tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33728105322608886042024-03-21T09:02:01.431-07:00The Marcucilli BlogWelcome to the Marcucilli Blog! My Blog will offer academic review/analysis on literature, improvisational theatre, and topics related to special education. All are passions of mine, and it's my hope you will join in on the conversation. Thanks for visiting!dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-84175974391517112802011-08-01T03:56:00.000-07:002011-08-05T04:03:28.426-07:00Fantasy’s Effect on Young Readers Through Tolkien’s Ring<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKY742i8_xUYkVwJYKJx3XT9o3n_9ORL7ytDBJXT8SonZq3lR3_N8WMUovHpJPSgi_g5nhbknOtDep2x2L4GgCoHw9BxRqhx3upZNNwmlYXL6fevy1pFPpSLT0V_Ae3daaNvGJx2cIdWsp/s1600/gandalf.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKY742i8_xUYkVwJYKJx3XT9o3n_9ORL7ytDBJXT8SonZq3lR3_N8WMUovHpJPSgi_g5nhbknOtDep2x2L4GgCoHw9BxRqhx3upZNNwmlYXL6fevy1pFPpSLT0V_Ae3daaNvGJx2cIdWsp/s400/gandalf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637325661052745410" /></a><br /><br /> In his book, An Experiment in Criticism, C. S. Lewis writes about the chief function of literature as an art form. Lewis writes:<br /> <br />[It is] an enlargement of our being. We want to be more than ourselves . . . we want to see with other eyes, to imagine with other imaginations, to feel with other hearts, as well as with our own . . . the first demand any work of art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. What we receive is conveyed to us, in literature at least, partly by the object: its design, the adjustment of chronological and causal order, its images, contrasts and language (Lewis 104).<br /><br /> The fantasy genre allows readers to escape into an unknown world—surrendering the reader to its panic or beauty. Throughout Lewis’ critique of literature as an art form, a difficult question arises: How does high fantasy lead children to knowledge of self and the world around them? The answer lies in the importance of introducing fantasy to young readers early on in childhood. Through the works of J. R. R. Tolkien, we will recognize how character, setting, and imagery thrust young children into foreign environments, causing them to learn deeply rooted values, hidden themes, but—most importantly—connections within themselves.<br /> <br /> In fantasy literature character is paramount. Through well-rounded characters, children grasp concepts early on of what it means to be heroic. In John Gardner’s novel Grendel, Gardner defines the motives of a “hero” through Unferth, a young knight about to be eaten by a monster. Unferth yells petulantly, “Go ahead, scoff. Except in the life of a hero, the whole world’s meaningless. The hero sees values beyond what’s possible. That’s the nature of a hero. It kills him, of course, ultimately. But it makes the whole struggle of humanity worthwhile” (Gardner 89). These heroic values can be applied to Frodo and Sam in J. R. R. Tolkien’s epic The Lord of the Rings. Frodo and Sam face an impossible task in their want to destroy the “one ring.” It is through their journey together that children reading the story will be introduced to the value of friendship, and the deeply rooted theme of unconditional love.<br /> <br /> In Tolkien’s The Retun of the King, there are two moments at the end of the novel where the value of friendship and the theme of unconditional love are present. Yards away from Mt. Doom, Frodo falls to the ground in exhaustion wanting to give up. Sam heroically pulls him on his back replying, “Come, Mr. Frodo! I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he’ll go” (Tolkien 919). A few pages later the ring is destroyed, and facing certain death by lava, Frodo turns to Sam and exclaims in exhaustion, “I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam” (Tolkien 926). Upon reading both of these passages, the child will most likely “not” look up at her mother and cry “there is a theme of unconditional love here,” but rather interpret it through what author Gregory Bassham calls, “bracing moral power” (Bassham 248).<br /><br /> In his essay entitled, “Lewis and Tolkien on the Power of the Imagination,” Bassham brings attention to how fantasy can activate our moral imaginations at distinct levels in The Lord of the Rings. Bassham writes, “. . . Tolkien’s heroes inspire us as moral exemplars. When we read of the selfless, dogged persistence of Frodo, the indomitable courage of Sam . . . We are moved, energized and uplifted. We dream of better things and desire to grow” (Bassham 248). Here the child will have an internal response to Sam “helping” Frodo up off his feet, and “sharing” in his burden by carrying him on his back. These values noted in The Lord of the Rings are important for they will enhance the child’s ability to relate humanely with other children and society as a whole.<br /> Setting is an equal important component in fantasy—for it can drive a story’s central conflict, enrich its overall meaning, but most importantly introduce a major theme to young children—the journey. J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, is a quest fantasy which begins as quest fantasies should—with a call to action. However, Tolkien uses the physical setting of Bilbo Baggins’ hole in the ground to introduce the reader to a creature of cleanliness and safety—a creature who “never had any adventures or did anything unexpected” (Tolkien 3).<br /> <br /> In the very first paragraph Tolkien writes, “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort” (Tolkien 3). Tolkien is setting the child up by placing the physical setting indoors or in the interior. Conflict arises when the “unexpected party” arrives. Soon we witness Bilbo being thrust into the exterior; heading out into the unknown on a perilous journey.<br /><br /> In Chapter Eight entitled “Flies and Spiders,” Tolkien presents nature in an unkind light when the party must travel through Mirkwood alone—without Gandalf to guide and protect them. This is important, for Tolkien separates the company from the parental role of Gandalf. What Tolkien is suggesting to children is a simple truth: A time will come one day in your life when your parent’s won’t be there to guide and protect you—you will make your own decisions in what path to take in life.<br /><br /> The hostile environment of Mirkwood forest presents another theme—that of suffering. Tolkien writes, “It was not long before they grew to hate the forest as heartily as they had hated the tunnels of the goblins, and it seemed to offer even less hope of any ending” (Tolkien 129). In his essay “The Gospel of Middle-Earth according to J. R. R. Tolkien,” author William Dowie writes, “Suffering, as a necessity of life and an integral part of personal growth, is bound up with the task” (Dowie 275). The success of the company escaping out of Mirkwood through trial and tribulation is a testament to their splendor of courage through hardship. Through their example children can apply their own demonstrations of courage—big or small. It is through the company’s suffering that a freedom of will is affirmed.<br /> <br /> Lastly, it is in Tolkiens use of imagery that children learn there is such a thing as good and evil in both the imaginative world of Tolkien—and their own. Tolkien communicates this connection through the ferocious battle scenes in The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien’s use of violence is acceptable according to Dowie, because it leads to “strong moral compassion[s] for the enemies” later in the novel (Dowie 277). Dowie writes: <br /> <br />The men of the West can go to battle with such fierce intensity against the orcs and the winged Nazgul because while they are set in their course of power and destruction, they are wholly evil, given over to their own self-love and to the service of their Dark Lord. Because the opposition is stark, violence is necessary and good. (276)<br /><br /> Children will make similar connections in their own reality. In history they will learn of World War II, making literary and historical connections. How millions of people fought an Axis power, similar to Sauron’s military and how great numbers of “ordinary” people fought to be free.<br /> <br /> Dowie remarks that one thing readers of all ages pick up on is the theme of power in The Lord of the Rings. Dowie writes, “As far as power is concerned, it is in the realm of the Dark Lord. The way of the Fellowship is the way of renunciation of power. The story constantly sounds the theme that the great deed must be accomplished humbly” (Dowie 278). Proving this point we turn to The Fellowship of the Ring. A council is being held at the “last homely house” of Elrond, and the Fellowship is deciding the easiest path to take in destroying the one ring. Elrond suggests two options: “to send it over the Sea, or to destroy it” (Tolkien 259). The first option is more crass then “humble.” Here, young children will read Gandalf’s wise words, speaking “. . . for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell here to deal with it” (Tolkien 259). Children gain a simple truth: that you can’t run away from your problems forever; there are times in life when you need to stand your ground and face your fears.<br /><br /> In the end, introducing high fantasy to children at a young age carries many benefits. In her book Powerful Magic: Learning From Children’s Responses to Fantasy Literature, Nina Mikkelsen writes, “When children are deeply engaged with fantasy literature, we see live circuits of response that reveal more about the books children read, their ways of reading and composing, and their own child worlds” (Mikkelsen 22). Through J. R. R. Tolkien children have a deep engagement in the text, for Tolkien goes to great lengths weaving a story filled with recognizable values, themes, which in turn allow children to make connections—and to start applying this self-learned knowledge. Through character, setting, and imagery, the success of high fantasy literature serves the ultimate purpose: it broadens our perspective over the ordinary world, and shows us what ordinary individuals can achieve.<br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Bassham, Gregory. Lewis and Tolkien on the Power of the Imagination. Ed. David Baggett, Gary R. Habermas, and Jerry L. Walls. Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 2008.<br /><br />Dowie, William. The Gospel of Middle-Earth according to J. R. R. Tolkien. Ed. Mary Salu and Robert T. Farrell. New York: Cornell University Press, 1979.<br /><br />Gardner, John. Grendel. New York: Vintage, 1971.<br /><br />Lewis, C. S. An Experiment in Criticism. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992.<br /><br />Mikkelsen, Nina. Powerful Magic: Learning From Children’s Responses to Fantasy Literature. New York: Teachers College Press, 2005.<br /><br />Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit: Or There and Back Again. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1997. <br />---, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1997. <br />---, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1997. Major work by said author. Book Three.<br /><br />Works Consulted<br /><br />Burke, Eileen M. Literature For The Young Child. 2nd ed. Boston: Simon & Schustur, 1990.<br /><br />Glover, Donald E. C. S. Lewis: The Art of Enchantment. Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1981.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-91879823278748780332011-07-05T03:45:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:47:48.310-07:00Babylon Revisited: A Prosperous City<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjDKiwRVqFGm834S8qNcwOD9V-ncoZWf4qRAHPRUn7FwgJUudluMQqFzOp48VPimqg25xtJ-39yN5n6JO1AsfypzoOjqfTmoG0RD8H0Nc4aX34ilJ5yJMloM4tIXXNUGR27wCo4Tk18fo/s1600/f-scott-fitzgerald2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjDKiwRVqFGm834S8qNcwOD9V-ncoZWf4qRAHPRUn7FwgJUudluMQqFzOp48VPimqg25xtJ-39yN5n6JO1AsfypzoOjqfTmoG0RD8H0Nc4aX34ilJ5yJMloM4tIXXNUGR27wCo4Tk18fo/s400/f-scott-fitzgerald2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637321751369420530" /></a><br />In “Babylon Revisited,” F. Scott Fitzgerald creates a sweeping theme of redemption. Fitzgerald wastes no time stylistically structuring his story with powerful imagery, explosive language, and flawless use of symbols in his weaving together of a short story filled with emotional hostility, and brutal pragmatism.<br /><br /> Like a wound that never heals, this bleak atmosphere seeps from the first page through stark images. Fitzgerald writes, “The stillness in the Ritz bar was strange and portentous. It was not an American bar anymore...he felt the stillness from the moment he got out of the taxi and saw the doorman.” Charlie is revisiting a nightmare past, where all familiar places and faces are strange and alien to him. Fitzgerald feeds this bleak imagery of the past further by supplementing Charlie’s environment with superfluous characters—who endow little praise to his character, but rather take part in “reading a newspaper” (which contain forgotten events of yesterday), or reminiscing of long ago, reckless days, “Remember the night of George Hardt’s bachelor dinner?”<br /><br /> This atmosphere continues through Fitzgerald’s clever writing, giving the reader snapshots and snippets of Charlie’s own internal reluctance in his returning to the bar that helped perpetuate his own downfall. Charlie reminisces, “Passing through the corridor, he heard only a single, bored voice in the once-clamorous women’s room. When he turned into the bar he traveled the twenty feet of green carpet with his eyes fixed straight ahead by old habit...the place oppressed him.” Charlie’s newfound strength is confirmed with his reluctance to go back to his old self through his conversation with Alix the barman. Alix offers Charlie a drink—in which Charlie refuses, replying “No, no more...I’m going slow these days,” and when reminded of his drunken (embarrassing) past “I’ll stick to it all right...I’ve stuck to it for over a year and a half now.” Through this dialogue we gain valuable information about Charlie’s character—that he’s been sober for over eighteen months and that he’s sticking to it.<br /> <br /> The setting of “Babylon Revisited,” is equal in importance to that of the time period in which it takes place. When the market crashed in the United States in October of 1929, it threw America into the Great Depression. “It left millions of Americans, who formally prospered during the roaring twenties, out of work, disillusioned, and blaming themselves (DuBois). Fitzgerald wanted his protagonist (Charlie) to be affected by the times, but more importantly, to gain enlightenment with his mind, body, and spirit. <br /> <br /> The theme of redemption gains here and builds more steam through Fitzgerald’s use of emotionally charged language. With a surgeon’s steady hand, Fitzgerald opens up Charlie’s mind by letting the reader hear his inner monologue, a very important component in Babylon. Charlie speaks to himself, “He believed in character; he wanted to jump back a whole generation and trust in character again as the eternally valuable element. Everything else wore out.” Charlie views himself as a “reformed sinner,” and his character builds sympathy from the reader through this emotionally charged language.<br /><br /> This building of sympathy for Charlie continues as he visits his old stomping grounds, and relives a hazy eyed ambiguous past. “He passed a lighted door from which issued music, and stopped with the sense of familiarity; it was Bricktop’s, where he had parted with so many hours and so much money.” Fitzgerald builds this theme further by presenting a moral to the reader, “Family quarrels are bitter things. They don’t go according to any rules. They’re not like aches or wounds; they’re more like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material.” This is a beautiful line for we the reader can identify our own lives with Charlie.<br /> <br /> Fitzgerald’s use of inner monologue, thought provoking morals, and emotional dialogue (best exhibited going home in the taxi cab between Charlie and Honoria, in a ‘On The waterfront’ revealing moment), propel the reader in viewing Charlie as a man who has truly repented. “They liked him because he was functioning, because he was serious; they wanted to see him, because he was stronger than they were now, because they wanted to draw certain sustenance from his strength.”<br /><br /> The title “Babylon Revisited,” is taken from the capital of Babylonia, a city noted in the Bible for materialism and luxury and the pursuit of sensual pleasure, and wickedness. In their book “Signs & Symbols,” authors Mark O’ Connell and Raje Airey refer to Babylon as a city “so splendid, that no city on earth may be compared with it. In the Judaeo-Christian tradition, however, it became the antithesis of paradise and the heavenly Jerusalem, and symbolized the profane.” F. Scott Fitzgerald uses Charlie’s Paris as a direct opposite to Babylon.<br /><br /> Fitzgerald craftily takes Charlie’s new found sense of redemption and brutally challenges it with powerful symbols from his past. Fitzgerald uses Duncan Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarrles to entice Charlie back to his drunken days. The two begin to strip apart Charlie’s new found armor through snide, objectifying remarks, “Charlie, I believe you’re sober, I honestly believe he’s sober, Dunc. Pinch him and see if he’s sober.” <br /><br /> Lorraine’s letter recounts all the crazy times they had in Paris and (in a begging tone), wants Charlie to find his old self again, “You were so strange when we saw you the other day...we did have such good times that crazy spring, like the night you and I stole the butcher’s tricycle...everybody seems so old lately...I’ve got a viral hang-over.”<br /> <br /> Fitzgerald brings the two back later, during a crucial moment for Charlie in winning custody of Honoria. Lorraine and Duncan unexpectedly visit Charlie at Marion’s, bringing with them (old baggage) talk from long ago times. “They were gay, they were hilarious, they were roaring with laughter. For a moment Charlie was astounded; unable to understand how they ferreted out the Peters’ address. The two invite Charlie to dinner, and Charlie declines telling them he’ll phone. Lorraine nastily spits, “All right we’ll go. But I remember once when you hammered on my door at four A.M. I was enough of a good sport to give you a drink.” <br /> <br />Lorraine and Duncan are “objects” from Charlie’s past that represent all the bad moments in Charlie’s past. This symbol of the past being represented in the future is so powerful that Marion misinterprets them and our protagonist losses everything he’s been fighting for—that of custody of his daughter Honoria.<br /><br /> An antithesis between Charlie and Marion Peters is also noted. Fitzgerald uses Marion craftily, for the two are foils of each other. Charlie uses Marion’s belligerence for his benefit, thinking, “Her very aggressiveness gave him an advantage, and he knew enough to wait. He wanted them to initiate the discussion of what they knew had brought him to Paris.”<br /> <br /> F. Scott Fitzgerald succeeds in the end by using many literary techniques in weaving this vast tapestry of redemption which was lost—but is now found.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-52830401733416572272011-07-04T03:17:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:48:31.163-07:00A Lesson Before Dying: A Meaningful Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-S12C6_Bf7nWzRswH6maKdrKjuQAZwlGb8V_L4-o29UiyO80d70EoZB36KJiWExoDmgIKkuH3AMbhRIiDflqCndnR8SUNajcKLNC0J1D2ylqDojb_AZGnX34b6XbuqN5sfBkwbzmfdTeC/s1600/lesson+before+dy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-S12C6_Bf7nWzRswH6maKdrKjuQAZwlGb8V_L4-o29UiyO80d70EoZB36KJiWExoDmgIKkuH3AMbhRIiDflqCndnR8SUNajcKLNC0J1D2ylqDojb_AZGnX34b6XbuqN5sfBkwbzmfdTeC/s400/lesson+before+dy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637314945791782786" /></a><br /><br /> In A Lesson Before Dying, Ernest J. Gaines creates a sweeping theme of social injustice through a young black man named Jefferson who is sentenced to death, for a crime he did not commit. Throughout the novel, Gaines wastes no time stylistically structuring his story with powerful imagery, explosive language, and a flawless use of symbols, weaving together a story filled with emotional hostility and brutal pragmatism. Through these three literary devices we witness, but more importantly learn a lesson before dying; that “Only when the mind is free has the body a chance to be free” (Gaines 251).<br /> <br /> Like a wound that never heals, the bleak unjust atmosphere seeps from the very first chapter through stark imagery. Gaines begins by creating three distinct barriers between Jefferson and the rest of civilization through key descriptions of what is seen and heard in the courtroom. The first barrier comes from the godmother’s “blind” perspective. Separated and seated two rows behind Jefferson, Gaines writes, “She just sat there staring at the boy’s clean cropped head where he sat at the front table with his lawyer” (Gaines 3). This perspective of Jefferson’s “head” and not his “face,” conveys an individual who has no distinguishing features—no uniqueness.<br /> <br /> The author reinforces this separation with what is heard in the courtroom with the second barrier. Gaines writes, “It was my aunt whose eyes followed the prosecutor . . . pounding the table where his papers lay, pounding the rail that separated the jurors from the rest of the courtroom” (Gaines 4). Using the courtroom’s rails as a clear separation from society, the reader views Jefferson as a trapped animal caught in a pen surrounded by wolves.<br /> <br /> The third and most important barrier in the novel is skin color. In his review of author Derrick A. Bell Jr.’s book, Race, Racism And American Law, Professor A. Leon Higginbotham, Jr. discusses how racism should be discerned in a society. Higginbotham writes: <br /><br />[. . .] racism may be viewed as any attitude, action, or institutional structure which subordinates a person or group because of his or their color. Even though race and color refer to two different kinds of human characteristics, in America it is the visibility of skin color—and of other physical traits associated with particular color or groups—that marks individuals as targets for subordination by members of the white majority (Higginbotham 1045).<br /><br /> The skin color of the judge, and each member of the jury is white, permanently reinforcing the unjust society Jefferson is up against—for his skin is black. These three barriers—viewer perspective, spatial division, and racism—created by stark imagery, elicit an immediate impression about Jefferson’s character. He is an animal trapped in a pen. These significant barriers are emphasized to increase the readers hope for Jefferson’s survival.<br /><br /> The theme of social injustice builds more steam through Gaines’ use of emotionally charged language. Aware of how the jury perceives his client, Jefferson’s attorney tries to reduce Jefferson to the lowliest of things—a hog. In the first chapter, the defense argues, “What justice would there be to take this life? Justice, gentleman? Why, I would just as soon put a hog in the electric chair as this” (Gaines 8). The purposeful use of the word “hog,” ties in nicely to Gains’ use of imagery. This is more powerful in its literal subjugation of Jefferson as an intellectually inferior thing—in this case a filthy swine.