Should I stay, or should I go now?
Should I fold, or should I call, or, better still . . . take a chance and bet?
Or, one of my all time favorite movie lines "Do you feel lucky punk!"
Yes, my com-padres there is a point, a most serious point to this post! I must get there my way!
I have been placed in, a position where my thoughts and experience, may, OR may not, help!
I must lay out my dilemma for you. I could make it as complex as the current undertaking of mine. (This project you have been reading for a couple months, Crime And Punishment, I may be viewed at the undertakers! Wee joke, ha!)
Seriously folks, and you out there may think it's hard for me to be serious, by most of my ramblings. I do have a serious side, and have always been serious about where, I'm employed! I'm old school, in many ways, proud to be. There must be truth, to fix any problem! There must be cooperation! There must be people working for a common goal, that is good for all, not a select few!
I currently work four hours on day shift and four hours on night shift. Previously I worked eight years on the late night shift. Before that several years on day shift. I have seen the good, the bad, the ugliness of all shifts, and people, too!!!
We have plenty of business and growing in these lean times. To further explain would veer me off my current course.
This company has been in business, well let me just say it's one of the oldest family owned and run businesses in my state, unheard of right? Well a few years ago this business started growing by leaps and bounds, others in our business were going under from, many, many, factors I'll leave it there.
Life-time workers, become managers. As the business blossomed, these managers are lacking in, in, in, leadership! The aches and pains of growing most certainly are felt. We have some new leaders being stirred into the pot and, old leaders stuck in their ways. Currently, we're in our slow season and the pot of stew is either going to be edible, or burn.
I have worked my whole life in factory environments, which is what this scaled down version is. I'm getting to my point and a personal question. Yes, I'm personally asking for you readers that have enjoyed some of my, whatever ya wish to call it, for advice.
I was pretty much stuck in my graveyard rut, just filling time, till the mortician "pulls my pliers and screw-driver from my cold dead hands." (A wee joke!)
I have found a renewed sense of worth, from being acknowledged and given a chance "to want" to help at my age! Assigned important tasks and asked my opinion. (An old person imagine that!)
No one asked for my two-cents worth before, although I gave it freely, have had numerous write-ups, and a really nice suspension! I have been forced to somewhat curtail my opinions. If someone is a heart, I call them a heart! If someone is a spade, I wish to help them dig, their grave!
The major problems faced at work is pettiness, lack of communication, having people doing jobs their unsatisfactory for, and that just be in leadership!
OKAY MY CONUNDRUM IS? DO I KEEP QUIET, OR SPEAK MY PIECE TO WHOMEVER ASKS? I HAVE BEEN ASKED QUESTIONS BY PEOPLE WHO CAN . . . IF THEY CHOOSE TO, MAKE A DIFFERENCE. IF . . . THEY HAVE THE BACKBONE!
SHOULD I JUST SLIDE INTO OBLIVION? CAN ANYONE? AT ANY LEVEL, TRULY MAKE A DIFFERENCE? Glen
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
(18) C. P. Part 2 (Chap III)
It was almost evening when he arrived home, he had been walking about six hours. He quivered
while undressing like an over-worked horse. Laying down on the sofa with his winter coat over him and sank into oblivion.
Around dusk he was awakened by a fearful scream. Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never of imagined such brutality. In terror he sat up, the fighting, wailing, grew louder. He heard the voice of his landlady. She was the one howling, shrieking, wailing, he could not make out what she was talking about. She was mercilessly being beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was horrible from rage. All at once Raskolnikov recognized the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. He was beating the landlady! Has the world gone Topsy-turvy? "But why, and how could it be?" He seriously was thinking that he had gone mad! He should fasten his door, but he could not move. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him . . . After about ten minutes the horror stopped.
Raskolnikov sank worn out into the sofa, but could not close his eyes. Such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror.
Then a light flashed in his room, Nastaysa sit the candle on the table, bringing him a meal. "You've not eaten anything since yesterday, I'm sure. You've been trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."
"Nastaysa . . . what were they beating the landlady for?"
Nastaysa scrutinised him, silent and frowning, her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastaysa why don't you speak," she answered softly as though speaking to herself. "Blood?"
"What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning to the wall.
Nastaysa looked at him without speaking. "Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe. "I heard it myself . . . I was not asleep . . .
"No one has been here. THAT'S THE BLOOD CRYING IN YOUR EARS. You been fancying things . . . Will you eat something?" [END OF CHAPTER 2]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
[ CHAPTER III (page 104) ]
"Razumihin"
He was not completely unconscious, however all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. Sometimes it seemed as though there was a number of people around him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be all alone, every now and then the door would open and someone would look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastaysa (his landlady's servant) often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too. whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it seemed part of the same day. But of THAT--(the murders) he had no recollection. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
Nastaysa was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short waisted coat.
"Who . . . are you?" addressing the man. At that moment the door flew open, stooping because of his height, was Razumihin.
"What a cabin it is!" "I am always hitting my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I've just heard the news from Praskovya." (Raskolnikov's landlady who is suing him for past lodging.)
"He has just come to," said Nastaysa.
"Just come to," echoed the stranger with a smile.
"Who are you Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing the man.
"I am a messenger from the merchant Shelopaev, I've come on business."
Razumihin seated himself, "It's a good thing you've come to brother," he went on to Raskolnikov." For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once there was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding. Zossimov is a first rate fella!
"Will you explain what you want?" Razumihin addressed the messenger.
"Through your mamma's request through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, (Raskolnikov's sister's fiancee) thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come. I just need your signature."
"I don't want it, " said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen. Razumihin convinces him to accept it.
Raskolnikov looked at all of this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I believe it's reality," he thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(( I had better describe Razumihin for you, before I go any farther. He was introduced in part one chapter four and remember Raskolnikov visited him the day after the murders, where Razumihin gave him three roubles and papers to translate.
Razumihin was a friend of Raskolnikov's from the university. With Razumihin he became friends, it was impossible to be on any other terms with him. He was an exceptionally good-humored and candid youth, good natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. He was of striking appearance--tall, thin, black haired and always badly shaven. He was sometimes uproarious and reputed to be of great physical strength. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from drinking all together; he sometimes went too far with his pranks; but could do without pranks altogether. Another striking thing about Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He was very poor and kept himself entirely on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by which to earn money. At present he too, had been obliged to leave the university. ((I RE-INTRODUCE YOU TO RAZUMIHIN.))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"It would not be amiss, Nastaysa , if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them." (Razumihin has Raskolnikov's landlady smitten!)
"Well you are a cool hand," muttered Nastaysa, and she departed to carry out his orders.
Razumihin spoon feeds Raskolnikov even though he believed himself capable. But from some queer almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance.
Razumihin rambles about eating well everyday thanks to Praskovya, she loves to do anything for me. "I don't ask for yet, but, of course, I don't object. All sorts of things have happened while you have been laid up. I was so angry when you left in that rascally way, I sought you out to punish you. I did not know your address so I went to the police station and they had your address. I got to know all your affairs, I know everything, I made the acquaintance of all, at the police office. Last, but not least your Praskovya. To make a long story short, Praskovya won the day. I had not expected, brother to find her so . . . prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?"
Raskolnikov did not speak, but kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
Razumihin's conversation was giving Nastasya unspeakable delight.
"It's a pity, brother, that you did not approach her in the right way at first. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later. . . . How could you let things come to the point she quit sending you dinner? You must of been mad to sign an I O U And that promise of marriage to her daughter, Natalya when she was alive? I know all about it! I can see that's a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?"
(NATALYA, THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER WHOM RASKOLNIKOV WAS TO MARRY IS MOST IMPORTANT TO WHAT SENDS RASKOLNIKOV INTO HIS SPIRAL INTO OBLIVION. THAT WAS MY TAKE IN READING THE BOOK THE FIRST TIME.)
"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling it better to keep up the conversation.
"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin delighted at getting an answer. "But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially an unaccountable character! Seeing you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady's death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she took fright; you hid in your den and dropped all relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that for a time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her your mother would pay."
It was wrong of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my lodging . . . and be fed," Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
"Yes you did very sensibly. But Mr, Tecebarov who is a business man, asks, 'is there any chance of realising the I O U?' Answer; there is, because his mother would starve and his sister would go into bondage for his sake. I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy--it's not for nothing that you were so open with Praskovya when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend. . . . But I tell you what it is: an honest and sensitive man is open: and a business man 'listens and goes on eating' you up. As soon as Tecebarov got the I O U he made a formal demand for payment. I wanted to blow him up, but by them harmony reigned between me and Praskovya, and I insisted in stopping the whole affair, I went security for you brother. We flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now."
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross."
"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment's pause without turning his head.
"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day."
"Zametov? The head clerk from the police station? What for?" Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
"What's the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He is a capital fellow and I have found out much from him. We are friends-- see each other almost every day."
"Did I say anything in delirium?"
"I should think so! You were beside yourself."
"What did I rave about?"
"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don't worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, earrings, chains, and Krestovsky Island, and some porter and Nikodim Fomitch (district superintendent at police station) and Ilya Petrovitch.(assistant police superintendent) You whined about a sock, 'Give me my sock.' Now to business! Here are thirty five roubles; I will take ten and give you an account of them in an hour or two. You Nastaysa, keep an eye on him, I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!"
"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!" said Nastaysa as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
No sooner had Nastaysa left the room, the sick man was standing in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him, he walked to the door listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where the hole was under the wallpaper. Then remembering the stove where he placed the sock and frayed edges of his trousers and pockets. No one noticed them. Why did Razumihin bring Zametov? (head clerk at police station) "What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real . . . Ah, I remember; I must escape! Yes . . . but where are my clothes? I've no boots. They've taken them away! They've hidden them! I understand! Here is money on the table. I'll take the money and get another lodging.
He gulped the glass of beer down, quenching a flame. The beer quickly went to his head sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. He lay back down and pulled the quilt over him, sinking into a deep, refreshing sleep.
Razumihin woke him up coming in the door six hours later. "I've been waiting for you to wake up the last three hours."
(THIS CHAPTER ENDS WITH RAZUMIHIN RAMBLINGS, AS ONLY HE CAN, ABOUT NEW CLOTHING, NEW LINEN, SO ON AND SO FORTH. I REALLY LIKE THIS CHARACTER . . . AND I DO MEAN CHARACTER, RAZUMIHIN! )
Saturday, February 23, 2013
I Try Not!
I try not . . . I really do! I can get inflamed by looking at pictures of politicians. Simply a waste of room, either in print, or TV. I no longer do the TV thing, news, nor these fine educational shows!
I do however partake, in a movie once in a while, when I wish for my mind to drift away for a spell, as in a fairy tale world like I did as a child. Making me feel better, somehow, in a way I do not fully understand!
The words sequester, used this way, here comes the sequester! Also the very next paragraph, the politics of sequestration have been fierce!
No, this is not words from a Bruce Willis movie, where you know Bruce is gonna get them bad guys! That at least would be some entertainment and some good one liners, like in The Die-Hard movies.
The first thing I thought of is? How many people even know what the word sequester or the more uppity version sequestration means?
Sequester means to separate; segregate. Other really nice words that form this meaning are, to take and hold (property) by judicial authority. To take over; confiscate; seize, esp. by authority! ( I don't like this word!)
Sequestered, removed from others; secluded. (Wow hate this one even more!!)
Sequestration, (I'm fearful to look at this longer version!!!) more of the same o, bigger, fancier, lawyer lingo to me! Words like seclusion, separation, taking, holding, legal dispute, confiscation, by court or government action.
Sequestrum, a piece of dead bone which has become separated from the surrounding healthy bone. (I like this word though!)
The article I dare to read, talks of finger-pointing and a Washington standoff. Well now I visualize the first part of the old television show Gunsmoke. Where Marshall Dillon walks into the street to face off with a gunslinger. At least here, you knew there, was one good guy! There only be losers in this Washington standoff!
The article paints a rosy picture of little pink houses for you and me . . . oh yeah! "There are no meaningful efforts in Washington to avert." No need to go any farther, that sums it up!
I CAN'T TAKE NO MORE IF YOU WANT TO BE PUNISHED READ ABOUT IT! YOU KNOW WHERE! I TRY NOT TO LOOK AT THEM PICTURES OF POLITICIANS, "ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M AFRAID I MIGHT BURST INTO FLAMES, AS IN SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION!
I do however partake, in a movie once in a while, when I wish for my mind to drift away for a spell, as in a fairy tale world like I did as a child. Making me feel better, somehow, in a way I do not fully understand!
The words sequester, used this way, here comes the sequester! Also the very next paragraph, the politics of sequestration have been fierce!
No, this is not words from a Bruce Willis movie, where you know Bruce is gonna get them bad guys! That at least would be some entertainment and some good one liners, like in The Die-Hard movies.
The first thing I thought of is? How many people even know what the word sequester or the more uppity version sequestration means?
Sequester means to separate; segregate. Other really nice words that form this meaning are, to take and hold (property) by judicial authority. To take over; confiscate; seize, esp. by authority! ( I don't like this word!)
Sequestered, removed from others; secluded. (Wow hate this one even more!!)
Sequestration, (I'm fearful to look at this longer version!!!) more of the same o, bigger, fancier, lawyer lingo to me! Words like seclusion, separation, taking, holding, legal dispute, confiscation, by court or government action.
Sequestrum, a piece of dead bone which has become separated from the surrounding healthy bone. (I like this word though!)
The article I dare to read, talks of finger-pointing and a Washington standoff. Well now I visualize the first part of the old television show Gunsmoke. Where Marshall Dillon walks into the street to face off with a gunslinger. At least here, you knew there, was one good guy! There only be losers in this Washington standoff!
The article paints a rosy picture of little pink houses for you and me . . . oh yeah! "There are no meaningful efforts in Washington to avert." No need to go any farther, that sums it up!
I CAN'T TAKE NO MORE IF YOU WANT TO BE PUNISHED READ ABOUT IT! YOU KNOW WHERE! I TRY NOT TO LOOK AT THEM PICTURES OF POLITICIANS, "ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M AFRAID I MIGHT BURST INTO FLAMES, AS IN SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION!
Thursday, February 21, 2013
KEY OR SOMETHUN!
I'm going to ask myself a question.
Please remember, I'll play myself, and I, or myself, and me, or.. any way, I'll ask myself, you see, or I hope I haven't confused you, you see! Dag nap it I, already forgot what the question was I was going to ask me!
Sheesh . . . Ain't easy being me, you see! How about I trade somebody out there brains, fer a spell? No! No! No! That there ain't the question I was going to ask me, myself and, oops, I. This be what I calls warming up, yeeaah . . . Ya don't think with a mind like mine, I can just sit down at the keyboard and punch up somethun coherent do ya? That be a mighty fine word, coherent. I would look it up, but me, myself and I, might get a confused whilst, I warm up my fingers and especially me brain!
FLASH!!! MIND ALERT!!! Keyboard??? Maybe??? Just maybe?, I was suppose to get a "key" with this keyboard? Ya reckon? That has been my trouble, nye onto, over two years plus, give er take, a spell! The more I reread this paragraph the more it makes sense, TO ME!
KEY, a thing that explains or solves something else. Huum... maybe old Glenno overlooked the most important part! Nah, not me! What would the key be to this dang keyboard, that could, would, should, make things more coherent? (There's that word again!)
What would explain, or solve something else? Dad burn it! I'm all thunk out! Nah . . . just fooling with ya!
You need a key to start yerrr, yerrr, yerrr, kinda sounds like a car at zero degrees, don't it? You need a key to get into your house. Yep, I'm definitely onto somethun . . . sooon . . . it will be obvious to me, and hopefully lead to somethun coherent! (Well I'll be damn, there be that word again!) ((Somethun . . . gonna take, on that one watt wick of mine, (That be kinda cute, if I don't say so, me, myself, and I.) then, maybe, just maybe, that flame will take, and then you know what may happen? Think light bulbs, neon signs flashing!)) (((Ya see, how I ramble! Even in my thoughts, within thoughts! Yikes! I be the most, un, or is it, in-coherent?)))
COHERENT = (I like that there plus sign and never use it.) I see here, I be in deep do-do! (Slang for manure. You thought I was gonna say shit didn't you? Well shite! I reckon I did! Didn't I! Sorry!)
Once more coherent = sticking together; having cohesion. (Okay, no idea what that means!)
Once again coherent = having coherence; logically connected; consistent; clearly articulated. (Aren't you glad I cleared that up for you?)
Let's try again. Coherent = capable of logical, intelligible speech, thought etc. (Oh yeah! Like Politicians!!!)
OR = PHYSICS, exhibiting coherence.? (Are you not tickled plummm pink, that I could make the definition of this, ONE word, so, so, so what is he word I'm looking for here, humm?)
I cannot hep myself, yep, I meant to say hep! (Please play along with the dummy on the other side of the Key board!)
Coherent uses cohesion, defining the word I wanted defined. (Following me?)
Cohesion = (Are you ready for this defining moment as I attempt to define whatever I'm defining?)
Cohesion = the act or condition of cohering; tendency to stick together. (Well that most definitely made that perfectly clear!).
Shall we take this easy definable word to cohesive? (I hope not!)
Cohesive = sticking together; causing or characterized by cohesion. (This be so easy even a dummy can do it! GOODNIGHT!!!!!
Please remember, I'll play myself, and I, or myself, and me, or.. any way, I'll ask myself, you see, or I hope I haven't confused you, you see! Dag nap it I, already forgot what the question was I was going to ask me!
Sheesh . . . Ain't easy being me, you see! How about I trade somebody out there brains, fer a spell? No! No! No! That there ain't the question I was going to ask me, myself and, oops, I. This be what I calls warming up, yeeaah . . . Ya don't think with a mind like mine, I can just sit down at the keyboard and punch up somethun coherent do ya? That be a mighty fine word, coherent. I would look it up, but me, myself and I, might get a confused whilst, I warm up my fingers and especially me brain!
FLASH!!! MIND ALERT!!! Keyboard??? Maybe??? Just maybe?, I was suppose to get a "key" with this keyboard? Ya reckon? That has been my trouble, nye onto, over two years plus, give er take, a spell! The more I reread this paragraph the more it makes sense, TO ME!
KEY, a thing that explains or solves something else. Huum... maybe old Glenno overlooked the most important part! Nah, not me! What would the key be to this dang keyboard, that could, would, should, make things more coherent? (There's that word again!)
What would explain, or solve something else? Dad burn it! I'm all thunk out! Nah . . . just fooling with ya!
You need a key to start yerrr, yerrr, yerrr, kinda sounds like a car at zero degrees, don't it? You need a key to get into your house. Yep, I'm definitely onto somethun . . . sooon . . . it will be obvious to me, and hopefully lead to somethun coherent! (Well I'll be damn, there be that word again!) ((Somethun . . . gonna take, on that one watt wick of mine, (That be kinda cute, if I don't say so, me, myself, and I.) then, maybe, just maybe, that flame will take, and then you know what may happen? Think light bulbs, neon signs flashing!)) (((Ya see, how I ramble! Even in my thoughts, within thoughts! Yikes! I be the most, un, or is it, in-coherent?)))
