A Rose For Emily

(William Faulkner)

When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years. It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps--an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron--remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the
death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.

Cogito Ergo Sum

Descartes berpendapat "cogito ergo sum" atau "aku berpikir maka aku ada". Sangat filosofis memang. Manusia diciptakan Tuhan, bagiku Allah swt, pasti memiliki tujuan. Muslim ataupun bukan, para penganut agama akan meyakini bahwa kehidupan ini semu dan hanya tempat singgah sementara. Rumah abadi dan nyata adalah justru alam setelah kematian, yang sebenarnya awal dari hidup itu sendiri.

Dulu pertama kali film "Matrix" muncul, aku hanya menikmati kecanggihan CGI dan alur ceritanya yang menarik. Beberapa waktu yang lalu aku mencoba menontonnya lagi. Ada banyak hal yang dulu aku lewatkan atau bahkan tidak peduli. Matrix ternyata sangat filosofis. Aku semakin memperhatikan setiap dialog dan semua kode dan tanda yang ada disana.

Behave Yourself!

Bagaimana rasanya ketika ada orang lain yang berpapasan dan tiba-tiba berucap kata "sh*t" saat tidak sengaja kita menghalangi jalannya? Aku tahu rasanya seperti apa. Seorang gadis muda, berstatus mahasiswa di salah satu universitas. Cantik dan fashionable tetapi sayang tidak berperilaku layaknya seorang intelek.

Aku jadi teringat statusku di FB beberapa waktu lalu, "Knowledge is Power, but Character is More". Rasa-rasanya mereka yang bergelar pelajar bahkan mugkin para pejabat sekalipun tidak memiliki karakter yang kuat. Mereka memang pintar tetapi kepintarannya itu tidak pernah atau mungkin belum diiringi oleh karakter yang rendah hati. Mereka selalu merasa diri lebih hebat, lebih mumpuni, lebih segalanya ketimbang mereka yang tidak mampu memperoleh kesempatan untuk mengeyam pendidikan.

i know that i know nothing!

Pernahkah merasa terganggu karena tidak mengetahui banyak hal tentang sesuatu yang kita pelajari? Jika iya, maka reaksi yang muncul adalah kita pasti bergegas untuk mencari ilmu yang dibutuhkan. Caranya? Tentu salah satunya adalah membaca dan menulis. Permasalahan muncul karena banyak yang enggan untuk membaca, apalagi menulis.

Miris rasanya ketika mengetahui mereka yang menganggap dirinya mahasiswa ternyata sangat malas untuk membaca, atau bahkan pelajar tingkat sekolah dasar atau menengah pun sama. Para oknum pelajar itu kehilangan semangatnya ketika harus berhadapan dengan buku-buku yang bervolume lebih dari biasa. Raut wajah mereka akan langsung berubah pada saat melihat huruf-huruf yang terangkai di dalamnya adalah bahasa asing.

The Landlady

BILLY WEAVER had travelled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Swindon on the way, and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o'clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.

"Excuse me" he said "but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?"

"Try The Bell and Dragon" the porter answered pointing down the road. "They might take you in. It's about a quarter of a mile along on the other side."

Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter‑mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn't know anyone who lived there. But Mr Greenslade at the Head Office in London had told him it was a splendid city."Find your own lodgings," he had said  "and then go along and report to the Branch Manager as soon as you've got yourself settled". 

Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy‑blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at Head Office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.