The grass seems so much greener

Well, today's Good Friday, and my school is taking leave; which means that I've got a three-day weekend ahead, starting from today. And guess what? It's only Friday, and I've already almost finished all of my homework from the rest of the week! Ah, freedom! This means that I have the whole of the rest of the day, plus Saturday and Sunday, to kick back, relax, and...


...study. Yup.


...hmm.


The last homework of the day, which I am in fact finishing up right now in front of the laptop, goes something like this: Our English teacher said, "Cut out two newspaper articles and underline 10 words on each article, and find their meaning." Then she added, very pointedly, that we should choose proper words, real vocabulary-enriching words, and not words like, an example taken at random, "sit".

This came as a very slight problem for two reasons: A), devout reader as I am, I hardly ever read the newspapers, except for two sections: the funnies, and the weekly Tuesday video game review; B), this is Malaysia, and I've honed out my vocabulary on the freaking world wide web. How many "vocabulary-enriching" words would I be able to find on a standard Malaysian newspaper article?

Then, something amazing happened. A flash of inspiration, a strike of epiphany. The two problems cancelled each other out! I flipped the light-switch in the storeroom, waited for the bulb to flicker to life, and began digging through the old newspapers, and rooted out two Tuesday's worth of video game reviews. Then I took out my ruler, and began underlining suitable, vocabulary-enriching words.

It worked. Those video game review writers have decent English, so it appears.

My explanation for this is that video-gaming is such a colorful experience - much like hallucinogenic drugs - that no one with a weak vocabulary would be able to properly convey the experience in their writings. Only with the proper selection of rich words would a person be able to deliver a complete account of the experience of playing a video game; and unlike hallucinogenic drug consumers, video-gamers still have half a functional brain working at the time to be able to actually recall what it was like the next morning.

Some of these writers really surprised me. I mean, "freneticism"? Really? Our English teacher requested two newspaper articles; both of mine are video game reviews. Thanks to our concise video-game critics in the Star newspaper office, I was able to complete the assignment neatly and without botherly harm. All I can say is, our English teacher might be slightly surprised when she opens my English note book and finds a picture of a heavily-armored Cerberus Centurion in there.

Mass Effect 3 fans, please forgive me for having horribly mutilated one of the most iconic enemies in the game.

Dang, looks like another relapse.

The year is now 2012. The month is now April. What this all amounts to is that I am now in Form Five and will be sitting for SPM in seven odd months. Evidently, I shall have to put in extra effort throughout the year if I want to score well. This fact was brought into light by my mother just recently, who said that I was "playing computer" too much and not studying enough. Now, this came as a real shock to me, because it seemed to me, from my own point of view, that I had been working my hind off for the past few days. To receive such a flat statement as that after, it seemed to me, days of hard work, came as rather upsetting. Well, to be fair, I had spent last Thursday, and the Thursday before come to think of it, slouching in an armchair and playing video games for, at a rough estimate, five hours. But in all justification, I had been working hard to complete my Moral folio last week, and the week before was the end of the debate competition. Thursday is always a free day for me, due to lack of tuition.

I also object to the fact that I had been "playing computer" overly much. It is true that due to work on the Moral folio, I had to use the computer more than once for printing. But that hardly counts as playing, no, not one little bit. Also, the work on the folio mostly involved what I call arts & craft, which may not really seem like real work at all, but is actually crucial to scoring in SPM. That is possibly one of the reasons it didn't seem like I was doing much work these days, but...

Anyway, what this means is that I have to cut down on the less obvious kinds of work, and do more of the kind of work that actually looks like real work - poring over books with reading glasses on and all that; at least, unless I want my next meal in this house to be dry bread and water. Unfortunately, and this is a large misfortune, I probably have to cut back on my blogging for quite some time to come. In order to appease the one who must be obeyed, I'll be doing all sorts of high-intensity studying activity: homework at the dinner table, skipping holidays to study, and jumping board games in order to catch up on reading. On the plus side, this means that I get to do homework at the dinner table, skip holidays to study, and jump board games in order to catch up on reading.

My free time will have to be spent solely on reading books (both story and revision), and playing piano, although if life gets intense, I'll probably extract splinters out of the keys rather than melodious music. Computer will be used at a minimum, and I'll have to treat the Wii like I treat donuts in between meals. Consider this a time of meditation and rehabilitation and other scary-sounding -itations. I'll probably update my blog about once a week, but remember that I will never forget my blog. In fact, I should have been asleep half and hour ago (what with the new policy and all), but I couldn't get any peace of mind until I had explained the situation to my blog readers, or absence thereof. Nevertheless, difficulties are to be expected out of life, since no good ever came withour hard work. On that note, remember to keep your spirits up at work and school everyday, and don't let life get you down. Peace.
  

