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Dostoevsky Imitation, English Assignment, 11 March 2009

Posted on: 11 March 2009

I am a man driven. But what does it mean, first of all, to be driven? Driven by what? Driven by some internal force to push me onwards into some sort of final goal? Driven by humanity to be yet another part of the machine, another moment in the long history of the universe to appear, live out eighty or so years? (Fie, such a useless thing to be so old! But, another writer has touched on that, so I shall give him that point. Isn’t the term for that “preemptive mental theft” or something similar?) Driven by myself and my own self-loathing, calling myself some sort of a vile slime that needs to go back and rework everything in front of him? What is there, you may ask, about my character that drives me? Yes, I do believe it was that last point, don’t all of you know? All of you out there, who I want. For what do I want you? That’s something I’ll leave to later. But yes, it was that last point. I drive myself out of the sheer unadulterated requirement that I must drive myself. And the best method to do that is to consistently work back on it, to spite myself by constantly calling it failure, rubbish, and trash.

You may ask of me, all of you as a collective soul, “But that doesn’t get you anywhere! Surely, your work is anything other than trash!” Well, that may be true, all of you. That may be true indeed, but I am not a critic. I refuse to be a critic on principle. This principle, indeed, is that there are enough of those critics in the world to criticise everything from beginning to end! Look at those poor souls, with nothing to speak about for themselves and nothing to do but to rant at other people. It’s despicable! It’s ridiculous! There is no point to such a continuous dislike, a continuum of hatred that this is! Why do these people have to criticise the actions of others! Such an annoyance! Such a nuisance! These people, who need to get out of their own excessively infuriating, high-strung, bourgeois ways! Such scoundrels need to be shot or executed in another way on sight. Call upon the revolution, I say! Call upon… ah, I’m getting on in my years, you see. Were I a younger man, I would have been easily capable of rousing so much anger against such a thing that the walls of Troy would have been knocked down.

But wait! I hear you all, all of you, wondering why? I comment and criticise those who do so against myself, and merely proceed onwards to fall into that rut! Why trick us? Why go to such lengths to confound all of you and act as if I were some sort of superior being, with the ability to confuse and stupefy all those around me?

Sadly, this is not my point. I have no time for simple mind tricks, you see. What is the point of having simple mind tricks, you may ask? What is the point of attempting to confound an audience – my audience! – when I am attempting to get a point across? You see, there should be no point in having to use mind tricks present to attempt (and succeed!) at driving away those more feeble-minded than my proper audience, when the sheer content of this work can properly perform that duty in a far more effective manner than simple mind tricks can get across. By avoiding the use of overtly simple mind games and excessively overt contradictory statements, you see, I can save more time and space that is better put to other purposes and more practical matters, such as criticism of humanity and of conformity and individualism and all the wonderful things I had pointed out, no? There, you see, I have no reason for mind games that just obviously do naught but waste my space on these pages – and publishing is damn expensive, let me tell you – and your time listening or reading this work. Of course, this does not preclude more complicated mind tricks and far more covert forms of contradiction from occurring; they are far more enjoyable to use, far more proper to inflict upon the audience, and far more useful for my own purposes.

“Get on with it!,” all of you say, wanting to move on. “What is the point? Why have you become so enamored with such rubbish as wanting to anger everyone around you and lack any sort of alliance, some sort of commonality with other members of mankind?” You see, all of you, it is impossible to call you all as individual units. It pains me to say such a thing, pains me to the depths of my cold, embittered spleen (Ah, for I wish I had a heart– did another writer steal such a phrase from me? Damn him!) You are all the same. There is no single one of all of you that I can pluck up by your collar and raise up and say “This! This one shall be the next of the brilliant!” and stare in awe. No, there is naught but stasis around me! While I hate to admit it, this is the root cause of all my troubles, of all my laments, of all of my raves against whatever Power that Is that runs this civilisation. I look out the window and I see the same; people moving along in a crowd, walk on the sidewalk, keep your head down, be fashionable, wear the same brands, drink the same things. Where is the independent thought? Where are those who stand up and work the other way? Walk against the crowd, hate on modern popular literature, eat away from the norm, stand on tables and laugh at those who deserve a good laughing-at. Few alone do this nowadays, and fewer still admit to it.

