I’m excited to be writing my very last blog this year for AP Literature. Just last week, we took the AP Lit exam. I was a little bit flustered in the beginning of the exam, because I had a hard time finding the correct testing location even with the Milton Center programmed into my GPS. I was a minute late, but our class hadn’t started testing yet. Ms. Iton was very concerned. I was glad to find myself in a seat, even if it was behind the air conditioning man, who was banging at something in the wall (The Milton Center is perhaps not the best replacement testing location for St. James, which has comfortable chairs and black Jesus, as opposed to the jailhouse chairs and sweltering heat of the Milton Center).
I began the multiple choice in a stressed state of mind and was unable to read the first passage, so I skipped to an easy prose and soon felt comfortable with the exam. I had done well on the practice multiple choices in class, getting most or all of the questions right. I don’t think I did quite as well as I usually do, despite the fact that the questions on the AP exam were easier than the practice in-class questions, but I think I performed well enough on the multiple choice section to get a 4 and hopefully a 5.
During the break, I ran to the bathroom along with everyone else and had some of a banana that I brought with me. Brain food. Then, the essay section began and I read the prompt. I liked the theme of exile, although I felt that the question had a lot of parts, and I usually struggle to fully answer questions with a lot of different facets. I chose to write about Tess of the D’Urbervilles, because I think the novel fit the theme well. I think I wrote fairly well on the essay about the poem, in which I emphasized the fact that the family’s diversity unified them. I also feel confident in my criticism of the arrogant character in the prose passage.
I’m hopeful that I scored a 4, and possibly a 5 on the AP Lit exam and I’m excited for whatever the future holds.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Because I was ill on and off, I missed much of the early part of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, and a few sections in the middle. I still need to catch up on what I know to be a very quick and thoroughly entertaining read and plan to do so tonight or tomorrow. But from our readings in class and my brief explorations of the novel, I’ve gained certain insights about the play by Stoppard that have greatly contributed to my enjoyment of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
For one, I know that the format of a play means that there will be fewer physical or personal descriptions of the characters, but it seemed to me that Stopard deliberately refrains from characterizing either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern as individual people. This is referred to directly and humorously when the King can’t bother to tell the difference between the two. I feel that this lack of physical characterization sets up the two as representations of humanity as a whole, which makes their ponderings about life, death, and the meaning of either especially significant.
I also loved the way that the play was weaved throughout its predecessor, Hamlet. Stoppard lifts a few lines and adds his own in a manner that, had another writer attempted it, could have ended disastrously but instead fits in quite well with the rest of the play. The fact that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern spend so much time wandering in a state of confusion creates a cloudy tone and atmosphere in the play that allows for a certain degree of believability, especially in the integration of original Hamlet portions. I found their lack of clarity of mind amusing, especially when we watched the film adaptation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, in which the actors perfectly encapsulated the humor of the play. I thought that the cloudiness of their lives, demonstrated by the scene with coin-tossing that demonstrated how random life is and also by the occasionally unintelligible speeches of some characters, was a darker indication of how random and arguably purposeless our lives are.
It then was a natural move for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to mirror Hamlet’s existential, almost nihilistic point of view and question why they even exist. They question fate, by wondering if it’s possible to throw a peg in fate’s plan (in the play Hamlet’s plan, in this case). I feel that the playwright, through his characters, brings across the point that life and the universe are chaos in which people wander blindly, searching for meaning. Some find their own meaning (and they vary in levels of delusion?) in this mess of randomness and chance and others simply balk at the abyss (just. like. GRENDEL!) and find themselves unable to function with clarity, like Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet.
I’ve enjoyed the bits of the play I’ve read to an enormous extent, and even thinking about the themes in the play make me excited about reading it more thoroughly as soon as possible. I’m eager to consider the novel’s themes more deeply and also to rent the movie adaptation through Netflix to compare the text with the film adaptation.
For one, I know that the format of a play means that there will be fewer physical or personal descriptions of the characters, but it seemed to me that Stopard deliberately refrains from characterizing either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern as individual people. This is referred to directly and humorously when the King can’t bother to tell the difference between the two. I feel that this lack of physical characterization sets up the two as representations of humanity as a whole, which makes their ponderings about life, death, and the meaning of either especially significant.
I also loved the way that the play was weaved throughout its predecessor, Hamlet. Stoppard lifts a few lines and adds his own in a manner that, had another writer attempted it, could have ended disastrously but instead fits in quite well with the rest of the play. The fact that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern spend so much time wandering in a state of confusion creates a cloudy tone and atmosphere in the play that allows for a certain degree of believability, especially in the integration of original Hamlet portions. I found their lack of clarity of mind amusing, especially when we watched the film adaptation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, in which the actors perfectly encapsulated the humor of the play. I thought that the cloudiness of their lives, demonstrated by the scene with coin-tossing that demonstrated how random life is and also by the occasionally unintelligible speeches of some characters, was a darker indication of how random and arguably purposeless our lives are.
It then was a natural move for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to mirror Hamlet’s existential, almost nihilistic point of view and question why they even exist. They question fate, by wondering if it’s possible to throw a peg in fate’s plan (in the play Hamlet’s plan, in this case). I feel that the playwright, through his characters, brings across the point that life and the universe are chaos in which people wander blindly, searching for meaning. Some find their own meaning (and they vary in levels of delusion?) in this mess of randomness and chance and others simply balk at the abyss (just. like. GRENDEL!) and find themselves unable to function with clarity, like Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet.
I’ve enjoyed the bits of the play I’ve read to an enormous extent, and even thinking about the themes in the play make me excited about reading it more thoroughly as soon as possible. I’m eager to consider the novel’s themes more deeply and also to rent the movie adaptation through Netflix to compare the text with the film adaptation.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Into the Wild
When choosing books to read for pleasure, I tend to avoid the nonfiction section of libraries; I like to think of this as my elementary school self controlling my current literary choices. But recently I was tempted by boredom to read Into the Wild, a nonfiction exploration of the life and death of Christopher McCandless by John Krakauer. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the account, which read like an expanded newspaper article (because that’s essentially what it was- Mr. Krakauer is a news writer). I’ve always been fascinated by travel and exploration, so reading about McCandless’ extreme experience was quite interesting. The author provided maps as visual aids, newspaper accounts, countless first-hand interviews from people who met Chris on his travels, entries from Chris’ own diaries, and the author’s speculation on Chris’ motives.
The combination of all these sources of information was a book that was highly digestible; I was surprised and pleased to find that I didn’t want to put the book down. Krakaeuer doesn’t try to overcome me with emotion all at once; instead he builds my investment in Chris throughout the course of the book and leaves me at the end with a sense of touching insight into the troubled young man’s life. Krakaeuer writes how I imagine a true news writer writes. While he speculates extensively about Chris’ motivations, he never belittles the man, whose manic declarations and somewhat selfish actions lend themselves to criticism. He leaves it to me to form my own opinion of Chris. The author’s tone, which was quite sympathetic, made me feel a similar sympathy for Chris, although I felt that his decision to abandon his family without warning was thoughtlessly cruel.
Krakauer made the nonfiction novel even more personal and fascinating by including a chapter in which he details an experience he had that parallels the wilderness exploration of McCandless. He reflects back on his youth, in which he too travelled to Alaska, but instead of living in the wilderness for an extended period of time like McCandless, Krakauer finds himself determined to climb a dangerous mountain peak that had never been climbed before. After an intensely difficult and miserable experience, the author manages to reach the peak. The inclusion of this experience was absolutely vital to the novel in my opinion, because I got a first-hand glimpse into the mindset of a young man similar to McCandless; I got to hear about how nature challenges some people, how some are inexplicably drawn to the wilderness and to the danger that the wild offers.
I really enjoyed reading about McCandless, who may or may not have been crazy, but was certainly a fascinating person. I was overwhelmed by reading of his life and death, not so much with grief but with an understanding and empathy for what McCandless felt about his life and the natural world around him. After being so engrossed in the novel, I’m eager to rent the movie adaptation from Netflix and see if it lives up to my expectations!
The combination of all these sources of information was a book that was highly digestible; I was surprised and pleased to find that I didn’t want to put the book down. Krakaeuer doesn’t try to overcome me with emotion all at once; instead he builds my investment in Chris throughout the course of the book and leaves me at the end with a sense of touching insight into the troubled young man’s life. Krakaeuer writes how I imagine a true news writer writes. While he speculates extensively about Chris’ motivations, he never belittles the man, whose manic declarations and somewhat selfish actions lend themselves to criticism. He leaves it to me to form my own opinion of Chris. The author’s tone, which was quite sympathetic, made me feel a similar sympathy for Chris, although I felt that his decision to abandon his family without warning was thoughtlessly cruel.
Krakauer made the nonfiction novel even more personal and fascinating by including a chapter in which he details an experience he had that parallels the wilderness exploration of McCandless. He reflects back on his youth, in which he too travelled to Alaska, but instead of living in the wilderness for an extended period of time like McCandless, Krakauer finds himself determined to climb a dangerous mountain peak that had never been climbed before. After an intensely difficult and miserable experience, the author manages to reach the peak. The inclusion of this experience was absolutely vital to the novel in my opinion, because I got a first-hand glimpse into the mindset of a young man similar to McCandless; I got to hear about how nature challenges some people, how some are inexplicably drawn to the wilderness and to the danger that the wild offers.
I really enjoyed reading about McCandless, who may or may not have been crazy, but was certainly a fascinating person. I was overwhelmed by reading of his life and death, not so much with grief but with an understanding and empathy for what McCandless felt about his life and the natural world around him. After being so engrossed in the novel, I’m eager to rent the movie adaptation from Netflix and see if it lives up to my expectations!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Adam and Eve Allusions
The story of Adam and Eve is one that almost everyone hears about in childhood, regardless of religion or culture. It is one of the most basic stories in the bible and also, of course, one of the most prevalent allusions in literature. In pretty much any work of literature that our AP Literature class has read this year, from Winesburg, Ohio to Frankenstein to Hamlet to Invisible Man, the “original” man and woman have surfaced to make our class question meaning of the work in relation to this biblical story.
