recognise the puzzle then the puzzle cannot be solved.
In the later half of the book Kuhn spends his time describing anomalies, the crisis point in the timeline of science, the response to the crisis and he finishes with in-depth inspections of scientific revolutions. According to Kuhn anomalies play an important role in developing science because anomalies have the possibility to bring about a paradigm shift. The nature of an anomaly is rather intricate. From different angles it can appear to be different things. An anomaly, basically, is a problem that cannot be answered within the current paradigm. Kuhn accurately points out that sometimes the scientists working within the paradigm do not acknowledge a problem - they believe that there is no anomaly. Whereas other scientists who notice the anomaly and believe it important to solve the anomaly are driven to find ways to solve it that lie outside of the current paradigm. Kuhn explicates that these actions by the rogue scientists will eventually lead to a crisis point - the point where there is a sufficient body of scientists who agree that the current paradigm is unable to solve critical problems. In chapter eight Kuhn explains that "if an anomaly is to evoke crisis, it must usually be more than just an anomaly". What he means here is rather unclear. He goes on to list several different examples of anamolies that brought on crisis and then a paradigm shift and all of them differ. It seems that he himself does not fully understand what, or how, an anomaly changes and becomes "more than just an anomaly". Perhaps it is a metaphysical change that occurs in the hearts and minds of men and women engaged within the society and culture at the time of the crisis? Kuhn uses the example of Wolfgang Pauli's letter to a friend expressing his concern with the state of the paradigm he lived in, saying, "At the moment physics is again terribly confused. In any case, it is too difficult for me, and I wish I had been a movie comediam or something of the sort and never heard of physics". Kuhn then quotes Pauli's words that he wrote five months later, after Heisenberg's matrix mechanics became accessable, and such words elucidate the nature of changing paradigms - subtle, yet important - Pauli wrote "Heisenberg's type of mechanics has again given me hope and joy in life. To be sure it does not supply the solution to the riddle, but I believe it is again possible to march forward." Kuhn does well using these supporting quotations and historical examples to bolster his theory. Chalmers provides another definition of an anomaly. He says that an anomaly is noticed to be important if it is seen to be undermining the fundamentals of a paradigm and at the same time resisting the attempts of scientists within the normal scientific community to dispose of it.(page p4). Chalmers is good at taking Kuhn's words and putting them into a clear and concise form.
So far so good for Kuhn. The problems of his work start to arise when he tries to explicate the paradigm shift. After spending the first half of the book examining and explicating the intricate and complex transition and history of science Kuhn then tries to sum up the issues of two competiting paradigms by using the word "incommensurable". From Kuhn's work it is not entirely clear what he means by this. Chalmers takes up this issue and tries to flesh out Kuhn's argument and theory so as to accurately define what exactly "incommensurable" means. Chalmers explicates that the aim of arguments and discussions that occur by two rival parties trying to profess their paradigm as better than the other should be "persuasion rather than compulsion". Here Chalmers is explicating clearly that what Kuhn means by "incommensurable" is the issue of solving an argument that cannot be solved through rational, logical means. Therefore it comes down to the whims of the two parties involved to finally determine the outcome of the issue. This led to problems within the scientific community due to the way this idea undermines the romantic idea that all science is rational, logical and always progressing. Shuster explains that Kuhn's definition of incommensurable describes the idea that "paradigms do not have single agreed measures". (page 130). Schuster acknowledges that Kuhn should have made clearer what he meant by inconmmensurability because, in his book, Kuhn's lack of clarity leaves one thinking that "one paradigm came from Mars and the other from Venus". (page 131). This problem is one of a small few that plague Kuhn's work in this book.
Kuhn also simplifies the nature of science. He does well in acknowledging the different complex areas of science: new science, crisis, revolution. But he lends himself to an over-simplification because he believes that these times exist one at a time. Schuster, on the other hand, explicates that this is not the case. He believes that there is a far more complex understanding of science to be known - one that blends the areas of new science, crisis and revolution - so that all of these things are occuring at once. Schuster says this is possible because each discovery is a "noticeable alteration" to the paradigm. (age 137). And the idea of a revolution is simply a large discovery. These ideas compliment and adds depth to Kuhn's work.
