A journal entry: C. Paolini's "Inheritance"

Picking up (or downloading, rather) my copy of Inheritance marked yet another end of an era for me. One by one, the epic series that colored my childhood are ending, and I am always somewhat loath to turn the last page because of what it signifies. I don't want to say goodbye to the characters that have grown and changed with me. I don't want their stories to end as mine, in some ways, is really just beginning. There are other things too that cause a tightening in my chest, like how the books don't seem as long as they used to, and the diction not as dense and complicated as my younger mind interpreted it to be. I am growing older and leaving these stories behind. It's saddening.

The concept of names, true names, has always been a strong theme in the Eragon books and is especially prominent in Inheritance. This concept has always fascinated me because of its answer to the age-old question: "Who am I?" To know your true name is to know yourself fully and completely - to tell another person your name is to give them complete power over you. Every flaw, every admirable virtue is laid bare in the the discovery of one's name. It is a great and terrible discovery, to know one's true name. Names truly do hold great power, do they not? We form a bond with the things we name, and gain a sense of responsibility and ownership over them - as well as a connection born from the fact that one of the defining labels denoting their identity has come from us. Yet, just as the truth in a true name has the power to shake a person to their core, everyone is the master of their own fate, the captain of their soul - and thus a name can change just as a person changes with time and experience.

Another image that continues to stay with me is that of a lesson taught by an ancient dragon to Eragon and Saphira, a lesson in the form of a memory. The ancient dragon shows them a nest of starlings, their dreams simple and fleeting. The great dragon initially feels contempt for their petty and inconsequential thoughts - but to the birds, their musings are all-encompassing and of great importance. The dreams of starlings are equal to the concerns of kings. Every action, every want, every fear is the same to each person who feels it, now matter how tiny or how grand. The key is seeking to understand. To understand one another is the key to breaking down the walls that separate us.

It is all of these images and themes within Inheritance that burn it into my memory and leave me turning it over and over again in my mind - the plot was, as many said, predictable. But what is plot but the framework for the real message of a novel? Plot is simply the skeleton, the ribcage supporting the beating heart of a story. What I highlight, what I hold in my heart, are those moments of such beauty and clarity that remind me why I love literature so much. Those ideas crafted into words that leave you simply lost in thought, long after the last page has been turned. And those other ones, those so massive to comprehend that you are struck with the realization that we really are so inconsequentially tiny, no more than a dream to a starling.

"For the sky is hollow, and the earth is round..."

rape [rayp] (n): defilement; forced sexual assault

I am a generally open-minded person. Even though I can get mad, I forgive in a heartbeat and am often apologetic for it afterwards. There are very few things in this world that fill me with absolute, blind rage - few enough that I could probably count them all on one hand.

One of these things is the action of and facilitation of rape.

Rape is a strange concept for me, because I'm unusually sensitive about it. Perhaps it's because I consider the act of sex to be one of the most sacred things in the world - the thought that this gift could be forcefully torn from someone is horrifying to me. It is even more frightening to me as a woman, because I know it would be unlikely that I could fight a man off if the desire struck him. When talking about rape, I often have to either remove myself from the conversation, or say nothing at all - especially when dealing with people who sympathize with the offenders and those who knew that it had happened and said nothing. The wave of disgust and fury that grips me renders me unable to speak with anything less than anger.  I feel a familiar heat in my chest, a pricking in my eyes, and I have to turn away. I could go on about my opinions on the many problems our society has dealing with rape, but I want to focus on a certain current event no doubt forefront in many minds.

In the wake of the Penn State scandal, many people are up in arms in defense of Joe Paterno; many of the statements I've heard and read today have been along the lines of:

"He fulfilled his legal requirement!"

"It wasn't his fault!"

"He's not a rapist!"

At Penn State University, a responsible adult male saw a child - a child - being put through one of the most terrible tortures any person could endure. Other responsible, adult males learned of this, and made the choice to let it go on. To say Paterno "fulfilled" his legal requirement is to use the loosest definition of the term. He told one supervisor, the supervisor made no action, and Paterno stopped there.

