“(The power of the pen vs The power of the sword) *
The power of the sword kills the person
It doesn’t change the world
It leads to a valueless balance ,
Bloodshed, hatred and violence.
The sword may rule the world with fear,
The pen shows power and calls another ‘ My Dear.’
The pen shows your signature,
The sword shows your anger
evilness and makes you a greedy.
The pen shows that you’re capable of much more,
No way less than the other.
You can erase if you make a mistake.
it’s a big success in itself.”
The sword plays a cruel game
it can never be successful.
Zoya
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
1. Sword wages war and another brings peace through writings.
2. There’s a line in a Kannada movie: “Give a man a gun and he’ll become a terrorist, but give him a pen and he’ll write history.”
3. A great warrior with a sword was Shivaji Maharaj, while Rabindranath Tagore wrote the Indian National Anthem with a pen, stealing our hearts.
4. Kempe Gowda won freedom with his sword on the battleground, while Rashtrakavi Kuvempu wrote the Nada Geethe, stealing every Kannadiga’s heart.
Dhruva 7A
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
Sword harm people and it can even kill
The pen is used to change the world and even our future
Chaitanya. C Reddy
“Pen is with ink, sword is with blood
Pen gives us education, sword gives us bravery
Many battles have sword with blood, but pen is only with different inks
Pen is beautiful but sword is dangerous
Pen brings people together but sword eliminates people”
Prajitha 7B
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
“A pen can write for a person and ‘kill’ their problems.
What can kill many people in one shot? A sword.
Kings had both- favourite swords to kill, Wise quill pens to write their will.
A pen can bring many people together to write.
A sword is a great ‘ chopper’,
A pen makes a person a topper.”
Charan.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
A pen’s power goes beyond writing
Rana Pratap’s sword claim to fame . Guru Nanak’s words, Calms the brain.
Pen’s subtle, sword’s the brave
Pen’s for thinkers, sword’s the action
Might of ideas vs. might of blade
Dasharath.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
Pens will build society but swords destroy society The pens lead a Person’s life smartly,
where as swords lead the person’s life foolishly.
Dhanyatha
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
……….
“Pen is mightier than the sword”
Pen, oh my pen, you helped me discover
Pen, oh my pen, you are so powerful
Pen, oh my pen, you’ll help me still
You’ll be alive
Pen, oh my pen, you’re helping me get a good place in society
Pen, oh my pen, the education you’re giving me is wonderful
Sword, oh my sword, you helped me in war
Sword, oh my sword, you are very scary
Sword, oh my sword, you helped me, though the war has ended
Sword, oh my sword, you helped me be a good warrior
Sword, oh my sword, the help you gave saved my life in war
……
Madan
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
……
There is a saying that ‘ a pen is mightier than the sword.’
A knight comes with a sword but a writer conquers with a pen.
One for destruction ,the other for construction.
The sword spills blood but the pen spreads divine energy.
DHRUTHI.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
– A pen is not just an object; it is the object that changes our life.
– A sword is not only for killing; it showcases our skills, personality, bravery, and fearlessness.
Parikshith
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
– A sword defends us in war and helps us win, but a pen fights with letters and creates a beautiful poem.
– A pen decides an author, and a sword decides a king.
– A pen attracts us to write, and a sword forces us to fight.
– A pen designs something, and a sword destroys something.
– A pen is a letter of love, and a sword is a letter of of doom.
Pratigna
…………….
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
The sword v/s the pen The power of sword can kill hurt and create fear in many but a pen as the power to change the story of your imagination
Adi
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
Pen can open the eyes of the world
A sword can close them forever.
A pen can open up a heart but the sword shuts it down.
Pen can change history and the sword too can change it too.
Sword brings sorrow pens bring joy.
Pen can build a new future for us and the Sword builds new kingdoms.
Krithika.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
A pen carries ink in itself and can splash it on paper
A sword has nothing , it drinks blood and vomits.
Vivian
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
The power of pen decides our future
Swords may decide life in a wrong way.
A pen gives life.
A sword takes life.
Srishkand.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
Pen can design beauty
Sword hunts for blood.
Surag.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
Power of pen vs Power of sword
The power of pen and the power of sword are equal but there is just one difference.It is that the sword is powerful in reality and a pen is powerful in imagination.A pen is a signal of love and sword is a signal of mayhem
Sricharan K.Y.
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
If we give a pen to a person it is a gift but if we give a sword to a person it is a weapon.
A sword will create pain in a person ‘s heart but a pen will create hope in a person ‘s heart.
A sword kills people but the pen writes beautiful stories of lives. A sword sends a letter of horror and sorrow but a pen writes a letters love and joy.
Hasini
S- word carries a ‘Special word.’
Sharp on edges
it runs through
butter.
Rough as boulders
but breaks no bones.
Sweet at times laced with hemlock
Time it well by the clock.
Pen reaches the blind end with a dyslexic ‘d’
Perfect is life
in its natural deformity.
Black Buddha.
– A pen can create an author, and a sword can make a king.
– A pen is filled with ink, while a sword is stained with blood.
– A pen helps us write, but a sword helps us win battles.
– A pen writes ink on paper, and a sword spills blood on the ground.
– Pens come in different colors, but a sword’s color is just one – blood.
The Enduring Literary Legacy of Zulfiya in Uzbek National Culture
Sultonova Shahlo Baxtiyor qizi
UZSWLU, Student
Abstract
This article explores the literary legacy of Zulfiya and her profound influence on Uzbek literature and cultural identity. The study analyzes the thematic richness of her poetry, her representation of women, and her historical significance within twentieth-century Uzbek literary development. Through a qualitative review of literary scholarship, this paper argues that Zulfiya’s works remain a moral and artistic foundation for contemporary Uzbek writers.
Keywords: Zulfiya, Uzbek literature, women in poetry, national identity, lyrical poetry
Uzbek literature has produced many influential poets whose works shaped the intellectual and emotional life of the nation. Among them, Zulfiya occupies a special and respected position. As a poet, public intellectual, and cultural symbol, she contributed significantly to the formation of modern Uzbek literary consciousness in the twentieth century.
Born in 1915 in Tashkent, Zulfiya emerged as a literary voice during a period of social and political transformation. Her poetry reflected both personal emotion and collective experience. Unlike purely romantic poets, she combined lyrical tenderness with civic responsibility. This unique balance established her as one of the most important figures in Uzbek poetry.
This article examines three major aspects of her legacy: thematic depth, representation of women, and national-cultural influence.
