 
Very Long Nights

Short Works of Literary Criticism

Copyright 2017 Charles Rocha

Published by Charles Rocha at Smashwords

Cover Design by Charles Rocha

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Contents

Introduction

Section I - British Literature

Reflections on Geoffrey Chaucer's The Knight's Tale

The Body and the Soul in Castle of Perseverance

Satan: Hero or Villain of Paradise Lost?

Adventures in the Sublime: An Explication of Romantic and Literary Influences in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

Entwined in the Ether: An Explication of John Donne's "The Ecstasy"

A Brief Analysis of the Structure of John Donne's Love Poetry

Tragic Endings: Virtue and the Renaissance Heroine

Devil's Advocacy in Pre-Puritan England: The Influences of Platonism and Social Climate in 'Tis Pity She's a Whore

A Discussion of the Duke's Motives in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure

A Comparison of Old Goriot and King Lear

The Pagan References in Shakespeare's King Lear

A Comparison and contrast in the narrative style and content between A Tale of a Tub and Gulliver's Travels

A Discussion of Virtue According to Jonathan Swift

Augusta Webster's "A Castaway" as a Discourse in Victorian Gender Roles

The Broken Symbolism of the Marabar Caves in A Passage to India

The Fox: A Love Story?

The Construction and Destructiveness of Passion in Wide Sargasso Sea

The Sorrows of Young Werther as a Rationalist Novel

The Overlapping Perspectives of History in Abeng and A History of the World in 10½ Chapters

The Elements of Deconstructionism in A History of the World in 10½ Chapters

The Role of the Castle in English Medieval Literature

Madness and British Literature in the 18th and 19th Centuries

Section II - American Literature

"The Blues I'm Playing" as an Ethnic Interpretation of Art

Another Kind of "Passing" in The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man

The Negative Portrayal of Fatherhood in The Women of Brewster Place and Linden Hills

An Examination of Female Heroism in Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye and Beloved

An Analysis of Linguistic Strategy in "In Blackwater Woods"

The Element of Feminism in "The Daughters of the Late Colonel"

Elements of Modernism in "Cruise" and "Strychnine in the Soup"

Hemingway's "Cat in the Rain" and the Four Principles of Poetry

"Hills Like White Elephants" as an Embodiment of Poetic Principle

Cries and Whispers: Multiple Voices in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Language Nuances in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

The Interpretation of Color Imagery in "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle"

Wallace Stevens Decoded – "Hoonian" Color Definitions

A Discourse on the Poetry of William Carlos Williams

A Confluence of Influences in Alan Ginsberg's "Howl"

Order in the Disorder: Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and A Country Year: Living the Questions – Changes in the Narrators

Zora Neale Hurston's "Sweat" as an Allegory for Self-Destructive Forces in Black American Society

Sula as a Study of the Propagation of Familial Dysfunction

The Uncovering of Feminist Concerns in Jean Toomer's Cane

The Singing Tree: Jean Toomer's "Song of the Son" as a Revelation of Author Intent

Section III - World Literature

Metaphor, Simile and Symbolism in "The Death of Ivan Ilych"

A Discussion of the Anti-hero in the 19th Century Russian Novel

A Comparison of the Duel Scenes of Eugene Onegin and A Hero of Our Time

Self-Destructive Tendencies in Eugene Onegin and A Hero of Our Time

A Comparison of Tone and Author Attitude between The Death of Artemio Cruz and Pedro Paramo

Florentino Ariza and the Mirabal Sisters: Possibilities in Love and Romance

A Comparison of the Survivorship of Dede Mirabal and Florentino Ariza

The Contrasts Between the Roles Played by Point of View in Love in the Time of Cholera and The Time of Butterflies

A Discussion of the Contrasts Between the Portraits of the Dictators in In the Time of Butterflies and The Lizard's Tail

A Comparison of the Protagonists of In the Time of Butterflies and The Lizard's Tail

The Portrayal of Women in Part I of Don Quixote

The Role of Romantic Literature in The Sorrows of the Young Werther and Madame Bovary

Section IV - Criticism on Criticism

Coleridge and Wordsworth on the Aesthetics of Beauty and Pleasure

A Critique of M. Keith Booker's New Historicist Essay on Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Aristotle on Tragedy

Structuralist Interpretation According to Roland Barthes

Longinus and the Sublime

A Comparison of Historical and Structuralist Approaches in the Scientific Method of Interpreting Literature

Hippolyte Taine on the Influence of the Past in Literature

A Collective View of the Role of History in the Creation and Critique of Literature

A Brief Overview of Feminist Criticism

Section V - Film Studies

A Comparison of Theme and Plot in the Film Adaptations of Frankenstein

Joan Crawford: Faith in Herself

The Desirability of Annie in "Annie Hall"

Manipulation of the Mise en Scene in "Love Story" \- Overview

Manipulation of the Mise en Scene in "Love Story"

Edna Purviance: Charlie Chaplin's First Leading Lady

Section VI - Literary Summaries

Gazing through the Pines at Dusk: An Exploration of Jean Toomer's Cane

Summary of Virginia Fowler's Essay, "Mirror in Your Soul"

Summary of Maxine Montgomery's Essay on Bailey's Café

Summary of Nancy Jessar's Essay on Beloved

Summary of Michael Awkward's The Bluest Eye Essay

Summary of Barbara Christian's Brewster Place / Linden Hills Essay

Summary of Michael Awkward's The Women of Brewster Place Essay

Summary of "Letter from Birmingham Jail"

Summary of Lindsey Tucker's Essay, "Recovering the Conjure Woman: Texts and Contexts in Gloria Naylor's Mama Day"

Summary of Catherine Ward's Essay, "A Modern Inferno"

Plotting Time in "White Angel" by Micheal Cunningham

Section VII - Mini-Reviews and Reactions

Section VIII - Other Works

Possibilities in Active Interpretation of Nonverbal Communication

A Reaction to "Here Comes the Groom: A (Conservative) Case for Gay Marriage"

Compassion without Compromise: The Case for Medically Assisted Suicide

Winning by a Nose (Article)

She's the Ninth most Beautiful Girl on Campus (Article)

Education is Wasted on the Young (Editorial)

Glossary

About the Author

Other Books by this Author

# Introduction

Dear Reader,

One the following pages you will find a selected collection of short literary essays. I wrote them while I was a student at Central Washington University in working toward my B.A. and M.A degrees in English and British Literature from 1999 to 2003. As an older, non-traditional student, I put an extraordinary amount of work into writing these essays, and most were favorably regarded by my instructors at the time of review. They were written at a time when specific literary information on the Internet was relatively scarce and doing research still meant taking a trip to the library. I now offer them to you both as a record of my experience and a source of inspiration for the aspiring student of literature or literary critic.

My body of work is actually much larger than this, but I have complied those only works which I believe have some value beyond their original purpose of fulfilling course requirements. I have grouped the essays into eight categories and arranged them roughly (but not entirely) in the order that they were written. For this, they are not meant to be read in the order they are presented in this book, but rather the reader can choose to read whichever he or she finds interesting.

Sorting through and reformatting this collection for publication was a lot of work. It was also a kind of trip down memory lane for me. I had not so much as looked at these things since I wrote them so many years ago, and seeing them was like gazing through a window into my past. My concerns in life are much different now, and now when I read them I can scarcely remember the mental space I was in at the time. Certainly, I would write many of these essays differently now and perhaps with different sensibilities, based on my life experiences since then.

I would like to take a moment to say a word of thanks to my former instructors at Central. During the four years we spent together, they changed me for the better and had a positive effect on my critical thinking skills. They pushed me to the limit and brought out the best in me. Even after all these years, my respect for them and gratitude for their instruction, guidance and friendship remains undiminished.

Charles Rocha, 2017
Section I – British Literature

# Reflections on Geoffrey Chaucer's The Knight's Tale

The Knight's Tale in Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales is the longest of the tales told by the pilgrims. On the surface, it is the lively story of two knights vying for the love of a fair maiden. Just below the surface, however, the reader finds a multiplicity of themes. As with the tales told by the other pilgrims, the tale of the knight betrays the true nature of its teller.

The knight is the first pilgrim described by the Chaucer the Narrator in the General Prologue. Unlike Chaucer's description of the other pilgrims, he describes the knight mainly in terms of character and accomplishments. The description of the knight's physical appearance is scant. Still, the reader has enough information to realize that the knight's appearance matches the reality of his deeds. For example, the knight is a veteran of many battles. He also took part in the Crusades, and in fact, has probably just returned from one. Correspondingly, the knight's attire is plain, and his armor appears battered. Even his horse is clad in a lackluster way. The entire description suggests function over facade. Consequently, Chaucer the Narrator regards the knight with awe. Of course, since he is not a reliable narrator, his admiration means nothing in itself. Nevertheless, he has not misplaced his admiration with this particular pilgrim.

The structure of The Knight's Tale is a contest between two Thracian knights, Arcite and Palamon, in a quandary of chivalric love. The details given in the text let the reader know that both of these knights are cousins; they are equals in age, rank and physical might. Though the knights share the basic chivalric creed, that is, honesty, courage, and valor, some critics have pointed out differences in their personalities. Peter Elbow points out in his book, Oppositions in Chaucer, that "Palamon is a bit more open, impulsive and naive than his cousin," and "Arcite is discernibly more tough-minded and less open" (75). These differences, though subtle, influence the actions of the knights. For example, before the tourney, consider the prayers the cousins give to their patron deities. Palamon prays to Venus to grant him Emilee's love; Arcite prays to Mars for victory in the coming battle. The two prayers contrast Palamon's lofty idealism against Arcite's composed pragmatism. Despite their different personalities, however, neither cousin is less worthy than the other for Emilee's hand.

Many critics compare Theseus to the knight. Peter Elbow, in his book, Opposition in Chaucer, writes: "Theseus is the richest character in the poem. He is mature and experienced, and in this respect, he is like the knight who tells the tale" (79). Elbow supports this statement by pointing out that like the knight, Theseus speaks in the same colloquial tone. Both have a sense of humor, and they share the same values of conduct. In addition, Theseus is not idealized as are the other characters in the tale, but he is described in "concrete specificity (79). This concrete specificity allows the reader to draw parallels in the relationship between Theseus and the cousins, and the squire and the experienced knight. Arcite succeeds only in battle while Palamon succeeds only in love. Theseus, however, is experienced in both love and war. The squire succeeds in love, but in comparison to the knight, he is inexperienced at war. Hence, both cousins are a component of Theseus as the squire is a component of the experienced knight.

Theseus projects a wider range of traits than the other characters in the tale. As critic Paull Baum points out, "He is inclined to laugh at love, having put all that behind him...he laughs at Palamon's confession of wrong doing...he has pity on Creon's victims...he is properly angered at the two for fighting their duel in secret" (98). Theseus is the most "fleshed out" character of the tale. This fleshing out shows that the knight at least identifies more with this character than with the others.

A major theme present in The Knight's Tale is the conflict between chaos and order. Arcite and Palamon's struggle represent chaos, and Theseus's leadership represents order. In this light, the temples to Venus and Mars are symbolic extensions of the misfortunes of the central characters (Baum 99). Indeed, Arcite and Palamon's struggle expanded until it polarized the heavenly powers, and therefore, disrupted the balances in nature.

Baum sums up another theme in his statement: "The power of love overrules all fellowship, even that of the truest of knights and devoted friends" (100). Arcite's speech to Palamon in the grove exemplifies this renouncement of friendship:

"Thou sholdest nevere out of this grove pace,

That thou ne sholdest dyen of myn hond.

For I defye the seurete and the bond

Which that thou seist that I have maad to thee." (746-749).

A subtext found when combining this passage and the previously stated theme is that the "blind pursuance of love without reason results in chaos". But despite the resulting chaos, the tale retains a sense of harmony and symmetry that reflects the equality between Palamon and Arcite. For example, the temples of Venus and Mars are equally and amply described; the two 100-strong armies and accompanying beasts are equally matched, and later, on a more symbolic level, the two opposing patron deities, Venus and Mars, "win" the tournament, that is, the outcome slights neither.

The knight uses Palamon's defeat in the tournament to reveal yet another theme. Consider the following words spoken by the Knight after the tournament has ended:

"For soothly ther was no disconfiture-

For fallyng nys nat but an aventure-

Ne to be lad by force unto the stake

Unyolden, and with twenty knyghtes take,

O persone allone, withouten mo,

And haryed forth by arme, foot, and too,

And eke his steede dryven forth with staves,

With footmen, bothe yemen and eek knaves,

It nas aretted hym no vileynye,

Ther may no man clepen it cowardye" (1869-1879).

In this passage, the knight clarifies (for his pilgrim audience) that if one tries his or her very best; he or she should not be ashamed of failure if overcome by great odds. In other words, a crushing defeat is not necessarily dishonorable. Arcite and Palamon have no lack of desire or skill to win Emilee, so Palamon's desperate yearning for Emilee makes this theme of consolation quite poignant. And though the passage is spoken in the context of Palamon's defeat in the tournament, one may apply it to Arcite's resulting misfortune when Pluto's beasts startle his horse. In both cases, defeat is not the result of poor judgment or lack of will or ability, but through the extrinsic forces of the universe.

Forgiveness is the final major theme of the tale. At the time of his death, Arcite eschews his jealousy and his worldliness, and ultimately, he forgives Palamon. Critic Judith Ferster observes that Arcite describes his cousin in similar terms used to describe the knight in the General Prologue (38). Some of the specific words and terms used are "honour", "wysdom", "humblesse" and "heigh kynrede" (1937-1938). Then, in the most gracious act in the tale, Arcite bequeaths Emilee to Palamon by saying to her:

"As in this world right now ne knowe I non

So worthy to ben loved, as Palamon

That serveth yow, and wol doon al his lyf;

And if that evere ye shul ben a wyf,

Foryet nat Palamoun, the gentil man" (1941-1945).

In reference to this passage, Ferster points out: "Arcite is also sympathetic to the Emily's wish to remain a virgin and does not try to coerce her, but only recommends his cousin conditionally" (38). In leaving Emilee to his former enemy and freeing her from their fervent possessiveness, Arcite elevates himself above the materialism and selfishness that had brought him to his final condition. His newly revealed generosity connotes a loving, humble spirit. Arcite seems almost Christ-like when one considers his previous, monomaniacal conduct.

Some critics have uncovered an interesting paradox late in the tale in relation to the knight's faith. This is the knight's uncertainty of where a good soul goes after death. First, note the words uttered by Arcite shortly before he dies:

"And Jupiter so wys my soule gye...

So Jupiter have my soule parte" (1934-1940).

In these two lines, Arcite dedicates his soul to Jupiter. Now, consider the irony in the following passage when the knight speculates on the destination of Arcite's soul after the cousin's death:

"His spirit chaunged hous, and wente ther

As I cam nevere, I kan nat tellen wher,

Therfore I stynte; I nam no divinistre,

Of soules fynde I nat in this registre,

Ne me ne list thilke opinions to telle

Of hem, though that they writen wher they dwelle

Arcite is coold, ther Mars his soule gye" (1957-1963).

Incredibly, the perfect, Christian knight admits he does not know where Arcite's worthy soul will go despite the fact that Arcite dedicated his soul to Jupiter. This hints to the possibility that the experienced knight became disillusioned during his crusades and was now tainted with doubt over the certainty of salvation. Baum believes this piece of irony was an oversight on Chaucer's part caused by his infusion of humor into the poem: "One must recognize [these oversights] as examples of a fault into which Chaucer's cheerfulness may at any moment betray him" (90). In other words, Baum thinks Chaucer was careless. If Chaucer soberly intended the knight to seem disillusioned, then the narrator in the prologue overlooked a significant aspect of the knight's character.

In summary, The Knight's Tale is a complex fable that conveys several layers of allegory. The tale is rich in moral value and speaks of forgiveness, honor and generosity, the same virtues inherent of the knight's character. The structure and theme of the tale confirm Chaucer the Narrator's description of him in the General Prologue. And though the knight may suffer from some disillusionment, his character is nevertheless revealed as true to his outward description. Therefore, the knight is most certainly the pilgrim who loves truth, humility, and generosity in both appearance and reality.
Works Cited

Baum, Paull. Chaucer: A Critical Appreciation. Durham: Duke University Press, 1958.

Elbow, Peter. Oppositions in Chaucer. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1975.

Ferster, Judith. Chaucer on Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

# The Body and the Soul in Castle of Perseverance

The Castle of Perseverance presents the puzzle of mankind. Far from exhibiting a simplistic dualism that strictly maintains the body/soul dichotomy, the play offers a covert portrayal of the complex interaction of body and soul. The play does not suggest that they exist in opposition to each other. Instead, the presence of the body and the soul together complete Mankind. Where is this presence? Concerns about resurrection informed medieval understandings of body/soul interaction. The physical integrity of the person was important to the denizens of medieval society because they believed that people were resurrected in physical perfection. They associated profoundly physical acts and feelings with contact with the divine. We argue that the view of medieval understandings of body and soul as simply dualistic is inconsistent with the concerns revealed in The Castle of Perseverance. The physical portrayals of the soul physical thing are more than simply tropes or necessities of stagecraft; they reveal a deep concern about the resemblance of body and soul. Mankind's journey in life is emblematic of all humans' journeys in life—but his journey is not completed when he dies. An important component of his existence occurs after his death. Although his human body is no longer animated, Mankind virtually lives on after his death as a physical presence on the stage. Furthermore, The Castle of Perseverance depicts the soul's accusation of the body. It is in this brief speech of accusation that the question of the soul's residence is most keenly felt.

The placement of the siege in the action is analogous to the physical arrangement of the castle in the place. This takes place essentially in the middle of the action of the play. When the siege occurs, Mankind has left his youthful folly of a life of sin and joined the Virtues. Considering the theme of the play, this symbolic centrality of the physical and earthly life cannot be ignored. Mankind resists the sins because the Virtues within the castle promise him spiritual protection. He begins to waver at the temptation of Covetousness when he realizes that their spiritual protection offers no physical relief for his old age. The often-reviled material, fleshly, earthly existence of Mankind is an integral part of his spiritual health. Earthly existence tests Mankind's spiritual fortitude because he exposes his soul to danger whenever he gives in to temptation. During the siege, the castle functions as an interesting symbol of the flesh. Just as the human body houses the human soul, the castle functions, metaphorically, as a protective garment for Mankind. Metaphorically, however, the castle is also a specific location for the Sins to attack. Without the locus of the flesh, Mankind's soul would be impossible to locate. Mankind's soul would be impregnable without the weakness of the flesh because there simply would be no way to attack it. The flesh provides access to the soul because it ties the soul to materiality. When the Sins attack the castle, Mankind is as incapable of repelling their attack on his protective garment as the soul would be to repel an analogous attack on the body. He relies on the Virtues to defend him; unfortunately, their residence in the castle has been brief. The allegorical Virtues' short stay in the castle represents their short stay in Mankind's body. Alarmingly, Mankind, who functions as a trope for the soul residing in the body (castle) in the above discussion, leaves the castle of his own volition. Logically speaking, the physical consequences of a siege drive human beings to leave castles. They must satisfy their hunger and thirst, and they must escape disease. Mankind leaves the castle to satisfy his earthly desires, but his function as a symbol for the soul makes his decision problematic. Mankind seems to manifest symptoms of physical desires felt in the soul. What disease resides in The Castle of Perseverance? Perhaps the disease, the physical need, that drives Mankind out of the castle, may be called mortality. As a symbol for the soul, it seems odd that Mankind would fear his mortality. Physical existence is fleeting, ephemeral, and useless to a soul that is promised eternal protection and eternal life by the Virtues. The soul is not as insubstantial as the overt dialogue of the play suggests.

Aspects of physicality surface in the soul throughout the play. All transformations that affect the soul are performed through some contact with the body. An undercurrent of physicality that subverts the ostensible portrayal of the soul as something that is not some thing. The soul appears to reside in the body, as though it is a thing with matter that requires residence. When Mankind dies, the Soul appears to accuse the body. Logistics of medieval staging required a physical representation of the soul, but the soul reveals its physicality in important ways. The soul foresees physical punishment in Hell. He imagines himself "in hell on hooks" experiencing "pains strong" (lines 3079-3081). Thomas Aquinas popularized the view that the body and soul are incomplete when separated and they long for one another until they are reunited at the resurrection. Resurrection signifies a rebirth and a return to life. It is accomplished in the perfect reunion of the body and the soul.

The castle itself is an adequate symbol of the body-soul unity. Sitting on stilts above the earth, the castle resembles mankind: at once a physical structure bound to earth, and something elevated and divorced from contact with the physical world. Unified and strong, the castle represents human integrity. Also, it can be noted that the castle is also a source of feudal power. It represents authority, and in the context of the play, it represents the authority of the Word of God. Mankind violates the castle's integrity when he accepts Covetous' invitation to live old age in avariciousness. In a sense, this violation symbolizes Mankind's betrayal of himself. Mankind. This being that most perfectly illustrates the unity of body and soul also illustrates the inherent incompatibility. The soul's great investment in the body lies in resurrection because it only experiences complete rebirth and resurrection if the body remains usable. The soul needs the body to achieve resurrection. Similarly, processes of the body influence the soul.

Humans encounter the divine through profoundly physical experiences. Many Medieval writers, especially women, describe being "filled up" or "penetrated" by God. Medieval people sometimes bled themselves to punish and purify the flesh with its attendant desires and to empathize with Christ's suffering. Bleeding, a deeply physical experience represents Christ's suffering, which in turn represents the point of contact between physical and divine. Physical contact enables Mankind's spiritual transformations, as Mankind's physical movement indicates the condition of his soul. Mankind's life in sin is signified by his physical presence with Covetous and others. His physical travel belies the wandering soul within him. When Penance reaches the soul by stabbing Mankind's heart with her lance, it is an act of physical penetration used to reach the soul; it implies that the soul somehow feels the body's hurts, and that the soul is sentient. Penetration of the body allows humans contact with the divine. When the lance penetrates Mankind, he does not fear for his bodily integrity because he feels that the penetration is from a divine source. Penetration of the body conceivably endangers the soul, as penetration of the castle endangers those inside it. The physicality of the soul is revealed by the penetration Mankind experiences as a spiritual transformation. Punishment of the soul, described in physical terms throughout the play, lends credence to depictions of spiritual transformation through physical penetration.

The roses used by the Charities to ward off the Sins during the battle scene in the Castle of Perseverance are the symbol of purity, heavenly perfection, and virginity, that is the body of Christ. The crimson color of the rose is the flower of the blood of Christ. The thorns on the stem represent Christ's suffering at the crucifixion as well as the fall of mankind from Paradise. In numerical terms, the rose represents the number "5". This is because the wild rose has five petals. (The petals of other roses are in multiples of five.) The geometric pattern of the rose corresponds to the pentacle, the five-pointed star. Of course, by representing five, the rose also represents Truth, and the five senses in the body of man, Christ incarnate on Earth.

Portrayals of gender in the play subvert the strict body/soul dichotomy. Lechery, the only female Sin, denotes a stereotypical female dominated by concerns of the flesh. Yet all of the Virtues are female, as are all of the Daughters of God. The construction of gender is complex in the play because it reflects the instability of gender in medieval representations of Christ.

In conclusion, the overt body/soul dichotomy offered by The Castle of Perseverance is provided by the depictions of the soul's physicality. The body serves as a vehicle for complete spiritual actualization. The Castle of Perseverance negotiates the body/soul relationship by exploring its complex connection through physical representation of the soul and body of man through allegory and symbolism.

# Satan: Hero or Villain of Paradise Lost?

Satan, the active agent of John Milton's epic poem Paradise Lost, has exceptional psychological depth. His soliloquies, born of remorse and tormented psychology, lend him the pathos and nobility of an Elizabethan tragic hero, more so even than Adam and Eve. The Romantics, in their reinterpretation of Paradise Lost, recast Satan as the protagonist and God as a tyrant. Indeed Milton's portrayal of Satan, particularly in the first two books, is so captivating and capable of eliciting such sympathy that a reader may indeed view him as the hero of the epic. But though Satan is the most developed character of the poem and seemingly deserving of pity, is he truly a hero? And if he is a hero, why did Milton, a devout Puritan, choose to make him so?

In its introduction to Paradise Lost, Volume 1 of the Longman Anthology of British Literature states that from a Renaissance point of view, Satan is like an Elizabethan hero-villain due to his numerous soliloquies and "his tortured psychology of brilliance twisted toward evil" (1755). Scholar Robert Crosman provides the following explanation as to why Satan is initially so attractive to the reader:

We normally identify with the main character of any story, and Satan certainly has no rivals for our interest in Books I and II of Paradise Lost. He is cast into the mold of the epic hero, which demands of us certain positive responses to time-tested human virtues: courage, strength, endurance, leadership, eloquence, and self-esteem. In Books I and II Satan has, or seems to have, all of these qualities." (29-30).

