O scrisoare pierdută este o comedie de moravuri sociale și politice, scrisă de dramaturgul român Ion Luca Caragiale, în anul 1884, publicată în revista „Convorbiri literare”.
Comedia O scrisoare pierdută este împărțită în patru acte. Textul este conceput ca o succesiune dinamică de replici, iar principalul mod de expunere este dialogul. Intervențiile autorului, adică indicațiile scenice sau didascaliile, sunt prezente de obicei la începutul comediei, al unui act, sau sunt intercalate replicilor. Ele se referă la cadrul acțiunii, statutul personajelor, mimica și gestica acestora etc, și utilizează ca moduri de expunere descrierea și narațiunea.
Criticii teatrali ai timpului au socotit însă piesa lipsită de calități literare (Ionescu-Gion, Dassè, Claymoor), excepție făcând Ollănescu-Ascanio care a scris favorabil despre piesă. O apreciere favorabilă despre „O scrisoare pierdută”, scrie, fără a semna, și Gh. Panu în ziarul Lupta în decembrie 1884, cu ocazia reprezentării piesei la Naționalul ieșean.
Pe cei prezenți la reprezentațiile din 1884, Scrisoarea pierdută i-a impresionat prin acțiunea ei vie și prin forța extraordinară a satirei politice. Chiar detractorii lui Caragiale nu i-au putut refuza cunoașterea meritelor indiscutabile și în acest sens a fost nevoit să scrie în 1903, în “Causeris littèraires”, Pompiliu Eliade, pentru care Scrisoarea pierdută era „cea mai bună bucată literară care s-a scris vreodată în limba română“, capodopera de necontestat a repertoriului nostru dramaturgic, o piesă clasică, în măsură să consacre nu numai un autor, ci și o întreagă literatură.
Cel mai mare dramaturg și scriitor satiric al literaturii noastre, I.L.Caragiale, s-a născut la 30 ianuarie 1852 în satul Haimanale din județul Dâmbovița, ca fiu al lui Luca și al Ecaterinei Caragiale. Primele clase le urmeaza la Ploiești, la Școala Domnească, păstrând o pioasă amintire învățătorului Basil Dragoșescu, de la care a învățat întâia dată tainele gramaticii și respectul pentru limba românească.
După 1870, timp de câțiva ani, preocupările lui Caragiale se aseamănă cu ale marelui său contemporan și prieten de mai târziu, M. Eminescu: În 1870 Caragiale este copist la Tribunalul Prahova, iar în 1871 este sufleur și copist al Teatrului Național din București.
Anul 1873 este important în evoluția lui Caragiale, întrucât odată cu prima proba a înclinațiilor sale satirice, debutând la revista umoristică Ghimpele, cu articole și note polemice ascuțite, în care ataca cu fronda juvenilă pe Maiorescu, Macedonski s.a.
Anul 1884 trebuie reținut ca data memorabilă în care apare capodopera dramaturgiei noastre clasice, comedia O scrisoare pierdută, reprezentată în același an. La cei 32 de ani, Caragiale dăduse literaturii noastre : O noapte furtunoasa, Conu Leonida față cu reacțiunea și O scrisoare pierdută.
Între 1888-1889, aproape un an, Caragiale funcționează ca director general al teatrelor. Însă relațiile cu Junimea si cu Titu Maiorecu incep sa se răcească și Caragiale începe să devină, pentru liberali și conservatori, deopotrivă, un scriitor dificil și incomod.
În 1901 apare volumul Momente și schite și în același an are loc cunoscuta acuzație de plagiat adusă de Caion Al. Ionescu, publicist mediocru, necinstit și amator de scandaluri, înfierat în fulminanta pledoarie a lui Delavrancea.
In 1904, beneficiind de o moștenire considerabilă, Caragiale pleacă la Berlin, unde se va stabili până la moarte. Placarea lui din țară nu trebuie privită cu superficialitate, ca fiind simplu rezultat al unei moșteniri.
Cea mai emoționantă dovadă a legăturii trainice cu țara adevărată, cu poporul năpăstuit pe care l-a slujit cu devotament și ale cărui dureri și năzuințe le-a oglindit cu atâta pătrundere într-o însemnată parte a operei sale, o constituie pamfletul 1907 din primăvară până-n toamnă, cel mai aspru rechizitoriu al vremii, cu privire la marile răscoale țărănești.
I.L.Caragiale moare la Berlin, in 1912, 22 iunie, lăsând în urma sa o operă bogată și strălucitoare, o adevărată oglindă a societății românești de la sfârșitul secolului al XIX-lea.
I.L.Caragiale este, înainte de toate , marele dramaturg al literaturii noastre, autor al comediilor O noapte furtunoasă, O scrisoare pierdută, Conu Leonida față cu reacțiunea și D-ale carnavalului, precum și al dramei Năpasta. Ceea ce dă o neobișnuită vigoare creațiilor sale dramatice este în primul rând conținutul lor deosebit de valoros, prin ascuțita lui actualitate în vremea autorului.
