Zero Slash One

All Quiet on the Western Front

2009-08-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

Erich Maria Remarque. All Quiet on the Western Front. Translated by A. W. Wheen. (New York: Ballantine Books, 2001. pp. 296).

Author Erich Remarque’s book, All Quiet on the Western Front, takes place during World War I, with Germans defending against the French. Germany's “Iron Youth,” represented by Paul Baumer and his friends, begin the war as barely-adult schoolmates who enthusiastically, naively join the war. Unaware of the harsh realities of combat, they quickly find out that war is really a living hell disguised as both earning chivalrous honor and giving vital patronage. If not dodging bullets, shunning gas attacks, or engaging in trench warfare, Paul battles the threat of starving to death and losing mental stability. Paul must face the awful reality in which he finds himself and prepare for his return, permanently changed.

This paper will focus on two unmistakable anti-war themes that Remarque uses to de-glamorize war and expose its hardships. Saturated with a clearly pessimistic picture of war, the first theme that Remarque expresses through the characters (and their attitudes) is that war is inane, yet inescapable. For example, the “Iron Youth” in this case are baited with tempting traps of implied obligation to fight for their country—whether or not they have actually seen a Frenchman, or more to the point—want to kill one. The second theme of focus is that war destroys a soldier’s psyche. Crucial comradeship for example, on the front, bestows rewarding benefits of companionship to the lonely soldier who is separated from missed family and friends. However, the precarious lifespan of these family-like army friendships (that are subject to the permanent effects of bullets, bombs, and death, etc.) is temporary. To say the least, exhaustingly and constantly dodging death, then dealing with major losses amongst comrades could only cause the soldier’s emotions to sever and his heart to harden.

The first theme is that war is horrible, yet unstoppable. In the begginning, Paul and his friends were encouraged to join and fight a war driven by intellectual adult minds, but not theirs (i.e. young soldiers who were actually doing the fighting). By mentioning Kantoreck, the academic instructor who encouraged Paul and friends to join the fight, Paul describes his frustration for such non-soldiers by describing them as people like Kantoreck who think they knew what is best, but really make no significant sacrifices or contributions (e.g. engaging in combat, offering their lives for their country, etc). In the following passage, Paul admits his naivety, and their deception:

The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds with greater
insight and a more humane wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We
had to recognize that our generation was more to be trusted than theirs. They surpassed us
only in clever phrases and in cleverness. / While they continued to write and talk, we saw
the wounded and dying, While they taught that duty to one’s country is the greatest thing,
we already knew that death-throes are stronger. (12)

By saying that his generation is trusted more than the non-soldier patriots like Kantorek, he means that without actually experiencing war first hand—that a human being is more than disposable chemicals in a mind riding a horse named soldier, they’re minds blanketed by shear ignorance (and pointless patriotism). Further, Paul looks for an answer to the reason for war, to actually explain the experience, but “never quite succeeds” (19). But, he appears to accept the fact that fighting for one’s country is the only answer to this big war mystery.

On one occasion, Paul recieves leave from the army and returns home temporarily. He finds it difficult to understand or relate well to the people back home. While the soldiers on the front desire peace and wish for an end to the hardships, the hometown non-heroes enthusiastically talk about pressing on to Paris. During an evening at the Pub, Paul respectfully disagrees with a non-soldiers opinion to march on through Paris: “I reply that in our opinion a break-through may not be possible. The enemy may have to many reserves.” Despite his informed response, the non-soldier simply “dismisses the idea loftily and informs me I know nothing about it” (167). Furthering their deception and fueling the national pride, Paul feels misunderstood and does not belong:

They talk to much for me. They have worries, aims, desires, that I cannot comprehend. I often sit with one of them in the little beer garden and try to explain to him that this is really the only thing: just ot sit quietly, like this. / They are different men here, men I cannot properley understand, whom I eny and despise. (169)

The second theme goes beyond facing harsh ridicule from the beer hall citizens; a war instead, kills a soldier’s psyche. Remarque makes this clear. Paul watched many, if not all, of his friends die. He describes his vile surroundings and tells of the atrocities non-soldiers will never see: “We see men living with their skulls blown open; we see soldiers run with their two feet cut off, they stagger on their splintered stumps into the net shell-hole. / We see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces…life is at en end. Perhaps withstanding the bouts of fear and death could renders much worse damage than from an actual bullet or a sharp bayonet.
The only redeaming quality that war can offer is, as Paul argues, is “comradeship” (26).

Comradeship is crucial for the soldiers because it helps the keep their wits, and cope with loss. Paul describes the feeling of losing these key companions as, “a vast, inapprehensible melancholy” (121). For example, one day, the French came and began attacking the village. While evacuating, Paul and his friend Kropp were hit by flying bullets. They were bandaged up and sent on a train back home. After a few weeks, Kropp's leg is wrought with infection and amputated at the thigh. Shortly after their friendship is severed by circumstance: Paul is sent back to the war, and Kropp is sent home.

The hardest loss was that of Kat. He was the last of Paul's friends to die in the war. He acted as Paul's friend and mentor, bonded by the hardships of the war. Then, in October of 1918, Paul finally fell. The book describes his death as, "...his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come" (296). Shortly afterwards, the war ended.

In conclusion, this book does not focus on heroic stories of bravery, but instead, gives a realistic view of the hellish misery the soldiers experienced. Even though the bitter war did eventually end, and peace was reached, the soldiers who survived physically suffered broken spirits. Remarque, wants the reader to understand that war is terrible, to make sure that an abhorrent event like fighting a war, is not incorrectly associated with chivalrous honor and vital patronage.

The Tempest - Shakespeare

2008-12-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

Long since the first critic put his pen to paper to prove why a piece of literature or art was good, bad, heretical, or even a treasonable offense, have facts been bent and spun in order to further a particular agenda; and while most every critic hails Shakespeare’s The Tempest as a thinly-veiled political commentary, it too falls prey to the convenient emissions and wild distortions that plague the world of criticism. “Traditional” critics revere the play as a complete, thematic work of art that passively reflects the social and political conditions in which it was written. “Post-colonial” critics, however, purport that traditionalist ignore the implied politics that the power of art and order suggest and that the play is conflicted in ideas. While these two very different readings of The Tempest have long thought to be at odds with each other, an in-depth analysis shows that both readings have their merits, share many of the same critical short-comings, and are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

Traditional critics acknowledge the politics evident in the play. The Tempest, like almost any piece of literature, passively reflects the politics in which it was written; but by turning the play into nothing more than a vehicle for Shakespeare’s political agenda, the reader is blind to the many virtues this masterpiece possesses.

The plot did not involve the purposeful overtake of a land. Prospero and Miranda were deceived by Antonio and did not willingly leave their home. They made the best of the island once they got there, and that involved getting help from whomever they could find on the island.
One cannot overlook the fact that this play includes many characters and subplots, which are similar to other plays Shakespeare has done. The character Ariel is similar to that of the many fairies in Midsummer Nights Dream and Caliban is similar to the many servant characters found in almost all of Shakespeare’s plays. The idea of an overthrow of royalty has been present in other Shakespeare plays such as Hamlet, MacBeth, and Othello. Shakespeare could very well be continuing with a systematic way of writing that has always worked for him. Just because The Tempest happens to involve the landing on an un-colonized island by royalty, on cannot assume Shakespeare was writing a political commentary on colonialism.

In any post-colonial study there exist a tendency to promote and side with the non-westerner, the indigenous inhabitant victimized by imperial conquest. This bias would obviously emotionally cloud the mind of any critic, who feels like he must apologize for the historical acts of the westerners. Post-colonial critics have been accused of presenting Shakespeare’s plays as monarchial ideological retrograde and reducing the importance of the relationship between the text and the context in which it was written, focusing on politics at the expense of textual, artistic, and formal merits of the play, and is disrespectfully attacking Shakespeare’s body of work.

Critics have time and time again equated Prospero with Shakespeare, and assume the character serves as a voice for the author. It is important, however, that we question the one-sided and convenient politics of this assumption, and research a higher, more realistic critical position. Prospero, though at first presented in a god-like manner, is later faulted with a bad temper and limited insight. In Deborah Willis’s, Responding to the Challenge she notes the faults that Shakespeare intentionally worked into Prospero’s character.

“While we are at first led to see Prospero as a wonder-working and benevolent ‘god of power’ his displays of bad temper, to Miranda and Ariel as well as to Caliban, raise doubts in subsequent scenes.” (Pg 264)

Later, when assessing Caliban’s character, Prospero’s understanding of character seems to be binary and very limited. He describes Caliban as a “born devil on whose nature / Nurture could never stick”. (4.1.188-89) Shakespeare, however, paints a very different, infinitely more complex version of Caliban for the reader, a “noble savage”, and at times half-human, capable of learning languages, enjoying music, and forming relationships with others. Willis states, “Caliban’s speeches encourage the audience to sympathize with his suffering…” (Pg 264)
Shakespeare’s mind obviously created and contained that of Prospero and Caliban, but he creates realistic, three-dimensional characters out of both, removing the god and beast, conqueror and conquered ideology often wrongfully assumed about this play. Ironically, Shakespeare who is himself seen as capable of recognizing the humanity as well as the bestiality of Caliban, continues to be equated with Prospero, an ethnocentric, aristocratic colonist.
There is a notable undertone in contemporary critical writing, apologizing for past imperial conquest and resulting enslavement of indigenous peoples. While evaluating the merits and faults of both post-colonial and traditional critiques of any work makes any binary argument much more difficult to further, it indeed is the only path to a balanced and comprehensive evaluations incorporating the pluralisms, conflicts, and, consequential, human aspects of any work of art. The Tempest should be regarded as a successful, entertaining endorsement of the political environment in which it was written, while hinting at the prevalent apprehension felt about the imperial conquest and future colonization that was happening at the time.