COHERENT = (I like that there plus sign and never use it.) I see here, I be in deep do-do! (Slang for manure. You thought I was gonna say shit didn't you? Well shite! I reckon I did! Didn't I! Sorry!)
Once more coherent = sticking together; having cohesion. (Okay, no idea what that means!)
Once again coherent = having coherence; logically connected; consistent; clearly articulated. (Aren't you glad I cleared that up for you?)
Let's try again. Coherent = capable of logical, intelligible speech, thought etc. (Oh yeah! Like Politicians!!!)
OR = PHYSICS, exhibiting coherence.? (Are you not tickled plummm pink, that I could make the definition of this, ONE word, so, so, so what is he word I'm looking for here, humm?)
I cannot hep myself, yep, I meant to say hep! (Please play along with the dummy on the other side of the Key board!)
Coherent uses cohesion, defining the word I wanted defined. (Following me?)
Cohesion = (Are you ready for this defining moment as I attempt to define whatever I'm defining?)
Cohesion = the act or condition of cohering; tendency to stick together. (Well that most definitely made that perfectly clear!).
Shall we take this easy definable word to cohesive? (I hope not!)
Cohesive = sticking together; causing or characterized by cohesion. (This be so easy even a dummy can do it! GOODNIGHT!!!!!
YOU DECIDE?
I come home from work in a mighty fine mood. I don't know what the problem is!
I worked the last 30 minutes or so on the forklift. You know one of them industrial electric lift trucks. Aw . . . come on now, there called fork-lifts-because-they-have-two-fucking-big-ass-forks-in-the-front-for-forking-stuff ya see!
Oh my God, "I've went off the deep edge without a life preserver! Oh hell won't be the first nor the last time!!!"
HELLO . . . how are you today? As you can tell I'm feeling, right's good! If I could only figure out why, I would patent it . . . and lose it to them BIG PHARMAS!!!
Welll-any-whoo, I was fixin to tell ya somethun, but me fukin brain fuced me up. Ohh shit! Can I say that? Hell yeah we can say anything we want to! Just like all them other ones, you know the media as in Main Street Media . . . OR, OUR FINE ELECTED OFFICIALS!
Back to the regular IDIOT sheduled GlenView post thing.
I been working them half ass hours, you know half my hours on days and half my hours on the evening shift therefore = half ass hours.
You know a thought just occurred to me! What if? Now throw away any normal thought pattern for a second! What if, I worked four hours on day shift and four hours on the evening shift and four hours on the graveyard shift? What would you call that shift?
Please stay with me now, as I put my thinking cap on and analyse this problem.
Day shift + evening shift + graveyard shift = ??? Come on, help me now! (And you can tell, I need help!)
The first and clearest word I see, or as we call it in the Idiot-a-neering Department. Hell yes I'm a graduate in the Idiot-a-neering Department. (Please tell me you see it! Idiot-a-neering, hell I'm PLUM OVER THE CLIFF!!!)
You never heard of The Idiotaneering Department? Land sakes, where has you been all your life? It's a right good thing y'all stumbled into GlenView! Usually we have to bring them here in a Bamb-u-lance!
Never heard of Bambulance? Come on people, what cave have you been living in? Google Bambulance and listen to this 9 11 call, sheesh does o'l Glen has to tell ya everything?
Back to the other SHIT I was rambling about! Come on stay with me here! Don't go to sleep here, like we did in English Class!
Take out one measly letter from shift and you have shit. So shit + shift = yep! Shit shift! Lets vocabulary it up a tad, after all, we don't a do properness here on ???? Add a t and we now have shitty shift, or using some of that English shit, I nevur lurnt, somthun, or the utter! We can make it worser by adding iest and dropping the y. Now we have shittiest shift and that by golly is what that would be, fer sure!!!!!
Now what have we lurned here today boys and girls? PLEASE SAY WITH ME """ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"""
IT SURE WAS GOOD FOR ME! HOW ABOUT YOU? LET'S LIGHT A CIGARETTE NOW! OOPS SORRY I JUST REMEMBURRED I DON'T SMOKE!!!! ahhahahahahahahahahaha
(I CAN'T BELIEVE I POSTED THAT! OH! OH! AM I STILL TYPING?)
I worked the last 30 minutes or so on the forklift. You know one of them industrial electric lift trucks. Aw . . . come on now, there called fork-lifts-because-they-have-two-fucking-big-ass-forks-in-the-front-for-forking-stuff ya see!
Oh my God, "I've went off the deep edge without a life preserver! Oh hell won't be the first nor the last time!!!"
HELLO . . . how are you today? As you can tell I'm feeling, right's good! If I could only figure out why, I would patent it . . . and lose it to them BIG PHARMAS!!!
Welll-any-whoo, I was fixin to tell ya somethun, but me fukin brain fuced me up. Ohh shit! Can I say that? Hell yeah we can say anything we want to! Just like all them other ones, you know the media as in Main Street Media . . . OR, OUR FINE ELECTED OFFICIALS!
Back to the regular IDIOT sheduled GlenView post thing.
I been working them half ass hours, you know half my hours on days and half my hours on the evening shift therefore = half ass hours.
You know a thought just occurred to me! What if? Now throw away any normal thought pattern for a second! What if, I worked four hours on day shift and four hours on the evening shift and four hours on the graveyard shift? What would you call that shift?
Please stay with me now, as I put my thinking cap on and analyse this problem.
Day shift + evening shift + graveyard shift = ??? Come on, help me now! (And you can tell, I need help!)
The first and clearest word I see, or as we call it in the Idiot-a-neering Department. Hell yes I'm a graduate in the Idiot-a-neering Department. (Please tell me you see it! Idiot-a-neering, hell I'm PLUM OVER THE CLIFF!!!)
You never heard of The Idiotaneering Department? Land sakes, where has you been all your life? It's a right good thing y'all stumbled into GlenView! Usually we have to bring them here in a Bamb-u-lance!
Never heard of Bambulance? Come on people, what cave have you been living in? Google Bambulance and listen to this 9 11 call, sheesh does o'l Glen has to tell ya everything?
Back to the other SHIT I was rambling about! Come on stay with me here! Don't go to sleep here, like we did in English Class!
Take out one measly letter from shift and you have shit. So shit + shift = yep! Shit shift! Lets vocabulary it up a tad, after all, we don't a do properness here on ???? Add a t and we now have shitty shift, or using some of that English shit, I nevur lurnt, somthun, or the utter! We can make it worser by adding iest and dropping the y. Now we have shittiest shift and that by golly is what that would be, fer sure!!!!!
Now what have we lurned here today boys and girls? PLEASE SAY WITH ME """ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"""
IT SURE WAS GOOD FOR ME! HOW ABOUT YOU? LET'S LIGHT A CIGARETTE NOW! OOPS SORRY I JUST REMEMBURRED I DON'T SMOKE!!!! ahhahahahahahahahahaha
(I CAN'T BELIEVE I POSTED THAT! OH! OH! AM I STILL TYPING?)
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Ya, Know!
Playing with ya. Where do you think old Glen gonna go with these two words? Yer right, even I don't know, ya, know. Actually for once in a blue moon I do, "believe it or not!" The most important part in this equation is if, I don't write it quick, I'll forget what I was going to write. Never fear for 'ol Glen though, a little something will pop up.
Just like them pop up turkeys ya know? If ya don't know how long a turkey should be cooked, or don't have enough sense to know what a thermometer is, then MAYBE ya should not be using the oven except for . . . never mind . . . that won't work unless you have a gas oven will it? (ah, ha, ha, ha!)
YA, KNOW what my favorite thing to write about here on GlenView, other than whatever be coming out of my mind at that moment. That seems a mite confusing or contradictory doesn't it? Well You'll have to excuuuse me, I have been reading and posting Crime And Punishment, if you think I'm silly/strange/@$*%ed up read this book. This Raskolnikov feller makes me look NORMAL! That Dostoevsky fella intentionally be trying to fuck with our heads, because his was, was, was STRANGE! (That's most likely why I fell in love with his book!)
Okay! okay! okay! YA, KNOW what I find totally refreshing, fun, freaky, goofy, I just love to do? Is play around with words and their meanings, always have since I was a little tater-tot. (Oh-shit why did I say that tater-tot?) I'll leave ya hanging with that, but it be the obvious thing.
I have no words on my mind at this moment to play with other than what you be reading and believe me when I say "I loove to toy with yer brain!"
I'll use an example, in the first sentence of Crime And Punishment, Bantam Classic version the word garret is used in this sentence. "On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in."
So it's where he lives, obviously . . . but . . . what is a garret? I've heard the name Garret and there was Pat Garret and Billy the Kid, but what be a garret in a lodging house?
The next paragraph tries explaining this part of a house in more detail.
"His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room."
So sounds like he's coming out his door/garret and his room was full of food. He sleeps where the food is stored. Seems logical to me! Still seems I'm missing something here.
He comes out the door and lives in the cupboard and the cupboard is up high, where the fat people can't go!
Damn! Damn! Damn!!! Somethings not clicking here!
Also another sentence, further explains for me.
"The land-lady, who provided him with garret, dinners and attendance."
Can ya see the quandary I be in? A garret is it a door, a cupboard, or sexual favors from his land-lady, huuum? After all garret sounds like something nice, if she provides him with dinner and attendance. Are you seeing a wee bit of confusing here on the first sentence, first page of a book that goes to 472 pages. What is 'ol Glen gonna do?
Well after much pondering and confusion, I look up garret.
GARRET is the space just below the roof of a house, esp. a sloping roof; attic.
Now I'm mad, why didn't he just say attic, rather than using E.S.P. expecting me to read his mind! I darn near give up on the first page. It's a good thing I have some stick-to-it-tive-ness.
Just like them pop up turkeys ya know? If ya don't know how long a turkey should be cooked, or don't have enough sense to know what a thermometer is, then MAYBE ya should not be using the oven except for . . . never mind . . . that won't work unless you have a gas oven will it? (ah, ha, ha, ha!)
YA, KNOW what my favorite thing to write about here on GlenView, other than whatever be coming out of my mind at that moment. That seems a mite confusing or contradictory doesn't it? Well You'll have to excuuuse me, I have been reading and posting Crime And Punishment, if you think I'm silly/strange/@$*%ed up read this book. This Raskolnikov feller makes me look NORMAL! That Dostoevsky fella intentionally be trying to fuck with our heads, because his was, was, was STRANGE! (That's most likely why I fell in love with his book!)
Okay! okay! okay! YA, KNOW what I find totally refreshing, fun, freaky, goofy, I just love to do? Is play around with words and their meanings, always have since I was a little tater-tot. (Oh-shit why did I say that tater-tot?) I'll leave ya hanging with that, but it be the obvious thing.
I have no words on my mind at this moment to play with other than what you be reading and believe me when I say "I loove to toy with yer brain!"
I'll use an example, in the first sentence of Crime And Punishment, Bantam Classic version the word garret is used in this sentence. "On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in."
So it's where he lives, obviously . . . but . . . what is a garret? I've heard the name Garret and there was Pat Garret and Billy the Kid, but what be a garret in a lodging house?
The next paragraph tries explaining this part of a house in more detail.
"His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room."
So sounds like he's coming out his door/garret and his room was full of food. He sleeps where the food is stored. Seems logical to me! Still seems I'm missing something here.
He comes out the door and lives in the cupboard and the cupboard is up high, where the fat people can't go!
Damn! Damn! Damn!!! Somethings not clicking here!
Also another sentence, further explains for me.
"The land-lady, who provided him with garret, dinners and attendance."
Can ya see the quandary I be in? A garret is it a door, a cupboard, or sexual favors from his land-lady, huuum? After all garret sounds like something nice, if she provides him with dinner and attendance. Are you seeing a wee bit of confusing here on the first sentence, first page of a book that goes to 472 pages. What is 'ol Glen gonna do?
Well after much pondering and confusion, I look up garret.
GARRET is the space just below the roof of a house, esp. a sloping roof; attic.
Now I'm mad, why didn't he just say attic, rather than using E.S.P. expecting me to read his mind! I darn near give up on the first page. It's a good thing I have some stick-to-it-tive-ness.
Monday, February 18, 2013
(17) C. P. Part Two (Chap. II)
Raskolnikov goes home immediately pulling out the eight articles he had hidden in the corner, behind the wallpaper. Placing them in his coat and trouser pockets, he must do away with them. Fling them into the canal was his plan. There were people everywhere and he could not carry this out, everyone he met seemed to give him a stare. Seemed as though they had nothing else to do but watch him.
He decided to go to the Neva, (river) where there would be less people and more convenient in every way. Why the Neva would it not be better to go somewhere farther off? He was incapable of clear judgment.
He came upon a courtyard with walls on both sides leading to a area in back filled with all sorts of rubbish, there he spots a stone of perhaps sixty pounds, underneath this stone was a hole, he placed the eight pieces and the purse inside.
He begins thinking "it is all over, no clue!" He begin laughing, a thin, nervous, noiseless, laugh while crossing the square.
He comes upon the bench where two days before he had come upon the young girl, and he had given money to the policeman for a carriage to take the poor thing home.
He walked looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas seem to be circling a single point. For the first time in the last two months he was now facing that point.
"Damn it all! If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Lord how stupid it was! . . . And what lies I told today! How despicably I fawned (To seek notice or favor by a servile demeanor.) upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch (The assistant superintendent at the police station.) But that was all folly! (Foolish action.) What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all!"
(I FEEL THE NEED TO DEFINE ANY WORD THAT MAY THROW A WRENCH INTO MY GEARS/BRAIN SORRY! FAWNED AND FOLLY ARE NOT PART OF MY EVERYDAY VOCABULARY. HOPE YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS QUEST OF MINE.)
A new unexpected question, bitterly confounded him.
"If all has been done deliberately and not idiotically, how is it I did not glance into the purse, for which I undertook this filthy, degrading, business? How is that?"
"It is because I'm very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I'm doing . . . I shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
While walking he had a terrible urge for something to distract him. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining mastery over him; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures.
He stopped suddenly realising he had come to where Razumihin lived. "I have come to see Razumihin of my own accord! Have I come here on purpose, or by chance? I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him, the day AFTER; and so I will!"
(RAZUMIHIN IS PROBABLY THE ONLY FRIEND RASKOLNIKOV HAD AT THE UNIVERSITY, THE DESCRIPTION WAS GIVEN OF HIM EARLIER IN THE BOOK AND HE FIGURES IN PROMINENTLY FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL CHAPTERS.
He was tired and goes up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor. He was home in his garret (attic room) busily writing. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you ?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down, you are tired."
Razumihin knew at once his visitor was ill. "Why you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I've come for this: I have no lessons. . . . I wanted . . . but I don't really want lessons. . . . "
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed watching him carefully.
"No I am not!"
He realised at that moment he did not want to be face to face with anyone in the world. His spleen rose up within him. He was almost choked with rage at himself.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come?" Are you mad, or what? Why this is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I come to you because I know no one but you could help . . . to begin . . . because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all . . . no one's services . . . no one's sympathy. I am by myself . . . . Come that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons but a better way to make money. There is a bookseller Heruvimov he takes the place of a lesson. He's doing publishing of a kind, issuing natural service manuals, I translate the books for him. He pays in advance. Razumihin wants Raskolnikov to help him. Raskolnikov took sheets to be translated from German and three roubles from Razumihin and left, then when he was in the street took the sheets and money back.
"Are you raving or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy, what did you come to see me for, damn you?"
"I don't want . . . translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
Then what the devil do you want?" Shouted Razumihin, "hey where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well confound you then!"
He was roused to full consciousness on the Nikolaevky Bridge, a coachman after shouting at him several times gave him a lash on the back, (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the middle of the bridge in the traffic).
He stood at the railing angrily looking back, bewildered, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goat skin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. From his dress and appearance they may have took him for a beggar, the gift undoubtedly was due from the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He walked on for about ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash wore off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled then now. It struck him as strange and grotesque that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all. . . . He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
((WHAT A PARAGRAPH!)) ((I'VE BEEN GRAPPLING WITH THIS PARAGRAPH AFTER READING IT COUNTLESS TIMES! GRAPPLING PERHAPS IS NOT THE BEST WORD, POSSIBLY AMAZED!))
THE BEAUTY OF THAT MOMENT SEEMED ALMOST MIRACULOUS, BUT HE WAS DEAD INSIDE!
PUT OFF FINDING THE MEANING OF THE CATHEDRAL. TO HIM IT WAS MEANINGLESS!
THROWING THE COIN IN THE NEVA, "MONEY DESTROYS ALL HUMANITY!"
ONCE HE MARVELLED AT THE VAGUE MYSTERIOUS EMOTION IT ROUSED IN HIM!
(JUST A FEW THOUGHTS I WAS KICKING AROUND WHAT DOES THIS PARAGRAPH MEAN TO YOU?)
I CHOOSE TO END THIS POST HERE, EVEN THOUGH THERE IS A COUPLE PAGES LEFT IN THIS CHAPTER. I WILL START THE NEXT POST FROM HERE BECAUSE IT TIES IN WITH THE ENDING OF THIS CHAPTER.
If you have the book and are following along with me, I am at page 102 in the Bantam Classic's. Marvelous . . . I must say! Glen here on GlenView . . . . . . . .
He decided to go to the Neva, (river) where there would be less people and more convenient in every way. Why the Neva would it not be better to go somewhere farther off? He was incapable of clear judgment.
He came upon a courtyard with walls on both sides leading to a area in back filled with all sorts of rubbish, there he spots a stone of perhaps sixty pounds, underneath this stone was a hole, he placed the eight pieces and the purse inside.
He begins thinking "it is all over, no clue!" He begin laughing, a thin, nervous, noiseless, laugh while crossing the square.
He comes upon the bench where two days before he had come upon the young girl, and he had given money to the policeman for a carriage to take the poor thing home.
He walked looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas seem to be circling a single point. For the first time in the last two months he was now facing that point.
"Damn it all! If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Lord how stupid it was! . . . And what lies I told today! How despicably I fawned (To seek notice or favor by a servile demeanor.) upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch (The assistant superintendent at the police station.) But that was all folly! (Foolish action.) What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all!"
(I FEEL THE NEED TO DEFINE ANY WORD THAT MAY THROW A WRENCH INTO MY GEARS/BRAIN SORRY! FAWNED AND FOLLY ARE NOT PART OF MY EVERYDAY VOCABULARY. HOPE YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS QUEST OF MINE.)
A new unexpected question, bitterly confounded him.
"If all has been done deliberately and not idiotically, how is it I did not glance into the purse, for which I undertook this filthy, degrading, business? How is that?"
"It is because I'm very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I'm doing . . . I shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
While walking he had a terrible urge for something to distract him. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining mastery over him; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures.
He stopped suddenly realising he had come to where Razumihin lived. "I have come to see Razumihin of my own accord! Have I come here on purpose, or by chance? I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him, the day AFTER; and so I will!"
