Calling All Introverts: Hey...Uhm...Let's...Unite...Yeah

Hello. I'm really glad you could make it to this little blog post of mine - for the type of gathering that we introverts can really appreciate without feeling "drained" or "depleted." Uhm...I just want to say that if you do consider yourself one of us and you are dealing with certain stress points throughout your day - such as the burden of mingling and making "small talk," or navigating your way through crowds, back-slapping and hand-grabbing, offering painted smiles to one's fellow actors, or having to attend another "meeting" or "party" or getting uncomfortable while people-you-don't-really-know and don't want to know decide to "unwind" and "open up" in front of you,  or keeping your "game face" on for people in authority,  not to mention having to explain "one more time" to someone who "just doesn't understand" that you're really not in a bad mood or trying to be mean, that what you really need right now is just a little space to "catch your breath" and "re-charge your battery" ... be aware that the rest of us are dealing with the VERY SAME ISSUES and are having a hard time of it. The good news is that we do understand what you're going through and we affirm your amazing talent and creativity in various areas which are only now (perhaps) beginning to emerge. We hope you have a wonderful day - and keep fighting the good non-violent fight until such time as the forthcoming REVOLUTION shall break out and go public, however gently, however mildly, if not too-too gradually, and we shall at last garner our fair share of well-deserved "acclaim" and "respect" from members of the otherwise recalcitrant, incorrigible "extrovert majority."  

Art speaks...I listen

Direction of the Modern Novel

I wish Mr. Lukacs would offer more specific examples of books that illustrate what he's saying here, but I like where he's going with this description. I think it's accurate as far as it goes. What say you?

"In the nineteenth century novel, the other type of necessarily inadequate relations between soul and reality became the more important one: the inadequacy that is due to the soul's being wider and larger than the destinies which life has to offer it. The decisive structural difference is that here we are not dealing with an abstract a priori condition on the face of life, a condition which seeks to realize itself in action and therefore provokes conflicts with the outside world which make up the story of the novel; but rather a purely interior reality which is full of content and more or less complete in itself enters into competition with the reality of the outside world, leads a rich and animated life of its own and, with spontaneous self-confidence, regards itself as the only true reality, the essence of the world: and the failure of every attempt to realize this equality [between interior soul and outside world] is the subject of the work....
...Whereas abstract idealism [i.e. the epic form of the novel from Cervantes onwards?] in order to exist at all, had to translate itself into action, had to enter into conflict with the outside world, here the possibility of escape [from an alien world] does not seem excluded from the start. A life which is capable of producing all its content out of itself [norms, values, accomplishments, etc.] can be rounded and perfect even if it never enters into contact with the alien reality outside. Whereas, therefore, an excessive, totally uninhibited activity toward the outside world was characteristic of the psychological structure of abstract idealism, here the tendency is rather towards passivity, a tendency to avoid outside conflicts and struggles rather than engage in them, a tendency to deal inside the soul with everything that concerns the soul." - From Georg Lukacs, Theory of the Novel


Note: This description really reminds me of Kafka whose "passivity" - as far the the narrative goes - if that's the right word - is produced by a constant bumping up against an alien, outside world whose logic and customary demands are totally at odds with what the individual requires for sustenance.

"Bird-Watcher"