House of Mirth - Edith Wharton

2008-12-20T13:22:00.000-08:00

Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth presents the reader with a comprehensive tour through New York’s early twentieth-century aristocracy. The novel closely follows Lily Bart and her desperate, scrambled attempts to gain ground and secure a position and among the ultra-rich. Many of Lily’s escapades orbit around Lawrence Selden, a well-to-do lawyer who has taken a fancy to her empty but intriguing person. At one point he even makes plans to propose marriage. While at times it seems Lawrence Selden may be seeking Lily Bart’s affections, his character is nothing more than an extension of Wharton’s bitter resentment towards everything that Lily’s character epitomizes, the value that high society had placed on wealth and physical beauty.

Wharton paints a character devoid of any meaningful virtues, while simultaneously using Selden to demonstrate how others relate to and view depthless vanity. In her “The Daughter’s Dilemma: Psychoanalytic Interpretation and Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth”, Ellie Sullivan implies that beauty is the essence of a woman, “Lily incarnates in a static manner…what Edith Wharton herself must have taken to be the essence of a woman-beauty.” (Pg 469) This idea of physical beauty defining the woman, however, is exactly what Wharton is depreciating through Lily and Selden. Throughout the novel, Lily’s beauty is noted and praised by friends and admirers, but her person is empty and her life tragic. The author makes a poor example of Lily and leaves the reader frustrated and annoyed with her beauty and resulting character flaws. Wharton never intended for Selden to end up with Lily; rather, she wanted to punish Lily’s character by damaging her pride and leaving her with nothing. She needed something valuable to take from Lily in the end, as punishment for being who she is. “But the hour sped on and Selden did not come…She understood now that he was never coming” (pg 177). Wharton is teaching a lesson through Lily’s story. She shows that proper etiquette and extraordinary gook looks, does not determine or guarantee anything.

Despite the fancy he has taken to her, Selden too does not regard physical beauty in itself as a virtue or “the essence of a woman-beauty”. This is evident towards the beginning of the novel when Wharton writes, “He had a confused sense that she (Lily) must have cost a great deal to make…He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external.” (Pg. 27) Selden looks down on Lily for her dependence on beauty and her underlying but obvious motives of marriage. Their relationship is based solely on physical appearance, witty banter, and pride. Selden often remarks at her beauty, and perhaps in a way makes him thinks he cares for her; but his feelings run shallow, demonstrated by his easy and instantaneous disregard for any past feelings or possible future he had with her.

Both Selden and Wharton imply that Lily’s real person never developed but was usurped and then tarnished by her beauty. Later in her essay, Sullivan states, “But Lily is ‘mentally paralyzed’ in not knowing how to put her beauty to use in her search for love, a husband, money, a protector, a sponsor, even a career.” (Pg 469) Had Lily been simple looking, her life and relationships would be of a completely different nature, sincere and free of the tarnish that her vanity introduces. In “Death by Speculating: Deconstructing” by Margot Norris likens Lily to a portrait, “But the deeper implication is that the tableau’s “realism” derives from the fact that Lily never looks like a “real” woman at all, that she always looks like a portrait of a woman…” (Pg 441) This statement reveals much about Lily’s character. The real Lily is limited, a woman who has been forever trying to imitate the well to do and convince them she is of their class. The fact that her mother was originally poor and after marriage tried very hard to keep up appearances influences Lily, who appears to be imitating her mother who is imitating the upper class. This cycle goes on and on, reinstating the irony of the social hierarchy, as Lily knows it.

Throughout the novel, the reader sees Lily make one poor, capricious decision after another, largely due to the idea that her worth and future lay solely in her beauty. Lily assumes that her good looks will get her what she wants but is repeatedly met with failure in her conquests. “But could she not trust to her beauty to bridge it over…” (Pg 173) First, we see her beauty and resulting character deter Selden from proposing marriage, and later Wharton attributes Lily’s beauty as the source of her trouble with Mr. Trenor. Had Lily been plain looking and convinced Trenor to help her out financially because she was a friend of the family, he probably would not have expected sexual favors in return; but because Lily is beautiful and uses that as leverage in dealing with Trenor, he assumes she is offering herself in return, which ultimately leads to her demise.

Both Wharton and Selden resent Lily’s good looks and ability to rely on them for a livelihood and station. While Wharton is able to give us all of the angles of Lily’s thoughts and her inner struggles, Selden provides an outsiders perspective the reader can relate to. Wharton obviously loathed the characteristics defining Lily’s person and uses Selden to furtively pass her ideas on to the reader.

The Road to Fame

2008-12-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

Despite the many advances in architecture, city planning, and literature in England during the Middle Ages, women contributed little to the recorded history of that era. It is safe to assume that the female gender of the period did, in fact, contribute on many levels to the advances made by that society; but for whatever reason, they were excluded from the written accounts, and thereby excluded from the volumes of English history. Because it is unrealistic to make a blanket statement regarding the notable contributions of women during this period, it must be noted that there are a few exceptions: Margery Kempe and Julian of Norwich. How did these two women gain centuries of fame, while other women disappeared through the cracks of time? While each managed to gain exceptional recognition during her own lifetime and well beyond (as well as a more prominent position for women in general), they each achieved different reactions and historical permeations with their own unique approach.

Margery Kempe

Margery Kempe, a middle class wife and mother of 14, managed to plant herself in history as one of the female Catholic mystics of the Middle Ages. Whether or not Kempe’s goal was to make a sociological impact, she did just that. Because the Catholic Church was the authority at this time in England, there was a good chance that any proclamations made regarding the Church would be listened to, or at least acknowledged.

Kempe’s famous account of her mysticism was recorded by one of her sons according to her dictation. He writes, “And when she had long been labored in this and many other temptations that men weened she should never ‘a scaped or lived.” Although it is known that she was not the writer of the text itself, it is clearly Kempe’s voice that comes through. What is notable about this line from the first chapter of her biography, entitled Her First Vision, is that she uses the third person in reference to herself. This reference subtly establishes legitimacy to her story. If someone other than Kempe is reporting these visions, then authenticity is that much easier to achieve.

Adding even more to the legitimacy of her trials, Kempe goes on to humble herself in this line: “And then our Lord Jesus Christ with great sweetness spoke to this creature, commanding her to go again to her husband.” Kempe references herself as a creature which establishes even more credibility because it reveals humility and modesty, essential characteristics of notable mystics and religious persons.

While not unheard of, the abstention of sex between married couples was, at the time, still considered very unusual and somewhat wrong (though I assume it is even more so today). Because it was considered a woman’s obligation to submit herself sexually to her husband, the idea of abstention sounded absurd in context. Strangely, Kempe managed to excuse herself from this obligation, if you will, by maintaining that it was the will of God:

“Sir, if it like you, ye shall grant me my desire and y shall have your desire. Granteth me that ye shall not come in my bed, and I grant you to quit your debts ere I go to Jerusalem. And maketh my body free to God so that ye never make no challenging in me to ask no debt of matrimony after this day while ye live, and I shall eat and drink on the Friday at your bidding.”

Of course, it is unfair to say that Kempe simply did not want to have relations with her husband, so she decided to quote a higher authority; but whether or not she was the main source of this major decision, Kempe’s execution of her mystic revelations was quite successful—she achieved her desire and ensured herself a spot in history.

Yet another reason for Kempe’s fame is the subject matter in which she records. Referring to Kempe, her writings read, “And the foresaid creature wept and sobbed so plentivously as though she had seen our Lord with her bodily eye suffering his Passion at that time.” This passage reminds the reader that Kempe is announcing her special status to the world—whether in pride or not. She was chosen to be revealed visions from God, while others, perhaps more worthy (in their minds), more chaste and more pious were not given such a gift. Furthermore, Kempe’s line, “But they knew full little what she felt” is worthy of mention in the same light. She is referring to the “others,” those who did not like or understand what she was experiencing. She possessed an envied gift, causing all to take notice.

Lastly, Kempe’s behavior in public is almost shocking for a woman at that time. Her actions were conspicuous and drew much attention. In chapter 28, entitled “To Jerusalem,” Kempe’s encounter of vision during her pilgrimage are described:

“And when they came up onto the Mount of Calvary she fell down that she might not stand nor kneel but wallowed and wrested with her body, spreading her arms abroad, and cried with a loud voice as though her heart should ‘a burst asunder, for in the city of her soul she saw verily and freshly how our Lord was crucified.”

It is not so much that Kempe begins to act like a man, but she begins to act unlike a woman. This outrageous behavior can be seen as empowering for women at the time since it drew much attention, but Kempe was never punished for it. This could pave the way for other, more rambunctious women to come after her.

Julian of Norwich

Julian of Norwich, whose real name is unknown, was a female Catholic mystic just like Margery Kempe. Unlike Kempe (but equally as conspicuous), Julian’s behavior involved a turning away from the outer world, and a lifelong quest to understand the Divine.

In her book, Showings, Julian describes the visions she received and the holy mysteries that were revealed to her. In chapter 60, entitled “God as Mother”, she writes:

“To motherhood as properties belong natural love, wisdom and knowledge—and this is God. For though it is true that our bodily bringing forth is very little, low and simple compared to our spiritual bringing forth, yet it is he who does the mothering in the creatures by whom it is done.”

By feminizing God, Julian empowers woman. The “mother” becomes an important figure, replacing the father figure in prominence since he does not nurture as the mother does. Although Julian did not, presumably, intend to push away the father figure (indeed, she says “father and mother” at one point), her emphasis on the nurturing side of God places the feminine in an important light.

Part of a small majority of women in the Middle Ages who could read and write, Julian went beyond this education by possessing a thorough understanding of the Bible and other religious writings. She writes in chapter 38 of her Showings:

“In the New Law he brought to my mind first how Mary Magdalene, Peter, Paul, Thomas of India, Jude, Saint John of Beverley and others, also without number, are known in the Church on earth with their sins, and how these sins are no shame to them but have been transformed to their glory.”

Julian proves herself to be well-read and educated in this passage, something imperative to securing a place in written history at that time.

Julian not only understood the complexity of Catholic doctrine, but contributed a new interpretation of it to history. She writes, “So shall they be rewarded by different joys in heaven according to the pain and sorrow they have caused the soul on earth.” This reworking of theology in a positive and not necessarily heretical light would guarantee her a spot in the Church’s history of theologians.