In conclusion, Kuhn's work The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is an interesting and insightful book. His work, althought outdated now, still shows the essence that has lead to greater knowledge about the scientific world. Kuhn's arguments are generally concise and clear, the first half of the book being very detailed, complex and yet accessable. The latter half does lend itself to some intricate issues that are not entirely ironed out by Kuhn, however, Kuhn still succeeds in arguing and presenting his theory in convincing way. The problems that occur in his work were later addressed by Kuhn and by other academics, as such, given the literature that is available, Kuhn's work here is far stronger than it is weak and it is most definitely complimented by a reading of Chalmers' own book and Schuster's study of Kuhn's work.
Talk about revolution from Schutser and Chalmers. Respond to their points. Conclude, fuck yeah boy.
Kuhn, T.S The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Chicago & London. The University of Chicago Press. 1970. Second Edition.
Thomas Kuhn's aim is to debunk the outdated and ill-fitting descriptions of Science, replacing them with a new understanding provided by a historiographical approach to science study. Kuhn's theory extrapolates the pitfalls of inadequate methodologies that were not, and to this day are not, able answer important questions relating to the history of science. Kahn endeavors to show readers that the true nature of 'Science' has not been properly understood due to a failure to critique 'Science' from the right angle. Kuhn's opinion is that rhetoric and social constructs developed a fake identity, that is, 'Science'; 'Science' does not exist in reality. It is a construct designed to try to explain and argue for the idea that all scientists are working towards the goal of progress using the scientific method. Kuhn does not believe in the scientific method and as such the idea of capital s science falls short. Kuhn's theory is one developed from an analysis of the history of science and it describes the fluid nature of the scientific world; the importance of 'normal science' and the way paradigm shifts work.
Kuhn's thesis is accurate at describing the complex nature of the history of science. But it is let down by inadequate of Kuhn's sometimes wild and vague remarks about revolutions and the inconsistencies found in his work when he writes about paradigms. Overall, the work is decent and lends itself to appraisal for actually thinking outside the square and noticing the pitfalls of 'Science' - post-Kuhnian scientists, historians and philosophers have also been spurred on to rectify the mistakes Kuhn made and their developments have led to a wider and deeper understanding about the nature scientific world; specifically John A. Schuster who explicates that the nature of science is not as black and white as Kuhn believes. (page 136)
In the introduction Kuhn sheds light on problems of science. Immediately it is shown that for a long time society has been drenched in a naive understanding of science bred and shared by ignorant scientists who believe in the simple and wrong idea that all science is moving towards progress through the use of a common scientific method. Kuhn shakes off this idea and in the wake of it he elaborates upon a complex and interesting idea about science that has come not from within the community of science itself, but from without. Kuhn used history to elucidate problems of the scientific community and through this he has shown that science is a fluid creature that has a repeating lifestyle: pre-science, normal science, revolution, normal science 2, revolution, normal science 3, revolution (ad infinitum).
Kuhn then spends several chapters describing the stages of science as he sees them. He starts with the time of 'normal science', elaborating how normal science develops and the role it plays. Kuhn describes 'normal science' as the time when "research firmly based upon one or more past scientific achievements" is undertaken by scientists. Normal science is the time when scientists engage in problem solving tasks. According to Kuhn the scientists work within the paradigm, it is necessary to do so, because a scientist that is constantly challenging, or does not believe in the truth of the paradigm, cannot do good "puzzle-solving" scientific work. If they don't recognise the puzzle then the puzzle cannot be solved.
In the later half of the book Kuhn spends his time describing anomalies, the crisis point in the timeline of science, the response to the crisis and he finishes with in-depth inspections of scientific revolutions. According to Kuhn anomalies play an important role in developing science because anomalies have the possibility to bring about a paradigm shift. The nature of an anomaly is rather intricate. From different angles it can appear to be different things. An anomaly, basically, is a problem that cannot be answered within the current paradigm. Kuhn accurately points out that sometimes the scientists working within the paradigm do not acknowledge a problem - they believe that there is no anomaly. Whereas other scientists who notice the anomaly and believe it important to solve the anomaly are driven to find ways to solve it that lie outside of the current paradigm. Kuhn explicates that these actions by the rogue scientists will eventually lead to a crisis point - the point where there is a sufficient body of scientists who agree that the current paradigm is unable to solve critical problems. In chapter eight Kuhn explains that "if an anomaly is to evoke crisis, it must usually be more than just an anomaly". What he means here is rather unclear. He goes on to list several different examples of anamolies that brought on crisis and then a paradigm shift and all of them differ. It seems that he himself does not fully understand what, or how, an anomaly changes and becomes "more than just an anomaly". Perhaps it is a metaphysical change that occurs in the hearts and minds of men and women engaged within the society and culture at the time of the crisis? Kuhn uses the example of Wolfgang Pauli's letter to a friend expressing his concern with the state of the paradigm he lived in, saying, "At the moment physics is again terribly confused. In any case, it is too difficult for me, and I wish I had been a movie comediam or something of the sort and never heard of physics". Kuhn then quotes Pauli's words that he wrote five months later, after Heisenberg's matrix mechanics became accessable, and such words elucidate the nature of changing paradigms - subtle, yet important - Pauli wrote "Heisenberg's type of mechanics has again given me hope and joy in life. To be sure it does not supply the solution to the riddle, but I believe it is again possible to march forward." Kuhn does well using these supporting quotations and historical examples to bolster his theory. Chalmers provides another definition of an anomaly. He says that an anomaly is noticed to be important if it is seen to be undermining the fundamentals of a paradigm and at the same time resisting the attempts of scientists within the normal scientific community to dispose of it.(page p4). Chalmers is good at taking Kuhn's words and putting them into a clear and concise form.