Dar fără îndoială că genul dramatic al lui Caragiale și-a găsit expresia desăvârșită în O scrisoare pierdută. Ceea ce face ca această piesă să treacă înaintea tuturor celorlalte este, înainte de orice, conținutul de idei. Reprezentarea piesei O scrisoare pierdută pe marile scene ale lumii (Moscova, Berlin, Varșovia, Paris, Buenos Aires) atestă, indiscutabil, universalitatea ei.
De o factură cu totul deosebită este Năpasta. De data aceasta râsul este convertit în compasiune, iar satira în meditație și profunzime psihologică.
Dupa 1890 repertoriul lui Caragiale se îmbogățește cu proza de analiză și cu povestiri care ilustreaza și de astă dată, bogatele resurse ale marelui scriitor.
Nuvele :O făclie de Paști, Păcat și În vreme de război.
Povestiri : Kir Inulea, La hanul lui Mînjoală, Calul dracului, Abu Hassan.
“Stop it, you BITCH! Can’t you see that you’re destroying yourself?” , the Rational One screamed at the top of her lungs. She was so tired of this… the old bullshit: the bitch falls in love, gets rejected, she writes a story in which she kills the jerk that made her suffer. It already became a boring routine for the Rational One.
“I’m not destroying myself, honey. It’s just… you know, it’s so nice to be in love! All those butterflies and—”
“Those butterflies are fucking WARNING SIGNS that you’re gonna get yourself in serious trouble!!! That’s not love, stupid! That’s TOXIC ADDICTION!”
“No… it’s not addiction. It might be toxic, but it’s not even close to addiction.”
“THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT??”
“No, love’s not the word… I’d say caring is more likely to fit.” the Lunatic One answered, in her deep, dreamy voice.
“How do you know it, dummy? Have you ever been in love? Do you know what being in love means?”
The Rational One was beginning to lose all that little amount of self control that she had left from all the past similar experiences. She wanted to tell the Lunatic that what she’s doing is not healthy for her. But will that head-in-the-clouds bitch ever understand it??
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. Honestly. And I know that love is mostly a “grown-up” thing. And in a way, I like to think that I am beginning to grow up for real. All the boys I’ve “loved” before… I simply wanted them. And I know that because I’ve always tried to have them in a romantic way. But this time? All I need from this guy is that he would keep talking to me. I don’t even care about the fact that I’m not special for him, or that what we had wasn’t so special. I don’t care if he’ll want to talk to me simply as to a friend, or even colder than that. I’m not asking for his attention. I just need to know he’s there.”
The Lunatic was making a point. A good one, actually. Maybe she wasn’t so good at explaining, but let me try and see if I can fix it. So you will understand that she was actually honest when she said that she was not “addicted” to him.
You see… there is a fine line between falling in love and developing an addiction for a person. A line which the Lunatic planned not to cross this time. When being addicted to someone, you want that someone all for yourself. You don’t care if they’re happy in that place or not. All that matters to you is to have them, in the way you want to have them. However, falling in love with someone, makes you wish all the best for them. It makes you be sad when they are sad and happy when they are happy. It makes you want to give them everything they need. Freedom included. Space included. Time included. All those things that you usually wouldn’t give to someone you’re addicted to, but you’d give them anytime to someone you care for.
“Well… yes. You’re right, I can’t say the opposite. But it’s toxic, little one. It’s slowly killing you on the inside. And you can’t deny it.”
“Not really. But even if it is, this is the beauty of life… giving without receiving or expecting anything back. Feeling. All the types of things. From love to rejection, from happiness to sorrow. Every single one of these feelings is beautiful in its own way.”
“How can you say that suffering because of a jerk is a beautiful feeling?”
The Rational raised an eyebrow. From this point, though, she knew for sure that she was just wasting her time. Because if the Lunatic gets her mind fixed on something, it takes hard work to convince her that she’s not right. However, the Rational was getting even more annoyed at the thought that, this time, the Lunatic may be right.
“The greatest works of art were born because of the artist’s grief.” , the Lunatic stated firmly, conjuring her dreamy voice again. “Besides, suffering is a big word. I’m not a drama queen, so I’m not gonna use it.”
“Alright, I see… getting hurt and then romanticizing it… Are you some undercover poet, dummy?”
“We all are a bit poetical when we feel something intensely. Fair enough, most poets come to light only when they are hurt. But some of us can romanticise happiness, too.”
“Wait… I don’t understand anything you’re trying to philosophy about. So just… tell me how you feel, dumb ass!”
