The philosophy on life expresses by Tim is that no matter how old one becomes, they are still the same person throughout their existence. This, however, is not my philosophy. The fact that he has experienced war and yet believes he can still see himself as a little boy is shocking since Tim expresses many times that the war has changed him. Also, one goes through many different life-changing moments that can completely harm or help a person change.
Tim states in his quote that he can see in his eyes the same boy that once was although he has gone through war, a terrifying and life changing experience. This, however, I disagree with because there are two types of people in this world, those that have taken another person’s life and those that haven’t. Something that powerful extracts all of the innocence one has within them. They can never go back to before this instance because this type of baggage is carried throughout their life.
Tim states, “The human life is all one thing…” (236), which I agree with, only in the fact that at the end of one’s life they have all of their experiences with them, however, as these experiences grow in importance people evolve within themselves. One’s life is one complete entity, but only the severely important good and bad times stay and effect future choices.
Different levels of emotions are experienced throughout ones cycle of life; the sadness that a four year old feels when he loses his toy is not the same as when a fifteen year old loses their grandparent. Varying levels of the same emotion cause different memories or life lessons to stick with the individual. Losing that toy may be forgotten after that day, not effecting the person’s life at all, but the lose of a grandparent has a much greater effect. If one never changed at all then there would be no point for emotions such as love because one would always love the same person in the same way their entire life. It is necessary to change throughout our lives otherwise things such as maturity level would never improve, and there would be no longer to continue existing if how I was at five is the same way I am going to be at fifty-five.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Why I write- by Frank McCourt (author of Angela's Ashes)
Why do I write? The answer is in the question. I write in order to let out the ‘I’ in me out since I was just one of many since my early childhood. I had brothers and sisters; my mother and father; family and friends; the men at the pub and Uncle Pa Keating who was dropped on his head. There were always so many others that I was lost in the mix of the Irish poverty. I was thumped on the head and always hungry. I write try and explain the pain of my childhood and how even after everything, I lived.
My horrifying childhood spread from America to Ireland and the worst part is that I can remember since I was four years old. The most I remember is the worst times, the times of death of my siblings and the breakdowns of my mother. I held in for so long the stories of Cuchulain, the confessions I never told the priest, and how I always had to die, dance, and sing for Ireland.
I write in order to give eulogy to my siblings that did not make it through, to show how Malachy was favored over me, and to simply learn to forgive my mother and father for never keeping their promises. They were always smoking the fags or drinking the black stuff when we had no food to eat. They blamed me for all that Malachy did wrong, yet he was the only one that made it through life with me. I write to expose the Angel of the seventh step as the one person I can talk to. I want to be able to finally let out what I would be thumped on the head for if I ever spoke that way in Grandma’s house. To let everyone know that I threw up God in her backyard, yet trying to confess about it led the Priest to casting me out. I write because the poor pig in the pot that a had to drag down the street gave me such shame that it ended up in a book about my life. I write because everyone died anyway so I am the only one left that cares to remember Margaret, Eugene, Oliver, and my childhood that was buried with them.
My horrifying childhood spread from America to Ireland and the worst part is that I can remember since I was four years old. The most I remember is the worst times, the times of death of my siblings and the breakdowns of my mother. I held in for so long the stories of Cuchulain, the confessions I never told the priest, and how I always had to die, dance, and sing for Ireland.
I write in order to give eulogy to my siblings that did not make it through, to show how Malachy was favored over me, and to simply learn to forgive my mother and father for never keeping their promises. They were always smoking the fags or drinking the black stuff when we had no food to eat. They blamed me for all that Malachy did wrong, yet he was the only one that made it through life with me. I write to expose the Angel of the seventh step as the one person I can talk to. I want to be able to finally let out what I would be thumped on the head for if I ever spoke that way in Grandma’s house. To let everyone know that I threw up God in her backyard, yet trying to confess about it led the Priest to casting me out. I write because the poor pig in the pot that a had to drag down the street gave me such shame that it ended up in a book about my life. I write because everyone died anyway so I am the only one left that cares to remember Margaret, Eugene, Oliver, and my childhood that was buried with them.
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