Echoing and expounding upon the idea put forth in the Longman Anthology of British Literature, Crosman notes that Satan strongly resembles certain anti-heroes of Renaissance drama. Notably, Satan resembles the blood-splattered Macbeth who strides over the blasted heath, surrounded by the mangled bodies of friends and enemies, muttering, "So foul and fair a day I have not seen." Later he rightly observes that "Satan is a bit like Macbeth: just as he is, in another way, like Aeneas, who is found shipwrecked and despairing on the coast of Africa at the opening of Virgil's epic" (29). In a striking observation, noting both the context of the tale and the principal character, scholar J. B. Broadbent suggests that Satan "appears as a tragic hero caught in an epic plot" (74). Another critic, John Knott, Jr., contends that Satan's appeal arises from his power. Such power, he says, is manifest in Satan's ability to "battle the armies of God for three days in heaven, to subvert the new world of man, and to give Sin and Death possession of this world" (149). Like Crosman, Knott believes that the complexity of Satan's motivation and his capacity for doubt as well as defiance make him a protagonist who invites comparison with a Macbeth or a Faustus (149).

Satan's soliloquies create a complex portrait of the supernatural being, and it is these soliloquies that contribute to the Elizabethan sense that Satan is the tragic hero. Through Satan's soliloquies, we see that behind his facade of bravado, defiance, and ambition, Satan is painfully aware that he is forever fallen. As scholar Thomas Wheeler states unequivocally of Satan's position after the fall, "Satan knows he is wrong—not that he has made a mistake, not that he has suffered a temporary setback. His pride is wrong, his defiance is wrong, his ambition is wrong: everything that defines him is wrong (102). Wheeler further notes that this knowledge torments Satan enough, but in addition to this knowledge, Satan knows that there is no way for him to get it right, and this compounds his despair (103). Strikingly, Satan admits that the blame falls upon no one but himself:

But other Powers as great

Fall not, but stand unshak'n from within

Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.

Hadst thou the same free Will and Power to stand?

Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,

But Heav'n's free Love dealt equally to all? (IV.63-8)

As Wheeler notes, such a remarkably honest admission is admirable in the fallen angel (103). The presence of such knowledge, which contributes to Satan's torment, adds further reason for the reader to pity him.

Satan also shows determination characteristic of a hero; he persistently hopes to procure some level of power and reign as a rival to God as Beelzebub suggested he should do. But Satan faces insurmountable odds; he cannot do anything outside what God allows him to do. The plan is such that God has

Left him at large to his own dark designs,

That with reiterated crimes he might

Heap upon himself damnation. (I.213-5)

God's plan for Satan seems to follow the old adage, "Give a man enough rope, and he will hang himself with it." God is allowing Satan the opportunity to do more mischief under the idea that Satan's nature will lead him to further doom, and each act will add to his torment, for not only will God increase his torment, but also each act will weigh increasingly upon his conscience. Satan knows that his conscience and the physical realities of his damnation will continue to oppress him. Hell, in other words, will exist within him. Yet, he does not lose all hope that something can be done to alleviate his circumstance, and like the epic heroes he is modeled against, he goes on an epic voyage.

There are two other features of Satan's condition that evoke pity in the reader and might cause him to appear as a tragic hero. One is that God has not given Satan a chance to reconcile with him, which gives Satan no option other than evil. When Satan says "Evil be thou my Good" (IV.110), modified by what has preceded this statement, Satan is not saying that he prefers evil. Evil cannot be good for Satan, and he is aware of this. But evil is all he has. It is his choice in the sense that neither his own nature nor God will let him choose anything else. So, in effect, Satan has been backed into a corner. The second feature of Satan's condition that evokes pity is that much of his torment arises from guilt and regret, which reveals the presence of a conscience. The fact that Satan has a conscience appeals to our humanity, for we recognize him as being like ourselves in that he can think, feel, reason, and consequently suffer remorse from his action.

Both features of Satan's condition contribute to our perception that Satan is a victim. Wheeler states that though we might be drawn to sympathize with a character who faces so honestly the fact of his own responsibility for his sufferings (such an honest admission of guilt ought to account for something), the primary purpose of Satan's soliloquies is not to elicit sympathy but to develop and add depth to Satan's character. Wheeler does admit, however, that "Unlike Sin and Death, who are flat allegorical creatures, Satan is portrayed as having a conscience and an inner being which can hardly fail to remind us of the same qualities in Adam and ourselves" (103). But character development does not equal hero status. Furthermore, we must not allow our sympathy for Satan to distract us from the true heroes of the poem, Adam and Eve.

The poets of the Romantic era were possibly the first to assert the notion that Satan was the hero of Paradise Lost. Such notions have persisted since this era, and they have influenced critical thought regarding the work. To many defenders of the Christian faith, it is unthinkable that Satan, considering his destructive effect on humanity, could be viewed as a hero. After all, not only is Satan the enemy of humanity, he is also the enemy of God, the Being that embodies all that is wholesome and good. The Norton's web site sums up the powerful effect that Satan's perceived heroism had on the literature of the Romantic era:

In his ironic Marriage of Heaven and Hell (NAEL 2.72–81), Blake claimed that Milton had unconsciously, but justly, sided with the Devil (representing rebellious energy) against Jehovah (representing oppressive limitation). Thirty years later, Percy Shelley maintained that Satan is the moral superior to Milton's tyrannical God, but he admitted that Satan's greatness of character is flawed by vengefulness and pride. It was precisely this aspect of flawed grandeur, however, that made Satan so attractive a model for Shelley's friend Byron. Byron's more immediate precedents were the protagonists of some of the Gothic terror novels of the later eighteenth century — for example, Schedoni in Ann Radcliffe's The Italian, who embodied many of the sinister and terrifying aspects of Milton's Satan — in addition to the towering historical figure of Napoleon Bonaparte, who to the contemporary imagination also combined moral culpability with superhuman power and grandeur.

Understanding why the romantic poets interpreted Satan as the hero of Paradise Lost requires some understanding of the Romantics' system of belief. To begin with, the Romantics worshipped rebellion, individuality, and nonconformity; thus they were more enthralled by Satan's rebelliousness than by the goodness of the divine characters. They interpreted Satan as a metaphor for the constant human striving for individual freedom from oppression.

Reactions to Paradise Lost turn up in many of the works of the Romantic era. For instance, Mary Shelley's superb 1817 novel Frankenstein, an important work of the era that encapsulates the ideals of the romantics, reflects many Romantic reinterpretations of Paradise Lost. The monster of Frankenstein identifies with Satan after he reads a copy of Milton's poem: "Many times I considered Satan the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me" (Shelley 875). Not only does the monster's conclusion about Paradise Lost express the sympathy the romantics felt toward Satan, it also represents the Romantics' elevation of Satan to the status of a hero.

Other similarities exist between Paradise Lost and Frankenstein. Just as Satan does before he is cast from heaven, the monster eventually believes that he is at least equal to his creator. "You are my creator, but I am your master—obey!" (Shelley 896). Unable to achieve reconciliation with Dr. Frankenstein, the monster becomes a metaphor for the fallen angel who becomes the malignant devil. Just as does Satan in his bellicose speeches and soliloquies in Books I and II, the monster vows revenge in accordance with his internal sense of justice. And as in Satan's case, the monster's deep psychological pain arises, in part, from his estrangement from his creator.

Milton's Satan was also the model for the Romantic satanic model of heroism. Satanic heroes possess great qualities of mind and heart but are products of an inner darkness. The Satanic hero shuns human companionship in order to delve into private thoughts and feelings. This hero is by nature an anti-social being. Byron's dark hero Manfred is a good example of this model, as are Percy Shelley's Prometheus, the great rebel against the gods, and Herman Melville's Ahab from Moby Dick. The Satan of Paradise Lost is a being of great magnetism and potential, yet he is overwhelmed by the elements of darkness, like many heroes of Romanticist writers. One wonders how Milton would react to the Romantic-era interpretation of his masterpiece.

The Romanticists followed Rousseau, who believed that we are created with an innate capacity for love, and that it is our experiences that make us evil. In other words, our minds, at birth, contain an imprint of God's divine nature. Thus, we are born "good." Such a belief, when applied to Satan, affects distinctly the way he can be viewed. The idea is that though God created Satan perfect, his existence in heaven corrupted him. Taking into account the Romantics' affinity for rebellion against authority, they may have taken the stance that Satan simply became "fed up" with eternal servitude, which may be interpreted as slavery, and this led to his rebellion. Along with the Romantic belief that man is inherently good, many adhered to William Godwin's belief that evil is a product of injustice. Satan is not given a chance at reconciliation. Such a perception may have fueled the Romantic's view that Satan was a victim of injustice.

One may create a cogent argument that Satan appears heroic primarily because of a problematic portrayal of God. While Milton portrays God as unapproachable and didactic, Satan displays "human" characteristics that we can identify with, such as envy, spite, and most importantly, regret. Milton's God is the imperious Old Testament God filled with wrath. His stern countenance lacks warmth and empathy. Crosman notes that evidence of God's tyranny can be found in both Satan's soliloquies and in the narrator's commentary. Crosman points out that Satan says, "So much the stronger prov'd he with his Thunder" (I.92-3). The narrator later echoes, "Him the Almighty Power Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Sky" (I.44-5). According to Crosman, such lines suggest Divine brutality and tyranny as effectively as anything Satan subsequently says. Crosman further points out that although the narrator does not refer to God as a tyrant, "adamantine chains and penal fire" are certainly what we might expect from one. "So while overtly condemning Satan as a villain, the narrator is also, though less obviously, corroborating a view of the War in Heaven that supports Satan's claim to be God's victim" (31). Furthermore, God may be viewed as culpable, for an omniscient, all-powerful being that can see the future must be the originator of not only the good which takes place but also of the evil that arises. Satan, on the other hand, is an underdog. Though he has guile and charisma exceptional enough to sway a third of heaven, he has little of the actual power of his Creator. His primary fault is the pride that God infused in him at the time of his creation. The seeds of his fall were sown at the time of his creation. In other words, Satan was created to fall, and this seems unfair.

Notwithstanding the obvious reasons Satan has for choosing evil, some scholars warn against applying human motivations to a supernatural being:

The complexity of Satan's motivation and his capacity for doubt as well as defiance make him a protagonist who invites comparison with Macbeth or a Faustus. But in making such comparisons one must remember that Milton humanized Satan only to a point. In the end, hellish hate and hellish power must be measured on a different scale from human ambition. (Knott 149)

Knott goes on to say that in Milton's view, Satan's will to destroy results from a capacity for evil that exceeds anything that can be found in human nature, which is similar to the depth of love that Christ has for man that excels any merely human love (149). Such an observation reminds us that misconceptions can arise from qualifying the motivations of immortal supernatural beings as if they were a part of humanity. Beings such as Satan are not human, and they not should be viewed as such.

We admire heroes who exhibit passion for their causes, and without a doubt, passion plays an important role in Satan's actions. It can even be stated that Satan allowed his high passion to overcome reason. Where does passion originate in Satan? One does not desire to become what one hates, yet Satan wished to be as God. A psychologically valid reason for this paradox is that at one time, Satan harbored an intense love for his Creator. The converse of this must also be true; for God to have placed Satan as the Morning Star of heaven, He must have loved Satan dearly, and Satan had to have been aware of this special love. Satan's realization of what he had lost makes his fall that much more tragic. And not only does God made it clear that there is no chance for reconciliation for Satan and his angels, but God also bequeaths his grace to another being:

The first sort by their own suggestion fell,

Self-tempted, self-deprav'd, Man falls deceiv'd

By th'other first: Man therefore shall find grace,

The other none. (III.129-32)

Satan's actions and reactions throughout the poem resemble those of a scorned lover or disowned child. Hate and love are closely intertwined, powerful emotions. Just like good and evil, one has no relevance without the other; each lends the other definition. A broken heart can certainly cause the intense hatred that Satan feels for God. Note that Satan did not choose to send his new acquaintances (family members), Sin and Death, to meet God's new creatures, Adam and Eve, out of spite, though he easily could have. His idea was to split mankind from God as God had split with him. Such actions were rooted in jealousy. Consider Satan's musings the first time he encounters Adam and Eve in Paradise. Satan finds God's latest creations so attractive that he could love them:

So lively shines

In them Divine resemblance, and such grace

The hand that form'd them on their shape hath pour'd. (IV.363-5)

He is so smitten with Eve that he forgets his evil and basks in admiration of her beauty:

Such Pleasure took the Serpent to behold

This Flow'ry Plat, the sweet recess of Eve...

....That space the Evil one abstracted stood

From his own evil, and for the time remain'd

Stupidly good, of enmity disarm'd. (IX.455-6, 464-5)

These lines may also suggest a latent love that remains in Satan for his Creator, for Adam and Eve were created in God's image. Satan has changed since his potent speeches of revenge and hatred in Book I. By Book IX, Satan has realized that revenge is "bitter" and does not even apply to what he hopes to accomplish (Wheeler 103):

Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils...

....Whom us the more to spite his Maker rais'd

From dust: spite then with spite is best repaid. (IX.171-8)

Remarkably, what has happened is that Satan's lust for revenge has degenerated into mere "spite," and his unalloyed hatred has dissipated into jealousy. If one adopts the view that he is a jilted lover, or perhaps an abandoned child, then his personage seems all that much more plausible and worthy of compassion. J. B. Broadbent sums up Satan's decline and increasing distance from God very succinctly when he writes,

Satan is presented as undergoing a series of reactions which progressively extinguish his own gleams of self-knowledge and other-pity and block the angelic impulses that might have saved him; so that by Book IV and Book IX he embodies irredeemable despair more than absolute evil. (76)

If one embraces the argument that Satan is motivated to do evil in part by his recognition that he can never reclaim the love that God expressed toward him, then his increasing estrangement from God makes him all the more worthy of sympathy.

Paradise Lost is the work of a Puritan, not a Satanist. Thus, it does not follow that Milton wrote Paradise Lost as a vehicle to arouse admiration for Satan. Why, then, would he portray Satan as sympathetic? Perhaps the simplest explanation is good storytelling. Unless the villain is portrayed convincingly, the heroism of the protagonists will seem hollow. In his thorough portrayal of Satan, Milton is not merely setting up a paper tiger. Without Satan's attractiveness, his brand of evil is a hard sell. After all, why should one choose evil for the sake of evil? Milton took on the task of making the instigation of evil seem psychologically plausible and therefore desirable—and he succeeded.

Some critics believe that Milton went too far in making evil seem attractive or that he did it a little too well. Robert Wheeler was not convinced that Satan comes off as particularly appealing; he did not believe that Satan deserved the level of character development that Milton afforded him: "There are oddities about Satan as Milton presents him. They do not suggest that Satan is admirable or good or that Milton was of the Devil's party without knowing it. But they give us the impression that Milton, whether intentionally or not, went far beyond the needs of his theme in developing Satan's character" (99). Along similar lines, John Knott accuses Milton of not presenting Satan's eventual ruin powerfully enough. Though Satan has little else to do in Paradise Lost after Man has fallen, "Milton gives little attention to Satan's ultimate defeat, perhaps out of a reluctance to identify his character too closely with the [serpent of Revelation bound by Christ]" (148). While most critics do not agree with Wheeler that Satan is an unattractive character or conclude as Knott does that Milton should have identified semi-admirable Satan with the repulsive beast of Revelation, nearly all agree that Satan is the most developed character in the epic. And though not everyone agrees on Milton's reasons for developing Satan so thoroughly, it is unanimously agreed that such extensive character development allows the reader to identify with Satan much more easily than with any other character in the epic.

John Milton's Paradise Lost would lose much of its effectiveness if Satan were not the highly developed character that he is. Furthermore, considering Milton's background as a devout Puritan, it would be a misconception to believe that this poem praises Satan. Yet, for the purposes of this epic, Milton did not have much choice. By making Satan appear attractive, Milton strengthens his argument that evil is dangerous because of how beguiling it can be. After all, rarely does one consciously choose evil over good; the choice is often that of the more attractive option, a dangerous proposition if reason and a classical education do not intervene. Without a doubt, Satan's position is worthy of some sympathy; his damnation is complete and eternal. His acts are unremittingly villainous, yet it seems like an oversimplification to label him as one due to the human and hero-like qualities he displays. Nevertheless, we must not judge Satan on the same rubric reserved for epic heroes such as Odysseus and Aeneas. Satan, after all, is a supernatural being, not a human. His exact origins and the genesis of his evil are not explained within the poem. For these reasons, it would be an error to humanize him as much as it would be to humanize God. Perhaps is it best that Satan not be described as a hero, but rather, a well-defined supernatural character with traits of heroism.
Works Cited

Broadbent, J. B. Some Graver Subject: An Essay on Paradise Lost. New York: Shocken, 1967.

Crosman, Robert. Reading Paradise Lost. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1980.

Damrosch, David, ed. The Longman Anthology of British Literature. vol. 1. New York: Addison Wesley Longman, 1999.

Knott Jr., John R. Milton's Pastoral Vision: An Approach to Paradise Lost. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1971.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost. ed. Burton Raffel. New York: Bantam, 1999.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. The Longman Anthology of British Literature. vol. 2, ed. David Damrosch. New York: Addison Wesley Longman, 1999.

Wheeler, Thomas. Paradise Lost and the Modern Reader. Athens: U of Georgia P, 1974.

# Adventures in the Sublime: An Explication of Romantic and Literary Influences in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

Imbued with the notions and concerns of the literary and philosophical preoccupations of the Romantic era, Mary Shelley's 1817 novel Frankenstein reflects the conventions of the Romantic imagination. But how are these Romantic era influences woven into Frankenstein? How do they manifest themselves? And are all the works that most influenced Frankenstein native to the Romantic era?

The first indication that Frankenstein is a Romantic-era work is that it utilizes storytelling device of the era called the frame narrative. This device uses the framework of one story to tell another story. Essentially, it creates a story within a story. In this case, the frame narrative consists of letters written by Walton to his niece that recount the tale told by Victor Frankenstein. Along with the narrative is an introduction inserted to give the piece validity and describe the creative process. This sort of introduction, along with the frame narrative, was popular with writers during the Romantic era. In the first edition of Frankenstein, Mary's husband Percy wrote the introduction. For the revised edition published in 1831, Mary Shelley wrote her own introduction to explain the revisions she had made. Percy Shelley's introduction attempts to lend credibility and relevance to his wife's work. He states that although the novel is "a work of fancy," it is more than a "weaving a series of supernatural terrors." It is a story based on scientific possibility. It is also worthy to note that unlike the writers of the Neoclassical era, the Romantics did not consider the expression of truth to be of paramount importance.

Frankenstein was written in the tradition of the Gothic novel, a popular genre during the Romantic era. Stories of this type were often ghost stories. They possessed themes calculated to inspire terror in the reader. The first Gothic novel was The Castle of Otranto, written in1764 by Horace Walpole. Notables that followed are Vathek (1786), by William Beckford, The Monk (1796) by Matthew Lewis, Wuthering Heights (1847) by Charlotte Bronte, and the novels of Anne Radcliffe. These stories involve a fascination with the supernatural, ghosts, monsters, the undead, mysterious castles, ruins, lonely moors, locked doors, wild animals, stormy nights, and the dark side of humanity. In fact, Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after a stormy night when Byron dared her to write a "ghost story." Frankenstein reflects Gothic conventions with the lines spoken by Victor Frankenstein: "A church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty of strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause of all this decay, and forced to spend days and nights in charnel houses" (833). Evocative lines such as this give Frankenstein its dark Gothic tone.

As a Gothic novel, the telling of Frankenstein also involves a Romantic-era notion called the sublime that is related to an interest in the mind or consciousness as a state of awareness. The sublime is often a controlled, yet engulfing, sensory experience, sometimes preternaturally so. In the sublime, the Romantics found not only the sources of goodness and compassion but also elements of darkness and violence that seemed an integral part of human existence. In Frankenstein, obsession tempered by revulsion drives Frankenstein his creation of the monster: "Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay" (834) and "Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours, but I did not watch the blossom or expanding leaves...so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation" (835). Romantics were also entranced with light and shadow, night and twilight. Thus Frankenstein works on his creature during the late evenings, and the creature is brought to life "on a dreary night in November" at "one in the morning" while "the rain pattered dismally against the panes" (835).

The sublime is also evident in the point of viewpoint from which the story is told. As in another Romantic-era work, "Don Juan," the story is told internally, from the main character's viewpoint. The focus is on the individual looking inward. This focus contrasts sharply from novels of the Neoclassical era such as Aphra Behn's 1688 short novel, Oroonoko, where the story is told with a detached point-of-view, a description of events viewed by an outside observer. Employment of the sublime allows the reader intimate access to the consciousness of the individual telling the story.

Shelley derived some of her ideas for Frankenstein from details recounted in popular literature and lore. A recurring topic of her era was the scientific and philosophical question of animism, the belief that an inanimate object may be brought to life. The conjecture that dead tissue can be re-animated, particularly through the application of electricity, was fashionable at the time that Frankenstein was written. The Italian scientist Luigi Galvani theorized that the tissue of living beings produced a substance known as "galvanic fluid." English scientists believed this electrical fluid ran through the body's nervous system, providing the life-giving force. Frankenstein learns how to instill life into his created body by adhering to this Romantic-era theory. Percy Shelley, in the preface to the first edition of the novel, states that animation of living beings from lifelessness was indeed understood as a scientific possibility.

It is Frankenstein's blending of early 18th century scientific theory with "exploded" ancient philosophy that leads him to the creation of the monster. This confluence embodies the Romantics' fascination for ancient ideas and times, and faraway places. They sought to leave behind the everyday life of their own times to travel to imaginary places such as mythical Greece and Italy. Brave polar explorer Robert Walton embodies the Romantics' yearning for distant places in his eagerness to explore the unknown regardless of the danger. The Romantic affinity for the ancient past is also represented by Victor Frankenstein's self-education in alchemy and natural science taught by ancient philosophers such as Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelus (826). The occult figures prominently in Frankenstein's education: "The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favorite authors, the fulfillment of which I most eagerly sought" (827). Henry Clerval is likewise interested in "Oriental Languages." Like Frankenstein, his interests suggest the Romantics' fascination with mysticism and irrationality—the opposite of western/European rational inquiry. Therefore, it is no surprise that Romantic Victor Frankenstein feels contempt for M. Krempe and his rational sciences: "The teacher...did not prepossess me in favour of his doctrine. Besides, I had contempt for the uses of modern, natural philosophy" (830). He does, however, have an affinity for M. Waldman, who shares his affection for the ancient philosophies.

Frankenstein also exemplifies Romantic-era notions of education. Writers of the period often wondered what would happen if a child were denied human contact after birth. Would that child learn to speak on its own? Or would it resort to animal-like behavior? Shelley provides the answer in the education of the monster—he becomes civilized. Before the Romantic era, the predominant belief was Locke's Tabula Rasa, meaning literally "blank slate." This is the idea that we are born without predisposition; our minds are as blank as a clean slate. The belief is that our character (for better or worse) is shaped entirely by experience. But the Romanticists followed Rousseau who believed that we are born with an innate capacity for love and that it is our experiences that make us evil. Blake, in response to Locke, wrote: "Innate ideas are in Every Man, Born with him; they are truly Himself." In other words, our minds, at birth, contain an imprint of God's divine nature. Therefore, we are born good. The Romantics further believed that children teach themselves better than we teach them. In accordance with this idea, the monster properly educates himself in the hovel by observing the family. What he learns there reinforces his inborn desire to love and be loved.

Along with the Romantic belief that man is inherently good, many adhered to William Godwin's belief that evil is a product of injustice. The monster's subsequent shift toward evil after repeatedly experiencing rejection and cruelty illustrates this concept. The monster first expresses innate emotions of sympathy and love. After observing the French family for a year, he thinks, "The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and loved" (876) and "I required kindness and sympathy; but I didn't believe myself utterly unworthy of it" (877). Here, the monster embodies the Romantic perception of Rosseau's "noble savage" whose unrefined outward appearance hides a pure nature. After all, the Romantics believed it is interior life that governs one's sense of moral duty and right. The monster, like fellow Romantic hero Don Juan, does not act; he is acted upon. He is forced to react to events thrust upon him. Though the monster believes that he will be found sympathetic and lovable, the family rejects him. Horrified by his appearance, they chase him away. The monster's education in evil is nearly complete when he is later shot after nobly rescuing the little girl who had fallen into the river. In contrast to the desire for love and compassion he once sought, he now says, "The feelings of kindness and gentleness...gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind" (882).

Shelley draws heavily from many works of the Romantic era in the creation of Frankenstein. We find references to Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," Keat's "Ode to a Nightingale," Godwin's "Political Justice," Darwin's "The Temple of Nature," Mary Wollstonecraft's the "Rights of Women," and the work of her husband, Percy. The ancient myth of Prometheus is an important influence. The suggestion is that just as Prometheus breaks divine law for stealing fire to bring life to mankind, Frankenstein breaks divine law by imitating God's act of creation. Indeed, Shelley's subtitle for Frankenstein is "The Modern Prometheus." Along with the myth of Prometheus and contemporary Romantic-era writings, Shelley instills her novel with references to earlier, classic works, including La Fontaine's Fables, Dante's "Inferno," and Shakespeare's "Hamlet," amongst many others. The inclusion of so many works weaves color and depth into the rich tapestry of Frankenstein. Special mention must be made, however, of the powerful influence of John Milton's "Paradise Lost" upon the basic design of Frankenstein.