So far so good for Kuhn. The problems of his work start to arise when he tries to explicate the paradigm shift. After spending the first half of the book examining and explicating the intricate and complex transition and history of science Kuhn then tries to sum up the issues of two competiting paradigms by using the word "incommensurable". From Kuhn's work it is not entirely clear what he means by this. Chalmers takes up this issue and tries to flesh out Kuhn's argument and theory so as to accurately define what exactly "incommensurable" means. Chalmers explicates that the aim of arguments and discussions that occur by two rival parties trying to profess their paradigm as better than the other should be "persuasion rather than compulsion". Here Chalmers is explicating clearly that what Kuhn means by "incommensurable" is the issue of solving an argument that cannot be solved through rational, logical means. Therefore it comes down to the whims of the two parties involved to finally determine the outcome of the issue. This led to problems within the scientific community due to the way this idea undermines the romantic idea that all science is rational, logical and always progressing. Shuster explains that Kuhn's definition of incommensurable describes the idea that "paradigms do not have single agreed measures". (page 130). Schuster acknowledges that Kuhn should have made clearer what he meant by inconmmensurability because, in his book, Kuhn's lack of clarity leaves one thinking that "one paradigm came from Mars and the other from Venus". (page 131). This problem is one of a small few that plague Kuhn's work in this book.
Kuhn also simplifies the nature of science. He does well in acknowledging the different complex areas of science: new science, crisis, revolution. But he lends himself to an over-simplification because he believes that these times exist one at a time. Schuster, on the other hand, explicates that this is not the case. He believes that there is a far more complex understanding of science to be known - one that blends the areas of new science, crisis and revolution - so that all of these things are occuring at once. Schuster says this is possible because each discovery is a "noticeable alteration" to the paradigm. (age 137). And the idea of a revolution is simply a large discovery. These ideas compliment and adds depth to Kuhn's work.
In conclusion, Kuhn's work The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is an interesting and insightful book. His work, althought outdated now, still shows the essence that has lead to greater knowledge about the scientific world. Kuhn's arguments are generally concise and clear, the first half of the book being very detailed, complex and yet accessable. The latter half does lend itself to some intricate issues that are not entirely ironed out by Kuhn, however, Kuhn still succeeds in arguing and presenting his theory in convincing way. The problems that occur in his work were later addressed by Kuhn and by other academics, as such, given the literature that is available, Kuhn's work here is far stronger than it is weak and it is most definitely complimented by a reading of Chalmers' own book and Schuster's study of Kuhn's work.
Talk about revolution from Schutser and Chalmers. Respond to their points. Conclude, fuck yeah boy.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Nail biting is the oldest form of procrastination.
It is also a damn good indication of anxiety.
It was nine o'clock on a Saturday and the regular crowd were settling in. I am nowhere to be seen in that scene because I have been far away from those hasbeens. I'm living it up on the street where wild women dress up and get low, so low like hoes, they blow nicotine moths from their mouths that move through the air like low-flying mini-grey-whales and they settle on to my clothes, nestling in for the night, moth-jaws dripping ready to feed on the fabric that holds me warm. I crack open the smirnoff ice and I take a shaking gulp. The familiar pshhht sound and the acid-test-smell smell calm me somewhat but she is walking over to me, following that invisible moth trail. She says to me,
is that Koolaid?
The words roll off her tongue and then grind to a halt - they stop for a minute as she takes the time to spit and lubricate each letter, then she groups them into words and fits them into charming shapes - once this is done she spreads her lips and ushers them into the cockpit - all systems are go and they shoot out like knives.