Historical and Literary Context
The twentieth century was a period of ideological change and modernization in Central Asia. Literature was expected to reflect social ideals while preserving national traditions. According to the National Encyclopedia of Uzbekistan (2000), Zulfiya became one of the poets who successfully integrated traditional Uzbek poetic imagery with contemporary social themes.
Her early works focused on youth, hope, and love for the homeland. Over time, her poetry matured, expressing philosophical reflection and emotional resilience. Literary historians argue that her ability to maintain sincerity under ideological pressure demonstrates her artistic strength (Karimov, 2015).
Thematic Richness in Zulfiya’s Poetry
One of the most distinctive features of Zulfiya’s творчество is its thematic diversity. Her poems explore:
• Love and devotion
• Patriotism and national pride
• Friendship and loyalty
• Nature and beauty
• Moral strength and patience
Unlike many poets of her time, Zulfiya’s patriotic poetry was not abstract or rhetorical. Instead, it was deeply emotional. She presented the homeland not as a political concept but as a living, spiritual reality connected to family, memory, and language.
Nature imagery plays an essential role in her poetry. Flowers, seasons, rivers, and gardens are not merely decorative elements; they symbolize renewal, hope, and continuity. Scholars emphasize that her use of natural metaphors connects personal emotion with collective identity (Rasulov, 2018).
Furthermore, her poetry often conveys optimism. Even when addressing loss or hardship, she maintains a tone of dignity and faith in the future. This optimistic realism became one of her defining characteristics.
The Image of Women in Her Works
Zulfiya’s contribution to women’s representation in Uzbek literature is especially significant. In many traditional literary texts, women were portrayed primarily as romantic figures. However, Zulfiya expanded this image.
According to Rasulov (2018), her lyrical heroines are emotionally sensitive yet intellectually strong. They demonstrate patience, moral courage, and independence. Through her poems, Zulfiya challenged stereotypes and presented women as active participants in social and cultural life.
Her personal biography also strengthened her symbolic role.
After the tragic death of her husband, poet Hamid Olimjon, she continued her literary work with resilience and dignity. This personal strength influenced her poetic voice and public image.
Today, the Zulfiya State Prize is awarded annually to talented young women in Uzbekistan, reinforcing her legacy as a symbol of female excellence and intellectual achievement (National Encyclopedia of Uzbekistan, 2000).
Stylistic Features and Artistic Technique
Zulfiya’s style can be described as lyrical, clear, and emotionally expressive. She avoided overly complex structures and preferred clarity of language. However, simplicity in her poetry does not mean lack of depth. Her lines often contain philosophical meaning beneath accessible vocabulary.
Her artistic techniques include:
• Symbolism (flowers, spring, light)
• Emotional contrast (hope vs. sorrow)
• Gentle rhythm and musicality
• Personal voice combined with collective experience
Karimov (2015) argues that her ability to blend individual feeling with national spirit places her among the central figures of modern Uzbek lyric poetry.
Cultural and National Significance
Zulfiya’s influence extends beyond literature. She became a cultural symbol of dignity, intelligence, and patriotism. Schools, institutions, and awards bearing her name demonstrate the institutional recognition of her impact.
In post-independence Uzbekistan, her poetry gained renewed attention as part of national identity reconstruction. Her works are studied in schools and universities, ensuring that younger generations remain connected to their literary heritage.
Moreover, her emphasis on moral values — honesty, loyalty, kindness — remains relevant in contemporary society. In an era of globalization, her poetry reminds readers of the importance of cultural roots and ethical responsibility.
In conclusion, Zulfiya’s literary legacy is multidimensional. She was not only a talented poet but also a cultural figure who shaped national consciousness and elevated the role of women in literature. Her thematic richness, stylistic clarity, and moral strength continue to inspire scholars and young writers.
Studying Zulfiya today is not merely an academic task; it is a way of understanding the spiritual foundations of Uzbek culture. Her poetry remains a living testimony to the power of sincerity, resilience, and artistic devotion.
References
1.Karimov, A. (2015). Twentieth-Century Uzbek Poetry and National Identity. Tashkent: Literature Press.
2.National Encyclopedia of Uzbekistan. (2000). Entry on Zulfiya. Tashkent: State Scientific Publishing House.
3.Rasulov, B. (2018). The Image of Women in Modern Uzbek Literature. Journal of Central Asian Studies, 12(2), 45–53.
4.Olimova, D. (2012). Women’s Voices in Central Asian Literature. Central Asian Literary Review, 8(1), 22–37.
Shahlo Sultonova was born on August 3, 2005, in the Khorezm region of Uzbekistan. She is currently a second-year student at the Uzbekistan State World Languages University (UzSWLU).
As a university student, Shahlo is known for her responsibility, dedication, and strong interest in learning. She actively works on improving her academic knowledge and developing professional skills related to her field of study. Shahlo values self-development and strives to combine theoretical knowledge with practical experience.
Her main goal is to become a highly qualified specialist in the future and to contribute positively to the development of society through her profession.
Masharipova Yorqinoy Ravshanbek qizi. Student of the Urgench State Pedagogical University, Philology Department.
SYMBOL OF COMPASSION
There is such a being in this world that no matter how much one writes or speaks about her, it will never be enough; there will always remain words left unsaid. Because a mother is not something that can be fully described by words — she is a sacred presence understood by the heart, felt through emotion, and measured by a lifetime. A mother is the beginning of life and the continuation of humanity. As long as she exists, we are never alone; as long as she exists, humanity remains whole. Even before we come into this world, our mother lives together with us. The nine months during which she carries us beneath her heart are not merely a biological process, but a school of spiritual connection, patience, and self-sacrifice. Throughout these months, a mother swallows both her joy and her pain. From that very moment, she begins to live for a child not yet born. She gives up everything that could pose a danger to the life growing within her. The warmth and affection we feel from the very moment of our birth belong to our mother. Perhaps that is why our love for mothers has always been different from all other loves.
When speaking of the purest love in human life, nothing can compare to a mother’s love for her child. Her compassion and affection are so pure that they are free of conditions and calculations. She never expects a reward for everything she does for us from birth until maturity. Seeing her children happy is the greatest happiness for a mother. In this world, the only person who believes we deserve a better life than the one she herself lives is our mother.
It is truly difficult to imagine life without a mother. She loves us more than anyone else. When the time comes, she is ready to risk even her life for us and strives to never let us lack anything. She always offers us the best of everything: food, clothing, words, and love. Even if she wears old clothes herself, she considers the best worthy only of her children. Have you ever noticed that when food on the table is scarce, a mother’s stomach is always “full”?