Finally, like Kempe, Julian announces her special status inadvertently. She writes, “And I had a strong, deep conviction that it was he himself and none other that showed me this vision.” She is announcing to all who read her work that she is special, she has been chosen by the highest authority—God.

Women as Mystics

Because women have long been perceived as the feeling, sensitive gender, it was assumed that they would not contribute anything of seriousness to the study of God and the Church. However, Margery Kempe and Julian of Norwich completely reverse this supposition because their sensitivity and feelings are what enabled them to connect with God and receive his messages. Because the Divine is considered to be unnoticeable to the senses, that that is precisely why they, women, were able to sense His presence, while others could not.

Rather than a united effort towards women’s liberation or modern feminism, the actions and accounts of Margery Kempe and Julian of Norwich are reflections of two unique women and a distinct representation of their personalities. They each responded to a similar call in very different, individual ways. Because of this, their separate accounts and writings cannot be dismissed as a calculated move towards the overthrow of man, but rather, a sincere attempt to reveal their passion and beliefs.

Voices: Achebe vs. Flaubert

2008-12-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

While authors Gustave Flaubert and Chinua Achebe keep their narrators at a distance from the subjects they discuss, the narrators differ in their approach to their subjects, revealing the author’s own attitudes. Achebe’s narrator in Things Fall Apart subtly reveals the flaws of the tribal people as well as the foreign missionaries, all while maintaining a fairly neutral stance. Like Achebe’s narrator, the narrator of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary subtly reveals his general attitude towards the world by focusing on character flaws, but instead of highlighting the even distribution of blame between characters, his narrator emphasizes the romantic elements of the world in which the story takes place.

Things Fall Apart is a somewhat impartial glance at tribal society and the effects of colonialism on that society. Achebe chooses to focus on the deterioration of the Igbo people due to the efforts made by the missionaries, which would lead one to infer that Achebe, himself, blames the foreigners for the fall of the tribe. But, the author gives just as much attention to the extreme violence of the tribe and the internal conflicts that exist, suggesting that Achebe does not see either issue as the sole catalyst for the decline of the Igbo society, but rather portrays the collision of both cultures as the reason for their descent. Achebe’s narrator does not criticize this tribal society for its non-western traditions and violent ways, nor does he praise them for these attributes—he simply reports in great, at times loving, detail the ways of the Igbo people and the destructive personal history of one man, Okonkwo.

It should also be noted that the narration establishes in Okonkwo a shaky and troubled character hidden by outward physical strength, reinforcing the idea that Okonkwo’s personal descent is well in the works before the missionaries arrive. If Achebe sincerely wanted to blame the missionaries for ruining this tribal society, he might have had his narrator omit damning details such as the scene where Okonkwo beats his wife, kills his adopted son, and displays irrational behavior, which would have painted him as the saint and the missionaries as the devil. Instead, the narrator wields his literary sword evenly and reveals not only Okonkwo’s flaws, but the hypocritical and dominating nature of the English missionaries.

In the narrator’s portrayal of the Igbo tribe, war is as common as eating. In this sense, the conflict he relates between the tribal peoples and the foreigners is another kind of war—a war in which the English win.

Although Flaubert is prodded as one of the first realist writers, his masterpiece, Madame Bovary, is much more romantic than realistic. The beginning of the novel is very much grounded in the realist way, but a transition begins during the second part of the novel which pushes the story into the romantic realm. Part One establishes the reliable facts and history of each character, as well as motives for future actions. Because the narrator gives the reader enough realist elements to allow their belief in the characters’ existence, it is that much easier to believe that the ridiculous events that they participate in do, in fact, occur.

The realist elements are strong in Part One, and the detail that Flaubert’s narrator goes to is great. An example of this can be seen when Emma and Bovary meet for the first time and he touches her slightly, causing her to blush:

"Mademoiselle Emma saw it, and bent over the flour sacks. Charles out of politeness made a dash also, and as he stretched out his arms at the same moment felt his breast brush against the back of the young girl bending beneath him. She drew herself up, scarlet, and looked at him over her shoulder as she handed him his whip. " (Flaubert 20)

That kind of detail definitely paints a picture for the reader.

The narrator brings romantic sensibilities in through the character of Bovary Sr., who is portrayed in a somewhat negative light (lazy, gambling, etc.), but the idealistic and impractical wants of this character lead him to romantic ventures. Romantic elements surface again in Part One of the novel at the wedding of Emma to Bovary. The wedding itself is not as notable as the scenes after the wedding. The image of Emma’s father standing in the road, watching his daughter—his only family—ride off to start her life is romantic to the nth degree. While he is happy for her, the imminent loneliness creeping into his life becomes evident. He recalls the bittersweet memories of his own wedding and the happy years he had with his wife before she passed.

Even more notable is that Emma does not match her father’s love for her. She is portrayed as somewhat complacent, going along with what is expected. This, of course, changes erratically throughout the course of the novel, when Emma turns into an adulterous, eccentric woman.
Achebe’s narrator tells a tumultuous story with an impartial, but sometimes warm, voice, while Flaubert’s narrator describes extreme characters and happenings with a calm, but sometimes bitter, voice. Both narrators remain fairly distant from their subjects, but general feelings and attitudes of the author’s seep in through the tone of their narrators when they slip out of indifference, if only for a moment.

Oscar Wilde - The Importance of Being Gay

2008-11-21T09:58:00.001-08:00

The uninformed reader may interpret Oscar Wilde’s play, The Importance of Being Earnest, as a light-hearted celebration of humanity; but one who is keen to Wilde’s personality and personal history will certainly note this novel as much a celebration as it is a satire, subtly implemented but dripping with bitterness. Although Wilde crafts an accessible and humorous account of aristocratic life, he fails to omit his own hostility towards the upper-class, his own class, in the make-up of the story. Because he fuses the genres of satire and honest comedy, using elements from both, one can easily see that The Importance of Being Earnest cannot fully be categorized as either.

To recognize the ambivalent nature of Wilde’s play, one must become familiar with his personal history in order to clearly identify the two genres in his play. After understanding certain aspects of Wilde’s life, it becomes quite sensible that a man with essentially two lives, two conflicting natures, would write a play conflicted in motive.

Oscar Wilde was born in 1854 to a philandering Doctor and a feminist poet. He was given a privileged education and lived a rather posh life. Wilde attended Oxford and received his degree in 1878. He began his career writing art reviews and articles for magazines (Layman).

Wilde worked as an art reviewer in 1881 and soon embraced the idea of art for art’s sake. He eventually became widely known as one of the most fervent advocates for aestheticism. Rupert Hart-Davis explains this turning point in Wilde’s life,

He was the most articulate and popular spokesman in the late nineteenth century advocating the doctrine of aestheticism, which insisted that art should be primarily concerned with ‘art for art's sake,’ not with politics , religion, science, bourgeois morality, or other intrusions. ‘All art,’ he said, ‘is quite useless’ (Layman).

Obviously, despite his notorious cynicism (which was apparent from his first literary works), Wilde had a true appreciation for the arts.

He eventually gained celebrity among the cultured European crowd. His career began to take flight when he was involved in writing several “farcical” plays. It was during this time that he married his friend’s sister, Constance Lloyd. They had two children and he continued to write, despite often negative reviews from such writers as Henry James and Bernard Shaw. Hart-Davis writes of such reviews in his The Letters of Oscar Wilde, “James McNeill Whistler, who, with increasing acrimony, accused Wilde of pretentiousness and plagiarism” (Layman). He goes on to write of the reception of his novel, The Picture of Dorian Grey, “Widely reviewed, the novel generated considerable distaste, even revulsion, among many reviewers because of its suggestion of homosexuality” (Layman).Despite such instances, his success eventually grew, spurring several tours throughout America, Canada, and Europe.

The most pertinent and conspiratorial chapter in Wilde’s personal life began in 1891. With only nine years of his life left, he met Lord Alfred Douglas, and soon initiated what was then referred to in the Victorian Period as “The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name” (Kanfer). Wilde had since gained notoriety for his promiscuity with young boys, making his affair with Douglas more expected than surprising. Hart-Davis writes,

Wilde was also self-destructive, for his progressively compulsive homosexuality…arising from a need for inner stability but resulting in increasing guilt and inner division, led him into experiences with ‘renters’ (male prostitutes) as well as casual pickups. It was, he said, like ‘feasting with panthers. The danger was half the excitement’(Layman).

While his love affair with “Bosie”, as he was called, was kept quite under wraps from the general public, word eventually got out causing Wilde’s wife to leave him and Wilde was accused of homosexuality by his lover’s father (Hart Davis). Wilde considered this the undoing of his career and the cause of his demise, saying of Bosie,

My genius, my life as an artist, my work, and the quiet I needed for it, were nothing to him when matched with his unrestrained and coarse appetities for common profligate life: his greed for money: his incessant and violent scenes: his unimaginative selfishness.... I curse myself night and day for my folly in allowing him to dominate my life(Hart-Davis).

Wilde was soon imprisoned for sodomy and sentenced to two years of hard labor, most of which was in solitary confinement.

Armed with the knowledge of Wilde’s dramatic personal history, one can attempt to deconstruct his most notable play, The Importance of Being Earnest, and strip it to its two conflicting voices: Satire and sincere comedy.

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The Importance of Being Earnest as a satire is quite digestible. Knowing that Wilde was often attacked by literary critics, one can filter out lines in the play that target the critics specifically and recognize the bitterness behind them. This is evident when Algernon says to Jack,

Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers (Wilde 6).

Although this is obviously meant to be humorous, that does not excuse it from inferring more. Oddly enough, the critics and writers alike responded rather positively to the play. Hart-Davis writes, “H.G. Wells applauded the work, saying, ‘delightful revival of theatrical satire’” (Layman).