“I’m happy for him, you know? That he told me “we” couldn’t quite exist. He would have ended up in a relationship that he wouldn’t have been happy in. So I’m glad he told me straightforward that I didn’t stand a chance with him. I didn’t want to push this thing. If he’s not comfortable with it, that’s totally fine. And I want him to be happy, not caring if this happiness will be due to me or to someone else. He deserves it. At the same time though, I can’t lie saying that I’m not hurt. I am. In the slightest bit, but I am. Maybe just for now. But my experience so far (and him, of course) taught me that it’s the beauty of life. How can you know when you’re happy, if you never get to experience what sadness feels like?”
“But you got to experience it, I mean the sadness… many times. Too many for your own good, might Iadd.”
The Rational One rolled her eyes. She did not enjoy losing an argument with the Lunatic. But she knew she could do nothing more than trying to open her eyes upon the matter at hand.
“So what? Can you ever say you’ve had enough of love, enough of happiness? No! The same happens when it comes to negative feelings. You can never get enough of those. Especially when you’re young. There are hundreds of different ways to suffer. There are thousands of reasons why you could suffer. Just as there are hundreds of different ways to be happy, and thousands of reasons why you could be happy.”
“You know what? I like how it sounds when you say it… But I still suggest we should kill the fucker. Not for real, you know? Just… in here. In your mind space. Like we did before, with all the other jerks that made you suffer. Remember?”
The Lunatic managed a small smile and a little laughter. It sounded coming from far, far away, as if it was time travelling. She closed her eyes and fell silent for a couple minutes. The Rational One waited, hoping that her words would finally get to the Lunatic.
But the Lunatic was set on her idea. Behind her closed eyes, she envisioned the Rational’s suggestion. Soon enough, she found out she couldn’t picture anything like that. With all of the others, it has been so simple, seeing herself with a knife in her hand, or with a gun, or preparing a poisonous drink. In spite of her usual need to kill people in her mind space, she was glad that she found herself unable to even picture anything close to that with him.
She laughed again. More lively, this time. She opened her eyes and smiled. The Rational One knew it was going to be over, so she stamped her foot on the floor in the way a little child would do it. The Lunatic One’s smile widened. She was already feeling happier.
“I want him alive in my mind space, sweetie. He’s nothing like “all the other jerks”. And he didn’t make me suffer. In fact, I really enjoyed his presence.”
“That’s the only place I could relive what has happened between us. So let me keep that. Thank you!”
Her body was floating downwards, slipping deeper and deeper and deeper underwater. All the air inside of her lungs had gone out, leaving in only the dirty water in the lake. Her brain was close to shutting down. She was aware of the fact that she was drowning. But she was at ease with this information.
It was a huge paradox going on in there. She was afraid of depths, and that included, of course, deep water. Yet here she was, floating down, down, down…
She’s always been scared to go swimming into that lake. But now, she simply got tired of staying near the shore. So she dived in.
She often associated that lake with her anxiety about life. She wanted to face it. But she was too scared to. But only now did she realise that it was actually quite simple.
All you had to do was just dive in.
Nothing to worry about.
Just go with the flow.
I don’t know how to swim.
See? It’s easy. Nothing else to worry about.
These were the thoughts that spun and swirled in her mind, during the last few moments of her life. She was trying to block out the train of memories that wanted to pass behind her eyes. She didn’t want to see it again, to live it again, to feel it again.
It was enough.
They say it’s ok not to be ok. So why wouldn’t it be ok to die? Everyone is “not ok” in their own way. Some people are “not ok” by eating too much. Others are “not ok” by crying too much, faking their happiness too much, sleeping too much, avoiding everyone else too much.
Too much. It means more than enough. It sounds like abusing of all these things. But dying? It’s never too much.
Plângea, în timp ce stătea ghemuită în cel mai întunecat colț al camerei. Nu era prima dată când se găsea în situația asta. Era obișnuită cu acest sentiment. Era obișnuită chiar și cu sentimentul că nu era singură în locul acela, chiar dacă, teoretic, ea locuia singură. Simți o adiere de vânt venind dinspre fereastră. Nu-și amintea s-o fi deschis. Știa că era aproape… mai aproape ca niciodată… mult prea aproape pentru ca nervii ei să nu cedeze; însă nu putea fi sigură că nu au făcut-o deja.
Simțise ziua aceasta venind încă de când cumpărase casa aia blestemată. Se întreba de ce fusese atât de fraieră încât să nu ia în considerare spusele vecinilor ei… dar îi plăcuseră prea mult oglinzile care erau vizibile aproape peste tot prin casă. Nu le putuse rezista. Și nu era prima care picase în capcana asta… Cu siguranță n-avea să fie nici ultima.
Era speriată de moarte și se întreba dacă ăsta o fi jocul lor prostesc… s-o țină în suspansul ăsta, iar apoi să atace când ea se aștepta mai puțin.
Avea un bine-cunoscut sentiment de dèja-vu, care se accentuă în momentul în care privi în oglinda de pe peretele din fața ei. Acolo văzu ușa camerei întredeschizându-se și o mână acoperită de o mănușă neagră, din piele, ținând ceva ce avea, în lumina lunii pline ce se revărsa pe fereastră, o strălucire metalică.