Shelley was heavily influenced by Romantic ideals exemplified by "Paradise Lost." But the poem, published in its present form in 1674, is a not a work of Romanticism. Properly, it is a crossover work between the Restoration and Neoclassical eras. So how can the poem have had such an impact on Frankenstein? This is because the Romantics reinterpreted "Paradise Lost." They were enthralled more by Satan's rebelliousness than by the goodness of the divine characters. They interpreted the fallen angel as a metaphor for the constant human striving for individual freedom from oppression. In light of this, it is not accidental that the monster identifies with Satan after he reads a copy of Milton's poem: "Many times I considered Satan the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me" (875). Thus, the pitiable monster represents the Romantics' elevation of Satan the villain to the status of a hero, a being worthy of our sympathy. One wonders how Milton would react to the Romantic-era interpretation of his masterpiece.

Like Milton's Satan, the Romantics possessed their own sense of justice developed from their meditations on history and their intuitive sense of right and wrong. They believed in internal checks and balances instead of externally applied laws and social mores govern determination of right and wrong. This belief is tantamount to savoring the taste of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Just as Adam and Eve anticipate before they tasted the fruit, and just as Satan believes in "Paradise Lost," the monster eventually believes that he is at least equal to his creator. "You are my creator, but I am your master—obey!" (896), the monster cries out after Frankenstein destroys the body of his "Eve." From this point on the monster is the fallen angel who becomes the malignant devil. He vows revenge in accordance with his internal sense of justice.

The relationship between Frankenstein and his monster bears similarities to the relationship between God and the Devil in "Paradise Lost." Both Frankenstein and God create beings in their image. Since the image of man is the image of God, the image bestowed on Adam may be interpreted as divine. But though Frankenstein creates the monster in his image, the monster lacks any such divinity. In fact, he is hideously ugly, a mere caricature of the divine form. Frankenstein is horrified by the fruition of his obsession. Later, he suffers dire consequences just as Satan does after he tries to be like God. He suffers as a modern Prometheus. Like the dual nature of the Creator contrasted in William Blake's Lamb and Tiger in "Songs of Innocence and Experience," Frankenstein is the fallen creator.

Frankenstein, his monster, and Walton are heroes based on the Romantic satanic model. These heroes possess great qualities of mind and heart but are products of an inner darkness. The Satanic hero shuns human companionship in order to delve into private thoughts and feelings. This hero is by nature an anti-social being. Byron's dark hero Manfred is a good example of this model, as are Percy Shelley's Prometheus, the great rebel against the gods, and Herman Melville's Ahab from Moby Dick. Both Walton and Frankenstein are outcasts from the comfort of European society. Frankenstein's brooding dark side and Walton's adventurous spirit comprise the complete, ideal Romantic hero. The monster, like Satan in "Paradise Lost," is a being of great magnetism and potential that is overwhelmed by the elements of darkness. He is clearly a character designed for readers who are willing to acknowledge the darkness within themselves.

Another connection between Frankenstein and "Paradise Lost" is the suggestion that the creator has a responsibility to his creation to provide a companion. Just as Adam pleaded to God, the monster pleads with Frankenstein to create for him a companion in his likeness: "You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being" (883). The monster wants to leave Europe for South America with his "Eve": "If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America" (884). This intended exodus parallels Adam and Eve's forced exile from the Garden of Eden after tasting the forbidden fruit. The monster has also, in a sense, tasted the forbidden fruit by tasting experience. It is no surprise that the monster vows revenge upon Frankenstein when he refuses to create a companion for him as God had done for Adam—unlike Adam, the monster must live alone in the harsh, post-paradise world.

Finally, evidence of Frankenstein's Romantic influence shows up in its lack of a concrete conclusion. This is unlike typical works of the Neoclassical era that emphasized structure and closure. Romantics considered their works organic, a fragment of the unfinished whole. Frankenstein is an organic work since the villain is alive at the end of the work, leaving the story open for a sequel. After discovering the death of his creator, the monster says he will head north to immolate himself on a funeral pyre. Whether he actually does so is left up to speculation, because Shelley never again wrote on the same theme.

Frankenstein is both a product of Romanticist-era beliefs and a reinterpretation of Milton's "Paradise Lost." The novel articulates Romantic notions of education, affinity for the past, the sublime, and the belief that man is born inherently good. Written in the dark style in the conventions of the Gothic novel, Frankenstein is designed to terrify the reader. On a higher level, Frankenstein touches upon the central themes of "Paradise Lost" while alluding to the Romantic interpretations of villain and rebellious hero. With the multiplicity of subtleties inherent in Frankenstein, it is incredible to believe that this masterpiece evolved from a mere storytelling session on a stormy evening back in 1816.

# Entwined in the Ether: An Explication of John Donne's "The Ecstasy"

The poetry of John Donne is amazing in its complexity. Donne's poems, despite their varied themes, exhibit a remarkable consistency in construction, metaphysical conceit, and general avoidance of trite Petrarchan themes. "The Ecstasy," like many of Donne's poems, may be divided into three sections: the Physical, the Mental, and the Spiritual. The poem's tripartite structure underlies clever, exuberant expressions of love and spirituality.

Structurally, "The Ecstasy" consists of nineteen quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme. Most lines are iambic tetrameter with trochees thrown in occasionally. Unlike many of Donne's other songs and sonnets, "The Ecstasy" has a readily apparent meter and rhyme that can be heard if the poem is read aloud. But Donne seems to have had other things on his mind besides rhythm and rhyme when he wrote this poem, because in many places, the tetrameter and rhyme break down for the sake of expression of the conceit or metaphor. It seems that he was willing to sacrifice the rhythm to use the one word that would express his idea precisely. This stumbling happens as early as the third line of the poem ("The violet's reclining head") and continues throughout. But this is fine, for Donne more than compensates by exceeding the reader's expectations in his conceits.

The poem begins with the Physical section. Here Donne deals with physicality, those things readily (and not so readily) observable in the material world. As in most of Donne's poems, "The Ecstasy" begins by revealing the setting in which the poem takes place. The poem begins, "Where, like a pillow on a bed / A pregnant bank swelled up, to rest / The violet's reclining head, / Sat we two, one another's best" (Donne 1-4). We have two lovers sitting next to each other in some pastoral setting next to a river. One of the two is the persona of the poem, Donne himself. Donne refers to his companion as "the violet." The violet rests her head on the bank as if the bank were a pillow. And not only is the bank fertile and lush, but "violet" seems to sprout from it as would a wild flower. Additionally, the violet, because of its shape, is suggestive of the female vulva. Donne states that the two lovers are "one another's best" (4). The pride that the two feel in each other leads us to believe that they are involved in a deep, loving relationship.

Donne continues describing the setting in the second stanza: "Our hands were firmly cemented / With fast balm, which thence did spring" (5-6). The lovers are holding hands quite firmly. There is moisture between their palms, probably perspiration brought on by their mutual sexual attraction. "Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread / Our eyes, upon one double string" (7-8). Here, Donne tells us that the lovers are gazing into each other's eyes. By using a metaphor derived from the Renaissance belief in invisible beams that projected from the eyes, Donne suggests that not only are these two looking at each other, but they are also peering within each other, as evidenced by the "twisted" eye beams. Through their gaze, their very beings are as interlocked as their hands, which is revealed to us in the first two lines of the third stanza: "So to intergraft our hands, as yet / Was all the means to make us one" (9-10). The attraction is so great and the love so profound that the lovers need not have sex for their bodies to become one. Later in the poem, this line takes on an additional metaphorical meaning, symbolizing two souls blended into one supernatural entity. As a side note, the diminished importance of expressing love in the physical sense also appears in the fifth stanza of "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning" which reads "[W]e by a love so much refined /.../.../ Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss" (17, 20). A similar conceit appears the final two lines of "The Good Morrow" with "If our two loves be one, or thou and I / Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die." Such similarities among the poems show that Donne is amazingly consistent in his system of belief. Lines 11 and 12 of "The Ecstasy" read, "And pictures in our eyes to get / was all our propagation." Simply stated, these two lines tell us that the offspring of this Platonic interaction are the reflections of the lovers in each other's eyes.

"As, 'twixt two equal armies, Fate / Suspends uncertain victory," begins the fourth stanza. Possibly, what is suggested here is an emotional parity between the two lovers in which neither can emotionally dominate the other. Yet fate is involved, suggesting that the relationship has not yet run its course. But this relationship extends beyond the mundane; the union is spiritual. Evidence of this lies in lines 15 and 16: "Our souls (which to advance their state / Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me." Donne tells us that the spirits of the two lovers are engaged in a higher level of interaction than evidenced in their physical bodies. The image is sustained in lines 17 through 20; while the souls of the lovers commingle in the ether, their material bodies remain still as statues on the riverbank: "And whilst our souls negotiate there, / We like sepulchral statues lay; / All day, the same our postures were, / And we said nothing all the day."

With physical details and setting now in place, the poem moves on to a section of abstract contemplation of the mind—the Mental section. The abstractedness begins in line 21 with a description of the love experienced by the souls: "If any, so by love refined..." The word "refined" also appears in line 17 of "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning": "a love so much refined." In both poems, the word "refined" is a metaphor (with metallurgical overtones) that describes love that is relatively free of impurities. The impurities, in this case, may be related to the body, which was considered dirty and basically "unclean" in the Jacobean era. So the refined love is love born of the soul, which is the breath of God, which exists outside the uncleanness of the body. Donne states that the souls speak and understand pure love: "That he souls' language understood, / And by good love we're grown all mind, / Within convenient distance stood" (22-24). The pure love known by souls is universal. The following line describes this concept in action: "He (though he knew not which soul spake, / Because both meant, both spake the same)..." (25-26). These souls do not need to communicate their love for each other, for both understand its depth intuitively. This love does not exist for its own sake; such pure, ethereal love serves to perfect and purify the mind that embraces it. In other words, the universal love known by souls can change the mind into something new after the mind partakes of it.

The eighth stanza begins, "This Ecstasy doth unperplex / We said, and tell us what we love" (29-30). This is the first time "ecstasy" is mentioned in the poem. The ecstasy that Donne refers to is that which gives understanding. It tells the lovers why they love. The choice of the word "ecstasy" suggests that this knowledge imparts orgasmic joy. Note that Donne capitalizes "ecstasy." The use of capitalization for this word hints that the ecstasy has a divine origin. At any rate, the Ecstasy, while orgasmic in nature, is not sexual, and the knowledge imparted by the Ecstasy is not derived from carnality: "We see by this it was not sex" (31). Donne demonstrates his verbal virtuosity in line 32, which reads like a tongue-twister: "We see we saw not what did move." This line furthers the idea that the lovers' love is not based in the material world. Here, the lovers recognize that their falling in love took place on another plane entirely. The train of thought continues: "But as all several souls contain / Mixture of things, they know not what, / Love these mixed souls doth mix again / And makes both one each this and that" (33-36). Simply put, Donne is telling us that when love joins two souls together, each becomes what the other is. But each is better for it. If one reflects on lines 27 and 28 with this stanza in mind, "Might thence a new concoction take, / And part far purer than he came," we find that both souls are made purer by mingling their varied constituents. A further observation on lines 33-36 is the colloquial language. An everyday word such as "thing" and phrases such as "they know not what" and "this and that" give the passage a homey feel. Such language mixed with elegant phrases such as "these mixed souls doth mix again" mark these passages as unmistakably Donne's.

The tenth stanza stands by itself, connected neither to the ninth nor eleventh by enjambment or sustained metaphor. The stanza almost seems as though it were inserted as an afterthought. Here, Donne focuses his contemplation on the aforementioned violet. He has already described the effect of the Ecstasy on himself. Now he describes the effect of the Ecstasy on his lover, the violet. She is now "A single violet transplant" (37). Donne uses the word "transplant" to describe the effect of a transformation on the lover wrought by the spiritual ecstasy. He completes the stanza with the lines, "The strength, the color, and the size, / (All which before was poor, and scant) / Redoubles still, and multiplies" (38-40). In other words, the Ecstasy has caused the violet to bloom. Notably, Donne uses the article "the" before the nouns "strength," "color," and "size." The use of this article gives emphasis to each aspect of the flower, and when the passage is read, its effect is such that one can feel the unfolding of the petals from the bud. After the flower has blossomed, it becomes fertile and, bursting with vitality, multiplies. The eleventh stanza echoes the tenth by amending the juxtaposition of his lover's spiritual awakening and the blossoming violet. In more direct language, he tells us that when love inhabits both souls, the stronger soul is able to banish the loneliness of the weaker: "That abler soul, which thence doth flow, / Defects of loneliness controls" (43-44). Conjoined with the previous passage and the conceit of purifying the soul with love, this stanza tells us that Donne's violet blossomed when he banished her loneliness.

The eleventh stanza introduces the third stage of the poem—the Spiritual. At this point, the poem transcends the two lovers sitting on a riverbank and begins to explore the ineffable nature of joined souls. From this point forward, the poem is at its most metaphysical. (And if John Dryden were reading with us, his complaints would become most vociferous from here on.)

The point of reference is still Donne. He ruminates on the immutability of the two souls joined into one when he writes, "We, then, who are of this new soul, know / Of what we are composed, and made / For the atomies of which we grow / Are souls, whom no change can invade" (45-48). Since souls are not a part of the body, which is subject to decrepitude, decay, and death, two souls that have become one cannot involuntarily change state, for the stuff (atomies) of which they are composed lies outside the physical world. Donne expands upon the idea of a separate soul and body in the next stanza. He laments and wonders why the soul, in its perfection and immutability, must be joined to a physical body: "Our bodies why do we forbear?" (50). He comments on the relationship between the soul and the body in lines 51 and 52: "They're ours, but they're not we, we are / The intelligences, they the sphere." Here, he states that in actuality, though the body comprises the individual, it is not wholly the individual. Although the body represents our essence in the physical realm, it is merely a vessel controlled by the soul the same way the celestial spheres were supposedly controlled by heavenly beings. In the next stanza, Donne makes the distinction between consciousness and the soul. He writes, "We owe them thanks because they thus / Did to us first convey, / Yielded their forces, sense, to us, / Nor are dross to us, but allay" (53-56). What he is telling us with this further use of metallurgical imagery is that the soul is not exactly the seat of the consciousness, but rather, it influences us in the proper direction. In other words, the soul is our guide, our connection to the spiritual world, whereas our sense of awareness resides in our body.

Donne further explores the soul/body connection in the following stanza: "On man heaven's influence works not so, / But that it first imprints the air" (57-58). Donne is referring to the forces of astrology here and the effects of the heavens on man's countenance. The key phrase is "imprint the air." Note that he did not write, "imprint the soul." By choosing this wording, Donne could be implying that astrological forces determine one's tendencies, but not one's destiny. In the next two lines of this stanza, Donne tells us that one soul cannot flow into another unless it first flows through a physical body.

"As our blood labors to beget / Spirits as like souls it can / Because such fingers need to knit / The subtle knot that makes us man" comprises the sixteenth stanza. In this striking passage, Donne describes the hold the body has upon the soul. But while the "blood labors" to hold the soul to the body, the blood also seeks to hold a "like" soul as well. The conceit here is that coursing blood creates vapors that are like fingers that tie the soul to the body. These fingers also seek to hold kindred souls. In turn, the effect of the soul is to animate the body. The next stanza refers back to the unconsciousness of the soul mentioned earlier in lines 53-56. Donne states that the pure-but-unconscious soul must descend to the body where "sense may reach and apprehend" (67). If the soul cannot achieve this mode of expression, it is trapped: "[A] great prince in prison lies" (68). Donne used the descriptor "prince" instead of the label "former prince." Thus, the metaphor of the imprisoned prince implies that there will be an injustice if the pure, refined soul is unable to love.

At lines 69-70, the poem returns to the physical realm: "To our bodies, turn we then, that so / Weak men on love revealed may look." In these lines, Donne is telling his lover that she and he must express affection toward each other with their bodies to show others how love appears, since loveless outsiders who may draw inspiration from it cannot witness their love expressed in the spiritual realm. Donne further writes, "Love's mysteries in souls do grow, / But yet the body is its book" (71-72). The body offers an observable indicator of the love that takes place in the spiritual realm. The body, in effect, tells the tale of love.

Donne begins the closing stanza with the lines: "And if some lover such as we, / Have heard this dialogue of one..." (73-74). Here, Donne is dedicating his spiritual love to the world, holding it up for posterity. It is important to note that Donne states, "lover such as we." In this, he is referring to a separate, singular "lover," an outsider, who is in reality a pair of souls melded into one, just as Donne has melded with his violet. This enlightened observer will have the ability to see Donne's and his violet's souls intertwined in the ether as one soul: "Let him still mark us, he shall see, / Small change when we're to bodies gone." The underlying notion here is that Donne's and his lover's soul will remain in love, entwined as one, long after their bodies have died, and enlightened observers who are also in love will be able to observe that death has had no effect on this unified soul. Although powerful, this stanza is atypical of the rest of the poem in that it is a Petrarchan expression of undying love. Declarations of love that transcend the deaths of the lovers are a common Petrarchan device used by poets such as Shakespeare and Sydney. Compare the last lines of "The Ecstasy" to Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 where the bard avers, "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee" (13-14). Though Sonnet 18 is declaring undying youthful beauty and "The Ecstasy" immortal love, the overall effect is the same: the essence of a love relationship is observable for posterity long after death. Therefore, if "The Ecstasy" has a weakness, it is to be found in its Petrarchan last stanza. After the metaphysical high reasoning of the previous poem, this stanza stands as an easy way out.

John Donne's love poems, despite their amazing complexity, resemble each other in many ways. "The Ecstasy" is no different. Like the others, it opens by describing its setting. From that point on, the poem ascends as if climbing a ladder; it rises through physicality, mentality, and finally, spirituality. Like many other poems that Donne wrote early in his life, the poem ends with a twist. In the case of "The Ecstasy," the twist dilutes the overall effect of the poem because of its distinctly Petrarchan leaning. Nonetheless, "The Ecstasy" is a superb poem that effectively embodies Donne's meditations concerning love and spirituality; the poem's message is clear and unambiguously understood with only moderate effort. Ultimately, this poem is a captivating read, a window into the heart and mind of one of the great poetic geniuses of the Renaissance.
Work Cited

Donne, John. John Donne's Poetry. ed Arthur L. Clements. New York: Norton, 1992. (32-34).

# A Brief Analysis of the Structure of John Donne's Love Poetry

The genre of Donne's love poems is foremost self-expression. Secondarily, they are designed to set forth a conceit and, perhaps, to instruct or elucidate some abstract idea.

The lines in the love poetry of John Donne are quite often marked. Some of the tropes that Donne uses in his poetry to mark his lines are: 1) The use of several monosyllabic words in series to evoke a tone, 2) The deviation from the usual subject-verb-object (SVO) order to place emphasis on the noun or verb; direct objects are sometimes placed in clause-initial positions, 3) The drawing of unrelated ideas and objects words into unexpected lexical relations by use of metaphor, 4) Colloquial, informal register, and 5) The repetition of certain words.

Perhaps the best way to analyze a poem of John Donne's is to closely examine the poem line-by-line using scansion. Donne purposefully uses enjambed, nested clauses, which sometimes change the semantics in unexpected ways. Donne also uses commas to great effect. Often, the use of a comma indicates a marked line.

A typical Donne love poem is "The Canonization," which I will analyze for this article.

The poem is metered in iambic lines that range from trimeter to pentameter. Each stanza has nine lines. The rhyme scheme in each stanza is AABBACCCDD.

The poem is being addressed to someone who ostensibly objects to the speaker's love affair.

"The Canonization" begins with the lines, "For God's sake, hold your tongue, and let me love" (1). In this line, we have ten feet and ten monosyllabic words in a row. Along with their meaning, the short, sharp sound of these words communicates an imperative tone. Compare this sharp tone to the smoothness of the two lines of the last stanza: "And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love / Made one another's hermitage" (37-38). The smoothness of this line is imparted by the presence of multisyllabic words. It is helpful to realize that whereas in the first line Donne is confronting to his detractor, the final line reads as though it were a prayer.

Donne frequently deviates from the usual subject-verb-object order to provide emphasis on a specific action or object. Consider line four: "With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve." The emphasis in this line is the words "wealth" and "your mind." With such syntax, Donne could be insinuating a connection between prosperity and the presence of careful thought. Another example of SVO deviation lies in lines five and six: "Take you a course, get you a place, / Observe his honor, or his grace." The structure of these lines is VSO. With the verbs "take," "get," and "observe" placed first, Donne emphasizes these actions over the subject. Functioning as imperatives, these verbs sustain the agitation expressed by the speaker in the first few lines. As a side note, it may be easy to dismiss such an arrangement of the verb, subject, and object as typical syntax of the era in which the poem was written, but it is not.

Comparison of incongruous items occurs in several places in this poem. One most notable example is in line 32: "We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms." In this line, Donne states that with his sonnets, he will build for himself and his lover a pleasurable place of existence. One would not expect the nouns "sonnets" and "rooms" to have the same referential meaning, but here they do. This line echoes the meaning of lines 29 and 30: "And if unfit for tombs and hearse / Our legend be, it will be fit for verse." Note that in this line, the enjammed line 29 serves to provide emphasis to the words "our legends" in the following line, which is basically what the stanza is about. There is more lexical incongruity in lines 41 and 42 of the next stanza: Donne categorizes the "glasses" of his antagonist's eyes as both "mirrors" and "spies."

Donne also uses oppositions. In line 23 we have the eagle, which represents masculinity and strength, and the dove, which represents femininity and peace. In line 39 we have peace and rage. Lines 24 and 25 explain the overall connection between these polar opposites: "By us; we two being one, are it. / So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit." In other words, there are no extremes in the lovers; both comprise an all-encompassing "one."

To find the colloquial language in this poem, we need only return to the first line to find a suitable example. "For God's sake" and "hold your tongue" set the register of this poem to a conversational level. Such exclamations would most appropriately be used in an informal dialogue between adversaries than in a love poem. Also, in this poem Donne makes unusual reference to the "plaguy bill" (15), which is literally a list of people who died of the plague. In the case of lines 14 and 15, he is claiming that the love in his veins is innocuous—it has not spread the plague.

Finally, Donne uses repetition of keywords to great effect. The word "love" appears at the end of the first line and at the end of the last line of every stanza. The context of the word is different each time and is dependent on the topic of the stanza.

# Tragic Endings: Virtue and the Renaissance Heroine

The value of the Renaissance woman was tied inextricably to her virtue. For the most part, a woman was either virtuous or she was a "bawd" or a whore, with very little in between. A husband's place in society was also determined by the virtue of his wife. To have a wife of questionable virtue granted him the pejorative label of "cuckold." The revenge tragedies of the Renaissance, particularly those of the Jacobean era, emphasize the importance of a woman's virtue, and the consequences that result when it is compromised. The principal female protagonists of Thomas Heywood's A Woman Killed with Kindness, John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi, William Shakespeare's Othello, and John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore, all come to tragic endings resulting from the loss, real or perceived, of virtue. In each tragedy, the heroine's virtue is compromised differently. Thus, the role that virtue plays in each of these dramas describes the nuances of what it means to be a virtuous woman during the Renaissance beyond the definitions of virtue given in the conduct books of the era.

Renaissance society had a much narrower definition of virtue than today's. In modern parlance, the descriptor "virtuous" is seldom applied to people. In fact, virtue has lost some of its meaning since the Renaissance era. It has taken on the meaning of "the appearance of" or "the same as." For example, "virtually clean" today does not mean "purely clean," it means "having the appearance of being clean." In the Renaissance era, however, the word "virtue" carried much more weight. It was the key component of a woman's value. True virtue, according to Renaissance thought, is not one that is externally imposed; it is a mindset that extends to the woman's system of belief. In effect, a truly virtuous Renaissance woman was not only chaste sexually, but she also believed that sexual chastity was the best way to conduct one's life.

Another component of virtue besides sexual chastity is a woman's strict obedience to the patriarchal male. This aspect of virtue was rooted in the Renaissance belief that women were inferior to men morally and intellectually as well as physically. In her book Renaissance Feminism: Literary Texts and Political Models Constance Jordan quotes a chapter in "An Homilie of the State of Matrimonie" in The Second Tome of Homilies published in1623, in which the anonymous author sums up the Renaissance view of women:

The woman is a weake creature, not indued with like strength and constancie of the mind... the sooner disquieted and.... the more prone to all weake affections anddispositions of the mind...and more vain in their fantasies and opinions. (288)

Consequently, the higher education of women was most often frowned upon, and so its presence did not figure into a woman's virtue. Richard Mulcaster, in his 1581 treatise Positions Concerning the Raising Up of Children, writes that women have a natural "towardnesse," and if they could get power, they would try to dominate: "If we tender not their education dutifully, they maye urge that against us, if at any time either by their own right or by default, they winne the upper room and make us stand bare head" (169). The thought expressed here is that women are typically brazen enough that if were educated, they would try usurping the husband's position of dominance.