The most important reason one might consider this play a satire is the issue of Wilde’s homosexuality. The pertinence of this matter of Wilde’s lies in his possible motives for cynically targeting the aristocracy in his play. While he was known to keep company with the upper class, the aristocracy never fully accepted him, socializing with his celebrity but criticizing his personal life. While his homosexual tendencies would not cause as much as an eye twitch in the 21st century, homosexuality, and sexuality in general, was not something to be publicly tolerated. In her article, “The Bi-Social Oscar Wilde and ‘Modern’ Women,” Margaret Stetz writes,

Victorian homophobia, which was by no means confined to muscular men of the Rudyard Kipling and W.E. Henley type, but was also shared by women—even by sophisticated, intellectual, “modern” women (Stetz).

It is just as easy to find evidence in the play of his resentment for the public disapproval of his personal life. The criticism of upper-class follies appears when Gwendolen says to Jack of her mother,

Although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you (Wilde 17).

It is hard to overlook the thinly veiled bitterness in this passage. Wilde points out the hypocrisy of people who criticize his flaws while being equally marred themselves.

Wilde attacks this shallowness throughout the play, as seen when Gwendolen explains why she loves Jack, “We live in…in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines…my ideal has always been to love some one of the name Ernest” (Wilde 10).

Although there is much evidence that this play is written in a satirical fashion, there is also support of it as an honest comedy. Knowing that Wilde was a subscriber to the philosophy of “art for art’s sake,” one would easily discount the play of having any substance or motive beyond pure, innocent comedy. Hart-Davis addresses this possibility, saying in reference to the characters of this play,

“The wit of the amoral dandy, who, in embodying the artistic ideal, is principally concerned with the beauty and perfection of phrasing rather than with its truth or moral vision”(Layman)

He goes on to say, “Wilde absorbed the idea that art was superior to life and that the one obligation was to transform life into art--to be as ‘artificial’ as possible” (Layman). Since Wilde fervently supported aestheticism and artificiality, The Importance of Being Earnest can be classified as a purposely artificial and aesthetically pleasing (the words used), and nothing more.

After weighing evidence of The Importance of Being Earnest as both a satire and an honest comedy, it is important to address the most compelling reason to consider the play as not fully either. Wilde struggled internally throughout his life with spirituality and material gratification. Margaret Stetz addresses this issue, perhaps unintentionally, saying in reference to Alice Meynell, a friend of Wilde’s “Meynell had converted to Roman Catholicism, a move that Wilde himself was several times on the verge of making.” (Stetz) In fact, Wilde did convert to Catholicism on his deathbed despite his firm loyalty to aestheticism—a testament to his dual personality.

Hart-Davis provides testament to this duality of Wilde’s play, saying, “Wilde's ironic use of the double, or doppelganger, perhaps unconsciously parallels the psychological division within himself” (Layman). With equal evidence in favor of the play as a satire and an honest comedy, as well as the recognition that these genres are conflicting in nature, it is easy to classify The Importance of Being Ernest as only partially earnest.

Citations

Kanfer, Stefan. "Feasting With Panthers." New Leader 06

1997. 11 May 2005 <>.

Layman, Bruccoli C. "Oscar Wilde." Dictionary of Literary

Biography,Volume 10: Modern British Dramatists, 1900-1945. Ed. Stanley Weintraub, and Rupert Hart-Davis. Pennsylvania State University: The Gale Group, 1982. 204-218.

Stetz, Margaret D. "The Bi-Social Oscar Wilde and "Modern"

Women." Nineteenth-Century Literature 2001. 11 May 2005 <://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0891-9356%28200103%2955%3A4%3C515%3ATBOWA%22%3E2.0.CO%3B2-Z >.

Wilde, Oscar, and . The Importance of Being Earnest.

Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1990.

The Borderlands - Gloria Anzaldua

2008-11-20T23:12:00.000-08:00

The “borderlands” as explained by Gloria Anzaldua in Borderlands/La Frontera is not merely the literal territory in which her identity was formed but a mental state of being that exists indefinitely, containing several unique characteristics that help one to identify other groups that occupy a similar figurative space.

One of the major aspects of the “borderlands” as Anzaldua describes it is the fragmentary nature that it entails. She refers to this when she writes, “Living on the borders and in margins, keeping intact one’s shifting and multiple identity and integrity…”(Anzaldua 25). In this passage, the author refers to her identity as one that is potentially in pieces. Because she has multiple ancestry lines, she suffers from being categorized as “not whole.” Instead of denying it, however, she acknowledges the patchwork qualities of her identity and reveals even more of the internal strife suffered by one with torn motives and loyalties. If she assimilates into the Anglo culture, she would be considered a traitor to her people; but if she lives in the Anglo world while fully embracing her Chicana heritage, she would be completely marginalized and alienated from her surrounding world. Anzaldua’s goal for herself and others that are afflicted by the fragmentary status of living on the “borderlands,” is to be fully each element that makes up her being, rather than being part of a larger whole.

Anzaldua makes a point of addressing the duality of living on the “borderlands.” While she makes the obvious point that living on the “borderlands” threatens one’s identity because it is not of the majority on either side of it, she presents a positive aspect to this state as well. The author explains how living on the border can actually support one’s identity in some ways. Since the person is identified by not just one specific culture, but usually two or more, the “borderlands” is the only place where a person can experience all of their cultures without completely assimilating to any particular one and

foregoing all of the rest of their heritage. The only flaw with this proposed plan, is that the “borderlands” itself creates an identity that is even more specific and narrow. If one veers too far towards any particular part of the combined culture, then they will be targeted for tyranny.

Because the “borderlands” serves as both a vessel of support and danger, the person living on it must develop a keen sense of awareness, which is another characteristic of people like Anzaldua. Since persecution is a reality, from all sides, one must be fully prepared and alert to the threats that target the minority culture. This necessity to survival results in heightening of the senses. There are benefits to this hyper-awareness, including a perception that is often not accessed by those comfortable enough to not care.

A border in Anzaldua’s world is that which lacks legitimacy as seen in the first chapter when she writes, “Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them,” (Anzaldua 25). She emphasizes the vagueness of this term by explaining the ease with which the outside and inside of a border are identified, in comparison to the border itself which lacks such a definition.

Anzaldua is a proud, lesbian Chicana who might appear to be in a very similar predicament as gay couples seeking to be married with children. This is true, but not in the sense of connection merely through homosexuality. Both are marginalized by their vague status in relation to a larger sphere, and suffer by their inability to assimilate without losing some part of their identity.

Gay couples seeking to model their family after the typical American family module are presented with an identity crisis, similar to that presented in Borderlands/La Frontera. Since many homosexual people reveal their sexual preferences to their families and friends as a way of “coming out,” one can see how these people might seek acceptance from the gay community and culture after facing rejection and alienation from their own families. It is after assimilation into the gay community that the average homosexual person finds a long-term mate. Couples that choose to marry and adopt position themselves awkwardly on both sides. Since marriage and children have traditionally been the keystones of the heterosexual union, other gay couples may see this step as a betrayal. These people feel that their counterparts are foolishly trying to emulate the very people that have shunned and rejected them in the first place.

This is not the only cause of turmoil within the gay community. Homosexuals also suffer amongst themselves when they adopt children, but are not allowed to be married. Gay marriage is considered illegal, which illegitimates the home that they are trying to create. Theoderek Wayne explores this side of gay unions when he writes, “The illegality of same-sex marriage fosters a feeling of alienation among homosexuals.”

Gay couples seeking this merger may encounter friction from their community, but it is the majority, or heterosexual society, that will pose the largest threat. State Representative Randy Ball argues in his article against gay adoption:

This issue has to take into consideration the influence that

religion has on the public. Throughout our society is the

deeply rooted Judeo-Christian ethic that holds that homosexuality

is immoral and that we should not put children into that

environment.

Gay marriage and adoption are threats to physical reproduction and the destruction of the family unit as society knows it today, however minuscule the chances of it occurring are. Because homosexuals have prided themselves on the severe difference between their lifestyles and that of heterosexuals, it is with justification that heterosexuals discover the new invasion of their “territory” as a threat, not only to their pride but to the future of their society. The majority feels threatened because homosexuals as a group have embraced a lifestyle that is not popular with the heterosexual family. Their reason for doing this is to erase the negative stigma that goes along with their preferences and at the same time form an identity that is theirs to revel in.

It is because of the opposing forces of both their gay community and the majority of modern society that gay couples wishing to unify and raise children are faced with a very difficult decision to make. One option for them is to fully embrace their gay community and way of life as separate and the conceptual opposition of the heterosexual lifestyle and risk being ostracized by the majority. Their other option is just as unappealing and involves risking what identity they have embraced and leaving the defined space of homosexual to enter into the unknown sphere of marriage and parenthood as a gay couple. This move does not come without the threat of possibly encountering hate from both sides of the figurative border.

The challenge for these particular gay couples, from Anzaldua’s perspective, is to overcome the tendency to identify themselves as part homosexual (their partner choice) and part heterosexual (their lifestyle choice). Instead, empowerment will come from identifying themselves as fully each element of their being. This change in the definition of their “category” will actually create a new and separate category, or a third state of being. Just as Anzaldua considers her borderland culture a separate one unto itself, gay couples seeking marriage and children will legitimize their existence by embracing their identity as separate.

Anzaldua presents many difficulties that accompany life on the “borderlands,” but she does manage to convey a general feeling of acceptance. She explains the hardships of this existence, but shows the contentment and pride that can be reached with true exploration of identity. Just like Anzaldua, gay couples seeking the family life are not completely barred from this altered existence. Life on the “borderlands” can limit the expression of the several parts of one’s existence, but can also give one the opportunity to create a new identity and experience.

References:

Anzaldua, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera. Ed. Joan Pinkvoss. San Francisco, Aunt Lute

Books, 1999.

Ball, Randy. “Should Gay Couples be Allowed to Adopt?” The Daily Item. Bucknell

University. 11 August 2002. http://www.orgs.bucknell.edu/flagb/

gaymarriagedebate.htm

Wayne, Theoderek. “Private Freedoms, Public Legislation: A Case for Same-Sex and

Polygamous Marriages Using John Stuart Mill's On Liberty.” 24 July 2002.http://

216.239.63.104/search?q=cache:vq_zu83dUZcJ:www.gradesaver.com/ClassicNotes/Titles/liberty/essays/essay1.html+alienation+of+homosexual+adoptive+parents&hl=en

Gustave Flaubert - Doctor, Doctor

2008-10-15T10:04:00.000-07:00

It is well documented that the French writer, Gustave Flaubert, was emotionally tormented in his private life. Actually, his internal struggle inspired much of his writing. Madame Bovary, above all other works, reflects this personal bitterness. A brief account of his personal life is in order so that one may fully grasp the subtle references and slippages of his real life into his literary life.