I reply,
not yet.
But I am desiring her cigarette. I want to snatch it from her brittle hands and feast upon the scalding waves of pauper-incense. I want to flood the world with smoke so I could find the hidden ghosts waiting and watching me, I know they are. They fill up my drink whenever I think
that they aren't there.
My right hand is twitching in my pocket, warm yet bored, it wants to run down the streets naked stealing from the poor and giving to the poorer. It wants to blow the minds of the mediocre and fill the drains with bad liquor. It wants to flood Sydney in a tidal wave of white spasmodic dreams that will crush the remnants of the banking institutions and pulverize the reams that hold numbers and debts and lives. But it doesn't do this. Instead it emerges from my pocket, dressed in a suave suit and smelling like a god dragged it through a forest of rainbow coloured bladdernuts dripped in all the finest scents, it slowly and seductively floats through the air moving towards the languid shoulder of this woman. My hand offers her shoulder a drink and she winks, tugging at her immense cleavage and gingerly but surely touching my crotch.
She whispers into my ear an insane price.
On my peripheral vision I notice dogs wandering the street and watching hotdogs cooking on steel trays - the dogs are melting and blistering and soon will be feeding the wanton crowd that always emerges like a savage cult in the witching hour to prey upon loose leaves that are never admired on this part of the planet.
I am harvesting the desires from her eyes as my hand slips under her bra strap.
A scream utters and wobbles carelessly down an alleyway like a full-bladdered pig bursting in yellow fury. I didn't realize that I had torn off her clothes and her face until it was too late. I remember leaving her off-her-face, disheveled and broken - I packaged her next to the fire-hydrant and called 911 - she is fire, on fire, on fire, I told them.
She was on fire.
I picked up the cigarette.
It had dropped to the ground sometime during that fiasco and put it to my swollen lips and I walked away.
I am hungry now. I can still smell the hot dogs and my shoes are surprisingly clean. Lets go back. I love walking during the night, especially in the City. The opportunity for freedom here is like a drug. To be anybody, to do anything. The City eats the freakish things and burrows deep into the humane; breaking them open and showing the truth for what it is - just a deception, a recognition of incredulous humankind's breaking vision - The sunlight is the true deceiver. Daylight is a crime. Day time is a forgery. Night, and all that comes with it, is the truth of this world. During Night Time all lands and all people are one and the same - The darkness brings us together.
The guy who was meant to be cooking my hot dog was over by the alleyway.
Yelling in Arabic is not going to do him any favours and I knew no pigs would be hammering down on my door tonight.
I just wonder whether the Arab may or may not have cared that I am now eating two and a half of his tasty dogs. Shame they are not actually very hot. Just mildly warm. Lukewarm, perhaps.
Digging into the flesh of the dog with my nails I couldn't help thinking about my future - a scene careened into my inner vision and I witnessed the last Jeffersonian frontier.
I knew it wouldn't be long until I reached home.
***
I picked at my nails. You know there was once this man who was called the poet of the nation, the poet of the people. And yet, he barely wrote poetry. And the poetry he did write was like rotten milk. How the hell such a savage and ruthless lie is able to be permeated throughout academia and the lower levels of society beats the living shit out of me. The next passenger in this thought-train just took up and deserted as I pulled up my pants and caught my penis on my undone fly. Well perhaps the thought didn't exactly leave, perhaps it was pushed out by the thought that was saying
be careful, drop your pants, now pull them up, slowly, _carefully_.
But maybe not. Maybe the earlier thought just couldn't wait to leave and saw an opportunity. Maybe it took the opportunity to be a nuisance thought - instead of helping me put my pants on without problems, it aimed to rattle on about pseudo-intellectual bullshit so as to force another thought to take its place, thus allowing it the chance to escape my dome and to be free - probably now frolicking in the wasteland that circles my inner-machinations.
By this time my toast was almost done, I could feel it in my bones. And my friend, a big red-headed beast, was groaning on the leather couch. He was wearing nothing but black tight leather pants. I told him the juxtaposition between his pants and his pale skin was a fucked up thing to see so early on in the day, especially on a Monday, but he just made some ancient symbolic gesture that flew right past me. I couldn't catch it. I am a modern man, budding like a rose in a garden of weeds ready to shine and ready to breed. Meanwhile the big red monster was having some sort of preternatural courtship, a disgusting threesome involving his body, his leather pants and the leather couch. I could feel my orange juice ready to erupt from my guts. It might be something Warhol, something indie, to purge one's body of a liquid and to coat big red's hair in it at the same time - The shades of colour might just brighten his day.