The tracts of the Renaissance era reflect the Renaissance belief that a woman's virtue almost wholly determined her value. An example this equation can be found in Lodovico Dolce's 1545 tract Diagolo della institution delle donne (as quoted from Constance Jordan's Renaissance Feminism: Literary Texts and Political Models) in which he writes, "In a woman one does not look for either profound eloquence or subtle wit or cunning prudence or skill at administering a Republic or justice or anything beyond chastity. If one doesn't find that in her, it is comparable to a total absence of virtue in a man." Indeed, such a value system is in full force in the plays of the era. Furthermore, the penalty for the loss of virtue in the woman is death.

The enforcement of a value system hinged on virtue evidently carries enough weight to make the women of the plays are complicit. When their virtue is compromised, they seem to realize that they are undone, and they react accordingly. These women become their own judges and executioner. Anne Frankford in A Woman Killed with Kindness is a good example of such a woman. Compared to the punishments meted out to the heroines of many other revenge tragedies of the era, the "sentence" imposed upon Anne by her husband is exceptionally light. Basically, her punishment amounts to exile. The "kindness" that John Frankford affords her is actually ironic, for is to be left alone with her conscience, which would torment her. In response to her exile, Anne starves herself to death. In her abject remorse, she believes that her crime is so awful that heaven will not forgive her unless John does so first: "My fault so heinous is / That if you in this world forgive it not, / Heaven will not clear it in the world to come" (XIII.86-8). Strangely, only when she is on her deathbed does the society of men allow her some sympathy. The subtext is that her exile is insufficient punishment for her loss of virtue. Instead, abject remorse resulting in death is the only measure that can restore John Frankford's honor, and possibly, hers.

Susan Mountford's virtue is offered to Sir Francis Acton as payment for debt, a sort of wergild. Since a male is brokering Susan's chastity, its potential loss is made to seem socially palatable. Brian Scobie sums up the situation in his introduction to A Woman Killed with Kindness: "Both Anne Frankford and Susan Mountford are offered up almost as sacrificial victims to the value-systems operating in the play" (xxiv). Indeed, both women are victims in a system that places virtue above human life. Together, the plots illustrate that a woman's virtue is not actually possessed by her; it is the property of men. So, if a woman gives away her virtue of her own volition, she is punished. If a man gives her virtue away as a type of payment, it is socially acceptable.

Neither Anne Frankford, in recognition of her adultery, nor Susan Mountford, in her willingness to sacrifice her chastity for Charles's sake, pauses to question the validity of the dual standard imposed upon her by the male hegemony. Not only do they mindlessly accept the dual standard of the patriarchal system as being normal, they accept that even the virtue that determines their value does not belong to them. These women serve to naturalize the Renaissance patriarchal belief system. In effect, they validate the male-centered codes by not questioning them. The result is that the Renaissance woman watching these plays would internalize the male-centered ideas as being normal. This internalization would therefore serve to perpetuate the hegemonic values in place at the time.

The Duchess's tragic ending in John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi is primarily the result of actions of a particularly obsessive, domineering brother whose emotional stability is suspect. This situation is quite different than if the Duchess had suffered as a result of stringent societal norms. Some critics have noted that Ferdinand's words and behavior betray incestuous desire for his sister. If Ferdinand's jealousy were not enough, the Duchess's pregnancy complicates the situation. Since the Duchess's marriage to Antonio is secret, her pregnancy gives her the appearance of a whore. It is important to note that this view of the Duchess is not directly tied to Ferdinand's perception of her; it is a view held by the common people as well. Antonio quips, "The common rabble do directly say / [The Duchess] is a strumpet" (III.i.24-5).

Webster paints his Duchess as a typical lusty Renaissance widow, which automatically makes her suspect. Consider her lines, "Diamonds are of most value / They say, that have pass'd through most jeweller's hands" (I.ii 220-1). Nonetheless, her situation is portrayed in a way that allows us to question the righteousness and motives of the men with whom she has to deal. The Duchess, from the outset, though she may have a reputation for lascivious behavior, does not display such behavior. If fact, she displays rational judgment. If she is guilty of anything it is for risking her reputation in the pursuit of light-hearted hedonism. But she rationalizes this hedonism, too: "Why should only I, / Of all the princes of the world / Be cas'd up, like a holy relic? I have youth, / And a little beauty" (III.ii.138-139). An important feature of the Duchess's conduct is that she does not choose to have an affair with Antonio—she marries him instead. This act indicates good intention, and indeed, it relieves her of the guilt that plagues the tragic heroines of some other plays.

If the Duchess is guilty of any breach of societal norms, it is in her violation of the patriarchy by exercising her free will in defiance of the wishes of her brothers and because she chooses a husband of lower social status than her own. Scholar Mary Rose, in her essay "The Heroics of Marriage," correctly notes that the aristocratic Duchess of Malfi's decision to disobey her male relatives and to marry a man not her social equal defies the traditional social and sexual hierarchies and opens the way for their dissolution. She also notes that the Duchess's death also reveals that there are contradictions about rank, status, gender, and power. Furthermore, since the Duchess is a ruler, her choice of a suitable marriage partner (or lack thereof) is of crucial importance to the state (224-6). But loyalty to the state means that Duchess must either become celibate or marry an impotent count. The Duchess chooses, instead, a life of love and physical pleasure, which is definitely the more attractive option. As a result, she suffers dire consequences. The Duchess and Antonio's choice to love and marry each other is suggestive of the situation of Romeo and Juliet who choose to love each other despite their families' mutual animosity. Loyalty and social responsibility are shaken up in both situations—Romeo and Juliet to their families and the Duchess to her subjects. So, in the case of the Duchess of Malfi, her fall is due not only to her brothers' tyranny, it arises from her breach of societal norms related to her position in society.

Amongst the tragic heroines in these four plays, none is more deserving of pity than Desdemona of Othello. Unlike that of the other heroines, her virtue, at least as viewed by the audience, is unquestionable. Indeed, what makes Othello such a tragedy is the idea that virtue and obedience are not enough to save her from delusional Othello's jealousy. As scholar David Holbrook rightly points out, "The greatness of Othello lies in its terrifying portrayal of how justice is impossible, unless men are able to sustain a certain reality sense" (243).

Desdemona's virtue is established early in the play. Upon her arrival in Cyprus, she goes so far as to tease Iago, "I am not merry, but I do beguile / The thing I am, by seeming otherwise" (II.i.122-3). By saying that she is not "merry," Desdemona declares that she is chaste, yet she recognizes that due to her beguiling nature, she may appear otherwise. Along with foreshadowing Othello's misconception about Desdemona that will occur later in the play, these lines give the audience confidence in Desdemona's virtue. She is aware of her beguiling nature, yet she does not allow it to become a temptation.

Othello illustrates the Renaissance man's anxiety over the influence his wife's virtue has over his reputation. The man reacts by attempting to dominate her in an effort to control her sexual desires. After Othello has stepped into the snare of Iago's deception, he feels frustrated in his efforts to possess Desdemona and control her sexual activities. He says,

O curse of marriage,

That we can call these delicate creatures ours,

And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad

And live upon the vapor in a dungeon

Than keep a corner in the thing I love

For others' uses. (III.ii.309-14)

Othello has links his self-worth to his wife's virtue, and thus he feels emasculated. He would rather be a lowly toad breathing the dank air of dungeon than live with a woman who owns her own sexual desires. Love is not necessarily part of the picture in a Renaissance marriage, but in this case, Othello's profound love for Desdemona is precisely the force that causes him anguish. Holbrook notes astutely that one needs love more than anything in the world to confirm one's identity. Yet the dangers within love are such that love always has the potential to destroy the lover (239). Othello's problem is that he perceives his self-worth as so inextricably tied to Desdemona's virtue that, by the end of the play, he has decided that the only way he can restore his self-worth is to suffocate her.

Othello also illustrates that obedience, coupled with virtue, does not guarantee a happy ending. Scholar Lena Orlin, in"Desdemona's Disposition," notes that in the last act of the play, Desdemona has become so passive and submissive that she dies on a lie rather than condemn her husband:

Emilia.  O, who has done this deed?

Desdemona. Nobody, I myself, farewell:

Commend me to my kind lord, O, farewell! (V.ii.124-6)

And even as Desdemona dies, she declares to Emilia that "A guiltless death I die" (V.ii.123). She exonerates Othello of responsibility of her murder, for she characterizes him as "kind" and acknowledges him her proper "lord" (181). Desdemona's conduct in the last moments of her life heighten the drama for the Renaissance audience, for Desdemona can be viewed as an exemplary Renaissance female who maintains her virtue and obedience to the end despite the despicable deed of her deceived husband.

John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore presents a different problem about virtue. It is difficult to find anyone to root for in this play. With the exception of Friar Bonaventura, who is a minor character, everyone is suspect. The problem with making Annabella the heroine is that she is faced with the same temptations as everyone else in society, yet she alone yields to them. Just as is her brother Giovanni, Annabella is a victim of her inability to control her passions. Even late in the play, after she is given the chance to repent (which she does), she once again gives in to her passions.

'Tis Pity seems to call into question the meaning of virtue, and it forces us to demarcate where virtue and morality intersect. If Annabella lacks morality, must she necessarily lack virtue, too? She has sexual relations with her brother, which is a well-established taboo, yet it seems it bit extreme to call her a "whore." Perhaps it is better to say that she is "amoral," for the label "whore" connotes a kind of lascivious character that Annabella does not have. As with Shakespeare's Juliet, her fault lies not with her desire to love, but with the object of her love. Additionally, Annabella's problem arises from misplaced sex as well as love.

Soranzo wishes to punish his bride once Annabella's relation with her brother comes to light. He takes Annabella's marred virtue as an attack on his reputation, even though he is obviously blameless. This equation is problematic, for it probably would not be difficult to have his marriage to Annabella annulled since the incest existed previous to his marriage to her. He has nothing to gain by punishing her. The only rational explanation is that just as Othello has, Sorenzo has already linked his reputation to Annabella's virtue. Perhaps wounded male pride drives him.

The premium placed on a woman's virtue in Renaissance society becomes evident after Annabella's appearance of virtue is lost. Her character becomes open to smears of all sorts. In private discussion between Vasques and Soranzo after the marriage, Vasques maligns Annabella's entire character at the loss of her virtue:

Am I to be believed now? First marry a strumpet that cast

herself away upon you but to laugh at your horns, to feast

on your disgrace, riot in your vexations, cuckold you in your

bride-bed, waste your estate upon panders and bawds! (V.ii.1-4)

Soranzo does not dispute Vasques's declarations. Note that not only does Vasques attack Annabella's character, he also links her tarnished virtue to Soranzo's character, as if the preservation of her virtue had been his responsibility. Vasques also insinuates that Annabella's continued (alleged) disrespectful behavior is the result of Soranzo's inability to control her. According to Vasques, Annabella has made Soranzo a cuckold, which at the very least implies that she has emasculated him.

So is the play sympathetic with Annabella despite her loss of virtue? Scholar Brian Morris thinks it is. In his introduction to the New Mermaids edition of 'Tis Pity, he writes that Annabella's repentance and death and the "immaculate orthodoxy of her final prayer open the prospect that she will at least have opportunities for expiation" (xvi). This is very striking statement considering that during the Renaissance, a woman's virtue could never be recovered once besmirched. Along the same lines Morris writes, "The dramatist's final attitude toward [Annabella] is one of pity, which inevitably recalls Othello's villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore' and later 'but yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago'" (xvi). These latter words reveal the extent of Othello's psychic wound, and they are quite powerful. Othello utters these words in reference to his loss of Desdemona as a possession, however, and not to the actual loss of Desdemona's virtue. In both plays, the male characters' possessiveness and pride, and the linking of their reputation with the women's virtue drive the reprisals. Nonetheless, Morris is right on the mark when he concludes, "Ford's exploration and judgment of incestuous love should perhaps warn us not to assume too easily that our property-orientated morality is conductive to our moral health" (xvii).

A few words can be said about the function of Philotis's submissiveness in the interpretation of virtue in 'Tis Pity. Of all female characters in the play, only Philotis survives unscathed. She is also the only female character who eschews of the corrupt society of Parma. At her uncle Richardetto's urging, she disowns the world by becoming a nun:

Philotis.Uncle, shall I resolve to be a nun?

Richardetto. Ay, gentle niece...

Your chaste and single life shall crown your birth;

Who dies a virgin lives a saint on earth.

Philotis. Then farewell, world, and worldly thoughts, adieu.

Welcome chaste vows; myself I yield to you. (IV.ii.22-3,

27-30)

When she makes this decision, it is obvious Philotis is not acting or thinking independently. Richardetto is again controlling her passion as he had done earlier in the play when he directed her passion toward Bergetto. This scene illustrates, as does the scene in A Woman Killed by Kindness where Susan agrees to sacrifice her virtue to Lord Acton, that obedience to the patriarchal male grants the woman virtue. As long as the woman remains obedient to the male, even if he chooses her sexual partner, her virtue cannot be called into question. So, by the example given by Philotis and Richardetto, we can draw the conclusion that not only does virtue rely upon the chastity of the woman, it also is a by-product of the woman's obedience to the patriarchal male.

Renaissance beliefs about virtue play key roles in the turbulent plots and subplots of A Woman Killed with Kindness, The Dutchess of Malfi, Othello, and 'Tis Pity She's a Whore. Viewed collectively, these tragedies illustrate the following common denominators of Renaissance virtue: 1) a man's reputation is closely associated with the virtue of the women he is associated with, 2) a woman who has extramarital sex can still be considered virtuous if she was directed to do so by a patriarchal male, 3) love is not recognized as a valid reason for losing chastity if the male suitor is not approved by patriarchal family members, 4) a woman's unquestioning obedience to the patriarchal male establishes her virtue (and conversely, her defiance of his authority results in destruction of virtue), 5) the appearance of virtue is sometimes more powerful than the reality, and 6) the concept of chastity and its implications are applied strictly to women. Furthermore, by their unquestioning adherence to patriarchal values, the tragic heroines thereby naturalize the values. I would also like to advance the notion that in all of these plays the men play the villains. And where villains exist, there also exists melodrama, since real-life situations are seldom as cut and dried, and life's players can seldom be clearly distinguished as either villains or heroes as easily as they are in drama. Therefore, these plays should be viewed, not as the reality of Renaissance values, but rather, their symptom, an exaggeration of the truth. Nonetheless, the role that virtue plays in these dramas, when these dramas are viewed as part of a whole, define the Renaissance concept of virtue and illustrate the consequences that result from the loss of it.
Works Cited

Ford, John. 'Tis Pity She's a Whore. ed. Brian Morris. New York: Norton, 2000.

Holbrook, David. Images of Women in Literature. New York: New York U P, 1989.

Heywood, Thomas. A Woman Killed with Kindness. ed. Brian Scobie. New York: Norton, 1991.

Jordan, Constance. Renaissance Feminism: Literary Texts and Political Models. Ithaca: Cornell U P, 1990.

Mulcaster, Richard. Positions Concerning the Raising Up of Children (London, 1581; facs. Rpt. New York: Da Capo Press, 1971.

Orlin, Lena C.. "Desdemona's Disposition." Shakespearean Tragedy and Gender ed. Shirley Nelson Garner and Madelon Sprengnether. Bloomington: Indiana U P, 1996: 171-91

Rose, Mary Beth. "The Heroics of Marriage" Shakespearean Tragedy and Gender ed. Shirley Nelson Garner and Madelon Sprengnether. Bloomington: Indiana U P, 1996: 210-38

Webster, John. The Duchess of Malfi. ed. Elizabeth M. Brennan. New York: Norton, 1993.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. ed. M. R. Ridley. New York: Routledge, 1993.

# Devil's Advocacy in Pre-Puritan England: The Influences of Platonism and Social Climate in 'Tis Pity She's a Whore

John Ford's play 'Tis Pity She's a Whore, first produced in 1633, makes oblique references to Platonism, religion, and the Caroline court. This play is unlike the others of its era in originality of plot and sensational subject matter, and it bears more in common with plays of the earlier Jacobean era than with those of the Caroline era in which it was produced. Most strikingly, the play seems to mock the doctrine of Platonism that was fashionable at the time, and it appears critical of the reintroduction of Catholicism into Anglican England by the court of King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria. And by subverting the values of the court, the play appears sympathetic toward the court's detractors.

Shortly after Charles I became king in 1625, he married a young French princess named Henrietta Maria. Thereafter, a Platonic love cult developed around the queen. So what is the Platonic love cult? In 1615 the Marquise de Rambouillet formed a group which attempted to refine the manners and ethics of the French court. His intention was to elevate the status of women so that their influence could improve the quality of society. A new code of conduct and belief was formed around a romantic novel by Honore D'Urfe called L'Astree that explicated the types of love (eros, philia, agape, and storge) and extolled Platonism. Italian writer Marsilio Ficino, who also contributed to the code of Platonism, wrote that physical love must be guided by reason and morality and not by passion. When Henrietta Maria entered the English court, she was appalled by the coarse behavior that was characteristic of the court under James I. So, she took upon herself the task of cultivating refined manners in her new subjects. It should be noted that the philosophy of Platonic love had been trickling into England through French and Italian literature since the Elizabethan era, and by the time Henrietta Maria came to England, it had already assumed a dominant place in England's art, literature, and drama.

Under Elizabeth's reign, the refined atmosphere of Platonism developed gradually and never became controversial as it did during Henrietta Maria's reign. Perhaps this controversy arose because the new queen actively espoused Platonism by raising the consciousness of it in her court, whereas Elizabeth quietly followed its code.

Platonism was the belief that beauty grows from the love of one beautiful body to that of two bodies. According to Plato's Symposium, this love grows into love of physical beauty, which blossoms into love of beauty "not in the likeness of a face or hands or in the forms of speech or knowledge or animal or particular thing in time or place, but beauty absolute, separate, simple, everlasting--the source and cause of all that perishing beauty of all other things." During the Renaissance, this beauty was equated with God's divine beauty. The Platonic lover moved by degrees through desire for his mistress, whose beauty he recognized as an emanation of God's, to the worship of God's divine beauty. Such a belief system was articulated in John Donne's poetry, particularly in poems such as "The Canonization."

The English people reacted variously to the new fashion of Platonic love. Although the praise of virginity and spiritual love had been common under Queen Elizabeth, the happily married (and frequently pregnant) Henrietta Maria never slighted the importance of marriage and procreation. Paradoxically, there was more stress on marriage in the Virgin Queen's reign and more on rational, non-physical love in Henrietta's time. Additionally, Henrietta, who was Catholic, gave great veneration to the Virgin Mary. This troubled Protestant Elizabethan England, which put more stress on marriage. Most attacks on the cult came from the Puritans, who attributed all sorts of bad intentions to the queen because they were so violently opposed to her political and religious activities, particularly her attempts at Catholicizing England. According to the Puritans, Henrietta Maria's court was dominated by a decadent group that glorified love and beauty and minimized the importance of chastity and marriage.

Queen Henrietta Maria was an avid theatergoer, and as her influence increased, young courtiers began imitating her beliefs and taking an interest in writing for the theater. Soon, plays were written to appeal to the sensibilities of the court; such plays are filled with the Platonic theories of the queen. These plays almost invariably deal with love and matters of the heart; they serve to praise innocent Platonism, and by doing so, they condemn immorality and extol virtue.

Most of the plays written and performed in the early 1630s when the Caroline theater was at its peak bear little resemblance to plays of the Jacobean era. One may easily catch the drift of the plays just by reading their titles: The Platonic Lovers, The Deserving Favorite, The Jealous Lovers, The Temple of Love, The Shepherd's Holiday, and The Royal Slave. The plots of these plays, all from the world of romance, are improbable. We have virtuous young lovers, lustful villains, the mix-up of children at birth, mistaken identities, separations of lovers through villainy, shepherds who turn out to princes—all of the standard devices of romance are present. These plays promote the virtues of non-physical love; their characters wholly embody Platonic principles. A character's soliloquy of his yearning for illicit love is enough to make him (or her) a villain. These plays also utilize the artificially refined language of Platonism. Most critics are unimpressed with these works. The foremost complaint is that they are artificial and formulaic. Nonetheless, the topics and codes illustrated by these plays may have provided Ford with the material for 'Tis Pity.

Although Ford does not seem to have had close associations with the court, Henrietta Maria's Platonic love cult appears to have had an indirect though strong influence on his independently written plays, all of which were produced in the Caroline period. Like most plays of the era, Ford's plays have love as their major theme. The similarity stops there, however. Unlike its Caroline predecessors, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore is a tragedy with a sensational, complicated plot emphasizing illicit love, violence, intrigue, a southern European setting, and a theatrical protagonist who asserts pseudo-heroic (and distinctly anti-Platonic) actions. By subverting the unreality of Platonic drama, Ford creates characters and situations intended to attract the attention of an audience that was familiar with the subtleties of Platonic theories and the influence they were having on society at the time.

There are many instances of inverted Platonism in 'Tis Pity. Henrietta Maria's cult emphasized that rationality and spirituality were essential if love was to escape contamination. Giovanni, on the other hand, is not rational, and his spirituality must be called into question, particularly near the end of the play. According to the doctrine of Platonism, love is the glue that holds God's creation together, and the desire for beauty in all forms is the prime motivator of love in the individual. The highest beauty and greatest good are found in God, but the choice of the object that leads to this supernatural beauty rests with man. Platonism states that the creatures of this world should be loved not for themselves, but for the image of God visible in them. Giovanni's assessment of Annabella's beauty to the Friar Bonaventura is suggestive of Platonism:

"Must I not praise

That beauty which, if framed anew, the gods

Would make a god of, if they had it there,

And kneel to it, as I do kneel to them?" (I.i.20-4)

Annabella's beauty, nevertheless, has an anti-Platonic effect on Giovanni. His love and admiration for her beauty are the forces that drive him away from God. Giovanni believes that his love for Annabella is all-embracing and transcendent. He has convinced himself that his love is rational, and his lines are calibrated to raise their relationship above the level of lasciviousness:

"Thus hung Jove on Leda's neck

And sucked divine ambrosia from her lips" (II.i:16-7).

In these lines, Giovanni asserts an idealistic love. Putana, an outsider, gives tacit approval to Giovanni and Annabella's incestuous relationship with a similar type of pseudo-logical rationality:

"Your brother's a man,

I hope, and I say still, if a young wench feel the fit on her,

Let her take anybody, father or brother, all is one" (II.i:43-5).

In the following lines, Giovanni describes Annabella's beauty as an ideal to be worshipped rather than desired:

"For color, lips; for sweet perfumes, her breath;

For jewels, eyes; for threads purest gold

Hair; for delicious choice of flowers, cheeks;

Wonder in every portion of that throne" (ii.v.51-4).

And in an utterance not unlike those in metaphysical love poems such as "The Ecstacy" and "The Flea" by John Donne, he says to Annabella:

"Wise nature first in your creation meant

To make you mine; else't had been sin and foul

To share one beauty to a double soul" (I.ii.232-4).

Such lines, redolent of Platonism, might be readily heard in the more typical plays of the Caroline theater. The problem here is that this instance of Platonic love is being expressed between a brother and sister; the words appear to be following the doctrine, but the love interest is obviously wrong. Thus, what we have is a subversion of Platonic love.

Once of the principal tenets of Platonic love is reason. Giovanni claims that his love for Annabella is born of reason, and so fate cooperates and leads him on:

"...'tis not I know my lust

But 'tis my fate that leads me on" (I.ii:153-4).

He despises his fate but insists that he has "reasoned against" the reason of his love. Once again, his reasoning is faulty, for he does not allow the same reasoning to take place in Annabella when he demands her love. But the "fate" that leads Giovanni on proves fickle. His confidence gives way to jealously—a distasteful characteristic in a court caught in the thrall of Platonism. Consider Giovanni's charge of inconstancy directed toward Annabella after she marries Sorenzo:

"What, changed so soon?...

Or does the fit come on you to prove treacherous

To your past vows and oaths?" (V.v:1, 4-5).

Strikingly, Giovanni's reasoning leads him to believe that the love shared between himself and Annabella will break through the taboo of incest, leading their relationship into sanctity:

"The laws of conscience and of civil use

May justly blame us, yet when they but know

Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour

Which would in other incests be abhorred" (V.v:70-3 ).

Giovanni's reasoning falls outside the mores of society and the doctrines of Christianity, yet it lies at the heart of the play and drives him toward action and, ultimately, ruin. One may argue that Giovanni's reasoning resulted in his death.

The Friar, who represents the moral reasoning in the play, suggests that Giovanni should pray about his condition, since a common belief at the time was that prayer and planning could effect cures. But Giovanni glorifies his condition instead of trying to overcome it. He gives a fatalistic speech at the end of the first scene. Incredibly, Giovanni does not defend his position, but rather, abdicates his moral responsibility:

"All this I'll do to free me from the rod

Of vengeance, else I'll swear, my Fate's my god" (I.i:83-4).

At the end of the play, Giovanni has turned away from Christianity altogether. He no longer thinks in the Christian terms of heaven and hell; he thinks in terms of paganism. Of his love for Annabella, he says:

"My world, and all of happiness, is here,

And I'd not change it for the best to come:

A life of pleasure is Elysium" (V.iii:14-6).

