How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering

How do we ever get out of the labyrinth of suffering?*

I thought that the labyrinth of suffering was a far sighted concept. That it never gets to me and I was somehow immune to it.

But I was wrong, what I actually did is that I had constructed a small bubble at the back of the labyrinth and was contended with the meager life inside the bubble, but eventually the bubble broke and I was faced with the cruelty of all the suffering.

I had two choices, to get out of the labyrinth or to choose it and continue to fight.

I chose the labyrinth.

I chose to stay and fight, even if it meant destruction of everything I hold dear.

Because eventually I realized that the labyrinth of suffering is all there is to life.

We get up and fight harder.

That is what it is all about isn’t it?

In that process, we find our true self, even if it is a messy, crying and a hopeless person. Hey, at least we chose to stay and fight right?

And during this period, we also find the ones’ who love us, who truly and so stupidly love us that they left everything and stood beside you during the hard times.

And to answer the question — How do we get out of this labyrinth of suffering. It’s this — you don’t. You stay and fight, or you stay and endure, because if you chose to give up, you are unknowingly willing to give up all the happiness and joy this beautiful little world of ours has to offer. You are willing to give up the immense love and care of the big beautiful hearts of our loved ones.

*This question was taken from the book Looking for Alaska by John Green. Labyrinth: A complicated and confused path; a maze.

How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering

Looking for Alaska, p.20

The Colonel was sitting on the floor next to her bed, his head bent toward the floor, looking under her bed frame. “She sure didn’t leave any booze, did she?” he asked.

And I almost said, She buried it in the woods out by the soccer field, but I realized that the Colonel didn’t know, that she never took him to the edge of the woods and told him to dig for buried treasure, that she and I had shared that alone, and I kept it for myself like a keepsake, as if sharing the memory might lead to its dissipation.

“Do you see The General in His Labyrinth anywhere?” I asked while scanning the titles on the book spines. “It has a lot of green on the cover, I think. It’s a paperback, and it got flooded, so the pages are probably bloated, but I don’t think she—” and then he cut me off with, “Yeah, it’s right here,” and I turned around and he was holding it, the pages fanned out like an accordion from Longwell, Jeff, and Kevin’s prank, and I walked over to him and took it and sat down on her bed. The places she’d underlined and the little notes she’d written had all been blurred out by the soaking, but the book was still mostly readable, and I was thinking I would take it back to my room and try to read it even though it wasn’t a biography when I flipped to that page, toward the back:

He was shaken by the overwhelming revelation that the headlong race between his misfortunes and his dreams was at that moment reaching the finish line. The rest was darkness. “Damn it,” he sighed. “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!”

The whole passage was underlined in bleeding, water-soaked black ink. But there was another ink, this one a crisp blue, post-flood, and an arrow led from “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!” to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight & Fast.

“Hey, she wrote something in here after the flood,” I said. “But it’s weird. Look. Page one ninety-two. ”

I tossed the book to the Colonel, and he flipped to the page and then looked up at me. “Straight and fast,” he said.

“Yeah. Weird, huh? The way out of the labyrinth, I guess. ”

“Wait, how did it happen? What happened?”

And because there was only one it, I knew to what he was referring. “I told you what the Eagle told me. A truck jackknifed on the road. A cop car showed up to stop traffic, and she ran into the cop car. She was so drunk she didn’t even swerve. ”

“So drunk? So drunk? The cop car would have had its lights on. Pudge, she ran into a cop car that had its lights on,” he said hurriedly. “Straight and fast. Straight and fast. Out of the labyrinth. ”

“No,” I said, but even as I said it, I could see it. I could see her drunk enough and pissed off enough. (About what—about cheating on Jake? About hurting me? About wanting me and not him? Still pissed about ratting out Marya?) I could see her staring down the cop car and aiming for it and not giving a shit about anyone else, not thinking of her promise to me, not thinking of her father or anyone, and that bitch, that bitch, she killed herself. But no. No. That was not her. No. She said To be continued. Of course. “No. ”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” the Colonel said. He dropped the book, sat down on the bed next to me, and put his forehead in his hands. “Who drives six miles off campus to kill herself? Doesn’t make any sense. But ‘straight and fast. ’ Bit of an odd premonition, isn’t it? And we still don’t really know what happened, if you think about it. Where she was going, why. Who called. Someone called, right, or did I make—”

