Eric Tian

Recently, out of curiosity, I read a sparknotes summary of one of my favourite books of all time: The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. I read through it, hoping to rekindle some of the emotions I felt when reading the full book, but found myself disappointed. Although the main takeaways were there – the summary was concise, and there were even details that I hadn’t picked up upon reading myself – there was a certain magic lacking in such a short form abstract of the book. It felt like blending a perfectly good dinner and drinking it as a shake: the ingredients were technically there, and it might be faster to digest, but the flavour was lost.

After reading the synopsis for some time, I felt frustrated, not feeling the magic I remembered. I then opened the book and started reading for myself. And that’s when I realised the problem with sparknotes.

There are two basic parts to any good story. First, there is a conflict that must be addressed: a question, some sense of foreboding; the tension that keeps you curious. Second, there is the takeaway: the moral, what you remember from the piece; the lesson that reshapes your life.

The problem with sparknotes, and plot summaries by extension, is that it often neglects the conflict part of the story. In the process of being succinct, it rushes to the takeaway, the moral or plot twist you tell your friends about, and ignores the details that made the takeaway important in the first place. A moral like “recognise when you have enough” falls flat on most people. But when you turn that into a novel like The Pearl by John Steinbeck, with a plot and drama and emotion, suddenly you have a wonderful story.

Take this sparknotes summary of the first chapter of The Brothers Karamazov:

“Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, usually called Alyosha, is the third son of a brutish landowner named Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who is still famous for his dark and violent death. The narrator tells the story of Fyodor Pavlovich’s life. As a young man, he is known as a loutish buffoon. He owns a very small amount of land and earns a reputation for sponging off other people.”

It’s a fine summary; the main points are there, and most literary critics would agree with this description of Fyodor Pavlovich. But compare that summary with this passage from the actual book:

“Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I will only say that this “landowner”—for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate—was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovich, for instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of the smallest; he ran to dine at other men’s tables, and fastened on them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district…“

What does this passage have that the summary doesn’t? For one, it gives us a better picture of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s character: where the summary simply states a “loutish baffoon”, the book itself describes him as a “strange type… a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless”. It then further shows that though he began with nothing, he became very wealthy at his death, despite his apparent incompetence. Immediately, we wonder how a man who is so senseless and poor could amass such amount of wealth in his life. We are drawn into the story: we become curious. When these details are missing in the summary, we lose interest in the greater lesson at hand.

The problem with summaries is they skip the conflicts that make a book interesting and skip straight to the takeaway. Without the contradictions and tension that one can only build with detail, we simply don’t care. It is far more memorable to imagine Fyodor Pavlovich’s vicious, senseless nature in front of us, and to picture him curiously dying with riches, than to imagine a “loutish baffoon”.

The magic of reading lies in the process of caring deeply about a question, becoming curious about it, as the author intended, then realising the wisdom hidden in the text. To skip the question is to skip the answer entirely.

There are few things as alluring as perfection. We often imagine what the perfect partner, the perfect job, the perfect house would be like. We pour countless hours chasing the perfect body in the gym, the perfect grades in the library, the perfect CV with our references. People enter heated debates over the perfect political system, the perfect federal budget, the perfect philosophy of life. It is fun to think about, because once you’ve attained perfection, you are elevated into a realm beyond most mortals and their flaws.

Only one slight problem. We aren’t perfect. And when we live in a narrative where perfection is the ideal, the brutal realisation that we cannot attain this goal can be paralysing, leading to either inaction or resorting to desperate means such as pretending. From this starting point, it’s not difficult to slip into lies, deceit and a betrayal of one’s true ability. With time, this contradiction between perfection and reality produces a dissonance that is the birth of both mental and spiritual delusion.

For example, take a look at these fake martial artists that are convinced they are masters. It is astounding to watch the level of conviction they have building an “ultimate technique”, when it is apparent that anyone with some MMA training would win in a serious fight.

However, as usual, books provide insights into the inner sanctum of humanity, and one of my favourite books of all time touches upon this dilemma.

The quote “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” comes from East of Eden by John Steinbeck. With this, a woman realises that her love interest has put her onto a pedestal so impossibly high that he cannot appreciate her for who she is. Her attempts at being perfect only lead to despair and frustration. When she realises that she will never be the person he imagines, she finally lets go of these expectations, and finds peace.