Flaubert was born and raised in a bourgeois family of doctors. His father was a surgeon in Rouen, and according to one source, he serves as a model for the character Dr. Lariviere in Madame Bovary.1 His mother had aristocratic blood flowing through her veins and Flaubert developed a very close relationship with her. Flaubert did not cast aside his bourgeois roots and marry the first peasant he saw, nor did he strive for success and acclamation. Instead, he dropped out of law school and finished his life status quo (not counting his literary achievements, of course).

There are several instances when Flaubert’s verbiage reveals his background. Note how over-the-top the chemist’s description of medicine’s and tonics is throughout the novel; or how he details the slightest movements of the famed out-of-town doctors when they swoop in during emergencies. At every instance of bourgeois slippage though, Flaubert’s detailing is biting and seethes (at times) with an acidic flavor.

While his distaste for the bourgeois surfaces in the characters of Dr. Bovary and the chemist, like Jonathan Swift, he cannot help but feel a comfort (however twisted) in the company of his people. He grants his bourgeois characters with complex, depth-filled lives, whether moral or immoral. The lower class characters in Madame Bovary are presented in a flat, content, but practically idiotic mold. At times Flaubert’s admiration of their “simple” lives surfaces, but mostly his disdain and pride cast these peasants in an undesirable light.

What the reader is left with is a novel which—despite its confused but fervent hatred—succeeds in revealing the flaws as well as the attributes of each level in society.

Journals on Moliere

2008-10-08T10:16:00.000-07:00

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Journals

Tartuffe, ACT 1-2, Moliere

After reading the first half of Moliere’s controversial play, Tartuffe, I was not so much concerned with the commentary on the Catholic Church, but with the tension between lovers. I was agitated that the young lovers created problems over nothing in particular. It was uncomfortable to see their conversation unravel and end in bickering. They both were too proud and worried about revealing their dependence on the other, that they completely disregarded the end goal—to be together. This minute interplay between characters can also represent Moliere’s thoughts on the corruption of the Church. Officials are so concerned with being right and with the logistics, that they may lose sight of the end goal—to live a good life and attain closeness with God though this.

I understand that this play is heightening the absurd aspects of life and poking fun at the folly of man, but it is slightly frightening. Since there is a bit of truth evident in this folly, one can only laugh nervously, rather than whole-heartedly, because the flaws of the characters are the reader’s as well.

Tartuffe, ACT 3-5, Moliere

Moliere’s play, Tartuffe, appears very flat and obvious in its intent. Reading the play in its entirety, the two-dimensional characters fail to insight any connection from the reader to the text—or at least from me to the text. Yes, I understand that this play was very controversial at its inception; and I know that it is filled with political and philosophical meaning, but I cannot bring myself to take it seriously. Too much irony and satire leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth.

I admit I might have a different take on this play if I thought Moliere wrote this work from beginning to end with one goal in mind. Knowing that he added a different ending and changed the occupation of Tartuffe from his original clergy position, makes me think that Moliere cared more about irritating the masses than actually changing any significant problems. He would not have changed his play unless it was to please the king and keep himself out of trouble.

I am a practicing Catholic, but that does not mean that I dismiss the corruption that existed in Moliere’s time. If he was so motivated to write this play, criticizing the Church, why didn’t he follow through and make sure that people understood what he was trying to do?

Selected poems, Baudelaire

Out of the seven poems assigned from Baudelaire, I was most intrigued by “Carcass.” I would readily associate Baudelaire with the Romantics because of his over-the-top, grotesque description of a female corpse in this poem. At first, I noticed the care Baudelaire took in describing the aesthetics of the corpse, paying particular attention to the sexuality of the corpse. Because he described this sexual corpse with such disgust, it seems as though he has some repugnance for female sexuality, or femininity in general.

This view would reveal irony (intended or not) on Baudelaire’s part, because he is viewing this corpse with his “beloved,” who, I am assuming, is a female. Some might argue that his goal is to show the temporary nature of our bodies, and juxtapose that with the immortal (or semi-immortal) nature of his poems, which will supposedly cement the beauty of his beloved into all eternity.

That sounds wonderful, and I would believe it, except for one thing: He spends too much time and energy on revealing the grotesque and sexual nature of this female corpse. This focus negates any good intentions he may have had toward his beloved or women in general.

Selected poems, John Keats

What a romantic! I can see why Keats is seen as the quintessential romantic writer. Each of the poems we were assigned drips with emotion and sentiment, some dark and some bright. Though I am not fond of any particular poem of Keats’, I can say that the aural qualities of the poems made for a purely pleasurable experience that is best captured by reading them aloud.

“Ode on a Grecian Urn” is one of his more popular poems, and I am familiar with this one. Although I have read it before, I did have a different take on it this time around. I noticed the contrast between art and real life. The urn itself is a sign of human mortality because its very purpose is to store the ashes of the deceased. The irony is the artwork on the urn, which depicts young, beautiful people dancing and singing—one would assume captures the very essence of life. The truth is that the artwork is not indicative of real life since it is static and frozen—humans are not.

“Ode to a Nightingale,” “Ode on Melancholy,” and “To Autumn” were poems I was not familiar with up until this point. Since I am not a big fan of the gloomy, “Ode on Melancholy” was not particularly enjoyable. I did, however, find “Ode to a Nightingale” and “To Autumn” quite pleasing.

Billy Bud, Sailor, Melville

I believe that Melville is targeting nationalism with his novel, Billy Bud, Sailor. It is quite obvious that Melville is weary of blind patriotism and he uses the character, Billy, to show what can happen to an individual who gets sucked into the system.

It has also been said that Melville’s story can be read as a Christian allegory. I think this is a bit of a stretch. Yes, there is the persecuted innocent who represents perfection to his contemporaries. But, that is where the comparison ends. So, if one means to say that it is a Christian allegory because of the persecuted innocent, then I guess they are right.

None of his characters are given the depth or emotional sensitivity necessary for the reader to relate to them. Since Melville focuses more on his allegory, the reader has no choice but to notice this symbolism.

Aside from the nationalism point that Melville is

trying to make, the idea of disconnectedness really shines

through in this novel. It is almost painful the way that events in this story happen as dominoes topple over each other. No character questions policy or throws a wrench in the system when accidents occur.

Madame Bovary, Part 1, Flaubert

I immediately took to this novel. The realist elements are strong in Part 1, and the detail that Flaubert goes to is amazing. I particularly liked the part of the novel when Emma and Bovary meet for the first time and he touches her slightly, causing her to blush. That kind of detail really paints a picture for the reader.

The portion of Part 1 that I found especially touching was the wedding of Emma to Bovary. The wedding itself was not the stirring part, but immediately after the wedding. The image of Emma’s father standing in the road, watching his daughter—his only family—ride off to start her life was simply heartbreaking. While he is happy for her, you can sense the imminent loneliness creeping into his life. He recalls the bittersweet memories of his own wedding and the happy years he had with his wife before she passed. It is just too much!

What is moving beyond that is the fact that Emma does not match her father’s love for her. She is portrayed as somewhat complacent, going along with what is expected. Of course, this could relate to all parent/child relationships. How could a child (even if they are grown) ever relate to the heartache a parent has when their chicks fly the coupe?

Hedda Gabler, Henrik Ibsen

My interpretation of an Emily Dickinson stanza about Hedda Gabbler:

My life had stood-an unused broom-

In corners-till a Day-

The Butler passed-identified

And carried Me away-

Hedda’s actions are frustrating because they solidify her role as a negative female stereotype—a tool to be used. How can one show pity for her when the choices she makes justify her punishments? Perhaps this is reflective of Ibsen’s own view of women, although I would be hesitant to completely agree with that theory. In his other very popular play, Doll’s House, the leading lady is portrayed as very helpless, but the reader/viewer is made to see that this is not completely her fault. All around her create an environment in which it is convenient for her to watch her figure and entertain. Of course, this is what is expected of her, so that is why it is made convenient.

Hedda’s situation is somewhat similar. She is placed in an environment that would allow for a typical life

Endgame, Beckett

I apologize, but I really dislike stories like this. I realize these people (Beckett and his contemporaries) experienced “The War to End All Wars,” but do they have to get so experimental and dark? I am sure for one artistic reason or another, they do, but that does not mean I enjoy it.

I am aware that the four main characters could merely be representative of different countries who are so close, but cannot communicate or understand each other; or perhaps it is meant to be a genuinely realistic look into the future after nuclear war. I think that anyone who would read artistic (and not so artistic) fiction would probably not be too busy making bombs to destroy the world. My point: The people that Beckett is trying to target—if, in fact, he is attempting to teach someone a lesson—are not the people that are reading his novel, or would even care if they heard about it.

I would prefer someone with his talent to write a nice little ditty about a boy and a girl and all of the trials and mishaps that surround them on their quest for eternal happiness; or, the tale of the young innocent who makes a wrong step or two and is somehow a fallen woman with no money. Now that is a story.

“The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” Leo Tolstoy

The black sack—what does it mean?

Madame Bovary, Part 2, Flaubert

Plain and simple: Emma is a floozy. All of the sentiment and bittersweet feelings exchanged in Part 1 are completely erased in Part 2 by Emma’s promiscuity. Flaubert does, somewhat emphasize his hatred for Emma more than, say, Bovary. This is because her character is portrayed as more complex, perceptive, and even a bit more intelligent. Flaubert shows that this does not necessarily make one a better person (intelligence that is). Since Bovary is a simpler, uncomplicated creature, Flaubert does not spend as much time revealing his disgusting flaws, as he does the other, more advanced characters.

Madame Bovary, Part 3, Flaubert

Why I liked this book.

