JOURNAL NO.13

I couldn’t really tell you why, but reading this Henry Miller passage reminds me of my first week in Paris. I remember that the first few days and nights I spent in my apartment, seemed to be a dream. 

I have never moved before. Well, I moved from a house in Brooklyn to an apartment in Brooklyn, but that doesn’t count. I’ve never packed up and left my home to make a new place home. 

Until I came to Paris. 

The first week in my apartment felt dreamlike. It was strange to me that this place was my home. It didn’t really register that I would be living here for months. That I would be calling this apartment home. 

Now, though, it’s hard to imagine life before this was my home. Its hard to remember what it felt like not having 31 Rue Duret as a part of me. The creeks of the floor, the sound of the heater, the way our fridge doesn’t close all the way unless you really slam it. 

When I read the article about sexual geography, a whole new perspective and view on Hemingway and other expatriates came to mind. I never really read Hemingway with the idea of sexuality in mind. Even when I read the chapter about the girl he saw in the cafe, I didn’t really think about sex. 

When he wrote that writing a story was like making love, I never really compared it to him making love to the girl he saw in the cafe. Not until I read this article, that is. 

Something else that this article opened my eyes to was in regards to Gertrude Stein. I have written this previously, but I’ve never been a huge fan of Stein. Granted, I only read parts of Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, but the parts that I did read didn’t really resonate with me on a positive note. 

That being said, when Pizer began to discuss Stein’s book and relationship to Alice Toklas, I definitely came upon a new found appreciation for her work. He was right when he said that many casual readers sometimes find her work to be egotistical. I sure thought it was. But looking at her writing as a way to show her appreciation for Toklas’ ability to give Stein confidence in her “creative powers”, makes it seem a lot less egotistical and a lot more appreciative. 

I mean, I must have been blind reading this book because how could it not come off as appreciative when rather than writing her own autobiography, she writes one in the voice of her lover. At least now I know. 

This is something I love so much about reading. I love gaining a whole new perspective on things. On life. On the world. 

I honestly spend hours just talking to my friends about what they think about this or that rather than discussing my own opinions. Obviously I spend time talking about my own, but I find it so much more interesting to hear what others have to say. 

By hearing what other people think or feel, it helps me to truly shape my own thoughts. And I don’t mean to sound unoriginal, or too caught up with what other people think. That’s not it. 

It’s just that by listening to and understanding other people’s thoughts, feelings, opinions, I am able to decipher between what I agree with and what I disagree with. What I resonate with and what doesn’t resonate with me. What I can sympathize with and what I can’t. 

The world is made up of billions of people for a reason, why push their minds aside? 

The little passage that Pizer included from a piece of Miller’s writing is another great example of this. 

I think that for most of my life I have been waiting for something to happen. I can’t put my finger on exactly what that is. But something tells me it’s love. Love to me is something that will fill a void of emptiness and loneliness. But this is just an idea. I don’t necessarily think it’s true, but it’s still something that sit inside of my stomach and doesn’t really want to go away. 

Anyways, when Miller writes, “…now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of everything, I felt relieved, I felt as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders…”, I can’t help but to yearn for this feeling. 

This feeling of relief. 

I don’t want that relief to come from realizing that there’s hopelessness in everything. That I don’t agree with. I think there’s hope in everything. There’s even hope in writing this blogpost. 

But the fact that he was able to find relief from something that had been daunting at him for his entire life is inspiring. It gives me hope that I will find relief from whatever is daunting at me. Whatever the hell it is. 

Anyways, enough of my personal banter and back to sexual geography and Henry Miller. 

Miller’s style is difficult for me. I know I understood a majority of what he was saying in “Walking Up and Down in China”, but for some reason it’s hard to completely and utterly grasp it. I can’t resonate with it. Maybe it’s because I don’t know enough about buddhism? I don’t even know if many of these ideas are in fact buddhist, but that’s what comes to mind. 

He seems so sure of what he’s writing and as if it comes to him in an instant. I like that. I like that confidence and that easiness. Its strange, though, because the writing itself isn’t what I would call, easy. 

I have yet to read any Anaïs Nin, although I just bought one of her books from Shakespeare and Co,. It’s hard for me to, again, fully grasp and understand what Pizer is talking about in his article. I mean, yeah I understand it, but I don’t feel like I can really discuss it much because I don’t attain enough knowledge on her as a writer and her history. 