Ea își închise ochii și începu să se roage să fie rapid. Se uită la ceasul ei digital. Ora 01:20. Șapte minute nu păruseră niciodată o eternitate, până atunci.
Îi simți respirația rece din ce în ce mai aproape de ea. Un fior i se târî pe șira spinării asemenea unui șarpe. Asta avea să fie. Așa avea să se termine.
Brusc, deschise ochii. Visase. Dar se afla în același loc, ascunzându-se. Se uită la ceas. Ora 01:13. Se apropia. Iar de data asta, nu mai era un vis… Avu din nou sentimentul de dèja–vu, mai ales atunci când se uită în oglinda fixată pe peretele din fața ei și văzu bine-cunoscuta mână acoperită de o mănușă neagră, din piele, împreună cu obiectul cu o strălucire metalică ce avea să-i fie fatal.
Se gândea să se roage, însă făcuse asta de atâtea ori în visele ei, încât acum nu mai simțea nevoia. Pentru ea, era ca și cum urma să se întâlnească cu un vechi prieten. Se uită din nou la ceas. Ora 01:20. Șapte minute nu mai păruseră de mult o eternitate.
Îi simți respirația rece apropiindu-se de ea, simți fiorul pe șira spinării… și nu-si dorea decât să se termine repede.
— Ți-a fost dor de mine?, a întrebat-o o voce pițigăiată, ce parcă venea direct din oglindă.
A încercat să-i spună că nu-l mai văzuse doar de 14 minute, însă vocea i-a fost sugrumată de lacrimi, iar mai apoi de o mână acoperită cu o mănușă neagră, ce încă purta amintirea obiectului cu strălucire metalică, ce urma de altfel să-i distrugă trupul…
A knife. A trembling hand. A sweet-scented candle. Vanilla, I think it was. Or was it tropical flowers? Whatever… details. I can’t recall that scent. I feel it, but I can’t quite place my finger on the name of the aroma.
Anyway… where was I? Oh, telling you about my day, dear Diary. So it went just like a normal day.
How I love it! Writing with invisible ink! I keep my secrets so well-hidden in here! Not even I myself can understand. So if I were to make a plan about hiding a dead body, this would be the best place. No one would bother to read an empty, old notebook, right?
The problem is that I remember I started writing something here yesterday… but I don’t remember what it was.. Was it…? No, it couldn’t have been that. I swore to myself to never speak about it with anyone. Not even to you, dear Diary. I’m sorry, old friend. This secret I shall keep away from your rusty pages. I can’t bring myself to do it. I really hope I didn’t begin to tell you about that.
I started writing between your yellow pages years ago, dear Diary. When you were new. And had white pages. And a nice, colourful cover. And you know me better than anyone. Do you know what I wrote yesterday? Or the other day? Of course you do. I, on the other hand, don’t. Do you remember what I wrote last week? Last month? Last year? I do, but only vaguely. I can’t help laughing when I think that I remember that only because I have been far more mentally sane than I am now.
I’m wondering if I’ve lost my mind. It might have happened. Because of the tragic event that occurred on the 10th of August. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Well, sadly, guess what: nor will you ever know, old friend. Everything that happened that night will be clearly known only by me. I will go into the grave without having told this to anyone.
Where the hell is my mind??? I even forgot about you. You were lucky that I saw you while unpacking my things. And lucky I was, too, for finding my pen with invisible ink. I couldn’t write here without it. Why was I unpacking, you may ask. Obviously, I had to pack first, right? I did. I moved out of the old house. They almost caught me.
Those guys… they were ugly as hell, let me tell you that. None of them were worth even a please-don’t-let-the-Police-catch-me fuck. I have my own standards.
Lucky enough, I didn’t need to fuck with any of them. They didn’t see me. I was as invisible as this ink, I guess.
But I ran away. They almost caught me. Thank God they didn’t. I wonder if they know who to search for.
It seems like I did something bad, dear Diary. But I don’t know what.
I promised not to tell you something. But I don’t remember what it was… the chocolate that I stole from my mom before I moved out? I should call her and let her know that I took it. I don’t want her to get scared at the thought that a stranger broke into the house.
I don’t like it in here, dear Diary. It’s too much light. Here, the sun shines too strongly every day. Funny how I sound like a vampire. Funny how I even drank blood. What do you mean, whose blood? I don’t even know.
Wait… I am having a fit of laughter right now. I simply confused it, my dear friend. I- I literally thought it was apple-juice. Or Cranberry juice?
I love cranberries. I’m going to buy some, actually. I’m leaving for the market.
Dear Diary… I’m bombed. Literally drunk as fuck. I’m having fit after fit of laughter out of nothing. You know why? Cause I figured it would be good to make myself a smoothie with cranberries and Vodka. Turns out it tastes better than I expected. But it killed me. I’ve no idea how I can still write. But behold, a wonder! I can!
