Hey there, sorry I haven’t been writing, but really there
has not been much to say; homework has taken over my life for the past two
days. Go figure right? You mean I actually have to do school while I’m here??
Anyway, I’ve just been working on an essay on a book called
Regeneration that we read in my Modern British Novel class. I really enjoyed
that book, it’s probably been my favorite so far (aside from Shakespeare of
course – working on Hamlet right now and I couldn’t be more excited!!!!! Hamlet
will always be my favorite, maybe, literary anything
– I love it that much). But Regeneration has been a fun read, maybe because I
see parallels between it and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which happens to
be another of my favorite books. Granted, there are difficult parts in it, the
imagery is stunning, yet poignant. It’s the story of soldiers who have suffered
mental breakdowns after having been in the trenches of WWI and the efforts of a
psychiatrist by the name of Rivers to try and rehabilitate them despite their
horrifying experiences. There’s been one particular piece of dialogue in this
book which hit my heart like a rock and has since sat heavily there:
“Burns said quietly, ‘Do you know what Christ died of?’
Rivers looked surprised, but answered readily enough. ‘Suffocation.
Ultimately the position makes it impossible to go on inflating the lungs. A
terrible death.’
‘That’s what I find so horrifying. Somebody had to imagine that death. I mean, just in
order to invent it as a method of execution. You know that thing in the Bible? ‘The
imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth’? I used to wonder why pick
on that? Why his imagination? But it’s
absolutely right.’ “
When I read that bit of the text, it stopped me in my
tracks. I don’t particularly know why; maybe it was because for all my reading
of theology and the bible and sitting through sermons, not once did I stop to
think exactly how Jesus died. Unless he had been given a block to stand on, he
would have had to pull himself up just so that he could breath, and when the
strength of his arms gave out or the pain became unbearable… I don’t know. I
guess I am still trying to process that part of the text. Right now though, it’s
just one of those splinters that kind of sticks around after you’ve finished
the book – happens quite frequently, and a good novel will have at least one of
those.
Other than that essay, I’ve just been working on a group project
for my British Youth Culture class which we will be presenting tomorrow – can’t
wait. Just for the sole reason that this project will finally be over. It’s not that it’s been an awful
project, just a time consuming one, and when you have a professor that you don’t
like, it’s always hard to get up the motivation to want to care.
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