As we have learned from various allusion presentations, the story is told in Genesis, beginning with the creation of Adam, the first man, from the dust (which if anyone is interested, is very visually fascinating in a claymation version of Mark Twain’s life- I can’t remember the name of the movie but it is really really interesting) and giving him life. Adam is all lonely and none of the animals can satisfy his … “needs” (???!!), so God makes a woman person out of Adam’s rib (I find it interesting that the order is man, animals, woman). The two are allowed to eat anything they could ever want in the garden EXCEPT for the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (also, I think it’s funny that they’re forbidden from consuming knowledge- implies that tenets involve blindness). So of course Eve is tempted by a snake to eat the fruit and then Adam eats it as well. God curses them to live in hardship (and have to go through menstruation and horribly painful childbirth). So they’ve been kicked out of the garden. I have been informed that some other things happen later, like children or something, but this is the part of the story that I’m interested in tonight.
Since I seem to be on a role in finding allusions in Frankenstein, one of my favorite works of literature we’ve been required to read this year (not because the read itself was the most enjoyable but because it’s so ripe for blog posts), I’ll explore this allusion in Shelley’s novel. On page 94, Frankenstein’s monster cries, “Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.” He places a burden of guilt on the doctor, who as a nearly divine creator ought to have been somewhat responsible for his monster, but instead abandoned it. Considering the biblical story though, I must question: If Frankenstein had loved his monster like God loved Adam, would the tragedy have been avoided? After all, Adam screwed up too. Perhaps in this light, the tragedy is less a tale of creator abandonment than a testament to the sad truth that everyone and everything is fallible. How cheerful.
Just to throw another one in there, on page 127, the monster again accuses Dr. Frankenstein “…no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine?” The last part of this quote is similar to what I explored in the previous paragraph, but he does throw in a reference to Eve, which is in my opinion an insistence that a responsible creator should create companionship for his child, or at least make it possible for the child to make its own companionship. Anyway, I definitely have a clearer handle on the Adam and Eve biblical story after revisiting it in my allusions and delving a little into Frankenstein.
As we have learned from various allusion presentations, the story is told in Genesis, beginning with the creation of Adam, the first man, from the dust (which if anyone is interested, is very visually fascinating in a claymation version of Mark Twain’s life- I can’t remember the name of the movie but it is really really interesting) and giving him life. Adam is all lonely and none of the animals can satisfy his … “needs” (???!!), so God makes a woman person out of Adam’s rib (I find it interesting that the order is man, animals, woman). The two are allowed to eat anything they could ever want in the garden EXCEPT for the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (also, I think it’s funny that they’re forbidden from consuming knowledge- implies that tenets involve blindness). So of course Eve is tempted by a snake to eat the fruit and then Adam eats it as well. God curses them to live in hardship (and have to go through menstruation and horribly painful childbirth). So they’ve been kicked out of the garden. I have been informed that some other things happen later, like children or something, but this is the part of the story that I’m interested in tonight.
Since I seem to be on a role in finding allusions in Frankenstein, one of my favorite works of literature we’ve been required to read this year (not because the read itself was the most enjoyable but because it’s so ripe for blog posts), I’ll explore this allusion in Shelley’s novel. On page 94, Frankenstein’s monster cries, “Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.” He places a burden of guilt on the doctor, who as a nearly divine creator ought to have been somewhat responsible for his monster, but instead abandoned it. Considering the biblical story though, I must question: If Frankenstein had loved his monster like God loved Adam, would the tragedy have been avoided? After all, Adam screwed up too. Perhaps in this light, the tragedy is less a tale of creator abandonment than a testament to the sad truth that everyone and everything is fallible. How cheerful.
Just to throw another one in there, on page 127, the monster again accuses Dr. Frankenstein “…no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine?” The last part of this quote is similar to what I explored in the previous paragraph, but he does throw in a reference to Eve, which is in my opinion an insistence that a responsible creator should create companionship for his child, or at least make it possible for the child to make its own companionship. Anyway, I definitely have a clearer handle on the Adam and Eve biblical story after revisiting it in my allusions and delving a little into Frankenstein.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Job Allusions in Literature
After spending a semester and a half listening to various allusion presentations in my second period AP English Literature class, I’ve become significantly more interested in the origins of allusions and their uses in works of literature. Most all of the allusions interest me (especially the scandalous ones!), but one that strikes my particular fancy tonight is the story of Job. I think the concept of exhaustion is one that many of us seniors with AP classes can relate to lately.
I looked through some old print-outs and more internet sources to refresh myself on the story of Job. The man was incredibly devoted to his Christian religion- he prayed all the time and followed the law of the Bible. As to the rest of his life, he was very rich and had ten children. This was a lot of potential sins being created by his legacy (who knows what sins his sons could commit without his control!?!?), so considering this he often burnt various sacrifices to atone in advance (which to me seems somewhat excessive, but… moving on). So the Christian God notices this Extremely Religious man and asks Satan his opinion, who feels that Job only maintains his devotions because he is so wealthy. To prove this, Satan takes away *everything* from Job and leaves his family in shambles (a witch even kills his children). Job’s faith isn’t shaken- instead he becomes sort of like a Buddha and wanders around naked and bald, like a sad religious hobo. So Satan gives him an STD or something and his wife wants him to die and *still*, his piousness is unshaken. God rewards him by restoring his wealth and health and replaces his massacred children with shiny new sons (which to me seems a little bit horrifying). And then it ends. I understand that patience and faith are virtues, but I just can’t appreciate much of this story now that I have closely examined it. Regardless, I appreciate the potential of Job’s story to enrich works of literature and movies and I definitely enjoy the place that this biblical story has.
Though I can’t find instances where Frankenstein directly alludes to the story of Job, I definitely think that a connection to this biblical story is implied. After all, Shelley and Frankenstein are constantly questioning their creators, and the themes of undeserved suffering, advice, anger towards a creator pervade throughout the entire novel. It makes me think that perhaps Shelley might toy with the idea that the Christian God is malicious. I think she might agree with me that Job’s suffering was pointless. Testing one’s faith for the hell of it to me smacks of burning ants with a magnifying class for the hell of it- both are pointless destruction. Anyway, I’m definitely going to keep an eye out for both direct and indirect allusions to that and other biblical and mythological stories that we’ve learned about this year in our allusion presentation. I can better see now how works of literature connect to essential human emotions and shared experiences by viewing allusions in the context of society and history, and it makes the reading experience that much more interesting.
I looked through some old print-outs and more internet sources to refresh myself on the story of Job. The man was incredibly devoted to his Christian religion- he prayed all the time and followed the law of the Bible. As to the rest of his life, he was very rich and had ten children. This was a lot of potential sins being created by his legacy (who knows what sins his sons could commit without his control!?!?), so considering this he often burnt various sacrifices to atone in advance (which to me seems somewhat excessive, but… moving on). So the Christian God notices this Extremely Religious man and asks Satan his opinion, who feels that Job only maintains his devotions because he is so wealthy. To prove this, Satan takes away *everything* from Job and leaves his family in shambles (a witch even kills his children). Job’s faith isn’t shaken- instead he becomes sort of like a Buddha and wanders around naked and bald, like a sad religious hobo. So Satan gives him an STD or something and his wife wants him to die and *still*, his piousness is unshaken. God rewards him by restoring his wealth and health and replaces his massacred children with shiny new sons (which to me seems a little bit horrifying). And then it ends. I understand that patience and faith are virtues, but I just can’t appreciate much of this story now that I have closely examined it. Regardless, I appreciate the potential of Job’s story to enrich works of literature and movies and I definitely enjoy the place that this biblical story has.
Though I can’t find instances where Frankenstein directly alludes to the story of Job, I definitely think that a connection to this biblical story is implied. After all, Shelley and Frankenstein are constantly questioning their creators, and the themes of undeserved suffering, advice, anger towards a creator pervade throughout the entire novel. It makes me think that perhaps Shelley might toy with the idea that the Christian God is malicious. I think she might agree with me that Job’s suffering was pointless. Testing one’s faith for the hell of it to me smacks of burning ants with a magnifying class for the hell of it- both are pointless destruction. Anyway, I’m definitely going to keep an eye out for both direct and indirect allusions to that and other biblical and mythological stories that we’ve learned about this year in our allusion presentation. I can better see now how works of literature connect to essential human emotions and shared experiences by viewing allusions in the context of society and history, and it makes the reading experience that much more interesting.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Fight Club: Book vs. Movie
In this week’s literature circle discussion, the first of three about Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Fight Club, I was interested in the points that my fellow group members brought up. Nicole’s critical article raised the possibility that the narrator and Tyler Durden could be the same person, which I think I remember from the movie and also I felt was subtly implied in the first nine chapters that I’ve read thus far. I know that, having seen the movie version of Palahniuk’s novel, my view of the book will be somewhat affected by what I’ve watched but hopefully, since it’s been a few years since I saw the movie I’ll be able to enjoy the book, relatively unaffected by knowledge of the plot development.
In terms of the style and mood of the Palahniuk’s novel, I feel that the movie adaptation got things perfect. The sinister, grungy, dingy tone of the movie feel slike an exact translation from the original novel and the characters in my mind also translate perfectly from one medium to the next. Even the narrator, who is *never* described, seems a perfect fit in Edward Norton, whose sad, tired, eyes are like a mirror to the narrator’s disillusionment (and invisibility!) with society and with his life. Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden is an almost-perfect actor for the character- he’s definitely a leader and the sort of person who Edward Norton’s character would seem to gravitate to. But for me, the mysterious and threatening undertones of Tyler Durden’s character in the novel aren’t much reflected in Pitt’s machismo performance- one that appealed to hordes of fight-club wanna be teenage boys but perhaps didn’t do complete justice to the novel.