What was I saying? Oh yeah. Cranberries. Have I ever told you, dear Diary, why I love them? They have the same colour as blood. And who doesn’t love a good drink? I figure cranberries can do a good drink, regardless of what you mix them with. And blood does, too.
Have I told you that I drank her blood? I don’t think I did. My hands were shaking. I remember I told you that. The knife did some strange twist in my hand… and guess where it landed! Can you guess? Wait, I have to stop laughing. Why the fuck am I laughing so hard at my own jokes? I’m crazy, dear Diary. Let me tell you that. I know it for sure. Bat shit. Maniac. Lo-co!!
Blood tastes good. It’s soft, you know? Sweet but salty. It’s got a smooth texture. Slips down your throat easier than any shot of alcohol. I indulge myself in a nice little drink from time to time. I allow myself a minute or two of pampering. I deserve to feel good. Don’t therapists say it, too? My therapist used to say that.
Before I killed her, that is.
And did I do anything wrong, dear friend? It was purely therapeutic. It helped me cope with my emotions. I got to understand them better. I got to understand my needs and fulfill them, as she used to say.
Where did the knife come from? That’s something I don’t recall. A detail, I suppose.
I’m screwed. I’m fucking screwed. They’re here! I mean, at the door. They’re bangin’ on it. I locked all the doors in the apartment. I’m in the bathroom. I know they’ll find me, eventually, but I don’t want them to take me away. I am a free soul. They can’t take my freedom away. I won’t allow them to.
My hands are bleeding as I write this. The blood makes a bit of the invisible ink become rather visible. But only in some places. Just a couple of letters are showing.
Dear Diary, with my last powers, I want to share with you and only you my secret. Before I die, I want you to know, old friend. You ought to. You’ve been here for me when no one was. You will continue to be, long after I’m gone. Please keep our confidentiality the way my therapist couldn’t.
Coming to think about it, dear Diary, I didn’t kill her because she broke the patient-therapist confidentiality, or because she was not helping me. Oh, she did help me a lot! She did help me realise who I am, what I am and why it is so hard for people to stick around with me. I’m a born killer.
I always loved the taste of my own blood (and of others, when I got the occasion). I enjoyed going hunting with my dad when I was a kid. I enjoyed seeing the cowards and those inferior to me suffer. I guess that’s the animalistic part in human behaviour that hasn’t– nor will ever– change. I always…
But that’s another story. Where was I? Oh, therapy and therapists. And dead therapists.
You see, she was helping me a lot, this woman. She was so kind to me. So sweet, so polite. Too kind, too sweet, too polite, if you asked me. Ah fuck! I can’t feel my hands! They’re just… numb. And I think they’re in… I must be quiet and finish my story.
My nervous, dying handwriting must be looking hideous. Luckily, no one will see it. So now she’s dead. Somehow, I decided to follow her advice and meet my needs, accept and embrace them. And my biggest need was the need of blood. After slicing her up like a baker would slice bread, I made a canvas out of the walls of her office. Everything was so quiet… I enjoyed the serenity that Death brings to the table. After all, everyone needs to bring something to the table, right?
I brought Miss Evanna. Death brought me peace. But not for long. Anyways… I remember having unleashed my art… Oh, how clearly I see it now, as my whole life passes in front of my blurry, unfocused eyes. I made a canvas out of the office walls. Yes, I did that. I painted rivers of blood, and smiley faces, and bleeding hearts and… oh, that’s how they caught me…
Like every artist, I left my signature in the bottom right of my work…. I wrote my name… how stupid I was!
Uhh… I hate myself for being so stupid! But it’s okay. Death will embrace me even though I’m stupid. Why is everything getting dark? I’m scared of the dark… I also hate the light, but that’s another story. I wish I could write in your blood-stained pages until my last moment, dear Diary. But I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’ll try. But I don’t…
I hear their footsteps. They’re close… Fuck it! I don’t want to be saved… she tried to save me. But she failed. Actually. She was my salvation. Jesus! I don’t remember when was the last time the Voices were so quiet… the last time my thoughts were so clear… Wait. I do. When I cut her throat. Yes, that was it.
She saved me. She might have died not knowing it. But she saved me. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be breaking free from here right now.
I’m going to faint. I struggle to stay some more, write something… I have to write this. I have to leave with a joke. Like my favourite actors. I ought to leave people feeling good when the curtain closes. What people?
Moral of the story: get yourselves a therapist, fuckers! You all need one! You think you’re mentally sane???? Bitch, you can’t be! You’re not as mad as me. But you fuckin are!
Shit, I gotta put the pen down. If I don’t, I’ll stay around longer than I planned. They’ll find me. I’m laughing too hard at my own fucking joke! I’m nuts! I’m…
“DEAD! SHE’S FUCKING DEAD!”