You know the person I'm referring to here. You remember him from second grade, the one with the interesting "shock" of hair, the quirky, disheveled kid, somewhat evasive and "mumbly" in speech, obtuse about gravity, unaware of his own body, often roaming about, staring off into space, day-dreamy, neither confident nor entirely phobic. His teachers shook their heads at him because he would always find windows to sit by and stare; he enjoyed drawing birds, liked watching birds and following birds around, hoping to fly.  Colorful exotic birds enchanted him: robins and red jays, bullfinches, grosbeaks, cardinals. He made funny gurgling noises for no reason; he was a savant in a few areas (math, spelling), but quite average in others. He had a fascination for cookies, although he never ate them.  Besides birds, he was drawn to clouds, to trees, to ladders, to roofs, ceilings, kites,  escalators, elevators - to anything moving in an upward direction.  Many of the other children found him amusingly strange; some were annoyed with him and reprimanded him; some found him tedious. A few felt sorry for him and became his confidants. When he was not caught up in his day-dreams of flight, he was an intense observer of other people. He stared at them without staring; he sized them up and found them wanting, but was not judgmental. He accepted them. He seldom cried. He had a rather pleasant laugh - a high-pitched chortle echoing up into space. People learned that they could trust him with their money or their marbles. He was refreshingly honest, without malice, without greed. He did not have a sweet tooth. He was not a pariah, not the prey of bullies - more like a "novelty act" with few friends, but enough allies. Ambition existed for him, but had nothing to do with amassing power (no future there) or acquiring a fortune or building any kind of empire. He was not a hoarder or a collector. His best friends were two girls, who happened to be twins. Their names were (oh, I forget...), but their nicknames were Appie and Zippy. They were twins, but they were very different. Appie liked to pinch people as a way of saying hello; she collected flower petals and bug samples. She loved gardens and any kind of organic life forms. She railed against pollution. Zippy was more the indoors type; she studied music and played the cello until she discovered books. Along with books, she enjoyed arranging and organizing little souvenirs on the shelves in her room. I guess you could say she had a menagerie of miniature animal-vegetable-and-mineral specimens. And stuffed animals. And little men that were too small to be called dolls. She had no dolls. She was the most literate of the group - precocious was the word people used. She stared at people with the same old-soul wisdom. She shared that quality with the bird-watcher and with her sister. The twins had "theories" about everyone and everything, yet they considered these quite dangerous and "top secret." Some of the theories involved alien visitation, but many others were astrological in nature. The twins believed that birthdays were important and could predict how a person's life would unfold. The shape of a person's face was important too as was eye color combined with arm length, shoe size and manner of walking. Entire reservoirs of thought and feeling were condensed into nods and winks about certain individuals, who conformed to certain patterns under the twins' watchful gaze. Aside from the bird-watcher, Appie and Zippy spoke mostly to one another and a girl down the street - Tessa - who had a garden. The most dramatic thing to ever happen to the trio happened during the summer of 1978 when something terrible almost happened to Tessa. The others witnessed the event that almost was and after that it became their secret legacy.  Tessa recovered from the near tragedy that did not happen, but she was nervous afterwards. The bird-watcher liked Tessa quite a bit (especially after this big event) and she felt the same way about him; he would stop and talk every day almost - walking past her garden - but never when the twins were around. He spoke to the twins when they went on nature excursions and he was "hunting" for birds to draw. But he almost never saw Tessa when the twins were there or vice versa, although the twins considered Tessa their good friend. After the near-tragic event almost occurred, the friends spoke of "before" and "after" as a way of charting time. Before referred to those "innocent, carefree, giddy times," while after meant those "subsequent, heavy-laden, cynical days." Tessa was the bird-watcher's confidant, on equal par with the twins, but different nevertheless. Her ambition in life was to be a prophet, to see into the future; she believed that, although the twins had their theories, which she very much respected, she had her special intuitions. She just knew about events-yet-to-happen. She could discern good omens from bad. There was one awkward boy in the neighborhood, Jerry,  an artist of sorts with a large sketch-book - who the bird-watcher got along with despite the fact that Jerry was waylaid in bed with severe allergic reactions and other, possibly psychosomatic ailments. Jerry would come to the window of his upstairs bedroom and show the bird-watcher various drawings from his sketchbook. Jerry liked to draw monsters, but he always gave the bird-watcher helpful tips on how to sketch bird faces, bodies, silhouettes, etc. and how to add in plausible bucolic backgrounds.

The Hunter Gracchus (a fragment)

"Gracchus, one request. First, tell me briefly but coherently how things are with you. To

be truthful: I really don't know. You of course take these things for granted and assume, as

is your way, that the whole world knows about them. But in this brief human life -- and life

really is brief, Gracchus, try to grasp that -- in this brief life it's as much as one can do to

get oneself and one's family through. Interesting as the Hunter Gracchus is -- this is

conviction, not flattery -- there's no time to think of him, to find out about him, let alone

worry about him. Perhaps on one's deathbed, like your Hamburger, this I don't know.