The best character translation between the book and movie, especially in terms of appearance, was Marla Singer. Her skin is described as pale, pale white and rather pasty. She has dark, large “anime” eyes, ratty hair, and pouty big lips. She *is* Helena Bonham Carter. And with an American accent, I really couldn’t imagine a more perfect Marla Singer. Granted, her character is not as explored (thus far in the novel anyway) as the narrator or Tyler Durden, but to me she encapsulates Marla’s cynicism, her perverse satisfaction in watching suffering (almost sadistic?), her desire to die and her need for love, particularly physical, from the right person who walks her way.
As far as the rest of the novel goes, I’m going to do my best to forget that I have ever even seen the movie version of Fight Club. This approach, I feel, will be most helpful in analyzing the progression of the novel and its characters in the next two sections of the novel. I’m not sorry that I’ve seen the movie, because right now I’m reading with a visual image of the characters in mind, a faint understanding of the novel’s themes (but not so clear that I can’t form my own opinions from the text), and an eagerness to continue following the narrator through the next part of his life.
In terms of the style and mood of the Palahniuk’s novel, I feel that the movie adaptation got things perfect. The sinister, grungy, dingy tone of the movie feel slike an exact translation from the original novel and the characters in my mind also translate perfectly from one medium to the next. Even the narrator, who is *never* described, seems a perfect fit in Edward Norton, whose sad, tired, eyes are like a mirror to the narrator’s disillusionment (and invisibility!) with society and with his life. Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden is an almost-perfect actor for the character- he’s definitely a leader and the sort of person who Edward Norton’s character would seem to gravitate to. But for me, the mysterious and threatening undertones of Tyler Durden’s character in the novel aren’t much reflected in Pitt’s machismo performance- one that appealed to hordes of fight-club wanna be teenage boys but perhaps didn’t do complete justice to the novel.
The best character translation between the book and movie, especially in terms of appearance, was Marla Singer. Her skin is described as pale, pale white and rather pasty. She has dark, large “anime” eyes, ratty hair, and pouty big lips. She *is* Helena Bonham Carter. And with an American accent, I really couldn’t imagine a more perfect Marla Singer. Granted, her character is not as explored (thus far in the novel anyway) as the narrator or Tyler Durden, but to me she encapsulates Marla’s cynicism, her perverse satisfaction in watching suffering (almost sadistic?), her desire to die and her need for love, particularly physical, from the right person who walks her way.
As far as the rest of the novel goes, I’m going to do my best to forget that I have ever even seen the movie version of Fight Club. This approach, I feel, will be most helpful in analyzing the progression of the novel and its characters in the next two sections of the novel. I’m not sorry that I’ve seen the movie, because right now I’m reading with a visual image of the characters in mind, a faint understanding of the novel’s themes (but not so clear that I can’t form my own opinions from the text), and an eagerness to continue following the narrator through the next part of his life.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Apples in Invisible Man
After finishing most of Invisible Man this weekend, I realized that I had gained a lot of insight about the novel from the index I kept of certain themes and motifs. A lot of subjects came up on nearly every page- notably, black versus white, darkness and light, and knowledge and ignorance. I made a genuine effort to catalogue the most crucial of those instances, but what really interests me in my index is the terms that surfaced only a few times throughout the novel. I saw apples a few times and also direct references to sex a few more and both seemed to be pertinent and related to one another in my examination of the novel.
In many of our discussions in AP Literature this year, we’ve come across the subject of apples and sexuality. Apples in literature often represent knowledge- perhaps of spirituality or even of sex. They are symbolic of temptation, corruption, or enlightenment- sometimes all three at once. The word “apple” appears in Invisible Man exactly six times. First, on page 11, the woman in the narrator’s dream says in reference to her white master, “I loved him and give him the poison and be withered away like a frost-bit apple. Them boys woulda tore him to pieces…” It is significant that the woman, an uneducated slave, should describe her master and sexual companion in terms of a withering apple upon his death- when he dies, hope for being freed (or obtaining knowledge of freedom and the outside world!) shrivels as well.
When the narrator and Mr. Norton come across Jim Trueblood, they also stumble across apple imagery in page 53, when they find a “hard red apple stamped out of tin” near the man’s porch. The fact that Trueblood has a bright shining symbol of knowledge left like garbage out on his front lawn speaks volumes about the man’s character. He’s ignorant of the fact that he should take responsibility for his disgusting lack of morals and of the white leaders’ motivations for financing him.
One of the last significant mentions of the apple in Invisible Man that can perhaps be most directly linked to sexuality occurs after the narrator is released from the Liberty Paint hospital. The narrator sees a young platinum blond nibbling at a Red Delicious apple on page 250. The event is extremely significant in the novel- for starters, the instance is one of few where the narrator expresses an interest in sex – especially interesting that he’s interested in a white woman when society forbids him to act out such an interest. The woman nibbling on an apple, on knowledge, is like a portent to the narrator that the times are changing and that everyone’s preconceived notions about race and sexuality are about to change- the “platinum” of her hair supports this modernism.
After searching through the book and finding significant mentions of apples where I wouldn’t expect them, I’m definitely going to keep an eye out from now on when reading other works of literature for mentions of apples, because they are almost always significant in some way or another.
In many of our discussions in AP Literature this year, we’ve come across the subject of apples and sexuality. Apples in literature often represent knowledge- perhaps of spirituality or even of sex. They are symbolic of temptation, corruption, or enlightenment- sometimes all three at once. The word “apple” appears in Invisible Man exactly six times. First, on page 11, the woman in the narrator’s dream says in reference to her white master, “I loved him and give him the poison and be withered away like a frost-bit apple. Them boys woulda tore him to pieces…” It is significant that the woman, an uneducated slave, should describe her master and sexual companion in terms of a withering apple upon his death- when he dies, hope for being freed (or obtaining knowledge of freedom and the outside world!) shrivels as well.
When the narrator and Mr. Norton come across Jim Trueblood, they also stumble across apple imagery in page 53, when they find a “hard red apple stamped out of tin” near the man’s porch. The fact that Trueblood has a bright shining symbol of knowledge left like garbage out on his front lawn speaks volumes about the man’s character. He’s ignorant of the fact that he should take responsibility for his disgusting lack of morals and of the white leaders’ motivations for financing him.
One of the last significant mentions of the apple in Invisible Man that can perhaps be most directly linked to sexuality occurs after the narrator is released from the Liberty Paint hospital. The narrator sees a young platinum blond nibbling at a Red Delicious apple on page 250. The event is extremely significant in the novel- for starters, the instance is one of few where the narrator expresses an interest in sex – especially interesting that he’s interested in a white woman when society forbids him to act out such an interest. The woman nibbling on an apple, on knowledge, is like a portent to the narrator that the times are changing and that everyone’s preconceived notions about race and sexuality are about to change- the “platinum” of her hair supports this modernism.
After searching through the book and finding significant mentions of apples where I wouldn’t expect them, I’m definitely going to keep an eye out from now on when reading other works of literature for mentions of apples, because they are almost always significant in some way or another.
Monday, March 1, 2010
A Clockwork Orange- Last Chapter
Discussions lately in AP Lit class have reminded me lately of books that I’ve read before; in relation to the Invisible Man unit this semester, we have chosen books to read for new seminar groups. I had already read a couple of the books on the list (I chose to read Fight Club because it struck my fancy at the time), including A Clockwork Orange. It’s not my favorite book in the world, but somehow I have watched the movie, read the book, and listened to the audio book as read by the author (who is a rather surly man and seems to resent the success of A Clockwork Orange over his more “deserving” works).
I found the plot and events of A Clockwork Orange to leave a nasty taste in my mouth; Alex, an antisocial youth commits a number of vile acts with his gang sometime in the future before being arrested. His behavior continues on a more limited level as he pretends to find religious salvation. Eventually, he is one of a few prisoners chosen to be test subjects for the “Ludovico Technique,” which promises to change patients’ behavior and have them out of prison after just two weeks. Alex is exposed to horrible violent images coupled with beautiful classical music, which eventually causes him to be unable to listen to his favorite music. Alex is eventually released and unable to defend himself; his parents have replaced him and now some of his past victims are returning to seek revenge on him. He comes to live with Mr. Alexander, whose wife Alex killed; the man unknowingly takes him in to use as a tool against the government’s oppressive programs. The treatment is reversed and Alex returns to his former violent self.
After this point, there is a discrepancy. In Burgess’ original version of the novel, there is a final chapter (the 21st) in which Alex renounces his violence and begins a more productive life. In the American version of the novel, the editors removed the final chapter (why do American versions of British books always get drastically changed!?) which made Burgess extremely angry. I sympathize with him- editors should have the power to advise authors and make smaller changes, but they shouldn’t completely alter the message of the book. I loved the statement Burgess made in his novel about human morality, that for true morality to exist and society to function, people must have a choice. They shouldn’t be forced or brainwashed into certain behaviors, positive or negative. Alex is reformed twice- the first time is clearly against nature, as he is made nauseous at one of the most purely beautiful aspects of the world, music. He feels no differently about the people around him and is more like a grizzly bear in a straightjacket than a reformed prisoner. But after he reaches his 21st chapter, the age at which people traditionally mature, and he is able to make the decision for himself, he chooses to live without violence. His mind and body are one.
This ending to the novel, while maybe not as “controversial” as the altered ending, completely changes the novel from being an ode to violence and perhaps a criticism of violent tendencies to being a larger, more important statement about the nature of morality that happens to use violence to bring across important points. I can understand why Burgess was angry about the change to his book (that he rants about extensively in the introduction to the audiobook, if anyone is interested) and hope that, in the future, editors leave the writing to the authors.
I found the plot and events of A Clockwork Orange to leave a nasty taste in my mouth; Alex, an antisocial youth commits a number of vile acts with his gang sometime in the future before being arrested. His behavior continues on a more limited level as he pretends to find religious salvation. Eventually, he is one of a few prisoners chosen to be test subjects for the “Ludovico Technique,” which promises to change patients’ behavior and have them out of prison after just two weeks. Alex is exposed to horrible violent images coupled with beautiful classical music, which eventually causes him to be unable to listen to his favorite music. Alex is eventually released and unable to defend himself; his parents have replaced him and now some of his past victims are returning to seek revenge on him. He comes to live with Mr. Alexander, whose wife Alex killed; the man unknowingly takes him in to use as a tool against the government’s oppressive programs. The treatment is reversed and Alex returns to his former violent self.