“Wait, what? Did you check her pulse?”
“Of course I did!”
“Yo… what the fuck is this mess?”
“The bitch killed herself…”
“Hudson, take your phone out and record me.”
“Yes, sir. Speak!”
“We have arrived at the killer’s house and she’s swimming in a pool of blood! She was a fucking maniac! We heard her laughter mere moments ago. She’s cut her wrists open, from the articulation of the hand, to the one of the elbow, on both arms. There’s an old, colourless notebook thrown into the bathtub and it’s all full of blood. There’s a once white but now dark red pen blocked in the sink. This whole place looks like the Red Room and it makes me shiver. She was definitely a schizophrenic but was not given the help she needed. I feel sorry for her. We’ll call for a team of criminologists to see if they can identify any information about her, apart from what we know now. Hudson, let’s get outta here. Mission accomplished… kind of. You’ll write the report!”
From my standpoint, the answer would be yes, especially if you want to get a serious, corporate job or even start your own business. You need a certain level of education in order to start your own business and make it be successful.
However, there is the possibility of self-educating through reading and leading a balanced, productive life. But of course, not every high-school graduate who doesn’t want to go to university will choose to self-educate. Which is why the companies almost always will require completed higher education forms, especially for better paid positions.
On the other hand, we all know rich people who didn’t bother too much with studying. They are famous singers, actors, innovative business owners. Or, why avoid the truth, they are drug dealers, hackers, paid assassins, prostitutes, night-club or casino owners and so on. Additionally, if you have ever considered one of these paths, you must also consider that the “success” and fame are not available to everyone who dreams about it.
The sad reality is that the fame of an artist isn’t even achievable by the ones that work the hardest or are the most talented. How many singers do you know who sound so good in the studio session but in live shows, they sound like crap? How many artist do you know that aren’t even making art, yet they dare call themselves artists and the people love them, just because “everyone does” and so they “sell” and get to be famous overnight. We all know writers who write complete shit, yet people are buying their books. This is the world in which we live: a world which does not appreciate art, yet it appreciates the meaningless words some bastards write, or “sing” or “rap”. A bad habit, which I personally find quite disrespectful for the people who make real art.
I am not trying to pull you back from making art. I’m just advising you to have a plan B just in case you don’t manage to succeed with music, or acting, or anything like that. You will need a job in order to survive if this dream of yours doesn’t become reality. So don’t abandon it. Keep working hard for it, but keep in mind that there is a great possibility to fail.
Oh, and I’m not even going to begin to tell you how risky and stressful an illegal worker’s life could get. I bet you can find that out for yourself, right? Yeah, it’s all fun and games in the Hollywood movie industry, but in real life, things are way much darker than they seem.
So, in my opinion, the best opportunity that you get is a solid education. After you finish university, your horizons are going to be so much more broadened, your network is going to be so much more solid and full of people with interests close to your own and your money is going to come almost by itself. (No, I’m just kidding with the part about money, you’ll still have to work hard for that lol.) :))
To sum everything up, my belief is that without education, your whole potential is going to waste, so you should see how you could make the best out of it, and how to make it reach its biggest value.
„A-ți cunoaște neștiința este partea cea mai bună a cunoașterii.” (Confucius)
Așa cum susținea și marele Confucius, știința joacă un rol crucial în viața noastră. Psihologia (din limba greacă, psyche – suflet, logos – știință) era o ramură a filosofiei și a fost numită știință abia în secolul XIX, iar în urmă cu două-trei decenii s-a ridicat problema comportamentului prosocial.
Comportamentul prosocial este definit în multiple moduri: „comportament caracterizat prin orientarea spre valorile sociale”, „comportament care constă în ajutarea semenilor fără a aștepta recompense exterioare”, „comportament care aduce beneficii doar celui care este ajutat” și multe alte definiții. Toate au în comun însă, două condiții (specificate în mod clar de către Hans Werner Bierhoff în 1987): intenția de a ajuta alte persoane și de a avea libertatea alegerii, adică ajutorul să fie voluntar. Mai târziu, a fost adăugată o a treia condiție: ajutorul acordat să nu fie acordat pentru a primi o recompensă exterioară.
Circumstanțele sunt esențiale în cadrul comportamentului prosocial. Un om fericit este mai sensibil la nevoile celuilalt și are o predispoziție de a ajuta mult mai ridicată decât o persoană care este sugrumată de lanțul greu al suferinței. O astfel de persoană este mult prea preocupată de problemele sale pentru a mai fi sensibilizată de necazurile altora. Un om fericit, în schimb, își dorește să împrăștie lumină pretutindeni.