<br /><br /> This building of injustice continues later in the novel when Jefferson wants an unusual last meal. Jefferson proclaims to Grant, “My last supper. A whole gallona ice cream . . . ain’t never had enough ice cream. Never had more than a nickel cone . . . but now I’m go’n get me a whole gallon” (Gains 170). The word choice used here is important for it connects Jefferson to a simple childhood social injustice. Gaines mocks the idea that, as a youth, Jefferson didn’t have the freedom of choice even as to the amount of ice cream he could have. That it would be on a condition of death—that he could have all the ice cream he wants. <br /><br /> It is at the end of the novel in which Gaines questions our own system of laws, writing his most powerful declaration towards the social injustices exhibited in post World War II America. He writes, “Don’t tell me to believe that God can bless this country and that men are judged by their peers. Who among his peers judged him? Was I there? Was the minister there? . . . no, his peers did not judge him—and I will not believe” (Gaines 251). Here, Gaines declares that the playing field wasn’t level. That the scales of justice where weighted down in favor of a conviction. This conviction is based on skin color. It is not a product of legitimate evidence. Gaines uses emotionally charged language to cement an understanding that racism has haunted Jefferson from the moment of birth.<br /><br /> In the end, it is Ernest J. Gaines use of unblemished symbolism that propels the novel’s theme of social injustice. In chapter five the American flag is portrayed as a dead thing. The author writes, “We pledged allegiance to the flag. The flag hung limp from a ten-foot bamboo pole in the corner of the white picket fence that surrounded the church” (Gaines 33). The American flag represents democracy—the ultimate symbol of equality. The American flag typically evokes powerful emotions of pride, and patriotism in a culture. Here, Gaines represents the flag as a lifeless, unobservant, dead object—blind to the injustices facing Jefferson.<br /> <br /> One of the most powerful symbols in the novel is the diary grant gives Jefferson in jail. In his book “Black Metafiction,” author Madelyn Jablon writes, “By giving Jefferson a pencil and a tablet, Gaines signifies on the trope of the talking book and the role of literacy in the crusade for civil rights. Writing is evidence that the black man is not a hog, but—as Jefferson writes—a youman” (Jablon 91). In the diary Jefferson finds his voice, and gains strength—transforming from a scared animal trapped in a pen—to that of a man. Jefferson writes, “good by mr wigin tell them im strong tell them im a man good by mr wigin . . .” (Gaines 234).<br /><br /> A Lesson Before Dying is a commanding piece of literature which echoes one of the strongest textual examples of social injustice in post World War II America. It accomplishes this through Gaines’ use of potent imagery, loaded language, and unblemished symbolism. Through these three literary elements, Gaines succeeds in offering up a character separated by the barriers of society, and cast down to the lowliest of creatures. In the end we are left with a man striped of freedom because of his skin, but who has found freedom in his mind.<br /> <br />Works Cited<br /><br />Gaines, Ernest J. A Lesson Before Dying. New York: Vintage Books, 1993.<br /><br />Higginbotham, A. Leon Jr. “Review: [untitled] Race, Racism and American Law by Derrick A. Bell, Jr.” The University of Pennsylvania Law Review, Vol. 122, No. 4 (Apr., 1974), pp 1044-1069. JSTOR. Ovitt Library, Northridge, CA. Nov 20. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3311421<br /><br />Jablon, Madelyn. Black Metafiction: Self-Consciousness In African American Literature. Iowa: University of Iowa Press, 1997.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-45459409466118771462011-07-01T03:50:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:55:38.040-07:00The Carriage of Death: The Meter is Running<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErKyJYELx5ECcwNdg5vxy_OTQCXaNIOQmfCs_Hr9SKOr0OdjPlB7KX1-biGbIBFnjsZ-AM9T4g8AUEteSnd8AwSzNsxAtezbVsGJ75eqz4BnXQ08yv1q5vEZvq8-Lzi49DOmOTuGWwGyQ/s1600/Carriage_Dickinson.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErKyJYELx5ECcwNdg5vxy_OTQCXaNIOQmfCs_Hr9SKOr0OdjPlB7KX1-biGbIBFnjsZ-AM9T4g8AUEteSnd8AwSzNsxAtezbVsGJ75eqz4BnXQ08yv1q5vEZvq8-Lzi49DOmOTuGWwGyQ/s400/Carriage_Dickinson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637323566894017442" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />If you heard the slow methodic steps of horses, the soft squeaks of wheels rolling ceaselessly in your direction, and with a turn of the head, you noticed death was at the reins—would you be content? In Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Because I could not stop for Death,” imagery is used to illustrate a woman’s acceptance of the afterlife. Through positive images, Dickinson touches our senses and unfolds a cycle of events in a carriage ride with the Grim Reaper; fortunately for the reader—Dickinson has left us an empty seat.<br /><br /> A positive connotation is employed in the first stanza of the poem through a simple economy of words. Dickinson writes, “Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me—” (lines 1-2). These two lines set the overall tone of the poem: that of acceptance. In the first line our speaker is caught up in the joys of life, and her attempts to avoid death are obvious—not stopping for him. It is in the second line, with the word “kindly” (2) that we feel a sense of humility. Here the speaker is embarrassed, and we the reader blush with her—for no one escapes the inevitable.<br /><br /> The image of the carriage represents the end result of our lives; symbolic of the ferryman we all pay to cross the river into the afterlife. The carriage further embodies a characteristic aura of safety. It is a comfortable, slow, and simple mode of transportation; fitting in nicely as a “literal” vehicle to push the tone of the speaker’s willingness to ride with death. This powerful image is pursued further through an equally powerful word: “Immortality” (4). The term suggests that the speaker’s life is unfinished—that more awaits her in the spirit world. We come to the realization that she is unafraid through the serene nature of her actions, as well as those of Death. Dickinson writes, “We slowly drove—he knew no haste / And I had put away / My labor and my leisure too” (5-7). There is a clear relationship between the speaker and death, in that both are teammates not wanting to upset each other through their actions. Death does not ride the carriage harshly, which would strike fear in our speaker, and in return our speaker gives death her undivided attention.<br /><br /> Dickinson throws in physical settings to add to the overall atmosphere of acceptance, striking our senses hard with sound. Dickinson inks, “We passed the School, where Children strove / At Recess—in the Ring—” (9-10). The lines create a sad impression of her past, for she is now a mere observer of life—not a participant. The sound of the children laughing at recess causes us to wonder if she was a school teacher watching her pupils play, or, if indeed this vision was of her own childhood—seeing herself as a little girl unaware of the brevity of life.<br /><br /> As if the sound of children at play wasn’t enough, Dickenson attacks our senses of smell and sight to personify the peaceful acceptance of the speaker. Dickinson writes, “We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain— / We passed the Setting Sun—” (11-12). Both images are golden in color, and both communicate the cycle of life—for the wheat is portrayed with human qualities, “Gazing Grain” (11) dependent on the warmth and light of the sun for its vitality, and in return the “Setting Sun” (12) represents a cycle’s end. The two images connect to the speaker, for she too was once dependent on the wheat which gave her body vitality, but now like the setting sun, in death—she must eventually rise again.<br /><br /> It is in the last stanza we see this rebirth in our speaker. Dickinson writes,<br /> <br /> Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet<br /> Feels shorter than the Day<br /> I first surmised the Horses’ Heads<br /> Were toward Eternity— (21-24)<br /><br />The images offer us a speaker who has become death and is reflecting, centuries later, upon her life on earth. Time holds no significance for her anymore because life is cyclical—it is everlasting.<br /><br /> It is in Emily Dickinson’s use of imagery that we view a woman calmly accepting the next stage of her journey—that of the afterlife.<br /><br />Work Cited<br /><br />Dickinson, Emily. “Because I Could Not Stop For Death.” Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing. 6th ed. Ed. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. Australia: Thompson, 2007. 954.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-29022233573495958942011-06-06T22:30:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:41:42.710-07:00Everyday Use: Quilting Our Identity Through Feminist Theory<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7h0_q-Cgkn3lrM2DFJOLEzqFDQcUM-NEJUG4x2FTRzoTr6YKs6zQKTOgNtjDSfF8o3b1kROGJ_5eiifX72j76n3FN-Jb6q4-pTk_Va9JUPuyKOHznTCLL1uahVs9_P9tVWR-Oo76mZlV/s1600-h/quilt+18.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 366px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7h0_q-Cgkn3lrM2DFJOLEzqFDQcUM-NEJUG4x2FTRzoTr6YKs6zQKTOgNtjDSfF8o3b1kROGJ_5eiifX72j76n3FN-Jb6q4-pTk_Va9JUPuyKOHznTCLL1uahVs9_P9tVWR-Oo76mZlV/s400/quilt+18.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333702014922278898" /></a><br /><br /> <br />In Alice Walker’s short story “Everyday Use,” symbolism is employed to show the clashing of rural and urban identities between mother and daughter. It is through character, physical setting, and objects that Walker weaves a tapestry of conflicting points of view, and begs the question—how is feminist theory represented in “Everyday Use,” and how is it representational in the everyday world?<br /> <br />In his book, "Foucault and Feminism: Power, Gender and the Self," author Lois McNay latches onto a very powerful quote by Michael Foucault. Foucault remarks:<br /><br />One must observe also that there cannot be relations of power unless the subjects are free. If one or the other were completely at the disposition of the other and became his thing, an object on which he can exercise an infinite and unlimited violence, there would not be relations of power. In order to exercise a relation of power, there must be on both sides at least a certain form of liberty (McNay 67).<br /> <br />Dee Johnson, changing her name to that of an African root-oriented name, is a specific and significant “power” choice by the character. In "Feminist Alternatives: Irony and Fantasy in the Contemporary Novel by Women," author Nancy A. Walker discusses the importance of names in terms of ones identity. She writes, “Names are closely tied to identity, and the claiming or conferring of a name is an indication of selfhood” (61). In “Everyday Use,” we see this “indication of selfhood” in Wangero, who remarks, “I couldn’t bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me” (Walker 2440). Dee went back to her African name because it reacquainted herself with her roots. When masters endowed names upon their slaves, it indicated a sense of ownership and property over them. Wangero feels that if she went by the name given to her by her mother, she would lose her self-identity. <br /> <br />The difference in styles of clothing between Mrs. Johnson and Wangero adds deeper literary symbolism to their characters’ points of view and how they are represented, as “female,” in the world today. Mrs. Johnson reflects, “In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day” (Walker 2437). The unappealing flannel nightgown and overalls; with their rough texture and confining shoulder straps, are indicative of the clothing worn by her ancestors, who labored in the fields, constrained by the chains of slavery. Mrs. Johnson’s clothing contrasts that of Wangero, who enters into the story wearing, “A dress so loud it hurts my eyes . . . earrings gold, too, and hanging down to her shoulders. Bracelets dangling and making noises . . .” (Walker 2439). Wangero enters, wearing a head-turning outfit proclaiming her new identity. According to her mother, this new sense of self occurred at an early age. Mrs. Johnson remarks, “At sixteen she had a style of her own: and knew what style was” (Walker 2438). This is a clear feminist “power position” through which Wangro has adopted supremacy over her mother. Mcnay writes, “Practices of the self are situated at this level of power relations, at the point where individuals autonomously order their own lives and, in doing so, attempt to influence other individuals” (Mcnay 67). Society has conditioned Wangero and she has succeeded in removing both outward and inward traits of her former self, and has clothed herself in a new identity that is meant to be seen and heard—a new identity, which tries to influence her mother and sister to “get with” the times. <br /> <br />The physical setting of Everyday Use is a key factor that unites the conflicting views of Mrs. Johnson and Wangero’s newly found “I am Woman” attitude. Isolated from society, the house represents a clear distinction between mother and daughter; the sophisticated urban individual vs. the simplistic rural individual. In his essay “Everyday Use and Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl: Escaping Antebellum Confinement,” Dr. Charles E. Wilson, Jr. writes, “Although Dee insists that she wants a better life for her family, she in fact luxuriates in their poverty” (Wilson 176). To articulate his point, Dr. Wilson cites Alice Walker’s line, “she never takes a shot without making sure the house is included” (Walker 2439). The house, with its embarrassing structure, symbolizes everything Wangero despised of her former self, yet she uses the house as a diving board to show her refinement as a woman. A board in her mind which propels her into the upper, “correct” echelon of feminist ideology. <br /><br />If the house represents the diving board, which launches Wangero to her idealized self, then the yard is its swimming pool. The yard represents a powerful invitation for Wangero to dive into the family again—to rekindle lost conversations. Walker represents the yard as, “. . . an extended living room” (2437). Living rooms signify togetherness and communication amongst family members. According to Dr. Wilson, “The care they take in preparing the yard is indicative of their deep pride in their domestic life. . . by extending the living room of her yard, Mrs. Johnson welcomes those who will accept her hospitality” (Wilson 175). This interpretation skillfully shows a contrast to Wangero’s own self-pride in her ability to escape self-servitude—and her inability to speak the same language as her mother. In her book, "What is a Woman? And Other Essays," author Toril Moi writes: <br /><br />There are situations in which we freely choose to be recognized as sexed or raced bodies, where that recognition is exactly what we need and want. Identity politics starts with such identity-affirming situations, but unfortunately goes on to base a general politics on them, thus forgetting that there are other situations in which we do not want to be defined by our sexed and raced bodies, situations in which we wish that body to be no more than the insignificant background to our main activity(Moi 203).<br /><br />We can apply Moi’s theory to Wangero, who views the yard as a representation of “Dee,” her former self trapped on the outside of society—on the outskirts of individualism. In order for “Dee” to be representational in the everyday world, she needed to become Wangro—distancing herself from the yard, as best she could.<br /> <br />At last, it is Alice Walker’s use of objects that makes self-identity, with its strong feminist undertones, the prevailing theme of the story. When Wangero arrives she carries a Polaroid in her hand—and is a tourist to her family. Walker writes, “She stoops down quickly and lines up picture after picture of me sitting there in front of the house with Maggie cowering behind me” (Walker 2439). The lack of dialogue during these pictures suggests the lack of communication between mother and daughter. Wangero doesn’t bear gifts for her family, or even attempt a sign of affection with a hug or a kiss. We see Mrs. Johnson’s irritation at this in a stressed sounding line, “Then she puts the Polaroid in the back seat of the car, and comes up and kisses me on the forehead” (Walker 2439). In "Radical Feminism: A Documentary Reader," author Cellestine Ware makes an astute observation about black feminism in her essay, “The Relationship of Black Women to the Women’s Liberation Movement.” Ware writes, “Black society has patterned itself closely on white people, but since blackness connotes ugliness and evil to whites, black women have been despised as coarse and animal-like in their sensuality. They have been despised both by whites and by their own people” (Ware 98). Wangero’s initial intention with the Polaroid is to catalog her family. To show her family in their worst light, to promote her own superiority. This self-serving want fills the third characteristic in Joreen Freeman’s “The Bitch Manifesto,” for ‘bitches’ are “. . . independent cusses and believe they are capable of doing anything they damn well want to” (Freeman 227). There is no debate, to the mothers dissatisfaction with Dee’s new found identity, for in the end she doesn’t relinquish the quilt to Dee—the tourist. Thus, Mom theorizes Dee is acting like a ‘Bitch.’ <br /> <br />The quilt is the most powerful symbol in the story in that it transcends time and place for the Johnson’s heritage. In her essay, "African-American Women Writers, Black Nationalism, and the Matrilineal Heritage," Joan S. Korenman writes, <br /><br />We see further evidence of Dee's shallow trendiness in her desire for the hand stitched quilts. Whereas her sister Maggie wants the quilts because she was close to the grandmother and aunt who made them and who taught her the art of quilting, Dee covets them simply because such artifacts of the Southern black heritage are now in vogue (Korenman 2). The grandmother and aunt who made the quilts accomplished two goals: they created a work of art, and they created something used everyday. The patchwork of the quilts binds together all of the symbols used in the story by proclaiming to Dee that wisdom is something that cannot be taught in school. <br /> <br />In the end, the reader recognizes that Dee has forgotten her heritage and has lost her identity. When Dee made the decision to abandon her home and family, the result was a complete de-construction of her past. She did not appreciate that wisdom is a series of patches sewn throughout a lifetime, not to be suddenly unraveled and never pieced back together again. By noting different theorists like Foucalt, Moi, and Ware who have looked through a feminist lens, and by analyzing the text with its various symbols, we the reader can surmise that Dee can hide behind the trappings of everyday life—or she can put them to everyday use.<br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Freeman, Joreen. "The Bitch Manifesto." "Radical Feminism: A Documentary Reader." Ed. Barbara A. Crow. New York: New York University Press, 2000. 226-232. <br /><br />McNay, Lois. "Foucault And Feminism: Power, Gender, and the Self." Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1992.<br /><br />Moi, Toril. "What is a Woman? And Other Essays." Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.<br /><br />Korenman, Joan S. "African-American Women Writers, Black Nationalism, and the Matrilineal Heritage." CLA Journal 38.2 (Dec. 1994): 143. Academic Search Elite. EBSCO. Oviatt Library, Northridge, CA. 8 May. 2009 <http://search.ebscohost.com.libproxy.csun.edu:2048/login.aspx?direct=true&db=afh&AN=9504180045&site=ehost-live>.<br /><br />Walker, Alice. “Everyday Use.” The Norton Anthology of AfricanAmerican Literature. 2nd ed. ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Nellie Y. McKay. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2004. 2437-42.<br /><br />Walker, Nancy A. Feminist Alternatives: Irony and Fantasy in the Contemporary Novel by Women. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1990.<br /><br />Ware, Cellestine. "The Relationship of Black Women to the Women's Liberation Movement." "Radical Feminism: A Documentary Reader." Ed. Barbara A. Crow. New York: New York University Press, 2000. 98-112.<br /><br />Wilson, Charles E. ““Everyday Use” and “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl”: Escaping Antebellum Confinement.” Southern Mothers: Fact and Fictions in Southern Women’s Writing. ed. Nagueyalti Warren and Sally Wolff. Louisiana: Louisiana State University Press, 1990. 169-81.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-42909280947019786772011-06-05T19:16:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:41:24.712-07:00Milton’s Triple Threat Liberty & Companion Poems<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOsyqGQXEdxg3ksZSUhTyOFzEf96Hh4OnPEmAOul6up4Uoo8fVcrctjS90YSemPuGYpfMQVvrO5hErcSigx5vClbjoM-lkzAXkp14eZNmBoWFSZT9WMDjJxyUKZFZ46lS80H0ICdo_DWj/s1600-h/Milton+Poems.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOsyqGQXEdxg3ksZSUhTyOFzEf96Hh4OnPEmAOul6up4Uoo8fVcrctjS90YSemPuGYpfMQVvrO5hErcSigx5vClbjoM-lkzAXkp14eZNmBoWFSZT9WMDjJxyUKZFZ46lS80H0ICdo_DWj/s400/Milton+Poems.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433857041422075298" /></a><br /><br />Part 1: Triple Threat Liberty<br /><br />In Areopagitica, John Milton writes, “Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties” (746). A religious, domestic, and civil liberties foundation is built upon that sentence. Without it, not just a civilization—but man himself would fall from the grace of God. Through this rational, we can argue that liberty of conscience is Milton’s ultimate goal. <br /> <br />For religious liberty, or liberty from church government, Milton uses history and the Bible as his weapons of choice. In Areopagitica, Milton politically showcases how during the first 800 years of civilization, nations had no internal mechanism/system for censorship regarding printing—and that it was the church which began filtering what the public read. Milton writes, “[...] the Popes in Rome, engrossing in what they pleased of political rule into their own hands, extended their dominion over men’s eyes as they had before over their judgments, burning and prohibiting to be read what they fancied not” (724). If the church decides which language is “blasphemous,” “atheistic,” or just pure “libelous”—does this not go against the worship/image of God? For Milton writes, “who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God’s image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God” (720). Using history, Milton is arguing that the institution of church government is an assault on liberty, for church government should not indoctrinate public discourse or be involved in textual censorship.