After this point, there is a discrepancy. In Burgess’ original version of the novel, there is a final chapter (the 21st) in which Alex renounces his violence and begins a more productive life. In the American version of the novel, the editors removed the final chapter (why do American versions of British books always get drastically changed!?) which made Burgess extremely angry. I sympathize with him- editors should have the power to advise authors and make smaller changes, but they shouldn’t completely alter the message of the book. I loved the statement Burgess made in his novel about human morality, that for true morality to exist and society to function, people must have a choice. They shouldn’t be forced or brainwashed into certain behaviors, positive or negative. Alex is reformed twice- the first time is clearly against nature, as he is made nauseous at one of the most purely beautiful aspects of the world, music. He feels no differently about the people around him and is more like a grizzly bear in a straightjacket than a reformed prisoner. But after he reaches his 21st chapter, the age at which people traditionally mature, and he is able to make the decision for himself, he chooses to live without violence. His mind and body are one.
This ending to the novel, while maybe not as “controversial” as the altered ending, completely changes the novel from being an ode to violence and perhaps a criticism of violent tendencies to being a larger, more important statement about the nature of morality that happens to use violence to bring across important points. I can understand why Burgess was angry about the change to his book (that he rants about extensively in the introduction to the audiobook, if anyone is interested) and hope that, in the future, editors leave the writing to the authors.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Make-Up Blog: Invisible Man
I like the fact that the narrator of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is unnamed; besides being fitting to the title and meaning of the work, this identity disconnect makes me really identify with his character- I feel like I am him rather than an interested spectator standing beside him. I most appreciate viewing the novel’s characters from the mind of the protagonist and considering how my opinion of the narrator affects my perception of the other characters. Because I’m still not too far into the novel, I haven’t formed a definite opinion on the narrator (whether I like him, trust his reliability, agree with him) – actually, I’ve gotten annoyed at his naiveté a couple of times. I’ve enjoyed forming an opinion about Mr. Norton while the narrator drives the rich man around campus, comparing the two characters, and considering how the two will interact with one another later in the novel.
Mr. Norton is a curious character to consider; when I first met him he seemed to be rather inconsequential- more of a force of power and money than an actual person. The narrator clearly felt similarly, as he seemed to look to Mr. Norton with admiring fear, though he infantilized the man like an idiot (which Mr. Norton very well may be). I’m not sure if that’s due to Ellison’s perception of race relations, if the narrator is a genius, if Mr. Norton is an imbecile, or some combination of these explanations. Whatever the reason, the narrator quietly disregards Mr. Norton’s ramblings and submissively answers his lunacy with, “I think I understand you better, now, sir” (Ellison 45). He is a perfect actor for his role and both are objects to each other. Throughout their disastrous trip, neither can relate to the other as an actual human being. Mr. Norton sees the narrator as the fruit of his labor, one of “three hundred teachers, seven hundred trained mechanics, eight hundred skilled farmers” (Ellison 45) that Mr. Norton has become through his philanthropy; the narrator, as I intimated already, views Mr. Norton only as a faceless supplier of money and his future.
They differ in personality, age, intelligence, and race- I think that these factors coincide so that the two are opposites; Mr. Norton foils the narrator by blustering arrogantly about his legacy as the narrator drifts mentally in silence. Besides this mental difference, they’ve been trained by society to dehumanize the others. Mr. Norton is taught to view the narrator as a product, and though he pretends to more liberal intentions, the narrator is more or less a talking cow to him. Conversely, the narrator is taught that white people like Mr. Norton are dangerous. He is encouraged by society to put on a show for the man so that he can get what he wants- in the narrator’s case, an education.
I think the two men, as foils, are going to be significant later in the novel. Even if Mr. Norton drifts out of the narrator’s life (and this is likely, since he appears to be quite flaky and unhealthy), someone like him will replace Mr. Norton. I’m sure that Mr. Norton will meet another young student like the narrator and see him as exactly the same person – or product.
Mr. Norton is a curious character to consider; when I first met him he seemed to be rather inconsequential- more of a force of power and money than an actual person. The narrator clearly felt similarly, as he seemed to look to Mr. Norton with admiring fear, though he infantilized the man like an idiot (which Mr. Norton very well may be). I’m not sure if that’s due to Ellison’s perception of race relations, if the narrator is a genius, if Mr. Norton is an imbecile, or some combination of these explanations. Whatever the reason, the narrator quietly disregards Mr. Norton’s ramblings and submissively answers his lunacy with, “I think I understand you better, now, sir” (Ellison 45). He is a perfect actor for his role and both are objects to each other. Throughout their disastrous trip, neither can relate to the other as an actual human being. Mr. Norton sees the narrator as the fruit of his labor, one of “three hundred teachers, seven hundred trained mechanics, eight hundred skilled farmers” (Ellison 45) that Mr. Norton has become through his philanthropy; the narrator, as I intimated already, views Mr. Norton only as a faceless supplier of money and his future.
They differ in personality, age, intelligence, and race- I think that these factors coincide so that the two are opposites; Mr. Norton foils the narrator by blustering arrogantly about his legacy as the narrator drifts mentally in silence. Besides this mental difference, they’ve been trained by society to dehumanize the others. Mr. Norton is taught to view the narrator as a product, and though he pretends to more liberal intentions, the narrator is more or less a talking cow to him. Conversely, the narrator is taught that white people like Mr. Norton are dangerous. He is encouraged by society to put on a show for the man so that he can get what he wants- in the narrator’s case, an education.
I think the two men, as foils, are going to be significant later in the novel. Even if Mr. Norton drifts out of the narrator’s life (and this is likely, since he appears to be quite flaky and unhealthy), someone like him will replace Mr. Norton. I’m sure that Mr. Norton will meet another young student like the narrator and see him as exactly the same person – or product.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hamlet to Crucible
With all of the Books on File work and references in play and novel form to Christlike figures, I’m reminded heavily of a novel that I deeply enjoyed reading last year for AP English Literature. The Crucible, by Arthur Miller, is a statement about the nature of humankind and the faithfully unyielding manner in which it reasserts itself throughout history. This statement made about the unchanging nature of humankind is exemplified in Miller’s comparison of the hysterics during the Salem Witch Trials to the suspicion-riddled climate of 1950s America. Miller’s story is rich with rhetorical devices which not only add to a compelling reading experience but contribute heavily to his expression of theme.
Miller uses metaphors that appeal to the reader’s pathos and fully immerse him or her in the story’s action. As no doubt several of the villagers are aware and none will admit, the motive behind much of the corruption and accusation is greed for land or power. When expressing what she believes are the layers of corruption in the village, Mrs. Ann Putnam insists, ““There are wheels within wheels in this village, and fires within fires!” Here, she is alluding to wrongdoing, witchcraft; while supporting herself as an innocent. Both wheels and fire can be interpreted as being connected to the sinister practice of witchcraft, as wheels and other circular figures are powerful symbols in pagan lifestyles and fire is more stereotypically associated with evil. Mrs. Putnam uses these images to imply that witches inhabit the village of Salem. The wheels “within wheels” and fires “within fires,” as layers, symbolize the layers of complication of this issue such as the internal struggles for power among the villagers. Mrs. Putnam’s metaphoric declaration reveals her bitterly deep-seated desire to expose as a “witch” the woman she blames for the loss of her unborn children and her capability as an imperfect human to incite paranoia.
Arthur Miller also uses the device of kenning to arouse feelings of fear and illustrate Abigail’s determination to bring her revenge upon Elizabeth Proctor. Abigail craftily manipulates her friends into serving her purposes. Her power over them is first revealed in examining her harried whisper, “Let either of you breathe a word, or the edge of a word, about the other things, and I will come to you in the black of some terrible night and I will bring a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. And you know I can do it; I saw Indians smash my dear parents' heads on the pillow next to mine, and I have seen some reddish work done at night, and I can make you wish you had never seen the sun go down!” Colors in this quote serve as kennings; black represents the dark of night and reddish work is a kenning for violence. The crudity of these kennings compared to the words which they represent creates a more violent and terrifying tone when spoken by Abigail. The girl’s exploitive nature is manifested and one can easily draw comparisons between her self-serving behavior and that of other women in the village (Ann Putnam for example) or of politicians from the 1950s.
The Crucible demonstratea the massive power that negative ideological elements of humanity have gained, vengeance in particular. This is no more evident than in John Proctor’s indignant rant against the awakened hysterical attitude towards revenge, “I'll tell you what's walking Salem — vengeance is walking Salem. We are what we always were in Salem, but now the little crazy children are jangling the keys of the kingdom, and common vengeance writes the law!” In addition to biblical allusion to the “kingdom,” emphasizing Proctor’s belief that the inhabitants of Salem are interfering in matters far beyond their jurisdiction, Proctor personifies the force of vengeance.
Miller uses metaphors that appeal to the reader’s pathos and fully immerse him or her in the story’s action. As no doubt several of the villagers are aware and none will admit, the motive behind much of the corruption and accusation is greed for land or power. When expressing what she believes are the layers of corruption in the village, Mrs. Ann Putnam insists, ““There are wheels within wheels in this village, and fires within fires!” Here, she is alluding to wrongdoing, witchcraft; while supporting herself as an innocent. Both wheels and fire can be interpreted as being connected to the sinister practice of witchcraft, as wheels and other circular figures are powerful symbols in pagan lifestyles and fire is more stereotypically associated with evil. Mrs. Putnam uses these images to imply that witches inhabit the village of Salem. The wheels “within wheels” and fires “within fires,” as layers, symbolize the layers of complication of this issue such as the internal struggles for power among the villagers. Mrs. Putnam’s metaphoric declaration reveals her bitterly deep-seated desire to expose as a “witch” the woman she blames for the loss of her unborn children and her capability as an imperfect human to incite paranoia.