Important este, totodată, modul în care cineva cere ajutorul și relația cost-beneficiu pe care o presupune acordarea acestuia. Cu cât cerem mai insistent ajutorul, cu atât scad șansele de a fi ajutați. Aici intervine reactanța psihică, care presupune că insistența agresivă ne limitează libertatea de a alege și de aceea tindem să ne autoprotejăm. Mână în mână cu reactanța psihică este relația cost-beneficiu. Adesea, îi vom ajuta pe ceilalți atâta timp cât nu suntem siliți să ieșim din zona de confort. Mult mai repede vom răspunde cuiva cât e ceasul, decât dacă ne cere să-l ghidăm pentru a găsi o adresă, care implică un efort mult mai ridicat.
În piesa de teatru Eu, Moștenitorul, de Eduardo de Filippo, comportamentul prosocial ia forma unui act de manipulare. Louis, fiul lui Prospero, încearcă să obțină cu forța beneficiile pe care tatăl său le-a primit de la familia Selciano, susținând că unica moștenire pe care i-a lăsat-o părintele său este protecția familiei Selciano, ceea ce ar fi presupus ca familia să aibă grijă de Louis așa cum a avut și de Prospero. Camil Petrescu, de asemenea, aduce în discuție în Ultima noapte de dragoste, întâia noapte de război ideea de pseudobunătate, și anume că ajutăm doar pentru a spulbera senzația tulburătoare ce o simțim când vedem pe cineva suferind sau îi ajutăm doar pe cei de care depindem/ ne pasă. Când comportamentului prosocial îi este smulsă aureola, acesta se transformă într-un comportament antisocial în care se încadrează violul, vandalismul, hărțuirea, abuzul verbal și multe alte astfel de acte.
Leagănul comportamentului prosocial este situația de criză. Criza este o stare de dezechilibru intern declanșată în urma unor evenimente neașteptate care au un puternic efect negativ asupra noastră, distrugându-ne mecanismele de coping (autoapărare). Crizele se clasifică în crize maturațională (de dezvoltare), situațională (de situație) și catastrofală( dezastrele). În 1964, Caplan a descris modelul crizei în trei stadii: răspunsulimediat, reacția propriu-zisă și rezoluția. În primul stadiu, se declanșează starea de uluire care poate conduce la negarea realității. În cea de a doua etapă, odată cu acceptarea realității, intervin emoțiile( furie, anxietate, depresie). În ultimă instanță, individul încearcă să-și înăbușe emoțiile și să găsească o soluție. Toate acestea conduc la comportamentul prosocial, deoarece nimeni nu are nevoie de o umbrelă când afară e soare. Odată cu sufocarea cerului de către norii negri, persoana se uită disperată după un adăpost- după comportamentul prosocial.
În viziunea mea, comportamentul prosocial este însăși definiția bunătății. Prin bunătate, se înțelege o gamă vastă de calități: dorința de a ajuta, de a sprijini, de a fi umărul pe care se plânge. Cum un om bun nu îi ajută pe alții pentru a primi o recompensă exterioară, se pune problema recompensei interioare/spirituale: fericire lăuntrică și daruri de la Dumnezeu care vor fi adunate în cer, conducând astfel la îndeplinirea scopului sacru pentru care ne naștem: mântuirea sufletului.
În concluzie, comportamentul prosocial este definiția științifică a bunătății, respectând totodată perfect legea Yin Yang: în orice întuneric (criză) există o fărâmă de lumină( comportamentul prosocial).
Psihologie socială: aspecte contemporane, volum coordonat de Adrian Neculau, POLIROM 1996, capitolul intitulat Comportamentul prosocial;
Manual de psihologie socială, volum coordonat de Adrian Neculau, POLIROM, 2010, capitolul intitulat Comportamentul prosocial;
Psihologie medicală- Doina Cosman, POLIROM, 2010
Ultima noapte de dragoste, întâia noapte de război, Camil Petrescu, Jurnalul Național, 2009;
Her freshly manicured, colourful nails were full of dirt. But that did not seem to bother her. She kept on digging into the ground, not caring about her designer clothes getting dirty. Not caring that her perfect hair, wrapped up in a bun, was beginning to loosen up and a few strands were messily falling onto her face.
‘Hell! Who would have thought that my happily ever after was going to be like this?’, she asked herself out loud, with an ironical voice, laughing hysterically.
However she didn’t allow herself the luxury of wasting precious seconds by laughing. Breathing heavily, she kept on digging, wishing she had some tools. Of course, that would have required time to go shopping for them. So her hands were working totally fine: it was a time saving method.
Unable to continue anymore, as her body was drained of all its energy, she was forced to stop and take a little break. She tried to keep her breath even and under control, but failed. Her lungs didn’t seem to be very willing in listening to her brain. Speaking of which… that precious organ had to help her. And she needed it to be fully functioning. So she had to let it recover a little, not push it farther than its limits.
Standing on her knees, she turned her head to look at her husband. Well… at what used to be her husband. Because right now it was a mess of splintered flesh, blood, bones and occasional protuberances. Then she moved her calm gaze to the hole she was digging into the ground.
