My Childhood Trauma -- Revision

You were no more than eleven years old then. Your parents firmly believed that you were innately talented in literature. Pretending to succumb to your parents’ enthusiasm, you enjoyed to recite your own poem. How you “wrote” poem was ignorantly simple; you stopped one line if it seemed to prolong too much, stopped one stanza if you made four lines, and then, voila! Just in five minutes you composed a poem.

Not only your parents but your teacher also praised your poem. Looking back those days, you now know the teacher extolled your poem’s “quantity”, not “quality”. You wrote dozens of poems whenever you felt “It was the day”, and showed all of them to your teacher. One day, she recommended you to upload your poems on the Internet. You, in childish arrogance, thought that not sharing your poems would be a great waste of your talent. So you searched the Internet and joined a literature society.

The society members all seemed to possess a high standard of literature. They uploaded their own poems or novels, and shared ideas via writing comments. You still remember how embarrassed you were when you read the members’ pieces for the first time. They used a whole chunk of abstruse vocabularies that made you be flustered. Observing frequent updates of members’ comments, nevertheless, you thought that you should at least pretend to understand those convoluted poems. You, thus, started to choose the most comprehensibly-looking poem and leave sloppy comments—“Humans sometimes tend to be lonely. T_T But you succeeded in sublimating your solitary into the literature, and I’m sure that you won’t feel alone ever again!” or, “I think you caught a nice glimpse of clear autumn day :D”, etc. And you were satisfied with yourself. What a shame.

A month passed, and you noticed that the club members were so generous that they never slandered on other person’s work. You, in confidence, decided to upload your own poem. Among numbers of poems that you had written, you chose one that seemed the best. Then you slightly corrected and uploaded it. You nervously waited until a notification popped out that first comment was posted. You rushed in one second to check it.

“I enjoyed reading your poem. It was full of childlike innocence,” the kind comment made you be puffed up. An “adult” liked your poem. This comment was just the start; other members also posted cordial comments. Every time you saw a new comment, you gained more confidence to upload more poems more frequently. 

One day, you accessed to the site with usual expectance. Scrolling down the lines of comments, smile spread over your face—and then, suddenly, your face was hardened in shock. No, this could not be true. An anonymous member was scorning:

“You call this a poem?”

You turned off your computer and cried for hours. As you calmed down, you accessed back to the site. The manager of the site had already retrieved the situation. The member who slandered your poem was withdrawn from the society by force, and the manager left a written apology for the angered users. You posted another silly comment under that announcement: “I’m terribly sad T_T I wrote that poem so arduously and was treated so poorly T_T”. For sure, nobody consoled you after you posted that comment. You suddenly lost all of your confidence. You stopped to upload your poems or to write childish comments on other people’s work. A few days later, you left the club.

Years passed, and you became eighteen. Last week, you accidently found out numbers of poems that you had written in your young days. Reading them again, you appreciated the society members who so generously bear those shabby works; you smiled away the malicious comment which once you cried over for hours; you blushed over your childish idea to post “I’m terribly sad T_T” comment. But most of all, you regretted, as thinking about how preciously you valued poetry, of giving up writing so easily just because of one comment. Your once-so-valued literature is now nothing more than a forgotten vestige that slipped out of your fingers.

[ Writer's Comments ] I fixed some grammatical errors and shortened the sentences, following Woochan's advice. If there still remains any error, please feel free to point out! :-)

The Martian Chronicle: Favorite Quotation

Favorite Quotation: "The four bodies lay in the sun. Mr. Xxx lay where he felt.The rocket reclined on the little sunny hill and didn't vanish."

When the astronants landed on the planet Mars, they were definite that the Martians would be as surprised and amused as they are for confronting the living creature from another planet. The reaction, however, was not what the Earth men expected; the Martians believed that those men were seeing hallucinations, and sent men to asylum. The Earth men, eager to prove that they are not insane and they are REALLY from the Earth, showed the psychiatrist the rocket they had riden to Mars. Despite all these evident proofs -- different appearance of Eartlings, rocket and other objects inside it -- the psychiatrist NEVER considered the possibility that the Earth men might be telling the truth; instead, he praised the Earth men that they have a beautiful insanity that conglomerates visual, auditory, sensual, and even labial fantasy. Even when the psychatrist found out that the astronants' dead bodies do not disappear, he did not admit that thoes men were "real" -- he believed that he himself was "hallucinated", "contaminated", and committed a suicide.