I’m at a loss for how to end this blogpost. I don’t really have much more to say but I feel as though it’s missing something. Maybe because it’s 2 a.m. and it’s only Thursday. Who really knows anyway?

JOURNAL NO.12

For many authors who write about walking, Nature seems to be their go to walking route/spot. Two specific writers that discuss the beauty of Nature in retrospect to walking are Wordsworth and Thoreau. Wordsworth explains his ability to get lost in nature and find himself while Thoreau explains how nature is a key to one’s happiness/sanity. I personally am not a big fan of Nature. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate the beauty of trees and plants along with open fields and birds chirping through the air. There is definitely something serene about sitting in Nature and taking everything around you in. Literally breathing in the Natural air and having a crisp feeling inside your lungs. In order for me to fully maintain some sort of happiness or sanity, though, I must take a walk down a city street. I need to be alone yet surrounded by people. Seeing a flower blossom is not nearly as rewarding or helpful to me as noticing a piece of graffiti on a familiar street for the first time. 

Walking through Nature, I feel alone. Most of the time, I am physically alone. But that aside, the quietness and peacefulness of Nature has an ability to make me feel alone in every aspect of my life. There’s something about complete and utter quietness that makes me feel uncomfortable. There’s something about perfection and cleanliness that makes me troubled. You see, I’m a city kid. I grew up in Brooklyn and have spent most of my time in either Prospect or Central Parks. These parks are dirty. They are tarnished and filled with people. Their grasses are far from perfect and their fields are filled with people. Walking through one of these parks is pretty much like walking anywhere in the city itself. You’ll find some pigeons flying around, maybe a duck if you’re lucky. There will be garbage cans filled to the top, and garbage all over the grass or little cement walkways. There will be a few homeless people asleep on benches and a few teenagers smoking weed or drinking beer. There will be cigarette butts and picnickers. You will never be alone. 

Thoreau states, “When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods; what would become of us if we walked only in a garden or a mall?”. This statement just isn’t true for me. If I need to go on a walk and do some intense thinking, I’ll hit Clinton or Henry Street — naturally. The thought of finding a field or some woods to walk through has never crossed my mind and I doubt it will. As I walk down a city street, I find comfort in the people around me. I find comfort in the sound of the cars driving down the street and comfort in the filth that makes up the sidewalk. Sometimes, if you’re in a really busy and popular area, you’ll get a whiff of garbage or body odor, and I’m not gonna lie, sometimes I like it. Well, maybe I don’t like it, but when I’m away from it for too long I begin to miss it. 

Here in Paris, a street where I have done some walking and some thinking is in Le Marais. We had to take a walk down this street for one of our blog posts, and I didn’t realize which street it was until I got there. I never knew the name of it before I did the walk for class. Anyway, for this walk, we had to keep an eye out for street art and discuss it in our posts. This assignment brought me a lot of inspiration and a lot of knowledge. It was here that I rediscovered the beauty of taking a walk down a busy street. It was here that I became inspired to write once again. And it was here that I did my best thinking since my arrival in Paris. 

Rue Vieille du Temple was no Clinton Street, that’s for sure. It is kind of a mix between Clinton and Mercer Street. Parts of Rue Vieille du Temple are emptier than others, and parts are more aesthetically pleasing than others. I have always said that Le Marais is the Soho of Paris, so Mercer street is a great comparison. Before taking the walk down this street for my assignment, I had never really paid attention to or noticed any street art. While I was looking for it, however, I found numerous pieces on each block. Not all equivalent with beauty but, in my opinion, equivalent in importance. What I realized as I saw more and more graffiti is that there have been so many people that have walked down this street and marked it with their art. And, there have been even more people that have walked down this street and have not noticed the art that it has. I was one of those people…I hadn’t noticed a majority of this artwork until I was actually looking for it. 

These discoveries brought me to think about invisibility. The invisibility of the history of the people who have walked down a street before you. The invisibility of art and the invisibility of things in general. I like how when there’s cement, or some surface that you can write or draw on, you can mark your territory. You can mark it any way that you like so that everyone and anyone knows that you were there. But they don't know exactly who you are. They don't know your name or anything about you. They just know that someone walked the same route that they are walking and drew something to show it. I know that if you’re walking through Nature and you see a tree, you can carve your initials into it or something and mark your territory. But with carving something into a tree, it’s much harder to notice. I mean, if it’s hard for someone to notice graffiti in bright yellow spray paint on a dark blue door, how can someone discover a small carving in the trunk of a tree? 