(RAZUMIHIN IS PROBABLY THE ONLY FRIEND RASKOLNIKOV HAD AT THE UNIVERSITY, THE DESCRIPTION WAS GIVEN OF HIM EARLIER IN THE BOOK AND HE FIGURES IN PROMINENTLY FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL CHAPTERS.
He was tired and goes up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor. He was home in his garret (attic room) busily writing. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you ?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down, you are tired."
Razumihin knew at once his visitor was ill. "Why you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I've come for this: I have no lessons. . . . I wanted . . . but I don't really want lessons. . . . "
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed watching him carefully.
"No I am not!"
He realised at that moment he did not want to be face to face with anyone in the world. His spleen rose up within him. He was almost choked with rage at himself.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come?" Are you mad, or what? Why this is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I come to you because I know no one but you could help . . . to begin . . . because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all . . . no one's services . . . no one's sympathy. I am by myself . . . . Come that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons but a better way to make money. There is a bookseller Heruvimov he takes the place of a lesson. He's doing publishing of a kind, issuing natural service manuals, I translate the books for him. He pays in advance. Razumihin wants Raskolnikov to help him. Raskolnikov took sheets to be translated from German and three roubles from Razumihin and left, then when he was in the street took the sheets and money back.
"Are you raving or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy, what did you come to see me for, damn you?"
"I don't want . . . translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
Then what the devil do you want?" Shouted Razumihin, "hey where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well confound you then!"
He was roused to full consciousness on the Nikolaevky Bridge, a coachman after shouting at him several times gave him a lash on the back, (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the middle of the bridge in the traffic).
He stood at the railing angrily looking back, bewildered, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goat skin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. From his dress and appearance they may have took him for a beggar, the gift undoubtedly was due from the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He walked on for about ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash wore off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled then now. It struck him as strange and grotesque that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all. . . . He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
((WHAT A PARAGRAPH!)) ((I'VE BEEN GRAPPLING WITH THIS PARAGRAPH AFTER READING IT COUNTLESS TIMES! GRAPPLING PERHAPS IS NOT THE BEST WORD, POSSIBLY AMAZED!))
THE BEAUTY OF THAT MOMENT SEEMED ALMOST MIRACULOUS, BUT HE WAS DEAD INSIDE!
PUT OFF FINDING THE MEANING OF THE CATHEDRAL. TO HIM IT WAS MEANINGLESS!
THROWING THE COIN IN THE NEVA, "MONEY DESTROYS ALL HUMANITY!"
ONCE HE MARVELLED AT THE VAGUE MYSTERIOUS EMOTION IT ROUSED IN HIM!
(JUST A FEW THOUGHTS I WAS KICKING AROUND WHAT DOES THIS PARAGRAPH MEAN TO YOU?)
I CHOOSE TO END THIS POST HERE, EVEN THOUGH THERE IS A COUPLE PAGES LEFT IN THIS CHAPTER. I WILL START THE NEXT POST FROM HERE BECAUSE IT TIES IN WITH THE ENDING OF THIS CHAPTER.
If you have the book and are following along with me, I am at page 102 in the Bantam Classic's. Marvelous . . . I must say! Glen here on GlenView . . . . . . . .
Sunday, February 17, 2013
(16) C, P. (Part Two) Chapter I Conclusion
WELL NOW, RASKOLNIKOV HAS GONE FROM ALMOST CONFESSING AT THE POLICE STATION TO BEING ARUMENTATIVE WITH THE POLICE ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT!
Raskolnikov's is served a writ for money owed to his landlady. It did not concern him, not worth worrying over, he found himself mechanical in asking and answering questionns about this trifling matter. An instant of triumphant joy settles on him from being saved from overwhelming danger.
The assistant superintendent shaken by Raskolnikov showing of disrespect to him, turns his anger to a Madam of a house for prostitutes referred to as a smart lady, where a man, an author, caused trouble, last night. This smart lady trembled while taking the assistant superintendent's abuse, curtsied incessantly, giving seductive smiles. (CAN'T YOU IMAGINE THIS?)
A literary man, came to her honourable house drunk, causing trouble. (FUN LITTLE TID-BIT ABOUT AUTHORS!)
The smart lady was continually curtsying on her way out, she stumbles against Nikodim Fomitch, the superintendent of the district.
"Again thunder and lightning--a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch the assistant superintendent in a civil and friendly tone. "You are fuming again, I heard it on the stairs!"
Ilya Petrovitch speaks to Nikodim Fomitch, "here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student, does not pay his debts, won't clear out of his room, protesting against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, here's the gentlemen, and very attractive he is!"
"Poverty is not a vice my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you can't bear a slight. I daresay you took offence at something and went too far yourself!" continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov.
His nickname in the regiment was The Explosive Lieutenant . . ."
"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch.
"Excuse me, Captain," addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you please let me explain? I ask pardon if I have been ill mannered. I am a poor student, sick and shattered, by poverty. How can I pay her?"
"But that's not our business, you know," the head clerk said.
Raskolnikov explains "I have been living there for three years, in the beginning I promised to marry her daughter, a youthful affair, the landlady gave me credit freely."
"Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir." Ilya Pertrovich said sternly, triumphantly.
Raskolnikov stopped him suddenly, upset, finding it difficult to speak.
"But excuse me. It is for me to explain . . . how it all happened. A year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remain lodging there, my landlady said to me, that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I give her an I O U, the debt I owed her."
(AFTER READING THE BOOK THE FIRST TIME I BELIEVE THERE IS MUCH, MUCH, MORE BEHIND THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER THAT IS NOT BEING SAID AT THIS POINT. I HOPE TO CLEAR THIS THOUGHT UP AS THE BOOK GOES ON. VERY LITTLE ABOUT THIS GIRL IS MENTIONED BUT BIT'S AND PIECES TELL ME SO MUCH MORE! MY QUESTION WAS SHE THE BEGINNING OF THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL OF RASKOLNIKOV???)
"These details are no business of ours," Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a written understanding, but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that."
"Come now you are too harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch.
Raskolnikov felt the head clerk sees him differently after his detailed explaination. Then in a flash he was indifferent to what they thought after talking so freely a moment earlier. Where did those feelings come from?
A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. (WHAT A LINE!) He felt he could never again appeal to these people in the police office with sentiment. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation, the most agonising sensation of all the sensations of his life.
He was supposed to write a declaration, of unable to pay, but would do so in the future, the head clerk noticed Raskolnikov could barely hold the pen, ask him "are you ill?"
He put his elbows on the table and pressed his head into his hands. He felt as if a nail was being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him to tell Nikodim Formitch everything and take him to his room and show him the things he had hidden.
He then overheard Nikodim Fomitch talking eagerly to Ilya Petrovich about the student and Koch, the two men who were at the pawnbrokers door yesterday whom he slipped by, as they went after the porter.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it . . .
He fainted, when he came to he was as white as a handkerchief.
Ilya Petrovitch asked, "how long have you been ill, did you go out yesterday?"
Raskolnikov answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's stare.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you . . . " Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
There was sudden silence. It was strange.
"Very well, we will not detain you," said Ilya Petrovich.
Raskolnikov left, hearing eager conversation, above the rest was the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street he faintness was gone completely.
" A search--there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home.
His former terror took hold again!
END OF PART TWO, CHAPTER ONE, PLENTY MORE TO COME! DON'T LEAVE ME NOW! Glen
Raskolnikov's is served a writ for money owed to his landlady. It did not concern him, not worth worrying over, he found himself mechanical in asking and answering questionns about this trifling matter. An instant of triumphant joy settles on him from being saved from overwhelming danger.
The assistant superintendent shaken by Raskolnikov showing of disrespect to him, turns his anger to a Madam of a house for prostitutes referred to as a smart lady, where a man, an author, caused trouble, last night. This smart lady trembled while taking the assistant superintendent's abuse, curtsied incessantly, giving seductive smiles. (CAN'T YOU IMAGINE THIS?)
A literary man, came to her honourable house drunk, causing trouble. (FUN LITTLE TID-BIT ABOUT AUTHORS!)
The smart lady was continually curtsying on her way out, she stumbles against Nikodim Fomitch, the superintendent of the district.
"Again thunder and lightning--a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch the assistant superintendent in a civil and friendly tone. "You are fuming again, I heard it on the stairs!"
Ilya Petrovitch speaks to Nikodim Fomitch, "here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student, does not pay his debts, won't clear out of his room, protesting against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, here's the gentlemen, and very attractive he is!"
"Poverty is not a vice my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you can't bear a slight. I daresay you took offence at something and went too far yourself!" continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov.
His nickname in the regiment was The Explosive Lieutenant . . ."
"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch.
"Excuse me, Captain," addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you please let me explain? I ask pardon if I have been ill mannered. I am a poor student, sick and shattered, by poverty. How can I pay her?"
"But that's not our business, you know," the head clerk said.
Raskolnikov explains "I have been living there for three years, in the beginning I promised to marry her daughter, a youthful affair, the landlady gave me credit freely."
"Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir." Ilya Pertrovich said sternly, triumphantly.
Raskolnikov stopped him suddenly, upset, finding it difficult to speak.
"But excuse me. It is for me to explain . . . how it all happened. A year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remain lodging there, my landlady said to me, that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I give her an I O U, the debt I owed her."
(AFTER READING THE BOOK THE FIRST TIME I BELIEVE THERE IS MUCH, MUCH, MORE BEHIND THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER THAT IS NOT BEING SAID AT THIS POINT. I HOPE TO CLEAR THIS THOUGHT UP AS THE BOOK GOES ON. VERY LITTLE ABOUT THIS GIRL IS MENTIONED BUT BIT'S AND PIECES TELL ME SO MUCH MORE! MY QUESTION WAS SHE THE BEGINNING OF THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL OF RASKOLNIKOV???)
"These details are no business of ours," Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a written understanding, but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that."
"Come now you are too harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch.
Raskolnikov felt the head clerk sees him differently after his detailed explaination. Then in a flash he was indifferent to what they thought after talking so freely a moment earlier. Where did those feelings come from?
A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. (WHAT A LINE!) He felt he could never again appeal to these people in the police office with sentiment. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation, the most agonising sensation of all the sensations of his life.
He was supposed to write a declaration, of unable to pay, but would do so in the future, the head clerk noticed Raskolnikov could barely hold the pen, ask him "are you ill?"
He put his elbows on the table and pressed his head into his hands. He felt as if a nail was being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him to tell Nikodim Formitch everything and take him to his room and show him the things he had hidden.
He then overheard Nikodim Fomitch talking eagerly to Ilya Petrovich about the student and Koch, the two men who were at the pawnbrokers door yesterday whom he slipped by, as they went after the porter.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it . . .
He fainted, when he came to he was as white as a handkerchief.
Ilya Petrovitch asked, "how long have you been ill, did you go out yesterday?"
Raskolnikov answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's stare.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you . . . " Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
There was sudden silence. It was strange.
"Very well, we will not detain you," said Ilya Petrovich.
Raskolnikov left, hearing eager conversation, above the rest was the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street he faintness was gone completely.
" A search--there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home.
His former terror took hold again!
END OF PART TWO, CHAPTER ONE, PLENTY MORE TO COME! DON'T LEAVE ME NOW! Glen
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Crackle Of The Fire!
Good morning from GlenView. I never have anything planned, I simply go with the flow. Flow of thoughts, if a wandering spirit wishes to write through me, as in that automatic writing thing, then I don't have to do
too much!. That be so much easier on an old man, don't ya think? I do have an idea that just went ker-plunk, chiming my alert, idea a-coming bell so here goes.
I'll give a little background.
A little country church, way out in the countryside, only gravel roads. This church used to be a four room house, one room now, possibly 600 square feet. A wood stove is the heat source centered in the small house of worship. The only movement of air in summer is those fans on a stick with bible pictures furnished by the church. Dimly lit with only a couple light bulbs, that along with the crackling of the wood stove made for most interesting emphasis, if brother Shelton could emphasize his message to the loud pop of a oak log. The bathroom was a rather small wooden building, out back of the church. From the outside a small cross above the front door, is the only give away to a church. Brown fiber board siding, plain inside furnishings. Eight maybe ten wooden pews, room for no more than 30 loyal worshipers. Plain wood paneling with scattered nick knacks making one think "this be a church." A piano in the corner, simple, real simple!
This was the church of my grandparents who took their grandchildren to Sunday school, later my parents would attend, back then it was Sunday School, Sunday night services and Wednesday night services. It was a Pentecostal Church. Why do I tell you this? I wish to revisit, my remembrance of the way it was. Most, probably none of you have never been in such a church. My intention is not to make fun, rather the opposite, as I reproduce, hopefully enough, giving the feel of a small church. I shall not deal with the religious aspect, rather I wish to use some of their excitement agreeing to the Minister's message. My goal is to reproduce the feel people as one, only the fiery points will come from me, the title I have chosen is Tiredness "The Weight Of The World On Our Shoulders!"
OH MY! THIS MAY NOT BE AS EASY AS THOUGHT! BUT I SHALL GIVE, MY ALL! My name will be brother Glen, that is how everyone referred to each other.
Welcome Brothers and Sisters. I hope the past week has been good to you. If you're like me, sometimes the weight of the world pushes down too hard. Seems there is no place we can go to get away, is there? Well this is the place to share, testify, release that burden! "AMEN!" is heard throughout the small room.
Outside amens, seem to be echoing through the hills, adding emphasis!
We're here to share the burden, to support each other as one, there lies strength in numbers! Two stronger than one, eighteen here tonight, makes this house, bigger, stronger, mightier! Just think of the strength, of a nation, of the world, brought together for the good of all! "AMENS" are heard, louder than before!
Here we are, one! Brothers and Sisters, relatives filled with the same heartfelt emotions! Is it that way . . . away from this house of togetherness? Ah! Our souls are tested out there, aren't they? Family woes, work woes, money woes, endless trials and tribulations wreak havoc! Its no different for me, I stand before you a mere mortal, we are one and the same!
I WROTE THIS LONG AGO, AND IT GOT LOST IN MY NEVER FINISHED PILE OF POSTS. I WAS REVIEWING SOME AND FELT THIS SAID THE MESSAGE, I APPARENTLY WAS TELLING THEN, AND I LIKED THIS POST, SO I'LL LEAVE IT AS IT WAS. Brother Glen
too much!. That be so much easier on an old man, don't ya think? I do have an idea that just went ker-plunk, chiming my alert, idea a-coming bell so here goes.
I'll give a little background.
A little country church, way out in the countryside, only gravel roads. This church used to be a four room house, one room now, possibly 600 square feet. A wood stove is the heat source centered in the small house of worship. The only movement of air in summer is those fans on a stick with bible pictures furnished by the church. Dimly lit with only a couple light bulbs, that along with the crackling of the wood stove made for most interesting emphasis, if brother Shelton could emphasize his message to the loud pop of a oak log. The bathroom was a rather small wooden building, out back of the church. From the outside a small cross above the front door, is the only give away to a church. Brown fiber board siding, plain inside furnishings. Eight maybe ten wooden pews, room for no more than 30 loyal worshipers. Plain wood paneling with scattered nick knacks making one think "this be a church." A piano in the corner, simple, real simple!
This was the church of my grandparents who took their grandchildren to Sunday school, later my parents would attend, back then it was Sunday School, Sunday night services and Wednesday night services. It was a Pentecostal Church. Why do I tell you this? I wish to revisit, my remembrance of the way it was. Most, probably none of you have never been in such a church. My intention is not to make fun, rather the opposite, as I reproduce, hopefully enough, giving the feel of a small church. I shall not deal with the religious aspect, rather I wish to use some of their excitement agreeing to the Minister's message. My goal is to reproduce the feel people as one, only the fiery points will come from me, the title I have chosen is Tiredness "The Weight Of The World On Our Shoulders!"
OH MY! THIS MAY NOT BE AS EASY AS THOUGHT! BUT I SHALL GIVE, MY ALL! My name will be brother Glen, that is how everyone referred to each other.
Welcome Brothers and Sisters. I hope the past week has been good to you. If you're like me, sometimes the weight of the world pushes down too hard. Seems there is no place we can go to get away, is there? Well this is the place to share, testify, release that burden! "AMEN!" is heard throughout the small room.
Outside amens, seem to be echoing through the hills, adding emphasis!
We're here to share the burden, to support each other as one, there lies strength in numbers! Two stronger than one, eighteen here tonight, makes this house, bigger, stronger, mightier! Just think of the strength, of a nation, of the world, brought together for the good of all! "AMENS" are heard, louder than before!
Here we are, one! Brothers and Sisters, relatives filled with the same heartfelt emotions! Is it that way . . . away from this house of togetherness? Ah! Our souls are tested out there, aren't they? Family woes, work woes, money woes, endless trials and tribulations wreak havoc! Its no different for me, I stand before you a mere mortal, we are one and the same!
I WROTE THIS LONG AGO, AND IT GOT LOST IN MY NEVER FINISHED PILE OF POSTS. I WAS REVIEWING SOME AND FELT THIS SAID THE MESSAGE, I APPARENTLY WAS TELLING THEN, AND I LIKED THIS POST, SO I'LL LEAVE IT AS IT WAS. Brother Glen
Thursday, February 14, 2013
"True To One's-self"
I wasn't going to write anything tonight, late getting home, work stuff ya know. I didn't get a chance to do my old person meditating thing you see.
I ate me some slaw and Ritz crackers. "Everything . . . taste better on a Ritz." Andy Griffith was sure right bout that!
From somewhere far, far away, another galaxy from the farthest of the farthest reaches, so far our telescopes cannot scope. (I don't know what I just said, but it sure was FUN!)
((That's what happens when I let my fingers do the thinking!))
I CANNOT LIE, TO MY FAVORITE PEOPLE IN THE WHOLE WORLD, AND TO OUR ASTRONAUTS ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE MOON. (What?) I don't know! One of my inner voices popped out for a second, I put him back in his padded cell.
I took my medicine thinking "I'll go to bed."
The computer looked lonely, so lonely.
These few words penetrate time and space. Actually from somewhere in me brain.
"I is . . . what I is!" Now . . . if that is not commoner language, I don't know what is. Actually, I like the phrase better spelled my way. "I iz . . . what I iz!" If you don't understand that phrase, your I. Q. be too high.
Somehow . . . even though I wanted that to be the title of this post it morphed into, "True To One's-self." THINK ABOUT IT!!!
mY mEdIcInE bE kIcKiNg In, GoOdNiGhT, fRoM wHoMeVeR I iZ!
I ate me some slaw and Ritz crackers. "Everything . . . taste better on a Ritz." Andy Griffith was sure right bout that!
From somewhere far, far away, another galaxy from the farthest of the farthest reaches, so far our telescopes cannot scope. (I don't know what I just said, but it sure was FUN!)
((That's what happens when I let my fingers do the thinking!))
I CANNOT LIE, TO MY FAVORITE PEOPLE IN THE WHOLE WORLD, AND TO OUR ASTRONAUTS ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE MOON. (What?) I don't know! One of my inner voices popped out for a second, I put him back in his padded cell.
I took my medicine thinking "I'll go to bed."
The computer looked lonely, so lonely.