And the Colonel kept talking, puzzling it out, while I picked up the book and found my way to that page where the general’s headlong race came to its end, and we were both stuck in our heads, the distance between us unbridgeable, and I could not listen to the Colonel, because I was busy trying to get the last hints of her smell, busy telling myself that of course she had not done it. It was me—I had done it, and so had the Colonel. He could try to puzzle his way out of it, but I knew better, knew that we could never be anything but wholly, unforgivably guilty.

eight days after

TUESDAY—WE HAD SCHOOL for the first time. Madame O’Malley had a moment of silence at the beginning of French class, a class that was always punctuated with long moments of silence, and then asked us how we were feeling.

“Awful,” a girl said.

“En franCais,” Madame O’Malley replied. “En franCais. ”

Everything looked the same, but more still: the Weekday Warriors still sat on the benches outside the library, but their gossip was quiet, understated. The cafeteria clamored with the sounds of plastic trays against wooden tables and forks scraping plates, but any conversations were muted. But more than the noiselessness of everyone else was the silence where she should have been, the bubbling bursting storytelling Alaska, but instead it felt like those times when she had withdrawn into herself, like she was refusing to answer how or why questions, only this time for good.

The Colonel sat down next to me in religion class, sighed, and said, “You reek of smoke, Pudge. ”

“Ask me if I give a shit. ”

Dr. Hyde shuffled into class then, our final exams stacked underneath one arm. He sat down, took a series of labored breaths, and began to talk. “It is a law that parents should not have to bury their children,” he said. “And someone should enforce it. This semester, we’re going to continue studying the religious traditions to which you were introduced this fall. But there’s no doubting that the questions we’ll be asking have more immediacy now than they did just a few days ago. What happens to us after we die, for instance, is no longer a question of idle philosophical interest. It is a question we must ask about our classmate. And how to live in the shadow of grief is not something nameless Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims have to explore. The questions of religious thought have become, I suspect, personal. ”

He shuffled through our exams, pulling one out from the pile before him. “I have here Alaska’s final. You’ll recall that you were asked what the most important question facing people is, and how the three traditions we’re studying this year address that question. This was Alaska’s question. ”

With a sigh, he grabbed hold of his chair and lifted himself out of it, then wrote on the blackboard: How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?—A. Y.

“I’m going to leave that up for the rest of the semester,” he said. “Because everybody who has ever lost their way in life has felt the nagging insistence of that question. At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze, and I don’t want us to forget Alaska, and I don’t want to forget that even when the material we study seems boring, we’re trying to understand how people have answered that question and the questions each of you posed in your papers—how different traditions have come to terms with what Chip, in his final, called ‘people’s rotten lots in life. ’ ”

Hyde sat down. “So, how are you guys doing?”

The Colonel and I said nothing, while a bunch of people who didn’t know Alaska extolled her virtues and professed to be devastated, and at first, it bothered me. I didn’t want the people she didn’t know—and the people she didn’t like—to be sad. They’d never cared about her, and now they were carrying on as if she were a sister. But I guess I didn’t know her completely, either. If I had, I’d have known what she’d meant by “To be continued?” And if I had cared about her as I should have, as I thought I did, how could I have let her go?

So they didn’t bother me, really. But next to me, the Colonel breathed slowly and deeply through his nose like a bull about to charge.

He actually rolled his eyes when Weekday Warrior Brooke Blakely, whose parents had received a progress report courtesy of Alaska, said, “I’m just sad I never told her I loved her. I just don’t understand why. ”

“That’s such bullshit,” the Colonel said as we walked to lunch. “As if Brooke Blakely gives two shits about Alaska. ”

“If Brooke Blakely died, wouldn’t you be sad?” I asked.

“I guess, but I wouldn’t bemoan the fact I never told her I loved her. I don’t love her. She’s an idiot. ”

I thought everyone else had a better excuse to grieve than we did—after all, they hadn’t killed her—but I knew better than to try to talk to the Colonel when he was mad.

nine days after

“I’VE GOT A THEORY,” the Colonel said as I walked in the door after a miserable day of classes. The cold had begun to let up, but word had not spread to whoever ran the furnaces, so the classrooms were all stuffy and overheated, and I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep until the time came to do it all over again.

“Missed you in class today,” I noted as I sat down on my bed. The Colonel sat at his desk, hunched over a notebook. I lay down on my back and pulled the covers up over my head, but the Colonel was undiscouraged.