My favorite quotation, "The four bodies lay in the sun. Mr. Xxx lay where he felt. The rocket reclined on the little sunny hill and didn't vanish," shows the contrast between the four bodies/the rocket and Mr. Xxx. This contrast emphasizes the Martian doctor's firm belief on hallucinations -- in other words, a foolishly close-mindness.

My Childhood Trauma

You were no more than eleven years old then. Your parents firmly believed that you are innately talented in literature. Pretending to succumb to your parents’ enthusiasm, you enjoyed to recite your own rubbish poem. Your way of writing poem was so ignorantly simple; you stopped one line if it seems to prolong too much, stopped one stanza if you made four lines, and then, voila! Just in five minutes you composed a poem.

Not only your parents but your teacher also praised your poem. Cast your mind back to those days, it is definite that the teacher’s reason for compliment was quantity—you wrote three, or even for poems one day, if you felt “It was the day”—rather than quality. One day, your teacher recommended you to upload your poems on the Internet. So arrogant you were, you thought that not to share your poems was a waste of your great talent. So you searched the Internet and joined a literature society.

The society members, who seemed to possess a high standard of literature, uploaded their own poems or novels and shared ideas via writing comments. You still remember how embarrassed you were when you read the members’ pieces for the first time. They used a whole chunk of abstruse vocabularies that you had not known that such word exists before. Observing frequent updates of members’ comments, nevertheless, you thought that you should at least pretend to understand those convoluted poems. You, thus, started to write rubbish comments; choosing the most comprehensibly-seeming titles, you uploaded a complete sham—“Humans sometimes tend to be solitary. T_T But you succeeded in sublimating your solitary into the literature, and I’m sure that you won’t be lonely ever again!” or, “I think you caught a nice glimpse of clear autumn day :D”, etc. And you were satisfied with yourself. Good grief!

A month passed, and you noticed that the club members were so generous that they never slandered on other person’s work. Gaining confidence, you decided to upload your own poem. Among numbers of poems that you had written, you chose one that seemed the best, corrected it slightly, and uploaded the poem. Alarmed, you checked the club in five minutes interval, and when a notification said one new comment was posted, you rushed in one second.

“I enjoyed reading your poem. It was full of childlike innocence,” the kind comment made you be puffed up. Some “adult” enjoyed your poem. As more cordial comments were posted, you gained more confidence to upload more poems more frequently.

And one day, you accessed to the Internet site with usual feeling of expectancy. Scrolling down the cordial comments, smile overspread your face—and then, suddenly, your face was immobilized with shock. No, this cannot be true. An anonymous member was saying:

“You call this a poem? Good god!”

Running away from the site, you cried for hours. As you calmed down, you accessed back to the site, and the manager of the society site had already took needed measures. The member who slandered your poem was withdrawn by force, and the manager wrote an announcement of apologies for the users who must have been angered by the secluded member. You, so childishly, posted another comment under that announcement: “I’m terribly sad T_T I wrote that poem so arduously and was treated so poorly T_T”. For sure, nobody consoled you after you posted that comment. You suddenly lost all of your confidence and stopped to upload your poems or to write rubbish comments on other people’s work. A few days later, you left the club.

Years passed, and now you are eighteen. You were rummaging the computer files, and accidently, you found out numbers of poems that you had written so arduously in your young days. Reading the poems again, you appreciated the society members whom so generously bear those shabby works, you smiled away the malicious comment which once you cried over for hours, you blushed over your childish idea to post “I’m terribly sad T_T” comment. But most of all, you regretted, as thinking about how preciously you once treated poetry, for giving up writing so easily and rashly just because of one comment. Slipped from your fingers so easily, your once-so-valued literature is just forgotten vestige now.