His illogical argument to the Friar is that since God has not cured him of his incestuous desires, Christianity has no validity, hence he is free to love Annabella, and whatever happens to him from then must result from fate.

Giovanni's atheism and misdirected Platonism do not offer him solace. He becomes confused about his own salvation. The confusion hinges on the Platonic belief that since all beauty is a manifestation of God, it must therefore lead to God. But instead of Annabella's beauty leading Giovanni to salvation, her beauty leads him to destruction and probable eternal separation from her. After Giovanni has plunged the dagger into Annabella, he sets her up for a Christian heaven:

"Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne

Of innocence and sanctity in heaven" (V.v:64-5).

But Giovanni's own salvation is problematic. Realizing this, he is uncertain as to where his soul will go:

"Oh, my last minute comes!

Where e're I go, let me enjoy this grace, freely to view my Annabella's face!" (V.vi:107-8)

Note that Giovanni's dying words are not of God or salvation—his words are of Annabella's beauty. Such a pseudo-heroic utterance defies the principle of Platonism since beauty has become an end to itself instead of leading to God.

Annabella also expresses a subversion of Platonism by idealizing beauty while actively shunning its divine origins. When confronted by Sorenzo about her incestuous relationship, Annabella says of her brother:

"This noble creature was in every part

So angel-like, so glorious that a woman

Would have kneeled to him and begged for love" (IV.iii:36-9).

Here, she speaks of Giovanni as if he were a god. Such worship is not only un-Christian, it also subverts Platonism by shunning God's divine beauty for hero-worship. Thus, through the emotional attachment between Giovanni and Annabella, the play demonstrates that beauty can lead one astray just as well as it can lead one to God.

Not much is known about John Ford's religious inclinations; examination of his corpus does not reveal him as distinctly Protestant or Catholic. Nonetheless, 'Tis Pity appears to attack Catholicism. At the close of the play, the powerful Cardinal, who represents the venal Parma society, dispenses corrupt, perverted justice. First, he protects cowardly Grimaldi after the murder of Bergetto, then he absolves Grimaldi of the crime. Next, he orders Putana taken to the outskirts of the city and burned to death even though she was only peripherally connected to the incest. On the other hand, the Cardinal only banishes Vasques after the murderous servant gives a half-convincing speech about the loyalty between servants and masters and the glories of revenge. Finally, the cardinal confiscates the gold and jewels from the bodies "for the pope's proper use" (V.vi:161), but based on his previous behavior, the jewels are probably for his own use.

Ford may have hoped that 'Tis Pity would draw interest because of its departure from the Pro-Platonist fare of the era. This play is appealing, in part, because of its shock value. But why would Ford go through the trouble of attacking Catholicism if he had no specific religious leaning? Again, the social climate of the time seems to have had an influence on the genesis of the play. 'Tis Pity was produced during a time when the Puritans were rising in power, and their criticism of the court was becoming increasingly harsh. Perhaps this play was calculated to arouse the sympathy (and therefore the interest) of those detractors, thereby increasing the appeal of the play to the disquieted masses. Furthermore, if one adopts the position that the play also subverts the Platonism of the Caroline court, then it may be safely assumed that this play is not anti-Catholic for its own sake, but rather, it is criticizing the Caroline court.

Many critics see Ford's tragedies as holdouts from the Jacobean era. This was an era of uncertainty where the general, widespread feeling was that a long-standing way of life was coming to an end. As did other Jacobean playwrights like Webster, Ford sought to show how the world is so depraved that almost everyone is inevitably corrupted and ultimately destroyed by it. Consider the Friar at the end of the Tis Pity. Though flawed somewhat due to his dispensation of ineffectual advice, he was the only consistently moral character of the play. Seeing that there was nothing he could do for the corrupt society of Parma, he left for Bononia, never to return, and corruption and hypocrisy, as represented by the Cardinal, are left unchallenged.

When one takes into account the turbulent social climate of the post-Jacobean era and the unpopularity of the Caroline court, one may safely suspect that 'Tis Pity She's a Whore was written in sympathy for detractors of the Caroline court. The Puritans disliked the queen's "decadent" courtly values. And the population in general was critical of Queen Henrietta's efforts to reintroduce Catholicism into Anglican England. 'Tis Pity is sympathetic to the views of both anti-partisan parties. A cogent argument could be made that Ford was merely taking advantage of the prevalence of Platonic love at the time, pandering to the public's taste for different fare, acquiescing to the box-office power of shock value. And Since Ford himself had written extensively about sensational, all-encompassing love in his early works, he was well suited to capitalize on the topic. Nonetheless, one cannot deny the extensive satire and criticism of the values of the Caroline court that are woven into the play. Thus, 'Tis Pity is more than a play about misplaced love and the personal (and social) destruction wrought by incest. Inspired by the extant social climate of the post-Jacobean era, 'Tis Pity articulates English society's dissatisfaction with the Caroline court.
Work Cited

Ford, John. 'Tis Pity She's a Whore. Ed. Brian Morris. London: A & C Black, 1998.

# A Discussion of the Duke's Motives in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure

The Duke in Shakespeare's Measure of Measure is a complex character. His motives are unclear, and his actions may be construed as contradictory, as there are several discrepancies between his actions and his words. Most critics adhere to one of four opposing views of the Duke's possible motivations: 1) The Duke is testing the reputedly pious Angelo. 2) The Duke is a meddler, and his intentions are malicious. 3) The Duke originally sought to learn about humanity and statecraft by observing his judicial machinery behind the scenes, but ends up becoming involved after Angelo abuses his power. 4) There is no need to understand the Duke's motivations because he is not a fully developed character, but rather, his presence and actions exist for reasons of dramaturgy. To uncover the reasons for the Duke's actions, we must examine his role within the play.

In effect, the Duke is performing a play within a play in his manipulation of the other characters. At the beginning of the first act, the Duke tells Escalus in confidence his plan to place the reputedly virtuous Angelo in charge of enforcing the law, as the Duke's enforcement of the law has apparently become lax. Escalus reveals that he believes Angelo is pious and strict, almost superhumanly so. When he calls Angelo into his office, however, the Duke indicates that he knows Angelo may have a tainted spirit and that the reputedly virtuous man's misdeeds could reveal themselves if Angelo were put into power. Consider the following lines: "Heaven doeth with us as we with torches do / not light them for themselves: for if our virtues / Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike / as if we had them not" (I.i.32-35). To paraphrase the Duke's lines, virtue that does not shine forth, as does torchlight, may just as well not exist. So, will the light of virtue shine from Angelo? The answer to this question is what the Duke seeks to learn by testing Angelo (and later Isabella). The Duke may wish to conclude that if Angelo's virtue does not shine forth while he is in office, then perhaps it never existed. Later in the play, it is revealed that the Duke knew all along that Angelo left his wife. Angelo judges Claudio severely despite the fact that he himself has abandoned his wife. If the Duke suspected Angelo would to do this, the Duke is guilty of baiting Angelo.

The Duke, through indirect means, sets the direction of the play. Much like the rascal Pompey, he manipulates the other characters as though they were puppets. For all the Duke's orchestration of events, we wonder if he originally intended to observe benevolently (and unobtrusively) how well the judicial machinery functioned without his presence, but instead, was coerced into action when Angelo misbehaved. D.A. Traversi, in his excellent essay titled "Scrutiny," tells us that "[t]he Duke, for all his detachment, is not fully in control of the events. He is learning, like the others, from experience, and only differs from them in the wider range of his compassion" (216). Rosalin Miles also subscribes to the viewpoint that the Duke originally intended to learn through observation. She states that there "are two primary and traditionally well-established uses of the disguised duke; these are the Duke presented as a benevolent and impersonal authority figure, and the Duke presented as receiving, and therefore needing, an education in statecraft and humanity" (181-82). Indeed, the erratic course the Duke takes throughout the play seems to support both views. Miles continues by stating that "[t]he Duke's insensitivity to Juliet, his naiveté to Pompey, and his subjection to Lucio, all seem to be intended as the outline of an educative process" (184). She sums up the play by stating that Shakespeare intended to give the Duke lessons in charity and perception through the other characters' responses (184). This means that the Duke may have been genuinely surprised by Angelo's transgression despite foreknowledge that Angelo was not always chaste and true. In this light, we can interpret the Duke's surreptitious actions as his discreet attempt to regain the power he had misspent on Angelo. The meddling and manipulation could be the Duke's attempt at damage control until he can tactfully reenter the scene as himself and re-assume control of the situation. So, if the Duke learns from his experience, what does he learn? Perhaps he learns that mercy sometimes better serves the spirit of the law than the letter of the law itself. This concept is exemplified earlier in the play when Escalus allows Pompey to go without punishment. This is the mercy that Angelo ought to have given and the mercy the Duke should continue to give in his tenure as Chief Justice of the land.

It is almost certain that the Duke is not the pious, wise judge that he at first appears to be. There are many instances when he reveals a somewhat duplicitous, ironic nature. For example, though he celebrates honor, he convinces Isabella to take part in deception. Later, he lies to her about Claudio's fate. Though the Duke left a prisoner on death row for seven years, he seeks swift punishment for Angelo. The Duke bids Claudio to accept his fate when his misapplication of power is the reason Claudio is to be executed. The Duke proposes to Isabella despite the fact she has already chosen a life of chastity and has shown no special affection for him. She cannot refuse, so in a sense, he is committing the same wrong as Angelo. And most importantly, though the Duke had formerly been too lenient in his administration of the law, he is overbearingly wrathful toward Lucio—he sentences the man to marry a prostitute. Lucio's slander of the Duke is the least significant crime in the play, yet it yields the worst punishment. Lucio's slander hardly amounts to treason or conspiracy to usurp the Duke's power; only the Duke's arrogance is attacked. Therefore, for all the mercy dispensed in the final scene, the Duke's judgment of Lucio presents an enigma. Hence, we should ask ourselves what ends the Duke has accomplished by the end of the play. Miles argues very potently that when all is said and done, the Duke "does nothing to purge his city of corruption," and ultimately, "Lucio serves as the sole scapegoat for the sins of all" (166).

Some critics suggest that Shakespeare patterned the Duke after King James I. Indeed, there are many similarities between the Duke's character and that of King James. Knowledge of this similarity is important when attempting to determine the Duke's motivation based on character. Like King James, the Duke had a reticent personality; his method of rule was often to manipulate through background channels. Both King James and the Duke shared a dislike for large assemblies of people and loud applause, both possessed pride in statecraft and virtue in action, and both sought to be an example of a good ruler. Consider these lines in Act I when the Duke states his strong dislike of crowds:

"I love the people,

But do not like to state me to their eyes.

Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause and Aves vehement..." (I.i68ff)

Historically, King James was as pious as he was reticent. His method of rule can be summed up in the Duke's line, "Craft against vice I must apply" (III.ii.260). Indeed, the Duke is very adept in his "craft"; he uses disguise to accomplish his means. Melvin Seiden writes: "When the Duke voices his diffident and qualified "love [of] the people" and dislike for "their loud applause," he connects his diffidence to the overpowering of Angelo (20). If we adopt the notion that Shakespeare patterned the Duke after King James, then it would be ludicrous to interpret the Duke's actions as having malicious intent, at least as conceptualized by Shakespeare. When one considers Shakespeare's otherwise apolitical views and the favor King James bestowed upon him and his company, it is quite reasonable to speculate that the Duke originally intended to observe justice in action, but instead was forced to respond to the situation when corruption arose.

Despite the connection between King James and the Duke, many scholars cast a cynical view on the Duke's "craft." Seiden states this view unequivocally by writing, "His every motive and move, peered into with a cold, analytical eye, raises suspicion about him. The bed trick whereby Vincentio, disguised as a friar, arranges for the jilted bride Marianna rather than Isabella to sleep with Angelo is only one, though the most notorious, case in which our everyday morality does not square with that of the Duke" (21). The Duke has also been deemed selfish and self-absorbed because he seems blithely unaware of the mental anguish he inflicts on Claudio, Isabella, and some of the other characters. Critic W. Hazlitt writes: "The Duke is more absorbed in his own plots and gravity, than anxious for the welfare of the state; more tenacious of his own character than attentive to the feelings and apprehensions of others" (202). Other scholars support the view that "[t]he Duke has also been taken to be surprisingly insensitive to the true natures of characters like Claudio, and actively cruel to Angelo and Isabella" (Miles 166). This is a valid stance when one considers that the trials each of the characters goes through are due to the Duke's manipulation.

One has to wonder why the Duke has chosen to disguise himself as a friar. This disguise is of no small importance, yet it remains an enigma as much as the Duke's true motivations. As Miles accurately points out, "The Duke in Measure for Measure is the only hero of Shakespeare in which almost all his time in the play is spent in an assumed role." She also states that this is Shakespeare's only use of the friar disguise (161). By 1540, Henry VIII's religious campaign had closed the last English friar house. Consequently, most of Shakespeare's 1604 audience would not have had personal experience with friars. But even before the time of Measure for Measure, friars were regarded as comical figures and were a source of jokes. (Consider the humorous-yet-derogatory depiction of the Friar in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.) The Renaissance audience may have viewed the Duke's appearance as a friar as a sign that he was inept, untrustworthy, or not to be taken seriously. This comical subtext might have drawn their attention away from the grave fact that lives and honor are at stake because of his dabbling.

A contemporary view of the Duke is that he is not a fully developed character; rather, he is an instrument of dramaturgy. William W. Lawrence was one of the first scholars to advance this idea. Lawrence minimizes the role of the Duke in his book, Shakespeare's Problem Comedies. He believes that the Duke is "an essentially artificial figure elaborated to meet the requirements of the plot, and as a study in character, of minor importance in himself, or for the play" (110). Lawrence further states that the "Good Prince" is to be regarded as "a conventional and romantic figure, whose actions are mainly determined by theatrical exigencies.... He is, as it were, a stage Duke, not a real person.... Most of the misunderstandings of the play have been due to a failure to perceive this" (102-112). Miles speaks for other critics when she writes, "Shakespeare's Duke has for many years troubled critics and audiences in a variety of ways. Foremost among these is his apparent lack of purpose or plan.... He seems to begin his masquerade before any trouble begins, so he has often been credited with creating the wrongs he later rights" (165-66). The fact is that what the Duke does is essentially needless, for the Duke could at any time reveal himself and resume power, and quickly draw the play to a close. (Of course, he does not.) This fact lends credence to the idea that the Duke is a device rather than a believable character.

Some critics argue that the Duke is not believable because his actions do not befit his position. N.W. Bawcutt makes the point that "[n]o one in the play apart from the negligible Friar Thomas has any idea why the Duke has gone and where he has gone to, which on realistic grounds hardly seems to be responsible behavior from a head of state" (53). Miles suggests that the ambiguity of the Duke's motives exist primarily because Shakespeare gives him little opportunity to explain his behavior. She states: "The character is free from soliloquies and passages of introspection and evaluation, especially when the length of the part is taken into account" (180). The lack of soliloquies, however, does not necessarily mean that the Duke is a one-dimensional character, but rather, that he is simply not adequately explained. We may contrast his lack of explication with that of Iago in Othello. Iago's motives would be quite difficult to discern had we not the benefit of his soliloquies. Nevertheless, his motives, however hidden, would still exist. Similarly, absence of self-commentary does not necessarily indicate that the Duke does not have a motive, nor does it necessarily reduce him to mere dramaturgical dimensions.

The Duke is indeed a complex figure. To best understand him, perhaps it is most favorable to take on a holistic view of his actions and the purpose of his existence in the play. His actions are a composite of several elements: they are a symptom of his learning experience, a test for Angelo, and an exercise in deception and manipulation arising out his need to control the situation and play the role of savior. The Duke also exists to delineate the plot, for without his meddling, there could be no play. His presence adds the message of justice to the play, for he is uniquely able to pass judgment on Angelo with the same measure by which Angelo passed judgment on Claudio.

In the final analysis, however, the Duke conducts himself in ways unfitting to his position as judge. His behavior results in cruelty and makes him seem, in spite of his lack of vicious motive, like Angelo. He is an arbiter of justice clearly in need of more compassion. Without a doubt the Duke is catalyst and driving force in the plot of Measure for Measure, but his over-controlling personality and manipulative acts make this play a parable of the near-subversion of justice due to lack of sympathy and mercy.
Works Cited

Bawcutt, N.W. "Introduction." Measure for Measure. Ed. N.W. Bawcutt. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991.

Bennett, Josephine Water. Measure for Measure as Royal Entertainment. New York: Columbia UP, 1966.

Hazlitt W. "Characters in Shakespeare's Plays", 1817. Measure for Measure. Ed. R.E.C. Haughton. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970.

Lawrence, William W. Shakespeare's Problem Comedies. New York, 1931.

Miles, Rosalind. The Problem of Measure of Measure: A Historical Investigation. New York: Harper & Row, 1976.

Seiden, Melvin. Measure for Measure: Casuistry and Artistry. Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1990.

Shakepeare, William. Measure for Measure. Ed. Brian Gibbons. Cambridge: Clarendon Press, 1991.

Traversi, D.A. "Scrutiny." Measure for Measure. Ed. R.E.C. Haughton. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970.

# A Comparison of Old Goriot and King Lear

Whether or not it was Honore de Balzac's intention to do so, he infused his novel Old Goriot with many similarities to William Shakespeare's King Lear. Old Goriot is a King Lear figure in that he loses everything, including his sanity, though misjudging between his daughters. As does King Lear's, Old Goriot's folly consists in his accepting at face value the hypocritical assertions of love by Madame Restaud and Madame de Nucingen. Crucially, both stories cite the corruptive influence of ambition, which underlies the cruelties that take place within them.

Old Goriot, like King Lear, is basically a generous and unsuspicious man. Goriot is like a man who wants to eat his cake and also have it. Having given away his "kingdom," he expects to retain the dignity and power it bequeathed. Unlike Lear, however, Goriot does not refuse to accept a lesser role in life. He gives all to his daughters, maintaining their opulent lifestyle while himself descending into penury. In the progress of his suffering, Goriot attracts the intense fidelity and devotion of Rastignac, as did Lear that of Kent. Deeply hurt by his daughters' ingratitude throughout the book, Goriot nonetheless maintains constant adoration of them. Goriot, like Lear, amidst delusions comes paradoxically to a true vision of the workings of his situation and the reasons for his despair. Rastignac fulfills the role of Cordelia as well as that of Kent in that he lends Goriot a degree of serenity until the final blow—the fact that Goriot's daughters will not visit him on his deathbed. As did Lear, Goriot realizes his error of showing his affection for his evil daughters by bequeathing to them his wealth.

Anastasie and Delphine, though selfish in their own right, do not approach the level of evil exhibited by Goneril and Regan. Goriot's daughters are indifferent to their father's sacrifice for them, whereas Lear's daughters actively seek to force him into servility, as evidenced by the exception they take to harboring his retinue of knights at their estates. The Goriot sisters have the same vice as Regan does in that they maintain paramours outside their marriages; Goneril may be having an affair with her servant, Oswald, and Regan quickly transfers her affections to Edmund after Cornwall is killed. Additionally, in both stories, each sister nurses animosity toward the other arising mainly from envy and competition. Lear's daughters despise their father. Balzac, however, allows an undercurrent of affection toward their father to remain in Anastasie and Delphine. The reader tends to think that if these women had married compassionate men, Goriot may not have suffered. His Lear-like dream of social niceties such as having frequent dinners with his daughters at their homes may have become a sustained reality. Nevertheless, his daughters lacked the will to love their father consistently, so they must remain culpable for their father's demise.

Though Rastignac plays Cordelia's role in Old Goriot, he is not outright disinherited as Cordelia was. Obviously, there is no blood relation between Rastignac and Goriot; nevertheless, by the time the novel ends, Rastignac has become Goriot's "son" in the same manner that Lear reclaimed disinherited Cordelia as his daughter. Rastignac is ambitious, yet he has reverence and pity. These latter two traits are similar to those of Cordelia. Similar to Cordelia, Rastignac lacks hypocrisy, and both he and Cordelia learn first-hand the duplicity of the world.

Goriot's sons-in-law, Monsieurs Restaud and Nucingen, are stronger agents in causing Goriot's grief than Lear's sons-in-law. In King Lear, the sons-in-law, Cornwall and Albany, are similarly complicit in their wives' cruel avarice, but they are not its driving force. In King Lear, one character redeems himself—Albany whereas in Old Goriot, no one does. Despite Albany's eleventh-hour change of heart, both stories express deep cynicism of human nature.

Where would King Lear be without the Fool? While there is no fool counterpart to the namesake character of Old Goriot, the boarders of the Maison Vauquer aggregately comprise a "fool." Through the boarders' comments, pithy remarks, and put-downs of Goriot, we receive derisive commentary on Goriot of the same sort that the Fool provides on Lear. In a twisted way, Vautrin becomes Rastignac's Fool, because it is Vautrin who seems to understand Rastignac's psychology better than anyone else. Vautrin, like King Lear's fool, plays devil's advocate to Rastignac, tormenting him and cajoling him, forcing him to evaluate his moral position. Just as did the Fool, Vautrin disappears before the narrative ends.

The most important similarity between the tales is that both are tragedies. Both Goriot and Lear lose their good fortune; both fall precipitously from their elevated positions of wealth and influence. Both patriarchs have the same character flaw: strong, naïve love of their daughters. When close to death, both men realize and regret their mistake of misplaced trust. And finally, in both tales social order is restored after the death of the namesake character. In Old Goriot, this restoration takes place through Rastignac's vow to succeed in the sordid upper-class society, which is his way of vindicating Goriot. In King Lear, Edward, like Rastignac, has matured during the tale to become a conqueror in the end. The dissimilarity of these tragedies lies in the disparate levels of catharsis allowed to the reader/viewer. King Lear gives the viewer a greater level of catharsis, for all of the evildoers are justly punished at the end of the tale, though we agonize over Cordelia's death. In Old Goriot, the reader gets the feeling that the narrative has not quite resolved itself, for Rastignac has not yet reaped the benefits of his completed "education." The comfort for the reader lies in the hope that Rastignac will use his education to achieve social and/or emotional domination over Goriot's daughters.

# The Pagan References in Shakespeare's King Lear

Shakespeare's play King Lear was written in 1606, a decidedly Christian era in Britain. The Anglican church held powerful sway, and its influence extended into many aspects of the commoners' life, which included the entertainment of the day. King Lear, however, despite being produced during this ostensibly Christian period, is replete with furtive yet unmistakable references to paganism. This is not by accident. The reign of legendary Lear occupied an early era around the birth of Christ. If this play takes place when the Fool says it does, then Christianity had not yet had a chance to take firm hold in the world. The pagan references in King Lear would be therefore be consistent within the time frame that the play takes place.

The opening scene shows us a pagan king who is firm in his polytheistic-naturalistic faith. He is convinced of his dependence of the higher powers that rule him. In the first scene of the first act, he says:

"For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,

The mysteries of Hecate of the night,

By all the operation of the orbs

From who we do exist and cease to be... (I.i.109-112)

In Act I.iv.284, Lear refers to such deities as the sun and moon, and he refers to nature as his goddess: "Nature, here! Dear Goddess, hear!" Later, after Edmund has convinced Gloucester that Edmund is out to spoil him, he exclaims in his first soliloquy: "Briefness and Fortune work!" (II.i.19). What he is referring to here is the pagan goddess Fortuna and her wheel. As are most of the deities referenced in King Lear, Fortuna and her wheel is an import from Romans when Britain was part of the Roman Empire. A few of the characters, particularly Edmund is particularly enamored with the idea of Fortuna. At the conclusion of the play, Edmund feels that Fortune's wheel has turned against him: After disguised Edgar has dealt Edmund a mortal blow with his sword, Edmund asked of his disguised opponent:

"But what art thou," he asks Edgar,

"That hast this fortune upon me."

Later, when the dying Edmund confesses and repents, Edgar comforts him with the following statement:

"The Gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instructions to plague us;

The dark and vicious place where thee he got.

Edmund replies by internalizing his view of Fortune's wheel by saying:

"Th' hast spoken, 'tis true.

The wheel is come full circle; I am here." (V.iii.174)

Edgar and Edmund are not the only two characters that believe in Fortuna's wheel. The Fool advises King Lear about the wheel the king is riding upon:

"...wheel of fir, that mine own tears

Do scald like molted lead" (IV.viii.47-48)

There are many other references other Roman gods throughout the play. All of the characters in the play pray to these gods when they are in trouble. Though some of the characters have a good nature, none of them are Christian.

Another example is when King Lear needs support, he calls upon the gods to help him:

"O heavens,

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,

Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!" (II.iv, 192-95)

In the storm scene, Lear questions why Jove should have all of the sudden turned against him:

"I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot

Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.

Mend when thou canst...." (II.iv, 230-32)

Even the virtuous, good Cordelia prays to Roman deities when she sees her destitute father:

"O, you kind gods,

Cure this great breach in his abused nature!