I have decided that this book is much more romantic than it is realist. Or, perhaps it is well-balanced. The beginning of the novel is very much grounded in the realist way, but a transition begins during the second part of the novel that pushes the novel into the romantic realm. Part 1 sets up the reliable facts and history of each character and lures the reader in. Because you believe in their existence, it is that much easier to believe that the ridiculous events that they participate in do, in fact, occur. What a sneak!

Notes From Underground, Dostoevsky

As we all know, Notes From Underground is a purely existentialist text. This means that I do not like it. While I can appreciate the oodles and oodles of genre that make up literature, I have my favorites, and existentialist texts are certainly not one of them.

The questioning of “being,” life, and death that make up the existentialist philosophy has always irked me. I understand that someone should do this questioning, but I would rather not know about it.

Haste Makes Paste - Reflecting on the Fifties

2008-09-17T23:05:00.000-07:00

The American Century Dictionary defines “fear” as an unpleasant feeling aroused by the threat of danger, evil, or pain. While most human beings are blessed with a reasonable sense of this, often keeping them from harm or even death, it is this same fear coupled with an obsessive compulsive drive gravitating towards guilt that have usurped my mind and been the dominate decision-making factor in my life. The largely negative effects of this preoccupation with fear are evident throughout my life, most notably in my behaviors, relationships, and extreme affection for the twelve years between 1950 & 1962.

Often times the “fifties” are characterized as a ridiculously pleasant, innocent, and sunny period. A war had just ended, the boys were back home, and new low-cost housing created a Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, baby-booming suburbia. This relatively calm period in time has been forever idealized and memorialized by poodle skirts, juke boxes, and Elvis Presley, which I immediately adhered to upon introduction.

My love affair with the fifties began at a very young age. At the time, I had no idea what it was that drew me to certain things or that there was even a common thread between them all. I listened exclusively to the oldies radio stations when I was young; and have cassette tapes of myself in the first grade playing Oldies D.J., shouting “Come on, everybody! Love the fifties! There weren’t even burglars back then!” My singing voice even sounded just like Elvis Presley reincarnated, and I took every opportunity I could to show this miracle to others. I dressed in a very conservative manner, reminiscent of the styles worn in this period, almost always donning knee length skirts with old sweaters I believed to be from the period. I have loved the fifties with such ardor for such an extended period that some might have called me a “walking time capsule”.

Unfortunately, little has changed since then. My interests and ideals all still orbit around the fifties; my clothes, though now totally authentic from my hidden thrift stores, look very much the same; I still play Oldies D.J., only now I find myself actually on the radio with a small but dedicated audience; and my voice still sounds strangely similar to my Elvis impersonation whenever I sing.

As time has passed and adulthood is slowly coming up on the horizon, a moderate case of obsessive-compulsive disorder has reared its ugly head. Dealing with this has forced me to consider my behavior, past and present, more objectively than ever before. Within this process, I have realized that my obsession with a bygone era is not typical, normal, or even healthy; in fact the more I consider my current predicament, the more I realize my interest in the fifties is indicative of much more than just an affinity for pastel-colored 1957 Chevy Bel-Airs, fuzzy dice and all.

While my understanding of the fifties is obviously ridiculous and definitely idealistic, I see the world today, fifty years later, as dangerous and threatening. I have always found myself afraid and overwhelmed by the harsh reality of what I believe to be a decadent, immoral, and even violent modern world, often leaving me anxious over possible harassment, assault, battery, or even murder. These fears usually appear unfounded or improbable to anyone born with a reasonable mind; for me, however, with my strong belief in an active, powerful, and just God, they are not only probable, but likely coming to me due to transgressions I may have recently made. Anxiety coupled with the fear of God is a very powerful thing; this combination enables even the logically impossible to appear quite possible.

My world is colored in distractions and fantasies which help me forget about the precarious world of now, riddled with trip-wires awaiting my inevitable stumble. In order to survive amidst this chaos, I created a safe-haven in my fifties world. This paradise on earth in my mind, where everyone temporarily put down their vice, picked up the bible and baked apple pie for a decade, is what I have come to rely on.

Fear has permeated my life and is the influencing factor in every gesture I make, every word I utter, and every thought I consider. I realize now, after months of therapy and consideration that this preoccupation with fear extends much further past my clothing, hobbies, and tastes and into my relationships with others, be they strangers, friends, or family.

It is impossible for me to deny friendship to anyone, but, simultaneously, I have no close friends, because I am afraid that their evil ways will somehow influence, involve, or even possibly damn me. Consequently, I find myself constantly being taken advantage of by friends and family, forever doing favors against my will, returning calls out of pity, and even asking enemies to be my bridesmaids. My seemingly charitable character stems out of a fear of banishment or ostracization from the small society in which I am forced to participate in.

Out of what started as pity and ended as fear, I trapped myself in a three-year relationship when a boy from school asked me to be his girlfriend. I went to a small high school where, under his persuasion, I ended all other relationships and social engagements. Were we to break-up he could have easily ostracized me from the only society I knew at this point, which was his society. I turned a blind eye to his faults, and told myself his possessiveness and tantrums were not absurd, but fitting and somehow even my fault. He went as far as to establish rules, such as “no hugging other people.” I desperately tried to preserve his wavering affection and approval for me because I was afraid of enduring retribution directly from him or indirectly from God. I could never play the villain and break-up with him; this would leave me with the blame, with the fault of intentionally hurting someone else; instead, I found myself acting-out passive-aggressively, accidentally breaking the rules. Then, finally, one day, he let me go, leaving me just where I wanted to be, as a victim, out of the relationship, and without blame.

My relationship with my parents is perpetually affected by fear and guilt. I avoid confronting them at all costs because I never want to consciously break the holy commandment, “Thou shall honor thy father and thy mother.” My extreme take on this results in a submission to their every whim. I accompany them to endless social functions and lend them money, even when they spent everything they had on a pet poodle; but I could never open myself up to them. I am careful to never share pictures I took for photography, music I wrote, or even future career plans.

This secrecy is driven by fear. My parents do not understand me, and tease me when they struggle to comprehend my creative endeavors. Their knowledge of my person leaves me vulnerable and weak. Still seeking some approval and praise, I feel forced to share my efforts with strangers. I fear my parents knowing anything about my creations, my faults, or even my behavioral peculiarities because their lack of understanding would result in them criticizing or scolding me out of shame.

Fear continues to play a large part in my life to this day. While it has resulted in what I see as an amazing fashion sense, a superior demeanor, and perfect etiquette, I feel as though it makes a lot of my decisions for me, almost even against my will. Through self-help and therapy, I seek someday to be accepted, understood, and viewed as a valuable member of society, rather than an estranged misfit, tugging at her poodle skirt, teetering on total destruction.

Works Cited

Gibaldi, Joseph. MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers. New York: Modern Language Association of America, 2003.

Urdang, Laurence. The American Century Dictionary. New York: Warner books, Incorporated, 1996.

Passing by Nella Larsen

2008-09-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

In her novel, Passing, Nella Larsen uses the many-sided concept of “passing” to slowly and methodically reveal the complex and disturbed character of Irene Redfield. Although Irene is presented as a solid individual—firmly grounded in her person and position—she displays the most unstable tendencies in the novel. With each façade or pass that Irene takes on—and subsequently fails at—the road to her demise is made more clearly visible. Irene’s uncertain use of passing in its various forms is therefore the direct cause of her downfall.

The first (and most obvious) form of passing that is presented in the novel is in reference to racial identity. When Irene converses with Clare on the roof of the Drayton, the reader is subtlety informed that the intrigue surrounding Clare Kendry is due to her success at passing as a white woman. It appears that Clare is unstable and perhaps void of a true identity because of the ease with which she passes over to a completely different culture, seemingly without regret. While Clare shows her tendency toward duplicity, it is Irene who emerges the hypocrite.

It is through this Drayton conversation that the mask of Irene melts and her true character begins to emerge. When asked if she would ever pass as white, Irene says, “No. Why should I?” which would lead one to believe that she is extremely confident and proud of her racial identity (190). The dramatic irony of the scene, however, proves her contradictory. Irene’s statement would never be doubted if she uttered it in any other location, but since she is passing as a white woman at thevery moment she speaks so righteously, the reader can only assume that she holds double standards—Clare cannot pass for white because she does it ruthlessly and for purely selfish reasons, Irene can do it because she does it out of necessity for say, iced tea.

Irene’s inability to commit to a life of passing as white or a life of living as black and white proves her failure at both. Irene looks with disgust upon Clare’s life of passing, but her own conditional passing is somehow ignored. While it might appear that toying with passing every now and then is much better than making it an everyday occurrence, it is a much softer character that shows private interest in what they ridicule publicly.

Irene’s fatal hesitancy does not end at the gates of racial identity, but forcefully pushes on to the emotional side of her person as well. One of Irene’s major struggles in the novel is her method of handling conflict and threats. Instead of opening up to Brian, Clare, or John Bellew about her true feelings and concerns, she chooses to either remain silent or approach the subject from a roundabout way. It is very clear after Irene’s argument with Brian in the car, that she muddles her true emotions with ones that she feels she is supposed to supply. After Irene’s fury momentarily subsides, the author writes,

She was vexed with herself for having chosen, as it

had turned out, so clumsy an opening for what she

had intended to suggest: some European school for

Junior next year, and Brian to take him over (221).

For a split second, Irene puts the well-being of another before her own desires. Her motives for suggesting Europe are selfless and out of love for Brian, but she cannot pass these feelings on to him. Instead, she speaks in circles—almost as if she cannot help it—and then ends the conversation with an outburst, leaving the reader, as well as Irene, frustrated at the miscommunication.

There are numerous instances in the text where Irene fails to pass her desires on to Clare. When the two meet at the Drayton, Irene extends an invitation for a weekend getaway, seemingly against her will, “In the very moment of giving the invitation she regretted it. What a foolish, what an idiotic impulse to have given way to” (186). Irene’s feelings take a backseat position to Clare’s again when Irene struggles over whether or not to answer her phone calls in Chicago and ten years later in New York. Irene has made it very clear that she does not wish to become involved with Clare, but she loses all conviction when Clare turns on her charm.