<br /><br />Milton further supports this, by using the virtues the Bible presents as a source for his argument supporting independent civil reasoning. In The Reason of Church Government, Milton writes, “[...] church discipline is platformed in the Bible, but that it is left to the discretion of men” (642). Milton is arguing for choice or “free will.” In his book, Literature and Politics in Cromwellian England, author Blair Worden writes of Milton’s intellectual reasoning in using historical and biblical references. Worden writes:<br /><br />Milton brought to politics the ideal of freedom that he had worked out in religion. In religion God gives his servants the freedom of choice . . . [he] wants them to be independent of all man-made ideas and institutions that stand between him and them. They attain their salvation by their own exertions, and their faith by their own enquiries. The growth of their faith takes them from spiritual infancy to adulthood, from credulity to thought, from ‘custom’ (that rooted antagonist of ‘choice’) to truth. (228)<br /><br />In order for true liberty to bloom, the scanning and censorship of church governments must not take place for, as Milton argues, “we then affect a rigor contrary to the manner of God and of nature, by abridging or scanting those means which books freely permitted are, both to the trial of virtue and the exercise of truth” (733). Thus, in order to be truthful to God—we must be truthful to ourselves. <br /><br />In issues concerning domestic liberty, Milton turns his attention to issues of marriage in his essay, The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce. In it, Milton argues how canon law hinders/misinterprets the law of scripture. According to author Lana Cable, in her book, Carnal Rhetoric: Milton's Iconoclasm and the Poetics of Desire, Milton is offering a “true doctrine . . . one which returns marriage back to its original conception” (144). Two key examples of his argumentative prowess are as follows: First, Milton links the word “custom” to the visual impairment “blindness.” Milton writes, “[...] error supports custom, custom countenances error; and these two between them would persecute and chase away all truth and solid wisdom” (697). Milton’s argument is clever, for when an individual indulges in custom, he indulges in a refusal to think new thoughts, but more importantly—a refusal to question old ones. Milton’s rational behind his doctrine (all the while structuring his argument with veiled personal experiences with his own marriage), is to show how “custom” has always been the great teacher—how its teachings can lead to “counterfeit knowledge” (697). <br /><br />Milton’s second argument comes in the form of a simple question: why are we arranging our domestic lives around custom? If internal, natural, truthful forces (ex. “I do not identify with my wife Mary Powell”), are being ruled by external forces of convention (ex. “the law says, that unless she dies/I die/or one of us commits adultery we cannot separate”)—is that not a lie to nature? <br /><br />In a want to show that this is an affront to God’s highest one will standard, Milton argues for domestic liberty by showing biblical contradiction. From Genesis 2:18, Milton quotes God, writing, “It is not good,” saith he, “that man should be alone. I will make a helpmeet [an individual suitable to Adam] for him” (707). Milton weighs this biblical verse with his own conclusion, “[...] that in God’s intention a meet and happy conversation is the chiefest and noblest end of marriage” (707). In her essay “Milton’s Claim for Self and Freedom in the Divorce Tracts,” author Jennifer L. Nichols places Milton’s argument in perspective. Nichols writes:<br /><br />Law has no power to unite two souls and bodies that are by nature contraries [...] Milton’s polemic reduces itself to a neat syllogism: God allowed his holy people to divorce in the Old Testament; God cannot will two contrary things; therefore Christ, who is God, cannot have forbade divorce in any of his teachings while on earth and must, since he is bound by the law of noncontradiction, permit it even under the new covenant. (196-97)<br /> <br />Current canon law is “custom;” custom is “blindness;” blindness leads to “error;” which makes the three a contradiction to God’s will.<br /><br />John Milton’s essay, The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, takes a stance on civil liberty in that societies should be governed by reason, not the customs of tyranny. Using the powerful symbol of the eyes, Milton suggests that man should use their own sight (judgments), and not base decisions through the external eyes (orders) of others. Milton offers this suggestion when he writes, “[...] it is the vulgar folly of men to desert their own reason and shutting their eyes to think they see best with other men’s” (760). <br /><br />With this argument, Milton further reminds humankind of the word “power.” Milton writes, “It being thus manifest that the power of kings and magistrates is nothing else but what is only derivative, transferred, and committed to them in trust from the people” (755). In his book, Ideas in Milton, author William J. Grace comments on Milton’s reasoning, writing, “Milton’s applications of the law of nature was that a free people is not bound by the statute of any preceding parliaments but by the law of nature only” (25). Using the argument of “natural birthright” (756), and juxtaposing it with law as “custom,” Milton cleverly argues that man should look within themselves, creating a society in their own image, with their own power, and above all other things—not give in to the rule of tyranny.<br /><br />Part Two: The Companion Poems<br /><br />Does the epic poet privilege day to night, or night to day? Is leisure more important to the epic poet than work? The answer to both of these questions lies in the word companion. The Oxford English Dictionary defines companion, n.1 as, “one who associates with or accompanies another; a mate; a fellow; a sharer or partaker of.” In John Milton’s L’ Allegro and Il Penseroso, day shares equal importance with night, and leisure shares equal importance with work; for if the epic poet chooses one lifestyle over the other, then he would represent a single (companionless) bookend—and the books would fall off the shelf. <br /><br />An epic poet should be a well-rounded, creative individual, versed in the humanities, as well as one who doesn’t neglect human interaction and exploration. L’ Allegro represents humankind’s apprenticeship in life. Social interaction, music, laughter, and exploration are paramount features in a poem whose kingdom is ruled by “Mirth” (line 13). The atmosphere presented in L’ Allegro is one of pleasure and love. Milton writes, “To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore” (16). “Bacchus,” is the god of wine, and wine can symbolize celebration. Concerning pleasure, Milton further comments, “Mirth, admit me of thy crew / To live with her, and live with thee / In unreproved pleasures free” (38-40), and for love, Milton inks, “And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew, / Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair / So buxom, blithe, and debonair” (22-24). Milton uses these lines to suggest that man should partake in the sweet fruits (liquors) of life, and drink its pleasures. Life is live theatre, and we learn through our companionship with reality.<br /><br />This is in sharp contrast to the atmosphere presented in Il Penseroso, where introspection is ruled in “Melancholy[s]” (12) realm. Here the mood has shifted from the external pastoral images of “The upland Hamlets will invite” (92), to the internal towers of ones mind with “Or let my Lamp at midnight hour, / Be seen in some high and lonely Tow’r,” (85-86). The contrasting imagery of both atmospheres causes the reader to view L’ Allegro as Milton’s externalization model of gaining knowledge through apprenticeship, and Il Penseroso as a internalization model of gaining knowledge from within.<br /><br />Milton uses the imagery of the moon in Il Penseroso, to reinforce the idea of gaining inner knowledge through the solitude of night. In their book, Signs & Symbols, authors Mark O’ Connell and Raje Airey comment on the moon representing “inner wisdom,” writing, “The moon is a great reflector and embodies the qualities of receptiveness that are necessary for the intuitive process and to experience feelings” (120). Inner knowledge leads to the recognition of truth: the young man gains wisdom, not in a day, but “Till old experience do attain” (173).<br /><br />In the end, the style of language Milton employs’s between the two poems is important for it unifies the conclusion that both lifestyles (companionship between day/night; leisure/work), are vital to the epic poet. Before one can become an epic poet, he must first be an apprentice, for the external/internal exploration of life must occur early in life. In Greg W. Zacharias’s essay, “Young Milton’s Equipment for Living: L’Allegro and Il Penseroso,” Zacharias emphasizes: <br /><br />In his writing outside the twin poems Milton not only asserts his belief that together the sensuous and intellectual would contribute to a fuller life for everyone, but, through the symbolic action of his poems, Milton implies that this way of living is fundamental for the epic poet. (12) <br /><br />The epic poet’s body and mind must offer itself nakedly to the world—and be its companion. <br /> <br />Works Cited<br /><br />Cable, Lana. Carnal Rhetoric: Milton's Iconoclasm and the Poetics of Desire. North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1995.<br /><br />"companion, n.1" The Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd ed. 1989. OED Online. Oxford University Press. 13 Oct. 2009 <http://dictionary.oed.com.libproxy.csun.edu:2048/cgi/entry/50045336 >.<br /><br />Grace, William J. Ideas in Milton. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1968.<br /><br />Milton, John. Complete Poems and Major Prose. Ed. Merritt Y. Hughes. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2003.<br /><br />Nichols, Jennifer L. “Milton’s Claim for Self and Freedom in the Divorce Tracts.” Milton Studies. 49 (2009):192-211.<br /><br />O’ Conell, Mark and Raje Airey. Signs & Symbols. New York: Hermes House, 2004.<br /><br />Worden, Blair. Literature and Politics in Cromwellian England. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007.<br /><br />Zacharias, Greg W. “Young Milton’s Equipment for Living: L’Allegro and Il Penseroso.” Milton Studies. 24 (1988): 3-15.<br /><br />Works Referenced<br /><br />Miller, David M. John Milton: Poetry. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1978. <br /><br />Smith, Nigel. Is Milton Better than Shakesphere?. MA: Harvard University Press, 2008.<br /><br />Kirszner, Laurie G. and Stephen R. Mandell. Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing. Compact 6th ed. Australia: Thompson, 2007.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-60734447582644051632011-06-04T19:58:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:35:43.106-07:00“A&P”: Conformity Can Be Found in Aisle Eight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrbsY8hLuRcVUbl03tcHyzQKrfEK1qprg4yhTvgkC8ZlS1Ub7U9DfSsprI_BTpyiDkdim9Sf30zQCSlEh9T2WAO_R-rpXABNvMcuRXySfT7IM89ehnbti_hBuMMBbwwrzkiftwyfW3JvG/s1600/a+7+p.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 369px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrbsY8hLuRcVUbl03tcHyzQKrfEK1qprg4yhTvgkC8ZlS1Ub7U9DfSsprI_BTpyiDkdim9Sf30zQCSlEh9T2WAO_R-rpXABNvMcuRXySfT7IM89ehnbti_hBuMMBbwwrzkiftwyfW3JvG/s400/a+7+p.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637312968115938418" /></a><br /><br /><br /> Through setting, John Updike grips society’s post-WWII suburban values, and squeezes them through a grinder—dripping its sour underbelly of phoniness. Updike’s use of physical and historical settings assists in the creation of conflict, the building of plot, and – in the end – a complete, dynamic character that refuses the call of conventionality. <br /> <br /> In “A&P,” Updike uses the physical setting of the store to showcase Sammy’s restless aversion to working there. The supermarket presents Sammy’s identity and individuality with limits. There are boundaries to his imagination – Sammy is inside, and he cannot leave until his shift is over. The environment is so confining that Sammy can’t even leave his post at the register, and is restricted to a few square feet of space. Updike takes the dreariness of the physical setting and injects them into Sammy, which in return offers the reader his mood, “The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle,” and “usual traffic” (221) . Sammy reflects on those around him, and inner conflict builds.<br /> <br /> Updike’s use of the historical setting helps in the overall plot development of both Sammy’s character and the story itself. In the very first sentence, “In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits,” (220), the reader suspects that a line might have been crossed – socially – in the sand. Our suspicions are confirmed when Updike whispers to us a few paragraphs later with the cultural conventions of the town, “...our town is five miles from the beach...and our women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of the car into the street” (221). The moment the girls enter the store they are the subjects of indirect scrutiny (Sammy noting every feature on their bodies), and direct scrutiny by Lengel. Lengel remarks, “But this isn’t the beach” (222), and then later to Sammy, “It was they who were embarrassing us” (223). This strict convention – predicated on the town’s cultural values – influences the characters’ actions.<br /> <br /> In the end, it is Sammy’s environment that motivates him for a change in scenery, and a realization that the world is a lot harder than he thought.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-43612327751747265832011-06-03T17:55:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:35:50.743-07:00Miss Brill: A Shadow of a Human<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIw5uzFfrH6bz08SmA4M7wsOV0JYtNAoIY35ccRnTso_XLibZ5SrpSo-K_w5-ltlb1PfH1k99y1Vl6O4atj_1XPa3ZqGkhvlXOxZ8E-4svKppVAJDoISx9JRH67stbMa50FCB70VhAFwTW/s1600/MissBrillweb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIw5uzFfrH6bz08SmA4M7wsOV0JYtNAoIY35ccRnTso_XLibZ5SrpSo-K_w5-ltlb1PfH1k99y1Vl6O4atj_1XPa3ZqGkhvlXOxZ8E-4svKppVAJDoISx9JRH67stbMa50FCB70VhAFwTW/s400/MissBrillweb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637308808576793298" /></a><br />In Katherine Mansfield’s short story “Miss Brill,” symbolism and tone are used to paint a self-portrait of a woman who is trying to hold onto her identity—by shaping her self-worth. Mansfield’s use of these literary elements causes the reader to perceive “Miss Brill,” as a lonely woman who isolates herself by her own ritualistic lifestyle.<br /><br /> Mansfield wastes no time, endowing the title of her short story as that of an unmarried woman. This helps set the tone, letting us, the reader, know that Miss Brill has no one to take care of her, and that she has no one to rely on. Mansfield illustrates this loneliness by showing Miss Brill’s repetitious weekly routine, writing, “There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday” (Mansfield 226). The lonesomeness here is fully expunged later when Miss Brill reminisces about the old man she read to four times a week, remarking that even if he died without her realizing, “she wouldn’t have minded” (Mansfield 228). Mansfield offers us a woman searching for a companion, someone she can share a conversation with—and she finds it in a box.<br /> <br /> The fur Miss Brill chooses to wear is her only companion to the gardens, and is a powerful symbol that blends with her own identity throughout the story. In the beginning Mansfield writes, “She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes” (Mansfield 226). We see the distinction in her own life; that of a women living in her own little box, growing old with age, in which society sees as a lifeless thing.<br /> <br /> The fur has a brilliant payoff at the end of the story when the young boy and girl take the seat of the old couple at the bench. The boy is turned down from a kiss by his girl and insinuates that Miss Brill is the cause. What results is one of the most important lines of dialogue in the story. The girl remarks bemusedly, “It’s her fu-fur which is so funny. It’s exactly like a fried whiting” (Mansfield 228). Society views Miss Brill as something to laugh, point, and joke at. The reference to “fried whiting,” is representational of Miss Brill as an overcooked, abundant, cheap fish. Further, the remark tears down her only companion to the garden, the person she loves most. This is why, at the end of the story, Mansfield writes, “The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside” (Mansfield 229). This act forces Miss Brill to realize that it’s just an object—it’s just a necklet. It is in this moment that she becomes utterly deflated, and views herself alienated by society.<br /><br /> Mansfield’s repeated reference to a cupboard is another powerful symbol that connects Miss Brill’s perception of her own self-worth. First, Brill notices the type of people who go to the public gardens. Mansfield writes, “They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even—even cupboards” (Mansfield 227). A cupboard represents things we put away, and take back out only when we deem them useful. Miss Brill fears this perception of her own self—that of a useless object in a cupboard, living in her own box. In the end the young boy and girl reinforce her feelings of uselessness, with the boy remarking, “...who wants her? Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home” (Mansfield 228).<br /><br /> In an attempt to view herself through the lenses of normality, Miss Brill’s final act is to perceive herself as an actress in society’s elaborate play. Society’s role helps guide the overall tone of the story, for it works around Miss Brill, never through her. Society has never touched her physically—only through the cruel words of the boy and girl. She pushes away the idea of society ignoring her, and accepts the idea of society as nothing more than a compilation of actors playing a part. Mansfield writes, “They weren’t only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there” (Mansfield 227). She shapes her self-worth by identifying her role and society as actors—and all actors have a role to play.<br /><br /> It is through the clever use of symbolism and tone that Katherine Mansfield fleshes out Miss Brill’s repetitious lifestyle, by using the various ornaments Brill wears, and by her own manicured thoughts and perceptions of identity and self-worth. In the end we are left with a woman begging for a conversation. A woman begging for a companion. A woman begging for that special something.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-80529730728714502302011-06-02T03:50:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:35:59.837-07:00Dylan Thomas: The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKIJ76IBFqYHYZAtZ7UkESxndMyfmeI_vXkdq7VdjSZUAod8taL6axXtM_34ho6MYxqDPe7Y9crWAQiFztW3bZEQo3RD5JkcwUMTi8D3PyL5V5sKX_bW9tRReW6vgmrmeaJHukw1dEbcl/s1600/Dylan_Thomas_photo.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKIJ76IBFqYHYZAtZ7UkESxndMyfmeI_vXkdq7VdjSZUAod8taL6axXtM_34ho6MYxqDPe7Y9crWAQiFztW3bZEQo3RD5JkcwUMTi8D3PyL5V5sKX_bW9tRReW6vgmrmeaJHukw1dEbcl/s400/Dylan_Thomas_photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637308190868511442" /></a><br />The first stanza of Dylan Thomas’s poem, “The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower,” Thomas alludes to the creation and destruction of the human body—and how through time the two are inseparable. Through denotation and connotation, Thomas creates contradiction with his imagery—which could be a very powerful theme later in the poem. Perhaps, it is through this lens, that the reader can view their own existence as something of a complication. <br /><br /> In the poems opening, Thomas writes, “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees” (lines 1-2). According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word “force” denotes a multitude of different connotations, such as: strength, power, vigor, violence, to compel/constrain/oblige, to put strained sense/energy upon, etc. The word “force” is a sign or marker. The word suggests the above list but when read along with “. . . that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age” the word then mutates into an all encompassing “energy.” Thus, the energy which drives (drives = momentum/direction) through the green stem of a flower—drives my body as well.<br /> <br /> However, this connotation doesn’t work for it creates a contradiction. For instance, Thomas uses words like “green age” (line 2) to solidify that complication/contradiction to his poem. Yes, “green” can denote the literal “color” green, but after looking in the OED, green could also refer to “youthful and tender age.” Thomas follows the word green with the word “age.” We measure ones age through time; like the rings on a tree stump, the wrinkles on ones face, or by literal dates of birth. To place the “positive” youthful word green, next to the “negative” a period of marked existence word age—gives us a contradiction. Here we see the creation of the human body, but in the end, through ageing—we recognize its destruction.<br /> <br /> But maybe the speaker doesn’t yet realize his own destruction. Thomas pens additional denotation and connotation which ultimately contradicts. Thomas writes, “. . . that blasts the roots of trees / Is my destroyer” (2-3). “Roots” are attached to both flowers and trees. Roots run deep and hold plants firmly to the ground. They live underground, drinking the nourishment of the earth by branching out where it’s cool and moist. In youth, do we not cling to our family? Do we not feed from the breast or food they provide us? Thomas writes, “Is my destroyer” (3). Are parents not our protectors, for in the late 19th century destroyer “ships” began to patrol the coasts protecting the mainland from enemy onslaught. Here, however, is the contradiction. Roots descend in a downward direction, away from light, and like the earlier reference to age—this downward direction has an end point. Roots can only reach so far, and the word “destroyer” suggests destruction.<br /><br /> In the last two lines of the stanza, Thomas writes, “And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose / My youth is bent by the same wintry fever” (4-5). A rose is a plant of surpassing beauty—yet this one carries a flaw of being crooked. Here the imagery contradicts, for when we age, we age gracefully—yet our body, our bones become crooked. Our blossoming youth (“my youth is bent with the same wintry fever”) becomes crooked, cold, and sick through time. The last two words of the first stanza offer yet another contradiction, for winter is a season that is cold, and fever is a sickness that is hot. Both, however deal in temperature yet both are opposites of each other in terms of the direction in which the rise.<br /><br /> In the end, I think this first stanza is alluding to an idea concerning the creation and destruction of the human existence. That life is a contradiction. In this first stanza the human body or condition is focused on and is related to elements of nature. However, no absolutes can exist, for the imagery contradicts one another through denotation and connotation. Maybe later, after more thorough class discussions, this “contradiction” will be more or less apparent.