Th' untun'd and jarring season, O, wind up

Of this child-changed father!" (IV.vii, 14-17)

The loyal and good Kent says in the first act:

"Now, by Apollo, king,

"Thou swear'st thy gods in vain." (I.i, 162-63)

In act three, when Lears finds Kent is the stocks, he swears by the pagan god Jupiter that his son-in-law and daughter could not have set Kent in the stocks. Kent replies:

"By Juno, I swear, ay!" (II.iv.22)

Later when Gloucester has provided shelter for Lear, Kent says,

"The gods reward your kindness." (III.vi.6)

Edgar, virtuous and good says:

"And as flies to wanton boys are to gods,

They kill us for their sport."

Compare this to the passage in scene five when he says:

"The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to plague us." (V.iii, 170-71)

What he is stating in both passages is his belief that all men are pawns of the pagan deities. There is no concept here of free will in the Christian sense. In summary, all of these characters when they oppose justice, ask for protection for a victim, or when praising a good deed, all fall back on or imply a belief in the gods.

Along with paganism, astrology plays an important part in the characters' existence. Most of the characters refer to the stars at one time or another. They used the position of the moon, the planets and the stars as a way to foretell destiny. Belief in astrology places fate and destiny above the concept in free will. This is not a Christian mode of belief. An example of this astrology is in Act II.i.29-40. Edmund, when he gives his false charge against Edgar describes his brother as: "Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon to stand auspicious mistress." (II.i.39-40) Here Edmund is playing upon his father Earl of Gloucester's superstition and the position of the planets. Gloucester, in return, comments prophetically of Edmund's false statements regarding Edgar. He also speaks in terms of astrology: "These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us." (I.ii, 112ff.), and "This villain of mine comes under the predilection." (I.ii.114-115). There are many more references made to astrology in the play. The idea is that fate and not free will controls their lives, and they are like leaves being helplessly tossed about in the wind. In the end, their belief in fate as opposed to free will turns out to be a self-fulfilling prophesy.

Throughout out the play, King Lear suffers. Although at first it seems as though he suffered as Job did, there are a few major differences I'll explain. Most importantly, in the end, there is no salvation King Lear as there was for Job. While he is suffering, Job was urged by his friends to curse God and die. Lear does not do this. First, he beseeches his god for to notice his plight.

"As you see me here, you Gods, a poor old man,

As full of grief as age; wretched in both!" (II.iv.274-275)

While the storm rages around him, he curses the night sky and the thunder overhead. Unlike Job, Lear chides his gods for their capriciousness:

"Singe my white head!

Let fall, Your horrible pleasure..." (III.ii, 18-19)

He then gives into the fate the gods have determined for him by saying:

"Here I stand your slave.

A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man." (III.ii.19-20)

It must be restated that after Job's suffering, he was rewarded by God. At the end of this play, King Lear is rewarded by a miserable death caused by a broken heart. The Earl Gloucester also dies broken-hearted. There is nothing to learn about suffering here. Unlike God's purpose for Job, there no divine purpose for Lear's suffering, at least not by Christian God, for though King Lear dies wiser, he is no better condition for the wisdom he gained.

Finally, most important in the Christian faith is a belief in the afterlife. In a strict sense, Christianity is the belief that if one believes in Jesus as the Messiah, his soul will be raised after death and risen to joyous state in heaven. If King Lear is supposed to be a Christian play, consider the following two passages spoken by King Lear at the very end of the play as he has the dead Cordelia in his arms:

"Howl, howl, howl! O! You are men of stones:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so

That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever.

I know when one is dead, and one lives;

She is dead as earth." (V.iii.257-261)

And also:

"I might have saved her; now she's gone forever!

Cordelia, Cordelia! Stay a little." (V.iii.270-271)

These statements tell us that King Lear's believes that death is the end of everything. In other words, there is no Christian heaven for Cordelia to enter. This is kin to the naturalist pagan belief that when dead comes, it ends all. Cordelia's death, as it is viewed by Lear is "as dead as the dust of which the Earth is made of." To further support his, Lear places human life on equal terms with animals when he laments Cordelia's death:

"Why should a dog, a horse, at rat have life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more." (V.iii.303-304)

Note that there is no mention at all of the spirit or soul, which are Christian notions. No notion of the afterlife is present in King Lear's speech. Albany also states:

"This judgment of the heavens that makes us tremble,

Touches us not with pity. (V.iii, 231-32)

When Albany says this, he is not speaking of a judgment in the afterlife in the Christian sense, but rather, the metaphysical judgment of the Gods during one's lifetime. This cannot be a Christian play if there is no afterlife and salvation through divinity. Instead of the plan of salvation offered by God, all the surviving characters in King Lear are left alone with no one to love them, no nurturing wife, no one. Their lives are bereft of compassion.

All in all, the only real terms of Biblical terms present in the play are when King Lear and Albany liken Goneril and Regan as demons, and through the faked ravings of Edgar in the disguise of poor Tom. The fact that Poor Tom convincingly portrays himself as a madman by using Old Testament Biblical terms and epithets gives credence to the fact that during King Lear's time Judaism was still a peripheral religion not yet taken seriously.

# A Comparison and contrast in the narrative style and content between A Tale of a Tub and Gulliver's Travels

An essential difference between the narratives of Gulliver's Travels and A Tale of a Tub is their dissimilar narrative perspectives. Gulliver's Travels is told in the first person perspective, for Gulliver is a firsthand witness to all events. At times, he comments on them, but for the most part, his comments are explanatory rather than critical. His commentary allows us to better understand his reactions without forcing us to agree with them. Importantly, Gulliver is presented as a "naive adventurer" of sorts throughout the tales. His naiveté allows the reader to draw his or her own conclusions about the happenings in the text, which not only prevents the work from falling into didacticism but also heightens the effect of the satire. Only near the end of Book IV does Gulliver shed his naiveté to critique human society.

In contrast to the first person perspective of Gulliver's Travels, the narrative of A Tale of a Tub is told in the third person. We are told the events from an omniscient narrator's point of view, but we do not get the level of intimacy with the characters that we do in Gulliver's Travels. A Tale of a Tub also uses a technique called meta-narration, which occurs when the narrator calls attention to himself, telling the reader that he is telling a story. The anonymous narrator of A Tale of a Tub is not Swift himself; but he is an idiot. Thus, in contrast to Gulliver, he is not a reliable narrator.

Whereas Gulliver's Travels is a straight-through narrative, A Tale of a Tub has lengthy digressions. The digressions are interspersed between a rather simple allegorical tale of three brothers, whose tale could logically be re-titled, "The Progress of Organized Religion." The digressions really are that; they are only tangentially related to the central narrative. In the most developed digressions, the narrator discusses the creative activity of modern authors and digressions themselves, and he attacks literary critics and religious enthusiasm.

Both works use missives as part of the narrative. These letters, which typically underscore some minor theme in the works, add authenticity to the works. In A Tale of a Tub, Swift uses an additional curious device wherein he inserts asterisks to indicate where there are "defects in the manuscripts" or where the bookseller has decided to leave out unnecessary material. Not only does this device give the illusion that the tale was copied from an actual manuscript, but it also allows Swift a way out when he has written himself into a corner, as happens when he begins describing the metaphysical process of enthusiasm.

In terms of content, Gulliver's Travels and A Tale of a Tub have different concerns. Gulliver's Travels is a biting satire of human nature laced with misanthropy, whereas A Tale of a Tub satirizes religion. The Brobdingnag king's condemnation of Gulliver's world at the end of Chapter IV is the strongest example of Swift's misanthropy up to that point in the book. The sharpest satire of human nature in Gulliver's Travels is in "A Voyage to the Houyhnhnms," in which Swift uses the yahoos as satiric representations of human behavior. For the first time, at the closure of a book, Gulliver judges his own society. His judgment is also supported by his actions, for he can scarcely bear to be around his wife and children when he returns from his stay with the Houyhnhnms. From the final tale, we can easily construct the maxim, "The more I know about humans, the more I like my horse." In contrast to Gulliver's Travels, A Tale of a Tub does not dwell on misanthropy. To be sure, Swift is heavily biased against certain types of people, but his aim is more precise in A Tale of a Tub. Aside from his attacks on critics and religious evangelists, society is left relatively unscathed by Swift's biting wit.

Gulliver's Travels centers primarily on earthly concerns. It satirizes humanity, science, politics, the monarchy, and other aspects of human endeavors. Though the plot of Gulliver's Travels is highly improbable and fantastic, the storytelling is consistently Realist. For example, when Gulliver visits the Lilliputians, Swift strictly maintains the 12 to 1 proportions between himself and the little people. Throughout the four narratives, Gulliver's extensive lists and detailed descriptions of what he observes and experiences lends the work an ambiance of authenticity.

The chief theme of A Tale of a Tub, in contrast, is religion. The eldest brother, Peter, represents the Catholic Church, Martin represents the Church of England, and Jack the Protestant dissenters. The coats the three brothers wear, bequeathed by their father, are representative of Christian faith and religious doctrine. If one wants to deduce the effect of the church from to the brothers' actions, one need only look at the changes made to the metaphorical coats. None of the three brothers, it seems, is very pious throughout, as would be expected, but of the three, only Martin has any redeeming value. Jack's enthusiasm makes him seem insane. Peter remains unapproachable to the two brothers as he jealously guards the box containing the will. The connotation here is that enthusiasm equals irrationality. At the end of the tale, we find three brothers have resolutely gone their separate ways. Reconciliation seems unlikely, which mirrors the state of the three branches of Christianity in actual life.

Despite the disparate themes of the works, they share some similarities. For examples, both works disparage arrogance, pride, and ambition. Indeed, these vices are the chief cause of strife in Gulliver's world, for they are the underlying driving force behind greed, backstabbing, cruelty, and other immoral behaviors. These vices also corrupt the brothers in A Tale of the Tub, leading them to pervert their father's will regarding the treatment of their coats. Notably, it is easy to see why ambition is a vice in Swift's world, for ambition means the desire for upward mobility, something contradictory to the tenets of the Great Chain of Being. In addition to the disparagement these common human vices, both works favor Rationalist values over what would later be called "Romanticism." Aggrandizement of Rationalist notions is evident in Gulliver's Travels in the protagonist's profound admiration of the Houyhnhnms, who have adopted Rationalist principles at all levels of their society.

Where would satire be without the element of humor? Indeed, humor is present in both works. The humor Gulliver's Travels is primarily of a subtle nature. It is found chiefly in the Lilliput and Brobdingnag tales. Most of the humor in these tales stems from the awkward, unexpected predicaments Gulliver faces due to his disproportionate size in relation to his surroundings. For example, Gulliver gives a lively description of the Lilliputians' reactions to his over-sized genitalia and how he urinated on the Lilliputian royal palace to put out a fire. In addition, it is humorous to read about how Gulliver killed a "giant" rat while living in Brobdingnag. The humor in A Tale of a Tub is both much more slapstick and ironically more cerebral by comparison. Some of the humor in this work lies in the outrageous language and descriptions set forth by the narrator, such as his descriptions of how wind conveys enthusiasm, and how such enthusiasm may be transferred from one person to another through inhalation of flatus. Similar pseudo-scientific descriptions are also present in Gulliver's descriptions of the research that takes place at the grand Academy of Lagado. In both books, description of folly is the chief humorous device. In A Tale of a Tub, more so than in Gulliver's Travels, Swift's strategy for infusing humor into his work is to maintain a quasi-serious discussion on some topic and then end the discussion with some outrageous, unexpected concluding idea or statement.

# A Discussion of Virtue According to Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift has much to say about virtue. In fact, much of his writing deals with virtues that are linked to both the Christian and the Neoclassical realms of thought. Nonetheless, it would be an oversimplification to regard Swift's notions of virtue as merely a summative of these value systems; Swift has some specificity in his arguments. A treasure trove of notions of virtue may be found in Gulliver's Travels. Swift wrote the book as a social satire in which he sought to illustrate the consequences of humanity's refusal to be reasonable. Gulliver's Travels also explicates Swift's notions of virtue. Swift's views on religion can be found in A Tale of a Tub, in which he attacks the ambition of religious institutions and their turning away from scripture. In addition, while Gulliver's Travels and A Tale of a Tub deal primarily with men with an emphasis on power structures, Swift's ideas on feminine virtue are found in his verse. In his poems, one can find what he believes are virtues to be sought in women and vices that must be avoided in them. The link between these works is bitter satiric humor that makes them memorable and engaging to read.

Swift uses two strategies to set forth his notions in Gulliver's Travels. First, he articulates his views through the deterioration of Gulliver's character and sanity as the book progresses. The reader must uncover Swift's meaning by analyzing Gulliver's responses to his experiences. Through analysis of Gulliver's shifting reaction to his environment, one can expose Swift's Rationalist views on human nature and man's moral condition. In the second strategy, which is more obvious than the first, Swift aims his satire against different targets. In Parts I and II, the satire is directed against the pretensions of court, political corruption, and the excesses of speculative reasoning. Part II focuses on how despicable our wars and conquests are, Part III shows the futility of our science and technology, and Part IV attacks indifference to the power of reason.

Gulliver's adventure in Lilliput represents a satire of the English court and articulates Swift's views of negative virtue. The Lilliputian Emperor is a figure of absurd pride and cruelty. He is an absolute monarch with unbounded ambitions and self-importance, and these features of his character are absurd when juxtaposed against his size. The little Emperor embodies the political vices of tyranny, lust for power, and corrupt leadership. The King of Brobdingnag, by contrast, is a man of common sense and kindness. He represents a good king—the converse of the Lilliputian Emperor. He abhors the thought of exercising arbitrary and unlimited power over his subjects. His laws are just. Notably, he refuses Gulliver's offer to provide him with gunpowder or cannons, for he realizes that such weapons are instruments of cruelty and dominance. It is in contrast to the King of Brobdingnag that Gulliver begins to resemble the people of Lilliput. After Gulliver reveals the social climate of his native land, the King says to Gulliver, "I cannot but conclude that the bulk of your natives to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth" (108). Gulliver seems oblivious to the cruelty that firearms are capable of causing. Moreover, Gulliver regards the King's refusal to accept gunpowder as the effect of "narrow principles and short views" (110). Such statements clearly indicate that Gulliver is not the ingenue he was in Lilliput.

Being a dyed-in-the-wool Rationalist, Swift naturally would consider reason a virtue. Therefore, it is not surprising that Swift seems to admire some things about the Houyhnhnms, who embody the Augustan ideal of control, order, and elegance. Yahoos, on the other hand, bear a remarkable similarity to human beings. They are greedy, quarrelsome, cruel, and constantly at each other's throats. Wholly governed by passion, they do not possess reason, so they necessarily do not possess virtue. Gulliver recognizes their physical resemblance to humankind, and he assumes that there is a corresponding lack of virtue. Swift inserts caustic irony into the juxtaposition of humankind and the Yahoo; civilized humans, as seen through Houyhnhnm eyes, appear even worse than the Yahoos, for they have made bad use of their limited faculties of reason, while the Yahoos have no reason at all. Humans are more culpable because they have some part of that reason the Yahoo utterly lacks, and yet they have generally used that reason not to better themselves, but rather to intensify the destructive and degenerate tendencies at the heart of their nature.

It might be argued that the Houyhnhnms should be taken seriously as models of human virtue. Indeed, Gulliver is fascinated by their freedom from passion, envy, hatred, and greed. But their way of life is simply impossible for human beings. The Houyhnhnms, while unaffected by the pain which humans suffer because of their passions, are similarly untouched by the joy that can sometimes be experienced by humans through their passions. Similar to humans, the Houyhnhnms cultivate friendship, but their friendship lacks warmth. It is unmarked by the strong personal attachments present in the most intimate human relationships. Houyhnhnm life is unmarked by discord or even disagreement, since reason for the Houyhnhnm is not fuel for an argument but an immediate insight into the truth. The unemotional Houyhnhnms do not partake in merriment. After a while, Gulliver begins to question customs of his land, such as imbibing wine:

That Wine was not imported among us from foreign Countries, to supply the want of Water or other Drinks, but because it was a sort of Liquid which made us merry, by putting us out of our Senses; diverted all melancholy Thoughts, begat wild extravagant Imaginations in the Brain, raised our Hopes, and banished our Fears, suspended every Office of Reason for a time, and deprived us of the use of our Limbs, till we fell into a profound Sleep; although it must be confessed, that we always awoke sick and dispirited, and that the use of this Liquor filled us with Diseases, which made our Lives uncomfortable and short. (219)

Gulliver has passed over the entire history of alcoholic beverages as a means of enhancing human encounters and in engendering conviviality. Gulliver is so enthralled by the austere Houyhnhnms that he does not see how grim and unexciting life would be for a human society that possesses the same kind of rigid self-restraint they own. Such a statement suggests that Gulliver is losing touch with some aspects of his humanity.

By this point in the tale, Gulliver has changed. In Part I, he was primarily the naive, accidental adventurer. He did not understand some of his extraordinary experiences. He was kind, noble, and unselfish in his interactions with the Lilliputians who, by contrast, were prideful, greedy, and cruel. In Part II, when Gulliver encountered the giants of Brobdingnag, in his attempts to preserve his dignity, he waxed mean and obnoxious in contrast to the giant King Brobdingnag, who was a figure of pragmatism and compassion. In Part III, Gulliver again appeared as a figure of humane common sense, but this was only in contrast to the extreme, fallacious views of the astronomers and projectors of Laputa and Lagado. Now, in Part IV, Gulliver is driven insane by his realization that he can never achieve the perfect rationality of the Houyhnhnms.

Gulliver's eccentric behavior after he leaves the Houyhnhnms indicates why reason, unmitigated by emotion, is not a virtue. Gulliver has grown alienated from his race and finds it unbearable to live among people, including his own family. Hence, excessive rationalism has led to misanthropic behavior. Captain Pedro de Mendez, Gulliver's first human contact after his two years on Houyhnhnmland, is extraordinarily kind to Gulliver. He is a good man that embodies the crucial human virtue of charity. Nevertheless, Gulliver treats Mendez as though he were a Yahoo. In other words, Gulliver's stay with the Houyhnhnms made him incapable of responding to human goodness. Ironically, Gulliver continues to see Captain Mendez as a Yahoo, though the humble captain shows more kindness to Gulliver than did the Houyhnhnms. After he has returned to England, Gulliver continues judging humankind by Houyhnhnm standards.

Gulliver protests bitterly against the vice of pride, but in the very process of attacking pride, Gulliver harbors that vice. He sets himself up as the judge of humankind, basing his judgment on the Houyhnhnm standard, which is unattainable by humans. Gulliver is willing to accept the fact that humans possess vices such as dishonesty, avarice, wastefulness, gluttony, and so on, but what makes it almost impossible for him to deal with his fellow humans is that in spite of all their obvious defects, they continue to be smitten with pride: "When I behold a lump of deformity and disease, both in body and mind, smitten with pride, it immediately breaks all the measures of my patience" (260). Gulliver concludes his tale with a warning to the reader: "[T]herefore I here entreat those who have any Tincture of this absurd Vice [pride], that they will not presume to come in my sight" (260). Gulliver himself is exhibiting monstrous pride here. It is ironic that if the Lilliputians were guilty of pride in the inability to see the difference between themselves and the giant Gulliver, Gulliver is similarly guilty in his apparent inability to reconcile himself to the fact that men can never be Houyhnhnms. Gulliver cannot see that man can only attain that degree of virtue that his attainable by his imperfect nature.

So what is Swift's advice to us in Gulliver's Travels on achieving virtue? How can we overcome our tendency to become Yahoos? There is no stated answer within the text. Gulliver does not ask this question, but rather assumes that because humans cannot be Houyhnhms, we must be Yahoos. But as is shown by the good Captain Mendez, though we humans are not naturally good, neither are we hopelessly bad. We must recognize our limitations if we are to be aware of our capabilities. We must accept help from religion, society, and tradition in our attempt to lead a virtuous life. Since the idealized life of the Houyhnhnms is neither attainable nor desirable, we must simply recognize that the virtuous life is not a perfect life but an examined one.

It could be suggested that Swift is asking us to rely upon religion as a primary guide on how to conduct our lives. Such a conjecture makes sense when one considers that Swift was an Anglican clergyman. Religion, which is scarcely mentioned in Gulliver's Travels, is the chief theme of an earlier satire, A Tale of a Tub, whose form is a deceptively simple tale of three brothers whose actions represent the progress of organized religion through the ages. The eldest brother, Peter, represents the Catholic Church; Martin represents the Church of England; and Jack the Protestant dissenters. The coats the three brothers wear, bequeathed to them by their father, are representative of Christian faith and religious doctrine. If one wants to deduce the effect of the church from the brothers' actions, one need only look at the changes made to the metaphorical coats. None of the three brothers, it seems, is very pious throughout, as would be expected, but of the three, only Martin has any redeeming value. Peter remains unapproachable to the two brothers as he jealously guards the box containing the will. Jack's enthusiasm makes him seem insane. The connotation here is that enthusiasm equals irrationality. At the end of the tale, we find that the three brothers have resolutely gone their separate ways. Reconciliation seems unlikely, which mirrors the state of the three branches of Christianity in actual life.

A Tale of a Tub disparages arrogance, pride, and ambition. As previously discussed, these vices are the chief cause of strife in Gulliver's world, for they are the underlying driving force behind greed, backstabbing, cruelty, and other immoral behaviors. These vices, most of all ambition, also corrupt the brothers in A Tale of the Tub, leading them to pervert their father's will regarding the treatment of their coats. It is easy to see why ambition is a vice in Swift's world, for ambition means the desire for upward mobility, something contradictory to the tenets of the Great Chain of Being.

Gulliver's Travels and A Tale of a Tub, for all their dispensation of Rationalist sensibilities, do not discuss the virtues of women. Such explication of Rationalism as it pertains to women is found primarily in Swift's poetry. Much of Swift's poetry attacks women by portraying them in a profoundly negative light. On a first reading of these poems, it might be easy to assume that Swift thought that women are prone only to vice, but within the poems one finds evidence that he does think women capable of virtue as well.

Phyllis, as represented in her namesake poem, is an example of a woman marrying for the wrong reason: lust. Highborn Phyllis, before her betrothal, is something of a prude. She is the typical pious maiden who keeps her desires in check with daily devotions. Then, to the utter shock of her family, she elopes with the lowborn butler, whom she marries for lust. Soon, the newlyweds fall into penury, bickering. She ends up a whore and he a rogue. By having Phyllis' marriage fail, Swift is implicating the woman's adoption of lust as the culprit. Such an implication makes perfect sense when one takes into account that romantic love, in the Age of Rationalism, was considered a form of passion, a quality much like enthusiasm, which opposes the notion of reason. Swift's Anglican Christianity is in evidence here, as lust has long been condemned in Christian morality.

"Corinna" explicates another fundamental absence of virtue in women: the squandering of artistic ability. Apollo confers artistic ability upon the poem's namesake, Corinna. Similarly, Cupid bequeaths to Corinna the inspiration to write of love, but Cupids satyr instills in her a mischievous nature. After a troubled childhood filled with sexual naughtiness, Corinna becomes "half wife, half whore" (26) and she uses her artistic abilities to write for tawdry periodicals. "Corinna" is a personal satire in which Swift shows us how women's intellect must be shaped with education, or her base nature will lead her into a degenerate state.

Poems such as "A Lady's Dressing Room" and "The Progress of Beauty" detail the character of Celia, who is the most morally vacuous woman represented in Swift's poetry. Both Celia poems explicate the role of vanity in the construction of beauty. Celia has no substance beneath the artifice of her beauty. In "The Progress of Beauty," Celia's efforts to better herself amount to spending hours in front of the mirror making herself appear attractive to gullible fops on her nightly parades on the Pall Mall. Her ruse is successful however, as it cumulates in an idiotic exclamation from one of the "transported" fops: "'God damn me Jack, she's wondrous fair!'" (77). In "A Lady's Dressing Room," we find that Celia is bereft of real intellect; she retains only base physicality and vanity, as viewed by the reader through Strephon's eyes. Again, Swift's Anglican Christianity is showing through, as vanity is repeatedly censured in the Bible.

The three women discussed so far exemplify the absence of virtue. The decrepitude of their physical forms and their sordid existences mirror their bankrupt natures. The reader is expected to draw conclusions about what constitutes virtue from what these women lack. Stella, on the other hand, represents the ideal woman. Swift never describes Stella as beautiful in the traditional sense. Instead, he describes the additional weight she has accumulated since her younger years, the increase of wrinkles on her face, and overall how much hoarier she has become with the passage of time. However, her inner qualities, which are her true beauties, have remained undiminished, as Swift writes in "Stella's Birthday," 1718: "Although thy size and years are doubled, / Since first I saw thee at sixteen /.../ So little is thy form declined; / Made up so largely in thy mind" (4-5, 7-8). Obviously, Swift thinks of Stella as beautiful. The chief characteristics that make her this way are her intelligence, wit, sense of humor, and affable nature. Phyllis, Corinna, and Celia do not possess these inner qualities. Thus, Swift is telling us that virtue in women consists of intellectual properties such as wit and Christian traits such as affability.