There’s a huge difference between people who need nature for sanity and those who don’t. A few of my friends find the need to get out of the city for a while because it seems to become too much for them. I have never felt this way. Except for when I decided to come to Paris, that is. But that wasn’t because I needed a break from a city in general…just a break from my own particular one. I needed to experience something new and unfamiliar for a while. And I guess I could have decided to experience something new and unfamiliar like Nature if I really wanted to, but that would have driven me crazy. Unlike Thoreau who needed to take a walk through Nature to get away from society and find his sanity, I need to be surrounded by society and remember who I am. Remember my contribution to the group and my own value. 

I’m an invisible person and an invisible walker to the thousands of people who have walked before me and will walk after me. In Paris and in New York. But I, the invisible walker, and everyone else, the invisible walkers, have something in common. If you can’t guess what it is…it’s invisibility. We don’t know anything about each other and we don’t know if we would be friends or not. But thats what I like.

Walking through a city, you know people have walked the same exact route that you’re taking. Walking through Nature, you have no clue if anyone as even seen the same things that you’re seeing. The presence of others is uncertain. If you can’t be certain about their presence, you can’t feel their invisibility. 

JOURNAL NO.11

The unreliable narrator. An unreliable narrator is one that is biased and concerned with him/herself. One that doesn't include or consider any perspective other than their own. An unreliable narrator cannot be trusted. They are ignorant, they are liars and they are selfish.
John, the narrator of the passage we had to read for this blogpost, is most obviously unreliable. The story he is telling is that of an unfaithful and manipulative wife. If I were to narrate a story about my unfaithful and manipulative husband, I can guarantee that I would be unreliable, or biased, too.
Since we're only reading about John's perspective on this subject, I can empathize with him considerably. Although his tone comes off as quite arrogant and bitter, I can understand his anger and frustration.
Who wouldn't be angry at a spouse who was controlling and constantly cheating? Who wouldn't be bitter after knowing their loved one cheated on them multiple times and didn't seem to care at all?
Since we only get a look into how John, the narrator, feels/thinks about all of this, we automatically sympathize with him.
I find something kind of comforting in truly understanding one person's thoughts and feelings, however, this passage causes me to want something more. I want to hear about Florence's thoughts. I want to her about Jimmy and Edward, and if they agreed with John about her cold heart.
The unreliable narrator causes a story to be one-sided and extremely simple. I don't have any problems with John as a narrator or a character, I just don't like the role of the unreliable narrator here.
I don't think that John comes off as mentally unstable in any way. It seems as though he is just an angry man that has dealt with a lot of bullshit. I mean, granted, when he says he would have given Florence and Edward money and allowed them to be together, he didn't seem to sane. But generally speaking, he seemed like a guy who was caught up with a girl and did his best to marry her. He then realized that she isn't someone who he should be married to. She isn't someone who should be married at all.
I don't know if I'm a good person to have discuss the difference between American and British mannerisms because my father is British. My aunt and uncle are British. At least 20 of my cousins are, too. I know them all extremely well and their mannerisms don't seem much different to me.
However, to get stereotypical, I really can picture John's voice in a British accent. His sarcastic and bitter tone almost fits the sound of that accent.
It is interesting, though, how he talks about Florence's aunts and her family's desires for her. He seems to find them strange and he doesn't understand. This is a good example of a difference in British and American culture, not so much mannerisms.
I don't really feel like anything in this passage relates to Paris as a city. The Ford Maddox Ford passage I had to read did, though.
Ford's personification of Paris makes me feel warm. I feel his love for the city and I think I can relate to that love deeply.
I wish I knew where the square is that he talks about in the very beginning of the passage. Personifying the city brings the city alive, as redundant as that sounds. She [Paris] is the city filled with cafes and cigarettes and artists and politicians and writers alike speak at different volumes. She is the city who has endured many invasions.
In my opinion, Ford Maddox Ford's "A Paris Letter" doesn't seem to have an unreliable narrator. It seems to have a very reliable one, actually. The narrator doesn't seem to be only concerned with himself. It's quite the opposite, in fact. The narrator seems to include all different information and descriptions that are open to interpretation. They don't emphasize one feeling or thought. It's all over the place.