According to research, the strongest pain in the world is the pain a mother experiences while giving birth. And she endures it. As infants, we cry at night due to natural processes, and she endures that too. When we fall ill, her soul suffers even more than ours. As if that were not enough, she spends sleepless nights caring for us, forgetting rest and even herself — and she endures all of this for her children. But what about us? What have we done, and what are we doing, to repay those sleepless nights? We simply claim that we are not understood. Yet did she not understand us when we were infants and unable to speak? Was it not she who sensed our hunger and restlessness without a single word? Sometimes knowingly, sometimes unknowingly, we hurt her feelings, yet she is a mother — would she ever truly resent her child?
We often consider ourselves people of high self-worth. Let me explain this with an example. Imagine that we take care of a domestic animal, say, a puppy. We feed it, play with it, and when our affection overflows, we might even bathe it. Time passes, and it grows into a large dog. One day, it starts barking at us and, having learned from stray dogs, even tries to attack us. Naturally, we would beat it or chase it away, trying not to let ourselves be harmed. Now think about it: is a mother, who has suffered, forgotten her own dreams, and devoted the most beautiful years of her life to raising her child, truly deserving of harsh words or complaints from her children over trivial matters? What should we call the fact that she faces such situations not once but many times, swallowing her pain each time and continuing to give love as if nothing happened?
A mother is the only being whose patience knows no limits and whose love is unconditional. She endures pain, adapts to sleepless nights, passes every harsh word from her child through her heart, yet continues to give love. But this silence and endurance are not signs of weakness — they are signs of greatness.
We have no right to think that a mother’s patience is infinite. Every swallowed sorrow, every unspoken pain leaves a trace in her heart. A mother does not expect perfection from us; she expects humanity — a kind word, a moment of attention, and a respect that lasts a lifetime.
Therefore, let us value our mothers not after losing them, but while they are still alive. For success achieved without a mother’s blessing is empty, and a path walked without her prayers is barren. As long as a mother exists, there is a mountain standing behind us. Before that mountain collapses, recognizing its value is our greatest human duty.
The family was all together. Everyone had gathered in one room, watching a TV series. The voices coming from the television, the laughter and cheerful chatter filled the room, as if to say that life was alive and warm in this house. The stove hummed softly, slowly chasing away the shadows of the cold night.
The girl was sitting there too. Her silk scarf fell gently over her shoulders, not setting her apart from the others—on the contrary, it made her look even more ordinary, even happier. Among people, she always smiled. That was why no one ever thought she might be carrying pain in her heart. No one. But in truth, her inner world was completely different. Inside her lived unspoken words, accumulated questions, nights without answers. She could not tell this pain to anyone. Even if she did, would they understand? She was not sure. Depression lived quietly within her—it did not shout, it did not cry, it simply pressed on her heart, slowly and relentlessly.
She gently twisted the edge of her silk scarf between her fingers. To her, this scarf was not just an accessory. It was a curtain. A delicate barrier between the happy face people saw and the ruined world inside her. Silk was her silence—hiding her pain. A funny scene appeared in the series. Laughter filled the room once again. The girl tried to smile too. The smile was there on her lips, but her heart could not reach it. In that moment, she felt a truth once again: sometimes a person can feel lonely even among the closest people. Sitting near the warm stove, she took a slow breath. The heat touched her face, yet the cold inside her remained. Still, seeing her family’s happiness brought a faint light into her heart. At least they were happy. Perhaps her silence, her patience, was for them.
The girl slightly lowered her head. Inside, she turned to the Creator. No sound came out, no words formed on her lips—because some prayers are spoken only by the heart. “I am enduring,” she said within herself. “I am still standing.”
She knew that tomorrow everything would not suddenly change. Pain does not disappear overnight. But in that moment, she felt one thing clearly: she had not let go of hope. The silk scarf rested quietly on her shoulders as she slowly closed her eyes. The warmth spreading from the stove felt as though it was fighting the cold inside her. She sensed a tiny—very tiny—spark burning in her heart. Perhaps it was that spark that would push her to live one more day.
The girl slowly opened her eyes. Laughter in the room continued. She adjusted her silk scarf and joined the others once again. Because sometimes, to keep living, a person chooses to look strong. And silk—that was her silent strength.
Mashhura Ochilova was born on August 14, 2001, in Sherobod district, Surxondaryo region, Uzbekistan.
She is a graduate of the Faculty of Philology at Samarkand State Institute of Foreign Languages, majoring in Korean and English philology.
Mashhura is an educator of Korean and English languages and a regional-stage participant of the prestigious Zulfiya State Prize competition.
She is the author of more than twenty international scholarly articles and has actively participated in academic presentations and conferences held in countries such as Qatar, Egypt, Turkey, Azerbaijan, and the United States. Her research papers have been translated into English and Turkish and published in international journals indexed on the Google Scholar platform.
Fluent in Korean and English, and proficient in Russian and Turkish, she demonstrates strong multilingual competence. Currently, she serves as the Director of the Yumyong Academy Online Learning Center, where she teaches nearly 200 students in Korean and English languages, contributing to cross-cultural education and linguistic development.
Andijon State University Faculty of History and Social Sciences Department of Psychology (Distance Learning) 1st-Year Student
Sobirova Oydinoy Nozimjon qizi Email: osobirova983@gmail.com
Annotatsiya: Mazkur maqolada shaxsning nevroz holati va unga olib boruvchi sa-bablar tahlil qilinadi. Tadqiqot metadologiyasida talabalarning nevrotik xolati stress darajasini aniqlash uchun tadqiqot olib borildi. Nevrozga olib boruvchi ruhiy travmalar, stress, depressiya va ruhiy jarayonlarning oldini olish va kamaytirish bo’yicha psixologik tavsiyalar berildi. Ushbu maqola natijasida nevroz holati keng yoritilib unga olib boruvchi sabablar aniqlanadi.
Аннатация: В данной статье анализируется состояние невроза личности и причины, приводящие к его возникновению. В методологии исследования проводится изучение невротических состояний студентов с целью определения уровня стресса. Рассматриваются психические травмы, стресс, депрессия и другие психологические процессы, приводящие к неврозу, а также предлагаются психологические рекомендации по их профилактике и снижению. В результате исследования подробно раскрывается сущность невроза и определяются факторы, способствующие его возникновению.
