the floating world

*slight spoilers about the plot abound*

Several months ago, I started reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World for my English class. The basic plot concerns an aging man, Masuji Ono, in post-WWII Japan, who recollects his past as an artist while he is working out engagement preparations for his younger daughter. Ono’s memories traces his beginnings as a young boy and dabbler in the arts to his studies painting the “floating world”—a world of geishas and the pleasure district—to his eventual conversion into creating war propaganda. It was an enjoyable read, though what interested me the most were the themes presented, particularly one point of interest.

Ambition.

At its core, the novel concerns the consequences of one man’s ambition. In a changing era, in which WWII was a mistake in Japan’s history, being associated with the war was shameful. So working as a war propagandist, Ono feels the brunt of judgment and the novel focuses on his attempts to come to terms with it.

Ono’s final verdict on the issue? He was not wrong because despite his actions’ disastrous consequences, he had good intent. In fact, he believes endeavoring despite failure is better than fearing risks; people don’t know true happiness if they “do not know what it is to risk everything in the endeavor to rise above the mediocre” (204). Quite simply, Ono supports ambition.

Ambition, however, is not a simple case of white or black, good or bad. Ono’s situation exhibits this limbo surrounding ambition. The Summit does the same.

The Summit tells a completely different story than that of An Artist of the Floating World, though the parallels between the two are shocking. A documentary, The Summit studies the tragic attempt to climb K2 back in 2008, in which eleven mountaineers died and many others were injured. While re-enacting the events leading to the accident and displaying testimony from those involved or affected, the film also explores reactions to the event. Upon hearing news of the deaths, many critiqued the climbers—how they were impatient and ignored safety protocol, how they were insane to take the risk and climb the peak. But the most interesting point, as one interviewee points out, is this: if nothing had happened—if the climb had been successful—the expedition would not have made the news.

This revelation has many implications, one surrounding the issue with media in our society. What made me love the film, however, is best explained by comparing The Summit with An Artist of the Floating World. The climbers had a goal like Ono did. The climbers were just as ambitious as Ono. The climbers’ ambition resulted in negative consequences despite the possibility for a more positive result, just like Ono’s.

And that’s the problem with ambition.

Ambition has a very thin line between good and bad. With success, ambition is celebrated. With failure, ambition becomes questioned, criticized as dangerous to possess. So what is the best course of action? With ambition, no one ever knows. Reflecting closer on one’s actions yield better understand, but when acting, it is impossible to judge the exact consequences. Ambition is not horrible; it guides many accomplishments—the most ambitious are the ones who discover important breakthroughs for society. But sometimes ambition can cause trouble. Due to the duality of ambition’s effect, it is impossible to reach an exact verdict. Maybe one must act on what seems best and hope one’s decision is right in the end. Or maybe there is a mysterious way to ensure one’s ambition isn’t poorly placed.

There is no answer to this. All that I can conclude is that fiction clearly understands ambition. Reality does too. 

the art of the personal narrative

Click! Clack!

The soft tap of the computer keys sounded in the room. The beat did little to break the tension in the air. I was at the brink of patience, of calm and composure. The looming deadline hung over me. The impending future threatened me. Every word carried a heavy weight. Every word combined to create a sentence, which meshed together to create a paragraph, which added together to form an idea. Questions haunted me as I wrote: will this be good enough? is my story unique? will they like it?

About a year ago, there I sat in my study room, typing furiously away. Back then, I was a high school senior.

I was writing my personal narrative.

Personal narratives are at the crux of college applications. In this strange algorithm, several factors are crucial to determine if a student is a “good fit” for the college—test scores, GPA, extracurricular activities, leadership, accomplishments. Essays are the glue, the aspect binding everything together to create one final impression of the student.

So the major inquiries that remain are: Where do I begin? What do I say about myself? What are the colleges looking for? Who am I exactly?

Colleges are asking for a lot from a high school senior. They are asking students to reach a theme or summation about their life, despite the fact they aren’t handed the wisdom some don’t even have when they’re older.

Personal narratives force a person to analyze their lives and find the story in the reality. It is the reverse of what fiction attempts. Fiction bases itself on studying possible lives, on analyzing and critiquing society, on portraying a reality even if it is based in a fictional land or an alternative history. But personal narratives are not fiction. They even go beyond autobiographies. They are the result of extracting a story from reality. As Shakespeare once said, “The world’s a stage and we are all actors.” His words ring true. We are protagonists, heroes, and lost souls in our own story. Personal narratives ask for a chapter, maybe even less than that. They force us to look back and find a memory or story describing us. We are not just writing our own story; we are analyzing our life as if it’s the fiction we read. We are extracting themes and messages, which make us who we are.

Personal narratives are the college admissions’ equivalent of fiction. We, the students, are authors. We create a story to draw the readers’ attentions. After extensive edit, we present it to critics, who read and ascertain whether or not the work is deserving of receiving their accolades. We strive to entertain but also to teach and show. The only difference is the story is all real; it isn’t a creation with some remnants of reality. The story is a connection to ourselves.

Disclaimer: My views on essays’ importance (as expressed in paragraph five) are probably an exaggeration. But from hearing lectures from my cousin’s college counselor years prior, my biggest impression is that essays can have some significant impact on the application. Many believe test scores and GPA is what is most important and that the talk about essays’ importance is just a “myth.” I don’t know. But like all parts of the college application, essays should be treated carefully.

update: after a long disappearance

Hello! So it’s been a year since I updated this blog, and I’d like to apologize for the long absence. While I had hoped to have regular updates (at least one every two weeks), school proved to be really busy and I soon was unable to write a new entry until this summer.