JOURNAL NO.10

My walk through Park Monceau was a pleasant one. A sunny and warm Sunday afternoon, I dragged my roommate out of the house to walk with me.

We took the metro and got off right in front of the entrance of the park. 

Reminiscing on this specific walk I took with Ali, the strongest feeling I remember is cheerfulness. As we strolled through the cement of the park, sometimes stepping on the damp grass very briefly, I felt happy and present in the moment. 

It wasn't a very pensive walk. It was more of a nice, fun thing to do. Something that made us 100x happier to be here in Paris and be together. 

This walk made me think about history. The history of the different statues that are placed throughout the grounds. Why are they there? Who created them? What's their meaning? I don't really know the answers to any of these questions.

But I then start to think about the people who have walked through this park in the past. The people who walked through this park the day before I did, or 80 years before I did. This brought me back to my idea of invisibility of street art and invisibility of common walkers.

The people who have walked through Parc Monceau before I have, are invisible to me. They're invisible to the rest of the world, now. 

There were some people who walked through this park alone, trying to figure out why their hearts were hanging so low in their chests. There were some people who walked through this park trying to figure out how their hearts could beat so fast and feel so good. There were people who walked through this park that just walked and looked around. Some who didn't even look at all. 

I think taking a walk isn't something you can really define or something you can explain how to do. Everyone walks throughout their lives. Sometimes, a walk could be life changing or eye opening. Sometimes a walk could be just a plain old walk. Sometimes they can be dreadful. 

It's hard for me to say whether or not someone knows how to walk, or if they're good at it. And I don't mean literally how to place one foot in front of the other, but figuratively about the thinking or pondering they do whilst walking.

I don't think we always need to have a specific outcome in mind while we're walking. Sometimes it's nice to talk a walk and take in the fresh air. Sometimes it sucks to take a walk because your feet hurt and your legs are tired and you're running late for something important. Sometimes its nice to walk around with your best friend and forget about your surroundings while simultaneously discussing everything you see. 

That's how Ali and I walked through Parc Monceau. We made a point to look at each statue we saw and we even noticed a strange area with different trees and mosses that didn't seem to belong or didn't seem quite natural.

We noticed the horses walk past us. We noticed the old men sitting on the bench talking and throwing bread at the pigeons. But we forgot to notice the birds. We forgot to notice the sky and each tree. We forgot, for that walk, that we were in Paris. Instead we were just in the park. Taking photos of statues. Making fun of the people we see. Reminiscing on our childhoods and wishing to be 4 years old again.

I was told to meditate on walking for this blog post. For me, walking is so many different things. I go on walks that consist of tears and pain and sadness. I go on walks that consist of joy and laughter and thirst. 

There are all different types of walks one can go on. There are all different types of walkers. Everyday, we change the type of walker we are. Sometimes more than once in a day. 

Walking is something we all do. It can help us learn and it can help us grow. It can just be a pleasurable activity. It can be a necessity. 

I'd hate to give it one definition or one type of person who meets the criteria. Who walks correctly.

A walk is a walk is a walk is a walk is a walk....

JOURNAL NO.9

“…I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be…” Hemingway, 62. 

The Lost Generation. A generation of American artists and writers who made their way to Paris during the Roaring 20s. 

The Lost Generation. A generation of American artists and writers who made their way to Paris during the early 2000s. 

There’s definitely some sot of symmetry between these two lines. Not only because the only different words are those that describe the time that these Americans made their way to Paris. There’s symmetry between them because they’re both true…well, for the most part. 

I may not be the best person to write about this because I get defensive of my own generation and of any generation that is criticized by anyone who is not apart of it. You see, I can’t really tell if calling authors such as Hemingway and Beach members of the “Lost Generation” is an insult or a compliment. Or maybe, it’s a mere fact. 

That being said, when Gertrude Stien first tells Hemingway that he is a part of, “a génération perdue”, it seems like a bad thing. She tells him that those a part of this generation don’t have respect for anything and they drink themselves to death. 