With this, Steinbeck suggests that perfection and goodness are not synonyms, as one might expect, but more like two sides of a coin. The pursuit of perfection is ironically not good, since we slip into pathology trying to reach the impossible. Instead, doing the best we can in each moment; to accept our flaws, but to do good despite them, is the true ideal to strive towards.

I don’t particularly enjoy hiking: the terrain is often uneven, slippery and steep, and finding a trail often requires a fair amount of effort. Granted, there is the fitness aspect of it, but if I wanted to exercise and spend time with friends, I would much rather play sport, go for a run, or gym.

But hiking does teach one lesson: that there is often a direct correlation between effort and reward. If you take the time to drive out of the city, you might find better trails; if you find the best trail to hike, you might have a better time; if you hike up all the way to the end, you might be rewarded with an amazing vantage, and most importantly, a small sense of accomplishment.

Today some friends and I hiked up a small mountain. The walk wasn’t far, but it had some of the steepest terrain I had ever experienced. It felt more like walking up a staircase than it did a trail. To make things worse, it was hot outside and getting warmer, there was minimal shade, and we had to stop every few minutes to drink water and take a break. I was concerned that we might run out of water and have to turn back.

But after many breaks, the path began to flatten out, and we could make out the summit. When we eventually stood at the summit, and the horizon was laid out, a wave of euphoria came over me. At that moment, looking out at the mountains and trees and roads below, the effort all felt worth it. The two hour drive, the excruciating walk, the lack of water; there was a recognition that without the sweat and struggle that went into the hike, we would never be experiencing nature in this glory. We could have walked up a shorter mountain, or simply drove to a lookout, but neither would have been as meaningful. We wouldn’t have this view in front of us.

The reward was inextricably tied to the effort.

Jason Zweig, a writer for the Wall Street Journal, wrote this piece on suggested resolutions for a new year. I’m generally not big on resolutions, but some of these are great ideas. Here’s a few I’ve liked in particular:

Listening to what someone else is saying without hearing what you already think is one of the hardest challenges for the human mind. When you listen, listen as if your life depends on it. Otherwise, you’ll just hear your own words coming out of someone else’s mouth.

Say “I don’t know” at least 10 times a day. That will disqualify you for a career in politics but make you a better person.

Learn something interesting every day; learn something surprising every week; learn something shocking every month.

Don’t laugh at things you don’t understand. Take the time and trouble to understand them first. Most likely, you will find that once you understand them, they either become even funnier than you thought in the first place, or not funny in the least.

Never try to get other people to change their minds without first trying to understand why they think the way they do. Never do that without being open to the possibility that the mind that might need to change the most could be your own.

Work harder at making the familiar strange. Walk or drive a different route than your daily routine; work away from your desk; read something flamboyantly irrelevant; call someone you don’t need to call; look up at the sky instead of the concrete. When you turn back to your routine, it will feel freshened.

Get better at accepting compliments; despite all you know (and all they don’t know) about how the sausage was made, people still have a right to like what you did. And you have an obligation to thank them.

Tweet less; read more.

Talk less; listen more.

Say more: Use fewer words.

Some days feel fast, where hours and events blur into one, where you reach the end of the day ready to start the day, and you check the time and say, “whoa”.

Some days feel slow, where the second hands feel broken, where the Earth orbits a little slower around the sun, where you find minutes and hours you didn’t expect, and perhaps don’t even want.

And then there are some days where time slows to a still, where all the time that has existed and will ever exist converge onto one moment in space, and it feels right, even perfect, and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. In these moments – watching the sunset, reading a perfect book, saying your first “I love you” – there is a suspension in time, as if the Universe holds its breath, and it is sublime.

Someone once told me something along the lines of, “If you listen to someone close enough and long enough, they will be so interesting that you will hardly be able to stand them.”

This seemed like hyperbole at the time, but recently I’ve been finding this more and more. When I spend enough time listening to an individual, something they say just becomes unbearably interesting. It could be some way they see the world, a relationship dynamic, a childhood event, a random talent… the list is endless. Some fascinating story eventually gets uncovered and in that moment they seem like the most interesting person in the world.

This works best in one-on-one conversations, where you can dive into a person’s world and ask questions. In groups, where there are often competing interests, conversations float around the common denominator, such that personal, potentially vulnerable circumstances are often avoided.

When you begin a conversation with a person, and listen – really listen, like trying to climb into their skin, to understand them as they are, there is something fascinating to be found in everybody.