Perhaps the busy man will then have a chance to stretch out for the first time and let the

green Hunter Gracchus pass for once through his idle thoughts. But otherwise, it's as I've

said: I knew nothing about you, business brought me down here to the harbor, I saw the

bark, the gangplank lay ready, I walked across -- but now I'd like to know something

coherent about you. 

Ah, coherent. That old, old story.All the books are full of it, teachers draw it on the

blackboard in every school, the mother dreams of it while suckling her child, lovers murmur

it while embracing, merchants tell it to the customers, the customers to the merchants,

soldiers sing it on the march, preachers declaim it in church, historians in their studies

realize with open mouths what happened long ago and never cease describing it, it is

printed in the newspapers and people pass it from hand to hand, the telegraph was

invented so that it might encircle the world the faster, it is excavated from ruined cities, and

the elevator rushes it up to the top of the skyscraper. Railway passengers announce it

from the windows to the countries they are passing through, but even before that the

savages have howled it at them, it can be read in the stars and the lakes reflect it, the

streams bring it down from the mountains and the snow scatters it again on the summit,

and you, man, sit here and ask me for coherence. You must have had an exceptionally

dissipated youth.

Possibly, as is typical of any youth. But it would be very useful, I think, if you would go

and have a good look around the world. Strange as it may seem to you, and sitting here it

surprises even me, it's a fact that you are not the talk of the town, however many subjects

may be discussed you are not among them, the world goes its way and you go on your

journey, but until today I have never noticed that your paths have crossed." - Franz Kafka