While her interaction with John Bellew is limited to a handful of occasions, Irene still manages to lose her nerve and refrain from expressing herself in his presence.

There was a brief silence, during which she feared

that her self-control was about to prove too frail a

bridge to support her mounting anger and indignation.

She had a leaping desire to shout at the man beside her (202).

The trouble is that her self-control is much stronger than she realizes—so strong in fact that it is debilitating. Her true desire is to snuff out John’s ignorance by expressing her racial identity and confronting his racist slurs. She fails to pass her emotions on out of a fear thinly veiled by the notion of protecting her race (Clare), firmly maintaining her “self-control.” She is conflicted about the incident throughout the novel, but when given a second chance to redeem herself, she shrivels at the opportunity. Running into Bellew downtown, she unsuccessfully attempts to conceal her identity and severely regrets it later,

I had my chance and didn’t take it. I had only to

speak and to introduce him to Felise with a casual

remark that he was Clare’s husband. Only that. Fool.

Fool (260).

This method of interaction displays a stunted form of passing, one that prohibits the exchange of emotion. Brian, Clare, and John all pass their feelings on to their listeners, while Irene remains the solitary figure who attempts to pass, but only succeeds at her reversion to silence.

A by-product of Irene’s inability to pass her emotions is her ineffectual attempts at passing as a content and happy person. Irene puts on the façade of “happy wife” at the beginning of the text when she says, “You see, Clare, I’ve everything I want” (190). She might have succeeded at this attempt, too, if she did not immediately follow with a revealing statement, “Except, perhaps, a little money” (190). This failure at passing as happy might seem to be a success at passing on her emotions, but Irene does not commit to either. She attempts to lie about her happiness, but then weakens her argument with a contradictory statement. She does not explain bluntly that she is unhappy, thereby forfeiting her opportunity at honesty.

Irene’s decline is escalated when her suspicions of Brian’s infidelity are allowed to brew under her mask of happiness. At tea, she attempts to rationalize this mask, “In that second she saw that she could bear anything, but only if no one knew that she had anything to bear” (254). She appears to draw strength from the opinions of others, which she assumes would be positive opinions if it appears that she is happy.

Hand-in-hand with her trials of passing as content is Irene’s attempt at sincerity. Not only does Irene smile when she is devastated and withhold honest revelations of her emotions, but she even offers up mistruths, as if to convince herself of the facades that she carries on. Similar to her failure at passing as happy, Irene’s passing as sincere is cut short because of its obvious artificiality. When she offers the invitation to Idlewild, Irene’s countenance betrays the generosity of her words. Clare declines the offer because she knows that Irene is not sincere in asking, “She was annoyed at having been detected in what might seem to be an insincerity” (186).

When all of her attempts at passing have left her exhausted, Irene resorts to the only thing left to cling to—the passing of time. After accepting that Brian and Clare are having an affair (without any evidence), Irene surrenders to the infidelity with the hope that all will be well when Clare leaves in March, “Dear God…make March come quickly” (262). The problem with this hope, is that Irene is not completely convinced that it will make everything well again—especially since there was never a time when everything was well between her and Brian.

Her failure at establishing a solid foundation for her person may be a result of her confusion regarding her identity. While she is confronted with the options to live as black or white, she is also given the opportunity to live as both simultaneously, without passing. Irene proves her ineffectiveness as a person when she chooses to exist in a limbo where her actions never comply with her desires. Passing in its various forms is an instinctive means of survival for the characters in the novel—a skill that Irene simply does not possess.

Girls Who Are Boys Who Are Girls: Exploration of Gender Roles in Shakespearean Plays

2008-09-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

Whether a reflection of William Shakespeare’s personal beliefs or an ironic social commentary, the image of masculine power in “The Tragedy of Julius Caesar,” “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,” “The Tragedy of Macbeth,” and “The Tragedy of Coriolanus” is consistently associated with violence and physical supremacy; the image of feminine power is equated with manipulative tactics and indirect control through words.

There are countless examples of one’s maleness being dependent on an ability to discard passive problem solving techniques and utilize violence. Shakespeare presents a strong contrast to his brawny men with female characters who exert power by agitating their male counterparts with threats, utilizing reverse psychology, and using their sexual wiles to attain what they desire, reinforcing an ultimate dependence on men.

There is much tension in Shakespeare’s mentioned plays regarding the line of division between these two distinct roles. Each of these plays presents a moment when a male character’s gender is challenged by his own competing female tendencies, prompting him to respond with violence; or a female character attempts to assume the male gender in order to gain power, discarding her usual manipulative tendencies.

In order to understand the tensions that exist when a character dismisses (whether momentarily or not) his/her assumed gender traits in Shakespeare’s plays, one must recognize what traits are commonly believed to be true of both the male and female genders.

In her essay, “Sex Roles: The Argument from Nature,” Joyce Trebilcot reverts to basic biological principles to explicate behavioral differences between men and women:

“As the male fetus develops in the womb, the testes secrete a hormone which is held to influence the growth of the central nervous system. The female fetus does not produce this hormone, nor is there an analogous female hormone which is significant at this stage. Hence it is suggested that female and male brains differ in structure, that this difference is due to the prenatal influence of testicular hormone, and that the difference in brains is the basis of some later differences in behavior”(Trebilcot).

After establishing the likelihood of brain differences depending on gender, she goes on to address the common dispositions associated with both genders,“…the uterus is passive and receptive, and so are females; penises are active and penetrating, and so are males”—confirming the traditionally held belief (Trebilcot).

In his essay, “‘Pack Your Heat and Work the Streets’—Weapons and the Active Construction of Violent Masculinities,” Henri Myrttinen explores the connection between males and violence, saying of all factions of men:

“Their lowest common denominator is a view which, as described by Bryson, equates 'manliness' with the 'sanctioned use of aggression, force and violence.' This 'manliness' often needs to be renegotiated through the violent subjugation of others.”

He goes on to say, “Three characteristics linked to the notion of hypermasculinity of interest here are an emphasis on strength, aggressiveness and sexual potence.” While there are exceptions to this view of masculinity, one can easily agree that the generally held belief is that being male is synonymous with aggressiveness and physical power.

Having established what marks one as male or female in a most conventional sense, it is necessary to note that a character is marred for attempting to change their socially assigned gender role in Shakespeare’s plays. A man that displays female characteristics, or rather a lack of malecharacteristics (violence), is not just “unmanly,” but considered weak and pathetic. A woman who displays masculine characteristics is equally criticized and considered domineering or rough. As a result, representatives from both genders experience jeers from others, or are physically penalized.

This punishment is evident in “The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.” Several characters display typical gender traits to assert power, and other’s experience fluctuating roles. Most obvious is Mark Antony’s feminization of Julius Caesar after his death. Antony speaks for Caesar—literally putting words in his mouth—which is typically associated with male dominance. However, Antony’s manipulative tactics used during his eulogy are easily classified under the category of feminine power devices. Rather than using direct violence by immediately attacking Caesar’s murderers, he plays the humble and hurt friend, using reverse psychology on the crowd to stir the reaction he desires. While this strategy is successful for Antony, it serves to feminize not only Caesar for his silence, but Antony for his manipulation and indirectness—commonly associated with female power tactics.

Marcus Brutus is yet another character who struggles with asserting his masculinity through violence.

Brutus’ wife, Portia, temporarily assumes the masculine gender to express herself, but eventually resorts back to female dependency.

However, does not address the temporary nature of this masculine switch. While Portia chooses to bleed, she submits to her dependence on Brutus by killing herself. Brutus explains the reason for her death to Cassius, saying, “Impatience of my absence/and grief that young Oc emphasizing her failure to cope as a women with a male gender-lect. This play also connects masculinity with intended violence: The women in the play assert their power by manipulation and words, the men assert power by physical force and violence. For instance, Calpurnia begs and eventually kneels to Caesar when she wants him to stay home on the Ides of March, saying, “Do not go forth today. Call it my fear/That keeps you in the house and not your own” (Shakespeare 1554). Caesar submits until he is ridiculed by others for showing fear.

One must also note that Portia’s punishment for assuming masculine traits is her death.

Like Brutus in “Julius Caesar,” Shakespeare’s Hamlet in “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark” struggles to assert his masculinity through violence. His hesitancy to do so is equated with femininity, with the resulting violence dismissing this tendency of his. By this rationale, one can assume that introspection is a feminine attribute in the world of Shakespeare, while action and directness are inherently masculine. Hamlet is subtly chastised (but chastised nonetheless) for his highly introspective nature. This tendency to over-think is apparent when Hamlet says, “blah blah I must be a manalkdj;.” Hamlet equates his final decision with masculinity, and his decision is that of violence over peace; therefore one can equate violence with masculinity and peace with feminism in Shakespeare’s text.

Macbeth is yet another example of tension between genders and a struggle to maintain one’s socially appointed role. It is quite evident that this tension exists between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth regarding gender and power. Several times throughout the play, Lady Macbeth challenges her husband by saying, “be a manblahblah,”—illustrating how one is marred for deviating from expected behavior. While she is perfectly capable of committing the murderous acts that she is requesting of Macbeth, she manipulates her husband into committing them by threatening his manhood. Because she does not assume male power tactics, she emerges successful—at least for the moment. For Macbeth, in order to prove his manhood, he must resorts to violence.

It is in the “Tragedy of Coriolanus” that one of Shakespeare’s female characters resorts to feminine wiles and not only emerges triumphantly, but does not attempt to assume masculine power traits and is therefore not killed by the author. The mother of Coriolanus, afdgadsf emerges as the powerful woman, who succeeds in maintaining her feminine qualities.

Citations

Greenblatt, Stephen, ed. The Norton Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford

Edition. 3rd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1997.

Shakespeare, William. "The Tragedy of Julius Caesar." The Norton

Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford Edition. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard, and Katharine E. Maus. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1997.

Myrttinen, Henri. "'Pack Your Heat and Work the Streets'--Weapons and

the Active Construction of Violent Masculinites." Women and Language 27 (2004). 09 May 2005 .