Arthur Miller also uses the device of kenning to arouse feelings of fear and illustrate Abigail’s determination to bring her revenge upon Elizabeth Proctor. Abigail craftily manipulates her friends into serving her purposes. Her power over them is first revealed in examining her harried whisper, “Let either of you breathe a word, or the edge of a word, about the other things, and I will come to you in the black of some terrible night and I will bring a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. And you know I can do it; I saw Indians smash my dear parents' heads on the pillow next to mine, and I have seen some reddish work done at night, and I can make you wish you had never seen the sun go down!” Colors in this quote serve as kennings; black represents the dark of night and reddish work is a kenning for violence. The crudity of these kennings compared to the words which they represent creates a more violent and terrifying tone when spoken by Abigail. The girl’s exploitive nature is manifested and one can easily draw comparisons between her self-serving behavior and that of other women in the village (Ann Putnam for example) or of politicians from the 1950s.
The Crucible demonstratea the massive power that negative ideological elements of humanity have gained, vengeance in particular. This is no more evident than in John Proctor’s indignant rant against the awakened hysterical attitude towards revenge, “I'll tell you what's walking Salem — vengeance is walking Salem. We are what we always were in Salem, but now the little crazy children are jangling the keys of the kingdom, and common vengeance writes the law!” In addition to biblical allusion to the “kingdom,” emphasizing Proctor’s belief that the inhabitants of Salem are interfering in matters far beyond their jurisdiction, Proctor personifies the force of vengeance.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A Classic
As I look back on novels that I've read throughout high school while searching for a book to use for Books on File, one novel in particular stands out as a possibility. Erich Remarque’s story of a young man caught in the trenches of World War I is one that lingers and haunts the mind of the reader. Already a classic novel, All Quiet on the Western Front is engrossing and well-written, employing elements such as figurative language and character development. The novel holds special meaning for readers across the world, who are deeply affected by its words. All Quiet on the Western Front’s enduring characteristics, the elements of vitality, craftsmanship, and significance, will ensure that it remains a classic novel.
All Quiet on the Western Front is a vital novel that has remained a classic for over sixty years. The novel is highly engrossing to new and old readers alike, which maintains its fan base. Paul’s experience has timeless characteristics, but it is also deeply rooted in the time of World War I. About the unchanging experience of war, Remarque writes, “It is as though formerly we were coins of different provinces; and now we are melted down and all bear the same stamp” (pg 272). This aptly sums up how war changes a person or a group; it unifies the minds of the soldiers until they are all essentially the same person. The timelessness of the novel appeals to people of all generations, proving that it will have the vitality to remain a popular story. Readers are brought back to the time in which Paul exists by the descriptions of how the soldiers and their families felt about the war. Paul displays his naïveté about the war, insisting, “But there are more lies told by the other side than by us… just think of those pamphlets the prisoners have on them, where it says that we eat Belgian children” (pg. 206). After reading this, one wants to learn more about Paul and what he thinks about the army. Interest in the time period in which World War I takes place will additionally secure the popularity of the novel. Readers’ fascination with Paul’s experiences in war will retain its strength for years to come.
Erich Remarque employs style and character techniques that lend texture to his novel. Similes are used often and across a wide range, including the horrors of war and the general way of life for Germans. Paul humorously compares himself and his comrades to sweating monkeys (pg. 232) as they move supplies throughout the camp, which lessens the tension between violent scenes of war and provides a much-needed respite from Paul’s usual gloom. Figurative language through personification and metaphors is also easily found, usually used to give a sense of the war as experienced by Paul. In one instance, Paul describes the feeling of being a soldier with, “We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic are still able to run and kill” (pg 116). This metaphor starkly demonstrates the reality of Paul’s surroundings and also contributes to the vitality of the novel. One of the most important elements of craftsmanship employed is the character development of Paul, as he transforms from a young and hopeful teenager to a cynical young man. Paul describes the change, sagely stating, “We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk” (pg 18). This quote is deeply affecting and well-written. Its short sentence length and lack of description only further emphasizes Paul’s point, that the war has stolen their childhoods. The excellent usage of craftsmanship in All Quiet on the Western Front without a doubt earns the novel a place among other classics.
The final characteristic of a classic that is exemplified in Remarque’s novel is significance. Though not all readers have endured war, Paul’s feelings of devastation and hopelessness are emotions that all can relate to. His insights about how the war has changed him and his comrades are shocking and sad coming from someone so young. When he compares the soldiers to dead men still able to run and kill, one’s heart breaks for the lost youth of the young men. Paul expresses his frustration with life as a soldier, ranting “All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on- it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don’t think I see anything at all, Albert” (pg 87). This quote shows how few choices Paul has and how hopeless it causes him to feel. Readers find their sympathy aligned with Paul’s feelings. Few have endured war like Paul, but the experience of reading his tragic story is still holds deep significance to the novel’s readers.
All Quiet on the Western Front is a vital novel that has remained a classic for over sixty years. The novel is highly engrossing to new and old readers alike, which maintains its fan base. Paul’s experience has timeless characteristics, but it is also deeply rooted in the time of World War I. About the unchanging experience of war, Remarque writes, “It is as though formerly we were coins of different provinces; and now we are melted down and all bear the same stamp” (pg 272). This aptly sums up how war changes a person or a group; it unifies the minds of the soldiers until they are all essentially the same person. The timelessness of the novel appeals to people of all generations, proving that it will have the vitality to remain a popular story. Readers are brought back to the time in which Paul exists by the descriptions of how the soldiers and their families felt about the war. Paul displays his naïveté about the war, insisting, “But there are more lies told by the other side than by us… just think of those pamphlets the prisoners have on them, where it says that we eat Belgian children” (pg. 206). After reading this, one wants to learn more about Paul and what he thinks about the army. Interest in the time period in which World War I takes place will additionally secure the popularity of the novel. Readers’ fascination with Paul’s experiences in war will retain its strength for years to come.
Erich Remarque employs style and character techniques that lend texture to his novel. Similes are used often and across a wide range, including the horrors of war and the general way of life for Germans. Paul humorously compares himself and his comrades to sweating monkeys (pg. 232) as they move supplies throughout the camp, which lessens the tension between violent scenes of war and provides a much-needed respite from Paul’s usual gloom. Figurative language through personification and metaphors is also easily found, usually used to give a sense of the war as experienced by Paul. In one instance, Paul describes the feeling of being a soldier with, “We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic are still able to run and kill” (pg 116). This metaphor starkly demonstrates the reality of Paul’s surroundings and also contributes to the vitality of the novel. One of the most important elements of craftsmanship employed is the character development of Paul, as he transforms from a young and hopeful teenager to a cynical young man. Paul describes the change, sagely stating, “We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk” (pg 18). This quote is deeply affecting and well-written. Its short sentence length and lack of description only further emphasizes Paul’s point, that the war has stolen their childhoods. The excellent usage of craftsmanship in All Quiet on the Western Front without a doubt earns the novel a place among other classics.
The final characteristic of a classic that is exemplified in Remarque’s novel is significance. Though not all readers have endured war, Paul’s feelings of devastation and hopelessness are emotions that all can relate to. His insights about how the war has changed him and his comrades are shocking and sad coming from someone so young. When he compares the soldiers to dead men still able to run and kill, one’s heart breaks for the lost youth of the young men. Paul expresses his frustration with life as a soldier, ranting “All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on- it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don’t think I see anything at all, Albert” (pg 87). This quote shows how few choices Paul has and how hopeless it causes him to feel. Readers find their sympathy aligned with Paul’s feelings. Few have endured war like Paul, but the experience of reading his tragic story is still holds deep significance to the novel’s readers.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Interpretations: Hamlet
I’ve never been a fan of plays; I just can’t see them in my mind as clearly as when I’m reading a good novel. Hamlet, though, is changing that for me. I think I’ve reached an age where I can comprehend and appreciate Shakespeare’s tricky and witty diction and engrossing character development. I enjoy pondering the question that is running through everyone’s mind as we trudge through Hamlet: is the title character really going crazy? Is the death of his father and loss of his lover enough to drive him mad? Also, in regards to the spooky ghost who speaks to Hamlet: Is it really King Hamlet or is it a demon or a figment of Hamlet’s imagination? If it’s the King, should we assume that he has noble intentions? What is his relationship with Hamlet? If it’s a demon, what is its ultimate goal and why choose Hamlet as a scion? If Hamlet’s imagining it, was he really crazy before the action of the story? Do the play’s events really just depict his sane façade dripping away? Or are the tragedies of his life wearing away his sanity? Is he just pretending to find out information about Claudius and/or Ophelia?
I just got carried away with questions stemming from one basic question! Any query a person might have about this play just leads to more and more questions- not frustrating, annoying questions that don’t have any possibility of an answer, but interesting and subjective questions. I can think about a scene or character development a certain way and draw a conclusion about that part that may affect the way I consider the entire play. Especially given the setting, a cavernous old castle, the difference between a private whispered conversation and an overheard murmur is slight. Several of the scenes involve Hamlet speaking to himself or Ophelia about his plans and motivations, and it’s interesting to me that his perceived intentions can be completely different, depending on whether he knows that someone is listening to him. We’ve watched segments from at least three different Hamlet productions (Kenneth Branaugh as Hamlet is my absolute favorite) in which scenes, themes, and characters were interpreted in vastly different ways.
For instance, Ophelia’s character in the BBC version is an innocent, caring girl- she’s weak and sensitive to Hamlet and clearly cares about him, although we doubt that they’ve been intimate. Ophelia in Mel Gibson’s Hamlet is played by the lovely and fantastic Helena Bonham Carter, an actress with a completely different aura about her. She’s also probably innocent, but she is interpreted as being more independent of Hamlet- she’s a character with her own motivations less than a pawn for her father. Kate Winslet as Ophelia across Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet is definitely not as innocent as the other two- she’s given Hamlet everything. When Hamlet confronts Ophelia in this version, the “sweet whispers” that came with Hamlets gifts take on another level of significance. I love it that *everything* can be debated and alternately interpreted when it comes to plays, Hamlet most of all.