The Pain of "Small Talk" - Pt 1

From an early age we are all taught the simple joys of social interaction, beginning with the most rudimentary exchanges.  Such "verbal niceties" make up the first step in learning how to venture out of our respective shells and begin exploring (one hopes) our enchanting social environment: Hello, how are you? I am fine, thanks. Do you like school? Yes, I like school, especially recess. I have a sister. I have a pet iguana. I can ride a bike. I'm not afraid of the dark. Is pizza your favorite food? Mine is ice cream. My favorite show is Sesame Street. Do you have any goldfish? etc. etc. And, as this pattern continues, presumably, we learn to associate fun and adventure with such glib, unself-conscious banter, and gradually, so the theory goes, we become more at ease with these harmless little banal conversations that recur so frequently - minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, every time we turn around, it seems. Because it's normal to be chatty and to use our vocal cords to good effect, to observe, to opine, to share information with our peers. Ah, who is there so cold of heart as to not enjoy the sound of innocent, guileless jibber-jabber in hallways, on playgrounds, at shopping malls? So then, naturally, irrevocably, as day follows night, at some point during this gestation period of youth, we come to learn that this basic ritual of human correspondence known as small talk - this wonderful, bountiful, inescapable prelude to serious dialogue - is, in fact, the easiest thing on earth to master, the most direct way of establishing much-needed contact with persons of whatever social station who happen to be standing or loitering nearby. Any fool can make small talk and I use that word advisedly (see blog title). America runs on small talk because America is full of extroverts and the easiest thing for an extrovert to do is make small talk: Hi. Hello. Nice weather we're having. Don't you think? Supposed to rain next week.  Didya see that story in the paper about the missing cat caught in the storm pipe? Oh yeah, that was funny. Here it's only March and I can't wait for football season to begin again. Those dang Celtics are trading away their best players. Think this economy is gonna turn around? Don't know. Hope so. Well, I aim to find myself a good pancake eatery. Yep. That sounds good. Heh, heh, heh, that's a funny shirt you're wearing. Bought it at a yard sale. No way.  I swear. Is that one of them tye dye shirts? I believe it is. But for some of us, odd as it may sound, these very ordinary encounters are enough to produce excruciating levels of stress and discomfort - not to mention perspiration and momentary mental paralysis. We make a good faith effort to "jump in the pool" and sometimes we're in the shallow end....and sometimes we're not. Sometimes it's like floating, and sometimes it's more like keeping one's head above water or just treading water, counting, slowly, as the minutes pass, until one of our interlocutors lures us toward the deep end or else decides to splash water on us. And sometimes it's like gasping for breath and feeling the oxygen not being replenished in our lungs. (Not to exaggerate but, that is what it feels like.) And of course the "pool rules" are not prominently displayed anywhere - so now we have a problem.  The conversation hits a snag:  Hey, chief. What? What the haps?  Who...me? Why so serious, there, chief, what's wrong? Nothing...what are you...getting at? Just kiddin, but hey, you DO look uncomfortable, there dude... what gives? Gotta roll with the punches, chief. Are you saying... am I...my face, my shoulders [awkward pause] ....do they bother you? Relax, I'm just teasing, chief. Anyhow [yawn...stretch...looking around...] Think I'll be on my way now. See you later, worried guy.  It's hard to completely analyze what goes wrong in these simple conversations - I think it has a lot to do with the feeling of being scrutinized and summarily judged - albeit provisionally and superficially -  by another person acting without a search warrant. And if that's not weirdly problematic and insufferable enough, just add a few more high-energy sentient beings to the mix.  That's when the warning lights really start to go off in the brain, predicting danger, danger, danger. We introverts  - we agitated, "highly sensitive ones" - can almost smell the moment at which people come together for the dubious, open-ended,  scary purpose of "letting their hair down" in public - sharing unseemly laughs hitherto unshared, boasting of vices previously kept hidden, losing inhibitions recently sequestered in warehouses, fidgeting like frogs in a bucket, exchanging sordid tales of lust and gluttony, trading insults and put-downs that only add to the festivities, surreptitiously competing to out-do one another in swagger and bravado, making light, making merry, laughing and snorting and cavorting until the room begins to spin and I - must - seek - fresh - air - immediately. What is wrong with this picture.... that anyone (like me) should feel so forlorn and oppressed? Oh Lord, why do we (my fellow introverts and I)  feel so bent-out-of-shape in the middle of all this frivolity? Why does it unsettle us so very much when all sense of gravitas and sobriety is swept out of the room? A convention of stand-up comedians could boast of more stability than this. Because these situations are normal, right? People gathering and feeling "comfortable" with one another, talking about neither this nor that - nothing that's you'd want recorded for posterity's sake...all that is good and salutary...and to be encouraged. So says the majority, so goes the way of the world. I get it....because people out there need to talk, to relax, to unwind, to regale, to laugh, to share, to tease, to reveal, to get wild, get crazy, go nuts, get jiggy as part of what they do.  And if the majority is happy with that, we'll you know what that means, my fellow "aberrant weeds," my fellow "third wheels," my fellow "biological errors." We become the de facto kill-joys, the nay-sayers, the party-poopers, petulantly pining away for a pity party. But supposing it was really quite unnerving and somewhat traumatic for a certain portion of the population - oh let's say 17% for starters  - to endure these common episodes. What if such experiences only served to disorient and confuse, to frazzle and to fluster, to place our nerve-endings on overload, to de-moralize and discourage those of us who are wired, at such moments, to look around (in desperation) for more serious, structured forms of philosophical conversation, which never seem to break out? What then? Oh, I could go on squawking about this incontrovertible issue for the next week and a half, but action, it seems is called for. Two choices remain for us - if any of this stuff happens to resonate with you: pity party in my room (5 minutes), be there, be square or else....we...could... start ...a... REVOLUTION!

Chance by Joseph Conrad

Something about this late novel is downright hypnotic, partly because of how the narrative is constructed and partly because of the incantatory quality of Conrad's prose. The story is told through multiple narrators - the main voice belonging to "Marlow"- Conrad's famous alter-ego. The main character, Flora de Barral, is one of those elusive people we keep trying to get to know,  but never quite come to see clearly, reminiscent of  a far-off figure in some impressionistic painting that never comes fully into focus. Our curiosity follows Marlow's lead becoming more and more obsessed with her strange, traumatic childhood and adolescence; we follow her personal transformation from helpless, unfortunate waif to self-assertive survivor to mature, contented adult, but she remains a mysterious "figure" (if that's the right word) more than "character" throughout the book. Many critics have faulted this late novel of Conrad's for its shadowy presences and thinning plot-line, but the narrative is truly remarkable, unique, experimental, cutting edge - if that makes any sense. The story is not so much about the people themselves as it is Marlow's attempt to unearth the truth. Marlow is the strong presence here. Very high-modern.