Perhaps the best description of virtue in a woman comes in the last stanza of "Strephon Chloe," in which Swift writes the following:

On sense and wit your passion found,

By decency cemented round;

Let prudence with good nature strive,

To keep esteem and love alive. (310)

In this nugget of didacticism, along with the preceding poem of which it is a part, Swift tells us that we should nurture the virtues of intellect, wit, and humor over ephemeral physical attractiveness in a marriage relationship. Swift reminds us that vanity can never be a virtue; the inner life mirrors the outer, and placing beauty on a pedestal above intellectual qualities is a grave mistake.

Swift believed that a sense of humor was a virtue. Evidence of this lies not so much in the content of Swift's oeuvre as it does in its style. Compared to works of other writers contemporary to Swift such as John Dryden and Alexander Pope, Swift's work is quite humorous. The humor in Gulliver's Travels is sometimes subtle. It is found chiefly in the Lilliput and Brobdingnag tales. Most of the humor in these tales stems from the awkward, unexpected predicaments Gulliver faces due to his disproportionate size in relation to his surroundings. For example, Gulliver gives a lively description of the Lilliputians' reactions to his oversized genitalia and how he urinates on the Lilliputian royal palace to put out a fire. It is also humorous to read about how Gulliver killed a "giant" rat while living in Brobdingnag. The humor in A Tale of a Tub is both much more slapstick and, ironically, more cerebral by comparison. Some of the humor in this work lies in the outrageous language and descriptions set forth by the narrator, such as his descriptions of how wind conveys enthusiasm, and how such enthusiasm may be transferred from one person to another through inhalation of flatus. Similar humorous, pseudo-scientific descriptions are also present in Gulliver's account of the research that takes place at the grand Academy of Lagado in Part III. In A Tale of a Tub and other works such as "A Modest Proposal," more so than in Gulliver's Travels, Swift's strategy for infusing humor into his work is to maintain a quasi-serious discussion on some topic and then end the discussion with some outrageous, unexpected concluding idea or statement. Many of Swift's poems operate in the same fashion. The poem will start with a quasi-serious discussion of a topic, but then degenerate into something shocking or ribald.

When viewed as a whole, Gulliver's Travels, A Tale of a Tub, and Swift's poems offer us a glimpse into Swift's Neoclassical notions of virtue. In Gulliver's Travels, one can find the Neoclassical virtues primarily through the exemplification of their opposites: avarice, cruelty, and pettiness, among others. The key vice assailed in Gulliver's Travels is pride. Reason, though touted as a virtue, is not the all-encompassing answer to our sordid human condition. The Houyhnhnms' passionless rationality and Gulliver's misanthropic behavior after he leaves Houyhnhnmland point to the downside of unadulterated rationalism. We may be vermin, ruled by our passions, but a shred of reason rescues us. Swift also tells us that enthusiasm is an enemy of virtue in A Tale of a Tub, in which he attacks the Calvinists for their showy religious enthusiasm, which has taken the place of pious devotion. In this book, Swift also heckles the Catholic Church for its corruption of Christian doctrine. Such religious institutions have traded the pursuit of truth for ambition. Digressing from traditional Classical thought, Swift inadvertently extols humor as a virtue. The skillful infusion of humor into his prose and poetry sharpens his satires and makes his work memorable. Swift also bemoans the loss of character depth and humility in the women of his time. Without the intellect, wit, and gentle spirit exemplified by Stella, their progress is inexorably downward: Phyllis descends into lasciviousness and perpetual marital strife, Corinna becomes a prostitute who corrupts men at all levels of society, and Celia simply decays. The physical manifestations of these women—their dirtiness and unkempt appearances—reflect their lack of virtue. Some virtues, such as honesty, humility, and charity, have always been virtues, and the neoclassicists were no different in recognizing them and calling them to our attention. Nevertheless, despite the general disparagement of passion by neoclassicists, Swift breaks from the ranks by pronouncing that passion, tempered by reason, wit, and humor, is also a virtue. 
Works Cited

Swift, Jonathan. A Tale of a Tub. Ed. Angus Ross. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999.

— — —. The Complete Poems. Ed. Pat Rogers. London: Penguin, 1989.

— — —. Gulliver's Travels. Ed. Robert A. Greenburg. New York: Norton, 1970.

# Augusta Webster's "A Castaway" as a Discourse in Victorian Gender Roles

Augusta Webster's long monologue "A Castaway" is a remarkable work in Victorian Literature. It stands out because not only because the persona is a prostitute but also because at the end of her dramatic monologue, the unrepentant persona has eschewed Victorian society to remain in her seamy profession. Without a doubt, the prostitute, Eulalie, takes a cynical view of her society. Her monologue is replete with pithy commentary and denouncements of Victorian society. But can this extremely negative monologue by a common prostitute be a relevant commentary on Victorian gender roles?

The structure of "A Castaway" embodies the Victorian-era feminist struggle for self-definition. Most of the poem is written in non-rhyming enjambed iambic pentameter with a trochee or a trimeter thrown in where a turn in thought is made or a point emphasized. The pentameter portions may be interpreted as the strict norm and expectation of constancy Victorian society places on women. But Webster periodically breaks the pentameter, so symbolically, she is showing an astute recognition of rebellion against Victorian tenets. This rebellion mirrors the nascent suffragist movement—women who recognize the norm as soft repression, and in response, are defying it.

Eulalie uses her diary as a springboard from which she launches into a comparison of what she once was to what she has become. Entries such as ""Studied French an Hour"" (Webster 2) and ""Darned stockings"" (4) and the following commentary quickly establish her recognition that she has changed over the years. To further intimate the drastic change, she writes, "So long since: / As if I could be one with her, of me / Who am...me" (22-25). Eulalie's critique of herself and Victorian society vacillates between self-recrimination and exculpation. This sort of self-evaluation is a symptom of the Victoria era in which the validity of most long-standing beliefs were under intense debate in the rapidly changing society.

Despite her profession, Eulalie believes herself to be on par with others in her society. She is aware of the questionable morality of her profession, yet she believes she has honor: "For I am modest; yes and honor me / As though your schoolgirl sister or your wife / Could let her skirts brush mine or talk of me" (53-55). Further, she describes herself as not a common, vulgar streetwalker but rather as "[a] sort of fractious angel misconceived" (80). But despite her independence, she is still not equal to Victorian men. Furthermore, she realizes that despite her education, her aspirations would always be secondary of any man she would marry. Feeling blocked from marital happiness, her hope turns to spite; of the all-accepting, respectable married women of the upper class, married to their dishonest, lecherous husbands, she says balefully, "The wives? Poor fools..." (100). Eulalie further recognizes the fact that a wife's existence is defined by her husband: "Her natural life, her good life, her one life, / Is in her husband, God on earth to her" (389, 390). She also notes that the women of upper society, in response to continued repression, have adopted a submissive, and finally, an apathetic attitude toward their condition. In recognition of all of this, Eulalie says, "I like my betters, that a woman's life" (388). In other words, she steadfastly rejects the trite existence of a married woman in favor of the life of a prostitute.

True to the Victorian-era propensity for challenging long-standing beliefs, Eulalie baldly lays blame on God for social ills. In this case, she blames God for creating so many women. "But I say all the fault's with God himself / Who puts too many women in the world" (295-296). From here, she wishes all women would die off, with the idea that if there were fewer women, those that remained would become more valuable, and thus be treated better. According to Eulalie, a Victorian woman is a commodity. Like so many sacks of grain, a woman's value depended on supply and demand. While this seems like an extreme view, one has to consider the life of miserable lives of the working class women as detailed in Charles Dickens's revealing essay "A Walk in a Workhouse," Anna Brownwell Jameson's essay "The Milliners," and Thomas Hood's doleful poem, "The Song of the Shirt." Therefore, when taking into consideration the actual conditions of working class women, Eulalie's viewpoint does not seem very far off the mark. So can we fault Eulalie for questioning God's plan in characteristic Victorian fashion?

Eulalie's choice between independence and the status quo is an inadvertent allusion to a Late Romantic writer Felicia Heman's poem, "Women and Fame," where Hemans debates womanly values versus the pursuit of fame. Eulalie has taken a route similar to that of Hemans—she has traded the conventional gender role of her era for independence. Both Hemans and Eulalie are disgusted with themselves, to a degree, for having to make such a choice. Consider the lines in the Heman's poem "Woman and Fame" where she laments the loneliness and isolation that fame and independence have brought her: "A hollow sound is in thy song, / A mockery in thine eye, / To the sick heart that doth but long for sympathy / For kindly looks to cheer it on, / For tender accents that are gone" (Hemans 19-25). Heman's feelings of isolation mirror Eulalie's. The difference is that while Hemans reacts with an earnest desire to rejoin society while maintaining her fame, Eulalie scorns society for ostracizing her. And just as Hemans will not relinquish her fame despite her loneliness, neither will Eulalie relinquish her independence despite an occasional lapse of remorse: "To the good days, the dear old stupid days, / To the quiet and the innocence, I know, / 'Tis a sick fancy and try palliatives" (Webster 209-212). She feels that she would be bored with the traditional woman's life: "Quiet is hell, I say—as if a woman / Could bear to sit alone, quiet all day, / And loathe herself and sicken on her thoughts" (236-238).

On a similar note, in one of the most poignant moments of the monologue, Eulalie details a mother mourning over her dead infant daughter. Eulalie is shocked that the woman weeps. "I could have laughed aloud" (310) she says heartlessly as she watches the mother wail over the child. She makes the point that the mother had no idea what sort of life the female child would have faced in her lifetime. Eulalie makes the ironic statement that "my mother would have wept for me" (313). She means to say that it is better not to live than to be forced to choose between a useless life and an immoral one. This choice between two pejorative existences mirrors the dilemma faced by many Victorian women—the choice between respectability and independence. Eulalie debates whether her mother would have wept over her death if she had known what Eulalie would do once she grew older: "Oh mother, mother, did you ever dream, /.../No evil could come nigh... /.../...for your lone girl / left to fight out her fortune helplessly / That there could be this danger?" (314-319). Proper upbringing by Eulalie's pious mother was not enough to prevent Eulalie from turning to a life of sin. The suggestion is that proper upbringing cannot overcome society's unreasonable expectations of on women.

Eulalie makes a shrewd observation on the education of women. Eulalie was once the tutor for the young girls of a rich family. But then she became disillusioned, "My great discovery of my ignorance!" (356), when the girls grew up and all the knowledge she had taught them went to waste. "Who ever wants his wife to know weeds' Latin names? / Who ever chose a girl for saying dates? / Or asked if she had learned to trace a map?" (373-376). Indeed, women of the era were expected to be educated and knowledgeable, but never were they expected to use such knowledge. Eulalie encapsulates the dual standard between the education of men and women with the derisive lines, "Well, well, the silly rules this silly world / Makes about women! This is one of them. / Why must there be pretense of teaching them / What no one ever cares that they should know" (377-380). Eulalie's opinion on the matter is substantiated by the work "The Life of Frances Power Cobb As Told by Herself." In one section of this work, Cobb describes her experiences at a fashionable boarding school where girls were put through years of grueling academic courses and subjected to strict rules of etiquette, all in preparation for marriage and subservience to a husband. Though many women of the era passively accepted the role, other women of the era (like Eulalie) were angry over the idea of wasted education. Florence Nightingale attacks the phenomena of wasted education (amongst other injustices) in her essay, "Cassandra." Eulalie's monologue mirrors the salient points made by Nightingale.

Many might dismiss "A Castaway" because of its extremely deprecatory tone. Nevertheless, the monologue manages to accurately encapsulate several prominent issues that define Victorian gender roles. Not only does Eulalie have astute observations of the social conditions for women of the era, she also touches upon the fact that we must work out our own salvation; we must struggle against those things that oppress us. For individual women, many things have changed much in the twelve decades since the Eulalie's monologue was written. But just as then, there are still instances in which women are thrust in to roles that limit them, and just like Eulalie, these women desperately search for a way to justify their existence.

# The Broken Symbolism of the Marabar Caves in A Passage to India

E. M. Forster scholar Wilfred Stone does not understate the value of the Marabar caves in A Passage to India when he writes, "In no book of modern fiction...is a symbolic centre so organically related to the whole as in this great novel. The caves are central both structurally and thematically....They provide the poetic space out of which emanates the novel's meaning" (16). As does Stone, nearly all critics feel that consideration of the Marabar caves is crucial to interpretation of A Passage to India. The agreement ends there. Beyond concurrence on the caves' significance, interpretation of the caves' meaning covers the board. Seldom does one encounter such a variety of disparate interpretations for a symbol that is so central to a novel. The reason for this critical "muddlement" is ambiguity. Critics concur that Forster, due to limitations of writing skill and because of creative decisions, infused a great deal of ambiguity into A Passage to India. The critics call Forster's particular brand of ambiguity "double-vision." Though this double-vision obscures the symbolic meaning of the caves themselves, the reader may still understand the underlying themes of the novel in relation to the caves by examining the caves' function within the narrative.

The idea for the caves probably came to Forster during his visit to the Barabar Hills in India, where he and his friends, trying out the echoes, heard only a roar in response to their shouts. Forster wrote to his mother, to whom he described the incident, that he did not think that the caves he saw at the Barabar Hills were particularly remarkable. When Forster put the caves into Passage, he enhanced them. Forster, when asked during an interview at King's College in 1952 about the function of the caves in his novel, said that he needed "a solid mass ahead, a mountain round over or through which the story must somehow go. The caves were an area where 'concentration' could take place. They were to focus everything up; they were to engender an event like an egg" (Furbank 28). Indeed, the caves do engender the events and boost the momentum of the plot enormously. What hatches from the "egg" is decidedly evil; Chandrapore is consumed by a ripple of upheaval that emanates from the caves.

The caves do not seem to be anything significant when they are first introduced in the novel. In fact, they appear to be of secondary importance to the descriptions of the culturally fragmented country that is India. Forster puts a great deal of effort into detailing the disdainful treatment of the natives by the British Raj as well as the false starts of interpersonal relationships between Aziz and Fielding, Aziz and Mrs. Moor, Adela Quested and Ronny Heaslop that take up the first section, "Mosque." With so many rich paths to explore before the incidences at the caves, the reader may have difficulty determining the main thrust of the novel. The caves seem innocuous the first time they are described: "The caves are readily described. A tunnel eight feet long, five feet high, three feet wide, leads to a circular chamber about twenty feet in diameter....This arrangement occurs again and again throughout the group of hills, and this is all, this is a Marabar Cave" (Forster 136-7). To add to the seeming dullness of the caves, Forster describes the typical response of a visitor: "[T]he visitor returns to Chandrapore uncertain whether he has had an interesting experience or a dull one or any experience at all. He finds it difficult to discuss the caves, or keep them apart in his mind..." (137). Forster then makes some intriguing, eloquent analogies about the reflections of the light on the polished surfaces of the caves and ends with the mythology of the caves' origins. These descriptions are Forster's sleight-of-hand narrative strategy: he minimizes the caves in his initial description of them, which makes them seem all the more menacing later in the story when their unexpectedly powerful disruptive nature is revealed.

Forster highlights the caves' importance to the novel's structure by placing them halfway through the narrative. The novel is divided into three sections: "Mosque," "Caves," and "Temple." Forster, in his notes to the Everyman's edition of Passage, tells us that the three parts stand for the three seasons of the Indian year: the action of "Mosque" takes place during the cool spring, that of the "Caves" during the hot summer, and of "Temple" during the wet monsoon season of the autumn. This explanation may be an oversimplification, for some critics have found deeper meaning in the novel's tripartite division. Scholar Gertrude White, using Hegelian philosophy, writes that "Mosque" equals thesis, which addresses the problem of separation and attempts at bridging the gulfs. "Caves" represents antithesis, which is the rout of the forces of reconciliation and the complete triumph of hostility, evil, and negation. Finally, "Temple" represents synthesis, which is a construction of something new from the fragments of the old (53). This theme of joining, separation, and eventual rejoining is epitomized in the Walt Whitman poem from which Passage gets its name. Consider the lines in the Whitman poem that speak metaphorically of rejoining that which has been divided: "All these hearts as of fretted children shall be soothed, / All affection shall be fully responded to, the secret shall be told, / All these separations and gaps shall be taken up and hook'd and link'd together, /.../ Nature and Man shall be disciplined and diffused no more" (8-10). But not all separations result in synthesis into something new; some of the separations become permanent. Scholar E. K. Brown writes of Mrs. Moore that "there is no re-establishment from what befell her in the Marabar....By her own estimate, her passage to that land had been a failure. The voice of the Marabar caves was not the voice of India, only one of the voices; but it had prevented her from hearing the others" (108). Later, Mrs. Moore dies and is committed to the Indian Ocean. But though Mrs. Moore is no longer alive, her presence continues to exert an influence and, like the caves, she becomes a catalyst herself when the mention of her name at the trial halts Adela's Marabar echo, enabling Adela to break through her delusion and free Aziz.

The many critical interpretations of the caves have arisen from the ambiguous symbolism Forster chose. This confusion persists, though nearly all aspects of the caves have been examined. Some critics have focused on the reflections of the light within the caves and connected them to Hindu philosophy: "The light and sun imagery in Hindu philosophy is associated with intelligence, even as it is in the West. Forster here is pointing to the inadequacy of intelligence or reason in its effort to discover within the limits of its categories the ultimate nature of the universe" (Allen 130). This viewpoint is important, since Hinduism is central to the third part of the novel, "Temple," in which Professor Godbole unifies love and God in a "Festival of Lights" ceremony that is simultaneously fragmented, cohesive, mystical, and confusing, as is Forster's India. Carl Jung, as quoted by Patrick Mullahy in Oedipus: Myth and Complex, applies his theories to the caves to arrive at a semi-mystic interpretation of them. He believes that the cave is the archetype for the Great Mother: "Phytogenetically as well as ontogenetically, we have grown up out of the dark confines of the earth....The protecting mother is...associated with the...protecting cave. The symbol of the mother refers to a place of origin such as nature, to that which passively creates, to matter, to the unconscious, natural, and instinctive life" (149-50). Another critic, Louise Dauner, takes a historical view. Plausibly, she claims that the Marabar caves are like those Plato describes in his seventh book of The Republic: caves of Illusion, where "reality" is merely the shadow of a shadow, and in which the objects that cast the shadows are themselves artificial. As does Plato's cave, Forster's caves have an echo, and "because of Forster's long devotion to Greek thought and attitudes, we may logically assume that Plato's cave of Illusion underlies other symbolic implications of Forster's cave" (57). Some critics focus on the echo the caves make as a way of finding meaning. Wilfred Stone offers a convincing psychoanalytic analysis of the caves using the sound of the echo:

The caves represent the unconscious in two senses—the repressed elements in the individual life and the survivals in modern man of the pre-historic and pre-human, those elements that Freud termed the id. So the "ou-boum" is something before language, a sound emanating from that dark, distant prehistoric distance before language—and before morality. It is a time and condition that wipes out distinctions—all the distinctions on which Anglo-India built its culture and empire. That is why it is so terrifying: to lower one's guard before the primal forces of the unconscious is, to one trained in repression, nothing less than the abdication of all culture and a return to something like savagery. (22)

The "boum" sound of the caves does indeed have a mantra-like quality. Some critics suggest that the Marabar echo destroyed Mrs. Moore because her rational, occidental mind was not able to fathom and endure the essence of eternity that lies within the sound. This eternity encompasses time before human civilization clawed its way out of the mud of chaos. Since Forster did not make explicit the meaning of the caves, all of these interpretations are relevant, as all are supportable by the text, yet no interpretation seems to hold the complete answer.

There are other mysteries in the novel that compound the enigma of the caves, as Stone observes: "[T]here are mysteries in this novel that cannot be solved....When we ask what happened in the caves, we must ask about these other mysteries, for they are the mysteries that give this novel its essential meaning—even though we may quarrel about what, exactly, that meaning is" (17). Perhaps Forster infused his novel with such mysteries to reflect the impenetrable muddle of India.

The manuscripts of A Passage to India could shed some light on the ambiguity of the caves, since unadulterated representations of ideas are sometimes present in early author manuscripts. Depending on the creative process of the author, simple ideas are sometimes expanded and mutated, making the germ of the idea more difficult to uncover. Forster knew early in the writing of the novel that the caves would be important. In an interview in which Forster describes the genesis of Passage, he says, "When I began A Passage to India, I knew that something important happened in the caves, and that it would have a central place in the novel—but I didn't know what it would be" (Furbank 28). The cave incident is the most reworked section of the book, as evidenced by the large number of changes present in the manuscripts. Most changes to this incident are related to point of view, that is, who experienced what. The manuscripts also shed light on the central mystery of the novel: what really happened to Adela in the cave. Oliver Stallybrass, who discusses the manuscripts in depth in his essay, "Forster's 'Wobblings': The Manuscripts of A Passage to India," shows us a fragment that depicts an actual physical attack on Adela (alias Violet, alias Janet, alias Edith) by someone in the cave. Stallybrass writes that "this fragment...is perhaps the most intriguing in the entire trove, for it answers the question...whether...Adela was a victim of hallucination or of attempted assault by somebody other than Aziz" (41). Also, in an early manuscript, Mrs. Moore never enters a cave: she has her breakdown after she wakes up from a nap during the train ride to the Marabar caves. Fielding enters a cave instead. Although Fielding draws the same conclusion about the caves in the manuscript as does Mrs. Moore in the published version of the novel, Fielding's experience in the cave does not affect him anywhere as profoundly as it does Mrs. Moore. The purpose of all these changes is to associate the evil of separation with the caves in order to increase the caves' metaphorical significance. The changes make the caves the catalyst for disruption in the life of nearly every character in the book. Many critics have noted that all actions in the first half of the novel lead up to the caves and all actions in the second half of the novel lead away from the caves. Critic Peter Burra eloquently describes the effect of the caves on the narrative structure: "[The caves] are the keynote in the symphony to which the strange melody always returns. During the first half of the book constant reference to them directs attention forward to the catastrophe. After this, every reference to them directs our attention back to the centre, to the mystery which is never solved" (67). In this sense, the shape of the novel, in its final form, can be viewed as that of a tent, with the Marabar caves being its center pole.

Perhaps part of the difficulty in determining the meaning of the caves arises from Forster's creative style. Many critics have accused Forster of having a stylistic difficulty called "double-vision," which they describe as disharmony between the reality and the symbol. Critics charge that all of Forster's major works suffer from this malady, including A Room with a View and Howard's End. The primary effect of double-vision is that it unnecessarily complicates the work by leaving open too many ways of interpreting the symbol. Virginia Woolf criticizes Passage for its double-vision: "[T]here are ambiguities in important places, moments of imperfect symbolism, a greater accumulation of facts than the imagination is able to deal with" (76). White speaks for like-minded critics when she states, "All good critics have remarked...upon the 'double-vision' apparent in Forster's books: the contrast and often collision between the realistic and symbolic, the two levels upon which characters and events exist and function" (63). Much of the double-vision in the novel, while applicable to the caves, is also hinged on a mismatch of the characters with the symbols they are supposed to represent. White explains some of the problems she sees with the character/symbol connection:

Mrs. Moore and Godbole [the two "redemptive" characters] are never really satisfactory as human beings, never vitally related to the people around them. Their human features are veiled by the larger-than-life masks they wear, like the actors in Greek tragedy playing at being gods. We perceive their effect without understanding or really accepting it; we take them at the valuation assigned by their author. (64)

Such views are shared by a large number of critics, along with a similar complaint that the characters are not large (or fully developed) enough to fulfill their cosmic roles within the story. White sums up the frustration that readers and critics feel from all of this broken symbolism: "The gulf between symbol and reality...is...the chief failure of A Passage to India....Those who read the book...though they will find much to enjoy and admire, will be baffled and irritated...by the suggestion of a meaning far deeper than appears" (65). These charges aside, we might still contend that literary works such as Passage lend themselves to multiple interpretations because of their depth of meaning. But a cogent argument can be made that Forster himself did not understand the meaning of the caves, or of the novel as a whole, until years after he had finished the work (Stone 17). If Forster truly did not know the meaning of the caves at the time the novel was written, then there is probably not much more to the caves than what Forster tells us of them outright in the text—and there is not enough information there to build a firm case for any theory of the caves that diminishes the plausibility of others. An alternate explanation thus arises for the caves: the caves do not present us with a mystery to be puzzled through; rather, the caves represent mystery itself.