Annatation: This article analyzes the neurotic state of personality and the factors that lead to its development. In the research methodology, a study is conducted to determine the stress level and neurotic conditions among students. Psychological trauma, stress, depression, and other mental processes leading to neurosis are examined, and psychological recommendations for prevention and reduction are provided. As a result of the study, the nature of neurosis is broadly explained and the causes contributing to its occurrence are identified.
Nowadays, people are experiencing an increase in mental disorders, stress, depression, and psychotrauma. Such changes lead to a mental state called neurosis in psychotherapy. The term neurosis was introduced into science in 1769 by the Scottish physician William Cullen. Historically, it has been studied as a result of mental trauma, internal conflicts, and psychogenic factors, and was developed by Sigmund Freud and other psychoanalysts in the 19th and 20th centuries. Initially, neuroses were considered physical nervous diseases, but later more attention was paid to mental and emotional disorders. Currently, neurosis is associated with psychological trauma.
Causes leading to neurosis: constant stress, depression, chronic fatigue, poor daily routine, personal psychological factors. In a neurosis, a person’s emotional state, behavior, and quality of life are significantly reduced. Constant irritability, strong anxiety, panic, fear, sleep disturbances, various body pains, loss of interest in life, sticky fantasies in the brain, inability to concentrate, memory problems.
Review of the used literature..
In the present study, an analysis was carried out based on the scientific works of leading scientists in the field of psychotherapy and neuropsychology and the results of modern research to clarify the concept of neurosis and its causes. During the literature review, the theoretical foundations of the problem of neurosis and its causes were examined based on various approaches. In particular: Bessel and der Kolk’s trauma theory explains that childhood traumas later lead to neurotic states, and the importance of processing trauma through psychotherapy. The interdependence of the body and the psyche is interpreted as the main source. Joseph Le Doux connects neurosis with brain activity. This approach explains that a person develops a constant state of anxiety as a result of changing brain reactions to severe stress. Also, the works of scientists such as Albert Ellis and Aaron Beck are of great importance in the causes of neurosis and its reduction and elimination. Their research shows that neurosis is not only associated with brain activity, but also with cognitive, biological and traumatic factors. The literature written by local scientists covers the origin, causes and treatment of neurosis in detail. Neuropsychologist Zarifboy Ibodullayev. has scientifically proven that the origin of neurosis is based on social factors and psychotrauma. In general, a review of the literature used shows that neurosis was studied in different periods, based on different approaches, and its origin was based on a combination of biological, social and psychological factors.
Research Methodology
This study uses the questionnaire method to study the psychological characteristics of neurosis. 30 students aged 18-25 participated in the study. A questionnaire consisting of 15 questions was developed for the study. The research process was carried out in 2 stages. In the 1st stage, a questionnaire was tested. In the 2nd stage, the results were analyzed. They answered Yes or No on a 1-5-point scale
1 I often get nervous
2 I feel anxious for no reason
3 I often have trouble sleeping
4 I get tired easily
5 I have difficulty concentrating
6 I take small problems seriously
7 I get moody easily
8 I am under a lot of stress from studying or work
9 I think a lot and get “stuck” on one idea.
10 I worry too much about the future
11 My self-confidence sometimes decreases
12 I feel tired even when I rest.
13 I sometimes can’t get out of depression
14 I often have headaches or muscle tension
15 I feel a rapid heartbeat or internal discomfort.
Methodological analysis
This study helped to identify neurotic symptoms of anxiety and stress in students. The study involved 30 students aged 18-25. The research process was carried out in 2 stages.
At stage 1, a questionnaire was tested
At stage 2, the results were analyzed.
According to the analysis of the results of the questionnaire test, it was determined that neurotic states are manifested in students to varying degrees
15-30 – points – low-level neurotic state
31-55 – points – moderate neurotic state
56-75 – points – high-level neurotic state
Some of the respondents who participated in the study were observed to have frequent symptoms of anxiety and emotional tension. High-level neurotic symptoms were detected in 20% of students. 50% of students had moderate anxiety and stress, and 30% had low-level neurotic indicators. The analysis revealed that the occurrence of neurosis is most influenced by high academic workload, sleep disturbance, emotional stress, and anxiety.
Research conclusions: According to the results of the study conducted on students: neurotic symptoms were observed to be less frequent in students who regularly rested and engaged in physical activity. In order to prevent neurosis, students were recommended to conduct psychological training, organize a proper rest regimen, and develop emotional stability.
References
1. Ibodullayev, Z. (2011). Nervous diseases. Tashkent: Zamin Publishing House.
2. Ibodullayev, Z. (2018). Neurology. Tashkent: Akademnashr.
3. Ibodullayev, Z. (n.d.). Neurosis and depression [PDF file].
4. Sultonova, I. B. (2023). Neuroses that arise in a person and their causes.
5. Van der Kolk, B. A. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. New York, NY: Viking.
Señor Despaïr
Against a Hopeless Time
2. The Voice
A drop of mercury pools on the horizon;
a pale bruised piece of sky fading above it,
and, curling from a darkness that has been only murmuring and night surf,
I think I can see the old man
in his old world summer suit,
in silent profile, bowed before me.
“I think,”
I say, stumbling over the words, I have been silent
so long: “I think . . . maybe it . . .”
The old man seems not to hear me. “. . . maybe . . . it
isn’t as it seems to you: only horrifying.”
He appears to raise his head. “This you think . . . ?”
he says, in a voice soft as an owlet’s down.
“Yes,” says my voice,
surprising me, for some reason. “The world . . .
the world, with all . . . its cruelty, chaos, its
brutal banality . . . that . . . everything you say is true. At
least
it meets my own experience like the two ragged edges
of a broken bone:
the stupidity and the suffering, so much of the suffering
caused by the stupidity (I have learned that lesson only
too well)—the world has . . .” the voice stops; a number of
hopelessly inadequate words beat like trapped birds inside
my brain,
trying to escape.
“Has what”? the old man asks.
“. . . a fascination.”
I bite the inside of my lip, waiting for the laughter
to crow over my insufficiency,
though the silence is tart as sarcasm.
“A fascination,” he says, expressionlessly. “Una fascinación. With what?”
“With the wonders. With
the magnificence.