“Right, well, I was busy coming up with the theory, which isn’t terribly likely, admittedly, but it’s plausible. So, listen. She kisses you. That night, someone calls. Jake, I imagine. They have a fight—about cheating or about something else—who knows. So she’s upset, and she wants to go see him. She comes back to the room crying, and she tells us to help her get off campus. And she’s freaked out, because, I don’t know, let’s say because if she can’t go visit him, Jake will break up with her. That’s just a hypothetical reason. So she gets off campus, drunk and all pissed off, and she’s furious at herself over whatever it is, and she’s driving along and sees the cop car and then in a flash everything comes together and the end to her labyrinthine mystery is staring her right in the face and she just does it, straight and fast, just aims at the cop car and never swerves, not because she’s drunk but because she killed herself. ”

“That’s ridiculous. She wasn’t thinking about Jake or fighting with Jake. She was making out with me. I tried to bring up the whole Jake thing, but she just shushed me. ”

“So who called her?”

I kicked off my comforter and, my fist balled, smashed my hand against the wall with each syllable as I said, “I! DON’T! KNOW! And you know what, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead. Is the brilliant Colonel going to figure out something that’s gonna make her less freaking dead?” But it did matter, of course, which is why I kept pounding at our cinder-block walls and why the questions had floated beneath the surface for a week. Who’d called? What was wrong? Why did she leave? Jake had not gone to her funeral. Nor had he called us to say he was sorry, or to ask us what happened. He had just disappeared, and of course, I had wondered. I had wondered if she had any intention of keeping her promise that we would be continued. I had wondered who called, and why, and what made her so upset. But I’d rather wonder than get answers I couldn’t live with.

“Maybe she was driving there to break up with Jake, then,” the Colonel said, his voice suddenly edgeless. He sat down on the corner of my bed.

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to know. ”

“Yeah, well,” he said. “I want to know. Because if she knew what she was doing, Pudge, she made us accomplices. And I hate her for that. I mean, God, look at us. We can’t even talk to anyone anymore. So listen, I wrote out a game plan: One. Talk to eyewitnesses. Two. Figure out how drunk she was. Three. Figure out where she was going, and why. ”

“I don’t want to talk to Jake,” I said halfheartedly, already resigned to the Colonel’s incessant planning. “If he knows, I definitely don’t want to talk to him. And if he doesn’t, I don’t want to pretend like it didn’t happen. ”

The Colonel stood up and sighed. “You know what, Pudge? I feel bad for you. I do. I know you kissed her, and I know you’re broken up about it. But honestly, shut up. If Jake knows, you’re not gonna make it any worse. And if he doesn’t, he won’t find out. So just stop worrying about your goddamned self for one minute and think about your dead friend. Sorry. Long day. ”

“It’s fine,” I said, pulling the covers back over my head. “It’s fine,” I repeated. And, whatever. It was fine. It had to be. I couldn’t afford to lose the Colonel.

thirteen days after

BECAUSE OUR MAIN SOURCE of vehicular transportation was interred in Vine Station, Alabama, the Colonel and I were forced to walk to the Pelham Police Department to search for eyewitnesses. We left after eating dinner in the cafeteria, the night falling fast and early, and trudged up Highway 119 for a mile and a half before coming to a single-story stucco building situated between a Waffle House and a gas station.

Inside, a long desk that rose to the Colonel’s solar plexus separated us from the police station proper, which seemed to consist of three uniformed officers sitting at three desks, all of them talking on the phone.

“I’m Alaska Young’s brother,” the Colonel announced brazenly. “And I want to talk to the cop who saw her die. ”

A pale, thin man with a reddish blond beard spoke quickly into the phone and then hung up. “I seen ’er,” he said. “She hit mah cruiser. ”

“Can we talk to you outside?” the Colonel asked.

„How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?“

Alaska Young, p. 82
Looking for Alaska (2005)

Джон Грин 4

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The Labyrinth of Suffering – Looking for Alaska Analysis

Looking For Alaska was published in 2005 by Dutton Books, and is the first novel by John Green. The novel is about a group of lost, but additionally very intelligent teenagers, who are attending to Culver Creek Boarding School for their junior year. They are the contrary to shallow, more or less the precise opposite, Alaska Yong, Miles Halter and Chip Martins thoughts are as deep as the Mariana Trench. Their complicated way of looking at life, seeking simplicity and comprehension in an intricate world, will eventually hurt them. “If people was rain, I was the drizzle and she was a hurricane.” (Green. J. 2005, p.88) is Miles imagery of Alaska after her death. What killed Alaska Young?