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-38850019836806400452011-06-01T14:42:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:36:06.850-07:00Satan: Heroism and the Importance of Point of View<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-jbsivZxiXTOSvQh2yYiZseDfbJoWQCOxBr3AGQpM0raWARqNSz7iNan1Ls8ir4SEqavZNbNbFGuYcduJIK40yg3_9YD8la8F_Ie-sIFOZfpx8wnyxSY1swh-17bZ0A37-zQMwReue67/s1600/220px-GustaveDoreParadiseLostSatanProfile.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-jbsivZxiXTOSvQh2yYiZseDfbJoWQCOxBr3AGQpM0raWARqNSz7iNan1Ls8ir4SEqavZNbNbFGuYcduJIK40yg3_9YD8la8F_Ie-sIFOZfpx8wnyxSY1swh-17bZ0A37-zQMwReue67/s400/220px-GustaveDoreParadiseLostSatanProfile.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637306618380741874" /></a><br /><br /> In John Gardner’s Grendel, Gardner retells the story of Beowulf through Grendel’s perspective. After killing multiple guards in Hrothgar’s hall, Grendel retreats to his cave and is awakened by Unferth, a loyal warrior, who seeks glory in death. Grendel won’t oblige him, but before he returns him safely back to Hrothgar’s hall, he’s cynical of Unferth’s “heroic” attitude. Unferth recognizes this and replies, “Go ahead, scoff. Except in the life of a hero, the whole world’s meaningless. The hero sees values beyond what’s possible. That’s the nature of a hero. It kills him, of course, ultimately. But it makes the whole struggle of humanity worthwhile” (89). In fiction, point of view is everything. Grendel is an attractive piece of literature, in that Gardner does a rare and unorthodox thing—he retells a classic story through the “villains” perspective. Through this viewpoint, Hrothgar comes across as a tyrant, Beowulf a bully, and the rest of society—wasteful, gluttonous, sexual perverts who have no respect for Mother Nature or the nourishment it provides.<br /> <br /> This alternate perspective can be applied to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, for the epic poem opens from the villain’s point of view, that of Satan. Through Satan’s eyes, our judgments of the Father, Man, and Earth are skewed, and what bubbles up are external representations of tyranny, deceit, and waste. However, through Satan’s eyes, internal, self-serving representations of tyranny, deceit, and pride are also observed, for Satan doesn’t want to make the universe a better place, he wants to replace the Father, and take his seat on the throne. Both of these representations act as a double edged sword, and both, when placed against Milton’s essays and outside scholarship, can be analyzed, revealing a strong problematic debate over the positive and negative character attributes and flaws Satan exhibits in the poem; when we “the reader” symbolize through Satan’s perspective. Through this analysis, we come across conflicting insights, judgments, but more importantly, we learn new ways of thinking about heroism, then making absolutist conclusions through our discerning of the material.<br /><br />In “Heroism and Paradise Lost,” author William R. Herman writes, “One of the problems in reading Milton’s Paradise Lost—the determination of who is its hero—results from our own vague understanding of what constitutes heroism and of what qualities are to be associated with the heroic character” (13). In Milton’s The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, an individuals ability to “reason,” is just one of the badges of honor Milton argued for which called upon all men to be governed by their own judgments, not the customs or orders of others.<br /> <br />With this “heroic” idea, Milton writes, “If men within themselves would be governed by reason and not generally give up their understanding of double tyranny of custom from without and blind affections within, they would discern better what it is to favor and uphold the tyrant of a nation” (750). Through this standard, an individual can create a society in their own image—if they give in to their ability to reason. If they can accomplish that, then they can begin the process of discerning between good and evil, gaining wisdom along the way.<br /> <br />In Book One, we notice Satan using reason to discern the “unfairness” which is brought upon him by the Father. Satan remarks, “What shall be right: fardest from him is best / Whom reason hath equall’d, force hath made supreme / Above his equals” (I. 247-49). If God’s “might” determines “right,” then where is real value, or true liberty to be found? Shortly after this line, Satan remarks, “The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n” (I. 254-55). Satan is picking himself up by the boot straps, and through the beating of reason’s drum is showing us that where you are isn’t important—it’s who you are. Like the citizenry Milton is crying out too in The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, Milton is teaching us through Satan’s perspective, not to let, no matter how impressive or formidable, a hostile environment (i.e. “government”) determine who you are.<br /><br />However, here is where that nasty double edged sword comes into play, for Satan wants to be the tyrant, and these seemingly noble gestures of chivalry offer a false façade through this one-sided symbolic perspective. Instead, what is representative a short while later in the poem—is an unhidden lust for power. Satan remarks, “But I should ill become this Throne, O Peers, / And this Imperial Sov’ranty, adorn’d / With splendor, arm’d with power, if aught propos’d / [...] Wherefore do I assume / These Royalties, and not refuse to Reign” (II. 445-51). These lines show that Satan is about hierarchy and wants the office of top ruler. He doesn’t want to stop the process of avenging his own fall. This is the hypocrisy of Satan or duplicity. He wants to be the thing he’s criticizing. He says one thing and does the other.<br /> <br />It is at this point, Herman swings the double edged sword, and creates two separate perspectives of Satan, that of “Biblical and Hellenic” hero (14). Concerning the attributes of Biblical hero, Herman writes, “[...] within the Biblical tradition Satan can lay no claims to heroism. His conclave in heaven is called in secret; he is cunning and deceitful, and on every possible occasion he disobeys the will of God while being fully cognizant of that will” (15). We note Satan’s willful disobedience, and resolve with Satan replying, “To do aught good never will be our task, / But ever to do ill our sole delight, / As being the contrary to his high will / Whom we resist. If then his Providence / Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, / Our labor must be to pervert that end, / And out of good still to find means of evil” (I. 159-65). Satan wants to be king of the mountain and run things the way he sees fit.<br /> <br /> Nonetheless, Herman offers us a different or opposing perspective of Satan: that of the Hellenic hero. Concerning the Hellenic hero, Herman writes, “With the Hellenic hero we associate those qualities of individuality, self-determination, and physical courage that endure alone against what seems to be ineluctable odds” (13). From Satan’s perspective, he is in a dungeon filled “With stench and smoke” (I.237), and “. . . Land that ever burn’d / With solid, as the Lake with fire” (I. 228-29); a place which, through Satan’s description, comes across as the antithesis of Heaven. We note Satan’s “Hellenic” qualities in his ability to lead, tolerating such a place through his own despair and pain.<br /> <br />What further separates Satan from the “Biblical hero” conception, and one which Herman overlooks, is Satan’s open door policy concerning debate and discourse. Satan doesn’t want to commit an error in deciding what to do next, and invites his top fellow fallen demons: Moloch, Belial, Mammon, and Beelzebub, to participate in a friendly civilized debate of “what the hell (note pun) should we do now?” It is here, at this point, Milton allows the reader to come across yet another “Hellenic” badge of heroism, concerning Satan.<br /> <br />In Milton’s Areopagitica, a work symbolizing knowledge through discourse, reading, and engagement, all of which culminate into individual rights concerning civil liberty—in which, we the reader, find a comparison to “Hellenic” heroism, through Satan’s example of civilized debate amongst his fellow demons in Book Two. Milton writes of the Roman empire, citing, “The books of those whom they took to be grand heretics were examined, refuted, and condemned in the general councils; and not till then were prohibited, or burnt, by authority of the emperor” (723). For centuries there was no internal mechanism, no artificial system in place, to prevent literature from being circulated. The Romans read, debated, and decided if they should “act” upon burning heretic books, or literature that didn’t coincide with their beliefs. <br /> <br />This connects to what is occurring in the meeting between Satan and his demons. There is a free debate taking place in Book Two, for there is no “egg timer” (i.e. internal mechanism), for how long Moloch can speak—all are allowed to participate and offer their individual opinion. All are allowed to have a voice. All are allowed to retain a small form of civil liberty, from the tyrannical form of the Father. But here in lies the great debate amongst the majority of scholars. Using Herman’s separation of the Biblical and Hellenic hero, the question still arises and the debate continues: why do the words tyrant and hero offer a disparity in our understanding of Satan?<br /> <br />In Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell offers his own definition of “tyrant” in a chapter entitled, “The Hero as Warrior.” Campbell writes, “The tyrant is proud, and therein resides his doom. He is proud because he thinks of his strength as his own; thus he is in the clown role, as a mistaker of shadow for substance; it is his destiny to be tricked” (337). When Satan is placed next to the Father, both come across as two “proud” individuals possessing “regal” attributes, and both are depicted as two warring tyrants battling it out. In Book One, Satan spits, “What matter where, if I be still the same, / And what I should be, all but less than hee / Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least / We shall be free” (I. 256-59). Satan is affirming that he doesn’t have to be obedient to the Father anymore. His pride causes him to loose his true liberty, for pride won’t allow you to see yourself as whom you really are—it offers the wrong image of self. <br /> <br />In Joan S. Bennett’s Reviving Liberty: Radical Christian Humanism in Milton’s Great Poems, Bennett comments on the “Royal Portraits” Milton paints in Paradise Lost, in an attempt to pinpoint the disparity between the two words (33). Bennett writes:<br /><br />[Concerning] the argument for the divine right of kings: that a king or tyrant, whoever currently holds power over a people, whether just or unjust according to any heretofore accepted national or natural law, can rightly by virtue of his strength control his subjects’ behavior [...] That Satan’s rebellion against fundamental law entails the corruption and extinction of true liberty in himself and his followers has been recognized by many critics of Paradise Lost. (46-47)<br /> <br />Campbell nailed it on the head in writing, “The tyrant is proud, and therein resides his doom” (337), and Bennett’s piece reaffirms this for Satan, before the fall, thought he was more powerful—then the one who created him. His doom falls under the Greek word Ate, which can be translated into, “[...] the one who cannot escape . . . the one who is doomed” (Morford 107). Pride traps you, and through Satan’s perspective, we note him trapped in a dungeon of his own imagining. Satan remarks, “Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell” (IV. 75). Satan has focused on the wrong objective—a goal which can never be obtained. He would rather be in hell as number one then number two in heaven.<br /> <br /> In heaven, he was Lucifer, a name which meant “light-bearer,” more beautiful than any other angel around him. Then he was cast down—and in the darkness became Satan. This fundamental concept of going against the Father seems ridiculous to the reader, for reason and logic are abandoned: I’m going to be stronger than the man who sent me here? Then the one who created me? Pride blinds Satan, and in his blindness, he’s going to prove his power by damaging something the Father created—man on Earth. In Satan’s blind emotional pursuit of power he becomes less powerful, more deceitful, and treacherous through each Book—and yet, Satan can still come across as heroic.<br /><br />In Michael Bryson’s “The Biblical Roots of Divine Kingship,” Bryson asserts that Milton intended this, writing:<br /><br />Milton’s use of Satan and his rebellion against an absolute monarch in heaven also helps to answer the perennial question of why Satan seems to overwhelm the reader’s senses with the scope of his Achillean heroism. Satan is suppose to seem heroic—and not in [Stanley] Fish’s sense of misleading the unwary reader line by line. Satan’s heroism is real, and therefore his slow degeneration from Book One to Book Ten is not, as C.S. Lewis would have it, farcical, but legitimately tragic. (135)<br /><br />We the reader, emphasize with Satan—because we can relate to Satan’s humanistic qualities. Satan is more human than the Father, for Satan is susceptible to temptation, emotion, and acceptance. Adam and Satan together, violate the Father’s law, for when Adam ate the fruit he lost paradise—so did Satan. He can identify with Adam. Evil exists because of Satan’s desire to confront the Father, his disobedience lofty in terms of heroism, but it was his pride; his want to be the Father’s equal; to be the creator; to have the power—his ultimate mistake. Lust for power and pride blinded him, and he fell. But can we blame him? Through Satan’s perspective, the Father does come across as a tyrant. Author Robert Thomas Fallon points out in Divided Empire: Milton’s Political Imagery, that, “. . . God creates the universe according to the natural law, from which he declares himself unwilling to depart. It is a law, moreover, whose provisions call for absolute obedience to his will, for any violation demands the ultimate punishment” (34). We note the Fathers “demands,” but more importantly, what will happen if anyone violates his word in Book Three, with, “Die hee or Justice must” (III. 210). Thus, the Father sits, unequalled, unmatched, on a throne all alone.<br /> <br />In his book, Milton’s Royalism: A Study of the Conflict of Symbol and Idea in the Poems, author Malcolm Mackenzie Ross discusses how a readers perspective of Satan and the Father, both as “royalist symbols,” merge together and create confusion over who is the hero (111). Ross remarks, “In Paradise Lost the royalist symbol consistently suggests no value except power. A confusion of other values inevitably results. This confusion is most pronounced in the treatment of characters where clear-cut distinctions of good and evil are necessary” (112). In Book Four we hear Satan’s internal reasoning, questioning the justice of his fall against the Father’s use of power. Satan remarks, “Hadst thou the same free Will and Power to stand? / Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, / But Heav’n’s free Love dealt equally to all? Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate, / To me alike, it deals eternal woe” (4. 66-70). Through these standards, Satan, through critical internal debate, clasps himself outside the laws (or walls) of heaven, ruled by a tyrannical Father in his questioning of the justice behind his own fall. The Father set him up, and the Father knows all. Milton could never understand god. Why didn’t the Father give Adam a dog if he wanted a companion in Book Eight? Instead he gives him a good looking woman? Satan has needs, like Adam, and we can relate. He’s more like us. In comics, Batman can die if a bullet hits him in the mouth. No one aims there, I don’t know why—but not Superman. Bullets bounce off Superman, because Superman is an alien—he’s not human. The Father, like Superman, is not human—he is the creator. Lucifer was created by the Father—which makes him, albeit not the same in size and power, but it makes him more human. Satan’s vulnerable, and the Father has true liberty, he’s untouchable.<br /> <br /> In the end, we note that taking a symbolic perspective, by reading Paradise Lost through Satan’s eyes, offers a disparity between what we the reader recognize as heroic or tyrannical characteristics. In Douglas Bush’s, “Characters and Drama,” Bush writes, “[...] since God is so unpleasant and Satan is a being of such magnificent vitality, Milton, in spite of his consciously different purpose, must have put his heart and soul into the projection of Satan” (111). Concerning Paradise Lost, C.S. Lewis once remarked, “It will . . . be unintelligible to those who lack the right qualifications, and hateful to the baser spirits among them” (Achinstein, 15). <br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Achinstein, Sharon. Milton and the Revolutionary Reader. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1994.<br /><br />Bennett, Joan S. Reviving Liberty: Radical Christian Humanism in Milton’s Great Poems. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1989.<br /><br />Bryson, Michael. “His Tyranny Who Reigns: The Biblical Roots of Divine Kingship and Milton’s Rejection of Heav’n’s King.” Milton Studies 43 (2004): 111-144.<br /><br />Bush, Douglas. “Characters and Drama.” Milton: Paradise Lost. Ed. Louis L. Martz. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1966. 109-120.<br /><br />Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1973.<br /><br />Fallon, Robert Thomas. Divided empire: Milton’s Political Imagery. Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995.<br /><br />Gardner, John. Grendel. New York: Vintage Books, 1971.<br /><br />Herman, William R. “Heroism and Paradise Lost.” College English 21:1 (1959): 13-17.<br /><br />Holy Bible: The New King James Version. Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1992.<br /><br />Milton, John. John Milton: Complete Poems and Major Prose. Ed. Merritt Y. Hughes. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2003.<br /><br />Morford, Mark P.O. and Robert J. Lenardon. Classical Mythology. 5th ed. New York: Longman Publishers, 1995.<br /><br />Ross, Malcolm Mackenzie. Milton’s Royalism: A Study of the Conflict of Symbol and Idea in the Poems. New York: Russell & Russell, 1970.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-87596146609299890562011-05-25T10:42:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:40:57.726-07:00Dr. Strangelove: Teaching Through Satire<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpC77h3lfyZQt-fTeEgrzEFssU1T42-UN8oHmUQApLmsJEWjPRNwa5kCeNh1ZrWhjzjzMNkQhfYT4lX246yZzNQ2Ldwcu5ZNf7lLhN-gnh0DMSP_nN_b03qALI-STc0bxqtlGUThomyMi/s1600-h/dr_strangelove_merkwurdichliebe.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpC77h3lfyZQt-fTeEgrzEFssU1T42-UN8oHmUQApLmsJEWjPRNwa5kCeNh1ZrWhjzjzMNkQhfYT4lX246yZzNQ2Ldwcu5ZNf7lLhN-gnh0DMSP_nN_b03qALI-STc0bxqtlGUThomyMi/s400/dr_strangelove_merkwurdichliebe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436688217230263250" /></a><br />I will limit this analysis to two observations, due in large part to the overall scope of the picture, and length of analyses. I’ve enjoyed watching this film so much, that I think I’ll come back to it as a possible final paper. The multiple meanings one discovers in Stanley Kubrick’s film <em>Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Love the Bomb</em>, are abundant, due in large part to the films use of satire. With what opinion does one walk away with after watching this film? Here we see the human element (man) taken out—powerless to technology (machine). Yet, it was man who acted as architect, designing the different “fail safes,” (paranoid) procedures of communication, and atomic weaponry; the machine(s) just functioned as they were supposed to—as servants.<br /> <br />An excellent example of paranoia is at the beginning of the film, when General Ripper calls Peter Sellers’ character and asks him if he recognizes his voice, tells him he’s implemented “code red,” and that the United States can’t allow the enemy to disrupt/taint our “precious bodily fluids.” We the viewer laugh, for we recognize the obvious: The General, the chief operator, the one individual with the most responsibility, access, and power on a military base—has lost his fucking mind. We can relate this film to Freud from two perspectives. <br /><br />First, in Sigmund Freud’s, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious, Freud discusses the use of “double meaning proper, or play upon words” (40). Freud writes: <br /><br />Here no violence is done to the word; it is not cut up into its separate syllables, it does not need to be subjected to any modification, it does not have to be transferred from the sphere it belongs to […] Exactly as it is and as it stands in the sentence, it is able, thanks to certain favorable circumstances, to express two different meanings. (40)<br /><br />Found on walls and flags throughout the film, the slogan “peace is our profession,” acts as “double meaning proper.” The individuals who are suppose to keep us safe are insane. This coalesces well with satire, for satire relies heavily on irony in its exposing of “human follies.” Here Kubrick is presenting the military industrial complex—as satire. Human folly leads to the destruction, not just of the individual players, but of the whole world. The system we have implemented is illogical. In Jackson Burgess’ “The Anti-Militarism of Stanley Kubrick,” Burgess contends: <br />The curious thing about Dr. Strangelove as a satire is that General Ripper, Col. Kong, “Bat” Guano—the ones who effectively blow up the world—are shown not as incompetents or villains, but as lovely lunatics, and when the fireballs unfold in the final frames and the girl begins to sing “We’ll Meet again,” the picture has allied itself with their lunacy, leaving the viewer all by himself with no place to stand” (4).<br /><br />In many respects this is an anti-war film told through the lens of comedy. We (the viewer), try to align ourselves with the most human, sympathetic, logical character (the President), when he proclaims “war is insane,” but we laugh at his ridiculous/ironic exclamations, and one of the film’s most famous lines, “Gentleman you can’t fight in here . . . this is the war room!”, when General Turgidson is fighting with the Russian Ambassador. <br /><br />Second, this taps into Freud’s description of the “analogy,” and how it functions alongside the joke (96). Freud comments, “There is a feeling . . . which tells me this is a joke, I can pronounce this to be a joke even before the hidden essential nature of jokes has been discovered” (96). There is humor (recognizing the analogy) in watching the ex-Nazi scientist (Peter Sellers), awkwardly stepping out of his wheel chair like a new born calf, and shouting “Mein Führer, I can walk” with such resonating theatrical ecstasy. This is our “go to guy!” <br /><br />In the end the scale of everything, from the maps on the wall to the “incommunicado” bombers in the air—is out of man’s reach. We have overstepped our bounds through our own arrogant, technological prowess. I find this to be an excellent film for further/deeper study.