Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Do you know what this class is about?
Summer classes started on Monday. A year ago this week I walked into a classroom and sat behind Kyle and we checked each other out but wouldn't speak until the last day of class. Anywho--I'm taking Spanish at BCC and an online class through UCF. The online hell--oh, gosh I meant to say class-- is called Theory and Tech of Literary Criticism. What does that mean to you? I asked mom and she said, "Learning the theory of literary critics? Am I right?" To which I replied, "How should I know? I was asking you!" So I must go off of the assignments we are given. So far I have read 20 pages by Plato on why art is just imitation. What I took away from it was a horse knows all about a bit, because it's in his mouth. The maker of the bit only knows how to make it, and the artists who paint horses with bits in their mouths are the furthest from the real knowledge--which is embodied in the horse. Get it? Here's another way Plato said it. A flute player knows how the flute is supposed to feel on his lips, and if it's all wrong, he'll tell the flute maker to do this or that to make it better. The artist painting a picture of the flute player is an IMIATATOR of true knowledge, because he doesn't know how to make a flute and he definately doesn't know how to play one. Today from Artistotle I learned that the best way to make a tragedy is to have pitiable situation happen to people who are half way between good and bad and have terrible things happen to them that are in no way their fault. Wow, Stot--that sounds truly tragic. So what I'm saying is I have no idea what this class is really about. My favorite part of the class so far is the guy who sent a mass email to everyone in the class. "Can anyone help me? Tell me where to get the text book? What are the subjects of our assignments? What is this class about? Help." I feel you, man. I almost wrote back to him but I thought, odds are this whole class is like the blind leading the blind. I cannot believe I have written 9 pages on Aristotle and still had the energy to blab incessently in my lame attempt to let you know how I feel. Moment of reflection over--to bed to think myself to sleep.