final history paper

Havel, the Hammer. Admittedly, all things un-English, un-American, have the tendency to evaporate from my memory upon their touch to my ear—names, terms, you name it. But the words, Vaclav Havel, prove the exception. That alphabetic arrangement is ingrained with permanency; as if chiseled unto my cranium by the work of a mallet. Although a championing cry against the “auto-totalitarian” contraption, his poetry on the dysfunctional order of ideology is in itself, a concept of totality. It is all encompassing. It is omnipotent. The truth within “The Power of the Powerless” however, is deliverable with only so heavy a hand to be, not that of the dictator, but of God. The extent to this is such, that to believe in Havel’s professing is to be bludgeoned by its proof.  

            There are two ways I could answer the question provided. The first would be, to actually answer it—that is, to give a research based response which fits the expected requirements. In this approach I would refer to cases of “kitsch” which convey the seize of popular cultural art, notably western music styles, that Soviet Union officials then propagated through feigned mediums such as the state sponsored jazz/rock bands—which nobody, not even the officials themselves, really liked. I could also reveal how the “second society” forged itself by its relation to the so called official society. To achieve this, defectors of the communist doctrine became enveloped in underground cultures, where the outlawed distribution of Beatles records, guitar instruments, trending articles of garment, and other related contraband could be discovered and appreciated via black market networks. But, if everybody always wrote four pages of what was to be expected, life would admittedly, be boring.

            What I would prefer to do is just speak my mind…which, is always an entertaining enterprise. For three years now, Havel’s essay has been the itinerary for my life. My first perusing of his piece led to unprecedented consequences. I recall it as something of an awakening of delirium; the fruition in recognition to the walls around me which once appeared so durable, condense and concrete, were really nothing but paper mache provisions—so deceptive in their demeanor. The world now became fragile; and with it, so did I. I took the next three semesters off. I used my quarantine to bleach away my dispositions. The system Havel describes took on the image of a colossal arachnid reigning from above, and so the natural resolution was to bury myself underground. Where Havel witnessed that creature create a shadow-society, I was conscripted to a shadow-self. It took three semesters to finally crawl from my tomb. My resurrection was impelled by vengeance. Indeed, the skeleton makes for a great soldier, for they have nothing neither to fear nor lose.