The Garden Lodge

Ye Ji Park

June 6 2012

Reflective Essay: The Garden Lodge

As the World War I came to the end, and the survived soldiers returned to their homeland, they were no more naïve, youthful lads. “Youth…? That is long ago. We are old folks.” In All Quiet on the Western Front (Erich Maria Remarque, 1929), Paul, the narrator, compares men of forty to twenty; the older men were “linked up with their previous life … wives, children, occupations … background which is so strong that the War cannot obliterate”, whereas younger men have only “parents, and some, perhaps a girl, some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and school. Beyond this … life did not extend.”

Men of forty, before the War, were already holders of some responsibility. They were responsible for supporting their family, or responsible for the job they chose to work on. If they abandoned their responsibility, there was no one who could substitute vacant place; therefore, men of forty had a firm place that they can, and must, return even after the War.

The situation was, however, very different for men of twenty. They were not in charge of anything yet; their parents were not that old to be supported by them, their girlfriends were not their wives that they should provide for, their hobbies were not field they had studied and worked devotedly for years. Lack of responsibility promised no firm place to return for young soldiers, which is why the soldiers “lost” all the responsibility-less, uncertain life they had before the War. The experience of loss made them to be afraid of another loss. They, thus, started to avoid challenging tasks in their future life that promise higher possibility of loss. However, by doing so, they were already losing chances to challenge, chances to live more fully – they were losing better future. Paul says that “nothing remains” for men of twenty – both past and future – which was why this generation was entitled the “Lost Generation”.

The term Lost Generation, however, is not only applicable on the soldiers. The tendency of losing past and future also appeared in other stratum; in The Garden Lodge (Willa Cather, 1905), Caroline Noble, the protagonist of the story, is a representative example.

Young Caroline wished to be a pianist, just as her father. However, as her father was crippled with debts and her brother committed suicide, she gave up that dream and stayed away from the piano – the loss of “past”. Instead, she married to an older man from Wall Street, who promises confident “money, position, energy, vigor of the robust person” to her. Depending on her husband, she does not need to worry about uncertain future. Her dependence, however, results in lack of her free will; that is, Caroline will not challenge herself. Her life will be safer but much duller – she will lose “future”.

What is different between soldiers and Caroline is that the former is “involuntary” Lost Generation, whereas the latter is “voluntary” one. The soldiers were “forced” by the War to hit pause to their life with parents, girls, and school, thus the direct and unique cause of their loss was the War, irrelevant to their will. However, for Caroline, she had opportunity not to lose. She once met this man, Raymond d’Esquerre, a tenor singer who rekindles her passion to music during his stay in the garden lodge. After Raymond left, her husband asks Caroline if she would agree to tear down the garden lodge and build a new summer house instead. He gave Caroline opportunity to disagree and continue on her reawakened interest to music. It was Caroline, however, who deserted that chance by answering that she agrees the lodge should go – she “voluntarily” lets her past and future run away, choosing irresponsible but safe life instead.

Despite the War did not influence Caroline directly to be the Lost Generation, it definitely worked below-the-surface. Before the War, it was the Renaissance paradigm that ruled the world; from the Renaissance, “humans” (not God) were the focus of concentration, and it was believed that humans could be anything they want. The occurrence of World War, however, blew out the pre-existing paradigm. As the War drove humans to fight and kill each other, without even knowing the reason, humans started to depute the previous argument that humans are born to achieve divine purpose of living. They no more respected themselves as godlike creatures; they realized the “limit” of human. Such paradigm contributed in Caroline’s voluntary decision to be Lost Generation, by inculcating lack of confidence that her ability to deal with challenges (for example, restarting to play the piano) is not enough.

Among numbers of literatures that deal the topic of the World War, The Garden Lodge is worthy of notice in sense that it points out indirect effect of the War (voluntary Lost Generation). It is quite tragic that the tendency of Lost Generation clouded the whole society, not only the soldiers but also others such as Caroline.

Losing the past and the future may help the Lost Generation to live a safe life, just as Caroline did under her husband’s protection, but it may block the chance to achieve something. It is true that the Renaissance paradigm is quite exaggerated – humans definitely cannot attain everything they wish – still, some are achievable. This is why I wish the Lost Generation – at least “voluntary” ones that chose to be lost, and still have a chance to cancel the voluntary choice they made – to stand against their loss and makes attempt to find back their volition to challenge.