Miles leaves home to attend boarding school in Alabama to find “the Great Perhaps”, the things that might happen and people he might meet. His expectations are adhered; he makes friends with faithful Chip and beautiful Alaska. Miles evolves drastically, entanglement in cigarettes, alcohol and pranks on the school’s rich kids and leadership. He is only affected negatively charged, however he does find his “Great Perhaps”. He falls for her, deeply. They shared one kiss, when it’s over she says, “(…) to be continue?” A few hours later she is dead. “(…) like if someone lost his glassesand went to the glasses store and they told him that the world had run out of glasses and he would just have to do without.” (Green. J. 2005, p. 144) Pudge and The Colonal are trying to make scenes of it, and stars seeking answers that are not supposed to be found. Every question does not have an answer; it is about letting go, forgive and live.

The novel is written in third person, through Miles eyes. However, the entire structure of it is built around Alaska’s death. From one hundred and thirty-six days before, when Miles was Miles, a dull, friendless geek. To one hundred and thirty-six days after, after her death. When Miles had become Pudge, a well-developed young man who smoked cigarettes and drank wine. Pugde had felt the deepest exhilaration of love, and the deepest sorrow of lost. Looking at the storyline only, it is quite ordinary. Boy attending boarding school and practically do everything his parent tell him not to, not very original. It is a character-driven novel, where strong personalities carry the story.

Miles (Pudge) Halter is the new guy, and a very static character, he envelop drastically through out the novel, and is easily affected by his friends. After recovering from the emptiness after Alaska’s death, seeking for answers to fill the voids in his body, Miles gets a personal turning point.“When she fucked up all those years ago, just a little girl terrified into paralysis, she collapsed into the enigma of herself. And I could have done that, but I saw where it led her. So I still believe in the Great Perhaps, and I can believe in it in spite of having lost her.”(Green. J. 2005, 219)

Green has education within religion, something that reflects the books theme. In the final religion exam, the students has to pick what they think is the most important question human beings must answer, and examine how the three world religions attempt to answer it. Miles choose to examine the question of what will happen to us, when we die… In religion heaven or hell is the correlated answer. It is it is easy, and safe. “People believe in an after life, because they couldn’t beat not to.” (100) Miles will never find the answer, but he chooses to settle with a fact from science class; energy is never created and is never destroyed. In religion the soul fly to heaven, their believe gives them answers to everything. Alaska on the other hand is not a believer, and the question related to her mother’s death drives her crazy. It is human to seek answers, which are easiest found through religion rather than philosophy.

Among a variety of metaphors, the imagery of the labyrinth is the main throughout the novel. “How will I ever get out of the labyrinth of suffering?” (19) Alaska dwindles into the boundless deep of this question. Is the labyrinth living or dying- the world or the end of it? The labyrinth represents the answerless questions life brings. Alaska is the labyrinth; she traps herself into the evil circle of answerless questions that will force her deeper, and deeper into the darkness of suffering. She cannot free herself from herself.

Looking For Alaska’s theme is superficial, but the message is philosophical. It is about looking past the enigma of the answerless question in life, and not fold into yourself and self-destruct. “We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are.” (220) If Alaska killed her self it was out of hopelessness. People kill them self because it seems like the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering; their hope is burned-out. But it never is, that is what Green concludes with.

I ask myself the question; are some people meant to die young? Has God, or whatever made the world impossible to survive in for certain people? Yes, I think Alaska Young killed herself based on the person Green describes. She was too deep into the enigma of frustration over her answerless questions and guilt. I do think it was a cunning suicide though; it was a momentary action as an affect of her spontaneity. My estimated answer to the question listed above is no. No one is ever irreparably broken, there is always hope, most often to find in fellows. No one really knew Alaska, which made her a very lonesome lady. Everyone loved her, but no one ever understood her. Alaska needed help to get out of her labyrinth.

List of sources:

Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License. (20 March 2013) Looking for Alaska, Wikipedia® http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Looking_for_Alaska

Green, J. (2005) Looking for Alaska. USA: Dutton Books

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