I just got carried away with questions stemming from one basic question! Any query a person might have about this play just leads to more and more questions- not frustrating, annoying questions that don’t have any possibility of an answer, but interesting and subjective questions. I can think about a scene or character development a certain way and draw a conclusion about that part that may affect the way I consider the entire play. Especially given the setting, a cavernous old castle, the difference between a private whispered conversation and an overheard murmur is slight. Several of the scenes involve Hamlet speaking to himself or Ophelia about his plans and motivations, and it’s interesting to me that his perceived intentions can be completely different, depending on whether he knows that someone is listening to him. We’ve watched segments from at least three different Hamlet productions (Kenneth Branaugh as Hamlet is my absolute favorite) in which scenes, themes, and characters were interpreted in vastly different ways.
For instance, Ophelia’s character in the BBC version is an innocent, caring girl- she’s weak and sensitive to Hamlet and clearly cares about him, although we doubt that they’ve been intimate. Ophelia in Mel Gibson’s Hamlet is played by the lovely and fantastic Helena Bonham Carter, an actress with a completely different aura about her. She’s also probably innocent, but she is interpreted as being more independent of Hamlet- she’s a character with her own motivations less than a pawn for her father. Kate Winslet as Ophelia across Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet is definitely not as innocent as the other two- she’s given Hamlet everything. When Hamlet confronts Ophelia in this version, the “sweet whispers” that came with Hamlets gifts take on another level of significance. I love it that *everything* can be debated and alternately interpreted when it comes to plays, Hamlet most of all.
Monday, January 25, 2010
"Tender" in Hamlet
As we read through Shakespeare’s Hamlet in class and watch segments of the film versions, I have come to appreciate Shakespeare’s sense of style, language, characterization, and plot in a way that I never have before, even though I have already read Midsummer Night’s Dream, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and a few others. Before this year’s AP Literature class, I never before really understood the verbal wordplay that Shakespeare employs, hiding numerous double, triple, and quadruple meanings in a single word that can potentially increase the significance of a statement to extreme importance.
One of my favorite quotes from Act I is, of course, a Polonius monologue. His buffoonish arrogance is definitely an amusing high point in the play so far and I look forward to such tidbits as, “Marry, I will teach you. Think yourself a baby / That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, / Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, / Or (not to crack the wind of a poor phrase, / Running it thus) you’ll tender me a fool.” The moment takes place after Ophelia admits to harboring a love for Hamlet, so Polonius, believing that Hamlet is only toying with his daughter’s affections and does not plan to marry a woman so far below his station, orders his daughter to stay away from Hamlet. A reader could analyze this quotation for hours simply in terms of word usage before even delving into the significance of the passage in terms of the rest of the play or its implications for various characters’ relationships.
The word “tender,” which Shakespeare repeats three times in these few lines, has *many* meanings according to dictionary.com, including “soft or delicate in substance,” “weak,” “young/immature,” “soft in quality,” “delicate or gentle,” “easily moved to sympathy,” “affectionate,” “considerate,” “acutely or painfully sensitive,” “easily distressed,” “yielding readily to force or pressure,” “of a delicate nature,” “nautical,” “a ship,” “a person who tends,” “money,” and “other offerings.” Shakespeare, having chosen such a broadly used word to repeat, was clearly playing with diction. His speech manages to contain several of the novel’s index-able ideas, including that of youth, of money exchange, of seem versus is, and of duty. Polonius engages “tender” as a word descriptive of youth after calling his daughter a baby, and criticizes her naiveté by remarking that Hamlets sweet words of devotion will not pay off- they are TENDER tender- weak money, in other words. It’s a wonderful way to say that Hamlet will not follow through with his affections, and perfectly suited to the character of Polonius, who takes way too long to say something simple because he loves to hear himself talk. After remarking that Hamlet seems to love Ophelia but probably has ulterior motives, Polonius proceeds to warn his daughter to value herself more highly (and preserve her honor) and invokes her duty as his daughter to obey his wishes, insinuating that she will pay back his fatherly love by screwing him over and ruining her life with Hamlet.
One of my favorite quotes from Act I is, of course, a Polonius monologue. His buffoonish arrogance is definitely an amusing high point in the play so far and I look forward to such tidbits as, “Marry, I will teach you. Think yourself a baby / That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, / Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, / Or (not to crack the wind of a poor phrase, / Running it thus) you’ll tender me a fool.” The moment takes place after Ophelia admits to harboring a love for Hamlet, so Polonius, believing that Hamlet is only toying with his daughter’s affections and does not plan to marry a woman so far below his station, orders his daughter to stay away from Hamlet. A reader could analyze this quotation for hours simply in terms of word usage before even delving into the significance of the passage in terms of the rest of the play or its implications for various characters’ relationships.
The word “tender,” which Shakespeare repeats three times in these few lines, has *many* meanings according to dictionary.com, including “soft or delicate in substance,” “weak,” “young/immature,” “soft in quality,” “delicate or gentle,” “easily moved to sympathy,” “affectionate,” “considerate,” “acutely or painfully sensitive,” “easily distressed,” “yielding readily to force or pressure,” “of a delicate nature,” “nautical,” “a ship,” “a person who tends,” “money,” and “other offerings.” Shakespeare, having chosen such a broadly used word to repeat, was clearly playing with diction. His speech manages to contain several of the novel’s index-able ideas, including that of youth, of money exchange, of seem versus is, and of duty. Polonius engages “tender” as a word descriptive of youth after calling his daughter a baby, and criticizes her naiveté by remarking that Hamlets sweet words of devotion will not pay off- they are TENDER tender- weak money, in other words. It’s a wonderful way to say that Hamlet will not follow through with his affections, and perfectly suited to the character of Polonius, who takes way too long to say something simple because he loves to hear himself talk. After remarking that Hamlet seems to love Ophelia but probably has ulterior motives, Polonius proceeds to warn his daughter to value herself more highly (and preserve her honor) and invokes her duty as his daughter to obey his wishes, insinuating that she will pay back his fatherly love by screwing him over and ruining her life with Hamlet.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Initial Thoughts: Invisible Man
I remember how, until I began high school, I enjoyed nothing more than reading. I liked short, exciting books and laboriously lengthy novels alike. Now with five AP classes, a demanding part-time job, an internship, college applications and scholarships, relationships to maintain, and various physio-psychological issues to address, I must sadly admit that I haven’t read for pleasure outside of summer vacation in years. But because I’m trying to be scholarly and responsible this semester and have begun reading Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison earlier than the night before it’s due, I have begun to feel something of the literary pleasure I used to know so well.
Immediately after finishing the Prologue, I was fascinated by the character of the speaker. He was this incredibly cynical recluse, living not in the dark as recluses often do, but in a room papered in light bulbs- like he is the one person who knows the truth, though he has not gained his knowledge through the proper channels, like his electricity is begotten illegally. He has “illuminated the blackness of my invisibility-“ (13) I pondered over how literally I should take that. The light bulbs reveal his skin color, which he seems to pinpoint as the cause of his invisibility. Can he be seen in this light? Is he therefore invisible outside of his “cave” because the rest of the world is shrouded in darkness and ignorance? What is so special about this character that makes him the holder of truth?
I’m confused by another race-related assertion made by a character. The speaker’s grandfather, on his deathbed, insists “I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I gave up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ‘em with yeses, undermine ‘em with grins, agree ‘em to death and destruction, let ‘em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open.” (16) His speech here is so violent and defiant, yet contrasts so much with itself, that I’m left baffled. I know the saying “kill them with kindness” but don’t understand how it is applicable in race relations. Is the old man being ironic or does he really believe that a complacent attitude will overthrow the power of the Caucasian oppressors? The old man describes his perfect behavior as treachery. I’m confused until I read more- again and again, the whites encourage black people to sink into low behavior. The glistening politicians egg on a savage fight between young black scholars, they finance the incestuous and disgusting Trueblood’s existence, and fight to keep The Golden Day alive and kicking as an example of the blacks’ “inferiority.”
The questions I have about Invisible Man I am sure will grow more intricate upon further reading of the novel, and I’m excited for this. My dive into the novel, with all luck, will mark the beginning of a happily renewed relationship with literature. Now back to Chapter Two!!
Immediately after finishing the Prologue, I was fascinated by the character of the speaker. He was this incredibly cynical recluse, living not in the dark as recluses often do, but in a room papered in light bulbs- like he is the one person who knows the truth, though he has not gained his knowledge through the proper channels, like his electricity is begotten illegally. He has “illuminated the blackness of my invisibility-“ (13) I pondered over how literally I should take that. The light bulbs reveal his skin color, which he seems to pinpoint as the cause of his invisibility. Can he be seen in this light? Is he therefore invisible outside of his “cave” because the rest of the world is shrouded in darkness and ignorance? What is so special about this character that makes him the holder of truth?
I’m confused by another race-related assertion made by a character. The speaker’s grandfather, on his deathbed, insists “I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I gave up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ‘em with yeses, undermine ‘em with grins, agree ‘em to death and destruction, let ‘em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open.” (16) His speech here is so violent and defiant, yet contrasts so much with itself, that I’m left baffled. I know the saying “kill them with kindness” but don’t understand how it is applicable in race relations. Is the old man being ironic or does he really believe that a complacent attitude will overthrow the power of the Caucasian oppressors? The old man describes his perfect behavior as treachery. I’m confused until I read more- again and again, the whites encourage black people to sink into low behavior. The glistening politicians egg on a savage fight between young black scholars, they finance the incestuous and disgusting Trueblood’s existence, and fight to keep The Golden Day alive and kicking as an example of the blacks’ “inferiority.”
The questions I have about Invisible Man I am sure will grow more intricate upon further reading of the novel, and I’m excited for this. My dive into the novel, with all luck, will mark the beginning of a happily renewed relationship with literature. Now back to Chapter Two!!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Frankenstein and the Bible
In this year’s AP Literature class, we’re always encouraged to consider allusions to past works (like the way that Thomas Foster in How to Read Literature Like a Professor insists that there exists just one story and all the works of literature created are enriching it). As the most universally known work of literature or religion, the Bible is an excellent source to look to for inspiration in analyzing literature. So it is fascinating to examine Mary Shelley’s Romantic –era novel, Frankenstein, from a biblical perspective. Motifs that I notice in particular include references to the Christian God, Adam and Eve, the Garden of Eden, and the fall from innocence.