In my opinion, you can find people like in any generation and at various ages. It’s not just one particular group of people. And, if you really think about it, Hemingway and his colleagues had an extreme respect for the arts in many aspects of the world — but many for literature. They read as much as they could and wrote as much as they could. And, to be as real as possible, what generation doesn’t have a phase in which many people would and come close to drinking themselves to death. 

As the article we had to read for this blog post stated, at the time that Hemingway and others were fighting in WWI, the amount of youth/teenager was very small compared to those older than them. Since their weren’t as many people in the generation, they’re considered “Lost”. 

I think this is all a bunch of bullshit. 

To put a singular name to a whole generation of people is not only wrong but it’s impossible. There are so many different brains and types of people and personalities that make up a generation. The people within a generation have lived vastly different lives and have grown into vastly different people when compared to one another. 

I honestly don’t know enough about the Lost Generation of the 1920s, so I feel as though I shouldn’t say much more on the subject. However, I know a lot about my generation. And I have no problem saying anything and everything I want to on the subject. 

I personally don’t think my generation is lost in any way. My generation is actually extremely lucky and I think guided. You see, we were born in the late 1990s. Before everyone had a cell phone, laptop, ipad, kindle, tablet, 8 flat screen TVs and a netflix/hulu/hbogo account. We still had ficsher price toys and leap frogs. We played with barbies and action figures. We used yugi-o cards and pokemon cards on a daily basis. We barely knew how to work any technology at all. 

We had the opportunity to watch as technology developed at an extremely fast rate and have been able to learn all about it as we have gotten older. My generation is fortunate enough to mix the old with the new. 

I think it’s safe to say that kids between the age of 12 and 22 (more or less) are lost. This 10 year span of change and growth and trying to figure life out is made for one to get lost in. My generation still falls into this “lost” period of time — but that doesn’t make us completely lost for the rest of our lives. 

Everyone I know that’s around my age has some sort of talent or hobby or thing they love to do and are good at it. We’re all creative in every and any sense of the word and do our best to put ourselves out there and make a difference. From participating in the recent protests in NYC regarding Ferguson and Eric Gardner to creating a clothing line that allows people to become free and express themselves. From convincing others, older and younger, to believe in themselves no matter what to working hard to put an end to the negative connotation attached to the words, retarded and faggot. Photographing in the nude and photographing things that are questioned by our elders and considered wrong. Fighting for feminism and women to get the same privileges as men. Creating music that will allow someone to get lost, to lose themselves and just feel the sounds. 

Everything I’ve listed are things that my friends and I have worked for, are working for. In my opinion, none of this sounds like a generation that is lost. It sounds like a generation that is determined to stand out and make a difference. A generation that wants to better our society and better the people in it. 

I agree with the Hemingway quote I included at the very beginning of this post. Every generation has a period in time in which they are lost and unsure of what to do or where to go next. Thats a part of life…being confused and being lost. And this period of time doesn’t have to be between the ages of 12 and 22, it may happen at age 30 or during one’s “mid-life crisis”. 

There’s no doubt in my mind that Hemingway and those apart of his generation went through a time in which they were lost and confused. Same with each generation that came before and after his. Just like every generation that will follow mine. 

Fuck the labels and fuck the judgments that older people want to make on younger people. We all know they’re just jealous that they aren’t in their youth anymore. ;) 

JOURNAL NO.8

It’s strange to me that walking was once considered only something the poor did. It makes sense that due to financial reasons one could not pay to have a driver, or I guess in the 1700s a horse and carriage. But for my whole life and for the generation before mine, walking has always seemed like something nice to do. 

Its true that at times I and probably everyone else get lazy and don’t want to walk. I think we all have one specific walking route that we dread everyday. For me, I always dread walking from my house in Brooklyn to the subway because it’s an uphill climb. Its especially worse when it’s early in the morning and cold out, or when you’re extremely hungover. Walking through Times Square is always the worst. Every avenue or street in the 4 block radius of Times Square is constantly packed with people. Even worse than people; tourists. 

For this class, I have began to approach the idea of walking differently. I have always liked to walk. I do some of my best thinking while I’m walking. But the thinking was always only done or thought about during the walk. I never really took the time to reflect on the thoughts that went through my head on a walk. I would just walk down one of my two favorite streets, think, figure out whatever issue I was trying to figure out, smoke a few cigarettes, go home and have some tea.  