Book review - Moby Dick (Herman Melville)

It's time for a book review on the revered whaling classic, Moby Dick, by Herman Melville! But before I begin the review, there's some time for me to rant a little about what's been happening these days.

If you haven't yet read the essay I posted up in Essay of the Day, kindly do so now, that is, if its no bother, of course. It would certainly shed some light on my current situation if you read it and understand what it would imply to me. Ordinarily, considering the nature of the essay and its contents, I would happily redirect you away from my shameful piece of writing, but earlier to day my mother made fun of me for my essay as well. As you can imagine, its very different from being made fun of by a friend, so now I feel like I've gone through everything already and have nothing to lose.

Technically, all my mother saud was "I read your essay." Then she said, "You don't have to bring a girl home until you're sure you like her." Technically, that doesn't really count as being made fun of, suspect she derived some satisfaction from saying it whereas I personally did not and felt that she gained something at my expense, therefore I count it as being made fun of.

Well, what can I say? Oh, how we writers suffer! I don't know how things worked for writers in the old days, but it evidently wasn't the same as today, what with the feudal law system and all, and I imagine that creative writers back in the day were persecuted considerably for their ideas. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly probably got some grit from people for creating Frankenstein, and Miguel Cervantes probably received some being made fun of due to don Quixote. Evidently, writers have to be occasionally persecuted for their works. And once you've been persecuted by your dear old mum, you won't mind being persecuted by anyone.

I mean, what's the big deal? Its not like Lily is an actual person or anything. I'm sure I emphasised on that sufficiently in the preface. I've gone through so much a person who does not even exist. If Lily really did, in some alternative possibility universe, exist, then she'd better be grateful.

Mark Twain's 'Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' was once a banned book on the charge of being racist, which is, for anyone who has actually read the book, somewhat ironic.

With that, on to the book review!

****

When most people hear - or as it were, read - the words "Book Review", they expect a review about a book with a title like "The Suspicious Happenstance of the Domestic Mammal in the Time of Night", or, "The Life of Pie", or, "Dawnlight". What they certainly don't expect, is a review about "The Count of Monte Cristo", or, "A Christmas Carol". The reason for this is because the former set of books would be what we call Modern Classics, which means a lot of people aren't sure what to make of them yet. On the other hand, the latter set of books are known as Classic Literature, meaning that after a few hundred years since they were written, they are still famous, therefore proving that they are really quite good, and don't need other people's opinions to confirm this.

Even so, a lot of people these days are more inclined towards the former set of books, rather than the latter, for some inscrutinable reason. I, on the other hand, have made it my task to read as many Classic Literature books, the books being as numerous as the sands in the sea, as are available to me. These days, I am able to discern why it is that Classic Literature seems to lack demand, as well as what this is causing.

Moby Dick is written just as any Classic Literature book should be; an untapped fountain of knowledge, waiting to be discovered - a beautiful work of literacy, filled with poetic language and the rest - a book which, in short, clearly displayed the intelect and thinking power of the writer. Such are the components of any book worthy of being deemed a work of Classic Literature.

As the protocol of book review entail, I shall recount a simplified summarisation of the bulk of the story. The writer, Ishmael, takes to the sea, as is his wont when life gets him down. However, this time he has decided to mix things up a little, and goes on a whaleboat, together with his newly acquired bosom friend and pagan harpooner, Queequeg. They find themselves on the Pequod, presided by Captain Ahab, who, it is later revealed, is hunting down Moby Dick, the great White Whale, in a revenge mission for retribution of his lost leg. Over the course of his whaling voyage, Ishmael learns a lot about whaling and whales in general, much knowledge of which is imparted in the book.

I can tell you a few things about this book, and it is this: It is a classic book. It is not the same as one of your Modern Classics. Moby Dick is the story of a broken man on a hopeless journey. It is not a book where good things happen to good people. It is not a book where bad guys get the comeuppance they 'rightfully' deserve. It is not, in short, a book where everyone lives happily ever after. Instead, it is a classic book, known to be full of intelligent insight from a different perspective. Reading classics does something to you.
However, be warned: I repeat that this is a classic book. It is not the kind of book that makes itself easy to read. It is not the kind of book that sticks to your hands, open at the climax of the story. It is not, in short, the kind of book that you would want sneak into the class and read under the desk while the teacher rambles on. Instead, it is a classic book. Reading it won't be easy - there will be long lapses during the story where the writers talks about the build of a whale's head, in concise detail - but I roundly suggest it, because no good ever came without hard work. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that with hard work comes good.