From the smallest wave,
the tiniest of particles,
flickering, radiant, from the black hole’s sucking zero
to the scattering spore of stars, the scudding black backs
of galaxies in their nets of dust, and who knows what
endless shoals of universes raised around us,
across or through us, even, in a time and space
beyond infinity, forever
shaming the clichés of eternity
like toys cast off from a suburban nursery,
and presenting us with a terrifying glory,
serene grandeurs shining between tempests we never
beguiled
in our mythologies, yet that may be only a poor man’s
weak trial at conceiving a reality so far
beyond us it must make us worshipful
of the world that created us, not we the world:
a world beyond our quaint ideas of ‘eternity’ and ‘god’
as those were, have been, beyond us, any, ever or now:
yet nothing here more true.
“We live at the heart
of divinity without beginning or end,
and this divinity is the world.
We just did not know it before so . . . definitively.
It has nothing to do with God—it is beyond God.”
“It is beyond Satan, you mean,” the old man’s voice says,
softly.
“It is a beautiful thought. Un pensamiento hermoso!
But it is only a thought.
“We do not live in the manors of the universe,
but in a hole where we sweat to make lives
in fear and cold, imagining a fire that does not warm us,
surrounded by rivals, in danger of defeat and shame,
friendships lost for inscrutable reasons,
disease, old age, poverty, self-disgust,
failing to get little or nothing of what, or of who,
we most desire. That desire itself—nuestro propio
deseo—
walls us from the enchantment: that loveliest of women,
esa brillante carrera, respect, admiration, love,
except in doses tan pequeño they are almost insults: proofs
of what we cannot possess.
When, despite fate,
you grasp a trophy
of granted longing, the envy of ‘friends’
who will not forgive your shabby, little reward,
poisons the air.
Wealth, fame, power, love are shelterless
from the envious—as our own envy
wounds our lives for triumphs we have missed
and feel we have earned, with justice or without.
“Fate is a pyramid staring down at its climbers,
haughty and cold.
Success itself is shameful
if it means another’s defeat. But that is how it works,
this glorious world you are so romantic about:
for every beauty you see, a thousand uglinesses
have danced in tears and blood.
You think you can try again, that the door is always open.
But the door finally closes, or has been always closed;
it only seemed ajar.
La vida es una ilusión fabulosa, invented to keep you
moving ahead in hope, deceiving but ever renewed,
desperate worm on cunning hook.”
The moon
crests the horizon, its face
of cartoon sorrow, round and full as a baby’s,
glows its bright silvery porcelain in the blackness,
yet as though lamenting everything it sees.
“With all due respect, señor”—He bows in the opening
moonlight.—
“don’t you think you go too far? Don’t you think
maybe you are offending
the miracle?”
The old man does not move.
But after a moment I think I hear a gently spoken
question: “Miracle, mi hijo? Que milagro?”
“The miracle
of this shabby, this shameful, this dubious life.
By all the laws of chemistry, biology, physics,
relativity, quantum mechanics,
and all the dead-end sciences you laugh at and despise,
it should not have happened at all.
So, what if this
world
is the miracle we have sought?
Our life—bricolage theater for oblivion—
a smudge of ash in the next geological stratum,
a hiccup in a random turn of evolution’s wheel,
until the sun
grows fat and red and devours the earth,
or, shriveling into a kind of icy kernel, freezes it,
or explodes and stars a far-off night
for an hour brighter than the galaxy—
what if that is the miracle?
But not
certain is any of this, and the presumption that we
are able to know
what it is impossible to know—
the future in the furthest meaning of the term—
is a peculiar crime of the human mind,
thinking it a venial sin;
and, since we squirm recalling thoughtless hopes
that broke in our hands like eggshells
and left our mouths acrid and bitter,
We choose to tell ourselves dark, harsh,
cold and despairing truths, in order to avoid
another brutal disappointment. But the same
compulsion drives us: the craving to know—
the need for knowledge when only ignorance,
uncertainty, and darkness are to be found,
for all of us are children
before the unknowable.
Maybe it is true we are
little more than nourishment for oblivion—maybe
it is not: we do not know either way.
We may have faith
that, since we are here, now, and have
in a little way thrived,
the world is not absolutely against us
or our somewhat abrupt arrival at the party.
We can go further.” The voice pauses. How
preposterous all of this sounds!
But the voice goes on. The old man
has not moved. “It supports us—it
encourages, shields, shelters, defends,
holds us,
holds us upright,
is us.
We are an expression of its power,
we also;
of the power that builds sense, life,
mind, good, beauty, grace,
against the power
arrayed against us: brutality, stupidity, destruction,
and death.
The power that poisons the air. And it is our work
to aid another power, the one that holds us
in its hand . . .”
“But that is where the poison works
to most penetrating effect,” the old man
breaks in, smiling softly.
“Exactamente en el corazón y el alma y la mente—
in the heart, and soul, and mind—
that you extoll so extáticamente. There the monster god,
loco, lunático, imbécil, aleatorio, brutal,
works at his most cruel. Life,
la vida es la bestia: life is the monster
that feeds on life, that digs down
to undermine meaning and joy—
a miracle indeed! Milagro satánico.
“It was human intelligence that worked out entropy,
thus putting an end, irónicamente, to eschatology—
the study of final things!—
even better than the sainted Darwin.
“What does science reveal? The dimensions of our prison.
Have no fear! There is no escape.
The human brain has proven that the human brain
is an accident, and thus proves nothing—
more: it is an aberración that spins out fantasies
it feeds on and must believe in: reality
is ultimately not even—cómo se dice? disponible—
available to us.
“We crave for something we cannot have—
so numb ourselves with games and drugs
and art and music and philosophy and literature and religion and wealth and power
y el lujo y el sexo—
anything to escape the intolerable gnawing.”
Beneath the moon an immensely long, glittering spear of
light
reaches across the ocean to the horizon,
as if pointing toward the darkness.
“But aren’t we free,”
the voice in me replies,
“to make, to find, meaning and value and good?
Haven’t we escaped many a horror of the past,
haven’t we earned the right to hope?”
“We are free, es verdad, of the artificial vise,
so now we can see the more natural chains,”
the old man, patient as a professor
to a new student (but not unpromising!) explains,
“That piping Emerson, that windbag Whitman—
what did it lead to? Democracia, la libertad,
America! Look at it, remember it:
there is a country that has no excuses—
and what has it done?
“Mira! A nation half mad with greed, power-lust, pride,
a foolish, arrogant culture that parades
ugliness in the name of libertad de expresión,
an infantile denial of unflattering truths,
a contempt for reality, a hatred of fact,
an economy verdaderamente hell-bent
on next quarter’s gain
even if it leads to the destruction of mankind,
civilization, and most of life on earth,
as long as the shareholders get theirs,
and I get mine! I don’t care! I’ll be dead,
with my assault rifles lining my coffin!