“Why not just give yourself up, then? Why fight the overarching power?” Here, even writing this bland mass of subject, I myself fall into the general morass of the age! Fie! How despicable it is of me to have been tricked and coerced by those around me in even cleverer ways to have to write such trash, such repetition as this! Yes, I do admit that I am having some semblance of enjoyment, participating in such miserable works, calling upon the fallout and shortcomings of civilisation. This enjoyment is a sense of self flagellation, where I continuously beat myself in order to coerce a proper, true semblance of emotion. It is indeed through this that I break away from the normality, the stasis, the sheer unmodified annoyance of society and carve a path of my own throughout whatever future lays before me! You see, all of you, my readers whom I have desire and now hold within my grasp, I am one of those terrors that you hear of! Those people your mother told you to stay away from when you were young, those people that the media condemns and shuns, I am one of those people! I am, as they say, one of the better revolutionaries. “What proof have you of this?” Well, if I were a bad revolutionary, then I wouldn’t be here speaking to you, now would I?

“But sir, you have not yet reached the point! Why fight? Is there even a reason to fight?” Silence, all of you! I will humor your petty desires and give you a reason, in order to allow you to lay silent and remain unbothersome and unappreciative dogs that you are. My reason for fighting is for the purpose of fighting.

“What? What silly talk is that?” Ah! You see, therein lies the elegance of such a thing, the raison d’etre of such a wonderful desire. If there is no resistance, how can we change? In our species, we have been marked with wonderful periods of change, have we not? Examples I can summon off my memory are such things are the Chinese Cultural Revolutions, the 1776 American Independence, the Industrial Revolution, and this wonderful Information Age that is passing us by, beneath our soles, as we walk. These changes were brought about by those around that have the will to act out, to break the norm, to do something to allow better well-being. And what do they receive in return? People use machinery to create things to kill people, people use the Internet in order to use connections across borders to ruin the lives of people they’ve never met, people abuse independence and freedom in order to make misery for other people. It’s an honestly despicable, heartless, relentless, inexorable, and continues onward.

Ah, I digress. Don’t speak! I’ve had enough of you all. You see, though, the essence of the thing about fighting rounds its way back to the initial point, back to being, as Pascal said, “a central point in between nothing and all and infinitely far from understanding either.” Without a machine, without an overmind to fight against as you all are, my purpose becomes nil. The instant everyone becomes truly, incomparably individual with no overlapping features whatsoever, my use disappears. I and those similar to me shall fade until we vanish, becoming nothing at all and merely other parts of a similar morass… Do you see the requirement of such an enemy to fight? I am a revolutionary so long as there is an enemy. In the end, my goal to fight is not in order to defeat my enemy, but to have the purpose of having an enemy, having something to be against, and having something to relieve my own personal monotony.

Yes, I believe that is correct now.

That is why, readers, I need only one thing of you. Continue being your simple mass, your combined immense hive mind of souls bound by consumerism, by modern babying, by modern necessity.

It gives me something to enjoy speaking against.


Updated: This assignment received a 98/100, because I used “hate on modern literature” instead of “hate modern literature.” Dammit!


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My name is Daniel Hawking.

There are three fractions that make up this persona.

One of which is sealed closed via the physical realm of the world. One of which is unlocked via the medium known as the Internet. One of which is standing tall, watching over the wondrous horizon in front of him.

Of the first, this is the one most who have met me see, the one shunned, the one unappreciated, the one treated as entertainment instead of a colleague, the one shunted off to the side.

Of the second, only a select few have been able to meet. Coherency and truthful thoughts are the hallmarks of those knowing this fraction, as are trust and belief. Most of the dearest friends know of this section.

Of the third...? Revival of the finest order, as the phoenix of a prince rises from his own ashes. The adventurer, a traveler.

Regardless of fates, this is who I am now.

Daniel Hawking. Prince of Aralonia.

One of many.

A representative of Aralonia.

Together, the collective mindset of a nation.

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