In a final statement last Wednesday, Paterno admitted, "I wish I had done more."

I'm sorry, but that's just not good enough for me. What's funny to me is the deification of famous football teams and all involved with them. By some logic that remains beyond my comprehension, there seems to be some sort of positive correlation between being a sports icon and being beyond reprehension. What disturbed me the most are the people hailing Paterno as a "tragic hero." I put that in quotations because I see it as a gross mockery of the title. What's tragic here are the years of suffering by the victims of Jerry Sandusky. What's tragic here is the inaction of not just one man, but many; those who stood by and let evil continue for the sake of their safety. To call Joe Paterno a "tragic hero" is to victimize a sinner and take attention away from the real issue:

A ten-year-old boy was raped. Someone, with their own eyes, saw it happen. Entered a locker room, and walked right out again. I can't help but wonder, did this boy hear a door open? Footsteps? A rush of relief that he would be saved, only to hear that same door close on him again. In the face of a child's suffering, adults hailed as role models and icons were silent. A pedophile was allowed to walk free among them.

I am beyond asking questions. I am angry. I am anguished. I am absolutely sickened.

Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again,

to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship

and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song

and the white sail's shaking,

and a grey mist on the sea's face, and

a grey dawn breaking

I must down to the seas again,

for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call

that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day

with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the brown spume,

and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again,

to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way

where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn

from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream

when the long trick's over.

- John Masefield

I chose this poem for recitation because it stood out in sharp contrast from the thousands of options made available by Poetry Out Loud. The moment I saw it I wanted to make it my own - I wanted to burn it into my mind and my soul, and keep it always. This decision was new for me, as someone who tends to be drawn towards themes of romance and mysticism - I am a die-hard Yeats and Eliot fan. This poem is both straightforward and painful because it speaks to me on a personal level. Someone very close to me is answering the call of the sea, as it were, and I will not see them for a very long time come summer. In a lot of ways, I feel that the water is truly where they belong. You see, I needed this poem. I needed it to make myself try to understand. To let go. And, in my own way, to cope.

Leaving is the easiest thing in the world to do. Saying goodbye is the hard part.


I don't remember where I first heard that quote, or some variant of it, but I so clearly recall how it resonated within me. How I was struck with that sudden realization: that's so true!

I'm obsessed with the idea of travel. When I picture myself in the next five years, it's somewhere new and exciting, a place I've never been. I'm overcome with an almost anxious feeling - I worry if I'll have the time to see it all, since I'm expected to go right into college and then immediately into a career, just like we all are. I'm not given time to wonder if there's anything more, because as far as we're concerned, there isn't. This is the way it's always been. After high school, you go to a respectable university. You earn your four-year degree, and you spend the rest of your life searching for the career that will prove to your parents that you were a worthwhile investment, and to society that you are doing your part. You've made somethng of yourself. Right?

I'm lucky to be blessed with a fairly narrow view of the future - the farthest ahead I make plans is about two to three days, so I've not yet worried much about the time I will or won't have to pursue my wanderlust. Instead, I worry about the act of travelling itself. I know that I want to go, but how can I? A house doesn't make a home, and any locale, no matter how beautiful, is empty without a familiar face. I picture myself saying goodbye to the people closest to my heart, and every time I feel it jump. I try not to think about it, but as I rapidly approach the middle of my senior year it's getting harder and harder to avoid the inevitable.

Buddhists believe that suffering permeates everything; the only way to escape is through detachment. To let go of all worldly attachments, to distance oneself from emotion and desire. I admire and envy them. Emotional attachment is the root of my anxiety. As far as I'm concerned, it's as heavy as a chain keeping me locked in one place, unable to move away. To love is to be weak; to surrender oneself to someone else, whose own feelings could change in an instant. Love is an anchor; it turns one's legs to stone. It drowns us.