<br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Burgess, Jackson. "The Anti-Militarism of Stanley Kubrick." Film Quarterly 18.1 (1964): 4-11. Web. 7 Feb. 2009. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1210143.<br /><br />Freud, Sigmund. Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1989.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-88471948528613645982011-05-24T13:58:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:36:13.666-07:00Hard Times: Are Facts Not Built Upon Imagination?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.hehs.d211.org/people/schmidtr/classschedule/americanstudies/projects/industrialrevolution/smokestack2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="http://www.hehs.d211.org/people/schmidtr/classschedule/americanstudies/projects/industrialrevolution/smokestack2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />William Wordsworth once wrote:<br /> <br />Of Childhood didst thou intertwine for me<br />The passions that build up our human Soul,<br />Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,<br />But with high objects, with enduring things,<br />With life and nature, purifying thus<br />The elements of feeling and of thought,<br />And sanctifying, by such discipline,<br />Both pain and fear, until we recognize<br />A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. (The Prelude I, 406-14)<br /><br />Wordsworth is self-reflecting on how his mind, body, and spirit grew as a child, and has concluded that it was through his interaction with nature. Thus, Wordsworth is alluding to the idea that if higher order internal perceptions, such as morals and ethics are going to manifest, they would do so through nature—through ones external environment. Which begs the question: what happens to a society when nature is stripped away and humankinds identity, their “elements of feeling and of thought,” their literal mind is formed for them? <br /><br />In Charles Dicken’s novel <span style="font-style:italic;">Hard Times</span>, Louisa Gradgrind’s internal perceptions, her mind, is delineated, commodified, and compartmentalized by her father Thomas Gradgrind’s external perceptions of truth, for in Dicken’s industrialized world of Coketown, a world where “Nature was as strongly bricked out as killing airs and gases were bricked in” (Dickens, 65), Gradgrind reduces his daughter to a non-questioning, factual machine, teaching her that imagination equals sin, for Thomas is proud, that “no little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon [or] had ever known wonder” (Dickens, 16). However, Thomas Gradgrind’s perception is problematic and Dicken’s cleverly opens the door to hypocrisy, for it will be this papers argument that facts rest on the foundation that is imagination. Thus, Hard Times’ overwhelming use of the word “fact” as a logical idea—becomes a fallacy, making it illogical. <br /><br />Albert Einstein would have never developed his theory of relativity, if he never allowed wonder to enter his mind—if he didn’t let his mind roam free of the scientific conventions (facts) of the time. In Hard Times, we see the opposite of that perception within Thomas Gradgrind, for the age of definition dominates Gradgrind’s perceptions. In David Lodge’s essay “The Rhetoric of Hard Times,” Lodge asserts, “On every page Hard Times manifests its identity as a polemical work, a critique of mid-Victorian industrial society dominated by materialism, acquisitiveness, and ruthlessly competitive capitalist economics” (86). Dicken’s does this purposefully, for the novel opens with Thomas Gradgrind’s social perspective, with Gradgrind remarking, “Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them” (9). <br /><br />Here, Dickens immediately reduces the individual, for in Gradgrind’s mind, the school children are unreasonable animals that possess no definition, and he (like a brick layer), will lay the path to righteousness. Lodge insists that Dickens use of the word “Facts,” relies on “repetition,” for Lodge writes, “In this [novel] the rhetoric works to establish a symbolic atmosphere; in Hard Times, to establish a thematic Idea—the despotism of Fact” (92). Further, Dicken’s uses nature as a metaphor (i.e. plant and root), and through Gradgrind, alters it as a mechanical tool to purge the mind of false or imaginative knowledge. We note two significant moments in the novel when the effects of this purging are noticeable, for in Gradgrind’s repeated attempts at solidifying factual knowledge upon his children—he unwittingly causes the reverse, for they begin to wonder. <br /><br />The first moment occurs in Chapter 8, for when Tom and Louisa are looking at the fire, a loss of imagination, but more importantly, ones ability to think critically is evident:<br /><br />“Except that it is a fire,” said Tom, “it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?”<br /><br />“I don’t see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up.” (57)<br /> <br />The oral story tradition began around fire, and here, in Dicken’s industrialized world, the tradition, the imagination, the wonder—is lost. For while Louisa’s “independent” imagination gets lost in the flames, Mrs. Gradgrind enters angrily scolding Louisa’s “wonder slip,” all the while reducing the flames to scientific fact, for Mrs. Gradgrind spits, “After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! [...] going on with your master about combustion, and calcinations, and calorification . . . to hear you talking in this absurd way about sparks and ashes” (58). In <span style="font-style:italic;">Imagery and Theme in the Novels of Dickens</span>, author Robert Barnard writes, “The book is aimed, in fact, at all the tendencies of the age to repress the free creative imagination of men, to stifle their individuality, to make them cogs in a machine—mere numbers in a classroom, or hands without bodies or minds” (82). As if programmed, the characters in Dickens story acknowledge only what’s within arm’s reach, for if they can’t “touch it” (i.e. wonder), than its not factual, or logical. Thus, Mrs. Gradgrind won’t put up with Louisa’s curiosity of the flames, for they’ve already been defined—they’ve already been factored. <br /><br />Towards the end of the novel, we see how the factual mind labels, assumes, and commodifies itself about the virtuous intent of strangers. Dickens writes:<br /> <br />It was a fundamental principle of the Gradgrind philosophy that everything was to be paid for. Nobody was ever on any account to give anybody anything, or render anybody help without purchase. Gratitude was to be abolished, and the virtues springing from it were not to be. Every inch of the existence of mankind, from birth to death, was to be bargain across a counter. And if we didn’t get to Heaven that way, it was not a politico-economical place, and we had no business there. (276)<br /> <br />The “virtues” of man have been replaced by the pistons of manufacturing, and like morals, is subordinate to profit. George Orwell’s essay on Dickens says it best, for Orwell writes, “If one examines his novels in detail one finds that his real subject-matter is the London commercial bourgeoisie [...] Dickens’s criticism of society is almost exclusively moral” (31). Thus, Hard Times suggests that society must be grounded in virtues, grounded in knowing right from wrong. But, within the novel this is problematic, for there is only right, there is only fact. <br /><br />The second moment occurs later (in chapter XV), for when Louisa asks her father for marital advisement concerning Mr. Bounderby’s intentions, Gradgrind remarks: <br /><br />I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed . . . you know better. (98)<br /><br />Again, we see Louisa’s loss of agency, her inability to think, and Thomas Gradgrind’s inability to imagine, for his humorless, monotone lines, fails to connect with his daughter. In Richard Fabrizio’s essay “Wonderful No-Meaning: Language and the Psychopathology of the Family in Hard Times,” Fabrizio correlates Gradgrind’s refusal to be acquainted with his daughter’s emotional needs as “a satiric portrait of industrialization” (219). Fabrizio comments, “Hard Times is more fundamentally a keen description of the psyche forged out of socioeconomic conditions [...] the language its characters rehearse . . . [for] the poses they strike result from the mind’s accommodation to a new familial environment, a by-product of the machine—the great loom” (219). Fabrizio’s comment coalesces well, for Gradgrind’s house acts as an extension to his “machine” personality, for his despotism of “Facts,” parallels his structurally flawless home, stilting his advantageous marital advisement. Dickens writes, “A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principle windows, as its master’s heavy brows over-shadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced and proved house [...] a lawn and a garden . . . all ruled straight like a botanical account-book” (17). Gradgrind is a mechanized man, a man of science and calculation, and Louisa is the variable—an individual who finds the circus wondrous and is growing “tired” of living in an era of definition, an era of facts.<br /><br />In the end, Charles Dicken’s novel Hard Times, offers the reader a lens showing how humankind forms to the machines of the now: profit, industry, and fact is the new mantra in Dickens industrialized, mechanized society. In David Paroissien’s book <span style="font-style:italic;">Selected Letters of Charles Dickens</span>, Paroissien writes, “The picture of the nineteenth-century society one can construct from Dickens’s later novels is a bleak one, showing little hope for the children . . . living in an atmosphere of evil and limited opportunity” (297). We see Louisa’s “limited opportunity,” but we also see her growth, for towards the novels conclusion, Dickens writes of Louisa’s awareness, inking, “Herself again a wife—a mother—lovingly watchful of her children, ever careful that they should have a childhood of the mind no less than a childhood of the body, as knowing it to be even a more beautiful thing . . . the wisest” (285). Within Louisa’s refusal of the commodified, unquestioning mind, for fancy should never “be despised” (285), we see her rise. <br /> <br />To question is to use imagination; imagination leads to a hypothesis; a hypothesis leads to experimentation and facts follow. Thus, the underpinning of the industrial revolution, with its looms, iron, and presses, could never exist without imagination. For as Wordsworth alludes to in The Prelude, if the color of life, the very color of nature is removed from society — than the advancement of society is removed . . . and facts won’t have a leg to stand on. <br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Barnard, Robert. Imagery and Theme in the Novels of Dickens. New York: Humanities Press, 1974.<br /><br />Dickens, Charles. Hard Times. New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2004.<br /><br />Fabrizio, Richard. “Wonderful No-Meaning: Language and the Psychopathology of the Family in Hard Times.” New Casebooks: David Copperfield and Hard Times by Charles Dickens. Ed. John Peck. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995. 219-54.<br /><br />Lodge, David. “The Rhetoric of Hard Times.” Twentieth Century Interpretations of Hard Times: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Paul Edward Gray. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1969. 86-105.<br /><br />Orwell, George. “Charles Dickens.” Discussions of Charles Dickens. Ed. William Ross Clark. Boston: D.C. Heath and Company, 1961. 30-46.<br /><br />Paroissien, David. Selected Letters of Charles Dickens. Ed. David Paroissien. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1985.<br /><br />Wordsworth, William. “The Prelude.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Romantic Period. Vol. 2A. 7th ed. Ed. M. H. Abrams. New York: Norton & Company, 2000. 305-383.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-67130386084779252472011-05-23T16:24:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:38:55.997-07:00Julius Caesar: Platonic Ideas Concerning the Definition of the Just Man<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCQs41S2m-6Mmc_SyazK99LYqrcLpaaUIdC1r7TJmlH0Sy-GOwYhPEhhpv4N4LgMtKyQm24sjtKboQxwk-6-rSyfJnJe61dhtZ4XZPxPaWLxoSLgup6so2zmo0xToUe6_cNKqFOA9GILk/s1600/painting%2520-%2520Mort%2520de%2520Cesar-thumb-572xauto-96900.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCQs41S2m-6Mmc_SyazK99LYqrcLpaaUIdC1r7TJmlH0Sy-GOwYhPEhhpv4N4LgMtKyQm24sjtKboQxwk-6-rSyfJnJe61dhtZ4XZPxPaWLxoSLgup6so2zmo0xToUe6_cNKqFOA9GILk/s400/painting%2520-%2520Mort%2520de%2520Cesar-thumb-572xauto-96900.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474686802684511074" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">And is not a State larger than an Individual?</span> --Plato <br /><br />In Allan Bloom’s essay “The Morality of the Pagan Hero: Julius Caesar,” Bloom writes, “Julius Caesar is the story of a man who became a god. Beyond his merely human achievements—the destruction of the Republic and the establishment of a universal monarchy—he was worshiped as a divinity, as were many who inherited his name” (75). Julius Caesar has a major problem, for characters within William Shakespeare’s <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tragedy of Julius Caesar</span>, struggle with ideas concerning unchecked rule, or demigod like power bequeathed upon a single individual. In his book <span style="font-style:italic;">Shakespeare’s Tragic Sequence</span>, Kenneth Muir writes, “It has been argued that an Elizabethan audience would know the way to distinguish a good ruler from a tyrant; and since Caesar surrounds himself with flatterers and yes-men, and rules by caprice rather than by reason, they would certainly have regarded him as a tyrant” (44).<br /><br />Of the “flatterers,” Caius Cassius represents a man who appeals to Marcus Brutus with the following logic: are we a nation of laws, or a nation of men, for which is higher—Caesar, or Rome? Marcus Brutus, a venerable Captain America for Roman law, appeals to intellect, the higher order, or older positions of Rome, and as author James P. Driscoll writes, is a man who “[...] believes his motivation lies in devotion to the common good” (46). This is representative in Brutus remarking, “If it be aught toward the general good, / Set honor in one eye and death i’ th’ other” (1.2.87-88). <br /><br />Of the non-conspirators, Marc Antony, like John Milton’s Satan, wants to be king of the mountain, for Antony represents a man who is willing to wear the mask; who offers the appearance of a just man, or as Plato writes, is willing to “[…] by justice or by crooked ways of deceit ascend a loftier tower which may be a fortress to me all my days” (Republic II 314). In many respects, Antony is the most frightening character in the play, for he pretends to be what he’s not—for no one, not even us the reader know who he truly is.<br /><br />Thus, Julius Caesar is very much a play about politics and human psychology. Through the lens of Plato’s Republic, an early treatise on political science, Plato deals with similar questions of justice that align itself to Shakespeare’s key characters’ (Caesar, Cassius, Brutus, and Antony), for the two works act as complimentary bookends in their asking of the fundamental question—what makes a just man?<br /><br />When we meet Caesar, appearance plays a pivotal role, for we see an individual that is (figuratively) three feet taller than everyone else, for when Caesar speaks, all sound must cease, as Casca remarks, “Bid every noise be still” (1.2.16), and when the Soothsayer is called on to converse with him, he must, in a biblical and subordinate way, “look upon Caesar” (1.2.23). In <span style="font-style:italic;">The Philosophy of Shakespeare</span>, K. J. Spalding offers, “Shakespeare conceived of a man whose practical wisdom had by its sole might combined and sustained the far-flung fabric of a universal empire. A man above ‘an ordinary pitch’ (1.1.78) . . . [for] Caesar possessed the distinctive character of Plato’s ‘Philosopher-King’” (93). Plato’s conception of the Philosopher King appears in Book V, and extends in many forms throughout the rest of The Republic. Plato writes, “Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this world have the spirit and power of philosophy . . . cities will never have rest from their evils” (369). Caesar, as Rome’s savior, views himself as a philosopher: a “lover” or “pursuer” of truth and “wisdom,” and one who commands authority through his “advanced learning” (OED). Moments before his death, we see characteristics of Plato’s “Philosopher-King” embodied in Caesar, for he looks upon himself as an individual that transcends flesh, earth, and quite literally the universe. Caesar remarks:<br /><br />But I am constant as the Northern Star, <br />Of whose true fixed and resting quality<br />There is no fellow in the firmament. <br />The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks; <br />They are all fire, and every one doth shine; <br />But there’s but one in all doth hold his place <br />[…] That unassailable holds on his, <br />Unshaken of motion; and that I am he. (3.1.60-70)<br /><br />In Caesar’s mind, he alone posses the ability to remain, as Shakespeare suggests through the symbolism of the Northern Star—the Roman Empires guide, never failing, never faltering—constant. In G. C. Field’s <span style="font-style:italic;">The Philosophy of Plato</span>, Fields writes:<br /><br />It is quite clear that Plato believed that the supreme rulers must be not merely of a philosophical temperament, but trained metaphysicians with a grasp of the ultimate nature of reality. They must be able to think in terms of the perfect Forms, the real ideals . . . they have to understand the empirical facts of the situation and guide their policy. (56)<br /><br />Or, as author Bruce R. Smith comments, “As Plato would put it, ideals present a state of being, realities a state of becoming” (67). Thus, the rational part of Caesar’s soul must rule according to his definition of a philosopher—for Caesar’s soul has become (as helped by his conquest over Pompey, and the support of the hungry masses who shout accolades at him), the carrier of truth, and in Caesar’s mind, he represents a just soul.<br /><br />However, in Richard Norman’s book <span style="font-style:italic;">The Moral Philosophers: An Introduction to Ethics</span>, Norman would add that there is a discrepancy in Plato’s idea of Forms. Norman writes, “[…] Plato also has other reasons for emphasizing the separateness of the forms […] Justice itself cannot be equated with the sum of individual just persons and societies, because none of these are ever fully and perfectly just. Even the best of them [like Caesar] fall short of the ideal in some respect” (32). Plato believed that the ideal could never be reached in the real world, for Plato views the world as flawed. Thus, the only way we can reach perfection—is to think, or imagine the ideal—but we can never attain it.<br /><br />For example, a carpenter can envision the perfect chair, but when he goes to make it—the chair reveals flaws: the inner wood possesses unseen termites. This is where Shakespeare comes in, for Caesar made the mistake in thinking himself as the ideal, for Caesar doesn’t live in the transcendent world, or ideal world; Caesar lives in reality—and in reality, the world and he are flawed: Caesar has enemies (Cassius whom he fears, and fears he shouldn’t posses), his body suffers seizures, but most importantly—he is mortal, for Caesar remarks, “Seeing that death, a necessary end, / Will come when it will come” (2.2.36-37). <br /><br />In Book V of The Republic Plato writes of the division between “rulers” (i.e. masters) and “subjects” (i.e. servants) (363). Plato writes:<br /><br />“Did you ever know an example in any other State of a ruler who would speak of one of his colleagues as his friend and another as not being his friend?”<br /><br />“Yes, very often.”<br /><br />“And the friend he regards and describes as one in whom he has an interest, and the other as a stranger in whom he has no interest?”<br /><br />“Exactly.”<br /><br />“But would any of your guardians think or speak of any other guardian as a stranger?”<br /><br />“Certainly he would not; for every one whom they meet will be regarded by them either as a brother or sister, or father or mother, or son or daughter, or as a child of parent of those who are thus connected with him.” (364)<br /><br />Thus, using the model of a family, there can be no division amongst family members—for they are all part of the same unit, the same structure that makes up a family. This applies well to Shakespeare’s play, for Caesar views himself as a separate entity within the Republic (family) of Rome. Caesar sees Caius Cassius as a threat to his current position and remarks, “Let me have men about me that are fat, / Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep anights. / Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look. / He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous” (1.2.193-96). Caesar views Cassius as a stranger, one who is not a part of the family, but more importantly, his family. Caesar expresses utter contempt for Cassius—for he sees him for what he truly is—that of a reflection of himself. Caesar remarks, “[…] He reads much, / He is a great observer, and he looks / Quite through the deeds of men […] Such men as he be never at heart’s ease / Whiles they behold a greater than themselves” (1.2.202-210). <br /><br />In Ruth Leila Anderson’s book, <span style="font-style:italic;">Elizabethan Psychology and Shakespeare’s Plays</span>, Anderson writes that “Caesar is right in fearing the ‘spare Cassius’” [1.2.202], and writes, “According to Elizabethan science, the qualities which make the body lean dispose one to think. The choleric, we have found, are tall and lean, men who are easily provoked, given to treachery, vehement in action, envious, proud and wrathful” (41). Cassius has choleric bile and his disposition as a philosopher (thinker) frightens Caesar for he sees himself—within Cassius. <br /><br />However, fear acts as a double edged sword within the play, for Caesar’s out of control, demigod like stature amongst Rome’s population enrages the conspirators. In Book II of Plato’s Republic, Plato writes, “I will show that all men who practice justice do so against their will, of necessity, but not as a good” (311). This is Marcus Brutus, for early in the play, Brutus is wary of Caesars ever growing power remarking, “. . . Vexed I am / Of late with passions of some difference” (1.2.41-42), and then with, “What means this shouting? I do fear the people / Choose Caesar for their king” (1.2.81-82). Brutus is an individual who sees the old laws of Rome dissolving within Caesar, for Brutus, in hearing the crowd’s tumultuous shouts, fears that the Republic—is becoming a Republic in name only.