“And not America alone:
this cultura de nada has spread like a bacillus
por todo el mundo.
We are locked inside a wallet inside a rocket, and we will
ride it
until it explodes against its target: we
are a nation of winners!
We must win!
Even in the race to suicide.”
“But what if the game isn’t over?
What if we are midway through? What
if we are merely at the beginning?
Maybe we are steeped in evil like a cheap teabag,
unable to love anything but ourselves,
and cannot love even ourselves without hating,
no truth in us without a companion lie,
and the impossible thing is to face ourselves
without pity or rancor.”
“Yet what,” says the voice, “if it is possible,
and when we dissect our bitter heart,
the human dazzles with angels
we had no right to hope for. . . . I have names. . . .”
“I know them. I do not deny them. Even
as history's pages are bloody with crimes
of evil men, the margins are often
mágicamente ilustrado: las horas muy ricas
of many a bloody chronicle
displays an art of such delicadeza, such gentleness,
such sensibilidad, like soft music
tender as a kiss, and a warm poesía
that makes one love the creature that could
dream up such beauty—la belleza,
which is nothing but el amor encarnado—
how do you say?—the bodying forth of love.
“How can one not love a creature so able
to love?”
The moon has risen, and as it rose,
seemed to shrink, as if squeezed
into a bubble of white light
that might any moment break and vanish
splintering into ashes among brittle stars
across the blackness.
“But the newspapers are not littered with prodigies of
love—
not even the screens of our chosen addictions
or the next sensation to leap, fully armed, from the brain,
collective or garage-bound, of Silicon Valley.
What drives us, drives us, is evil’s fascination,
in love, in hate, in crime, in war:
these flatter us—only power,
only sovereign power, leaves behind such wreckage,
What we fear more than meaninglessness
is impotence. We fear
the hand we cannot raise into a fist
and crush, if we wanted; when we don’t, we pretend
it is the ‘in hoc signo vinces’
of our sovereignty.
But even we are not fooled.
Every so often we must prove.
Prove what? And to whom?
To ourselves. That we can destroy any foe of our will.
Every so often? Cómo! Every hour.
“So we lap up stories of manmade horrors
with a double satisfaction: such power! such virtue!
They thrill us with our strength and our righteous
condemnation,
evils we then get to sovereignly disdain.
A clever trick by a monkey with too many brains!”
“What drives us on is love and fear,
like bees in a swarm,”
the voice within me says, speaking aloud,
both me and not me:
“more love than fear, or you have forgotten:
love of life itself, its darkness and brilliance,
smell, flavor, touch, color,
sound: the flick of a breeze, the green
of grass, the hues and tints of wild flowering,
the microtones of light that each moment
sweep across our eyes, the fragrance
of language—if you have not smelled language,
you have not breathed at all—it intoxicates the mouth,
the ear, the mind, the teasing licks of music
that make your being quiver,
the taut trembling that is the body
in pleasure, thrown at all times, even in pain,
the exaltation of the mind in seizing
at discovery,
sensation, assent, refusal, the dry
stimulus, the moist indulgence, the tart burst
on the palate, the bitter edge that makes the spine tingle,
the dream of happiness
at the heart of love’s dream, the pool of bliss
we live at the bottom of
without knowing until it is suddenly drained,
and then our happiness is all nostalgia—we own
the uncanny ability to take the worst
of living and make out of it a thing
of goodness, beauty, truth, triumph,
a refusal to be cowed by history, nature,
death, fate—we will defy, I will defy
all odds and snatch from brutal fact
life, we will build the city
of happiness, chanting our gratitude for a world
that spun us out of light, dust, time,
and the faith our ignorance hides from us, a wisdom
we never see exactly but that we
are held by, like a child in its arms.
“We need fear nothing, for there is nothing to fear.
“Death? Death is nothing. We belong
to the cosmos, not ourselves,”
the voice speaks on, seems drunk, almost
to sing. “The cosmos
is forever, is infinite. We have no words,
no mathematics equal to it.
Understand it? Good luck!
Have faith in it. It made, formed you. Its heart
cannot be lost;
however far you try to throw it away.”
A cloud
eats the moon, and the air grows black as ink,
the sky a gigantic octopus.
The old man’s whites
vanish, and the tide, risen, weaves the cries
of crashing waves like the wails of sinners punished
in the hell of their salvationlessness.
“There is no cosmos, there is nada mayor de lo que somos,
there are only the shadows of the cave.”
The old man’s voice almost disappears into the waves.
I strain to listen. “We live in a shell
that floats like a bubble among fatuidades,
curtains of darkness
pretending they are light,
a light revealing nothing, that can
reveal nothing except our illusions
and the depth of our solitude.
“A bizarre aberration
is life in a universe otherwise
el antagonista absoluto a la vida: cosmology
is an unending slap in the face of hope.
“We cannot even find life’s possibility,
let alone a piece of it—say, just a planet
unas bacterias, an asteroid de baba de estanque, what do you call, “pond slime”;
a world of insects, fungus, rats—
but not anything, as Euclid sweeps the sky,
like Hubble cojeando—no: hobbling Hubble!—before it,
weighing exoplanetas on hope’s duplicitous scales;
then probing Webb, examining droplets of galaxies
at the earliest edge of the big bang.
The universe is más grande, más asombrosa,
más hermoso, más sublime
than was ever dreamed in the stale dreams of the poets—
la poesía (what childishness is hidden in those sweet
sounds!)
La imaginación is a weak phantom compared to la
realidad.
The universe not even one, but multiple!
Does nature ever create the unique, the never seen before
or ever again?
No! She makes only families,
in molds (as Plato knew!) that form individuals!
Families of existence! Si! And therefore:
El universo no es un universo!
But only one of many, un infinito—
uno de millones of bubbles on a sea
without beginning or end, forever.
“The only true poets of our time are the cosmologists!
“But that is speculation. El universo
is not especially kind
or altogether welcoming to life—even though she
(cruel and generous as a woman!)
even though she invented it!
She is like an intoxicated genius, full of brilliance,
marijuana, whisky and crack cocaine,
throwing off creations a la derecha, a la izquierda,
and not caring where her numberless seeds fall
or where her children are orphaned:
she is too busy creating
to give two damns about protecting:
let the curators and the archivists worry about that!
“A child today has more power at his fingertips
than Apollo, a teenager can rival Zeus
in havoc, a nation can wipe life from the face of the earth
like Yahweh in his prime.