‘Big enough to hide him until I get to leave’, she thought. And she got up, shook the dirt off her elegant dress and dragged the whole pile of chopped flesh and bones into the hole. Then she used her hands again, to put the dirt back, in order to cover the grotesque pile, as good as she could. Then she ran home.
She got undressed in a split second, threw her clothes into the washing machine and filled her bathtub with a lot of differently scented bath bombs.
She let herself relax as the warm water was surrounding her body, thinking about how one second could change the course of her entire life… whatever was now left of her life.
She knew it from the start. He married her just to get her inherited money from her mother. After his mother in law had passed away and the money was legally his wife’s, the hell emerged. She was watching out for every step she took– inside her own house– knowing that he was constantly trying to kill her. And getting bored of ducking death traps and never eating or drinking anything he brought her, she started her own game.
She simply plunged a knife into his Adam’s apple and slashed his throat, all around the neck, without even blinking as showers of blood escaped his body and covered hers, and the grass in their yard, near the pool. He dropped to his knees, making disturbing, gushing sounds and while he was dying, she hurried to chop off as much as she could of his body, knowing her stomach wouldn’t allow her to finish her job if he was dead and cold. She started with his heart: cut his chest open and removed it (he was a heartless fucker anyway) then threw it into the pool. Went on to his penis: he was no man anyway, he never had any balls, or sex drive whatsoever. A completely useless walking pile of organs, flesh, bones and skin. Continued with his lungs– he did nothing but spoil her breathable air while they were living underneath the same roof. His liver came out next– no symbolic reason for this one except her wild enjoyment.
All of his other organs followed his heart into the pool. She enjoyed seeing them slowly sinking under the water or simply floating above it. Then she dragged the dead but still warm body into the garden. And she started to dig in a hurry the hole in which the bastard was now ( or hopefully not) resting in peace.
She’s been in a rush, yes. But not out of fear of getting caught. Rather out of fear of not dying until the job was done. Yes, he managed it after all. He had ordered a Pizza from his best friend’s restaurant. And arranged that it got poisoned. And it had been. So she was dying now, too.
The difference is, she would die because a coward has ordered her death. She had more balls than that idiot. She killed him with her own hands. She was feeling proud of herself. Now she only had to await for her own end.
And when it came, she was still in the bathtub, the water around her becoming red and dirty, due to the blood and mud she had on herself. And she was smiling.
She was smiling, yes… because her last thought was ‘Funny how I get away with it clean.’ And chuckled…while choking.
Before I get into Ed’s review, let me explain to you what’s going on here. So. Every Saturday I am planning to have guest posts here on my nlog and hopefully guest post on other blogs. The articles will be in Romanian or English, depending on the language in which the blogger decides to write. The guest posts will be reviews of any book or movie. If you want to have a guest post on my blog, don’t hesitate to reach out to me! Now, without any further introductions, let’s see what my friend from Mexico, Edgar de Leon, has to say about “The Green Mile” movie.
“The Green Mile”- movie review
This is my review of the movie “The Green Mile”, based on the 1996 novel with the same name written by the well known Stephen King. The Green Mile is a 1999 American fantasy drama film.
Personally, I love this movie. I’m not a person that watches a movie over and over again. When I watch a movie twice I get bored and can’t watch it again but this movie is so good that I could watch it over and over again without any problem.
At first when I noticed the movie was 3 hours long I was having second thoughts about watching it. I mean, who’s got 3 hours to watch a movie? You actually have to plan this out. A two hour movie sometimes seems long, let alone three!
The Green Mile turns out to be worth watching for 3 hours; even after it’s over, you can’t help wanting to keep watching it. There are so many things going on that you wouldn’t even feel like time has passed by you on fast forward. You just don’t notice how it flies away.
It has really good actors; Tom Hanks, Davis Morse, Micheal Jeter, Sam Rockwell, just to name a few. Sadly, Michael Clarke Duncan passed away. I couldn’t believe it when I found out through social media.
But let me tell you a little bit about this great movie. Don’t be expecting me to tell you everything because I don’t wanna give yu spoilers, though.
It all starts when John is sentenced to death by the electrical chair, after being found guilty of raping and murdering two little girls. He joins two other convicts on the block.
The block is a facility where they keep all the convicts that are sentenced to death row. Paul supervises the block along with other guards.
While being there, the guards notice John has some type of powers and even though he looks scary, he has a big heart and he is humble.
Amazing things happen in the block where Paul is convinced that John could heal somebody else outside the facility. But it will be challenging.
Finally realizing that John is innocent, Paul is distraught at the thought of executing him, and offers to let him go free. John, however, tells Paul that he wishes to die, as he views the world as a cruel place, and is in constant pain from the suffering people inflict upon each other.
This is my review of the Green Mile. I hope you will enjoy this movie and come back and tell us what you think about this incredible story by Stephen King.