<br /><br />In Matthew N. Proser’s book <span style="font-style:italic;">The Heroic Image in Five Shakespearean Tragedies</span>, Proser notes the fear of Caesar’s new found stature as a hazard to the conspirators, commenting, “Caesar’s attempts at self-glorification are distasteful whatever the reason; they are even threatening” (18). Brutus doesn’t dislike Caesar personally in the private sphere, but as a fellow General, he recognizes the threat Caesar brings to the Republic, the public sphere, for Brutus remarks, “It must be by his death. And for my part / I know no personal cause to spurn at him, / But for the general. He would be crowned. / How that might change his nature, there’s the question” (2.1.10-13). This coalesces well with Plato’s discussions concerning the “ordered” and “ill-ordered” State, for Plato writes, “[…] in a State which is ordered with a view to the good of the whole we should be most likely to find justice, and in the ill-ordered State injustice: and having found them, we might then decide which of the two is the happier” (IV.342). Brutus has his eye on the whole, for Rome’s political foundation has been a Republic for centuries, and now it’s threatened through the impending people’s adoption of an emperor—a ruler of one.<br /><br />Cassius sees an opening within Brutus’ mind, for when Brutus “love[s]” the name of “honor more than death,” (1.2.90-91), Cassius uses the opportunity to show how “feeble” Caesar is, but more importantly, how feeble or ill-ordered the State has become, remarking, “[…] ’Tis true, this god did shake. / His coward lips did from their color fly; […] Ye gods, it doth amaze me / A man of such feeble temper should / So get the start of the majestic world, / And bear the palm alone!” (1.2.123-33). Cassius is alluding, that there can be no justice in a man who moves, speaks, and is looked upon like a God, or “[…] bestride[s] the narrow world / Like a Colossus, and we petty men / Walk under his huge legs, and peep about / To find ourselves dishonorable graves” (1.2.136-39). Thus, as Anderson points out, “Envy and pride lead Cassius to form a conspiracy against Caesar” (41), for Caesar has over stepped his bounds.<br /><br />What makes a nation is law and order, and Caesar’s actions are threatening the whole concept of it. The fact that Cassius has to go to great lengths to manipulate Brutus in such a way that Brutus manipulates himself—shows how good Brutus is, so Cassius exploits Brutus’ honorable quality, and deceives him into thinking that killing Caesar—is the greater good. <br /><br />In his book <span style="font-style:italic;">Shakespeare’s Pagan World: The Roman Tragedies</span>, J. L. Simmons writes, […] Brutus destroys the representative of one impossible ideal for the sake of another. Caesar’s ideal requires the perfection of one man; Brutus requires the perfection of all” (94). Brutus doesn’t want to kill Caesar—but now he has to, for he fears the Republic will be lost, for “ambition that bred tyranny in other men might breed it in Caesar too” (Spalding 96). However, Brutus is duped, for Caesar’s assignation causes civil war—for in Plato’s view of the real world, one which possesses flaws, nothing goes according to plan when an ideal is adopted.<br /><br />In addition, in Book VI Plato writes, “And we have next to consider the corruptions of the philosophic nature […] we will speak of the imitators of philosophy, what manner of men they who aspire after a profession which is above them and of which they are unworthy” (377). Brutus, through the help of Cassius, has manipulated himself in thinking he should wear the crown, for as Cassius reminds him, “Why should that name be sounded more than yours? / Write them together: yours is as fair a name […] Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods […] There was a Brutus once that would have brooked / Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome / As easily as a king” (1.2.144-62). Cassius just wants a loftier seat, for in his wooing of Brutus individual rights, Brutus manipulates himself into thinking that he has hereditary rights, through blood and lineage, over Caesar. Bloom writes, […] the heroes are faced with Roman problems. They understand themselves to be acting as Roman citizens; what they must be and do is determined by the laws of Rome” (79). Brutus always wants to do the right thing, and through his constant, repetitive reasoning for the act of murdering Caesar, he has convinced himself that he is acting in an honorable fashion. We note this in Brutus’ speech to the throngs of plebeians. A speech littered with logos (reason) and ethos (moral character), Brutus replies:<br /><br />I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more […] The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol, his glory not extenuated wherein he was worthy, nor his offenses enforced for which he suffered death. (3.2.19-39)<br /><br />Thus, Brutus endows himself with Cassius’ own logic: are we a nation of laws, or are we a nation of men, for which is higher—Caesar, or Rome? This is where Marc Antony enters the equation.<br /><br />In Niccolò Machiavelli’s <span style="font-style:italic;">The Prince</span>, Machiavelli stresses the importance of “appearance” in honoring ones word remarking, “He should appear to be compassionate, faithful to his word, kind, guileless, and devout […] but his disposition should be such that, if he needs to be the opposite, he knows how […] and so he should have a flexible disposition, varying as fortune and circumstances dictate” (100-101). Marc Antony, like Dante’s Satan, wears multiple faces in the play, for when he speaks to the conspirators he offers the face of an actor, for Antony replies, “O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? / Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, / Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well” (3.1.149-51). Antony is offering the appearance of alliance, for as Plato writes in Book I, “In what sort of actions is the just man most able to do his friends good? In making alliances with them” (305). Antony is one of the play’s ultimate imitators, for Antony is an individual who wants to sit at the top of the Roman Empire, and in his pursuit, pretends to go along with the conspirators—he offers the appearance. Antony recognizes the difference between Plato’s conception of the real and ideal world, and thus, is willing to wear the mask. <br /><br />When Brutus and Antony speak to the plebeians in Act III Scene II, they both have corrupted the “philosophic nature” of philosophy. Plato writes:<br /><br />When they meet together, and the world sits down at assembly . . . and there is a great uproar, and they praise some things which are being said or done, and blame other things, equally exaggerating both, shouting and clapping their hands, and the echo of the rocks redoubles the sound of the praise or blame—at such a time will not a young man’s heart, as they say, leap within him? Will any private training enable him to stand firm against the overwhelming flood of popular opinion? Or, will he be carried away by the stream? Will he not have the notions of good and evil which the public in general have—he will do as they do, and as they are, such will he be? (377-78)<br /><br />After Brutus’ speech, praise and blame hit the rafters in this scene, for the plebeians shout, “Live, Brutus, live, live!” (3.2.47), “Caesar’s better parts / Shall be crowned in Brutus!” (3.2.51-52), “This Caesar was a tyrant” (3.2.68), and “Nay, that’s certain. / We are blessed that Rome is rid of him” (3.2.69-70). In Brutus’ appeal to the plebeians with logic, Antony uses a different tactic—raw emotion, pathos. Antony enters, “bearing Caesars body in a coffin” (1321), and through Plato’s comment above, uses reverse psychology as his ultimate technique in his want to buy the peoples love—their collective popular opinion. In his speech, Antony tears Brutus’ honorable quality down through repetition. Antony repeats, the phrase, “[…] Brutus is an honorable man” (3.2.82), four times, leaving his name (a name connected to honor), out in the fourth. Through Antony’s repetition of the words, they begin to carry less weight, less importance, for they become nonsensical—and ultimately, dishonorable.<br /><br />Further, Antony offers the appearance of a tortured soul, one who is not ambitious, for a plebeian remarks, “Marked ye his words? He would not take the crown, / Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious” (3.2.112-13). Antony is using the same tactic Caesar used in the play’s opening, for Caesar, in his refusal of the crown, did this to gain greater popular opinion. Thus Antony makes himself look good, by making himself look bad—for he, as Plato commented above, knows the notions of good and evil which the public possess. We mark this when Antony replies, “I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. / I am no orator as Brutus is” (3.2.210-11). Thus, Antony bases his appearance, his justness, not in the ideal, but in reality—for in reality, emotion, passion, pathos, is sometimes stronger than reason—than even logos.<br /><br />In the end, Shakespeare’s play and Plato’s Republic, coalesce well with one another, for characters within the play struggle with ideas concerning justice, but more importantly—the just individual. Plato found the idea of democracy problematic, for Field’s writes, “A democracy is essentially aimless. The dominance of this merely negative purpose means that there is no recognized person . . . for setting the direction of the whole community” (67). Thus, Julius Caesar is very much a play about politics and human psychology, for the two works act as complimentary bookends in their asking of the fundamental question—what makes a just man? <br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Anderson, Ruth Leila. Elizabethan Psychology and Shakespeare’s Plays. New York: Russell & Russell, 1966.<br /><br />Bloom, Allan. “The Morality of the Pagan Hero.” Shakespeare’s Politics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1964. 75-112.<br /><br />Driscoll, James P. Identity in Shakespearean Drama. London: Bucknell UP, 1983.<br /><br />Field, G. C. The Philosophy of Plato. 2nd ed. London: Oxford UP, 1969.<br /><br />Machiavelli, Niccolò. The Prince. New York: Penguin Books, 1986.<br /><br />Muir, Kenneth. Shakespeare’s Tragic Sequence. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1979.<br /><br />Norman, Richard. The Moral Philosophers: An Introduction to Ethics. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983.<br /><br />Orgel, Stephen and A. R. Braunmuller, ed. William Shakespeare: The Complete Works. New York: Penguin Books, 2002.<br /><br />“philosopher, n.” The Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd ed. 1989. OED Online. Oxford UP. 2 May. 2010 <http://dictionary.oed.com.libproxy.csun.edu/cgi/entry/50177503>.<br /><br />Plato. The Dialogues of Plato. Trans. Benjamin Jowett. Ed. Robert Maynard Hutchins. Great Books of the Western World. Ser. 7. Chicago: William Benton, 1952.<br /><br />Proser, Matthew N. The heroic image in Five Shakespearean Tragedies. New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1965.<br /><br />Simmons, J.L. Shakespeare’s Pagan World: The Roman Tragedies. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1973.<br /><br />Smith, Bruce R. Shakespeare and Masculinity. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000.<br /><br />Spalding, K. J. The Philosophy of Shakespeare: Oxford: George Ronald,1953.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-16190692190683808432011-05-23T15:58:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:39:14.001-07:00The Tragedy of King Richard the Third: The Labeled BodyActor Antony Sher as Richard<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/rscmedia01/explore/multimedia/photos/ri3_0711_16001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 452px; height: 339px;" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/rscmedia01/explore/multimedia/photos/ri3_0711_16001.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Masquerade...paper faces on parade...masquerade...hide your face, so the world will never find you—</span>(<span style="font-style:italic;">from</span> The Phantom of the Opera)<br /><br /> William Wordsworth once wrote:<br /><br /> Of Childhood didst thou intertwine for me<br /> The passions that build up our human Soul,<br /> Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,<br /> But with high objects, with enduring things,<br /> With life and nature, purifying thus<br /> The elements of feeling and of thought,<br /> And sanctifying, by such discipline,<br /> Both pain and fear, until we recognize<br /> A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. (<span style="font-style:italic;">The Prelude</span> I, 406-14)<br /><br />Wordsworth is self-reflecting on how his mind, body, and spirit grew as a child, and has concluded that it was through his interaction with nature. Thus, Wordsworth is alluding to the idea that if higher order internal perceptions, such as morals and ethics are going to manifest, they would do so through nature—through ones external environment. However, in the world of life, Wordsworth’s perception is problematic, for not all individuals travel the same road. What happens when an individual is born into the world, and feels nature has affronted his body, poisoning it unnatural so that he is left bare to the vulgar perceptions of others? What happens when this man encounters a life filled, not with purification, but with hostility—with vulgarity? <br /><br />In William Shakespeare’s <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tragedy of King Richard the Third</span>, Shakespeare plays with the idea of evil being associated with disfigurement, for Richard III views his exterior form, his body, as an unnatural byproduct of nature. Nature, in Richard’s eyes, has crippled him, and through Richard’s internal self-awareness, along with his interaction with those considered or deemed normative, embodies the role of alienation, welcomes the part of difference, and offers nothing less than disguised contempt for all other individuals he comes into contact with. <br /><br />It is my intention to offer a “disability studies reading” of Richard, for the majority of scholarly debate focuses on what Shakespearian scholar Martine Van Elk writes as, “[a] center[ing] on the overall presentation of history in the play, and specifically on its status as a providential narrative in support of the Tudor Myth, or as a secular, humanist, or even Machiavellian text that looks to human action in this world as a primary cause for historical change” (2). It is through the lens of disability and difference, not power, but status in how exterior perception shapes the interior self, for Shakespeare has latched onto ideas, of what would be called centuries later as the “heteronormative” or “politicized body.” For even in Shakespeare’s time—the body was politic.<br /><br />In Rosemarie Garland Thomson’s book, <span style="font-style:italic;">Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature</span>, Thomson writes, “The disparity between disabled as an attributed, decontextualizing identity and the perceptions and experiences of real people living with disabilities suggests that this figure of otherness emerges from positioning, interpreting, and conferring meaning upon bodies” (10). We note Thomson’s viewpoint in Richard’s opening soliloquy, for Richard politicizes his body in the soliloquy—bestowing it different. Richard remarks:<br /> <br /> But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks<br /> Nor made to court an amorous looking glass,<br /> I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty<br /> To strut before a wanton ambling nymph,<br /> I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,<br /> Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,<br /> Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time<br /> Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,<br /> And that so lamely and unfashionable<br /> That dogs bark at me as I halt by them— (I.I.14-23)<br /> <br />Richard views his body as one with limitations, but more importantly, one that was “cheated” by nature. Similar to Shelley’s “Monster” in Frankenstein, Dr. Suess’s “Grinch,” or J. M. Barrie’s “Captain Hook,” all individuals who are aware of their otherness, Richard specifically describes his body in detail as being “deformed” and “unfinished.” In short, in Richard’s eyes, a wrong has been committed against him, which begs the question: Why does Shakespeare open the play with Richard’s internal perceptions of self? <br /><br />Thompson sheds light on such literary devices or self-perceptions, writing, “Focusing on a body feature to describe a character throws the reader into a confrontation with the character that is predetermined by cultural notions about disability” (11). Immediately, Shakespeare confronts us with Richard, for in the opening forty lines we learn that Richard’s only friend in the play—is us the audience. Through his multiple asides, and moments alone on stage, Richard confides in us, sharing his perceptions of self.<br /><br />Further, Richard is in direct confrontation with his body, for Thomson writes, “The disabled figure profoundly threatens this fantasy of autonomy, not so much because it is seen as helpless, but rather because it is imagined as having been altered by forces outside the self” (45). We note these “outside forces,” for Richard remarks disgustedly, “Look how I am bewitched. Behold, mine arm / Is like a blasted sapling, withered up;” (III.V.68-69). Here, through the perception of external forces, as exemplified through nature’s bewitchment, Richard notes his deformity, one as Thomson potently points out, has been “altered” by external forces.<br /><br />However, nature’s role only shows half the coin, for Richard is fighting a war on two fronts. While Richard sees his body as malformed, or “withered up, it’s the internal perceptions of others, of those who Richard comes into contact with that help code his body. In the famous “wooing scene,” Lady Anne sees through Richard’s false piety for the late Henry the Sixth, for in Act I Scene II, Anne refers to Richard as, “[a] lump of foul deformity” (57), a “hedgehog” (103), and the “[foulest] toad” (147). In the following scene Shakespeare wastes no time, for Richard continues to be torn down, dehumanized, for Queen Margaret vehemently chimes in with her inner perceptions of Richard’s spirit, mind, and malformed body, spiting:<br /><br /> Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog,<br /> Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity<br /> The slave of nature and the son of hell,<br /> Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb,<br /> Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins,<br /> Thou rag of honor, thou detested— (I.III.228-33)<br /><br />Richard, through the perceptions of Lady Anne and Queen Margaret (representative of the normative others), who are the young, the beautiful, the able-bodied, has been delineated to an animal—a grotesque individual who is deemed grotesque by others. In his book, The Development of Shakespeare’s Imagery, Wolfgang Clemen writes:<br /><br />We cannot exaggerate the imaginative value of these revolting animal- images. Without our becoming conscious of it, the repulsive figure of the hunch-backed Richard as we see it upon the stage is repeatedly transformed into animal bodies conforming to his nature, and thus his brutal, animal character is illuminated from this angle too. Richard III is Shakespeare’s first play in which the chief character is delineated by symbolical images. (51)<br /><br />Thomson writes of that delineated bodily feature in a chapter dealing with “American Freak Shows,” replying, “On the freak show stage, a single, highlighted characteristic circumscribed and reduced the inherent human complexity” (61). Is not Richard on a similar stage? Is not his body viewed, reduced, and labeled by those who seek to tear him down? Through the perceptions of others, Richard views his body as a sulking beast, for as Wolfgang Clemen indicates, how could one not become conscious of it? <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">In Power on Display: The politics of Shakespeare’s Genres</span>, author Leonard Tennenhouse parallels Thomson’s words and connects it to Shakespeare’s “grotesque” individuals. Tennenhouse writes, “[...] the grotesque body is constituted out of the curses, obscenity, laughter, spittle and oaths of marketplace and carnival [...] Shakespeare uses the stage to represent . . .social reality” (42-43). Thus, Shakespeare has presented us with a man who, through the tradition of carnival and freakery, is performing on society’s stage—for Richard’s maladaptive body is comodified to the social politics and perceptions of the time. <br /><br />In the minds of others, Richard is no longer an individual—he is a caricature. Richard is T. S. Eliot’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Prufrock</span>, an animal who is “[...] not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be” (13). For as Thomson poignantly points out, “The rhetorical effect of representing disability derives from social relations between people who assume the normate position and those who are assigned the disabled position” (10). Like John Milton’s Satan in Paradise Lost, Richard III is assigned a role, one who is “[...] destin’d to Eternal woe” (II.160), but as the play unfolds the reader watches Richards actions, for he shares Satan’s outlook of, “The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n” (I.254-55). We make this connection in Act I Scene II, for Lady Anne sees Richard’s appearance, his animalistic displays, and labels (defines) Richard, commenting, “Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence and trouble us not, / For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, / Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims” (I.II.50-52). Lady Anne and Queen Margaret’s defining Richard as a deplorable beast, that is unwanted sexually, and has made earth its playground, fits well with Robert McRuer’s Crip Theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability, for McRuer writes, “Stigmatized in and by a culture that will not or cannot accommodate their presence, crip performers . . . have proudly and collectively shaped stigmaphilic alternatives in, through, an around that abjection” (35-36). Thus, Richard performs, playing the part of the devil, through others defining his body and his mind.<br /><br />In his book, <span style="font-style:italic;">Shakespeare and Masculinity</span>, Bruce R. Smith writes that Richard’s childhood played a huge role in the shaping of his identity writing, “Richard III [was] despised and rebuked by his mother, [and] can only parody the principles of paternal emulation and sibling rivalry” (70). Thus, from early childhood Richard is unwanted and must “play the part,” or offer the “appearance” of normalcy.