These few words penetrate time and space. Actually from somewhere in me brain.
"I is . . . what I is!" Now . . . if that is not commoner language, I don't know what is. Actually, I like the phrase better spelled my way. "I iz . . . what I iz!" If you don't understand that phrase, your I. Q. be too high.
Somehow . . . even though I wanted that to be the title of this post it morphed into, "True To One's-self." THINK ABOUT IT!!!
mY mEdIcInE bE kIcKiNg In, GoOdNiGhT, fRoM wHoMeVeR I iZ!
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Spontaneous and Recalcitrance
Since working my new hours, I call it half ass hours! Do I have you confused? I sure as hell hope so, that was my goal, you see. I work's half my hours on days and half my hours on the evening shift ya see. Therefore half ass hours!
I come home and do my old person meditative routine. Surely you remember. In case you don't. I lay my achy, creaky, worn out body on my bed under covers until my body warms back to a fraction of what normal once was, thirty years ago. And me mind begins to resurface from being out of order while working. Hey works for me, don't use it, if ya don't need it.
Reminds me of a saying "if you don't use it, you lose it."
In my neck of the woods it be MORE like this, "if you use it, you lose it!"
Think upon that for a couple seconds.
Two words were playing havoc in my brain tonight while meditating, recharging, coming back to life, whatever!
Spontaneous and recalcitrance.
I was laughing at my brain, here's why. (You don't do that!)
I heard spawn-train-idiots. Well I reckon ya had to be there inside my head to get it, or find it funny. (Thank God, yer not inside my head huh!)
The other word recalcitrance, (I have no fricking idea!)
I hear and picture Alcatraz, you know the rock outside of San Francisco Bay, where they use to keep all the bad guys. Now they house ghost there.
This word for some reason I fell in love with, even though I had no fricking idea what it meant! Oh yeah, before I forget it was in the first paragraph in Obama's State Of The Press Speech.
Did I typa, whata, I thinka, I typta? You can never be for sure here on GlenView.
RECALCITRANCE, immediately my trained ignorance sees, trance and recall.
You see I'm getting old, and when you get old, sometimes you get into a trance, and you can't recall, nothing!
Hey that was spontaneous.
Well now recalcitrance, by the way, ain't that a right pretty word? That be a word you would expect lawyers to use, or speech writers, don't you think?
President Obama was talking about the other party, refusing to obey authority, hard to handle or deal with.
Have mercy, lord have mercy! That be a lawyering/political word for sure.
Spontaneous, I also loove that word!
I will break that down just for you again, in case you don't have the finely honed, ignorance and lack of hearing like yours truly is blessed/cursed with! WHATEVER!
Spawn-train-idiots, what in tarnation, or, our nation, am I, as in Glen, here on Glen View, gonna do with this? Humm . . .
That's soo obvious! Glen
I come home and do my old person meditative routine. Surely you remember. In case you don't. I lay my achy, creaky, worn out body on my bed under covers until my body warms back to a fraction of what normal once was, thirty years ago. And me mind begins to resurface from being out of order while working. Hey works for me, don't use it, if ya don't need it.
Reminds me of a saying "if you don't use it, you lose it."
In my neck of the woods it be MORE like this, "if you use it, you lose it!"
Think upon that for a couple seconds.
Two words were playing havoc in my brain tonight while meditating, recharging, coming back to life, whatever!
Spontaneous and recalcitrance.
I was laughing at my brain, here's why. (You don't do that!)
I heard spawn-train-idiots. Well I reckon ya had to be there inside my head to get it, or find it funny. (Thank God, yer not inside my head huh!)
The other word recalcitrance, (I have no fricking idea!)
I hear and picture Alcatraz, you know the rock outside of San Francisco Bay, where they use to keep all the bad guys. Now they house ghost there.
This word for some reason I fell in love with, even though I had no fricking idea what it meant! Oh yeah, before I forget it was in the first paragraph in Obama's State Of The Press Speech.
Did I typa, whata, I thinka, I typta? You can never be for sure here on GlenView.
RECALCITRANCE, immediately my trained ignorance sees, trance and recall.
You see I'm getting old, and when you get old, sometimes you get into a trance, and you can't recall, nothing!
Hey that was spontaneous.
Well now recalcitrance, by the way, ain't that a right pretty word? That be a word you would expect lawyers to use, or speech writers, don't you think?
President Obama was talking about the other party, refusing to obey authority, hard to handle or deal with.
Have mercy, lord have mercy! That be a lawyering/political word for sure.
Spontaneous, I also loove that word!
I will break that down just for you again, in case you don't have the finely honed, ignorance and lack of hearing like yours truly is blessed/cursed with! WHATEVER!
Spawn-train-idiots, what in tarnation, or, our nation, am I, as in Glen, here on Glen View, gonna do with this? Humm . . .
That's soo obvious! Glen
(15) C. P. Part Two (Chapter I) Police Station
He awakes from oblivion. He remembered everything, a flash. A chill swept over him; but the fever, begun long before, in his sleep.
He was violently shivering, all his limbs were shaking and his teeth chattered. Everyone in the house was still asleep. He was wondering how he could of come home without fastening the door, and flung himself on the sofa, without undressing or without taking his hat off.
He takes off his clothes searching for blood stains, doing so three times. Suddenly he remembered the purse and the other things still in his pockets, hiding them in a hole underneath the wall paper in the corner.
He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion, shivering, placing his winter's coat over him, and once more sank into delirium. He lost consciousness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumps up a second time, and pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again. He cuts the loop off the armhole where he had hid the axe. He was standing in the middle of the room gazing about making sure he had not forgotten anything. Seems the simplest power of reflection were failing him becoming insufferable torture.
"Is my punishment beginning already" It is!"
Perhaps all his clothes are covered in blood, he thinks, his perceptions were failing. He remembered there was blood on the purse, so his pocket had blood on it. Yes, there were stains on the lining!
"So my reasoning has not quite deserted me, he thought triumphantly with relief; it's the weakness of the fever." There was blood on the sock that poked out from his boot. He gathers up the blood stained clothing undecided what to do with them.
"In the stove, no better go out and throw them away somewhere." He sit down on the sofa, again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he threw his winter coat over him.
For several hours he was haunted by the impulse to "go off somewhere at once and fling them away, and be done with it!" He tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.
Violent knocks at his door wakes him.
Nastasya "open are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here! For whole days, he's snoring like a dog! A dog he is too. Open it's past ten."
The porter is with Nastasya, he jumps up when he heard a man's voice.
"What do they want? All's discovered. Resist or open? Come what may! . . ."
The porter hands him a paper, "a notice from the police office," he announces.
"He's ill" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. "He's been in fever since yesterday." The porter turned his head for a minute and continued walking away.
"Don't you get up, you're ill, don't go; what have you got there?"
He still held the shreds he cut from his clothing in his right hand while asleep.
Nastasya went off into a hysterical giggle at the rags he held like treasure.
"But the police?" He thinks.
He broke the seal of the paper, a summons requesting him to appear at half-past nine. "Why has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why, just today?" he thought in agonising bewilderment. "Good God, only get it over soon!"
He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
"If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I'M ATTEMPTING TO SHORTEN AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. SO MUCH IS PIVOTAL TO THE REST OF THE BOOK AND SEEING THE WORKINGS INSIDE RASKOLNIKOV'S MIND IS ESSENTIAL. I SEE MANY THINGS THAT I OVERLOOKED THE FIRST TIME I READ THE BOOK, I HOPE TO ADD THEM AT THE PROPER TIME. WELL THEY'LL BE MY OPINIONS AND NEWLY DISCOVERED EVALUATIONS. PLEASE HANG TOUGH WITH ME? IF IT'S THE LAST THING I ACCOMPLISH IN MY LIFE, I'LL GET THERE! It may be Christmas!!!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
He puts on his bloody sock where blood had gotten on it, then took it off again laughing, because he has no other socks. His laughter was quickly followed with despair.
"No, it's too much for me . . ." he thought. His legs shook. "From fear," he muttered. He was dizzy and ached with fever. "It's a trick! They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything," he mused , as he went out--"the worst of it is I'm light-headed. . . . I may blurt out something stupid . . .
He remembers he's leaving everything behind the tattered paper in the corner for them to find. But he was possessed with such cynicism of misery, best to get it over with!"
In the heat the stench was insufferable, making his head spin even more with the bright sunlight. When reaching the turning point in the street, with agony he looks at the house where the murders were last night, and at once averted his eyes.
The police station was about a quarter of a mile off. "I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything . . . "he thought upon reaching the fourth floor. A fearful impatience drew him on, no one was paying attention to him. Showing a clerk the note. "Go in there to the head clerk." It was a small room packed full of people, better dressed than in the outer rooms, some of the clerks in the other rooms were dressed no better than he was. He gives his notice to the head clerk. Glancing at it, said: "wait a minute," finishing up with what appeared to be a lady in mourning.
"He breathed easier. "It can't be what I thought!" He now began to have confidence, urging himself to have courage and be calm.
"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself, it's so hot, no air,. It makes one's head dizzier than, than ever . . . and one's mind too . . ."
He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil, afraid of losing his self-control.
The head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess something through his face.
He was young, about twenty-two, fashionably dressed with a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. Hair well combed and pomaded.
All at once an officer walked in with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step and sat down in an easy chair. He was the assistant superintendent. He looked rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was very badly dressed, his position was in no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov took a long look at him and the assistant superintendent was offended by the stare.
"What do you want?" he shouted.
"I was summoned . . . by a notice . . . " Raskolnikov stammered.
"For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk added.
Money? What money?' thought Raskolnikov, "but . . . then . . . it's certainly not THAT." He trembled with joy. He felt indescribable relief. A load had been lifted.
"What time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superintendent, becoming more aggravated. "You are told to come at nine, and now it's twelve!"
"The notice was brought to me only a quarter hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly.
The assistant superintendent was furious at Raskolnikov for speaking up to him. He leaps up from his seat.
"Be silent! You are in a government office, sir!"
"You're in a government office, too." cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of us." He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superintendent was obviously embarrassed.
TOO CONTINUE
He was violently shivering, all his limbs were shaking and his teeth chattered. Everyone in the house was still asleep. He was wondering how he could of come home without fastening the door, and flung himself on the sofa, without undressing or without taking his hat off.
He takes off his clothes searching for blood stains, doing so three times. Suddenly he remembered the purse and the other things still in his pockets, hiding them in a hole underneath the wall paper in the corner.
He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion, shivering, placing his winter's coat over him, and once more sank into delirium. He lost consciousness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumps up a second time, and pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again. He cuts the loop off the armhole where he had hid the axe. He was standing in the middle of the room gazing about making sure he had not forgotten anything. Seems the simplest power of reflection were failing him becoming insufferable torture.
"Is my punishment beginning already" It is!"
Perhaps all his clothes are covered in blood, he thinks, his perceptions were failing. He remembered there was blood on the purse, so his pocket had blood on it. Yes, there were stains on the lining!
"So my reasoning has not quite deserted me, he thought triumphantly with relief; it's the weakness of the fever." There was blood on the sock that poked out from his boot. He gathers up the blood stained clothing undecided what to do with them.
"In the stove, no better go out and throw them away somewhere." He sit down on the sofa, again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he threw his winter coat over him.
For several hours he was haunted by the impulse to "go off somewhere at once and fling them away, and be done with it!" He tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.
Violent knocks at his door wakes him.
Nastasya "open are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here! For whole days, he's snoring like a dog! A dog he is too. Open it's past ten."
The porter is with Nastasya, he jumps up when he heard a man's voice.
"What do they want? All's discovered. Resist or open? Come what may! . . ."
The porter hands him a paper, "a notice from the police office," he announces.
"He's ill" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. "He's been in fever since yesterday." The porter turned his head for a minute and continued walking away.
"Don't you get up, you're ill, don't go; what have you got there?"
He still held the shreds he cut from his clothing in his right hand while asleep.
Nastasya went off into a hysterical giggle at the rags he held like treasure.
"But the police?" He thinks.
He broke the seal of the paper, a summons requesting him to appear at half-past nine. "Why has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why, just today?" he thought in agonising bewilderment. "Good God, only get it over soon!"
He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
"If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I'M ATTEMPTING TO SHORTEN AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. SO MUCH IS PIVOTAL TO THE REST OF THE BOOK AND SEEING THE WORKINGS INSIDE RASKOLNIKOV'S MIND IS ESSENTIAL. I SEE MANY THINGS THAT I OVERLOOKED THE FIRST TIME I READ THE BOOK, I HOPE TO ADD THEM AT THE PROPER TIME. WELL THEY'LL BE MY OPINIONS AND NEWLY DISCOVERED EVALUATIONS. PLEASE HANG TOUGH WITH ME? IF IT'S THE LAST THING I ACCOMPLISH IN MY LIFE, I'LL GET THERE! It may be Christmas!!!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
He puts on his bloody sock where blood had gotten on it, then took it off again laughing, because he has no other socks. His laughter was quickly followed with despair.
"No, it's too much for me . . ." he thought. His legs shook. "From fear," he muttered. He was dizzy and ached with fever. "It's a trick! They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything," he mused , as he went out--"the worst of it is I'm light-headed. . . . I may blurt out something stupid . . .
He remembers he's leaving everything behind the tattered paper in the corner for them to find. But he was possessed with such cynicism of misery, best to get it over with!"
In the heat the stench was insufferable, making his head spin even more with the bright sunlight. When reaching the turning point in the street, with agony he looks at the house where the murders were last night, and at once averted his eyes.
The police station was about a quarter of a mile off. "I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything . . . "he thought upon reaching the fourth floor. A fearful impatience drew him on, no one was paying attention to him. Showing a clerk the note. "Go in there to the head clerk." It was a small room packed full of people, better dressed than in the outer rooms, some of the clerks in the other rooms were dressed no better than he was. He gives his notice to the head clerk. Glancing at it, said: "wait a minute," finishing up with what appeared to be a lady in mourning.
"He breathed easier. "It can't be what I thought!" He now began to have confidence, urging himself to have courage and be calm.
"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself, it's so hot, no air,. It makes one's head dizzier than, than ever . . . and one's mind too . . ."
He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil, afraid of losing his self-control.
The head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess something through his face.
He was young, about twenty-two, fashionably dressed with a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. Hair well combed and pomaded.
All at once an officer walked in with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step and sat down in an easy chair. He was the assistant superintendent. He looked rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was very badly dressed, his position was in no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov took a long look at him and the assistant superintendent was offended by the stare.
"What do you want?" he shouted.
"I was summoned . . . by a notice . . . " Raskolnikov stammered.
"For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk added.
Money? What money?' thought Raskolnikov, "but . . . then . . . it's certainly not THAT." He trembled with joy. He felt indescribable relief. A load had been lifted.
"What time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superintendent, becoming more aggravated. "You are told to come at nine, and now it's twelve!"
"The notice was brought to me only a quarter hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly.
The assistant superintendent was furious at Raskolnikov for speaking up to him. He leaps up from his seat.
"Be silent! You are in a government office, sir!"
"You're in a government office, too." cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of us." He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superintendent was obviously embarrassed.
TOO CONTINUE
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
THE PLACE
There is a place, I can always go.
When the world knocks me down!
I hear the count, I tell myself "stay down, stay down!"
Old age always, chips away, at the body, the mind, not sculpting a masterpiece, rather, destroying the beautiful, youthful body and imagination we once possessed.
Such shame I cannot deposit a fraction of youthfulness, to be withdrawn, when spiraling towards oblivion!
Frays of the never ending daily demands, destroy, one day at a time.
I must . . . hold my head high, though worn, frazzled looking down and out.
What be my answer, wish for more . . . of this staying around?
Not too long ago I was ready, the future looked bleaker every (expletive) night!
Then a miracle I say happened, not in a night, through many, many, moons.
The several year completion of my first story, a true midnight dream, titled appropriately "The Flame" a battle of will, never known surfaces. "Please stick around till the last sundown!"
What you read most days has been a five year battle of survival, although it doesn't seem like much to some, I'm sure! Believe me when I say "It has been a monumental challenge to one who has never typed, never understood the complexity of the "English Properness" as I call it! "I am ME and wish to be none other! I shall think, and write my way!
I've said it once I'll say it again "If not for this new hobby of putting my thoughts to words, I'd stay down, nary a reason it seems most times to get up. Like paddling against an ever increasing current, USELESS! Glen
When the world knocks me down!
I hear the count, I tell myself "stay down, stay down!"
Old age always, chips away, at the body, the mind, not sculpting a masterpiece, rather, destroying the beautiful, youthful body and imagination we once possessed.
Such shame I cannot deposit a fraction of youthfulness, to be withdrawn, when spiraling towards oblivion!
Frays of the never ending daily demands, destroy, one day at a time.
I must . . . hold my head high, though worn, frazzled looking down and out.
What be my answer, wish for more . . . of this staying around?
Not too long ago I was ready, the future looked bleaker every (expletive) night!
Then a miracle I say happened, not in a night, through many, many, moons.
The several year completion of my first story, a true midnight dream, titled appropriately "The Flame" a battle of will, never known surfaces. "Please stick around till the last sundown!"
What you read most days has been a five year battle of survival, although it doesn't seem like much to some, I'm sure! Believe me when I say "It has been a monumental challenge to one who has never typed, never understood the complexity of the "English Properness" as I call it! "I am ME and wish to be none other! I shall think, and write my way!
I've said it once I'll say it again "If not for this new hobby of putting my thoughts to words, I'd stay down, nary a reason it seems most times to get up. Like paddling against an ever increasing current, USELESS! Glen
Monday, February 11, 2013
Is Not Pretty!
I have a little something, something, I wish to talk about and it ain't gonna be pretty! Fun yes, least'wise that's the plan.
What in hell does least'wise mean? I have never used least'wise before, another first here on GlenView.
Seems somewhat self explanatory to me. And you know me!
Least'wise means, at least; anyway; also. Uh huh, seems to me like the dictionary don't know!
Damn ya know, I just hate it when I have to explain the meaning in the dictionary, or least'wise, or least-ways interpret to myself!
Least means, at any rate; in any event--not in the least, not at all; not in the smallest degree.
I can see here's another fine mess I've gotten myself into!
Wise, well we all know what wise means, but seeing how my post is going, or where it's headed as in "down the crapper" I least'wise check.
Wise, well now let me tell ya, there be many definitions of wise in my dictionary, least of which is what I'm most certainly not feeling like, at this moment. Underneath wise, is wise-acre, then wise-ass, wise-crack, wise guy, then wisenheimer.
Wise means, per this here smart-ass dictionary, having or showing good judgment. (Definitely what I'm not showing!)
Also prompted by wisdom. (Not on this here blog!)
Another meaning, having information. (Yeah! Like this dick-headed dictionary from hell!)
(ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?)
Learned, (Huh!)
Shrewd; crafty; cunning. (Enough, enough, enough!!! We're still on the first wise and there's four more to go after this. I CAN'T TAKE NOO MORE!)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOW BACK TO THE IRREGULAR, UNSCHEDULED, UNDIGNIFIED, FORMAT.