Writer's Comments

I am quite sorry about this piece.  I have "ideas" in my mind, but I think I did not express it via this writing very well... :( Still,  it was a great pleasure writing this piece (interesting concept, "voluntary" Lost Generation, isn't it?). Hope readers understand what I tried to say in this essay... :) 

Big Two-Hearted River

Ye Ji Park

June 3 2012

Reflective Essay: Big Two-Hearted River

          AP European History is one of the most demanding subjects among all APs. I heard a lot of complaint and plea from my roommate who took the test last May. One of the major discontents she told me was that World War I and II took so many part of whole history. Despite the short period – a little more than three decades – World War occupied more than one fifth of total contents. As this short anecdote implies, the importance that World War holds in the history is considerable. It is not surprising, thus, to find numbers of literature works discussing what happened in the War, how the War influenced the age, etc. Big Two-Hearted River (Ernest Hemingway, 1925) is one of those works, talking about soldiers’ healing process without direct mention about the War.

          Regardless of below-the-surface-mention about the War, it is obvious that the protagonist, Nick, is suffering from post-traumatic disorder after participating in the War. This is revealed from mainly three “lacking” elements in this short story; dialogue, social aspects, and emotive description.

First, lack of dialogue. Throughout the story, dialogue appears only three times – even they are very short (“Go on Hopper.” “Jesus Christ.”) The reason Nick is so unforthcoming is to forget about the War. Once he starts to talk, and a single word pops out that triggers small memory from the War, all the dreadful experiences would crawl out from the suppressed memories and torture him again. This is why Nick stays away from conversation; to prevent any situation that might lead him to recall about the War.

Second, lack of social aspects. What “social aspects” refers to is Nick’s family, friends, school life, or any other social relationships. Nick is completely alone, from the start to the end of the story; it is evident that Nick is unrelated to the society. When confronting the parent, who feels curious about things that happened to their son in the War; when confronting the school, where most of the friends that he has studied together only few years ago are dead from the War, Nick is obliged to recollect dreadful War memories. This definitely is the least thing he wants to do, which explains why he does not hang out or even mention about his social life.

Finally, lack of emotive description. Hemingway’s writing style in this story is very descriptive, but not “emotively” descriptive, rather “objectively”. That is, most of the depictions deals with Nick’s actions, not emotions. To illustrate, Hemingway wrote “Nick’s hands were shaky”, not “Nick was strained”. Hemingway intentionally excluded Nick’s mode throughout the novel, to express the insensibility that the War participants experienced. During the War, emotions are unnecessary. In All Quiet on the Western Front (Erich Maria Remarque, 1929), another masterpiece discussing devastating episodes during the War, Paul the narrator commits that “[Soldiers] have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for [soldiers].” To Paul and all the other soldiers, mourning over comrade’s death is just a dangerous act that enhances the risk of being shot to the gun. Considering that Nick has just returned from such emotion-less War, Hemingway’s “objectively descriptive” sentence style makes sense.

          What Nick does to tear off trace of the War is to walk into the nature. The story’s title, Two Big-Hearted River, is the place that helps Nick “cure” himself and “overcome” the swamp of the War by confronting two kinds of heart – Heart of the Past and the Future.

Heart of the Past signifies the fixation of the River. After returning from the War, Nick feels everything has changed; parents unable to sympathize and share his pain from the War, classroom vacant here-and-there. But the River does not change; it stays in the place where it has been, as clear as ever. The River makes Nick able to connect himself before the War and after the War – it assures Nick that youthfulness and pureness he possessed before the War may be still remaining inside him, and might bloom again. That is, the River’s Heart of the Past gives him hope that he will be cured, and freed from scars of the War someday.

Heart of the Future refers to the ceaseless flowing characteristic of the River. On its way to Nick’s town, the River might have suffered numerous crises; cataract, rapids, etc. Still the River’s future is to keep flowing with past wounds, not to stop. Looking the River that shares the same pain with him, Nick is comforted, and is motivated to keep living even with unforgettable scars, just as the River does.