Trebilcot, Joyce. "Sex Roles: The Argument From Nature." Ethics 85

(1975). 09 May 2005 .

Ernest Hemingway - Emotional Disconnect

2008-08-27T16:09:00.000-07:00

By omitting any explorative emotional depth and analysis from his narratives in "In Another Country," "Alpine Idyll," "A Canary for One," and "Fifty Grand," Ernest Hemingway illustrates an important post-war era emotional disconnect prevalent amongst the veterans and victims of World War I. By using meager amounts of emotional description and additional detail of physical action, he is able to acutely demonstrate the connection between shared activity and shallow camaraderie, as well as disconnectedness between the reader and the characters.

“In Another Country” is foremost an unconventional look at masculinity during World War I. Under the mask of pleasant male nonchalance, lie feelings of disconnectedness and detachment suffered by wounded war veterans far from home. On the surface, it appears that these veterans are casually bumming around Italy while receiving physical therapy treatments. By piecing together subtle remarks made by the narrator though, one can see that these men struggle to keep their best foot forward in front of their contemporaries while desperately seeking to hide their weaknesses, resulting in superficial relationships.

Circumstantial friendships begin to reveal themselves from the beginning, when Hemingway introduces the reader to the “we” in the story, he writes, “we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter…”(266). Though Hemingway’s language is rather clear and descriptive, one cannot escape the cold and formal atmosphere of this group when the narrator describes their interactions as “polite.”

The feeling of disconnect is crystallized for the reader when the author confronts it directly, referring to the tall boy in the group:

He had lived a very long time with death and was a little

detached. We were all a little detached, and there was

nothing that held us together except that we met every afternoon

at the hospital (269).

The narrator admits that the thread holding them together is their simultaneous therapy treatments. While they “walked back together to the Café Cova” frequently, their camaraderie soon fades (268).

The narrator is ashamed at fearing combat, saying in one of the only emotional admissions in the story, “I was very much afraid to die” (270). He attempts to hide his fear from his friends, but when his acquaintances realize that he received his medals for his American status, rather than valor in battle, their “friendship” quickly dissipates. Hemingway writes:

After that their manner changed a little toward me, although

I was their friend against outsiders. I was a friend, but I

was never really one of them after they had read the citations,

because it had been different with them and they had done

very different things to get their medals (270).

Soon after, he admits that, “they, the three, knew better and so we drifted apart” (270). His time spent walking with the others is quickly replaced by time spent with a boy that he feels is on his level, and therefore would not be able to judge him. The bedrock of their friendship is fear, as the narrator subtly reveals, “he could never be accepted either, and I liked him because I thought perhaps he would not have turned out to be a hawk either” (270).

At what could be considered the emotional climax of the story, the major, who “did not believe in bravery,” begins to cry after disclosing that his wife has just died (272). While crying might be considered utterly revealing of a person’s emotions, Hemingway practically eliminates this notion by the use of active language. He writes,

And then crying, his head up looking at nothing, carrying

himself straight and soldierly, with tears on both cheeks and

biting his lips, he walked past the machines and out the door (272,

Italics added).

The control and activity that the major displays, is more evident than his emotional state, which draws attention to the overcompensation of physical activity and lack of emotional description, even attempts at emotional description (crying) are turned into physical activity.

Another of Hemingway’s short stories, “An Alpine Idyll,” conveys a similar disconnect although it deals with a considerably more shocking incident—the use of one’s dead spouse as a place to hang a lantern. The mood of disconnection is apparent from the beginning of the story when the narrator and his companion cross paths with a priest who does not return their “hellos.”

This particular story is filled with active language, so much so that detachment permeates the text due to the lack of emotional description. Hemingway’s matter-of-factness is felt in every line of the story, similar to this description of the peasant and sexton who have just buried the peasant’s wife:

They came into the drinking room. One was the bearded

peasant in the high boots. The other was the sexton. They

sat down at the table under the window. The girl came in

and stood by their table. The peasant did not seem to see her.

He sat with his hands on the table. He wore his old army

clothes. There were patches on the elbows (345).

When physical activity is not being described, Hemingway uses short dialogue between the characters to fill in the gaps. The reader then has the opportunity to interpret the story for him/herself because of the lack of emotional depth, swaying them one way or another; but this lack simultaneously emphasizes the extreme disconnect between the characters.

After the narrator discovers that the peasant hung a lantern from the mouth of his wife’s corpse, the only reaction that follows from the characters is one of mild interest. The single concern the narrator offers is the inquiry, “Do you think it’s true?” with no stated emotional inflection (348). His companion, John, does not understand the dialect spoken by the storyteller, and is therefore indifferent, repeatedly asking, “How about eating?” (349). The disconnected feeling displayed by the characters only emphasizes the feelings of detachment for the reader.

“A Canary for One,” is no exception in terms of a Hemingway piece which replaces emotional detail with activity. Taking center stage in this short story is the American lady who shares a train compartment with a man and his wife. The majority of dialogue in this story is given to the American lady, while the wife shares in the conversation partly, and the husband acts mainly as an unconcerned observer.

A similar technique to that in “An Alpine Idyll” is utilized by Hemingway in “A Canary for One.” Again he places the most emotion-filled detail at the end of the story. The last line of the story holds much weight when the narrator refers to his wife and himself, “We were returning to Paris to set up separate residences” (342). The feeling of disconnect becomes more apparent to the reader at this point, although there are signs of it throughout the story. For instance, the man and wife do not utter a single word to each other while on the train—they talk to the American lady, or utter phrases meant to be heard by everyone. The narrator constantly refers to “my wife” without giving a name to her, further distancing the reader from the characters.

It becomes clear that the American lady serves as a busy distraction, from what might be considered emotional ruin: Divorce. Hemingway overcompensates yet again for the lack of emotional detail with an excess of physical description, as seen in his account of the Rue Saint Honore:

Before the present vendeuse, named Therese, there had been another vendeuse, named Amelie. Altogether there had been these two in the twenty years. It had always been the same couturier. Prices, however, had gone up. The exchange, though equalized that. They had her daughter’s measurements now too. She was grown up and there was not much chance of their changing now (340).

With such detail regarding the Paris couturier, it is inevitable that the feeling of detachment will surface when the same detail is not provided regarding the couple’s separation—agreeably of more emotional significance.

Similar to “In Another Country,” “Fifty Grand” contains clear statements regarding the characters’ detachment and disconnectedness, but are overridden by activity. On the surface, the story follows the training of a boxer, Jack, a few days from a major fight until momentarily after he loses it, all from the prospective of his trainer, Doyle. Underlying this plot, feelings of disconnect and isolation emerge. Rather than being allowed an insight to the emotional trajectory of the characters (particularly Jack) over this time span though, Hemingway only allows a retelling of events through curt dialogue and active language.

During one of the crucial scenes in the story, where Jack is left alone with his manager, John, and his wise boys, Hemingway slips in a bit of emotional description, but book-ends it with physical detail:

Jack doesn’t say anything. He just sits there on the bed.

He ain’t with the others. He’s all by himself. He was

wearing an old blue jersey and pants and had on boxing

shoes. He needed a shave. Steinfelt and Morgan were

dressers. John was quite a dresser too. Jack sat there

looking Irish and tough (309).

The line, “He ain’t with the others. He’s all by himself,” is rather existentialist, connoting a mood of disconnect—not at all in line with Hemingway’s usual terse, descriptive writing. This language might lead the reader to infer on the seriousness of the omitted scene between Jack and his manager. While these few lines convey an emotional depth, they are quickly dismissed by the narrator who moves on to more superficial content, such as Jack’s clothing and the clothing of all the other characters.

The matter-of-fact style emerges again in the story when Hemingway writes:

We had supper. Jack didn’t say anything all during the

meal except, ‘Will you pass me this?’ or ‘Will you pass

me that?’ The two health-farm patients ate at the same

table. They were pretty nice fellow (310).

The casualness in which Doyle moves from observing the emotional state of Jack to the disposition of the health farm patients, reinforces the sentiment of disconnect and indifference in which the story is being related to the reader.

“Fifty Grand,” more than the previously mentioned stories, resorts to description of action as a means of revealing a character. The fight scene unravels in a fashion similar to this paragraph:

The referee grabbed Jack and pushed him toward his

corner. John jumps into the ring. There was all this

yelling going on. The referee was talking to the judges

and then the announcer got into the ring with the megaphone

and says, ‘Walcott on a foul’ (325).

Because Hemingway employs this technique (active language), the last scene of the story (the fight scene) becomes almost a series of images which the reader must decipher in order to understand not only the details of the events, but the character motives as well.

The ultimate display of detachment and disconnectedness is through Hemingway’s use of languages other than English throughout his short stories. He writes primarily in English, but appears to write key phrases in other languages. In “In Another Country,” the narrator casually repeats what he refers to as a hateful cry from a local Italian, “A basso gli ufficiali!” (268). Hemingway fails to translate this for the reader. If one does not speak Italian, then it is expected that parts of the story will be unclear, perhaps resulting in an eventual indifference on the reader’s part.

There is also a bilingual aspect in “Alpine Idyll” that exceeds most of Hemingway’s other short stories. He uses different languages sporadically, again offering no translation. The narrator’s companion, John, does not understand most of what is said, and resigns to sleeping, emphasizing a feeling of disconnect.

Hemingway most obviously displays the post-World War I feeling of disconnect through his omission of emotional description and supply of physical, active language. But his emphasis on detachment is not only present in the content of his short stories, but is visible in his literary style as well. While his short stories are written in the first person, his narrators only oblige the reader with a minimum of information—the reader must piece together the story from the fragments that the author presents. He frequently omits the names of characters and simply refers to them as “my wife,” “American lady,” or “major,” reinforcing the narrator’s knowledge of the story as superior to the reader’s. He frequently slips in phrases written in languages other than English, with no translation offered. By essentially abandoning his reader in these ways, the author assures the isolation of not only his characters, but the readers themselves.

Zero Slash One

2008-08-15T00:55:00.000-07:00

This blog catalogs some of the finest college essays known to man and animal. You need to copy these long time and turn them in. College is easy.