I really didn't let my thoughts get that far ahead because my true happiness comes from my machines. Opening the small white door and walking out into the gaping chasm that holds my cars is always a beautiful moment. I closed my eyes and smacked the wall - two keys (out of five) dropped into my hand - I thought of a memory from childhood and I picked the key in my left hand. Driving my car is like doing yourself. While you are young it is cheeky, naughty, maybe even natural - Being young and rich means life is good. And my life, well, it is good.
T.S. Eliot once said that human kind cannot bear much reality.
I really agree with him. My car skids and burns and revs and takes turns like an angel flying at high speed low down on this earth turning heads, breaking necks - breaking necks of angelic hipsters, posting on their tumblrs how they saw me
"WHAT!?! Who HIM!! SEROUSLY HIM????"
"YES HIM I SAW HIM I FUCKKIINN SAW HIM!!"
"HNGGGGGGGG"
"OMGGG DEAD"
And there we have it. Such dialogue would make T.S. Eliot turn in his grave with such haste and frivolity one would think he was buried in a nuclear-powered washing machine. But the point is, that the sort of dialogue shown above and taken seriously today *is* reality for so many people. I am only young but I already see the faults in the wheel of society, culture and humankind. The spokes are breaking - the magnets failing, the rubber melting and the bolts cracking, breaking and bursting free from this forsaken and failing machine. In the words Goethe, omniscient I am not, but well informed.
Weaving through the streets on an early morning always makes me think. At any moment I could kill myself. I could run myself into that girl smoking. I could push the pedal down and ram myself into the pet shop. I could hit the brakes and fly out at unfathomable speeds right into the deep fryer of some fast food franchise disenchanted and disenchanting. But I don't. And I never will. Like all good things - there is an end. And the end of my driving pleasure arrived not long ago, I think. Because I have been pushing my car to the absolutely limits on these streets for so long that it has become mundane. So right now I am peeling the nails off my fingers as I do things in this machine that many men would die for. I am not blessed, I am not special. I'm just another dying beacon, another falling star another -
You know, when you drive, no matter how fast you are going, some things always appear as a perfectly clear image. No blurriness. No fuzz. Perfectly clear.
I just skidded around a corner at high speed and the eyes, nose, lips, arms, legs and torso of a bedraggled and smelly looking homeless person blew into my vision like a zephyr from heaven. I saw him and I felt him. I feel him still even though I am already blocks away from his rotting life.
But he put something in me. Some idea. I can feel it pushing between my floating rib and making a home for itself, sitting there inside of me, begging my zapping neutrons to produce some change.
***
You know you are old when you get jealous of your nails.
The jealousy is born from the realization that these useless plates of keratin are constantly being rejuvenated.
Why can't my body rejuvenate better, more important things?
Like my hearing, sight, touch and skin elasticity.
Why must I be burdened with this decrepit insanity bulging from my fingers?
The torture, the horror.
I find myself in a grim and desperate hour.
I pull the nails away.
Every time the Limo slows down and a face smashes into the window
peering like a seer into the machine trying to catch a glimpse of me. Myself. I. The nails are peeled.
I am old now. I know this. I am old like the leather in this beautiful limousine.
I am aged like the walnut that adorns the dashboard.
I am wise like the driver who knows his way around the major cities of the world as if he had grown up in them.
And then studied them intensely for five years.
This is the reality. My reality.
This is the reality that others want a part of because they are hollow on the inside. Broken. Deceived. Dead. Not not dead. They are alive, they are the living dead.
When a young woman throws herself like a bullet at my window
I don't see happiness.
I don't see joy or appreciation.
I see a black-hole, a wound, a ticking bomb draped in carnations and drugs and petrol and violence.
And I am not opposed to carnations and drugs and violence.
But I am opposed to the former.
Omar Khayyam, a Persian mathematician, astronomer, philosopher and poet once said:
The moving finger writes.
And I do agree.
And it is the moving soul that takes flight.
I see no soul in the world anymore.
No longer do I find souls shaking with zest and life.
Big red died on the couch that day and I had to move into a new place because the kitchen ornaments rattled all throughout the night.
That boy had a soul that could shake the world to the ground, but he would always rebuild it.
I cannot say the same for myself.
Yes, I am a mover.
Yes, I am a shaker.
But am I creator?
Severe pain down my left side is amplified by the cracking and breaking of hollow-shells around my machine.