Perhaps Frankenstein has maintained its status as such an iconic story for so many centuries because it has such strong ties to well-known archetypes. Dr. Frankenstein can be seen clearly as a God figure in the way that he “overreaches” nature and its laws. His experiments are not described in scientific, logical terms but in loud noises and flashes of lightning. His creation of the Monster (who is not named Frankenstein!) is characterized and magical, unnatural- evil. He’s like a foil for the Christian God, who is described as a peaceful, benevolent, father figure. The Christian God does break the laws of nature in his mythical creation of the world just as Dr. Frankenstein does, but what he does is justified by his religion- Frankenstein’s unholy creation is not.
Speaking of this “unholy creation,” I would like to consider the monster himself. He is very obviously a sentient being (especially as evidenced by his dialogues in Chapter 10), just as Adam was created by the Christian God as a fully sentient, self-aware being. Neither went through the normal stages of life that we view as inescapable: infancy, early childhood, adolescence, and maturity. Instead, they are born with their full intelligence but a lack of knowledge about the world around them they soon cure with their curiosity. Adam is purely curious and is punished for the sin of his (Eve’s) curiosity. The monster (is monster even an apt moniker for him- he’s not monstrous at this point?) begins his journey in life full of love and appreciation for the world around him. But he is abandoned by his creator and isolated by the world. These things shaped him, changed him from his peaceful initial self to a violent creature.
Adam’s knowledge (literally, because Eve eats fruit from the Tree of Knowledge) is what causes his fall from innocence. But he is not abandoned by his creator like the Monster- more like disciplined. The monster’s fall from innocence occurs not through any fault of his, but of his creator. So the story can be connected to another universal archetype- the irresponsible parent. It is essentially Dr. Frankenstein’s fault that his “son” loses his innocence in the rough world around him and it is Dr. Frankenstein’s fault that the “monster” begins to become a force of destruction. It will be interesting to read the rest of the novel and see how the situation plays out, especially in relation to the biblical allusions.
Perhaps Frankenstein has maintained its status as such an iconic story for so many centuries because it has such strong ties to well-known archetypes. Dr. Frankenstein can be seen clearly as a God figure in the way that he “overreaches” nature and its laws. His experiments are not described in scientific, logical terms but in loud noises and flashes of lightning. His creation of the Monster (who is not named Frankenstein!) is characterized and magical, unnatural- evil. He’s like a foil for the Christian God, who is described as a peaceful, benevolent, father figure. The Christian God does break the laws of nature in his mythical creation of the world just as Dr. Frankenstein does, but what he does is justified by his religion- Frankenstein’s unholy creation is not.
Speaking of this “unholy creation,” I would like to consider the monster himself. He is very obviously a sentient being (especially as evidenced by his dialogues in Chapter 10), just as Adam was created by the Christian God as a fully sentient, self-aware being. Neither went through the normal stages of life that we view as inescapable: infancy, early childhood, adolescence, and maturity. Instead, they are born with their full intelligence but a lack of knowledge about the world around them they soon cure with their curiosity. Adam is purely curious and is punished for the sin of his (Eve’s) curiosity. The monster (is monster even an apt moniker for him- he’s not monstrous at this point?) begins his journey in life full of love and appreciation for the world around him. But he is abandoned by his creator and isolated by the world. These things shaped him, changed him from his peaceful initial self to a violent creature.
Adam’s knowledge (literally, because Eve eats fruit from the Tree of Knowledge) is what causes his fall from innocence. But he is not abandoned by his creator like the Monster- more like disciplined. The monster’s fall from innocence occurs not through any fault of his, but of his creator. So the story can be connected to another universal archetype- the irresponsible parent. It is essentially Dr. Frankenstein’s fault that his “son” loses his innocence in the rough world around him and it is Dr. Frankenstein’s fault that the “monster” begins to become a force of destruction. It will be interesting to read the rest of the novel and see how the situation plays out, especially in relation to the biblical allusions.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Looking Back at Anthem
Sometimes, I enjoy reflecting back on books that I was assigned to read in past English courses. One that fascinated me was Anthem, by Ayn Rand. The novel is full to the brim with quotable material. I can just flip to a page in the book in front of me and immediately be drawn to some insight that I did not fully realize the first time I read it.
When the protagonist, Prometheus, is investing himself in his work, he is far from the other members of his society. On a basic level, Prometheus does not fully understand the importance of his work. “We alone, of the thousands who walk this earth, we alone in this hour are doing a work which has no purpose save that we wish to do it.” (36). In examining this quote, one can see the brilliance of its basal meaning , that Prometheus has taken advantage of his new freedom, as well as its deeper meaning, the higher purpose of his work.
From working alone in secret to gaining an advanced understanding of the motives of people around him, Prometheus’ thoughts and actions reveal that he has taken advantage of his newfound physical and emotional freedom. He has broken away from the drudgery of his previous life and the doldrums that surround the rest of society, as he expresses when looking upon his face for the first time, “Our face was not like the faces of our brothers, for we felt no pity when looking upon it.” (80). Free from the prison surrounding his former comrades, Prometheus looks upon himself with pride and confidence. Looking back, he feels disgust for the empty and complacent life he once shared with his comrades. With breathtaking imagery, Prometheus lauds the exhilaration of discovery, “For this wire is as a part of our body, as a vein torn from us, glowing with our blood.” (61). By comparing his invention to a the system of life in his own body, he connects to his work and emphasizes its necessity to his intellectual growth. Throughout the novel, the changes in Prometheus’ behavior illustrate the freedom he has won.
Prometheus’ work holds a far higher purpose than a mere hobby. A part of its importance is that through working, he begins to understand the value of his work, as evidenced by the illuminating comparisons he makes, “We wish nothing, save to be alone and learn, and to feel as if with each day our sight were growing sharper than the hawk’s and clearer than rock crystal.” (36). The reader can feel the excitement coursing through Prometheus’ entire being as he makes discoveries and innovations. Prometheus learns what it is to lose himself in the passion of an important work. As the Committee feared and Prometheus began to understand, his endeavor was the sort that fuels discoveries and revolutions. As the young pioneer came to understand, “The power of the sky can be made to do men’s bidding. There are no limits to its secrets and its might, and it can be made to grant us anything if we but choose to ask.” (60). This quote embodies the intensity of the force that Prometheus has harnessed, the force that the Committee fears and hates; the force of knowledge. As the Committee is all-too aware of, education is the key to revolution and therefore the primary enemy of the controlling government. Through his work, Prometheus abandons his assigned purpose and comes to choose his own: to learn, and consequently to help free others from oppression.
Prometheus eloquently expresses the essence of knowledge and discovery with his early thought, “We alone, of the thousands who walk this earth, we alone in this hour are doing a work which has no purpose save that we wish to do it.” (36). During Prometheus’ hours spent working in solitude, he attains a clarity about his work and about his purpose in life. He understands that his purpose can be assigned to him by no man but himself, and that his work in gaining knowledge gives him the purest joy he has ever felt. He feels this joy for no man but himself, and makes this work his purpose.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Grendel and Nihilism
While I enjoyed being mystified at the events of Chapter 5, in which Grendel descends (it doesn’t say anything about descending, that’s just how it feels- like the archetype of passing through hell) into the dragon’s lair and comes up again, I so far have been most interested in Chapter Six, which in my opinion is about Grendel’s resurgence into his own world as a changed creature. He’s taken the “hero’s journey” into “hell” and has had a rebirth. I enjoyed realizing the connections that this archetype has to Greek myth lore and pondering about how it relates to Grendel.
Before Grendel has his perspective altered by the mind-bending conversation with the Dragon, he’s sort of unsure about himself, the world around him, and his place in it. I couldn’t define any sort of social philosophy he adheres to, despite the fact that he is a very sentient and pensive creature. He acts and appears to feel just like an angry child on the brink of adolescence, alternating periods of hopelessness and longing with those of blind destructive anger. But after he is put in the position of student to the dragon’s professor, Grendel has a change- both physical and emotional. He’s told by the dragon that he is insignificant, that life existed long before him and will go on long without him until nothingness and that once his existence is over, the world won’t have been much changed. Now this is something rather upsetting for anyone to hear, let alone a sad angsty monster (albeit an adorable one, judging by the cover of
Aside from the emotional effects that the wise (is he wise? Can you be a figure of evil and wise? Is he evil?) old dragon has on Grendel, the physical effect that he brings to Grendel after their Socratic learning seminar is incredibly significant- Grendel finds that he is completely invulverable now to the weapons and techniques of the men who are trying to kill him. So their whole dynamic changes as a result. Grendel, now invulnerable like a true monster and a little bit less like the people, becomes further isolated from society as a result. This is only spurred on by the opinions taught to him by the dragon- nihilism. Grendel has been told that his one purpose is to be the monster for society, give them something to fight and ultimately succeed against. Far from questioning this (as he once would have), Grendel (out of nihilistic bloodlust?) runs with his new worldview. He destroys like a mindless monster (like his mother). This makes me wonder about one of the questions that our class will be discussing over the coming days- Is Grendel a depressing or optimistic novel? I’m not one to find nihilism depressing, but I feel that this chapter’s take on it certainly does not bode well for Grendel’s feeling of belonging in the world.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Grendel and the Wild Things
After reading the first few chapters of Grendel by John Gardner and then looking into the art on the novel’s cover, I was distinctly reminded of some lost part of my childhood that had recently been re-imprinted on my mind- Where The Wild Things Are. The creatures from the short children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are are ferocious and fearsome. They’re given multiple, more adult dimensions in the recent film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are. Fluffy, surreal monsters are rife with human insecurities (difficultly with emotional expression and low confidence among other eccentricities) that are revealed as Max, the little boy who wants to be a monster invades their midst and crowns himself their king (and it is interesting to note that the monsters put up very little argument). Max, juxtaposed against Grendel, the monster who pities his own lot as an outcast from human society, provides an interesting contrast and makes me question if it is possible to truly “fit in” where one is supposed to.