The reason why Classic Literature is becoming less popular is because of the way Modern Classics are styled. Modern Classics do not have boring lapses in which the reader receives a lecture about the problem with today's kids, and so on and so forth. Modern Classics are styled to catch the reader's entertainment, and to amuse and entertain them, without bringing in so much educational material so as to cause them to lose interest. In fact, books these days are not written with books in mind, but rather, with a movie in mind, such that the reader sees the scene unfold in their imagination, as if for all the world they were not reading a book, but were glued to the big screen. This is proven by the way a lot of books these days are converted into movies - and, sadly, seem to bring about just the same kinds of benefits. Entertainment, and little else. It is sad. That is why we should not forget about Classic Literature.
  

Incredibly Busy Inactivity

But now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now that his coffin was proved a good fit, Queequeg suddenly rallied; soon there seemed no need of the carpenter's box; and thereupon, when some expressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the cause of his sudden convalescence was this;- at a critical moment, he had just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone; and therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet, he averred. They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a word, it was Queequeg's conceit, that if a man made up his mind to live, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale, or some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.

~Herman Melville, Moby Dick.

So I haven't blogged for more than a week. Guess where I was all this time, to the extent that I couldn't leave a short message to my friends and readers? The answer is, absolutely nowhere. I've been right here in the comfort of my hometown all this time. So why the extraordinary lack of activity, if the internet never left my fingertips the whole time? I'll tell you why in three words: "BUSY BUSY BUSY!"

Remember the Malay Debate competition I mentioned as my excuse for the lack of activity last post? Well, we lost in the first round. We went to the opponent's school, expecting to pound them into pulp and return home to prepare for the next round. Instead, they ripped our arms and legs of, wrapped them up in a pretty pink bow, and handed them back to us and sent us home.

Since I'm now the English Language Chairman of my class, I cannot miss this oppurtunity to bring out the proverb, "We went out for wool, but came back shorn."

Actually, that's a Spanish proverb, but that just means bonus for anyone who includes it in their essay.

As I said, we lost in the first round. That was on Thursday. This is the following Tuesday. So what's been holding me back all this time? Once again, the one magic word repeated three times: Busy. We had been preparing so hard for the debate competition on Thursday, that for almost all of the first four days of the week, we spent our time in the school library, poring over statistics and data that would help us in the debate. As a result, I pretty much accumulated four days of missed homework assignments that demanded closure before I was allowed to waste my own time. Even now, I'm still not done with my homework... But I've been away from blogging so long, I had to at least leave a "I'm very sorry" note on the kitchen table.

Plus, something happened yesterday that, in a way, reignited my desire to write. The short version of the story is, my essay was so good, so allegedly "good", that my teacher had me read it in front of the class. At least, she had one of my friends read my essay in front of the class, since I was to shy to read it myself. That's the short version of what happened. You can read the long version, and the even longer essay, on the new Essay of the Day page that I've opened on the blog.

I'll probably continue to be absent for a while, so for the time being, feel free to analyze the little snippet of literature quoted above, and I guess you could read my Essay if you want. TTFN.
  

Busy Inactivity (because oxymorons are fun)

Now, at this time it was that my poor pagan companion, and fast bosom-friend, Queequeg, was seized with a fever, which brought him nigh to his endless end.

Be it said, that in this vocation of whaling, sinecures are unknown; dignity and danger go hand in hand; till you get to be Captain, the higher you rise the harder you toil. So with poor Queequeg, who, as harpooneer, must not only face all the rage of the living whale, but- as we have elsewhere seen- mount his dead back in a rolling sea; and finally descend into the gloom of the hold, and bitterly sweating all day in that subterraneous confinement, resolutely manhandle the clumsiest casks and see to their stowage. To be short, among whalemen, the harpooneers are the holders, so called.

Poor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where, stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom of a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after some days' suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill of the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his frame and tattooing. But as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any beheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell. So that- let us say it again- no dying Chaldee or Greek had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you saw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his final rest, and the ocean's invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and higher towards his destined heaven.
~Moby Dick, Herman Melville.

Just a quick post to say that I'm dreadfully sorry for the terrible inactivity. A debate competition - Malay - is right around the corner, and in my humble opinion we may be slightly unprepared. The only reason I'm up so late is because I was preparing my script so that we can practise tomorrow. It doesn't help that I had to prepare for both sides as well. These past few days I haven't had any time for myself. I hardly even have time to do my homework, let alone blog. Fortunately, there's nothing wrong with the latter, because I know that you're all very understanding and kind-hearted, and will readily forgive me for a lapse in activity; and there's nothing wrong with the former, because my teachers never find out that I haven't finished my homework, because I'm never in class for them, since I'm at the library all day brainstorming and strategising for the competition.

In the meantime, here's a short passage from Herman Melville's Moby Dick for you to think about in my absence. It is a very short passage in light of how thick the book itself is. Yes, I finished the book. The next blog post will be a book review on Moby Dick. Until next time, readers!