Jaw pain. Nausea.
Breaking vision.
Da Vinci once said
Iron rusts from disuse; stagnant water loses its purity and in cold weather becomes frozen; even so does inaction sap the vigour of the mind.
He was right. As I shake and pain pulsates throughout my body - I see a mercy seat in front of me - situated far away from this place.
I always knew that in death I would not stop moving, a clung to this dream since birth.
***
And he didn't stop moving. Not for 12 more blocks. I know this because I drove him there until a fan jumped and smashed his head into the indicator light.
Sincerely,
Dave the Driver.
It is also a damn good indication of anxiety.
It was nine o'clock on a Saturday and the regular crowd were settling in. I am nowhere to be seen in that scene because I have been far away from those hasbeens. I'm living it up on the street where wild women dress up and get low, so low like hoes, they blow nicotine moths from their mouths that move through the air like low-flying mini-grey-whales and they settle on to my clothes, nestling in for the night, moth-jaws dripping ready to feed on the fabric that holds me warm. I crack open the smirnoff ice and I take a shaking gulp. The familiar pshhht sound and the acid-test-smell smell calm me somewhat but she is walking over to me, following that invisible moth trail. She says to me,
is that Koolaid?
The words roll off her tongue and then grind to a halt - they stop for a minute as she takes the time to spit and lubricate each letter, then she groups them into words and fits them into charming shapes - once this is done she spreads her lips and ushers them into the cockpit - all systems are go and they shoot out like knives.
I reply,
not yet.
But I am desiring her cigarette. I want to snatch it from her brittle hands and feast upon the scalding waves of pauper-incense. I want to flood the world with smoke so I could find the hidden ghosts waiting and watching me, I know they are. They fill up my drink whenever I think
that they aren't there.
My right hand is twitching in my pocket, warm yet bored, it wants to run down the streets naked stealing from the poor and giving to the poorer. It wants to blow the minds of the mediocre and fill the drains with bad liquor. It wants to flood Sydney in a tidal wave of white spasmodic dreams that will crush the remnants of the banking institutions and pulverize the reams that hold numbers and debts and lives. But it doesn't do this. Instead it emerges from my pocket, dressed in a suave suit and smelling like a god dragged it through a forest of rainbow coloured bladdernuts dripped in all the finest scents, it slowly and seductively floats through the air moving towards the languid shoulder of this woman. My hand offers her shoulder a drink and she winks, tugging at her immense cleavage and gingerly but surely touching my crotch.
She whispers into my ear an insane price.
On my peripheral vision I notice dogs wandering the street and watching hotdogs cooking on steel trays - the dogs are melting and blistering and soon will be feeding the wanton crowd that always emerges like a savage cult in the witching hour to prey upon loose leaves that are never admired on this part of the planet.
I am harvesting the desires from her eyes as my hand slips under her bra strap.
A scream utters and wobbles carelessly down an alleyway like a full-bladdered pig bursting in yellow fury. I didn't realize that I had torn off her clothes and her face until it was too late. I remember leaving her off-her-face, disheveled and broken - I packaged her next to the fire-hydrant and called 911 - she is fire, on fire, on fire, I told them.
She was on fire.
I picked up the cigarette.
It had dropped to the ground sometime during that fiasco and put it to my swollen lips and I walked away.
I am hungry now. I can still smell the hot dogs and my shoes are surprisingly clean. Lets go back. I love walking during the night, especially in the City. The opportunity for freedom here is like a drug. To be anybody, to do anything. The City eats the freakish things and burrows deep into the humane; breaking them open and showing the truth for what it is - just a deception, a recognition of incredulous humankind's breaking vision - The sunlight is the true deceiver. Daylight is a crime. Day time is a forgery. Night, and all that comes with it, is the truth of this world. During Night Time all lands and all people are one and the same - The darkness brings us together.
The guy who was meant to be cooking my hot dog was over by the alleyway.
Yelling in Arabic is not going to do him any favours and I knew no pigs would be hammering down on my door tonight.
I just wonder whether the Arab may or may not have cared that I am now eating two and a half of his tasty dogs. Shame they are not actually very hot. Just mildly warm. Lukewarm, perhaps.
Digging into the flesh of the dog with my nails I couldn't help thinking about my future - a scene careened into my inner vision and I witnessed the last Jeffersonian frontier.
I knew it wouldn't be long until I reached home.