Max is a little human boy who, try as he might, cannot really feel comfortable with the people and society surrounding him. He clearly suffers from some psychological disorders, as evidenced by his raving, flailing, and other destructive tendencies. When I examine these characteristics of Max and compare them to Grendel’s personality, the similarities are striking. Neither creature fits in with society. Max believes that he doesn’t want to fit in among people and Grendel just longs for an end to his loneliness, whether by death or acceptance. After comparing the two, I get the feeling that Gardner’s Grendel can be described as a characterization of mental disease- the chaotic thoughts, emotional turmoil, and separateness from society that identify such disorders are all basic parts of Grendel’s being.
Max leaves the humans and is embraced (mostly) by monsters (“We’ll eat you up we love you so”) who, funnily, in the book Where the Wild Things Are express the same sort of simple animalistic feelings that Grendel’s mother shows to Grendel through her wailing and scratching. Grendel doesn’t fit in amongst man or beast: “There was nothing, or, rather, there was everything but my mother.” Both characters are raised by single mothers (in the movie version of Where the Wild Things Are, that is) and I get the feeling that this concept of a broken family is significant in the way that Grendel’s and Max’s personalities were shaped. The fact that Max’s own loving mother was unable to get through to him, to find the boy beneath the monster, makes it sadder that Grendel’s mother is incapable of even attempting the same for her son- Max has a future, he has hope for improvement and integration into society, as his reconciliation with his mother at the end of his story suggests. Grendel, on the other hand, has no one to possibly form a meaningful bond with. His angry existence is doomed to continue like before until he meets his sudden and violent death.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Doll's House
The play by Henrik Ibsen is definitely important in the scheme of the universal dialogue on gender roles. Written in 1879, it was one of the early works of literature to plainly exhibit a questioning of society’s strict gender roles. I can understand why, as Ms. Clinch said, audiences in European theaters during the time that the play was first performed saw it as unforgivably scandalous. After all, a wife suddenly leaves her husband and children. Even in today’s “immoral” times, this abandonment is almost always seen as unacceptable. Sure, Nora is unhappy with her life. She realizes that every aspect of her existence had been a sham. So is it her duty to herself to leave in order to discover who she is? Does she have no responsibility for her children because she left their upbringing up to a nanny?
I feel that it was a refreshing thing to witness Nora breaking free of the societal and self-imposed shackles that had kept her a macaroon-munching squirrel. But in the context of her life- the responsibilities she has to her children and to Torvald- I thought that her decision to leave suddenly without goodbyes was selfish and impractical. So it was depressing to consider that, even when she isn’t under the thumb of Torvald, Nora, the “liberated” woman has her interests closest to heart. It is therefore understandable that the point was raised- was Ibsen a sexist? I think that by modern standards Ibsen would be a sexist for implying that women are selfish and flighty but that he was practically a liberal radical by the standards of the late-1800s
Germans even went so far as to change the ending of the play, which in my opinion completely altered the meaning of the work and bastardized Ibsen’s original intent. Instead of stealing away silently without more drama and weepy goodbyes, they changed the play for their audiences, having Torvald force Nora to go and see the children she was going to abandon (which in real life is the responsible thing to do but for some reason in the play just was depressing- like the shackles she had just thrown off were being clamped back on). Nora breaks down upon seeing her children and collapses, no longer with the intent to leave. If what Nora does in the original version is strength of self character, her failure to carry out her plan of abandonment in this altered version is perhaps a return to normal in terms of gender roles, but ultimately makes that version of the play into a statement on the weakness of women- since Nora returns to her family, she has made no growth as a character and is in nearly the exact same position she was in at the beginning of the play.
So while I don’t agree with the notion of abandoning family in favor of self-fulfillment, I do prefer Ibsen’s intended ending to the play. While Nora in my opinion is not exactly the epitome of female progress and intellect, she progresses in Ibsen’s play, just as the modern day woman evolved from her more restricted counterpart from centuries ago.
I feel that it was a refreshing thing to witness Nora breaking free of the societal and self-imposed shackles that had kept her a macaroon-munching squirrel. But in the context of her life- the responsibilities she has to her children and to Torvald- I thought that her decision to leave suddenly without goodbyes was selfish and impractical. So it was depressing to consider that, even when she isn’t under the thumb of Torvald, Nora, the “liberated” woman has her interests closest to heart. It is therefore understandable that the point was raised- was Ibsen a sexist? I think that by modern standards Ibsen would be a sexist for implying that women are selfish and flighty but that he was practically a liberal radical by the standards of the late-1800s
Germans even went so far as to change the ending of the play, which in my opinion completely altered the meaning of the work and bastardized Ibsen’s original intent. Instead of stealing away silently without more drama and weepy goodbyes, they changed the play for their audiences, having Torvald force Nora to go and see the children she was going to abandon (which in real life is the responsible thing to do but for some reason in the play just was depressing- like the shackles she had just thrown off were being clamped back on). Nora breaks down upon seeing her children and collapses, no longer with the intent to leave. If what Nora does in the original version is strength of self character, her failure to carry out her plan of abandonment in this altered version is perhaps a return to normal in terms of gender roles, but ultimately makes that version of the play into a statement on the weakness of women- since Nora returns to her family, she has made no growth as a character and is in nearly the exact same position she was in at the beginning of the play.
So while I don’t agree with the notion of abandoning family in favor of self-fulfillment, I do prefer Ibsen’s intended ending to the play. While Nora in my opinion is not exactly the epitome of female progress and intellect, she progresses in Ibsen’s play, just as the modern day woman evolved from her more restricted counterpart from centuries ago.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Sun Also Rises
Compared to nearly every other novel that I have been assigned to read over the past four years in high school, The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway, strikes a sharp contrast in terms of diction and syntax. I have enjoyed nearly all the great works of literature I have been assigned to read, with the exception perhaps of Beowulf, but now upon exposure to the direct and engrossing nature of The Sun Also Rises, I feel that my highly exciting literary horizons have been broadened further, as if with every drink Jake takes I am reaching for the stars of success. Hemingway’s succinct use of dialogue that manages to capture the essence and eccentricity of his characters amazes me and convinces me that he is one of my favorite writers.
I don’t understand how, but Hemingway in his portrayal of Jake’s love for Lady Brett shatters my heart into a million pieces. Despite the impossibility of a lasting relationship between the two (due to Brett’s promiscuity and Jake’s genital injury among other issues), neither character is quite able to get over the other. Their conversations are often blithe and nonchalant, but rippling beneath the current with desperation. ‘“What did you say?” I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. “Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne.” Then later: “Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?” “It’s better.” “Lie quiet. He’s gone to the other side of town.” “Couldn’t we live together, Brett? Couldn’t we just live together?” “I don’t think so. I’d just tromper you with everybody. You couldn’t stand it.” “I stand it now.” (62)
Hemingway has no flowery declarations of affection. I see no descriptions of scenery and nature in relationship to the characters. I feel like I would entirely miss the connection (and one that feels electric) between Jake and Brett if I wasn’t paying close attention to the dialogue. Throughout the novel, Brett calls nearly everyone “darling” (and this carelessly intimate idiosyncrasy is indicative of her promiscuous nature), but I get the unshakable feeling that, when she calls Jake “darling,” it’s entirely different. Hemingway doesn’t outright describe a change in her tone, but includes miniscule differences in her conversations- with Jake, she seems slightly more tender, more vulnerable. She dismisses other people when she is with him as though they are extras in a movie about just the two of them. Brett is less careless with Jake. She tortures him like she does to everyone else, but I get the feeling that either she doesn’t mean to or she doesn’t want to.
From the start, Hemingway makes it crystal clear that the relationship between Jake and Brett is doomed. He is unable to be what she needs in a man because of his war injury (the war’s consequences pervade the novel) and she seems to be incapable of lasting commitment- her two divorces and countless dalliances with a variety of men indicate a flakiness and insecurity. But their passion is so palpable in their dialogues that I just don’t care.
I don’t understand how, but Hemingway in his portrayal of Jake’s love for Lady Brett shatters my heart into a million pieces. Despite the impossibility of a lasting relationship between the two (due to Brett’s promiscuity and Jake’s genital injury among other issues), neither character is quite able to get over the other. Their conversations are often blithe and nonchalant, but rippling beneath the current with desperation. ‘“What did you say?” I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. “Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne.” Then later: “Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?” “It’s better.” “Lie quiet. He’s gone to the other side of town.” “Couldn’t we live together, Brett? Couldn’t we just live together?” “I don’t think so. I’d just tromper you with everybody. You couldn’t stand it.” “I stand it now.” (62)
Hemingway has no flowery declarations of affection. I see no descriptions of scenery and nature in relationship to the characters. I feel like I would entirely miss the connection (and one that feels electric) between Jake and Brett if I wasn’t paying close attention to the dialogue. Throughout the novel, Brett calls nearly everyone “darling” (and this carelessly intimate idiosyncrasy is indicative of her promiscuous nature), but I get the unshakable feeling that, when she calls Jake “darling,” it’s entirely different. Hemingway doesn’t outright describe a change in her tone, but includes miniscule differences in her conversations- with Jake, she seems slightly more tender, more vulnerable. She dismisses other people when she is with him as though they are extras in a movie about just the two of them. Brett is less careless with Jake. She tortures him like she does to everyone else, but I get the feeling that either she doesn’t mean to or she doesn’t want to.
From the start, Hemingway makes it crystal clear that the relationship between Jake and Brett is doomed. He is unable to be what she needs in a man because of his war injury (the war’s consequences pervade the novel) and she seems to be incapable of lasting commitment- her two divorces and countless dalliances with a variety of men indicate a flakiness and insecurity. But their passion is so palpable in their dialogues that I just don’t care.
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