Thursday, October 28, 2004

ah yes... the loveliness of school

I am at school right now, yes, I am always at school. I'm just here studying, doing homework, and trying to come up with a good idea for my research paper. Maybe yall can help.
I want to do something of a comparison, like using journal entries and poems from people who experienced the holocaust, and how the writings reflect their feelings on what was going on. I wanted to do a comparison of someone who was in an internment camp to maybe an S.S. officer, but I find that it may be too difficult to find some journal-type entries of S.S. officers. And besides, even if I wanted to do that, I need to find a specific theme that I want to talk about in my paper. So, I honestly dont knowwwwwww. Its so hard. Then I thought about using journal entries/poems from children in the Holocaust and such. So I dont know, Its too general right now, and I need to get more specific. What do you guys think?
Oniichan- We're in the process of freeing the Tibe-tans, so do not worry. And things are going well here. Sounds ilke you are having fun, and dont get too homesick missing all the "wonderful" things that happened at home while you were here, I'll be sure to let you know if more stuff happens. And maybe send you pictures of Mr. Richards, or better yet, send you Mr. Richards... actually I havent seen him in a while, so I dont know.
Well, anyway, I must be going, you know, work to do. Enough dilly-dallying. Later

3 Comments:

Blogger X.A. Botero said...

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11:50 AM  
Blogger X.A. Botero said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:52 AM  
Blogger X.A. Botero said...

Marcie,
My suggestion is that you don't worry so much about how you put together the paper right now, but why. What do you want to know? Coming up with that goal will make it very easy to figure out what the best way to reach it is. In fact, if you have a good goal, I guarantee you that the means to reaching it will figure themselves out. Maybe it even just turns that you want to know something about Holocaust experiences through poetry. Well, then you'll probably do something near to what you're thinking anyway. Perhaps you'll want to do something related to the loss/yielding of morals. Who were these people who actually pulled the levers and the triggers and perpetrated these horrible crimes? I guarantee you that most of them were pretty normal once. What was it set them sliding to utter depravity?

If you're looking at Holocaust-related poetry, may I suggest starting with the following poem? It's by Anthony Hecht, a very good poet who just passed away two weeks ago. He actually was one of the American soldiers who liberated the concentration camps, and he wrote often and powerfully about the evils of the Holocaust. (So you know, the title of the poem, "More light! More light!" refers to Goethe's dying words.)

"More light! More light!" by Anthony Hecht

For Heinrich Blucher and Hannah Arendt

Composed in the Tower before his execution
These moving verses, and being brought at that time
Painfully to the stake, submitted, declaring thus:
"I implore my God to witness that I have made no crime."

Nor was he forsaken of courage, but the death was horrible,
The sack of gunpowder failing to ignite.
His legs were blistered sticks on which the black sap
Bubbled and burst as he howled for the Kindly Light.

And that was but one, and by no means one of he worst;
Permitted at least his pitiful dignity;
And such as were by made prayers in the name of Christ,
That shall judge all men, for his soul's tranquility.

We move now to outside a German wood.
Three men are there commanded to dig a hole
In which the two Jews are ordered to lie down
And be buried alive by the third, who is a Pole.

Not light from the shrine at Weimar beyond the hill
Nor light from heaven appeared. But he did refuse.
A Luger settled back deeply in its glove.
He was ordered to change places with the Jews.

Much casual death had drained away their souls.
The thick dirt mounted toward the quivering chin.
When only the head was exposed the order came
To dig him out again and to get back in.

No light, no light in the blue Polish eye.
When he finished a riding boot packed down the earth.
The Luger hovered lightly in its glove.
He was shot in the belly and in three hours bled to death.

No prayers or incense rose up in those hours
Which grew to be years, and every day came mute
Ghosts from the ovens, sifting through crisp air,
And settled upon his eyes in a black soot.

11:52 AM  

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