***
I picked at my nails. You know there was once this man who was called the poet of the nation, the poet of the people. And yet, he barely wrote poetry. And the poetry he did write was like rotten milk. How the hell such a savage and ruthless lie is able to be permeated throughout academia and the lower levels of society beats the living shit out of me. The next passenger in this thought-train just took up and deserted as I pulled up my pants and caught my penis on my undone fly. Well perhaps the thought didn't exactly leave, perhaps it was pushed out by the thought that was saying
be careful, drop your pants, now pull them up, slowly, _carefully_.
But maybe not. Maybe the earlier thought just couldn't wait to leave and saw an opportunity. Maybe it took the opportunity to be a nuisance thought - instead of helping me put my pants on without problems, it aimed to rattle on about pseudo-intellectual bullshit so as to force another thought to take its place, thus allowing it the chance to escape my dome and to be free - probably now frolicking in the wasteland that circles my inner-machinations.
By this time my toast was almost done, I could feel it in my bones. And my friend, a big red-headed beast, was groaning on the leather couch. He was wearing nothing but black tight leather pants. I told him the juxtaposition between his pants and his pale skin was a fucked up thing to see so early on in the day, especially on a Monday, but he just made some ancient symbolic gesture that flew right past me. I couldn't catch it. I am a modern man, budding like a rose in a garden of weeds ready to shine and ready to breed. Meanwhile the big red monster was having some sort of preternatural courtship, a disgusting threesome involving his body, his leather pants and the leather couch. I could feel my orange juice ready to erupt from my guts. It might be something Warhol, something indie, to purge one's body of a liquid and to coat big red's hair in it at the same time - The shades of colour might just brighten his day.
I really didn't let my thoughts get that far ahead because my true happiness comes from my machines. Opening the small white door and walking out into the gaping chasm that holds my cars is always a beautiful moment. I closed my eyes and smacked the wall - two keys (out of five) dropped into my hand - I thought of a memory from childhood and I picked the key in my left hand. Driving my car is like doing yourself. While you are young it is cheeky, naughty, maybe even natural - Being young and rich means life is good. And my life, well, it is good.
T.S. Eliot once said that human kind cannot bear much reality.
I really agree with him. My car skids and burns and revs and takes turns like an angel flying at high speed low down on this earth turning heads, breaking necks - breaking necks of angelic hipsters, posting on their tumblrs how they saw me
"WHAT!?! Who HIM!! SEROUSLY HIM????"
"YES HIM I SAW HIM I FUCKKIINN SAW HIM!!"
"HNGGGGGGGG"
"OMGGG DEAD"
And there we have it. Such dialogue would make T.S. Eliot turn in his grave with such haste and frivolity one would think he was buried in a nuclear-powered washing machine. But the point is, that the sort of dialogue shown above and taken seriously today *is* reality for so many people. I am only young but I already see the faults in the wheel of society, culture and humankind. The spokes are breaking - the magnets failing, the rubber melting and the bolts cracking, breaking and bursting free from this forsaken and failing machine. In the words Goethe, omniscient I am not, but well informed.
Weaving through the streets on an early morning always makes me think. At any moment I could kill myself. I could run myself into that girl smoking. I could push the pedal down and ram myself into the pet shop. I could hit the brakes and fly out at unfathomable speeds right into the deep fryer of some fast food franchise disenchanted and disenchanting. But I don't. And I never will. Like all good things - there is an end. And the end of my driving pleasure arrived not long ago, I think. Because I have been pushing my car to the absolutely limits on these streets for so long that it has become mundane. So right now I am peeling the nails off my fingers as I do things in this machine that many men would die for. I am not blessed, I am not special. I'm just another dying beacon, another falling star another -
You know, when you drive, no matter how fast you are going, some things always appear as a perfectly clear image. No blurriness. No fuzz. Perfectly clear.
I just skidded around a corner at high speed and the eyes, nose, lips, arms, legs and torso of a bedraggled and smelly looking homeless person blew into my vision like a zephyr from heaven. I saw him and I felt him. I feel him still even though I am already blocks away from his rotting life.
But he put something in me. Some idea. I can feel it pushing between my floating rib and making a home for itself, sitting there inside of me, begging my zapping neutrons to produce some change.
***
You know you are old when you get jealous of your nails.
The jealousy is born from the realization that these useless plates of keratin are constantly being rejuvenated.
Why can't my body rejuvenate better, more important things?
Like my hearing, sight, touch and skin elasticity.
Why must I be burdened with this decrepit insanity bulging from my fingers?
The torture, the horror.
I find myself in a grim and desperate hour.