          Hemingway wrote that “Nick did not want to go down the stream any further [that day]”, where “fishing was a tragic adventure”. This shows that Nick is not completely cured; he is not yet ready to face the challenge, the danger that he has so frequently confronted during the War. Still he says that “There were plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp”, indicating that he will keep on curing himself in the nature, consoled by the River.

Paul, in All Quiet in the Western Front, said that “we [the soldiers] were eighteen and had begun to love the life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces”. The War made Nick also to shoot the years he had lived. But the River helped Nick to arrange the pieces back, connect this re-attached past to his present, thereby be courageous about continuing life. It seems indisputable that one day, Nick would be able to discharge from the hospital of Nature.

Writer's Comments

Reading pieces about World War, I feel grateful to God that I wasn't born in that age. The shock that I felt after reading All Quiet on the Western Front for the first time -- it was just so destructive and, thus, tragic. That was, maybe, the reason that I read Big Two-Hearted River while continuously murmuring "Thank heavens." I felt relished as reading the nature curing Nick. Maybe this was the same way that people in Hemingway's age felt, maybe this is why this piece grabbed so many people's attention in that age.

Right now I'm starting Hemingway's another work about World War; A Farewell to Arms. Ever since hearing the summary of this story when I was thirteen or something -- this book has always been on my wish-to-read list. Hope A Farewell to Arms also brings me great inspirations, just as Big Two-Hearted River did :) 

The Catcher in the Rye: Adaptation

WRITER SAYS ... 

Due to midterm and AP, I did not have enough time to enjoy The Catcher in the Rye. For the course assignment - to write a short adaptation from one part of this book - I spent only two hours or like that in writing :-( Maybe if I have enough time someday, I'll start the book again, and revise this writing to be a better adaptation...

                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Mr. Kim’s office was damn large. There was a big display standing at one side of the wide wall, which was full of goddam trophies. That was a real phony. The man never plays sports with us. All he do during the class is to shout the hell loud “Class, rally!” No one ever followed his instructions, unless he becomes mad and explode, boom, bang. And all the trophies the volleyball team achieved – if there is only one damn truth in this world, it is that trophies are all gained by the players, not that skeleton-faced old man.

I looked up at Kim. He was folding his arms and rested his legs on a table. That’s another reason I hate that man. He must be under an illusion that he is not that old, that forty-or-something-like-that aged man has freedom to sit in a way twelve-years-old boy may do. Staring into my eyes back, Kim muttered, “Come in, girl.” He was always muttering, outside class. He thinks that muttering is effective as hell, to scare students. Hope he stops all of his foolish delusions. It got on your nerves sometimes.

“Hello, sir,” I said. “I got your words from Mina. You didn’t have to do all that. I’d have come over to say good-bye anyway.” Mina is one of the few nice girls in this goddam school. She is small, cute, and makes these old men remind of their own little girls and smile. Mr.  Kim  asked Mina to ask me to stop by and say good-bye before I leave here.

“Have a seat there, girl,” old Kim said. He pointed over a small chair next to the damn shining display standing.

I sat down on it. “So what, um, do you want to talk to me?”

He started getting serious as hell. “So you’re leaving, huh, this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir, I guess I am.”

Kim closed his eyes and again muttered something. Damn mutter.

“Pardon, sir?”

“I’m thinking what piece of advice shall I give to you before you leave… Let me talk about this, the rules, okay? So… what do you think, about this rule?”

I hate Kim using word like “okay”. That makes him be seen damn young and cool. And let him stop asking me damn questions. Kim is the last person who listens to others’ opinion; I know it, he knows that. Pretending to be open and receptive – that’s so phony. I shook my head. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“Well, then I’ll tell you my frank opinion… Rule is what everyone can, and should, keep. It should accompany everyone’s consents, but beforehand, should satisfy the basic morals. The absolute morals, if I say. True ethics that can be applied everywhere. Understand?” He looked into my eyes, and slowly repeated the word, “A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E.”