<br /> <br />Richard remarks, “I am determined to prove a villain [...] As I am subtle, false, and treacherous” (I.I.30-37). Richard’s separation from normate to other began in his early childhood, and came to fruition in adulthood. In her book, King Richard III, Janis Lull comments on Richard’s submission and embodiment to the role of villain, citing, “[...] his villainy is predestined, and the strong providentialism of the play ultimately endorses this meaning” (8). This coalesces well with Richard’s earlier remark of “bewitchment,” for Richard truly believes that the “events [of his life] are predestined by God or fate” (OED). This parallels well with Simi Linton’s similar perception of self as an individual being divided into a separate class, for in her book, <span style="font-style:italic;">My Body Politic</span>, Linton writes, “For it wasn’t until some time after I sustained the injury to my spine that immobilized my legs, after I learned to use a wheelchair, and after I had reckoned with myself and the world for a while in this new state—it wasn’t until then that I gained the vantage point of the atypical, the out-of-step, the underfooted” (3). <br /><br />It is interesting to note, that many authors believe that Richard’s perception of self, in his opening soliloquy, presents an individual who is envious for power. In his book, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Shapes of Revenge: Victimization, Vengence, and Vindictiveness in Shakespeare</span>, Harry Keyishian offers, “[...] the play instructs us in the ways such feeling can distort a personality and cause it to pursue bogus reparations [...] to Freud, persons acting vindictively may feel like victims when they are in fact only expressing their envy at those who are more capable, successful, or happy” (104). Keyishian further cites Freud’s viewpoint of Richard, for Freud remarks, “We all think we have a reason to reproach nature and our destiny for congenital and infantile disadvantages; we all demand reparation for early wounds to our narcissism, our self-love” (104). <br /><br />While Keyishian’s use of the word “successful” holds value, in that Richard’s opening remarks of self can be arguably viewed as what D. A. Traversi calls in his book, <span style="font-style:italic;">An Approach to Shakespeare</span>, as “[...] established elements of envious villainy” (29), Keyishian’s word choice, using words like “capable” and “happy,” doesn’t coalesce well with an individual striving for power, and in many ways makes envy subordinate to status. Richard, like Bob Flanagan, is a much more complex individual to write off with the label of envious in the hopes of attaining power. Wolfgang Clemen’s, <span style="font-style:italic;">A Commentary on Shakespeare’s Richard III</span>, reaffirms this, writing, “Richard’s cool and objective description of his own state of mind, his appearance, and his present situation, is a complex character study” (10). Rather, one could argue, status drives Richard—not power, but rank. Richard wants to be in the same class of individuals as the king’s he served. Richard doesn’t want to remain the disfigured individual who “cannot prove a lover” (I.I.28), but instead wants to transcend and transform into an individual who’s body, whose very stature demands servitude, respect—neutrality. <br /><br />New perspectives or perceptions are key ideas concerning the disabled body, for like Harper Lee’s <span style="font-style:italic;">To Kill a Mockingbird</span>, it is through Scout’s eyes, where we witness a society that shuns and falsely labels individuals through their own collective constructed narrative. One can argue, that in Shakespeare’s Richard III, the presentation of Richard, like Scout in <span style="font-style:italic;">Mockingbird</span>, offers the idea that if individuals differentiate their collected perspectives, they will see the underpinning duality in the word difference. It’s through perspective in Act V Scene III, where the reader notes a shift in Richard’s character—for by the play’s end, Richard sees himself “truthfully” for the first time, and transforms. <br /><br />However, it’s not the “good” transformation, similar to Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol, where we in the postmodern world observe a repentant Scrooge who decides to share a goose with everyone. Here, after being visited by multiple ghosts, Richard—losses his identity completely, and says, “Oh coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me [...] What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by. / Richard loves Richard; that is I and I [...] Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good [...] O no, alas, I rather hate myself [...] There is no creature loves me” (180-201). In <span style="font-style:italic;">The Philosophy of Shakespeare</span>, K. J. Spalding writes, “[Richard] is a creature without the love that teaches man that thou and I am one; an egoist self-parted from his partners; Richard lives a stranger in the world—a solitary in a [carnival] crowd. Thus, disnatured . . . he must show himself to them the being he is not” (29). This is vital, for Richard has found his true self. Here, the two soliloquies act as bookends, for the two complement each other in that they both deal with Richard’s conscious but, it is the ending soliloquy that is based in truth. In Clemen’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Commentary</span>, Clemen observes:<br /><br />Richard’s introspective monologue comes as a surprise. Up till now he has assessed every situation in terms of the external . . . here, however, we see him vanquished and punished by something within himself . . . appearance is once more contrasting to reality; appearance seems more menacing to Richard than even the reality. (223)<br /><br />In the end, Shakespeare’s Richard is an individual who feels he never got fair shot, an individual who replies, “And I no friends to back my suit withal / But the plain devil and dissembling looks?” (I.2.235-36). In his book, <span style="font-style:italic;">Identity in Shakespearian Drama</span>, James P. Driscoll comments, “Self-disclosure provides a forum for critical self-examination” (45). Thomson writes, “Stigmatization not only reflects the tastes and opinions of the dominant group, it reinforces that group’s idealized self-description as neutral, normal, legitimate, and identifiable by denigrating the characteristics of less powerful groups of those considered alien” (31).<br /><br />Richard lives in a world that compartmentalizes his body. He has no friends in the play—except us the audience. Richard confides in us, for in his world, the world of exterior definition, we are the rational interior. That is, we note the falsities of Richard’s interior thoughts, and his subsequent embodiment of the irrational world. For Richard’s “power is veiled by a rhetoric of neutrality that creates the illusion of meritocracy” (Thomson 40). Like the “sneeches” in Dr. Seuess, where a star on ones belly signifies status over a non-starred belly—Richard has no star on his belly, and like the Phantom from “The Phantom of the Opera,” Richard is just a paper face on parade. <br /><br />Works Cited<br /><br />Clemen, Wolfgang. A Commentary on Shakespeare’s Richard III. Great Britain: Butler & Tanner Ltd, 1968.<br /><br />---, The Development of Shakespeare’s Imagery. New York: Hill & Wang, 1962.<br /><br />Driscoll, James P. Identity in Shakespearean Drama. London: Bucknell University Press, 1983.<br /><br />Eliot, T. S. “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.” The Waste Land and Other Poems. Ed. George Stade. New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2005. 9-13.<br /><br />Keyishian, Harry. The Shapes of Revenge: Victimization, Vengence, and Vindictiveness in Shakespeare. New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1995.<br /><br />Linton, Simi. My Body Politic. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2009.<br /><br />Lull, Janis, ed. King Richard III. United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press, 1999.<br /><br />Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Complete Poems and Major Prose. Ed. Merritt Y. Hughes. Cambridge: Hackett Publishing, 2003. 211-469. <br /><br />Orgel, Stephen and A. R. Braunmuller, ed. William Shakespeare: The Complete Works. New York: Penguin Books, 2002.<br /><br />Spalding, K. J. The Philosophy of Shakespeare. Oxford: George Ronald, 1953.<br /><br />Tennenhouse, Leonard. Power on Display: The Politics of Shakespeare’s Genres. New York: Methuen, 1986. <br /><br />Wordsworth, William. “The Prelude.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Romantic Period. Vol. 2A. 7th ed. Ed. M. H. Abrams. New York: Norton & Company, 2000. 305-383.<br /><br />Van Elk, Martine. “Determined to Prove a Villain: Criticism, Pedagogy, and Richard III.” College Literature 34.4 (2007): 1+. Literature Resource Center. Web. 28 Apr. 2010 http://go.galegroup.com.libproxy.csun.edu.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-88752631993580805822011-03-14T21:21:00.000-07:002011-08-05T03:39:25.580-07:00Crime and Punishment: The Grotesque<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYtLuSzKgN1uNpc_bkBuIkyLNjnNPYZffzGVWqkNELwy_Qe5SvIG9tMzr6cHpokMl9z7l9jFwf_DVeDKFq2W_IQGPWiPBwX97boR47fjfnW_Np7C_YX0Eyi5vB9PZ4Ml69WzDV27YidMg/s1600-h/dostoevsky1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYtLuSzKgN1uNpc_bkBuIkyLNjnNPYZffzGVWqkNELwy_Qe5SvIG9tMzr6cHpokMl9z7l9jFwf_DVeDKFq2W_IQGPWiPBwX97boR47fjfnW_Np7C_YX0Eyi5vB9PZ4Ml69WzDV27YidMg/s400/dostoevsky1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448713351513108722" /></a><br /><br /><br />[as told from a sock puppet]<br /><br />In Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky writes, “In order to judge someone it is necessary to examine him for oneself, and at close quarters, and that he would reserve the privilege of forming an opinion about you until he had a chance of getting to know you a bit” (71). If I had arms, I’d show you how this line connects in a power point—but alas! My arms were ripped off in a terrible washing machine accident. Why did she put me on fast cycle—I’m clearly a delicate! Anyway, we note how Dostoevsky and Allen both represent society (along with their main characters), as disjointed, disenchanted, neurotic, egotistical individuals who feel compartmentalized by the gargantuan world around them. Crime and Punishment coalesces well with Allen, for both collectively fit together like a comfortable pair of socks . . . yes, I’m aware of the irony. What’s at stake here is the idea of the “grotesque.” <br /><br />In his essay, “Poetics of the City,” Donald Fanger writes, “The grotesque is the estranged world […] It is our world, which has been transformed” (82). In the beginning of the novel, we note Raskolnikov as an ostracized individual due to his grotesque, or marked otherness—poverty. A man whom author Konstantin Mochulsky states, “[…] is aware of his infinite solitude” (94). Dostoyevsky writes:<br />[…] the human race is divided into the “ordinary” and the “extraordinary.” The ordinary must live in obedience and do not have the right to break the law, because, well, because they’re ordinary see. The extraordinary, on the other hand, have the right to commit all sorts of crimes and break the law in all sorts of ways precisely because they’re extraordinary. (311)<br /><br />Raskolnikov, like the majority of Woody Allen’s characters, is divided, for he lives in an “era of definition;” one which stereotypes and assumes. Throughout the novel, we note these ideas in the duality and imagery of the writing. The Interior vs. Exterior “self,” offer conflicts represented in the form of religious thinking and morality. In turn, “the body politic,” marked with the label of difference, offers its own calculated language through demeanor (e.g. detail of not wearing a noticeable “hat” for instance when he’s going to kill the old woman). These two representations demonstrate the duality of Raskolnikov and intermingle well into the ideas generated by Allen.<br /> <br />Further, the imagery in the form of Raskolnikov’s dream of the “flogged horse,” offers parallels to his own character’s struggles in carrying life’s burdens in an unfair/hostel world. This is representational in the Marmeladov’s impoverished family; how he represents a decayed individual—one who wastes money on liquor, and personal vice.<br /> <br />In closing, Fyodor Dostoevsky and Woody Allen both present helpless, grotesque individuals; for the two secondary plots of Marmeladov’s family and Raskolnikov’s sister Dunya, according to Mochulsky, represent the“[…] embodiment of [Raskolnikov’s] contesting ideas. The idea that good is utterly powerless . . . sacrifice purposeless” (92). In the end, through these two writers, we learn a powerful truth: True knowledge of self lies in the acceptance of struggle, the acceptance of difference—the acceptance of the grotesque. Thank you…and please use Downey fabric softener. <br /><br />Discussion Question:<br />Why did Raskolnikov kill the old woman?dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-46683747569064229832011-02-14T21:07:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:39:39.750-07:00What do you see?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6nAJG1b3w5ZjFjA-UsyYN-IPp8O3kTdtz-o8wZeBtKQ-cDXZ4dk38H2FkXY0DNseN5myw7LKZvpIsGHzIqcp3BruqVUT8BufCwj7iKLdnnROXCbRBgzNs56-wlQFerUqeFJ90jGUPxF4/s1600-h/jackson+pollock.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6nAJG1b3w5ZjFjA-UsyYN-IPp8O3kTdtz-o8wZeBtKQ-cDXZ4dk38H2FkXY0DNseN5myw7LKZvpIsGHzIqcp3BruqVUT8BufCwj7iKLdnnROXCbRBgzNs56-wlQFerUqeFJ90jGUPxF4/s400/jackson+pollock.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438344226156162146" /></a><br /><br />In "The American Action Painters," author Harold Rosenberg writes:<br /><br />At a certain moment the canvas began to appear to one American painter after another as an arena in which to act—rather than as a space in which to reproduce, re-design, analyze or "express" an object, actual or imagined. What was to go on the canvas was not a picture but an event. The painter no longer approached his easel with an image in his mind; he went up to it with material in his hand to do something to that other piece of material in front of him. The image would be the result of this encounter. <br /><br />When an individual encounters a Jackson Pollock painting for the first time, their reaction is typically either love it or hate it. The ones who hate it say, "I don't get it?" "How is this art?" "It's just a bunch of lines and blobs of paint!" The individuals who don't appreciate Pollock are probably looking for "narrative" in the painting. Unfortunately for them, they're not going to find it. <br /><br />Pollock's art falls into, what is referred to as "gestural abstraction." After World War II artists, disgusted with the world around them, retreated inward--into the subconscious. Pollock's art is meant for you <em>the viewer </em>to come to your own conclusions. Many of his pieces are large. This is purposeful, for Pollock wants you to delve into the painting, allowing your eye to roam freely, following lines if you choose to. In fact, when you view a Jackson Pollock piece, you should stand as close to it as possible. This allows you to delve into your own subconscious, for Pollock paints without forethought. As Rosenberg explains,"A sketch is the preliminary form of an image the mind is trying to grasp. To work from sketches arouses the suspicion that the artist still regards the canvas as a place where the mind records its contents—rather than itself the "mind" through which the painter thinks by changing a surface with paint." <br /><br />In the end, Pollock does not try to recreate an image, event, or idea. Instead, he paints without thinking ahead. He creates art in which the viewer is responsible for finding their own meanings and connections.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-54920221919640951622011-02-04T19:29:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:40:15.676-07:00Motherhood and Womanhood: A Perversion in Titles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VBX5LVyva3CuJUCOVj7WE25JZKJRno0PBWuY2XUxYn82hQhghOfuCXyaHpjbMU-kBvfmYBKIyeFLkWxrl5APNw1wbQCqJfw0sr9hcrZIxq4u9s6xhCqjMGMwwUOySiPhZPh7GaLsEWT7/s1600/A-Taste-of-Honey-a-Play-9780802131850.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VBX5LVyva3CuJUCOVj7WE25JZKJRno0PBWuY2XUxYn82hQhghOfuCXyaHpjbMU-kBvfmYBKIyeFLkWxrl5APNw1wbQCqJfw0sr9hcrZIxq4u9s6xhCqjMGMwwUOySiPhZPh7GaLsEWT7/s400/A-Taste-of-Honey-a-Play-9780802131850.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637303960495350322" /></a><br /><br /><br />Written in 1956, Shelagh Delaney’s play, A Taste of Honey, exposes the emerging disparity between Motherhood and Womanhood. The Mother figure, Helen, represents a modern Woman. She is a distortion of any previous concept of the representation of Motherhood. Through analysis of the play’s dialogue, Delaney’s depiction of ‘Mother’ suggests the disavowance of all of its previous meanings. This is embodied when Helen remarks, “[…] bearing a child doesn’t place one under an obligation to it” (60).<br /><br />Society’s idealized concept of Motherhood became complicated by the emerging legitimization of Womanhood as an independent state of being (office). This created a dichotomy in which there was an entanglement between Motherhood, which is idealized as complete devotion to a child (“Other-focus”) and Womanhood, which is the expectation of becoming a complete individual (“Self-focus”). Delaney’s Mother-figure represents a perversion of the office of Motherhood. The dialogue embodies a duality of a person engulfed in “Self” – a Woman devoid of the qualities of a Mother, but holding the office of both.<br /><br />This idea results in the play’s dialogue showcasing Helen as almost totally self-focused. Delaney gives us a representation of Motherhood being nothing more than biological. Helen disavows ever being conscious of the title of Motherhood in the first place, stating “Have I ever laid claim to being a proper mother?” (35). Helen rejects any responsibility beyond biology: “[…] bearing a child doesn’t place one under an obligation to it” (60).<br /><br />Delaney’s ‘Mother’ tells her child how much better and wonderful it will be to be free and self-centered. We note one example when Helen spits, “Don’t worry, you’ll soon be an independent working woman and free to go where you please” (15).<br /><br />The character of “Helen” is described to the reader in a single phrase: “HELEN, a semi-whore” (7). She is introduced from the start as the direct opposite of the idealized version of a Mother, who must set an example of decency and purity. Helen is obedient to the office of Womanhood. She focuses exclusively on self-satisfaction and self-enjoyment. Delaney’s ‘Mother’ is promiscuous and crude in the presence of her very own child – exhibiting behavior inappropriate in the idealized Mother.<br /> <br />In Act I, Scene I, Peter offers the possibility of sensual pleasure. Faced with this situation, the idealized Mother would be concerned with displaying lewd behavior in front of her own child. When Peter makes sexual advances to Helen, the Woman (not the Mother) neglects to conceal his intentions from her daughter. Helen’s only concern is her personal desire for privacy. She tells her child, “Well, do something. Turn yourself into a bloody termite and crawl into the wall or something, but make yourself scarce” (17). Delaney offers the reader another portrayal of Helen exhibiting qualities of a Woman, but not those of the idealized Mother; we are presented instead with a Woman who orders her child to go get some “whiskey” for her (7).<br /><br />Irony is presented through outward admission, as Delaney subtly uses the character of Jo as a literary vehicle to create conflict in the text in order to pervert the idea of Helen’s title as Mother. Helen responds to her daughter’s defiance and expresses to Jo the expectation of obedience to her title as Mother, countering:<br /><br />HELEN: Children owe their parents these little attentions.<br />JO: I don’t owe you a thing.<br />HELEN: Except respect, and I don’t seem to get any of that. (8)<br /> There are glimpses of Helen exhibiting traditional Mother-like behavior in the play, but these are rare. In one instance, the Mother criticizes her daughter’s sexual activity:<br />HELEN: You had to throw yourself at the first man you met, didn’t you?<br />JO: Yes, I did, that’s right.<br />HELEN: You’re man mad.<br />JO: I’m like you.<br />HELEN: You know what they’re calling you round here? A silly little whore! (62)<br /><br />The daughter points out the irony in Helen suddenly deciding to impose Mother-like virtues. Jo retorts, “Well, they all know where I get it from too” (p. 62). Delaney illustrates another instance of Helen’s own inner admission of parental responsibility with, “Can you give us a quid, Peter? I’d better leave her some money … she can’t live on grass and fresh air” (34). This outward admission is important in that it shows Helen is conscious of the Office of Mother and subsequently wants to obey the traditional role of not abandoning her child without sustenance. These lines, in the end, help synthesize Helen’s, “I had to be with you at a time like this, hadn’t I?” (80), for when Jo becomes pregnant, both outward and inner admissions are combined to show that Helen “had” to be responsible to the title, and to her daughter. Thus, obedience to the title was forced upon her, just as biological Motherhood was inflicted on her. This offers another glimpse of Motherly behavior – what Jo had referred to as “the famous mother-love act” (64).<br /><br />Delaney sometimes offers dialogue which leads us to believe Helen is about to display success as a Mother – only to be jarred back to the reality that she is focused on herself. It is through this combination, however, that the disparity to the title of “Mother” fluctuates throughout the play, and begins to be perverted; for wherever there is obedience to that title, there is also disobedience. Helen responds to Jo’s drawings with, “I think I’ll hang this on the wall somewhere. Now, where will it be least noticeable?” (14). Delaney is playing with the language. The first part of the passage presupposes virtue, while the second part undermines this respect with raw sarcasm. The implications of Delaney’s use of language here leave the reader conflicted. The compliment has been undermined through sarcasm.<br /><br />This conscious disavowance strikes against the expression of parental responsibility, and culminates in (subconscious) disparity of self later in the play, with:<br /><br />HELEN: […] I’m going to see you through this whether you like it or not. After all, I am …<br />JO: After all you are my mother! You’re a bit late in remembering that aren’t you? (64)<br /><br />Here Delaney has offered both a representation and a misrepresentation of the title of Mother. By switching between obedience and disobedience, the text perverts the condition in that there is no clear distinction of role – there is only semi-distinction of office.<br /><br />Jo expresses her need for a parental figure, to take care of her. She questions Peter in front of Helen, “Don’t you think I’m a bit young to be left like this on my own while you flit off with my old woman?” (34)<br /><br />Another distortion showing the entanglement of the two offices is a Mother willing to leave her child alone for an entire week while the Woman pursues her own pleasures, but then puts on the hat of Motherhood by leaving her daughter money for food. As noted earlier, Helen asks, “Can you give us a quid, Peter? I’d better leave her some money. We might decide to have a weekend at Blackpool and she can’t live on grass and fresh air” (34). Here, Mother and Woman collide.