I pull the nails away.
Every time the Limo slows down and a face smashes into the window
peering like a seer into the machine trying to catch a glimpse of me. Myself. I. The nails are peeled.
I am old now. I know this. I am old like the leather in this beautiful limousine.
I am aged like the walnut that adorns the dashboard.
I am wise like the driver who knows his way around the major cities of the world as if he had grown up in them.
And then studied them intensely for five years.
This is the reality. My reality.
This is the reality that others want a part of because they are hollow on the inside. Broken. Deceived. Dead. Not not dead. They are alive, they are the living dead.
When a young woman throws herself like a bullet at my window
I don't see happiness.
I don't see joy or appreciation.
I see a black-hole, a wound, a ticking bomb draped in carnations and drugs and petrol and violence.
And I am not opposed to carnations and drugs and violence.
But I am opposed to the former.
Omar Khayyam, a Persian mathematician, astronomer, philosopher and poet once said:
The moving finger writes.
And I do agree.
And it is the moving soul that takes flight.
I see no soul in the world anymore.
No longer do I find souls shaking with zest and life.
Big red died on the couch that day and I had to move into a new place because the kitchen ornaments rattled all throughout the night.
That boy had a soul that could shake the world to the ground, but he would always rebuild it.
I cannot say the same for myself.
Yes, I am a mover.
Yes, I am a shaker.
But am I creator?
Severe pain down my left side is amplified by the cracking and breaking of hollow-shells around my machine.
Jaw pain. Nausea.
Breaking vision.
Da Vinci once said
Iron rusts from disuse; stagnant water loses its purity and in cold weather becomes frozen; even so does inaction sap the vigour of the mind.
He was right. As I shake and pain pulsates throughout my body - I see a mercy seat in front of me - situated far away from this place.
I always knew that in death I would not stop moving, a clung to this dream since birth.
***
And he didn't stop moving. Not for 12 more blocks. I know this because I drove him there until a fan jumped and smashed his head into the indicator light.
Sincerely,
Dave the Driver.
Lit302
“In his stories, Henry Lawson is able to capture a whole world of feeling, a whole attitude to life, and a whole vision of a nation, in an amazingly concentrated space. His characters are at once utterly local yet at the same time, and because of this, truly universal.”
Test the truth of this statement by exploring in detail two or three of the short stories read this semeseter.
Consider validity/limitations of above statement
Consider any issues that may arise from the statement
They aren’t universal. Not truly. They are Australian.
2-3 stories
Explore in detail:
Theme
Imagery
Tone
Character (etc)
Close reading of text
Identify and describe the relationship between various texts and their social, historical and literary contexts
Estimate the influence and expression of religious or other beliefs in a culture shaped by competing loyalties and priorities
Describe, discuss and evaluate the nature and meaning of the Australian experience, as seen through the eyes of Lawson
Research, read critically and write analyses of literary works at an advanced level
Write clear, well-structured and logical essays which comply with the strict conventions of academic writing
Henry Lawson, himself, the man, the mystery, the legend. Introduce stories, introduce focus point – his effect on aussie nation. The spirituality of Lawson.
First story – close reading
Start with big ideas
Get narrow
Second story – close reading
Start with big ideas
Get narrow
Draw together, make prophetic nuances.
Conclusion
“In his stories, Henry Lawson is able to capture a whole world of feeling, a whole attitude to life, and a whole vision of a nation, in an amazingly concentrated space. His characters are at once utterly local yet at the same time, and because of this, truly universal.”
Test the truth of this statement by exploring in detail two or three of the short stories read this semeseter.
Consider validity/limitations of above statement
Consider any issues that may arise from the statement
They aren’t universal. Not truly. They are Australian.
2-3 stories
Explore in detail:
Theme
Imagery
Tone
Character (etc)
Close reading of text
Identify and describe the relationship between various texts and their social, historical and literary contexts
Estimate the influence and expression of religious or other beliefs in a culture shaped by competing loyalties and priorities
Describe, discuss and evaluate the nature and meaning of the Australian experience, as seen through the eyes of Lawson
Research, read critically and write analyses of literary works at an advanced level
Write clear, well-structured and logical essays which comply with the strict conventions of academic writing
Henry Lawson, himself, the man, the mystery, the legend. Introduce stories, introduce focus point – his effect on aussie nation. The spirituality of Lawson.
First story – close reading
Start with big ideas
Get narrow
Second story – close reading
Start with big ideas
Get narrow
Draw together, make prophetic nuances.
Conclusion
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