Growing up in New York City, I haven’t had many opportunities to take a nice, long walk through nature. Yes, there are parks and such in the city, but I honestly have barely gone to any park alone to just walk and think. 

Back when I lived in Park Slope, I would make my way up to Prospect Park a couple times a week, but majority of the time I was with company. 

Central Park is a place that I’ve never gone to on my own for the sole purpose of thinking. Looking back at it, I don’t think I have ever gone to Central Park on my own. 

I know that for many people, nature is a place for solitude and happiness. Being the city kid that I am, I find solitude and happiness in 3 specific places. 

First and foremost, the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. I walk down Remsen street and hit a dead end that leads to a pathway onto the promenade. I usually walk a few feet down and find a pleasantly empty bench, and I sit. Sometimes I sit and just look at the almost unfathomable skyline directly ahead of me. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I draw. It was here that I first realized I was in love. It was here that I first realized how silly it is to feel lonely. It was here that I first felt unloved. 

The two other places I go are two streets parallel to each other; Henry Street and Clinton Street in Carroll Gardens. Typically, I would walk down Henry towards Red Hook. When there’s nobody on the street, I have found myself talking out loud. My thoughts become vocalized and they begin to make more sense. I don’t have any particular realizations or moments of clarity that stick out in my head when thinking about the many walks I’ve taken down this street. I mostly use this walk to figure out something thats been going on in my head. Once I hit 2nd or 3rd Place, I make a left and head over to Clinton street to walk back home. 

Clinton street is different. As I walk down Clinton I experience a myriad of emotion. I become nostalgic and think of the many times I walked down this street with the many important people in my life. I think of the times I’ve walked down it alone, feeling either extremely happy or extremely depressed. It reminds me of my childhood and going to the dentist. I remember going down Kane street on 9/11 with my friend Nicholas and his mother after we were dismissed early from school. I remember finding one of my dearest friends blackout drunk laying under a mailbox crying and hitting himself in the head saying he doesn’t deserve to live. I remember getting him up, holding him and convincing him to walk home with me. 

The promenade and these streets are nature for me as nature is for others. They make me feel warm inside and many times make me want to cry. A lot of the time I don’t really know why I want to cry in these places. There’s just so much that come with them. 

I guess you could say that the promenade, Henry and Clinton Streets are my nature; an artificial nature. 

My natures, however, are extremely different than the nature I encountered at the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Getting off of the 7bis line at Buttes Chaumont, the seemingly endless stairs were somewhat comforting. They were a challenge and the naive part of my brain thought, hey maybe these steps will help burn off all the baguettes!

I made it up the stairs, barley, and completely out of breath. I made it to the park and stood at the entrance for a few moments. The mere act of standing in a park made me miss home. Everything in there seemed so peaceful and calm, it was almost eery. I felt like crying. 

My phone died about 3 minutes after I made it to the park and I didn’t get a chance to take photos. Looking back on my walk, it seems to be a blur. My stream of thought during this walk was a depressing one. It was drizzling and gray out. I had my ipod plugged in and was listening to my good old friend Taylor Swift. 

The grass didn’t bring me peace but brought me nostalgia. Theres something so comforting about grass that isn’t entirely green and displays the various different shoes that have walked across it. I missed Prospect Park and it’s dirty, uneven, imperfectly green grass. 

I saw different types of people doing different things. But the park wasn’t packed. In fact, it seemed closer to empty than full. I felt alone walking through this unfamiliar place that did nothing but make me think of familiar places. 

I came across a few dividing paths and thought about Robert Frost which brought me back to my 7th grade English class with Hope, my teacher. I remembered how being forced to read something made it 8 times worse. 

I noticed trees and small plants/flowers. Trees usually have this ability to make me happy. When I look at a tree I can’t help but smile at it, most of the time that is. The trees in the park didn’t make me happy. Honestly, nothing in this park made me happy. 

I didn’t want to be walking through nature on my own on this cloudy day. I wanted to walk down a street with a bunch of people passing by me giving me a weird face for talking to myself. In the park, there was barely anyone. There was nobody there to give me a look. 

I walked across the bridge and finally felt warm. Looking down at the water reminded me of the lake in Prospect Park across the street from Mike’s deli. I remembered sitting on the benches with my friends when we were in either 8th or 9th grade, drinking four loko and playing truth or dare. 