La ciencia, la tecnología
have given us a scrap of knowledge, wealth
and power—el conocimiento, la riqueza, y el poder!—
that no one before us has ever conceived,
not for kings, not even gods—nosotros somos los dioses!
We now are the gods!
“Yet every extension of our power
laughs at us, scorns and mocks us, since all it shows
is, irónicamente, how weak we are, cómo, al final, somos
impotentes:
subject to the limits of time, energy, matter,
a brief espiga of a kind of energía
cristalizada embracing its own extinction
in its flame. We have, cómo se dice, borró—erased
la trascendencia—transcendence;
we have assassinated la Gran Esperanza
for the sake of pequeñas pequeñas esperanzas
that lead to nothing. A terrible price,
Doctor Faust, you have paid for your conquests!
Your world is una montaña poderosa, taller than
Everest—
a mountain made of powder, of victorias pírricas.”
The old man pauses, shaking his head
in delicate disgust.
“Outside our little bubble of a blue planet
and its elegant technology, how long does it take
for a living being to perish?
En un minuto, si tiene suerte.
En dos minutos, si no tiene suerte!
The antagonism of the stars
is woven into our blood, our bones
are crystals of it, our thoughts fractures of its dust.
No: there is little glory in being human, mi hermano—
our gifts of skill, insight, invention
merely reveal the hopelessness of our case
in exquisite and eloquent detail.
“Each day—each hour—bears proof
of our inanity and the emptiness
of the enormous stage we act on.
The evidence is overwhelming, as the lawyers say
in their eloquent closing statement: you have no choice,
ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but to convict!”
The old man grins like a wrinkled Puck
or a moonwashed skull.
The moon hangs straight overhead, small,
like a dirty street light.
“That is the world’s mistake,
and ours as well, but only in so far
as it is a mistake,” the voice inside me responds,
shouting (or so it sounds to me), against this empty storm
of words.
“You seem to hate science, you despise
technology, and maybe we, maybe I,
have placed too much faith in them,
was too impressed, forgot the glass pedestals they
stand on,
brittle, easily seen through:
they cannot even justify themselves! They dazzle,
flatter, blind us—but we, each of us, I
decide how much
respect I give them. When they tell me I have
no soul, no self, but only a parade of delusions
of continuity over time, this delusion reminds them
who is master. Humanity created them;
humanity can destroy them.
I, master of the plug and the switch,
command them.
Science the truth? You make me laugh.
Science knows nothing—all it does
is push back further the horizon of our ignorance
with inspired guesses it can never prove.
Yet he is my servant
and brilliantly performs in his sphere;
though the moment he betrays me,
I stick him in his place, like any irritated god:
kindly, for he can’t help being a bit of an ‘idiot
savant';
but incontestably.
“At times his discoveries are painful yet needed,
such as the ridiculous design of the human brain,
the intelligent cortex jerrybuilt on top of a monumentally
blockheaded
cerebrum on an overexcited reptilian brain stem which
can barely wait to wreak havoc, kill its neighbor, and mate
with the nearest bit of skin,
to say nothing of the atrociously worked out developmental scheme
of the human male. . . .”
“You are beginning
to sound like me!” the old man laughs. “But, por favor,
do go on. Perdóname por mi interrupción.’’
“Only the better to defeat you, viejo!
At times it illuminates a necessary fact
we need to learn—even a fact so beautiful
it opens our sense of the immensity,
the boundless variety that is reality;
and then it is a savior we need not crucify
to deliver us from evil.
“But sometimes it only wrecks our dignity and hope
for the sake of its pride—
or rather the pride of scientists—in the endless
juggling for status, dominance, power,
brief as they are and illusory as smoke.
But as soon as we recall that we invented them,
that they are subject
to our will—science, technology, scientists, geeks!—
their power evaporates like so many nightmares at dawn.
“And this is true for all the human world:
it has no power over us we do not give it—
that I do not give it—and it is subject
at every moment to my power’s withdrawal.”
“We are lost with them!” The old man
is cackling wildly. “Why do you think we are flying
toward annihilation, hurtling toward
the world’s ending and the human Armageddon:
ecological catastrophe on all fronts,
smothering the world in a cloud
of chemicals that exist nowhere else
en todo el universo, invented to make life
more convenient for our sweet selves,
or to kill all those creatures huddling
between us and our domination of the earth,
or even so much as whim
(‘Mosquitoes? Oh my! What a nuisance? Kill them all!’)
and the holocaust of species and the coming of artificial
intelligence
that is likely to find us (oh poetic justice!) equally
irritating
(‘Humans? Oh my! What a nuisance! Kill them all!’)
and then there is always the possibility of nuclear war en
cualquier momento
(how boringly last century! But it could still kill everyone!)
“The clock is ticking,
and it is almost midnight! La ciencia?
La tecnología? You think you control them?
Please excuse me while I die laughing! . . .”
“Then die and be quick about it. When I find myself
at loggerheads with my fellow humans,"
says the voice within,
“and they assert a power—like these!—that I deny,
I escape into the world:
my chain of consequence, immediate to transcendence,
holds me beyond defeat or death,
against, if need be, the world. And it often
‘need be’ indeed!
For much of, if not all, the world’s evils you dwell on
lie in the human will to conquer
anything but itself; command
where it was meant to serve and save,
triumph
where it was meant to bind in kindness,
to dominate where domination is a mirage
and every mountain is made of nothing more
than mist and wind.
The only human triumph, lone victory
for us, for me, is in the breath of a thought:
knowing where the diamonds of being shimmer,
where to whisper into the ear of the god
whose name is one behind the wall of night
and the eternal chaos of things.
“I hand my faith to it
like a ball of twine in a labyrinth,
whose end is in my heart.
“When I do thus, my heart and it join;
the only friend I know,
though it sound insolent to say so. . . .
But that is the way to treat your god.
You will, naturally, not wish to offend
or grieve or wound the one you love,
who so loves you . . .”
The moon has vanished behind impenetrable cloud.
Nothing now spreads across the sky
like a dust rag, wiping the stars away
like crumbs.
The white noise of the waves roars monotonously on.
“Your idea is beautifully mystical, my young friend,"
the old man’s patient voice comes out of the blackness.