You know how they tap into maple trees for that good maple syrup? I use to love pancakes with maple syrup. Yummy, yummy, yummy, I loved that maple syrup in my tummy. Don't eat pancakes no more too many calories ya know!
Where am I going with this? Just a warning, it all goes downhill from here just like maple syrup coming from maple trees, Ya know like Mr. Fig Newton's gravity something, or the other about an apples. Scientific crap you know. Well it's been a spell since most of us older folks have been to school and if it's not on these gadgets these kids today use to fry their brains then most likely none know. Oh shit! What have I got myself into now!
The key word that originally started this post a running is SNOT. Yep! I know I'll talk about anything!
(I DO NEED A BREAK FROM THE SERIOUSNESS OF CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. THIS IS MY WAY OF??? HELL I DON'T KNOW, PERHAPS I'M RE-CHARGING MY BATTERIES. NOW THAT'S A SCARY THOUGHT! I'M AFRAID I'LL LOSE MY SENSE OF HUMOR IN THE SERIOUSNESS. DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!)
Here goes nothing, just like all the words before these!
Back in October of last year, I had a sinus infection from hell. Headache, dizziness, the whole bit. Well for about the last eight weeks now, my head is like the finest maple syrup producing tree that's ever been!!!!!
I'vegot to be the snottiest, snot producing kid EVER! Goodnight
What in hell does least'wise mean? I have never used least'wise before, another first here on GlenView.
Seems somewhat self explanatory to me. And you know me!
Least'wise means, at least; anyway; also. Uh huh, seems to me like the dictionary don't know!
Damn ya know, I just hate it when I have to explain the meaning in the dictionary, or least'wise, or least-ways interpret to myself!
Least means, at any rate; in any event--not in the least, not at all; not in the smallest degree.
I can see here's another fine mess I've gotten myself into!
Wise, well we all know what wise means, but seeing how my post is going, or where it's headed as in "down the crapper" I least'wise check.
Wise, well now let me tell ya, there be many definitions of wise in my dictionary, least of which is what I'm most certainly not feeling like, at this moment. Underneath wise, is wise-acre, then wise-ass, wise-crack, wise guy, then wisenheimer.
Wise means, per this here smart-ass dictionary, having or showing good judgment. (Definitely what I'm not showing!)
Also prompted by wisdom. (Not on this here blog!)
Another meaning, having information. (Yeah! Like this dick-headed dictionary from hell!)
(ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?)
Learned, (Huh!)
Shrewd; crafty; cunning. (Enough, enough, enough!!! We're still on the first wise and there's four more to go after this. I CAN'T TAKE NOO MORE!)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOW BACK TO THE IRREGULAR, UNSCHEDULED, UNDIGNIFIED, FORMAT.
You know how they tap into maple trees for that good maple syrup? I use to love pancakes with maple syrup. Yummy, yummy, yummy, I loved that maple syrup in my tummy. Don't eat pancakes no more too many calories ya know!
Where am I going with this? Just a warning, it all goes downhill from here just like maple syrup coming from maple trees, Ya know like Mr. Fig Newton's gravity something, or the other about an apples. Scientific crap you know. Well it's been a spell since most of us older folks have been to school and if it's not on these gadgets these kids today use to fry their brains then most likely none know. Oh shit! What have I got myself into now!
The key word that originally started this post a running is SNOT. Yep! I know I'll talk about anything!
(I DO NEED A BREAK FROM THE SERIOUSNESS OF CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. THIS IS MY WAY OF??? HELL I DON'T KNOW, PERHAPS I'M RE-CHARGING MY BATTERIES. NOW THAT'S A SCARY THOUGHT! I'M AFRAID I'LL LOSE MY SENSE OF HUMOR IN THE SERIOUSNESS. DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!)
Here goes nothing, just like all the words before these!
Back in October of last year, I had a sinus infection from hell. Headache, dizziness, the whole bit. Well for about the last eight weeks now, my head is like the finest maple syrup producing tree that's ever been!!!!!
I'vegot to be the snottiest, snot producing kid EVER! Goodnight
Sunday, February 10, 2013
(14) C. and P. Conclusion of Part one, (VII)
Two mistrustful eyes peer at him from the darkness.
He almost pulled the old woman into the hallway, afraid she would lock herself in and rushed past her as she was blocking the doorway.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanova," his voice disobeyed him, it faltered and started trembling. "I've brought you . . . an article . . . but we better go over there . . . near the light . . . "
"Lord what is it? . . . Who are you? What's your business?"
"For pity's sake, Alyona Ivanova . . . you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . " He was holding the pledge out to her.
She looks at the pledge, then fixed her eyes on the eyes of her uninvited visitor, looking at him with mistrust.
"But why are you looking at me like that? If you want it take it, otherwise I'll go elsewhere."
"But what's the matter, dearie, so suddenly . . . what is it?" she asked. "Why are you so pale? Look your hands are trembling!"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . when you have nothing to eat."
Taking the pledge she asked "what is it? Ehh, it's all wrapped up."
She goes over to the window trying to untie the string, turning her back to him. He freed the axe holding it under his coat with his right hand. His hands were terribly weak; they were growing numb. He was afraid he was going to drop the axe . . . suddenly his head seemed to spin.
"Look how he's wrapped it up!" the old woman exclaimed in annoyance, and made a move towards him.
He took the axe out, swung it with both hands, scarcely aware of himself, without effort, almost mechanically, brought the butt-end down on her head. His own strength seemed to have no part in it. But the moment he brought the axe down, strength was born in him.
(I FIND THAT LAST SENTENCE FASCINATING AS IF SOMETHING . . . TAKES CONTROL!)
He was in full possession of his mind, the clouding and dizziness had ceased, but his hands were still trembling. He immediately pulls the keys out of her pocket. He tries the many keys to the chest of drawers, upon hearing their jingling he suddenly wants to drop everything and leave. Another thought comes to him, what if the old lady is still alive? He checks, discovering a string around her neck, a purse stuffed full. Two crosses one of cypress, one of brass, he took the purse dropping the crosses on the old woman's chest, taking the axe with him back to the bedroom. He was fumbling with the keys without luck. There was one big key that looked to be for a trunk. He found one under the bed filled with old clothes, then a gold watch fell out. Many gold objects were between the clothes. He stuffed the pledges into his trousers and coat pockets.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps in the other room, then a slight but distinct cry, he grabbed the axe and ran out. Lizaveta stood frozen, as white as a sheet, unable to utter a cry. Poor childlike, simple, Lizaveta was backing up as the axe came down.
(I CHOOSE TO NOT GO INTO THE GORY DETAILS OF THE TWO MURDERS. I WILL ADMIT TO NOT FEELING MUCH COMPASSION FOR THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S THE TOTAL OPPOSITE FOR LIZAVETA.)
Fear was taking hold of him after this second quite unexpected murder.
Then a sort of absentmindness took possession of him, seeing a bucket of water in the kitchen he washes his hands, the axe and checked himself for blood, spending about three minutes doing so.
A tormenting feeling takes over him. "My God! I must run away!" He rushed to the door where horror awaited him. The door was unlatched standing open a hands width. The old woman had not locked it after he rushed in, nor had Lizaveta, when she entered. He rushed to the door and locked it. "But no, I must go, go . . ." He unhooked the door, opened it, listening carefully for a long time. Voices were heard, arguing, shouting, these voices went away, then someone was humming a tune, he waited patiently. He had stepped out to the stairs when footsteps were heard coming from far away from the bottom of the stairs. Somehow he knew they were coming to the fourth floor to the old woman's apartment. As the visitor started climbing the fourth floor he quietly slipped back into the apartment latching the door. He now was on the opposite side of the door just as the old woman was earlier, only now it was he who was doing the listening.
It was as if he were dreaming as the visitor rang the bell. He rang it again then becoming impatient tugging at the door handle.
"What's up in there, are they snoring, or has somebody wrung their necks Cur-r-rse it!" He bellowed.
Another set of footsteps was heard, someone else is coming up. The newcomer addresses Koch "what nobody home."
The newcomer suggest they go get the caretaker, because the door is hooked not locked so someone has to be home. Something's not right he goes to get the caretaker, recommending Koch to stay there at the door.
Time passes Koch gets impatient and leaves, giving Raskolnikov the opening he needs. He starts down the stairs as three or four footsteps are heard coming up. Luckily there was an empty apartment below him as he stepped inside as the men slipped by him. He leaves just as the men were entering the apartment.
Torments had weakened him so much he could barely walk, sweat rolled off him in drops.
He was nearing collapse as he entered the gates of his house, forgetting the axe until he was already on the stairs. He then returns the axe back to the caretakers shed.
He went into his room and threw himself onto the sofa. He did not sleep, he was lost in oblivion. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up and shouted. Bits and pieces of various thoughts kept swarming in his head; but he could not grasp any one of them, could not rest on anyone, hard as he tried . . .
He almost pulled the old woman into the hallway, afraid she would lock herself in and rushed past her as she was blocking the doorway.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanova," his voice disobeyed him, it faltered and started trembling. "I've brought you . . . an article . . . but we better go over there . . . near the light . . . "
"Lord what is it? . . . Who are you? What's your business?"
"For pity's sake, Alyona Ivanova . . . you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . " He was holding the pledge out to her.
She looks at the pledge, then fixed her eyes on the eyes of her uninvited visitor, looking at him with mistrust.
"But why are you looking at me like that? If you want it take it, otherwise I'll go elsewhere."
"But what's the matter, dearie, so suddenly . . . what is it?" she asked. "Why are you so pale? Look your hands are trembling!"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . when you have nothing to eat."
Taking the pledge she asked "what is it? Ehh, it's all wrapped up."
She goes over to the window trying to untie the string, turning her back to him. He freed the axe holding it under his coat with his right hand. His hands were terribly weak; they were growing numb. He was afraid he was going to drop the axe . . . suddenly his head seemed to spin.
"Look how he's wrapped it up!" the old woman exclaimed in annoyance, and made a move towards him.
He took the axe out, swung it with both hands, scarcely aware of himself, without effort, almost mechanically, brought the butt-end down on her head. His own strength seemed to have no part in it. But the moment he brought the axe down, strength was born in him.
(I FIND THAT LAST SENTENCE FASCINATING AS IF SOMETHING . . . TAKES CONTROL!)
He was in full possession of his mind, the clouding and dizziness had ceased, but his hands were still trembling. He immediately pulls the keys out of her pocket. He tries the many keys to the chest of drawers, upon hearing their jingling he suddenly wants to drop everything and leave. Another thought comes to him, what if the old lady is still alive? He checks, discovering a string around her neck, a purse stuffed full. Two crosses one of cypress, one of brass, he took the purse dropping the crosses on the old woman's chest, taking the axe with him back to the bedroom. He was fumbling with the keys without luck. There was one big key that looked to be for a trunk. He found one under the bed filled with old clothes, then a gold watch fell out. Many gold objects were between the clothes. He stuffed the pledges into his trousers and coat pockets.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps in the other room, then a slight but distinct cry, he grabbed the axe and ran out. Lizaveta stood frozen, as white as a sheet, unable to utter a cry. Poor childlike, simple, Lizaveta was backing up as the axe came down.
(I CHOOSE TO NOT GO INTO THE GORY DETAILS OF THE TWO MURDERS. I WILL ADMIT TO NOT FEELING MUCH COMPASSION FOR THE OLD WOMAN. IT'S THE TOTAL OPPOSITE FOR LIZAVETA.)
Fear was taking hold of him after this second quite unexpected murder.
Then a sort of absentmindness took possession of him, seeing a bucket of water in the kitchen he washes his hands, the axe and checked himself for blood, spending about three minutes doing so.
A tormenting feeling takes over him. "My God! I must run away!" He rushed to the door where horror awaited him. The door was unlatched standing open a hands width. The old woman had not locked it after he rushed in, nor had Lizaveta, when she entered. He rushed to the door and locked it. "But no, I must go, go . . ." He unhooked the door, opened it, listening carefully for a long time. Voices were heard, arguing, shouting, these voices went away, then someone was humming a tune, he waited patiently. He had stepped out to the stairs when footsteps were heard coming from far away from the bottom of the stairs. Somehow he knew they were coming to the fourth floor to the old woman's apartment. As the visitor started climbing the fourth floor he quietly slipped back into the apartment latching the door. He now was on the opposite side of the door just as the old woman was earlier, only now it was he who was doing the listening.
It was as if he were dreaming as the visitor rang the bell. He rang it again then becoming impatient tugging at the door handle.
"What's up in there, are they snoring, or has somebody wrung their necks Cur-r-rse it!" He bellowed.
Another set of footsteps was heard, someone else is coming up. The newcomer addresses Koch "what nobody home."
The newcomer suggest they go get the caretaker, because the door is hooked not locked so someone has to be home. Something's not right he goes to get the caretaker, recommending Koch to stay there at the door.
Time passes Koch gets impatient and leaves, giving Raskolnikov the opening he needs. He starts down the stairs as three or four footsteps are heard coming up. Luckily there was an empty apartment below him as he stepped inside as the men slipped by him. He leaves just as the men were entering the apartment.
Torments had weakened him so much he could barely walk, sweat rolled off him in drops.
He was nearing collapse as he entered the gates of his house, forgetting the axe until he was already on the stairs. He then returns the axe back to the caretakers shed.
He went into his room and threw himself onto the sofa. He did not sleep, he was lost in oblivion. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up and shouted. Bits and pieces of various thoughts kept swarming in his head; but he could not grasp any one of them, could not rest on anyone, hard as he tried . . .
Saturday, February 9, 2013
(13) Summary C. and P. (Part One) VI
Raskolnikov has become superstitious, he views a certain strangeness, a mysteriousness in this whole affair, the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences.
The previous winter a student told him about the old pawnbroker in case he ever needed money. At that time he was getting by giving lessons. When he fell on hard times he has two things of value to pawn, his father's silver watch and a ring given to him by his sister. From the first moment he saw the old woman he was filled with insurmountable loathesome, he took two "little bills" from her for his ring, stopping at a wretched tavern afterwards. While drinking tea he fell into deep thought. A strange idea was hatching in his head.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(PLEASE REMEMBER THE STRANGE IDEA HATCHING IN RASKOLNIKOV'S HEAD AND THE FOLLOWING OVERHEARD CONVERSATION AT THE TAVERN BETWEEN A STUDENT AND A OFFICER, HAPPENED SIX WEEKS EARLIER, THAN HIS DREAM AND CHANCE MEETING OF LIZAVETA AT THE HAYMARKET AT THE END OF CHAPTER FIVE.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
At a table next to him sat a student and a young officer, he heard the student talking of a money lender Alyona Ivanova. That in itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov" he had just left her. By chance, of course; but just then, when he could not rid himself of a certain quite extraordinary impression, it was as if someone had come to his service: the student gave details about Alyona Ivanova. How wicked, how she gives four times less than the thing being pawned is worth. Telling about how the hag beats Lizaveta her younger, simple, half sister.
The student speaks about Lizaveta with some special pleasure saying "she's quite a phenomenon herself!" Lizaveta was a slave to her sister and that Alyona Ivanova had made out a will giving all her money to a monastery, for the eternal remembrance of her soul. Lizaveta would be given the movable property, chairs and so forth.
(ALL ALYONA IVANOVA'S MONEY TO A MONASTERY "FOR THE ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE OF HER SOUL.) ((ISN'T THAT SOMETHING? SORRY I COULD NOT HELP MYSELF THINKING ABOUT THAT ONE!))
Lizaveta was a tradeswoman, not of official rank; she was unmarried and of terribly awkward built, remarkably tall, with long, somehow twisted legs, always wore down-at-heel goatskin shoes, but kept herself neat. Above all the student was surprised and laughed at the fact that Lizaveta was constantly pregnate . . .
"But you say she's ugly?" the officer remarked.
"Well, yes, she's dark-skinned, looks like a soldier in disguise, but she's not ugly at all. She has such a kind face and eyes. Very much so. A lot of men like her--there's the proof. She's so quiet, meek, uncomplaining, agreeable--she agrees to everything. And she does have a nice smile."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Another book's Bantam Classic's first printed in 1958 describes Lizaveta.
The student spoke about Lizaveta with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing. The officer listened with great interest, asking the student to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Lizaveta worked day and night for her sister, giving her all. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouthed in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that look as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes and was clean in person. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof if it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Ah, so you like her too!" the officer laughed.
"For the strangeness of it. No, but I'll tell you one thing, I could kill and rob that cursed old woman, and that, I assure you, without any remorse," the student added hotly.
The officer guffawed, and Raskolnikov was startled. How strange it was!
The student talks philosophically expressing thoughts like many of the students of the new generation.
"You have a worthless old crone, no good to anyone, on the contrary harmful to everyone, who doesn't know why herself she's alive. On the other hand you have fresh young forces that are being wasted for lack of support monentarily and that old woman has doomed to the monastery! Just think of the amount of lives that could be helped, all from her money. Kill her and take her money, afterwards devote yourself to the service of all mankind! Would not a thousand good deeds make up for one tiny little crime? One death for hundreds of lives--it's simple arithmetic! And what does the life of this stupid, consumptive, and wicked old crone mean in the balence of the general balence? No more than the life of a louse, a cockroach, and not even that much, because this old crone is harmful. She's eating up someone else's life" the other day she got so angry that she bit Lizaveta's finger; they almost had to cut it off!"
"Of course, she doesn't deserve to be alive," the officer remarked, "but that's nature."
"Eh, brother, but nature has to be corrected and guided, otherwise we'd all drown in prejudices.Without that there wouldn't be even a single great man. "Duty, conscience," they say--I'm not going to speak against duty and conscience, but do we really undersatand them? Wait I'll ask you one more question. Listen!"
"No, you wait. I'll ask you a question!"
"Well?"
"You're talking and making speeches now, but tell me: would you YOURSELF kill the old woman, or not?"
"Of course not! It's for the sake of justice that I . . . I'm not the point here . . ."
" Well, in my opinion, if you yourself don't dare, then there's no justice in it at all! Let's shoot another round of billiards!"
Raskolnikov was greatly agitated. It was the youthful talk and way of the times, he had heard it many times before, only in different forms and on different subjects. But why precisely now did he have to hear precisely such talk and thinking . . . when EXACTLY THE SAME THOUGHTS had been conceived in his own head? And why precisely now, as he was coming from the old woman bearing the germ of his thought, should he chance upon a conversation about the same old woman? . . . Coincidence . . . this tavern conversation had an extreme influence on him in the further development of the affair; as though there was indeed some predestination, some indication in it . . .
(THE CONVERSTION ABOVE HAS MUCH TO DO WITH THE REST OF THE BOOK.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After returning from the Haymarket he threw himself on the sofa, soon a leaden sleep took over. It was ten the next morning when Nstasysa woke him, bringing him tea, he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. She came back at two o'clock, he lay as before. He ate a few bites and stretched back out on the sofa.
He stretched back out on the sofa daydreaming, suddenly he heard the clock strike six realizing the time. He had sleep away the day, luckily the preparations were not many having having planned them out beforehand. He sewed a loop under his coat to conceal the axe, holding it in place with his left hand.