However, I’m now back and I hope to have more regular updates from now on. I’m planning to update once every month, and I have a few posts already written to ensure I don’t suddenly fall off the face of the planet again! I’ve already posted a new entry about a film released in June and I hope you enjoy it!

Here’s to a fresh new start!

the surprising connection between monsters and college

Pixar provides audiences with some of the most inspirational, heartfelt animated movies, and this year it decided to take on the topic of college. Monsters University, the prequel to Monsters Inc., focuses on Mike’s and Sulley’s first year in college and their adventures as they try to become Scarers. Now as a prefrosh, or incoming college freshman, I was more than excited for the film; the timing was impeccable. Upon watching it, I found it a solid film—not the best Pixar film I’ve ever seen—especially for its message.

The film contains more shreds of reality than expected for a film about monsters, creatures few people believe exist. In fact, a Tumblr blogger made some great connections between the film and college. But Monsters University’s greatest message extends beyond college to general life itself.

Understanding the message requires knowing the context of the story. Basically, in the film, Mike hopes to become a Scarer despite being tiny and unfrightening as a monster. To make up for his physical deficiencies, he works hard, hitting the books and memorizing all the needed techniques. His rivalry with Sulley, however, puts his scaring dreams on hold and he is forced to join a lackluster fraternity and participate in the Scaring Games to reach his goal. For most of the film, the storyline follows the typical underdog story: a group of people decide to undertake a challenge despite lacking what their competitors naturally have; through determination and self-reflection, the group is able to rise above their deficiencies and achieve. As the film hits its climax, however, this underdog story takes a surprising dive into reality. And that’s where it hits an amazing chord which most stories of its type ignores.

Despite all of Mike’s efforts, he must confront the fact that there are some things he cannot change. He does not have the body to be a Scarer, and though I prefer to believe in the fruitfulness of hard work, the reality is sometimes hard work isn’t enough to reach the expected goal. Mike comes to realize this, even stating that sometimes “it’s okay to be okay.” This message might seem disheartening and spun the wrong way, it is. But Monsters University, and really Monsters Inc., does not end its message right there. Before even watching the prequel, most people know Mike and Sulley become an effective scaring team at Monsters Inc.; Mike is the tactician, the one who assists Sulley in planning his moves. So in a way, Mike does achieve his goals of working at Monsters Inc. and of becoming a Scarer.

Just not in the way he expected.

I repeat: sometimes hard work isn’t enough to reach the expected goal. Expected is the key word, here. Sometimes the well-known path is not the one to take because it isn’t the perfect one for an individual; sometimes creativity is crucial for achieving one’s dreams. That’s what happens with Mike in the film. He takes an alternate route to work in Scaring, one where he can’t personally scare but he still plays just as an important role in the job. I think about the Tumblr blogger’s comparison between the Scaring program and medical school. The blogger is right, but she ignores something: medical school is not the only path to pursuing medicine as a career. There are alternate paths, alternate ways to achieve a goal; we just need to be open-minded to all the possibilities.

Pixar is honest about reality. It does not forego truth to present the heartwarming tale about underdogs. Nevertheless, its story is just as magical, maybe even more so because it regards life so sincerely and scrupulously.  Sure the picture Monsters University paints isn’t perfect, but the film still paints a pretty one—one which does champion hard work and perseverance, just in a different way.

So as I walked out of the movie theater, I was very surprised by what I got from it. But then again, give it to Pixar to tell a familiar story on a whole different level.

the line to cross

Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. But what of the events beyond the story?

A story is like a photograph. It captures a moment—or in the case of stories, many moments—in a life. But it fails to tell the complete story. Even with biographies, it is impossible to give a complete retelling of a person’s life. The human life is long, filled with forgettable details and tiny actions that seem irrelevant to the whole. But these details do make a difference. The most insignificant events can add together to define a person—their desires, their motivation, their thought process.

I think back to an event in my childhood. It was one of my early annual check-ups at the hospital. My age remains unknown in my memory. The doctor and nurse are blurry figures and the immunization they gave me is irrelevant. But I remember getting shots in both my legs, crying, getting carried out by my mom, complaining, getting piggybacked from the car to my old apartment, crying. One brief moment in my life. One moment I had forgotten until several minutes of deep reflection. And yet, thinking back, I realize it was the first domino for my fear towards receiving immunizations.

So how does an event in my past relate to stories? Similar to life, stories go beyond what is on the pages. The characters or settings might have more details than revealed (as Pottermore shows), but there is something much deeper within stories.

There is the backstory or inspiration behind everything. There is the meaning or testimony about society. There are the vestiges of reality contained in every piece of fiction.

Recently, I read an essay in my Theory of Knowledge class, presenting an argument that both psychology and literature showed human behavior. Psychology studied the cause, while literature provided a relatable connection to general behaviors capable in all humans. The ideas presented piqued my interest because they focused on an idea I’ve become interested in: the relationship between reality and fiction.

The world can be reflected in stories. Though the depictions of society can be generalized or exaggerated, fiction is bound to reality—semblances of reality are inescapable, unforgettable. Even with my own writing, I’ve come to realize that little snippets of me are placed within every paragraph. Those pieces of my heart are not evident, but with thought and introspection, I can make the connections. Literature is a gateway. It is a way to understand our society and nature.

All we have to do is blur those lines between fiction and reality.