“I envy you your faith in one
where all I see is el caos de las cosas y del tiempo—
a chaos of things and time. I feel, I admit,
what little order there seems to be is the illusion,
and chaos and the void are the final reality of all;
not order, mind, love, not even hate;
just blind energy and violence tossing
back and forth between each other and boredom,
like an infinite barracks in a post for reserves in a guerra
perpetua. We need fairy tales to cheer us,
or drugs of other kinds, from cabernet to canabis, mezcal
to ecstasy,
ambition for wealth, fame—art, status, power. There is
nothing to meet the deepest of our necesidades humanas:
para la vida, la juventud y el amor forever!
We are perhaps the only living thing
that has needs that cannot be met:
we spend our lives seeking a food that does not exist—
and so we pursue sustitutos
irremediablemente inadecuados.
A paradox!
“But we are the paradoxical animal,
and turn on Ixion’s wheel in our torments
till we pass out in a delicious dream of escaping,
waking up only to discover that escape was a cruel
illusion;
we are fastened still to the rolling wheel.
To be born a human being is the most terrible fate of all.”
“Why have you lived so long?” the voice in me asks
the voice in the darkness. “If human life is so terrible,
why do you live? As the stoics said,
each has a quick escape, with a little, brief courage.”
The darkness sighs and seems almost to smile.
“Touché, my young and clever friend!
You are right! If I find existence
so dreadful and pointless, why not end it—
my own, at least—and put me out, like a broken horse,
of my misery? It would be, at least, more honest,
and take but a small moment of bravery.
“I do not have a good answer for you.
Inertia? Habit? Cowardice? or that little hope . . .
ese pequeño fragmento de esperanza—I have not
yet flushed from my system,
the hope that someone—who knows! maybe you!—
will prove me
wrong.
My espíritus animales are incorrigible optimists,
they only believe what they want to believe
however I try to reason with them. They are convinced
that,
in the end, they will—cómo se dice?—
disprove the numbers—
the numbers that never lie! Ay de mí!
They are like the man falling from the airplane who
believes
that something will catch him—that something must catch
him—
a flock of condors! an off-course hang glider! the last MAX 787!
a flight of angels from paradise!—
before he hits the ground.
“Hard as I try, I can’t argue myself into nonexistence
despite all the cunning gambits of la razón
and the logic that leads inexorably to the only
possible conclusion.
“I feel ridiculous because I am ridiculous:
a nihilist, it would seem, who still wishes to live.
Por favor . . . por favor . . .” I think I hear him kneel
down on the sand.
“Por favor: prove me wrong, so I will feel less absurd.”
The irony in his voice is like a plea;
in the invisible smile I see tears,
beneath the arrogance, the intellectual pride,
an angry child crying in the night,
a child I had known, for I had been
that child, alone in the silence,
alone in the dark and dreaming of a love
that had long withdrawn into ice.
The voice within me nevertheless responded.
“I cannot prove anything, I do not know anything.
What I have is doubt at war with trust
that, however terrible the future is—
the humanly wrought and administered hell
we re-create with each new generation—
the madness of our dance of wealth and death,
our feverish vulgarity and chronic bad faith,
the shabbiness and disgust of daily life,
the greed and cowardice and self-deceit
(beside which mere falsehoods are almost quaint)
that paralyze us as we destroy
the life we know, the life we have known,
the life we believed was possible,
and prepare our destruction
with the lunatic conscientiousness of an army corps of
demons—
to say nothing of the insults of disease and age,
the cruelty of the diseased mind, the self-
defeating brutality of crime and war—
despite all these—even, in some way
because of them—the evils they define
define this good:
to conquer them,
to make
out of this mud, these stones,
out of the wrath of these seas,
a happiness,
a kindness,
a delight,
a deep contentment in each other and ourselves,
a purpose for life so obvious one laughs, tickled\
(“How blind not to have seen it all this time!”);
out of the coldness of infinite space,
crossing the violence of infinite time,
a safe and warm and intimate home for joy and for love.
Your love, my love, our love.
“For we are clever monkeys.
Can we deepen cleverness into wisdom,
learn the shifting balance
of love and freedom, liberty and reverence
(none can bear life without safety,
though safety become a cage;
no breath’s worth drawing without liberty,
though it imperils all that lives;
too much safety is a prison,
too much freedom is hell),
and make of the blue globe a manor
inside which lives a home
for life in its darkling splendor,
bright birth and the payment of death
for the infinite debt of being?
And crush and mold cold despair
into grist for creation’s mills?
“Build, make, form, mold
worlds in unending creation.
Sing so softly you only can hear.
Let your heart dance
in the mouth of the lion.
For the creator
of this, of us, though hidden
from us as the lion is hidden
from its fleas, the wilderness from its wolves—
though everything we see is nothing
but, of it, an emanation
in love with its creation
no less than the dancer
is in love with her dancing—
loving, critical, demanding more:
truer delicacy, braver truth,
deeper beauty—sometimes turning
all creation inside out
from a monstrous curiosity—
yet in love forever with the dance.
“Like that paradigm of inspired impracticality,
a poet, idealist who sacrifices his hours
inventing a few pearled strings of words
that meet his highly personal terms
of the good and beautiful and true,
though yielding small fame,
little wealth, no power—
just fleeting breath
of a serene affirmation
that is lost a breath later,
and a strange pride that keeps his head high
though humankind else shrugs, puzzled,
suspicious, and disdainful.
“The world is such a poet, such a dancer:
an obsessive creator spinning patterns
from clouds.
“All that is, will be, has been,
will have been beyond the end of time.
We have, I have, this moment—
this moment—now.
That may be the only immortality.
Our work is at the end of the world’s hands.
“Like earth, coal into diamond, we
hold, squeeze, burn darkness into light.
In my mind I hold the universe
like a jewel in my hand,
from immense grandeur
to tiniest refinement; host
the tent of the circus of being—
for, do not forget, phantom of despair:
in her wild gentleness,
delicacy, power,
to infinity, through eternity, she lives.
“Thus I, thus you,
despite the mask and miserliness
of slippery time and granite space,
my destiny to decay and death, your
compulsive follies, my grotesqueness,
your unfathomable evil, the
appearance we proffer to the stars’
dead laughter, of being so much
the illegitimate progeny of mud and the divine—
I, beaten, broken, by hate, by fear, injustice, death,
was, am, shall be,
a god’s—however he disowns me—
child.”
The darkness was at its deepest. The voice within
sounded strange, hollow, as though
alone in an empty room.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s most recent collection of poems is titled The Beauty of Matter, “A Pagan’s Verses for a Mystic Idler.” Señor Despaïr will appear in book form from Real Magazine Productions, a publisher based in India, later this year.