He was running later than planned, there was some problem with getting the axe from his landlady's kitchen so with some difficuty borrowed the caretaker's for the deed.
Raskolnikov makes it to the old lady's apartment ringing the bell, no answer. He knew she was home alone standing at the door but was suspicious. He purposely mutters something aloud, then hears the sound of the latch being lifted.
I PURPOSELY SHORTENED THE END OF CHAPTER SIX, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ IN MORE DETAIL PLEASE GO TO MY EARLIER SUMMARY. I LEAVE YOU WITH THE MAIN POINT. THE IDEA THAT WAS HATCHING IN RASKOLNIKOV'S MIND AFTER THE FIRST VISIT WAS THE IDEAS OF THE NEW GENERATION HE WAS ABOUT TO CARRY THROUGH, BECOMING REALITY! Glen
The previous winter a student told him about the old pawnbroker in case he ever needed money. At that time he was getting by giving lessons. When he fell on hard times he has two things of value to pawn, his father's silver watch and a ring given to him by his sister. From the first moment he saw the old woman he was filled with insurmountable loathesome, he took two "little bills" from her for his ring, stopping at a wretched tavern afterwards. While drinking tea he fell into deep thought. A strange idea was hatching in his head.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(PLEASE REMEMBER THE STRANGE IDEA HATCHING IN RASKOLNIKOV'S HEAD AND THE FOLLOWING OVERHEARD CONVERSATION AT THE TAVERN BETWEEN A STUDENT AND A OFFICER, HAPPENED SIX WEEKS EARLIER, THAN HIS DREAM AND CHANCE MEETING OF LIZAVETA AT THE HAYMARKET AT THE END OF CHAPTER FIVE.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
At a table next to him sat a student and a young officer, he heard the student talking of a money lender Alyona Ivanova. That in itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov" he had just left her. By chance, of course; but just then, when he could not rid himself of a certain quite extraordinary impression, it was as if someone had come to his service: the student gave details about Alyona Ivanova. How wicked, how she gives four times less than the thing being pawned is worth. Telling about how the hag beats Lizaveta her younger, simple, half sister.
The student speaks about Lizaveta with some special pleasure saying "she's quite a phenomenon herself!" Lizaveta was a slave to her sister and that Alyona Ivanova had made out a will giving all her money to a monastery, for the eternal remembrance of her soul. Lizaveta would be given the movable property, chairs and so forth.
(ALL ALYONA IVANOVA'S MONEY TO A MONASTERY "FOR THE ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE OF HER SOUL.) ((ISN'T THAT SOMETHING? SORRY I COULD NOT HELP MYSELF THINKING ABOUT THAT ONE!))
Lizaveta was a tradeswoman, not of official rank; she was unmarried and of terribly awkward built, remarkably tall, with long, somehow twisted legs, always wore down-at-heel goatskin shoes, but kept herself neat. Above all the student was surprised and laughed at the fact that Lizaveta was constantly pregnate . . .
"But you say she's ugly?" the officer remarked.
"Well, yes, she's dark-skinned, looks like a soldier in disguise, but she's not ugly at all. She has such a kind face and eyes. Very much so. A lot of men like her--there's the proof. She's so quiet, meek, uncomplaining, agreeable--she agrees to everything. And she does have a nice smile."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Another book's Bantam Classic's first printed in 1958 describes Lizaveta.
The student spoke about Lizaveta with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing. The officer listened with great interest, asking the student to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Lizaveta worked day and night for her sister, giving her all. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouthed in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that look as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes and was clean in person. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof if it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Ah, so you like her too!" the officer laughed.
"For the strangeness of it. No, but I'll tell you one thing, I could kill and rob that cursed old woman, and that, I assure you, without any remorse," the student added hotly.
The officer guffawed, and Raskolnikov was startled. How strange it was!
The student talks philosophically expressing thoughts like many of the students of the new generation.
"You have a worthless old crone, no good to anyone, on the contrary harmful to everyone, who doesn't know why herself she's alive. On the other hand you have fresh young forces that are being wasted for lack of support monentarily and that old woman has doomed to the monastery! Just think of the amount of lives that could be helped, all from her money. Kill her and take her money, afterwards devote yourself to the service of all mankind! Would not a thousand good deeds make up for one tiny little crime? One death for hundreds of lives--it's simple arithmetic! And what does the life of this stupid, consumptive, and wicked old crone mean in the balence of the general balence? No more than the life of a louse, a cockroach, and not even that much, because this old crone is harmful. She's eating up someone else's life" the other day she got so angry that she bit Lizaveta's finger; they almost had to cut it off!"
"Of course, she doesn't deserve to be alive," the officer remarked, "but that's nature."
"Eh, brother, but nature has to be corrected and guided, otherwise we'd all drown in prejudices.Without that there wouldn't be even a single great man. "Duty, conscience," they say--I'm not going to speak against duty and conscience, but do we really undersatand them? Wait I'll ask you one more question. Listen!"
"No, you wait. I'll ask you a question!"
"Well?"
"You're talking and making speeches now, but tell me: would you YOURSELF kill the old woman, or not?"
"Of course not! It's for the sake of justice that I . . . I'm not the point here . . ."
" Well, in my opinion, if you yourself don't dare, then there's no justice in it at all! Let's shoot another round of billiards!"
Raskolnikov was greatly agitated. It was the youthful talk and way of the times, he had heard it many times before, only in different forms and on different subjects. But why precisely now did he have to hear precisely such talk and thinking . . . when EXACTLY THE SAME THOUGHTS had been conceived in his own head? And why precisely now, as he was coming from the old woman bearing the germ of his thought, should he chance upon a conversation about the same old woman? . . . Coincidence . . . this tavern conversation had an extreme influence on him in the further development of the affair; as though there was indeed some predestination, some indication in it . . .
(THE CONVERSTION ABOVE HAS MUCH TO DO WITH THE REST OF THE BOOK.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After returning from the Haymarket he threw himself on the sofa, soon a leaden sleep took over. It was ten the next morning when Nstasysa woke him, bringing him tea, he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. She came back at two o'clock, he lay as before. He ate a few bites and stretched back out on the sofa.
He stretched back out on the sofa daydreaming, suddenly he heard the clock strike six realizing the time. He had sleep away the day, luckily the preparations were not many having having planned them out beforehand. He sewed a loop under his coat to conceal the axe, holding it in place with his left hand.
He was running later than planned, there was some problem with getting the axe from his landlady's kitchen so with some difficuty borrowed the caretaker's for the deed.
Raskolnikov makes it to the old lady's apartment ringing the bell, no answer. He knew she was home alone standing at the door but was suspicious. He purposely mutters something aloud, then hears the sound of the latch being lifted.
I PURPOSELY SHORTENED THE END OF CHAPTER SIX, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ IN MORE DETAIL PLEASE GO TO MY EARLIER SUMMARY. I LEAVE YOU WITH THE MAIN POINT. THE IDEA THAT WAS HATCHING IN RASKOLNIKOV'S MIND AFTER THE FIRST VISIT WAS THE IDEAS OF THE NEW GENERATION HE WAS ABOUT TO CARRY THROUGH, BECOMING REALITY! Glen
Thursday, February 7, 2013
To Write, Or Not To Write?
To write or not to write, that be the question before me tonight? Whether it's smarter to just forget it and go to bed, such a quandry puzzling old Glen tonight. I be tired! "How tired?" I be soo tired my mind can't describe it. Oh my! I must be critical if I can't bescribe it. I like to work and get that adrenalin flowing, time goes soo fast!
I be a going faster than a snail, moving up a step at a turtle's speed, vrroom, vrroom, watch them short little legs a moving. I know your thinking that's not fast! Well if your 18 years old in the prime of your life, hell no! But if your getting old it might be considered fast. Hell if you live long enough and go from walking normal to arthritis, to a cane, then a walker. Ever watch a snail move? When I was an inquisitive wittle Glenny I watched everything, I still remember how fascinated I was at seeing my first snail. I'm no longer fascinated but it was a fun remembrance that has stuck with me. I had a couple pet turtles and enjoyed watching and playing with them.
Well we all remember the story about the turtle and the hare, don't we? Maybe not if your as tired as I. Still I find this to be the most relaxing enjoyable time of my day. You know I have had numerous hobbies in my life, but to find something like this writing hobby/escapade/escape is quite frankly mind boggling! "How so" ask my friend Sue? (Hi Sue!)
I've never had that stick-to-it-iveness! When things got too challenging I gave up. The easy way out I suppose.
The more I challenge myself the more fun I'm having. I hope I'm making some sense that's about the best I can explain it at this time. It's relaxingly fun!
How did this Crime And Punishment summary/evaluation/thoughts/opinions post come about?
"THE HELL IF I KNOW!"
I enjoyed reading it for the first time a year ago, but as time passed I realized I had unanswered questions, seems bits and pieces would pop up in my mind from time to time, and I wanted to understand it more than the obvious story line. So I decided to challenge myself by reading it once more and posting the story as I go. Sheesh seems I'm being too windy but hope to cover more of the un-obviuos bits and pieces, that easily can be overlooked. It may just be me but I find it a challengingly rewarding read. That's precisely why I must re-examine Fyodor Dostoevsky's brillant Crime And Punishment. I decided to try posting the first part which is seven chapters approximately 80 pages.
Others apparently are enjoying it along with me because my hits have gone up significantly and I thank you!
I can ramble a bit most any night, but takes me considerable time to get away from my normal silliness, comedy, fun style I write most nights. I must slow down read and think when working on C. And P. IMAGINE THAT!
ANYHOW I HOPE TO KEEP MY SNOW SHOES ON AS I TRUDGE THROUGH THE WILDERNESS IN SEARCH OF MEANING FOR PART TWO. PLEASE REMEMBER I'M ATTEMPTING TO GIVE THE FEEL OF HIS WRITING AND ADD MY THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS. I HOPE TO SUMMARIZE IT DOWN MUCH MORE. WE'LL SEE AS I'M A WORKS IN PROGRESS. I HOPE YOU CONTIMUE TO ENJOY AS MUCH AS I AM. IT WILL TAKE ME THE REST OF THE YEAR TO COMPLETE. I WILL TAKE BREAKS BY WRITING MY RAMBLING SILLINESS IN BETWEEN THE SERIOUS SIDE. KEEP IT SPONTANEOUS AND FUN . . YEAH BABY! Goodnight to all my friends from around the world, you warm an old man's heart! GLEN
I be a going faster than a snail, moving up a step at a turtle's speed, vrroom, vrroom, watch them short little legs a moving. I know your thinking that's not fast! Well if your 18 years old in the prime of your life, hell no! But if your getting old it might be considered fast. Hell if you live long enough and go from walking normal to arthritis, to a cane, then a walker. Ever watch a snail move? When I was an inquisitive wittle Glenny I watched everything, I still remember how fascinated I was at seeing my first snail. I'm no longer fascinated but it was a fun remembrance that has stuck with me. I had a couple pet turtles and enjoyed watching and playing with them.
Well we all remember the story about the turtle and the hare, don't we? Maybe not if your as tired as I. Still I find this to be the most relaxing enjoyable time of my day. You know I have had numerous hobbies in my life, but to find something like this writing hobby/escapade/escape is quite frankly mind boggling! "How so" ask my friend Sue? (Hi Sue!)
I've never had that stick-to-it-iveness! When things got too challenging I gave up. The easy way out I suppose.
The more I challenge myself the more fun I'm having. I hope I'm making some sense that's about the best I can explain it at this time. It's relaxingly fun!
How did this Crime And Punishment summary/evaluation/thoughts/opinions post come about?
"THE HELL IF I KNOW!"
I enjoyed reading it for the first time a year ago, but as time passed I realized I had unanswered questions, seems bits and pieces would pop up in my mind from time to time, and I wanted to understand it more than the obvious story line. So I decided to challenge myself by reading it once more and posting the story as I go. Sheesh seems I'm being too windy but hope to cover more of the un-obviuos bits and pieces, that easily can be overlooked. It may just be me but I find it a challengingly rewarding read. That's precisely why I must re-examine Fyodor Dostoevsky's brillant Crime And Punishment. I decided to try posting the first part which is seven chapters approximately 80 pages.
Others apparently are enjoying it along with me because my hits have gone up significantly and I thank you!
I can ramble a bit most any night, but takes me considerable time to get away from my normal silliness, comedy, fun style I write most nights. I must slow down read and think when working on C. And P. IMAGINE THAT!
ANYHOW I HOPE TO KEEP MY SNOW SHOES ON AS I TRUDGE THROUGH THE WILDERNESS IN SEARCH OF MEANING FOR PART TWO. PLEASE REMEMBER I'M ATTEMPTING TO GIVE THE FEEL OF HIS WRITING AND ADD MY THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS. I HOPE TO SUMMARIZE IT DOWN MUCH MORE. WE'LL SEE AS I'M A WORKS IN PROGRESS. I HOPE YOU CONTIMUE TO ENJOY AS MUCH AS I AM. IT WILL TAKE ME THE REST OF THE YEAR TO COMPLETE. I WILL TAKE BREAKS BY WRITING MY RAMBLING SILLINESS IN BETWEEN THE SERIOUS SIDE. KEEP IT SPONTANEOUS AND FUN . . YEAH BABY! Goodnight to all my friends from around the world, you warm an old man's heart! GLEN
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Neighborhood Things
Many things been been going on in Glen's neighborhood. As far as the follow up to the post Snookered.
Once again I'm now working the evening shift. Been doing maintenance on a machine made in 1979. Ya see I have been a good boy. Can't lie to my friends. I have been a good old man. I begin work a few minutes early and a man older than me said, "can you take my place so I can eat my lunch. "Sure" I said. First mistake. The product was coming out to me and I made the mistake of looking at them. They didn't look okay to me, so being the numskull I be, I ask, "are these good?" Apparently WRONG question!
Well seems I rocked the boat a tad, more than a tad. Hey seemed like a logical thing to ask if I questioned the product good or not, right if unsure, ASK! That's called communication in my book, oopsey post. Well Psycho Sam in the other department had a hissy fit. He gets all carried away telling my boss !@#$%^&**&^%$#@ and so on and so forth! The next thing I know the Production Manager, my Boss and Psycho Sam are in my space. Seems Physho Sam said the wrong thing to my Boss in the wrong tone of voice, and his Boss Mr. Production didn't like the way Psycho Sam was making his point!
All the time these Bosses was discussing Bossing business old Glen be doing his job. Old Glen been there a long time, he knows his job ya see! Come to find out Psycho Sam got all bent out of shape fer nuthin! Me and Sam go back a spell. He got all bent out of shape at me the very first day I worked there. I went Psycho Glen right back, I notta gonna take his shit, ya see! Well long story short he has never liked me. Glen don't care, he gonna do his job!
Sam got his "tit in the wringer," (One of them old sayings.) his Boss let him know, you don't talk like that. Mr. Production who is relatively new, said "I''ve never seen him talk like that!" Me and my Boss fill him in on Sam.
So I got snookered into taking this older than me old man and, sha-zam! I cause a heap O trouble, not fer me though.
THOUGHT! WHAT IN THE WORLD HAS IT COME TO WHEN DOING YOUR JOB GETS PEOPLE IN TROUBLE FOR ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
Two nights ago this old man (ME) be doing his fixing on the old 1979 model machine, getting ready for lunch. Umm! Umm! Hungry I'd reckon! The Production Manager wants to talk to me in his office. I'm thinking "Psycho Sam be at it again," then I realise, nope he done flew the coop and drinking Budweiser at home. Seems I walked into a hornet's nest, uh huh! Damn I can't get away from trouble! I've had my head, feet, ass in the old machine, greasing, repairing, how the @$%k can I be in TROUBLE! Don't they know I'm fixing this old machine using more than duct tape!
I use to have a reputation mind ya! I made the mistakes of tellin ones that need tellin, "Hey Goober you ain't doing worth a shit, or you're the laziest person I've ever seen!" You know little pointers to help them do their job so this old man don't have to do it! Seems in the modern world you're suppose to kiss ass. Well I don't kiss ass, ya see! (I've come to a conclusion everybody must be CHALLENGED!) Them Bosses too namsy-pamsy to evaluate, and straighten them out, so Grandpa here tried! After a few write ups, no, no, no, not the lazy asses, ME! I was rewarded with a three day vacation for UN-SPORTSMAN LIKE BEHAVIOUR! That means I got three days off without pay. I ask my Boss "how often can I tell some lazy ass? Their a lazy ass, so I can get three days off, I enjoyed the extra time off!" Apparently I wasn't supposed to! It was punishment of some kind, I never did figure where the punishment come in!
Rambling once again, imagine that! Well Mr. Production be having some trouble and he come to me. I told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help my old 1979 machine, I been giving a new shot at life with grease compressions. (Little joke!) I draw the line at mouth to pipes! Sheesh don't know what may be in them old air lines!
They be having some lazy people problems, and he was seeking a crazy old man's counsel! I explain to him everything the way I see it, I had me an audience fer a spell, I was in heaven! Here's what I think is going to happen, now dealing with people ya never can be sure you know!
Some people too lazy to sit on their arse and drive a Toyota Pick-up (I mean lift.) to put up stock, fill out the required information, and enter it into a computer. Okay now tell me . . . HOW LAZY IS THAT?
We got plenty of people that I'm 100% totally convinced that their lift's don't go all the way to the top!!!
So guess what, instead of working doing 4 Hours of production work, I'll be given the REALLY SUPER hard job of sitting on my arse, putting stock away, wow! Ain't life so fricking complicated, you just want to eat gummy bears and read Crime And Punishment!!! Glen
Once again I'm now working the evening shift. Been doing maintenance on a machine made in 1979. Ya see I have been a good boy. Can't lie to my friends. I have been a good old man. I begin work a few minutes early and a man older than me said, "can you take my place so I can eat my lunch. "Sure" I said. First mistake. The product was coming out to me and I made the mistake of looking at them. They didn't look okay to me, so being the numskull I be, I ask, "are these good?" Apparently WRONG question!
Well seems I rocked the boat a tad, more than a tad. Hey seemed like a logical thing to ask if I questioned the product good or not, right if unsure, ASK! That's called communication in my book, oopsey post. Well Psycho Sam in the other department had a hissy fit. He gets all carried away telling my boss !@#$%^&**&^%$#@ and so on and so forth! The next thing I know the Production Manager, my Boss and Psycho Sam are in my space. Seems Physho Sam said the wrong thing to my Boss in the wrong tone of voice, and his Boss Mr. Production didn't like the way Psycho Sam was making his point!
All the time these Bosses was discussing Bossing business old Glen be doing his job. Old Glen been there a long time, he knows his job ya see! Come to find out Psycho Sam got all bent out of shape fer nuthin! Me and Sam go back a spell. He got all bent out of shape at me the very first day I worked there. I went Psycho Glen right back, I notta gonna take his shit, ya see! Well long story short he has never liked me. Glen don't care, he gonna do his job!
Sam got his "tit in the wringer," (One of them old sayings.) his Boss let him know, you don't talk like that. Mr. Production who is relatively new, said "I''ve never seen him talk like that!" Me and my Boss fill him in on Sam.
