Bertrand russell I

Bertrand russell asks a difficult question. What is the answer?

"Is there any knowledge in the world which is so certain that no reasonable man could doubt it? This question, which at first sight might not seem difficult, is really one of the most difficult that can be asked. When we have realized the obstacles in the way of a straightforward and confident answer, we shall be well launched on the study of philosophy—for philosophy is merely the attempt to answer such ultimate questions, not carelessly and dogmatically, as we do in ordinary life and even in the sciences, but critically, after exploring all that makes such questions puzzling, and after realizing all the vagueness and confusion that underlie our ordinary ideas."

Bertrand russell -  The Problems of Philosophy 

Nostalgia I

The asthenic winter sun shone on the snow crested path that I walked on once a week to get to the mountain. As I walked among the trees, the sleeping giant started to dominate the December sky. The golden field of wild dried grass, randomly uniform, luminous and redolent, reminded me of her skin. Candescent while nature was at It's seasonal halt. As I approached the mountain, the single entity that spawned lucidity for me at those days, frosty swelled rocks became more frequent.

As I climbed the small hill, the frigid city became more visible, just to fade into the nothingness I wanted it to become with a simple turn of my head. patches of green grass amongst the grey rocky background were soothing to the eyes that had teared up in the face of the wild winter wind which froze anything that defied it. As the sun that sat around 5:30 in the afternoon on those days was dying off, the eastern paper moon had gained flight, and I reached the apex.

Mountain after mount, stones frozen in time and space faded into the afternoon sky. My bones ached and my face was numb but I couldn't care. The measly I had reached the mountain top to see the sight of the grand peaks afar, to be reminded of just how trivial he truly was.

On "A Hanging" by George Orwell

  In "A Hanging", Orwell shows us how the prisoners are regarded as none-humans. Their cells, are as cages of animals. How they are considered dead before their execution and any attempt to prolong their lives is questioned and is found surprising by the guards who look at it as an attempt to tamper with their predetermined fate.

  Orwell shows us that this regard for the prisoners is not racial as it may occur to some, but an effect of power, As the Burmese royalist laughs the loudest at the humorous remarks made about the dead prisoner.

  The translucent moment experienced by the narrator brings him this meaning: "It is curious, but till that moment I had never realized what it means to destroy a healthy, conscious man. When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide. This man was not dying, he was alive just as we were alive. All the organs of his body were working - bowels digesting food, skin renewing itself, nails growing, tissues forming - all toiling away in solemn foolery. His nails would a second to live. His eyes saw the yellow gravel and the grey walls, and his brain still remembered, foresaw, reasoned - reasoned even about puddles. He and we were a party of men walking together, seeing, hearing, feeling, understanding the same world; and in two minutes, with a sudden snap, one of us would be gone - one mind less, one world less."

On "Why I Write" By George Orwell

  I wish I had read Why I Write before I attempted to read any of Orwell's books, because as he said himself, we can not know a writer's intention without being familiar with his earlier work and his background in general.

  In this essay he answered a couple of questions that I had queried while reading his books.
One of which was his intention for the structure chosen for his books. In his own words :"I will only say that of late years I have tried to write less picturesquely and more exactly. In any case I find that by the time you have perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it. ANIMAL FARM was the first book in which I tried, with full consciousness of what I was doing, to fuse political purpose and artistic purpose into one whole."

  An other question will surely be his motives to write and how he came to acquire them:"What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, 'I am going to produce a work of art'. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a full-time politician would consider irrelevant."
   He also talks about his childhood habits, which most of us I think can relate to easily.
Also He listed the four motives that he believed drive each prose writer and are present in all but in different fractions. these four are:

 1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc.

 2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. 

 3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

 4. Political purpose. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples' idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.

On "Spike" By George Orwell

George Orwell spent a night in a workhouse (spike) near London and this short essay is based on his real-life experience as a vagrant.
 He talked about dealing with confinement. "It is a silly piece of cruelty to confine an ignorant man all day with nothing to do; it is like chaining a dog in a barrel, only an educated man, who has consolations within himself, can endure confinement." I derive from this a comment on the nonproductive system of the spike, not necessarily a cry about the unfair state of treatment that tramps receive, aside from Orwell's view on living within limits.
The dialog with the young carpenter marks an interesting point in the essay. "It was interesting to see how subtly he disassociated himself from his fellow tramps. He has been on the road six months, but in the sight of God, he seemed to imply, he was not a tramp. His body might be in the spike, but his spirit soared far away, in the pure aether of the middle classes."
Keeping in mind the earlier conversation between them that included the carpenter's opinions on why the spike is in this condition and that a tramp (a true tramp) is lazy and unproductive by nature, I think Orwell is portraying the character of the carpenter to further emphasize this simple point. Hence justifying the judgmental tone that is sensed throughout the essay.
The ending:"he put four sodden, debauched, loathly cigarette ends into my hand." a tramp is displaying kindheartedness while also shoving the expected and explained uselessness. A delicate touch.