Profound Moments In Literature

[Apocalypse Tank]

Recently I've read Fyodor Dostoevsky's "The Brothers Karamazov", and one of the passages was so powerful I had to share it:

In the book, Ivan Karamazov is reading to his younger brother his fictional story (essentially a story in a story):

Christ somehow walks about Spain during the 16th century at the height of the Inquisition's power. He performs miracles like a total boss, but is eventually captured. He is interrogated that night in a cell by a Inquisitor, and will be killed the next morning for heresy. The Inquisitor explains to Christ how mankind cannot be morally free, and is happier if the Church dictates everything they should/should not do. He goes on to explain that God may not have mankind's interest in mind, and even though mankind will all go to Hell in the afterlife, they will believe they are living a noble life while on Earth simply because they trust the instructions of the Church. Then he goes on to explain how the Clergymen are living a bitter life because they are responsible to deceive everyone else while knowing the real truth: the sin everyone is committing. In a sense their deeds are compared to the sacrifice of Jesus, and therefore, ironically, cannot allow this time traveling Christ to set everyone spiritually/morally free again.

After all these arguments of reason, the Inquisitor notices that Christ hasn't said a word. You know what Christ's response was? He simply kissed the Inquisitor on the lips. In this act of overwhelming love, he has proven that the logical reasoning cannot overcome pure passion just as passion cannot overcome reason. The Inquisitor shuddered, freed Christ, and told him to never come back again.

Yeah... its more majestic in the actual book.
Have you experienced any profound moments in literature? Lets share.

 

[WolfThomas]

That does sound quite profound, I feel bad that I can't think of anything similar. I can only really think of some stuff I read in comics.

 

[iLikeHippos]

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe is a fine piece of literature; the poem that can really but the fright in you. I am sucked in each time I read it.
I believe novelists today could learn of this.

Source; http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

 

[Chamale]

One of my favourite parts of a relatively recent book is in Guns of the South. There's a very well-written conversation as some people from the 19th century take a good look at some artifacts from the 20th century and try to figure out where they were made. Unfortunately I don't own the book so I can't type out the exact text, but I would if I could.

There's a surreally hilarious bit in Good Omens where the demon Crowley asks directions from a helpful stranger. The stranger is quite conservative and trying to keep his composure while noticing that Crowley's car is on fire. He tries to think of a way to politely raise the subject while the demon is asking for directions.

You know, it's not the sort of thing a person doesn't notice, their car being on fire and all...
(Crowley finishes asking for directions)
"Odd weather we're having lately, isn't it?"
Crowley: "Really? I hadn't noticed."
"That's probably because your car is on fire!"

Then there are some classics I'd like to cite as well: Macbeth and The Canterbury Tales have some well-known poetic bits that are extremely well written.

Spoiler: Macbeth Act V, scene V

SEYTON

The queen, my lord, is dead.

MACBETH

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Enter a Messenger
Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Messenger

Gracious my lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.

MACBETH

Well, say, sir.

Messenger

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.

MACBETH

Liar and slave!

Messenger

Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so:
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.

MACBETH

If thou speak'st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.
I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth: 'Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane:' and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.
I gin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.

Spoiler: The Canterbury Tales - prologue.

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5 Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
10 That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
15 And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
20 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
25 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste;
30 And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.
35 But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
40 And whiche they weren, and of what degree,
And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.

The Canterbury Tales is almost incomprehensible because there were no firm rules for spelling at the time. Sound it out and you'll understand most of it, or go to the translated version. [http://www.librarius.com/cantales.htm] This work was almost single-handedly responsible for setting up English as a respectable language for literature.

EDIT: Removed The Raven, I got ninja'd. "The Black Cat" by Poe is also very good.

 

[Anarchemitis]

The book of Ezekiel in the Bible is genuinely disturbing in some parts...
But it has been a while since I read that timbre of profound reading... Probably the last time I read Nineteen Eighty Four. The ending I still remember gets me down.

 

[sinnige69]

I agree, I would say the instance in George Orwell's 1984 where

Spoiler

Winston finally renounces his love for Julia under extreme psychological torture

I thought it was extremely disturbing the way the party manifest mastery over Winston and probably the single most revered thing known to man, love. It sparks thoughts about the nature of love, if it truly is as powerful as people say or not. Most of all though it makes you think of what you would do in a situation like his, would you

Spoiler

betray your love of someone

to avoid your greatest fear? it was very profound.

 

[JourneyThroughHell]

Every philosophical exercise by Orwell in 1984 - from Goldstein's book to the stuff O'Briend said at the very end.

That was some incredibly good stuff. I have a sneaking suspicion that the last third of 1984 is the best part of any book ever.

snip

And, naturally, ninja'd.

snip

Twice.