So I got snookered into taking this older than me old man and, sha-zam! I cause a heap O trouble, not fer me though.
THOUGHT! WHAT IN THE WORLD HAS IT COME TO WHEN DOING YOUR JOB GETS PEOPLE IN TROUBLE FOR ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
Two nights ago this old man (ME) be doing his fixing on the old 1979 model machine, getting ready for lunch. Umm! Umm! Hungry I'd reckon! The Production Manager wants to talk to me in his office. I'm thinking "Psycho Sam be at it again," then I realise, nope he done flew the coop and drinking Budweiser at home. Seems I walked into a hornet's nest, uh huh! Damn I can't get away from trouble! I've had my head, feet, ass in the old machine, greasing, repairing, how the @$%k can I be in TROUBLE! Don't they know I'm fixing this old machine using more than duct tape!
I use to have a reputation mind ya! I made the mistakes of tellin ones that need tellin, "Hey Goober you ain't doing worth a shit, or you're the laziest person I've ever seen!" You know little pointers to help them do their job so this old man don't have to do it! Seems in the modern world you're suppose to kiss ass. Well I don't kiss ass, ya see! (I've come to a conclusion everybody must be CHALLENGED!) Them Bosses too namsy-pamsy to evaluate, and straighten them out, so Grandpa here tried! After a few write ups, no, no, no, not the lazy asses, ME! I was rewarded with a three day vacation for UN-SPORTSMAN LIKE BEHAVIOUR! That means I got three days off without pay. I ask my Boss "how often can I tell some lazy ass? Their a lazy ass, so I can get three days off, I enjoyed the extra time off!" Apparently I wasn't supposed to! It was punishment of some kind, I never did figure where the punishment come in!
Rambling once again, imagine that! Well Mr. Production be having some trouble and he come to me. I told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help my old 1979 machine, I been giving a new shot at life with grease compressions. (Little joke!) I draw the line at mouth to pipes! Sheesh don't know what may be in them old air lines!
They be having some lazy people problems, and he was seeking a crazy old man's counsel! I explain to him everything the way I see it, I had me an audience fer a spell, I was in heaven! Here's what I think is going to happen, now dealing with people ya never can be sure you know!
Some people too lazy to sit on their arse and drive a Toyota Pick-up (I mean lift.) to put up stock, fill out the required information, and enter it into a computer. Okay now tell me . . . HOW LAZY IS THAT?
We got plenty of people that I'm 100% totally convinced that their lift's don't go all the way to the top!!!
So guess what, instead of working doing 4 Hours of production work, I'll be given the REALLY SUPER hard job of sitting on my arse, putting stock away, wow! Ain't life so fricking complicated, you just want to eat gummy bears and read Crime And Punishment!!! Glen
Sunday, February 3, 2013
(12) Summary, Thoughts, C. and P. Part One (I thru V)
I FEAR MANY DO NOT READ THIS BOOK BECAUSE IT'S DEFINITELY, NOT AN EASY READ. I'M OF AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE, NO HIGHER LEARNING OTHER THAN LIVING A SPELL. HELL! THAT'S LEARNING . . . FOR SURE! I'VE SUMMARIZED SEVEN CHAPTERS, PART ONE. THERE'S A HEAPING HELPING LEFT, AS IN 470 PAGES. I'VE ONLY BEGUN, THE TITLE OF THIS NOVEL IS . . . "CRIME .. . AND . . . PUNISHMENT.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"He was as dark and dramatic as the great novels he wrote.
His prison experiences coupled with his conversion to a conservative and profound religious philosophy formed the basis for his great novels. But it was his fortitous marriage to Anna Snitkina, following a period of utter destitution brought about by his compulsive gambling, that gave Dostoevsky the emotional stability to complete Crime and Punishment." Peter Frank
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
[[CHAPTER ONE]]
Raskolnikov a former student has been reduced to poverty, laying about for several weeks. He is in a very agitated state, unwilling to talk about money, not afraid of his landlady just not interested in listening to such trivial matters. Wondering to himself, "What are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new world, that's what they're most afraid of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anything. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking about cuckoo . . . land
(I THINK THE LAST FEW SENTENCES SET UP THE START OF THE BOOK NICELY.)
Stench from the many taverns in Petersburg does not help his troubled mind. He's off to see the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanova, dressed in clothes that others would not venture out in.
(I ABSOLUTELY MUST GIVE THE DESCRIPTION OF THIS WOMAN.)
"She was a tiny dried up crone, about sixty, with sharp, spiteful little eyes and a small, sharp nose. She was bareheaded, and her colorless and slightly graying hair was thickly greased. Her long, thin neck, which resembled a chicken's leg, was wrapped in some flannel rags, despite the heat, a fur-trimmed jacket, completely worn out, and yellowed with age, hung loosely from the shoulders. The old woman coughed and groaned all the time."
While pawning his father's watch, Raskolinov studies the apartment. After leaving he was troubled, he exclaimed:
" Oh God, how loathsome this all is! And can it be, can it be that I . . . no it's nonsense, it's absurd!" he added resolutely. "Could such horror really come into my head? But then, what filth my heart is capable of! . . . Above all, filth, nasty, vile, vile! . . . And for the whole month I . . ."
[[CHAPTER TWO]]
He goes into a tavern, after one drink his his mind clears.
Here Raskolinov encounters a man who looks possibly to be a retired official in his fifties, with some gray in his hair and a large bald spot, with a yellow, even greenish, face, swollen from constant drinking, his eyes shone, tiny as slits, but lively. Dressed in an old, completely ragged black frock coat. There was something very strange in him; HIS EYES SEEMED TO BE LIT WITH RAPTURE--perhaps there were sense and reason as well, but at the same time there seemed also to be A FLICKER OF MADNESS IN THEM. He looks at Raskolnikov and said loud and firmly:
"May I venture my dear sir, to engage you in a conversation of decency? My experience distinguishes in you an educated man, unaccustomed to drink. I am a titular councillor, (titular is the lowest grade of civil service.) Marmeladov--such is my name.
He sat down catercorner to him. He was drunk, but spoke loquaciously (very talkative) and glibly (smoothly) sometimes getting a bit confused. Seemed to Raskolnikov as though he had not talked to anyone for quite sometime.
Marmeladov talks on about everything pretty much this whole chapter. (Dostoevsky knows well about drunks. His father was one, thought killed by his own servants.) Marmeladov's addiction to drink ruins, his whole family. Not holding a job brings such poverty and hardships to Sonya his eldest daughter from his first wife, his second wife is dying of consumption (tuberculosis) and has three children from her previous marriage. (Dostoevsky paints a brilliant in depth picture of alcoholism's destruction to a family. Doestoesvsky's own wife died of consumption gives his first hand knowledge to the character Katerina Marmeladov.) The saddest part of this family is that Sonya Marmeladov at the age of 16 has to get a yellow card (showing her a prostitute) to feed her step mother as well and children, plus her drunken father. There seemed to be no other way for the destitute family to live because of Marmrladov's addiction. She's now forced to find lodgings elsewhere from shame. SHE'S FORCED INTO BEING THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB AS RASKOLNIKOV SEES IT. (PLEASE REMEMBER THAT.)
[[CHAPTER THREE]]
This chapter is about a letter from Raskolnikov's mother. She writes, "You are all Dunya (his sister) and I have. We were heartbroken to learn that you had left the university for lack of funds. The money I sent you four months ago was borrowed against my pension. I could not send you more until the debt was paid. Good fortune may allow me to send you more soon. Your sister has been living with me now for a month and a half, and in the future we shall not part again.
Dunya took a job as governess taking a years pay in advance, she suffered much in Mr. and Mrs.Svidrigailov's house. Dunya could not leave until the debt was paid. We deceived you last year, we wrote saying the money we sent you was from money Dunya had saved, but that was not so, now I am telling you the whole truth, so that you will know how much Dunya loves you. She took this position mainly in order to send you money which you so desperately needed then, now everything, by God's will, has suddenly changed for the better, and so that you will know how Dunya loves you, and what a precious heart she has."
(MR. SVIDGRIGAIL IS A MOST IMPORTANT ONE TO REMEMBER.)
(I'll shorten the letter from Pulcheria Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov's mother. I'll give you a taste of a rather lengthly letter.)
While under the influence of drink, Mr. Svidrigailov treated Dunya rudely, concealing his passion for her. He could not restrain himself and offered Dunya a proposition. He would abandon everything and go away with her. By chance Mrs. Svidrigailov overheard this discussion, misinterpreting everything laid the whole blame on Dunya, even striking Dunya! Dunya was dismissed.
Mrs. Svidrigailov ruined Dunya's name in the town, then Mr. Svidrigailov set the record straight with proof Dunya was innocent in a letter written before the overheard conversation in the garden, Mrs. Svidrigailov was so touched by the truth of the letter she went out of her way to make amends.She restores Dunya's honor and lay all the blame all on Mr, Svidrigailov.
A distant relative of Mrs, Svidrigailov has asked Dunya to marry him, a court councillor, Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. A man of fourty five much older than Dunya who will soon move to Petersburg. The wedding is more of a consensual arrangement.
The overall tone of the letter disagrees terribly with Raskolnikov. Seems as though his mother and sister is betting their future on this man. Not discussing this matter with him is unacceptable. Dunya will not marry Pyotr Luzhin and the matter is closed as far as he is concerned. HIS THOUGHTS ARE THAT DUNYA HAS BECOME THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB FOR HER FAMILY GUARANTEEING HIS FUTURE FOR HIM AND HE WILL NOT HAVE IT! JUST AS SONYA MARMELADOV DID IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER!
While reading the letter Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears; in finishing, it was, pale, twisted convulsively, and a heavy, bilious, spiteful smile wandered over his lips. His heart was beating wildly, and the thoughts surged violently, he felt stifled, craving space, he left talking, whispering, to himself. Passers-by took him for drunk, making his way towards Vasilievsky Island.
I HAVE DRASTICALLY CURTAILED THIS CHAPTER, BUT HOPEFULLY KEPT ENOUGH OF THE MAIN POINTS. IF I CAN'T I'LL NEVER FINISH. I'M A WORKS IN PROCESS ATTEMPTING SOMETHING POSSIBLY, IMPOSSIBLE. I HOWEVER ENJOY A CHALLENGE! IF YOU HANG TOUGH WITH ME, WE'LL GET THROUGH IT. BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THE BEST IS YET TO COME!!!! Glen......... My hope is to get you the readers who have tried to read this complicated book to maybe, read along with me! That surely would tickle the cockles of my heart!
I WILL READ THE BOOK AND SHORTEN IT AS MUCH AS I CAN WITHOUT DESTROYING. (There is however little happenings that carry much meaning going on in between the main story line.)
IF I FEEL LIKE I CAN'T GET THERE WELL . . WE'LL HAVE TO SEE!
[[CHAPTER FOUR]]
Raskolinov, "This marriage will not take place as long as I live, and to the devil with Mr. Luzhin!
Anger boiled within, and the more he thought that if he met Mr. Luzhin, right then he might kill him! A whirlwind of thoughts were spinning. Dunya is selling herself for her brother and her mother's security that is clear, she'll sell herself, her moral feelings, freedom, peace of mind, even her conscience for her beloved family. Do you know, Dunya, that Sonya Marmeladov is no way worse than yours with Mr, Luzhin?"
He tormented himself with these thoughts. They had tortured him long ago and his present anguish ripened recently and become concentrated, taking the form of a horrible, wild, and fantastic question that tormented his heart and mind, demanding resolution.
A sudden realization hits him, forbid the marriage, what can he do? He has been fleecing them! The money borrowed from Svidrigailovs where Dunya had to endure so much . . . for him! He's in no position to help, old torments concerning these questions had long ago worn out his heart. Long, long ago this present anguish was born within. It's now ripened from growth, taking the form of a horribly wild and fantastic question that tormented his heart and mind, demanding resolution. His mother's letter struck him like a thunderbolt, he must do something without fail, quickly at all cost, or . . . "Or renounce life altogether!" he cried out. "Accept fate obediently as it is, once and for all, and stifle myself everything in myself, renouncing any right to act, to live, to love!"
"Do you understand, my dear sir, what it means when there is no place left to go?" He suddenly recalled Marmeladov's question from yesterday. "For it is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go."
A thought "race through his head," but the difference was that a month ago, even yesterday, it was only a dream, but now . . . now it suddenly is not a dream, but in a new menacing, unfamiliar form. It hit him and everything went dark before his eyes. He wanted to sit down, and was looking for a bench.
There was a bench about a hundred steps ahead, he then spots a woman about twenty steps away, and notices something strange about this womam, and so striking that he became riveted on her--reluntantly at first, and then with annoyance. He wanted to understand what was so strange about her. She was very young and bareheaded, no parasol, no gloves, swinging her arms rediculously. Her dress was oddly put on, and torn behind at the waist, near the top of the skirt a whole strip had come away and hanging loosely. She was walking unsteady, reeling this way and that. The encounter aroused all of Raskolinov's attention. He caught up with her at the bench just as she collapsed on it at one end, apparently from extreme fatigue. She was drunk, how strange. She was young about sixteen, maybe fifteen, small, fair, pretty, but all flushed as if swollen. The girl seemed to understand very little, by all appearances unaware she was in the street.
Raskolnikov did not sit, and did not want to go away, he stood perplexed in front of her. The street was deserted from the heat of the day except for one gentlemen who had stopped, by all evidence would like to approach the girl with certain intentions! Raskolinov was hindering the man from approaching the girl and was looking at him angrily, waiting his turn. This was clear, Raskolnikov suddenly becomes terribly angry, he left the girl for moment to insult the fat dandy.
"Hey, you, what do you want here! "he shouted, clenching his teeth and laughing, foaming with spite. While arguing a policeman steps in between them. Raskolnikov takes the policeman to the bench, showing him the poor girl. The policeman understood all at once, "ah what a pity!" he said, shaking his head. "Seems quite a child still. Deceived, that's what it is. Listen, miss," he began calling her, "tell me, where you live?" She could not respond and simply waved her hand. "Miss, eh, miss?" the policeman tried again. Raskolnikov reached into his pocket handing the the policeman money for a coachman to take her home. "Shoo! . . . pests! . . ." she muttered, and again waved her hand,.
"Ah what a shame we've got in the world now! Lord! Such an ordinary young girl, she's been deceived, what depravity we've got nowadays! We've got many like that nowadays, she looks like one of the pampered ones, like a young lady, look at how her little dress is torn!" as the policeman looks at her.
"The main thing is to keep that scoundrel over there somehow, you can see what he wants of her!"
"Prevent him we can, sir, " the policeman replied assuredly. He tries once more to find her address.
"Pah! Shameless . . . pests!" she said, waving her arms once again, She rose from the bench, staggering in the direction she had come from.
"Don't worry, I won't let him sir, what depravity we've got nowadays!" the policeman said.
At that moment Raskolnikov mind made an about turn. "Forget it let the fat dandy have fun. What is it to you?"
(Important to show how Raskolnikov's mind can change from one moment to another.)
No matter what he just said it pained him terribly! He wished he could become totally oblivious of everything, and then wake up and start totally anew . .
"And where am I going?" Too see Razumikhin as if he just now understood where he was going.
Razumikhin a former university friend. Raskolnikov had almost no friends while at the university. He kept away from everyone, so they turned away from him. He was a zealous student, respected for it but no one liked him. He was poor, proud and unsocialable. Many fellow students felt as though he looked upon them as children, from above, as though he were ahead of them all in development, knowledge and in convictions, and that he regarded their convictions and interest as somrthing inferior.
Yet for some reason he became close with Razumikhin--that is, not really close, more socialable, more frank with him.
Razumikhin was an exceptionally cheerful, socialable fellow, kind to the point of simplicity. However this simplicity concealed both depth and dignity. His friends understood that; everyone loved him. His appearance was expressive--tall, thin, black-haired, always badly shaved. He could be violent on occasion and was a very strong man. Once he knocked down a six-and-a-half-foot policeman with one blow. Razumikhin was remarkable in that no setbacks ever stopped him, and no bad circumstances seemed able to crush him. He was very poor, supporting himself on his own, getting money by work of one sort or another. At present he too, had been forced to leave the university. Raskolnikov has not seen Razumikhin in four months. Two months ago they had chanced to meet in the street, but Raskolnikov turned away crossing to the other side of the street as not to be noticed. Razumikhin did notice, passed by, not wishing to trouble a fiend. (RAZUMIKHIN IS IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER.)
[[CHAPTER FIVE]]
Why he was going to see Razumikhin troubled him more than he was even aware; he anxiously tried to find some sinister meaning for himself in this seemingly quite ordinary act.
"So did I really mean to have Razumikhin help me straighten everything out?" he asked in surprise.
After much reflection almost by chance he comes to the realization, "I will go to Razumikhin after THAT, once THAT is already finished and everything has taken a new course . . . " And suddenly he comes to his senses. "After THAT, " he cried out, "but will THAT be?"
He was about to go back home, but suddenly it seemed terribly disgusting; it was there where THAT had been so he just followed his nose.
His nervous trembling turned into some sort of feverishness; he began shivering; in such heat he was getting a chill. He kept walking unaware of where he was going, finding himself free of the stench and taverns.
Raskolnikov was quite out of touch. He found the greenness and freshness pleased him, soon the pleasant sensations turned painful and irritating. He went into an eating-house and drank a glass of vodka and ate a piece of pie. He had not drunk vodka for a long time, suddenly his feet become heavy, and he had a strong inclination to sleep. He started for home but stopped in complete exhaustion, left the road, went into the bushes, collapsed on the grass, and in a moment was asleep.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a long impression on the disturbed and the already excited organism of the person.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
(((THIS IS WHAT I WISH TO SAY ABOUT DREAMS. MANY PEOPLE SAY THEY DON'T REMEMBER THEIR DREAMS. I MOST CERTAINLY DREAM A LOT AND REMEMBER THE MOST ASTOUNDING ONES THAT LEAVE AN EVERLASTING INPRINT. WHEN I AWAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THESE DREAMS THE EMOTIONS ARE REAL!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
RASKOLNIKOV'S DREAM GOES ON THE BETTER PART OF SIX PAGES. I CANNOT SHORTEN AND DO IT JUSTICE. PLEASE VISIT CHAPTER FIVE OF MY POST "THE DREAM," OR IF YOU HAVE THE BOOK PLEASE READ IT YOU WON'T BE SORRY!
Raskolnikov wakes from the dream all in a sweat, his hair was damp, stands up filled with terror.
"Thank God it was only a dream!" he said while leaning back against a tree, drawing a deep breath. "But what's wrong? Am I coming down with a fever? Such a hideous dream!"
His whole body was as if broken; his soul was dark and troubled. He leaned his elbows on his knees and rest his chin in both hands.
"God!" he exclaimed, "but can it be, can it be, that that I will really take an axe and hit her on the head and smash her skull . . . slip in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal, and tremble, and hide all covered with blood . . . with the axe . . . Lord can it be?"
He was trembling like a leaf as he said it.