<br /> <br />As shown through dialogue, Delaney’s ‘Mother’ has been self-centered from the start. She shows no defensiveness about behavior that has had negative effects on her child. The idealized Mother would sacrifice her own goals in devotion to her children. We see instead the other extreme – a Woman seeking self-fulfillment and who determines her own future. We see a Mother who gives no apology for not making choices to help her child. This becomes apparent when Helen remarks on Jo’s artistic ability:<br /> <br />HELEN: It’s very good. Did you show them this at school?<br />JO: I’m never at one school long enough to show them anything.<br />HELEN: That’s my fault, I suppose.<br />JO: You will wander about the country.<br />HELEN: It’s the gipsy in me. (14)<br /><br /> This reveals a Woman who is the antithesis of idealized Motherhood. The stereotypical “good” Mother is often portrayed reading nursery stories to a small child cuddled on her lap. The text instead reveals a Woman holding the title of Mother while rejecting these nurturing habits. When Helen comes upon Jo’s collection of books, she remarks, sarcastically, “What has she got here? Look at ‘em. Selected Nursery Rhymes, Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Pinocchio. Well, you certainly go in for the more advanced types of literature” (34). Thus, we learn that not only did this child have to read nursery stories to herself, but that this Mother mocks the whole idea of nursery rhymes.<br /><br />In A Taste of Honey, Shelagh Delaney presents the dichotomy of Womanhood vs. Motherhood, and creates a character who functions at one extreme of that dichotomy. Her character, Helen, epitomizes the woman who has not reconciled these two very different states. Through analysis of the plays dialogue, we have encountered a totally self-focused Woman, whose behaviors toward her daughter reveal that she considers herself, indeed, a Mother only in the biological sense. Fifty years after Delaney wrote her play, we still acknowledge the challenge facing women trying to “juggle” the roles of mother and woman.<br /> <br /><br />Works Cited<br />Delaney, Shelagh. A Taste of Honey. New York: Grove Press, 1956.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-40752976955109778532011-01-28T18:24:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:39:57.984-07:00The Importance of Perspective<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4B6BgcdkOKlMFCbjB3jlgpY1O-h8BfKCS2qGJiQaFvRLFGY-1Py5J8qFQ9SEs0Wvhza95-UbSsS2UdFnzEIPJ04n6cMMIWReLGqWVt9W63AradSY0sGEdK3ubEXtg27_hWVqFvSGRAaA_/s1600-h/8ff4818325f00e16.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4B6BgcdkOKlMFCbjB3jlgpY1O-h8BfKCS2qGJiQaFvRLFGY-1Py5J8qFQ9SEs0Wvhza95-UbSsS2UdFnzEIPJ04n6cMMIWReLGqWVt9W63AradSY0sGEdK3ubEXtg27_hWVqFvSGRAaA_/s400/8ff4818325f00e16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431991806896930658" /></a><br />In John Gardner’s Grendel, the author retells the story of Beowulf through Grendel’s perspective. After killing multiple guards in Hrothgar’s hall, Grendel retreats to his cave and is awakened by Unferth, a loyal warrior, who seeks glory in death. Grendel won’t oblige him, but before he returns him safely back to Hrothgar’s hall, he is cynical of Unferth’s “heroic” attitude. Unferth recognizes this and replies, “Go ahead, scoff. Except in the life of a hero, the whole world’s meaningless. The hero sees values beyond what’s possible. That’s the nature of a hero. It kills him, of course, ultimately. But it makes the whole struggle of humanity worthwhile” (89). In fiction, point of view is everything. Grendel is an attractive piece of literature, in that Gardner does a rare and unorthodox thing—he retells a classic story through the “villains” perspective. Through this viewpoint, Hrothgar comes across as a tyrant, Beowulf a bully, and the rest of society—wasteful, gluttonous, sexual perverts who have no respect for Mother Nature or the nourishment it provides. <br /><br />This alternate perspective can be applied to S.J. Perelman's "Waiting for Santy," in which the image of Father Christmas has been perverted into "a pompous bourgeois of sixty-five who affects a white beard and a false air of benevolence" (56). This is a perfect example of "tendentious humor" in that the story's underlying purpose is to present "Santa" through a separate lens--that of a "cardiac" suffering glutton who uses elves, and offers in return "a forty-per-cent pay cut" (56-57). Themes of consumption, fulfillment, and "economic determinism" seep off the pages...and it's we the reader, who gain a different perspective. <br /><br /><br />Works Cited:<br /><br />Gardner, John. Grendel. New York: Vintage Books, 1971.<br /><br />Shalit, Gene. Laughing Matter's: A Celebration of American Humor. New York: Ballantine, 1987.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-35793453237351441172011-01-04T22:36:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:43:59.069-07:00Ego and Cash<object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/M89c3hWx3RQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/M89c3hWx3RQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br />In Sigmund Freud’s “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, Freud writes, “In the first case one’s father is what one would like to be, and in the second he is what one would like to have” (Freud 439). In Johnny Cash’s song “A Boy Named Sue,” a father castrates his son’s identity by giving him a feminine name. The father does this purposefully. We note this at the end of the song with the line:<br /><br /> Now you just fought one hell of a fight<br /> And I know you hate me, and you got the right<br /> To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.<br /> But ya ought to thank me, before I die,<br /> For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye<br /> Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you Sue.<br /> <br /> In his childhood, Sue had to mature quickly, molding the armor of his sexual identity against society’s taunts, having to “fight my whole life through.” Sue remarks,<br /><br /> Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,<br /> My fist got hard and my wits got keen,<br /><br /> This is a wonderful song to look at through a Freudian lens, because it shows how the father played with the Ego, which in turn alters Sue’s personality or outward manifestations—that into a tough guy who “grew up mean.” You could argue that Sue’s physical and internal manifestations are an example of what Freud calls a hysterical symptom. Freud writes, “We have heard that identification is the earliest and original form of emotional tie . . . where there is repression and where the mechanisms of the unconscious are dominant, object-choice is turned back into identification—the ego assumes the characteristics of the object” (Freud 439). In the end, we note how Sue consciously and unconsciously identified with his father who gave him a name which castrated his identity—but ultimately made him a stronger individual in the long run.<br /><br />Work Cited<br />Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan, Eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Malden: Blackwell, 2004.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-22669891468086807622011-01-03T15:46:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:43:04.318-07:00Feminist Literature<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUeVokZb7vRdak7m452xXDTyhyphenhyphen7MaY1_qDjcu05j3bXmgkcs2SnnaDvGlbhgPbi3P_Zet5f8EjPrej_u5lbRERaOyzOcZ29_-nL7tu_ARV6beUxJCRj9OhtgKQncamE7jwOc6C7Ol7d92/s1600-h/feminist.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUeVokZb7vRdak7m452xXDTyhyphenhyphen7MaY1_qDjcu05j3bXmgkcs2SnnaDvGlbhgPbi3P_Zet5f8EjPrej_u5lbRERaOyzOcZ29_-nL7tu_ARV6beUxJCRj9OhtgKQncamE7jwOc6C7Ol7d92/s400/feminist.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330620724697585298" /></a><br />In their article entitled, “Introduction: Feminist Paradigms,” authors Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan write:<br /><br />For the women’s movement of the 1960s and early 1970s the subject of feminism was women’s experience under patriarchy, the long tradition of male rule in society which silenced women’s voices, distorted their lives, and treated their concerns as peripheral. To be a women under such conditions was in some respects not to exist at all (Rivkan & Ryan 765).<br /><br />This paragraph was exciting, for my mind immediately went to Joyce Carol Oates’s short story “Where are you going, Where have you been?” Oates presents these noted paradigms to the reader through her main character Connie, a fifteen year old girl, whose societal shaped influences lead to a terrifying “uncertain” conclusion. I find this example applicable to our feminist discussion, for it is through Connie’s point of view that Oates loudly cries for a return to traditional family values, and begs the question: Does un-involved parenting leave children vulnerable to the outside world? According to Oates, who is considered by many to be a feminist author, the answer is a resounding yes. Through Connie’s point of view, Oates sculpts a girl marked by sin, lack of parental guidance, and in the end a realization that culture should not be a substitute for family—using the youth as the tragic symbol of what can happen if families don’t bring their children up in a nurturing environment.<br /> <br /> Rivkin and Ryan write, “. . . gender is made by culture in history” (766). In Oates’s story, society itself lays the mortar in shaping Connie’s identity. In their article entitled “In Fairyland, without a Map: Connie’s Exploration Inward in Joyce Carol Oates’s ‘Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?’”, author’s Gretchen Schulz and R. J. R. Rockwood make an interesting assertion to societies role in shaping our identity. The authors’ write:<br /> <br /> This journey is an essential part of the adolescent’s search for personal identity, and though it is a quest that he must undertake by himself, traditionally it has been the responsibility of culture to help by providing symbolic maps of the territory through which he will travel, territory that lies on the other side of consciousness (528).<br /> We note the maps, rules, or “language” adopted by women. The “language” of appearance laid out by culture in Connie’s “two selves” personality. Oates attacks this directly with, “Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home” (510). When Connie is home she is a girl, but when she steps out into society, with its scrutinizing eyes, Connie must present herself as a woman.<br /> <br /> Due to the lack of parental guidance, culture sits in the drivers’ seat—guiding Connie to false truths about her own identity. Music and impressing boy’s supplements church with, “They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their faces pleased and expectant as if they were entering a sacred building that loomed out of the night to give them what haven and what blessing they yearned for” (510). Oates is mocking the mid-sixties radical, free, and erotic culture—by paralleling its description to that of a large church.<br /><br /> In the end Joyce Carol Oates’s short story offers a perfect example of a females response to a male dominated society. <br /><br />Work Cited<br />Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan, Eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Malden: Blackwell, 2004.<br /><br />Schulz, Gretchen and R. J. R. Rockwood. "In Fairyland, Without a Map: Connie's Exploration Inward in Joyce Carol Oates' 'Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been' " reprinted in Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing. Fort Worth: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1991.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-5715884737743360552011-01-02T06:25:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:42:06.688-07:00Michel Foucault and LiteratureIn Michel Foucault’s 1975 essay “Discipline and Punish,” Foucault writes “The Panopticon is a machine for dissociating the see/being seen dyad: in the peripheric ring, one is totally scene, without ever seeing; in the central tower, one sees everything without ever being seen” (Foucault 555). There are many different types of literary texts which demonstrate this “disassociation” or all seeing/unseen tower, such as George Orwell’s 1984, and Stephen King’s The Running Man. However, it is in Octavia E. Butler’s Parable of the Sower, where we view Foucault’s philosophy come to fruition. For those who haven’t read the story, here is part of the description on the back cover: <br /> Cloistered inside a neighborhood enclave in a U.S. where the distance between the haves and the have-nots has widened to a gaping chasm, Lauren Olamina lives a protected life. But one night, violence explodes, and the walls of her neighborhood are smashed, annihilating Lauren’s family and friends—all she loves and knows.<br /> The “walls” the above describes is eerily reminiscent of Foucault’s plague model used in his essay. In Sower every house has built a wall around itself. This is the life in the land of the “have-nots.” The government, or what’s left of it, has its own wall along with the bourgeoisie “haves.” In referring to the plague Foucault writes, Rather than the massive, binary division between one set of people and another, it called for multiple separations, individualizing distributions, an organization in depth of surveillance and control, an intensification and ramification of power” (Foucault 553). Sower displays these traits beautifully in the course of the novel, for when Lauren’s neighborhood walls are torn down, she searches out refuge in the “haves” territory. When she comes across to their wall the reader learns that the wall has a security system in place (be it guards or motion sensors), and through encounters with other characters—that the “haves” have been monitoring the “have-nots.” There is a nice binary between Foucault’s essay and Butler’s Sower, for we see how Lauren is a diseased/contagious leper, and how there is a larger system in place, or in Foucault’s words, “. . . a machinery that assures dissymmetry, disequilibrium, difference” (Foucault 555).<br /><br />Work Cited<br />Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan, Eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Malden: Blackwell, 2004. <br /><br />Butler, Octavia E. "Parable of the Sower." New York: Aspect, 1993.dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-82155003863382402009-02-18T16:39:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:17:17.491-07:00Going Against the Grain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6i1eIih52GR1dbTvMm94cK56X9u36Pt4O7ZP31PuKgfvm0Gc4P7J2xG-kK02Wk8ML8g57Mkz2Y7nNQu-FCrLTPJHs-rG6i4VmgWHdq7eJPLTNZgcT3LAgvStvUXoHki5Pdprj1GpdQLGS/s1600-h/rosie_the_riviter_poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304358588776387154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 338px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6i1eIih52GR1dbTvMm94cK56X9u36Pt4O7ZP31PuKgfvm0Gc4P7J2xG-kK02Wk8ML8g57Mkz2Y7nNQu-FCrLTPJHs-rG6i4VmgWHdq7eJPLTNZgcT3LAgvStvUXoHki5Pdprj1GpdQLGS/s400/rosie_the_riviter_poster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>In Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan’s “The Implied Order: Structuralism,” the authors note Claude Levi-Strauss who, “. . . began to see that culture, like language, is a system characterized by an internal order of interconnected parts that obey certain rules of operation” (Rivkin 54). But what happens when you take an established system like men in the workforce—and go against the grain? What happens when the rules are turned inside-out? The answer—beautiful marketing. What makes “Rosie the Riveter” fascinating, is that she is a token—used in a way that went against the established constructs of a male dominated society. The idea of Rosie went against the rules, or order, and established a new language or rule—that women were just as capable as men in the workforce. At the outbreak of World War II, women had no place in a machine shop; who would baste the turkey? Women certainly wouldn’t wear an unappealing handkerchief in their hair; imagine what the boys would think? The poster of “Rosie the Riveter” is a wonderful example of Ferdinand de Saussure’s idea of the phonetic component and the ideational component. The words “We Can Do It!” emit an angry shout off the page. The sound of it attracts both our attention as well as a call to arms. When the eye falls from the rallying words to Rosie’s taught face, flexed muscular forearm, and greasy uniform—the targeted female audience understands that the modern era, or “old language” of female roles in society has shifted with the wind. Rivkin and Ryan note famed historian Michel Foucault, writing, “Focault notices that what counts as knowledge changes with time, and with each change, the place of language in knowledge is also modified . . . according to him, knowledge and perception always occur through the mediation of language” (Rivkin 55). The poster of Rosie the Riveter with its “two faces” or “signs” captures the discipline of Saussure’s semiology beautifully. In their book, Through Women’s Eyes: An American History, authors Ellen Carol DuBois and Lynn Dumenil write, “By undercutting patterns of sex-segregated labor, perfectly symbolized by the poster image of ‘Rosie the Riveter,’ and offering women new independence and responsibilities, it produced significant changes, both in the workplace and in the domestic arena” (DuBois 507). In the end, language, through its phonetic and ideational component, mutated into a “new rule.” The utterance shifted—opening a new door for women . . . one rivet at a time. </div><div> </div><div>Works Cited</div><div> </div><div>DuBois, Ellen Carol and Lynn Dumenil. Through Women’s Eyes: An American History. Boston: St. Martin’s, 2005. <br /></div><div>Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan. “The Implied Order: Structuralism.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 53-55.</div>dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3372810532260888604.post-58252403210758389902009-02-04T17:53:00.000-08:002011-08-05T03:17:24.801-07:00Les Enfants Du Paradis: A Film Aristotle Could Appreciate<object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CjV_hZ9qBfc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CjV_hZ9qBfc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br />In chapter fifteen of Aristotle’s Poetics, entitled “The Characters of Tragedy,” Aristotle argues that there should be “four things to aim at;” in terms of character representation (Aristotle 76). The four principles are as follows:<br /><br />1. Characters should be good.<br />2. Portrayal should be appropriate.<br />3. Characters should be lifelike.<br />4. [Characters] should be consistent.<br /><br />Does Marcel Carne’s Les Enfants Du Paradis (Children of Paradise), demonstrate these principles of tragedy as Aristotle noted them, and does the complex action of the scene reveal a reversal or recognition in the characters?<br />Here we see the theory at work in the lower-class theatre district of France, where our mime sits to be ridiculed and gawked at by the upper-class. It is in the opening scene where we are introduced to Aristotle’s first principle regarding characters of tragedy--characters should be good. Aristotle writes, “There can be goodness in every class of person; for instance, a woman or a slave may be good, though the one is possibly an inferior being and the other in general an insignificant one” (Aristotle 76). We see this goodness in the beautiful woman who doesn’t mock the mime, but views him as a person who has hidden beauty and mystique. In turn, we view the mime, who is a slave to his low-class position in society, as having goodness in him for not retaliating against the heavy-set man who berates him. While the mime and the woman are dissimilar in social status—they share an equal bond of substandard ness.<br />The beautiful women ties in nicely to Aristotle’s second principle of portrayal. Aristotle pens, “. . . a character may possess manly qualities, but it is not appropriate that a female character should be given manliness or cleverness in this way” (Aristotle 76). In this scene, the heavy-set man grabs the woman by the wrists, and she demonstrates weakness to his powerful “manly” grasp. According to Aristotle’s principle, the woman is appropriately dressed in feminine clothing and demonstrates petite ness in stature. She is not representative of the later models of female characters in film, like Erin Brockovich, or Segourney Weaver, who wouldn’t fit under Aristotle’s principle of appropriate portrayal.<br />The third principle of lifelike characters has never been fleshed out by Aristotle. Perhaps by “lifelike,” Aristotle is referring to audience identification with the characters. As audience members, we identify that the characters are human, demonstrating strengths and weaknesses. We recognize and can relate to the scenes rational and irrational thinking in times of duress. When the film hits its first turning point; the heavy-set man notices his pocket watch is stolen—rational for he is out in public. The woman, who didn’t share in his view of the mime, must have taken it—irrational for the woman is standing on the wrong side of where the pocket watch was kept, and would have had to drop her purse along with part of her dress to reach it. In the end we note the “lifelike” virtues of the scene: compassion demonstrated by the beautiful woman, determination by the heavy-set man, and honesty by the mime.<br />The forth and final principle of consistency is demonstrated throughout the scene. The mime and the woman remain good through their assisting one another in speech or action, and the heavy-set man returns—remaining ignorant in his cognitive reasoning.<br />It is interesting to point out, that through all of these principles; the complex action of the scene reveals a reversal in the characters. Aristotle writes, “A reversal is a change from one state of affairs to its opposite” (Aristotle 70). In the opening scene the mime is passed by the noisy crowds, observed by the few who want to gawk and joke. He is on a lower plane of superiority. The reversal comes when he re-tells the story of the pickpocket that he is cast in a new light. Through pantomime, he makes fun of the heavy-set man—and the crowd laughs with him, not at him. We see that his position on the stage is one of superiority, for he is higher then the onlookers looking up at him. The situation has changed dramatically for citizens have grown quite and are giving the mime their utmost attention. You could argue that a moment of recognition occurs at the end of the scene between the three principle characters. The heavy-set man perhaps gains a grain of knowledge from his ignorant accusation; but according to Aristotle must remain ignorant in order to stay consistent. In the case of the beautiful woman and the mime, the woman sees the virtue of the honest mime assisting her in her time of duress, and offers the mime a flower—symbolizing their connected identity. According to Aristotle, this will “likely lead to good or bad fortune” (71).<br /><br />Work Cited<br /><br />Aristotle. “Poetics.” Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. Penelope Murray and T. S. Dorsch. London: Penguin Group, 2004. 57-97.<br /><p></p>dmdailieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04714766345437615657noreply@blogger.com