Throughout my life, I have been taught that there is a purpose for everything,
each action has a reaction, and all is ruled by an overarching divine plan. My
flaw, as I have realized only recently and that has been reinforced by
I’ve sometimes doubted the purpose and foundations of this class, as I asked a
few weeks ago if we will ever actually read any “World Literature” as the class
name implies. However, as the semester has progressed I have begun to
understand that it is not the books, the authors, or the words themselves that
are important; it is not the understanding of Proust
or the recitation of Shakespeare that instills intelligence—it is the
understanding that all these works, these objectified books, these ghosts of
the past, are one. They exist because we read them, and we read them because
they are written with the intention of being deciphered. Without this mutual
relationship, they fail to have meaning. Our perception of them, of the ink of
the text, the smell of the paper, the language of the words, is what makes them
real to us, for, as Alex mentioned in her DB, “Apart from your brain, or some
brain, the world is devoid of light, heat weight, solidity , motion, space,
time, or any other imaginable feature” (Watts 916). Its
an astounding, revolutionary, and almost frightening concept that “the universe
implies the organism, and each single organism implies the universe,” (