Shut up. There’s nothing such like A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E morals. Morals may be partly true, but it isn’t all true. Maybe in the world there are some people who don’t give a damn to kill their wife or knock off banks. So how many people will not give a damn for not keeping trivial-as-hell rules, such as “You should return to your dorm before 7PM”, “You should not sleep during self-study period time”, or “You should open all the doors of your wardrobe before houseparent comes for cleaning inspection”? Foolish rules. But anyway, I nodded my head. “Yes, sir, rules.” I smiled gently, in hope that he would just shut up and let me leave this  room. But – as expected – he was not going to stop there.

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” old Kim said. He said it pretty tough, too, for him. “How many penalty points did you receive this month?”

“Well… I’m not sure, but I remember something like twenty-eight, I guess.”

“Twenty-eight. And your total point is?”

“I guess eighty-nine, sir.” I moved my ass a little bit. The chair was damn rocky.

“I decided to withdraw you from the school because you knew absolutely nothing about community life and importance of rules.”

“I know that, sir. I’m a total ass. You couldn’t help it.”

“Absolutely nothing.” He muttered. Then he muttered again, “A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y nothing.” I hope he just stops repeating the same phrase over and over. Damn sarcastic for Kim, let us give a warm applaud for him

“Don’t you have anything to say about this, girl? That you are regretful, or you have anything that you newly learned about social life, like that…?”

I know what a bullshit he wants to hear from me, so I started to shot the bull for a while. That I was a real moron, I have no caring mind for people living with me, I think that I started to understand how Kim feel about me and how Kim wants to help me get out of this swamp of sin… (Boy,  Kim really loved that praise. Swamp of sin. What a grand word.) That kind of stuff. The old bull.

The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull. I was thinking about tree saplings that I planted along the road when I received special training for gaining forty penalty points. I was suddenly curious; what was the name of that tree? Hope that I can someday see those saplings fully grown. Thinking about those trees was quite helpful to bear Kim’s presence. It’s funny that I don’t need to think too hard when talking to teachers. All of a sudden, though, Kim interrupted my bullshit.

“How do you feel about all this, girl? I’d be very interested to know. Very interested.”

“Well, I’m not sure… All this is not yet familiar to me. Maybe next Sunday, I’d realize the situation much clearly… When I don’t need to come back to school. But well, right now, I think I cannot give you clear answer.” Then I shrugged my shoulder. I knew that this wasn’t the sugary kind Kim would love to hear, but I was getting irritated about continuing inquisitions. I glanced the display stand next to me. I suddenly had this strong feeling to kick the stand and let all those glittering trophies fall to the floor. But I judged it would be wiser not to do so.

KisKim sighed. That sigh made me unable to bear more; it was me, not him, who wanted to make that goddam sigh. “I gotta go, sir. My mother will be here within two hours. I need to pack my things and get prepared to leave.” I stood up and walked toward the door. Kim sighed again. What the hell.

After I shut the door and started my way to the dorm, I think I heard something. Maybe Kim shouted, “Be good girl!” Hope that I heard wrong. Be a good girl as hell. I’ll never yell “Be good girl!” to anybody, even to a three-years-old sniffling lady. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.

The Great Gatsby - Reflections

Ye Ji Park

March 27 2012

Reflective Essay: The Great Gatsby and the Yieldless Yeji

These days, I’ve begun to recite a new motto: “I want to go to university!” Becoming a sophomore, the issue of choosing a university and performing as best I can to be accepted there has turned into a serious task. My advisor teacher no longer comforts me by telling “You’re freshman. This is a period for school adjustment. Don’t be too nervous over AP exams or extracurricular activities.” Instead, he admonishes, “Now you’re a junior. Prepare GPA, SAT, AP, and don’t forget volunteer or club activities. Oh, and try to do something continuously, to show the admission officers that you focused on one field steadily.” Realizing that not much time is left for me before submitting a common application, my dream has suddenly become to receive an acceptance letter from a university. Ever since this dream settled in my mind, I occasionally speak to myself, “I want to go to university!”, at random moments – when I ruin my calculus quiz, doze during the self-study period, or spend thirty minutes meaninglessly Facebooking.

