Before the development (let alone the use) of a tool, first comes the identification of its need; its scope, in other words. As an academic with research interests revolving around the Gothic and science fiction, and with some rudimentary programming experience, I had a crazy idea. Most great ideas come as a result of madness and boredom, I suppose, and my idea was one just like that. What if, I thought, I made a simple program that could detect certain patterns in Gothic and science fiction? In other words, what if I made a literature computer analysis program that could help me create a taxonomy of the texts I’m researching?
Can a computer program help with literary analysis? (Yes!)
We all play roles, every single day of our lives. Amazingly, we probably aren’t even conscious that we’re doing that, even if we do it all the time. Then again, this is perhaps precisely the reason why we don’t realize it. We might wake up as a spouse, then we prepare breakfast as a parent. We then drive as a responsible citizen, and we go to work where we are a jolly team member. The hardest role to play though is yourself. Allow me to share an excerpt from an upcoming novel of mine.
Ahmed flushed the toilet then turned the faucet on and washed his hands. As the last droplets fell and streamed down the sparkling white sink, he raised his eyes and looked in the mirror. He saw time itself examining him, assessing him, judging what was to be done about that silly boy – for a boy he still felt inside, after more than a decade of adulthood. The intense stare of his dark brown eyes, the black beard, the carefully (albeit unconsciously) constructed aura of confidence and certainty, they were all facets of role-playing. Ahmed was nothing but an actor, just like everyone else, and his task was the hardest of them all: he was pretending to be himself.
And so, just as it is expected from an experienced performer, his expression instantly changed as he turned the door knob and exited the small bathroom. A giant gleam on his face, he returned to the dinner table where his cousin, his cousin’s wife, and their three young daughters were seated.
Whenever the topic of overprotecting parents and overprotected children pops up in a discussion, I begin with the following story. It’s a scary funny story; to me much more funny than scary, though modern-day parents might be appalled. It’s them in particular that need to read this article.
I must’ve been seven or eight years old. As a kid growing up in the 80s, I had freedom the likes of which is only whispered today, late at night, around the proverbial fire. I walked alone to school since I was six, crossing busy highways, walking next to strangers. My mother wasn’t afraid of someone kidnapping me, or a car running me over. In the summers I went to the countryside, to spend my summer vacation with my grandparents. They loosely kept an eye on me, but I was basically running around free, coming home after dark. Overprotecting parents? What’s that?
One day – I must’ve been ten or eleven years old – I returned to my grandparents’ house after playing outdoors under the scorching sun (no sun protection, no sun glasses, and probably no cap either). I was really thirsty, so I grabbed the bottle of water waiting on the floor next to the fireplace. In fact, I was so thirsty that I didn’t stop to think why would a bottle of water be on the floor. I drank several gulps before I realized something was terribly wrong. Yep, I’d drunk lighting fluid instead, which my grandparents – in their infinite wisdom – kept in an empty water bottle. I saw a clear liquid inside a bottle still having the water brand label, so I drank it. Can you blame me?
I was terrified, but even more so when I heard a neighbor suggesting I should be taken to the hospital. My grandparents agreed that there was no danger – they gave me to drink some milk and olive oil. I threw up a couple of times, but I was fine a few hours later. Every time I belched in the next couple of days, it smelled like teen spirit as if a diesel engine had disintegrated. Once I actually thought to try and see what would happen if I belched over open fire, but apparently some sort of survival instinct was still present, and I didn’t. Ah, fun times… It’s these kinds of experiences and memories that give you something to write about in later years.
Do you think the parents of these children would worry about them being outdoors alone?