The birds that floated atop the water made me feel like floating. I realized I sort of was…floating, I mean. Standing on this bridge that was also atop the water. I was floating in the most human way possible. 

That’s all I really remember about this walk. Feeling alone and feeling like crying. Missing the comfort of people. Missing the comfort of being judged and not giving a shit about it. Floating. 

I guess it was nice to have a stroll through nature. Though this park has lots of artificial aspects, I didn’t even realize nor necessarily care. Artificial or not, it was still nature to me. 

But nature isn’t my place. Nature doesn’t bring me solitude or happiness. Nature makes me feel alone and makes me miss things. It’s pretty weird, I know. But it is what it is. 

JOURNAL NO.7

The character focused on in this excerpt from Dos Passos’ novel, Three Soldiers, is one of the most realistic characters I have read about in a long time. Andrews, an American soldier during World War I, is doing his best to cope with the war and be optimistic about it’s end. 

Dos Passos’ language is impeccably detailed and descriptive. From the way he describes the eyes of a boy in a restaurant to the way the mist moves throughout the night, I constantly have a picture in my mind of what’s going on. A beautifully and carefully crafted painting that could be mistaken for a photograph. 

Andrews, to me, seems to be an extremely relatable guy. I mean, I couldn’t necessarily relate to anyone who took part in the first World War, but if I could, it would be to Andrews. 

His emotions are complicated yet simple — who wouldn't feel the way he does? But, let’s wait a second, what are his emotions any way? 

In my personal opinion, Andrews seems like your typical lost soldier. I don’t mean physically lost but mentally. It’s clear that he dreads the war and everything about it. The way that Dos Passos goes about showing the hate Andrews has for the war is one of my favorite parts of this excerpt. 

It’s when Andrews first gets off the train that took him from Paris back to his faction of the army. Dos Passos compares the feeling of having reluctant feet to continue on his way to the base to Andrews’ reluctant feet when he was going back to boarding school as a kid. 

This comparison was the first thing that made me feel as though I could relate to Andrews. Although I’ve never gone to boarding school or had to fight in an army, I have experienced the feeling of reluctance towards the simple act of placing one foot after the other to go somewhere. I think the one place that I experience this feeling the most is when I’m making my way to the airport. It sounds a little silly, but whenever I have to leave somewhere, actually get on a plane and go to a far away place, I feel resistant. When I’m leaving home to go somewhere else, I have a feeling of not wanting to be away from home. When I’m leaving a place that I had been visiting, I have a feeling of not wanting to go back home. 

Although my reluctance and Andrews’ reluctance are completely different, I know I can relate to the feeling of having a hard time taking a few steps just to get somewhere. 

By drawing this line of comparison, to walking to one’s school building and walking to one’s army division site, a huge sense of reality comes over the reader. These are two very human and relatable feelings to have. I think it’s safe to say that everyone at one point or another has had a difficult time physically walking somewhere they don’t necessarily want to be. 

By making his character relatable, Dos Passos is successful in depicting reality rather than a summary. 

It’s realistic for one to feel reluctance. It’s realistic for one to compare a current feeling to one they had in the past. 

As Dos Passos continues, he explains that Andrews was going back and forth in his mind, trying to find some optimism or hope in the seemingly depressing time he was facing. By describing everything Andrews was telling himself and thinking, the reader gets a sense that Andrews his a real person. That he has real feelings and real thoughts. Questioning his sanity is something that I think almost everyone has done at least once in their lives. 

The other aspect of Dos Passos’ writing that makes his work seem like reality is his descriptions of physical settings. He writes, 

The fog swirled about him, hiding wistful friendly faces, hands ready to meet his hands, eyes ready to take fire with his glance, lips cold with the mist, to be crushed under his lips. "From the girl at the singing under her street- lamp..." 

And he walked on alone through the drifting fog. (7)

I read over this quote a number of times, and each time I had the same exact picture in my mind. I see the figure of a man walking through the fog, as it molds with his movements. I can almost feel his yearn for someone to be next to him or with him. I can almost feel the cold against my lips as they become dry and chapped. 

To me, this is magical. It’s magical that one can get such a true and realistic thought or photo in their imagination through the use of just a few words. This ability to make fictional words become real is magical. 

This description makes the work seem like reality.