"I wouldn't dare! I couldn't endure it, I couldn't! . . . What has this been all along? . . ."
He was pale, exhausted, but he suddenly seemed to breath more easy as he walked toward home wondering how he got there. He felt he had thrown off the terrible burden that had weighed him down for so long, and his soul become light and peaceful. "Lord!" he pleaded, "show me my way; I renounce this cursed . . . dream of mine!"
He was now free of that spell as he walks along unaware of his fatigue as though an absess in his heart had been forming all month had suddenly burst.
Something is about to happen that predetermines his fate. Why did he returned home the longest way through the Haymarket where he had no need to go? An accidental encounter happens in the Haymarket comes at such an hour and such moment in his life to produce the most decisive and final effect on his entire fate? As if it had been waiting for him there on purpose!
It was late as he walked through the Haymarket, the merchants were locking up, removing their tables packing away their wares. Raskolnikov liked these places near the taverns, his ragged clothing attracted no attention. He happens upon a tradesman and his wife discussing business with Lizaveta Ivanova, the younger sister of the same old woman, Alyona Ivanova, the pawnbroker. Upon seeing Lizaveta deep amazement overcomes him. He overhears them telling Lizaveta to return between six and seven tomorrow to claose a sales.She often buys and sales for a small commission.
Raskolnikov's amazement upon hearing the conversation gave way to horror, a chill was running down his spine. He had learned all at once that the old woman WOULD BE LEFT AT HOME ALONE.
He was not far from his place. He walked in like a man condemned to deah. He was totally unable to reason; but he suddenly felt with his whole being that he no longer had any freedom either of mind or of will, and that everything had been suddenly and finally decided.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"He was as dark and dramatic as the great novels he wrote.
His prison experiences coupled with his conversion to a conservative and profound religious philosophy formed the basis for his great novels. But it was his fortitous marriage to Anna Snitkina, following a period of utter destitution brought about by his compulsive gambling, that gave Dostoevsky the emotional stability to complete Crime and Punishment." Peter Frank
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
[[CHAPTER ONE]]
Raskolnikov a former student has been reduced to poverty, laying about for several weeks. He is in a very agitated state, unwilling to talk about money, not afraid of his landlady just not interested in listening to such trivial matters. Wondering to himself, "What are people most afraid of? A new step, their own new world, that's what they're most afraid of . . . I babble too much, however. That's why I don't do anything, because I babble. However, maybe it's like this: I babble because I don't do anything. I've learned to babble over this past month, lying in a corner day in and day out, thinking about cuckoo . . . land
(I THINK THE LAST FEW SENTENCES SET UP THE START OF THE BOOK NICELY.)
Stench from the many taverns in Petersburg does not help his troubled mind. He's off to see the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanova, dressed in clothes that others would not venture out in.
(I ABSOLUTELY MUST GIVE THE DESCRIPTION OF THIS WOMAN.)
"She was a tiny dried up crone, about sixty, with sharp, spiteful little eyes and a small, sharp nose. She was bareheaded, and her colorless and slightly graying hair was thickly greased. Her long, thin neck, which resembled a chicken's leg, was wrapped in some flannel rags, despite the heat, a fur-trimmed jacket, completely worn out, and yellowed with age, hung loosely from the shoulders. The old woman coughed and groaned all the time."
While pawning his father's watch, Raskolinov studies the apartment. After leaving he was troubled, he exclaimed:
" Oh God, how loathsome this all is! And can it be, can it be that I . . . no it's nonsense, it's absurd!" he added resolutely. "Could such horror really come into my head? But then, what filth my heart is capable of! . . . Above all, filth, nasty, vile, vile! . . . And for the whole month I . . ."
[[CHAPTER TWO]]
He goes into a tavern, after one drink his his mind clears.
Here Raskolinov encounters a man who looks possibly to be a retired official in his fifties, with some gray in his hair and a large bald spot, with a yellow, even greenish, face, swollen from constant drinking, his eyes shone, tiny as slits, but lively. Dressed in an old, completely ragged black frock coat. There was something very strange in him; HIS EYES SEEMED TO BE LIT WITH RAPTURE--perhaps there were sense and reason as well, but at the same time there seemed also to be A FLICKER OF MADNESS IN THEM. He looks at Raskolnikov and said loud and firmly:
"May I venture my dear sir, to engage you in a conversation of decency? My experience distinguishes in you an educated man, unaccustomed to drink. I am a titular councillor, (titular is the lowest grade of civil service.) Marmeladov--such is my name.
He sat down catercorner to him. He was drunk, but spoke loquaciously (very talkative) and glibly (smoothly) sometimes getting a bit confused. Seemed to Raskolnikov as though he had not talked to anyone for quite sometime.
Marmeladov talks on about everything pretty much this whole chapter. (Dostoevsky knows well about drunks. His father was one, thought killed by his own servants.) Marmeladov's addiction to drink ruins, his whole family. Not holding a job brings such poverty and hardships to Sonya his eldest daughter from his first wife, his second wife is dying of consumption (tuberculosis) and has three children from her previous marriage. (Dostoevsky paints a brilliant in depth picture of alcoholism's destruction to a family. Doestoesvsky's own wife died of consumption gives his first hand knowledge to the character Katerina Marmeladov.) The saddest part of this family is that Sonya Marmeladov at the age of 16 has to get a yellow card (showing her a prostitute) to feed her step mother as well and children, plus her drunken father. There seemed to be no other way for the destitute family to live because of Marmrladov's addiction. She's now forced to find lodgings elsewhere from shame. SHE'S FORCED INTO BEING THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB AS RASKOLNIKOV SEES IT. (PLEASE REMEMBER THAT.)
[[CHAPTER THREE]]
This chapter is about a letter from Raskolnikov's mother. She writes, "You are all Dunya (his sister) and I have. We were heartbroken to learn that you had left the university for lack of funds. The money I sent you four months ago was borrowed against my pension. I could not send you more until the debt was paid. Good fortune may allow me to send you more soon. Your sister has been living with me now for a month and a half, and in the future we shall not part again.
Dunya took a job as governess taking a years pay in advance, she suffered much in Mr. and Mrs.Svidrigailov's house. Dunya could not leave until the debt was paid. We deceived you last year, we wrote saying the money we sent you was from money Dunya had saved, but that was not so, now I am telling you the whole truth, so that you will know how much Dunya loves you. She took this position mainly in order to send you money which you so desperately needed then, now everything, by God's will, has suddenly changed for the better, and so that you will know how Dunya loves you, and what a precious heart she has."
(MR. SVIDGRIGAIL IS A MOST IMPORTANT ONE TO REMEMBER.)
(I'll shorten the letter from Pulcheria Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov's mother. I'll give you a taste of a rather lengthly letter.)
While under the influence of drink, Mr. Svidrigailov treated Dunya rudely, concealing his passion for her. He could not restrain himself and offered Dunya a proposition. He would abandon everything and go away with her. By chance Mrs. Svidrigailov overheard this discussion, misinterpreting everything laid the whole blame on Dunya, even striking Dunya! Dunya was dismissed.
Mrs. Svidrigailov ruined Dunya's name in the town, then Mr. Svidrigailov set the record straight with proof Dunya was innocent in a letter written before the overheard conversation in the garden, Mrs. Svidrigailov was so touched by the truth of the letter she went out of her way to make amends.She restores Dunya's honor and lay all the blame all on Mr, Svidrigailov.
A distant relative of Mrs, Svidrigailov has asked Dunya to marry him, a court councillor, Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. A man of fourty five much older than Dunya who will soon move to Petersburg. The wedding is more of a consensual arrangement.
The overall tone of the letter disagrees terribly with Raskolnikov. Seems as though his mother and sister is betting their future on this man. Not discussing this matter with him is unacceptable. Dunya will not marry Pyotr Luzhin and the matter is closed as far as he is concerned. HIS THOUGHTS ARE THAT DUNYA HAS BECOME THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB FOR HER FAMILY GUARANTEEING HIS FUTURE FOR HIM AND HE WILL NOT HAVE IT! JUST AS SONYA MARMELADOV DID IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER!
While reading the letter Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears; in finishing, it was, pale, twisted convulsively, and a heavy, bilious, spiteful smile wandered over his lips. His heart was beating wildly, and the thoughts surged violently, he felt stifled, craving space, he left talking, whispering, to himself. Passers-by took him for drunk, making his way towards Vasilievsky Island.
I HAVE DRASTICALLY CURTAILED THIS CHAPTER, BUT HOPEFULLY KEPT ENOUGH OF THE MAIN POINTS. IF I CAN'T I'LL NEVER FINISH. I'M A WORKS IN PROCESS ATTEMPTING SOMETHING POSSIBLY, IMPOSSIBLE. I HOWEVER ENJOY A CHALLENGE! IF YOU HANG TOUGH WITH ME, WE'LL GET THROUGH IT. BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THE BEST IS YET TO COME!!!! Glen......... My hope is to get you the readers who have tried to read this complicated book to maybe, read along with me! That surely would tickle the cockles of my heart!
I WILL READ THE BOOK AND SHORTEN IT AS MUCH AS I CAN WITHOUT DESTROYING. (There is however little happenings that carry much meaning going on in between the main story line.)
IF I FEEL LIKE I CAN'T GET THERE WELL . . WE'LL HAVE TO SEE!
[[CHAPTER FOUR]]
Raskolinov, "This marriage will not take place as long as I live, and to the devil with Mr. Luzhin!
Anger boiled within, and the more he thought that if he met Mr. Luzhin, right then he might kill him! A whirlwind of thoughts were spinning. Dunya is selling herself for her brother and her mother's security that is clear, she'll sell herself, her moral feelings, freedom, peace of mind, even her conscience for her beloved family. Do you know, Dunya, that Sonya Marmeladov is no way worse than yours with Mr, Luzhin?"
He tormented himself with these thoughts. They had tortured him long ago and his present anguish ripened recently and become concentrated, taking the form of a horrible, wild, and fantastic question that tormented his heart and mind, demanding resolution.
A sudden realization hits him, forbid the marriage, what can he do? He has been fleecing them! The money borrowed from Svidrigailovs where Dunya had to endure so much . . . for him! He's in no position to help, old torments concerning these questions had long ago worn out his heart. Long, long ago this present anguish was born within. It's now ripened from growth, taking the form of a horribly wild and fantastic question that tormented his heart and mind, demanding resolution. His mother's letter struck him like a thunderbolt, he must do something without fail, quickly at all cost, or . . . "Or renounce life altogether!" he cried out. "Accept fate obediently as it is, once and for all, and stifle myself everything in myself, renouncing any right to act, to live, to love!"
"Do you understand, my dear sir, what it means when there is no place left to go?" He suddenly recalled Marmeladov's question from yesterday. "For it is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go."
A thought "race through his head," but the difference was that a month ago, even yesterday, it was only a dream, but now . . . now it suddenly is not a dream, but in a new menacing, unfamiliar form. It hit him and everything went dark before his eyes. He wanted to sit down, and was looking for a bench.
There was a bench about a hundred steps ahead, he then spots a woman about twenty steps away, and notices something strange about this womam, and so striking that he became riveted on her--reluntantly at first, and then with annoyance. He wanted to understand what was so strange about her. She was very young and bareheaded, no parasol, no gloves, swinging her arms rediculously. Her dress was oddly put on, and torn behind at the waist, near the top of the skirt a whole strip had come away and hanging loosely. She was walking unsteady, reeling this way and that. The encounter aroused all of Raskolinov's attention. He caught up with her at the bench just as she collapsed on it at one end, apparently from extreme fatigue. She was drunk, how strange. She was young about sixteen, maybe fifteen, small, fair, pretty, but all flushed as if swollen. The girl seemed to understand very little, by all appearances unaware she was in the street.
Raskolnikov did not sit, and did not want to go away, he stood perplexed in front of her. The street was deserted from the heat of the day except for one gentlemen who had stopped, by all evidence would like to approach the girl with certain intentions! Raskolinov was hindering the man from approaching the girl and was looking at him angrily, waiting his turn. This was clear, Raskolnikov suddenly becomes terribly angry, he left the girl for moment to insult the fat dandy.
"Hey, you, what do you want here! "he shouted, clenching his teeth and laughing, foaming with spite. While arguing a policeman steps in between them. Raskolnikov takes the policeman to the bench, showing him the poor girl. The policeman understood all at once, "ah what a pity!" he said, shaking his head. "Seems quite a child still. Deceived, that's what it is. Listen, miss," he began calling her, "tell me, where you live?" She could not respond and simply waved her hand. "Miss, eh, miss?" the policeman tried again. Raskolnikov reached into his pocket handing the the policeman money for a coachman to take her home. "Shoo! . . . pests! . . ." she muttered, and again waved her hand,.
"Ah what a shame we've got in the world now! Lord! Such an ordinary young girl, she's been deceived, what depravity we've got nowadays! We've got many like that nowadays, she looks like one of the pampered ones, like a young lady, look at how her little dress is torn!" as the policeman looks at her.
"The main thing is to keep that scoundrel over there somehow, you can see what he wants of her!"
"Prevent him we can, sir, " the policeman replied assuredly. He tries once more to find her address.
"Pah! Shameless . . . pests!" she said, waving her arms once again, She rose from the bench, staggering in the direction she had come from.
"Don't worry, I won't let him sir, what depravity we've got nowadays!" the policeman said.
At that moment Raskolnikov mind made an about turn. "Forget it let the fat dandy have fun. What is it to you?"
(Important to show how Raskolnikov's mind can change from one moment to another.)
No matter what he just said it pained him terribly! He wished he could become totally oblivious of everything, and then wake up and start totally anew . .
"And where am I going?" Too see Razumikhin as if he just now understood where he was going.
Razumikhin a former university friend. Raskolnikov had almost no friends while at the university. He kept away from everyone, so they turned away from him. He was a zealous student, respected for it but no one liked him. He was poor, proud and unsocialable. Many fellow students felt as though he looked upon them as children, from above, as though he were ahead of them all in development, knowledge and in convictions, and that he regarded their convictions and interest as somrthing inferior.
Yet for some reason he became close with Razumikhin--that is, not really close, more socialable, more frank with him.
Razumikhin was an exceptionally cheerful, socialable fellow, kind to the point of simplicity. However this simplicity concealed both depth and dignity. His friends understood that; everyone loved him. His appearance was expressive--tall, thin, black-haired, always badly shaved. He could be violent on occasion and was a very strong man. Once he knocked down a six-and-a-half-foot policeman with one blow. Razumikhin was remarkable in that no setbacks ever stopped him, and no bad circumstances seemed able to crush him. He was very poor, supporting himself on his own, getting money by work of one sort or another. At present he too, had been forced to leave the university. Raskolnikov has not seen Razumikhin in four months. Two months ago they had chanced to meet in the street, but Raskolnikov turned away crossing to the other side of the street as not to be noticed. Razumikhin did notice, passed by, not wishing to trouble a fiend. (RAZUMIKHIN IS IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER.)
[[CHAPTER FIVE]]
Why he was going to see Razumikhin troubled him more than he was even aware; he anxiously tried to find some sinister meaning for himself in this seemingly quite ordinary act.
"So did I really mean to have Razumikhin help me straighten everything out?" he asked in surprise.
After much reflection almost by chance he comes to the realization, "I will go to Razumikhin after THAT, once THAT is already finished and everything has taken a new course . . . " And suddenly he comes to his senses. "After THAT, " he cried out, "but will THAT be?"
He was about to go back home, but suddenly it seemed terribly disgusting; it was there where THAT had been so he just followed his nose.
His nervous trembling turned into some sort of feverishness; he began shivering; in such heat he was getting a chill. He kept walking unaware of where he was going, finding himself free of the stench and taverns.
Raskolnikov was quite out of touch. He found the greenness and freshness pleased him, soon the pleasant sensations turned painful and irritating. He went into an eating-house and drank a glass of vodka and ate a piece of pie. He had not drunk vodka for a long time, suddenly his feet become heavy, and he had a strong inclination to sleep. He started for home but stopped in complete exhaustion, left the road, went into the bushes, collapsed on the grass, and in a moment was asleep.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a long impression on the disturbed and the already excited organism of the person.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
(((THIS IS WHAT I WISH TO SAY ABOUT DREAMS. MANY PEOPLE SAY THEY DON'T REMEMBER THEIR DREAMS. I MOST CERTAINLY DREAM A LOT AND REMEMBER THE MOST ASTOUNDING ONES THAT LEAVE AN EVERLASTING INPRINT. WHEN I AWAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THESE DREAMS THE EMOTIONS ARE REAL!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
RASKOLNIKOV'S DREAM GOES ON THE BETTER PART OF SIX PAGES. I CANNOT SHORTEN AND DO IT JUSTICE. PLEASE VISIT CHAPTER FIVE OF MY POST "THE DREAM," OR IF YOU HAVE THE BOOK PLEASE READ IT YOU WON'T BE SORRY!
Raskolnikov wakes from the dream all in a sweat, his hair was damp, stands up filled with terror.
"Thank God it was only a dream!" he said while leaning back against a tree, drawing a deep breath. "But what's wrong? Am I coming down with a fever? Such a hideous dream!"
His whole body was as if broken; his soul was dark and troubled. He leaned his elbows on his knees and rest his chin in both hands.
"God!" he exclaimed, "but can it be, can it be, that that I will really take an axe and hit her on the head and smash her skull . . . slip in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal, and tremble, and hide all covered with blood . . . with the axe . . . Lord can it be?"
He was trembling like a leaf as he said it.
"I wouldn't dare! I couldn't endure it, I couldn't! . . . What has this been all along? . . ."
He was pale, exhausted, but he suddenly seemed to breath more easy as he walked toward home wondering how he got there. He felt he had thrown off the terrible burden that had weighed him down for so long, and his soul become light and peaceful. "Lord!" he pleaded, "show me my way; I renounce this cursed . . . dream of mine!"
He was now free of that spell as he walks along unaware of his fatigue as though an absess in his heart had been forming all month had suddenly burst.
Something is about to happen that predetermines his fate. Why did he returned home the longest way through the Haymarket where he had no need to go? An accidental encounter happens in the Haymarket comes at such an hour and such moment in his life to produce the most decisive and final effect on his entire fate? As if it had been waiting for him there on purpose!
It was late as he walked through the Haymarket, the merchants were locking up, removing their tables packing away their wares. Raskolnikov liked these places near the taverns, his ragged clothing attracted no attention. He happens upon a tradesman and his wife discussing business with Lizaveta Ivanova, the younger sister of the same old woman, Alyona Ivanova, the pawnbroker. Upon seeing Lizaveta deep amazement overcomes him. He overhears them telling Lizaveta to return between six and seven tomorrow to claose a sales.She often buys and sales for a small commission.
Raskolnikov's amazement upon hearing the conversation gave way to horror, a chill was running down his spine. He had learned all at once that the old woman WOULD BE LEFT AT HOME ALONE.
He was not far from his place. He walked in like a man condemned to deah. He was totally unable to reason; but he suddenly felt with his whole being that he no longer had any freedom either of mind or of will, and that everything had been suddenly and finally decided.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)