Last weekend, I read The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which is regarded as “a classic, perhaps the supreme American novel” (John Carey, Sunday Times). After reading the book in one sitting, I became a complete advocate of John Carey; the book truly deserves such praise. The Great Gatsby, published in 1925, discusses a lost generation after World War I and the American Dream through Gatsby’s tragic pursuit of Daisy, the symbol of a corrupt American society. The book’s clout, however, does not end up being restricted to a classic of the twentieth century; Fitzgerald’s masterpiece influences even the present-day generation. It encourages us, to stop aimless walks to school, obsession with joining companies, and blind pursuit of empty goals. The Great Gatsby stimulates us to reconsider our true dream – just as it has done for me.

The only dream Gatsby craved throughout his whole life was Daisy. From the moment he met Daisy, his life revolved around her. He survived in the war, dreaming of their reunion. He set his foot into the illegal industry of alcohol trafficking, to earn enough money to be socially approved as Daisy’s partner. He spent thousands of dollars hosting lavish parties every Saturday, in hope that Daisy would one day attend his party by chance.

Ironically, Daisy does not seem to be eligible as the subject of such admiration. She is not noble, virtuous, or high-spirited at all; rather, she is frivolous, irresponsible, and dependent. Despite her promise to remain loyal to Gatsby, she could not bear the long years until Gatsby’s discharge. Within a few years, Daisy started “keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed.” This shows that Daisy is superficial and unfaithful, easily forgetting her responsibility over an absent lover. Such lightness and irresponsibility make her to act without thinking about consequences – for example, speaking out that Gatsby “look so cool” in presence of Tom, which is enough for him to sense the secrets of an affair. Therefore, to prevent herself from committing such imprudent acts, she must depend on others. This is why Gatsby and Tom, during their dispute over Daisy’s love, repeatedly said that they are “going to take better care of [Daisy].” She is not an independent human, but rather a reliant doll.

Daisy doll, thus, due to her dependency, is a character without identity. Her life is not her own, but somebody else’s. Her opinions are not originated from her inner voice, but from people surrounding her. Daisy’s decision to marry Tom, for instance, was not because she truly loved him; rather, it was because of her family and friends’ recommendation to marry an affluent man from the upper class. The dream Gatsby had so arduously wished to achieve for years was an obscure, shallow, and will-less girl.

What Gatsby gained from his pursuit of this meaningless dream was nothing more than death. As Daisy became absorbed in her surroundings’, she appreciated external, material, and superficial values such as traditional aristocracy, more than inner, loving-natured, and thoughtful ones. Her prioritized values, such as distinguished families and inherited wealth, were something Gatsby, a son of “shiftless and unsuccessful farm people,” could never achieve. For Daisy, without her own identity, who thus could not go against the general trend, abandoning Gatsby was easier than forsaking society’s value. A dreamer cannot exist without his dream; for Gatsby, deserted by his dream, the end—death—was inevitable.

Reading Gatsby’s tragic end, a thought quickly passed my mind: maybe my dream was somehow similar to Gatsby’s. I asked myself; does my dream have an identity? Why do I “want to go to university”? No answer hitting my mind, I realized that my dream was ambiguous and ungrounded. There was no clear vision that I could achieve only by going to university and studying. I, surrounded by parents, teachers, and friends discussing college admission every day, just vaguely thought that “I want to go to university!”, a common but identity-lacking dream that a student must or should have. Realizing this shocking truth, I panicked, thinking that unless I find a concrete dream, I might be Gatsby Jr.

I started to ponder, “What should I do?” but no definite answers came to my mind. In anxiety, I searched various curriculums of universities, and asked for advice to seniors who already chose their major. Despite all those efforts, I still did not discover the true reason to go to university – there were several courses and advices to which I was inclined, but none of them was enough for me to devote my whole life.

Then I remembered a quote from Mark Twain: “The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.” Realizing the vagueness of my dream, and admitting that I haven’t yet reached a point where I can really say what I want, was not a disappointing stage at all. Recognizing the limit and trying to improve… it was, by itself, already a step further than Gatsby’s goal. As long as I keep in mind the importance of having a concrete, identified, and qualified dream, I am confident that I will find one in near future.