Aphorisms and Allegories (1-18)

For the modern writer, does there exist a more alarming indication of the word processor’s thesaurus than the appearance of a single word: inimitable?

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Epictetus said: “Think of God more frequently than you breathe.”  Many men have had cause to hyperventilate, though it is hard to know why.

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The girl on the cell phone, whispering her private affections to a distant truelove, is so much more quiet than the one who bellows, “and I was like: F— no!” as I walk through the commons.

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It is a large, old factory, indeed.  I believe I am but one of the many guards to travel the empty walk at night.  My supervisor, the unseen manager, directs me in every way, at every time.  I have no authority without my master; with my master’s authority, I have all the authority in the world.  That’s why I can stand here at my lookout—in the cold, in the shadows, utterly alone—and shout quite confidently into the nothingness:  “Get out!  Get out!  By God, get out!  This place is private, and you do not belong!”

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It is possible to be both correct and disturbing at the same time, without the comfort of contradiction.  The bad, the unkind, the destructive—alas, these are no less inclined towards accuracy.  Truth may lack feelings, but I do not!  Here a great difficulty arises, trying to find meanings in life.

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Here I am, reading James Joyce and eating stale potato chips.  Did the artist anticipate this as a young man?  I hope so, otherwise I must put him down at once.  Junk food is safely mine, and I cannot let go.

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This world is not necessarily fixed! The true Pessimist looks at the world with satisfaction and delight—apathetically seeking nothing greater in existence.  The true Optimist looks at the world with discontentment and doubt—confidently envisioning something better from life. 

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I sympathize with Lot’s wife—but only if her motivation was to see God’s power and wrath.  If all she wanted was one last look at evil, then even salt seems a touch too sweet. 

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All of this writing comes from scribbles in a composition notebook.  Flipping through the pages now for inspiration, I notice that I also wrote—as if it were important—the playing times of a movie.  This is frightening, especially since my ideas don’t really emerge from any journal, but from my mind.

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Aren’t we all just like the archer, having to overcome the great separation between us and our targets?  Even if it is possible to hit the bull’s eye—remember, most of us are not Olympians—we have only reached it with something violent and fatal: our arrows.  It seems impractical to reclaim our shots and try again.  Yet we feel compelled to step into the range.

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Your life will fight you to give up until you give up fighting your life.

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Poor Nietzsche!  Who, for his flagrant condemnation of Christian morals, could find no other title than The Antichrist.  Thus the quintessential unbeliever binds himself with the language of a true zealot.  In this sense, there are no unbelievers.      

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It often feels as if every instant of my life has been building up to the present.  All too often, though, it seems like nothing is happening.  I am left with two choices:  I can deny every minute of my life, or I can remain steadfast—letting this moment lead me to the next, with a hope that it will be great.

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Consider the elevator.  Wanting a slow, steady, and effortless lift up, I gladly enter on the ground floor with no hesitation. Walking down the stairs for short trips is also easy.  The only real fear—I step so much more cautiously for every higher bit I’ve gone—is a sudden, irreversable, and punishing fall.

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The Primitive?  The Atavistic?  The Human!  Like my father, my grandfathers, and each ancestor before me—every morning I must look into the mirror and shave if I am to keep my untamed whiskers in check.  Advancing to the electric razor, this is the manly thing to do.

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I have much less reason than Kafka to write: “This life appears unbearable,” for I have the opportunity to first remark: “This reality television appears unbearable.”

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Am I wrong to think of this as a game?  After all, it is true that each turn I may either win or lose.  Winning simply means it is my turn to go again.  Lose, and it is all over.  To allow such challenging rules to detract from the fun of play—that would constitute the greatest loss of all.

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Crafty is the hunter that leads a fox into a trap.  Dull is the hunter that is led by a fox into a trap.  Trapped is the hunter who tries to be the fox; foxes simply are.

Seth Woolf is a junior at GW majoring in political science and dramatic literature.  Before realizing it wasn't funny, he used to joke that--if his double major became too difficult--he'd just create his own: "Brecht."  Besides reading and writing, Seth enjoys playing his classical guitar, jogging, and drinking Fresca.