Today I observed an interaction between two doctors: one junior, one senior. The senior doctor was teaching about a condition – necrotising fasciitis – and why we use a certain antibiotic to treat it. I was eavesdropping towards the side, taking notes as well.

After the explanation was complete, the junior doctor asked a few more clarifying questions and then ended with a statement:

“Wow, I really thought I knew that. But I like knowing that I’m wrong – it means I’ve discovered something, like there’s one less thing I’m now wrong about. So, thanks.”

I looked up at the junior doctor, amazed at his attitude, and saw that he looked genuinely happy. He found joy in being wrong, even if it meant pain at his prior ignorance. How much could you learn, I thought to myself, if you were continuously questioning your knowledge and found joy in being corrected? How far could that mindset push you?

The senior doctor laughed at this response and clapped his hand on the junior doctor’s shoulder. He seemed relieved and proud that his colleague was able to accept their error so openly. The two shared a brief moment of acknowledgment – one for one’s knowledge, the other for one’s humility. A nurse, noticing my interest, gave me a knowing smile.

“He,” she said, pointing to the junior doctor. “Is one of our best doctors.”

Today, while driving on a freeway, it began to rain. The rain was no ordinary rain; it was loud and violent, like a stampede, and it was accompanied by heavy wind, making the car shake, and for a brief moment there was doubt as to the whether we could continue driving safely.

But then, as quickly as it came, as soon as I was about to suggest pulling over, the rain subsided. Within seconds, we were met with straight, dry roads and the sun came out to dance, as if awakening from slumber, and it felt as though we came out of a bad dream.

“That was crazy,” I said to my partner. “I’m sure it’ll be easy from here.”

“Touch wood,” she replied. “There’s clouds above.”

We enjoyed the dry roads for about five minutes before the rain came again, harsher this time. The previous episode was a nuisance, this one was an attack. The rain drops hit and exploded like bombs and the roads, as if injured by the assault, formed little puddles that unsteadied the wheels as we drove over. Our windscreen wipers were working at their highest level, clearing the rain, the cosmic graffiti, and even then, we could barely see outside.

But then, as quickly as it came, the rain subsided.

“Surely it’s fine from here,” I said. “There couldn’t be anything worse than that.”

“Touch wood,” she replied. “There’s still clouds above.”

The dry roads only lasted three minutes before the next onslaught began. This attack was the briefest but the fiercest and therefore the most terrifying of them all, like the previous two episodes combined into one final burst. We were hit by a meteor, an atomic bomb, and the car went from driving steadily to fighting for its life in a heartbeat. I wondered if the we could bear the pressure of the rainfall, for it felt like a cataclysm, the end of the world, and I half expected the cars around us to go flying in the air. It was impossible to see or hear anything other than the rain, and I thought back on what we could’ve done in a past life to deserve a fate like this.

And then, as quickly as it came, the rain subsided.

“Okay, surely…” I began. And stopped. I couldn’t tell what more adventures laid ahead. That cosmic assault could’ve been the last of it, or the start of it – we would never know. We could only continue on the dry road in front of us, bruised and humbled, waiting for whatever laid ahead.

Last night I heard sounds of celebration: people hooting and laughing, cars honking in the streets and fireworks pattering in the sky. As I laid still in bed, just listening to these sounds of hope, to the toast for the year gone by, I was reminded of this poem by Bukowski. He describes a magic – the magic – and how accessible it is to us all if we look and listen closely enough.

Happy new year, everyone. May we all find some magic this year.

Nirvana by Charles Bukowski (read by Lex Fridman):

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humour which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

I once asked a friend from the uni athletics squad what he thought about when he was racing. Did he tell himself a story or have a motto to help him run faster?

He replied, “When I’m racing, I try to imagine I’m terribly hungry, and at the end of the race there’s a feast waiting for me, and I’m just trying to reach the feast as fast as possible. If I’m too slow, all the food will be gone!” We both laughed at that. Then I told him what I thought. “When I race, I think of a tiger breathing down my back. A real fast one, and one that needs to feed his family, and if I look back, or slow down, he’s going to eat me.” Then he replied, “Wow. Maybe I’m the tiger chasing you!” And we both laughed again.

Both stories were, obviously, untrue. But despite knowing they were make believe, we adopted them for a purpose. The stories made us feel a certain way, which prompted action in line with our goals: to make us run faster when it was hard.

They were useful, in spite of their fabrication.