Despite the ambiguous symbolism of the caves, one is able find that they have clearly definable effects on the lives of the protagonists. Such effects hinge on an undercurrent of separation than runs throughout the novel. Forster scholar Lionel Trilling notes, "The theme of separateness, of fences and barriers, is, in A Passage to India, hugely expanded and everywhere dominant. The separation of race from race, sex from sex, culture from culture, even of man from himself is what underlies every relationship." Later, he writes, "The sense of separateness broods over the book, pervasive, symbolic" (151). Indeed, there is a fracturing of all the relationships formed in "Mosque": Fielding and Aziz are separated; Adela is separated from Ronnie Heaslop; Mrs Moore is separated from Western rationality and her Christianity. The separations are the outcome of hatred. The disruptive presence of hatred within the novel highlights the palliative effects of its converse: love. Aziz's life and name, Adela's sanity, Fielding's and Aziz's friendship, are all restored by love alone. Mrs. Moore also represents love: "Kindness, more kindness, and even after that more kindness. I assure you it is the only hope." Her spiritual presence, evinced by the banishment of the Marabar echo from Adela's head when she is mentioned at the trial, allows Aziz to rejoin his people and his Indian ethnicity in the name of "Esmiss Esmoor." Finally, it is love that binds Fielding and Stella, a union that serves to validate Fielding's bond to Anglo-India. In contrast to those relationships held together by love, those relationships not held together by love are irrevocably split. An example of such a split can be found in Ronny and Adela: they do not marry, and Ronny is eventually relocated to another part of the country. The split is also exemplified in the calamitous social and political failure of the English officials and their wives.

One cannot overstate the value of the Marabar caves in A Passage to India. The caves are central to the novel both structurally and thematically, though critics cannot agree on what the caves represent. Such disagreement arises from Forster's double-vision—the mismatching of reality and the symbol. Nevertheless, the reader is able to observe the reverberating disruptive effects of the caves on the protagonists, and through their struggles brought on by the catalytic effect of the caves, we learn that only love can overcome separation. Love is both the instrument and outcome of synthesis, as evinced in the Hindu Festival of Lights ceremony in "Temple," in which the Hindus synthesize (or simulate the birth of) a universal divine love that incorporates facets of Western and Eastern religions, as represented by "God si [sic] Love." But though it is important to understand the disruptive effect of the Marabar caves in the interpretation of the novel, it is not quite as necessary to understand the caves' symbolism. The caves are perhaps best understood for what they are—a mystery. Such a descriptor dovetails nicely with Forster's perception that India itself is a mystery, and the more one tries to investigate India and its mysteries, the further one falls into a muddle. True to the ambiguous, multi-faceted nature of Forster's version of India, the symbolism of the caves is, at the same time, everything and nothing. 
Works Cited

Allen, Glen O. "A Passage to India." Perspectives on A Passage to India. Ed. V.A. Shahane. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1968.

Brown, E. K. "Rhythm in E. M. Forster's A Passage to India." E. M. Forster: A Passage to India – A Casebook. Ed. Malcolm Bradbury. London: MacMillan, 1970.

Burra, Peter. "From 'The Novels of E. M. Forster.'" E. M. Forster: A Passage to India – A Casebook. Ed. Malcolm Bradbury. London: MacMillan, 1970.

Dauner, Louise. "A Passage to India." Modern Critical Interpretations on E.M. Forster's A Passage to India. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1987.

Forster, E. M. A Passage to India. Orlando: Harcourt, 1984.

Furbank, P. N. and Haskell, F. J. H. "An Interview with Forster at King's College." E. M. Forster: A Passage to India – A Casebook. Ed. Malcolm Bradbury. London: MacMillan, 1970.

Mullahy, Patrick. Oedipus: Myth and Complex. New York: Grove Press, 1955.

Stallybrass, Oliver. "Forster's 'Wobblings': The Manuscripts of A Passage to India." E. M. Forster: A Passage to India – A Casebook. Ed. Malcolm Bradbury. London: MacMillan, 1970.

Stone, Wilfred. "The Caves of A Passage to India." A Passage to India: Essays in Interpretation. Ed. John Beers. Totowa: Barnes and Noble, 1986.

Trilling, Lionel. E. M. Forster. Binghamton: Vail-Ballou, 1943.

White, Gertrude. "A Passage to India: Analysis and Reevaluation." Twentieth Century Interpretations of A Passage to India. Ed. Andrew Rutherford. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1970.

# The Fox: A Love Story?

D.H. Lawrence's novelette The Fox is thematically rich as well as entertaining to read. The story explores the complexity of human emotions with a center on human relationships. In fact, The Fox contains many elements that comprise a love story. But is it really a love story? And if it is not, then what is it? A close reading of The Fox answers this question while revealing a philosophical relationship between possession and fulfillment.

First, we must define the term "love story." Loosely speaking, a love story is a tale in which two people meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after. The lovers must overcome some obstacle before their love can be consummated. The obstacle may be an authority figure (such as a difficult parent), a trial that must be endured, or it may be some sort of task that the hero (or heroine) must accomplish. In a skillfully written story, the author instills doubt in the reader whether the couple will get together, but in the end, the lovers unite. The story may or many not close with a wedding, but it is generally assumed that the couple lives "happily ever after" beyond the last page. Generally, the male and female protagonists are admirable characters. The man is usually handsome. He is most often strong and masculine; he may possess a wide range of other desirable characteristics such as courage, loyalty, and wit. The woman is generally virtuous, attractive, and nubile, and she exhibits a degree of independence (but not too much). Ingenue roles are common here. As the love story progresses, we, as an altruistic reader, want the protagonists to end up with each other by the end of the tale. If they do not, such as in William Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," we still have a love story—a tragic one, but a love story nonetheless. Popular examples of love stories with classic, happy endings are Levin and Kitty's story in Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, E.M. Forster's sentimental A Room with a View, and Shakespeare's many comedies and romances.

A cornerstone to any love story is an attraction between the two protagonists that is rooted in romantic love. A skillful author often intimates the potential of the pairing to the reader early in the story while the characters themselves may not even be aware of their predilection toward each other. Henry's attraction to March is not rooted in love; rather, it is entrenched in an earnest desire to possess. In fact, he does not love her at all. At first he is intrigued with her. Later, his intrigue segues into lust that intensifies into a need to dominate. He visualizes himself a hunter with March as his prey. Consider his thoughts after he has made up his mind to go after her: "He would have to catch her as you catch a deer or a woodcock when you go out shooting," and later, "And it was as a young hunter that he wanted to bring down March as his quarry to make her his wife" (Lawrence 2582). The concept of love never appears in his ruminations over her. The only direct reference to love in The Fox is in March's letter to Henry while he away at the military camp. She writes, "I can't feel in my heart that I really love you," and "I know I am not head over heels in love with you" (2605). Not once does Henry take the time to examine his feelings for March outside of his desire to possess her.

The only real love relationship in the novelette is the ongoing affection between March and Banford. Their affection is sincere, as is their friendship, and the exceptionally cozy bond between them bears many similarities to that of the sisters in Christina Rossetti's "The Goblin Market," a poem with lesbian undertones. Lawrence makes many allusions to March and Banford's outward show of "marital" happiness. For example, while the farmhouse has a spare room, the two prefer to share the same bed. Also, one cannot ignore Banford's reaction to the announcement that Henry and March will marry. A marriage between the two should not exclude her continued friendship with March. So, aside from Banford's pragmatic arguments against the marriage, her strong, emotional reaction indicates that there is something more at stake than a simple friendship and sisterly concern.

A lesbian relationship between March and Banford is further suggested by her vague reply to Henry's first proposal: "Oh, I can't...How can I?" (2584). Indeed, one wonders why she is not decisive with him. Later that evening, she is worried that Banford will see him kiss her. During a conversation the next day after March and Henry break the news to Banford, Henry cannot understand why Banford is reacting so strongly. When he asks her what the marriage has to do with her, she replies vaguely, "More than it has to do with you, probably" (2590). March suffers the most when she is with both of them in the same room. Perhaps her inner turmoil arises from guilt and a conflict between what she feels she must do for the sake of tradition and where her heart lies. Banford, in contrast, does not have such scruples; therefore her protest to March's quixotic deference to Henry does not waver. Banford also appears to be much more in touch with her feelings on the issue. This is a traditionally feminine characteristic. Masculine March does not seem to know herself as well. It is not difficult to view March and Branford as a heterosexual couple.

In part because of their skewed gender roles, Henry and March do not fit the typical profile of lovers in a tale of love. Henry does not share characteristics of a noble male hero in a love story; in a sense, he is the fox, the story's namesake. His intelligence is bent into cunning. But not only does Henry possess cunning like the fox, he possesses characteristics of the stereotypical "shrewish" female. For example, rather than using masculine confrontation to get his way, he resorts to craftiness and subversion. He speaks rather than acts. March, unlike Henry, displays predominantly male characteristics; much of her communication is non-verbal; she is comfortable with the outdoors and manual labor. So in effect, we have a role reversal between Henry and March. Because of this blurring of gender roles, neither is the material of love stories. Henry's most defining characteristic of manhood is his hunter's attitude. March is his unwilling-but-ultimately- submissive prey. These traits do not lend themselves easily to love stories.

But cannot Henry's obsession with March be considered a form of love? Are not love and the desire to possess so intertwined that they are one and the same? Perhaps the psychology of love needs to be taken into account to answer this accurately. Between March and Henry, March is the stronger of the two. This relationship suggests that Henry's need to dominate March originates from the weaker male having a need to dominate the stronger female to "prove" superiority. Evidence of this is Henry's choice of March over her companion. Banford would have been an easy mark in his original intent is to possess the farm. Instead he pursues the elusive, independent March. His reasons for doing so are not unfathomable, for it is true that we desire to couple with those who possess qualities like ours, or who have qualities we wish we had. We want to meld with them, to make them a part of us. In Henry's case, perhaps he seeks to possess March's strength. (Conversely, he despises the weaker Banford.) But paradoxically, once Henry crushes Banford beneath the tree, he crushes March's spirit. March's need to nurture, what made her strong, has been extinguished. In the end, neither is happy. In practical terms, true love does not run smooth, but true love should definitely not crush spirits. Indeed, if Henry's actions are expressions of love, he presents a particularly unappealing portrait of a lover, at least from a woman's point of view. His only admirable characteristic is his tenacity in winning March from Banford.

The presence of a marriage in The Fox does not make it a love story. The marriage is not a union of love; in fact, it is a tragedy for both participants. The last three pages of the tale read like a quasi-didactic elegy to aspiration and the hope for happiness. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine a gloomier ending for both. Henry, though he is the oppressor, he is miserable: "Sometime he thought bitterly that he ought to have left her. He ought never to have killed Banford. He should have left Banford and March to kill each other" (2613). As a solution, Henry's wishes her will to submerge in sleep: "He wanted her to sleep, at peace in him. He wanted her at peace, asleep in him" (2613). March's emotional state is particularly tragic. For March, bereft of her source of love and devoid of hope, death would be a relief: "She would never strive for love and happiness anymore. And Jill was safely dead...Poor Jill, it must be sweet to be dead " (2613). It seems that only the ragged vestiges of March's tenacious spirit prevent her from plunging over the cliff she so somnolently gazes from in the final scene of the tale. If The Fox is a love story designed to praise the ideals of love with a show of romantic consummation in marriage, then it fails miserably.

If The Fox is not a love story, what is it? A female protagonist suffers immensely, and a male antagonist is the cause of her misery. Does that make The Fox a feminist work? It is tricky placing Lawrence into the feminist camp when taking his body of anti-feminist work into consideration. Nevertheless, it might be suggested that the two of them might have been happy if only March could have given up her independent spirit, or in other words, her feminist attitude. But it is not that simple. First of all, the same can be said about Henry. If only he had given up his misogynist attitude, they could have been happy. Second, a great part of March's psychic pain was not caused by a feminist attitude, but rather by her inability to facilitate the happiness of another person. She needed someone to nurture: "Day after day she had been responsible...for her dear Jill's health and happiness and well-being...And this had been her great stimulant" (2612). Banford had been the wellspring of March's vitality. Strictly speaking, March is not a feminist heroine because the need to nurture is central to her being.

Though The Fox is not a feminist tale, neither is it a tale that elevates misogyny. Henry is clearly culpable at the end of the story, for his intention was flawed from the beginning. He accomplished what he'd set out to do; he married March, but not for love. (Originally, he wanted to take possession of the farm, too, but instead he is moving to Canada.) So in a sense, he received the hollow victory he had bargained for. It is doubtful that he would find contentment by possessing March, even if he could dominate her completely as he desires, for love is rooted in respect, and one cannot respect that which one owns so completely. The Fox presents us with a symbiotic neutralization between misogyny and feminism. In this case, the result is vexation and frustration on the male side over the inability to dominate, and on the female side, thwarted spirit and perpetual unfulfillment. There are no winners here, for the text favors neither viewpoint. And neither March or Henry are to be admired, for both are weak in their own way. But of the two, March deserves more sympathy, for she is clearly oppressed.

Rather than being a love story, The Fox illustrates that manipulation, however cunning, cannot bring fulfillment in a relationship. It also elucidates the penalty for forced consummation without reciprocity. There is no love in this tale; winning a wife with skillful manipulation is no substitute for romance. The price for such behavior is entrapment and perpetual unfulfillment for both parties. For these reasons alone, it is accurate to position The Fox as the antithesis to what a love story should be. Nevertheless, the story offers a philosophical anecdote for happiness: the loss of contentment is the price one pays to dominate another, and the price for submission to domination is alienation of the self. If there is a moral to this tale, it is that one cannot truly find fulfillment in any relationship that is smothered by the desire to possess.

# The Construction and Destructiveness of Passion in Wide Sargasso Sea

In Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, the novel's protagonist asks two searching questions of nobody in particular: "What crime was this, that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner? What mystery, that broke out, now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hour of the night?" (Bronte 292). Jane is referring to Bertha, Rochester's Creole wife and putative "madwoman in the attic." Jean Rhys wrote Wide Sargasso Sea in response to Jane's question. But WSS is not only Bertha's story; necessarily, it is also Rochester's. As Jane Eyre is a tale of fulfillment, Rhys' text is a study of unfullfillment. And just as Jane Eyre is centered on the suppression of passion, WSS explicates the dangers of unbridled passion. By means of adept manipulation of her text's narrative structure, multiple viewpoints, language, and subtexts, Rhys creates a cautionary tale of self-consuming passion that heightens the theme of restraint and feminine empowerment in Jane Eyre.

There is an old saying, "Easy reading is hard writing." Likewise, Rhys' prose has a smooth, hypnotic, poetic quality reminiscent of D.H. Lawrence's. She follows the Hemingway minimalist school of writing wherein she makes scant use of speech tags in her characters' dialogue to keep the reader focused on subtle undertones in psychological states, rather than on actions. The principal narrative strategy of WSS is different stream-of-thought viewpoints in the Modernist tradition. But passion overcomes reason in WSS; hence, internal monologues notwithstanding, the protagonists display only a modest degree of insight, self-awareness, and self-discovery. Unreliable narration requires the reader to ferret out actualities indirectly through the subjective perceptions of the protagonists. An offshoot of such reader involvement in WSS is that that the reader must immerse herself in the text and experience it as it happens, become the characters as they tell their side of the story, and engage with their passion.

Much of the passion in WSS can be found in the environment. Rhys takes advantage of social conditions that existed in which the natives would burn down the estates that represent the vestiges of British imperialism. Few of the villagers are presented as more than two-dimensional characters, yet their stereotypical passionate behavior serves a function: it adds an element of danger always lurking. The presence of the hostile villagers suggests that the past is a potent force to be reckoned with.

Wide Sargasso Sea is replete with suggestions of Hell and devils. Such references are appropriate for the novel, for since the time of Virgil, the concept of Hell has always connoted with passion gone wrong. Rhys occasionally describes the environment, for all its natural beauty, with a subtle-but-distinct undertone of malignance and dark foreboding. Even the color of the soil is suggestive: "The earth is red here. Do you notice?" (Rhys 71). Rochester definitely feels that the island is a hellish place, but not entirely without reason. For example, a goat, heavily suggestive of the classic cloven visage of Satan, stares at Rochester with its characteristically "slanting, yellow-green eyes" (126). Though the forest possesses lush beauty, he feels it is hostile to him: "I had reached the forest and you cannot mistake the forest. It is hostile" (104). The sense of hostility intensifies as his emotional state declines: "It seemed to me that everything around me was hostile...the trees were threatening and the shadows of the trees moving slowly over the floor menaced me. That green menace. I had felt it ever since I saw this place. There was nothing I knew, nothing to comfort me" (149). Aside from the obvious references to fire and raging infernos, most of the intimations of Hell are transitory in that the text does not draw particular attention to them. Only when these minute cues are viewed collectively does the motif of Hell appear. For example, it is usually hot, and everyone drips with sweat: "I could see beads of perspiration on her upper lip" (22). Often, Rhys describes her characters with evocative phrases such as "crimson with heat" (41). Even sleep offers no respite. Antoinette dreams of being surrounded by malignant forces: "I dreamed that I was walking in the forest. Not alone. Someone who hated me was with me, out of sight" (26). Rochester is tormented in his sleep: "I awoke in the dark after dreaming that I was buried alive, and when I was awake, the feeling of suffocation persisted" (137). Rhys suggests that the devil is active in Jamaica. An example is when Antoinette asks Sister Marie Augustine why "such terrible things happen," and the nun replies, "You must not concern yourself with that mystery." Echoing the words to the servant Godfrey, she adds, "We do not know why the devil must have his little day. Not yet" (61). Later in the novel, as Rochester's feelings toward Antoinette deteriorate, the word "devil" crops up frequently in his infernal expletives, which suggests that the devil may indeed have instigated his and Antoinette's miserable state.

A few critics have noticed this motif of Hell in WSS. One has even linked sex and sensuality in Antoinette's dreams to the demonization of men: "If we recall...Antoinette's statement that she dreamed she was in Hell, the strange man, the enemy who appears to be a sexual partner, becomes linked to the devil. For Antoinette and for women like her, those women who court risk and who are sensual and sexual by nature, sex and risk are the same. Men become evil partners, the devil incarnate" (O' Connor 186). As in Dante's Inferno, all of the tormented souls in WSS know why they are being tormented. No one questions his or her fate, and no one acts to alleviate the suffering. Even the nuns, in their dreary, mundane lives seem uninspired, and they do not pray for happiness. As damnation is already taking place, contemplation the question of "why am I in this state?" does not appear in WSS. And since all characters are already damned, there is no hope of salvation. This concept plays out at the end of the novel where Antoinette is driven insane and Rochester remains consumed with hate.

A strength of WSS is the enormous passion with which Rhys infuses her characters. She conveys this passion by careful selection of vocabulary in the exposition and in the characters' stream-of-consciousness. An example of this manipulation of vocabulary is her frequent choice of the word "hate." Hate, hatred, and other passionate descriptors of contempt show up dozens of times in the text. It seems that everyone in this work either fears, mistrusts, or despises someone. There is frequent mention of hateful whispers behind closed doors. An example is Rochester's description of Antoinette's handmaid, Amelie, who epitomizes the typical denizen of Dominica: "A lovely little creature, but sly, spiteful, malignant perhaps, like much else in this place" (Rhys 65), and "Her expression was so full of delighted malice...so intelligent...so intimate, that I felt ashamed and looked away" (67-8). Even the parrot bears animosity toward everyone: "After Mr Mason clipped his wings he grew very bad tempered...he darted at everyone and who came near [mother] and pecked their feet" (41).

Rochester and Antoinette have internalized their tropical Hell and the general animosity of those around them. Such internalization evokes a response from their passionate natures. When the newlyweds are not busy hating each other, Rochester hates his environment and Antoinette her social condition. And when those reasons to hate are not enough, they conjure up hatred over the past. But these characters should not be deemed entirely at fault; there is the past to be reckoned with. Critic Thomas Staley, in his book Jean Rhys, A Critical Study, writes that it is important to carefully observe Rochester's initial emotions upon arriving at Granbois, as his response amounts to a kind of culture shock, which explains if not justifies his later behavior toward Antoinette. "From the beginning, [Rochester] finds himself in a world at once seductive and hostile, so far distant from his English roots that there is little in his past to prepare him to understand much of what he observes....His reactions of puzzlement and mistrust slowly begin to transfer themselves to Antoinette, and his changing perceptions of her only deepen his apprehensions" (108). This is a strong argument, as Rochester's initial ambivalence, brief admiration, and subsequent hatred of Antoinette certainly mirrors his feelings for the island.

A great deal more can be said about passionate Rochester, who appears to be a Byronic hero. But does Rochester's passion stem from a brooding Byronic nature, or is it simply his reaction to his environment? Critic Arnold Davidson admits that Rochester does have a Byronic side, because of his craggy willfulness and "the way he wends his dark and solitary way through a world that he holds in contempt" (108). Yet Davidson believes that his Byronic character is undermined: "Rochester in the Byronic mode would never acknowledge how muddled he often is or admit to the mean actions that have sprung from his muddlement. WSS, however, undermines that stand by showing the confusions and self-deceptions at the heart of Rochester's heroic posturing" (29). O' Connor is also skeptical of Rochester's role as a Byronic hero when she posits, "Rhys reduces Rochester, in Bronte a 'master' and Byronic character, to a mediocre and petty man" (188). As is Antoinette, Rochester is a product of his past. Scholar Clara Thomas sees Rochester's background as an indication of Byronic character when she observes that "Rochester is as damaged by his father's failure to love him as Antoinette is by her mother's" (348). According to Thomas, Rochester is a victim, which lends credence to his role as a Byronic hero: "Seeing himself as a dispossessed and despised younger son, the new husband more than half suspects that despite the thirty-thousand-pound dowry already paid into his hands, he is somehow being duped" (348). Along similar lines, Rochester's feeling that he was duped could be the result of a clash in cultural expectations. Though his bride is beautiful, she is clearly not a demure and proper English maiden. "So what might be evidence of his great good fortune is also proof of his exiled state" (Davidson 28). Le Gallez also provides a sympathetic Marxist interpretation of Rochester's negativity: "There is a strong suggestion throughout the text that the moral decline of a...soul such as Edward Rochester, may be traced to his materialism" (141). If one takes Rochester's background and the environmental variables into account, one can make a cogent argument that Rochester's passion is his reaction to circumstances outside of his control, which is emblematic of the Byronic hero.

It may be argued that Rochester is a Byronic hero because the source of his passion is revenge. But Le Gallez is not sold on this point. She avers that his "revenge" amounts to a petty spitefulness below that ascribed to the Byronic hero. Consider the following passage spoken by Rochester: "She'll not laugh in the sun again. She'll not dress up and smile at herself in the damnable looking-glass. So pleased, so satisfied.... Vain, silly creature. Made for loving? Yes, but she'll have no lover, for I don't want her and she'll see no other" (Rhys 136). Le Gallez states that Rochester's choice of words "punctures his pretension toward the status of tragic hero," as his incarceration of Antoinette appears spiteful rather than justified by any lofty notions of revenge (159). Furthermore, Rochester's tendency toward histrionics debars him from the status of hero, and his concern with the question of pity demonstrates a consciousness of image which is not in keeping with the Satanic model. Evidence may be found in Rochester's lines: "I hate poets now and poetry. As I hate music which I loved once. Sing your songs, Rupert the Rhine, but I'll not listen, though they tell me you've a sweet voice....Pity? There is none for me. Tied to a lunatic for life—a drunken, lying lunatic—gone her mother's way" (Rhys 164). Le Gallez believes that pity is not being evoked by the text, as in the case of the classic hero; instead, Rochester is attempting to cultivate pity for himself (157). Despite Rochester's self-pity, he is worthy of pity anyway because we understand him better. This is not to say that his behavior is righteous, only that his motivations have been rationalized. Le Gallez sums it up nicely when she writes, "In Rhys' text, [Rochester's] character is considerably fleshed out so that his cruelty becomes understandable while, at the same time, just as unacceptable" (142). Undeniably, the fleshing out of Rochester's character is one of the best ways in which WSS fills in the textual gap in Jane Eyre.

In many ways, Rhys' rendition of Rochester's passion clashes with the way he is portrayed in Jane Eyre. Though Rochester loves Jane, his conduct is marked largely by restraint. This portrayal lies in direct contrast to WSS, in which Rochester mutters to himself about Antoinette, "You hate me and I hate you. We'll see who hates best. But first I will destroy your hatred. My hate is colder, stronger, and you'll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing" (Rhys 170). It is uncommon to find, in literature, such an open declaration of unalloyed hatred. Such extremity in thought reveals that this man is capable of a great deal of passion. As are the other major characters of WSS, Rochester is a victim, and similar to the other characters, he fails to overcome adversity due to character flaws and history. Instead of resisting the forces of hatred and evil in his environment, he succumbs, embracing them. As have the souls of Dante's Inferno, he has made a conscious choice to exist in Hell. But by the time of his introduction in Jane Eyre, he has evolved; his passion has become better directed and controlled. It is plausible that his trial by fire was a learning experience for him, enabling him to love Jane better and more completely than he would have been able to do otherwise and express authentic sympathy and compassion for his mad wife.

Antoinette's character is also infused with passion, but her passion arises in reaction to her environment. Antoinette is a "straw-woman" whom Rhys literally burns at the end of the story. Indeed, "Antoinette" rhymes with "marionette," suggesting that Antoinette is a doll having no control over her destiny. Her end is a complex collusion of the environment and Rochester's cruelty. She is caught in a maelstrom of hatred: her mother is indifferent to her, Tia steals her dress, the servants of Coulibri hate her, and the to the people of local village sing that she is a white cockroach. And if that is not enough, she has a hateful uncle who endeavors to spoil her fragile newlywed bliss with Rochester. Antoinette's friends, Aunt Cora and Christophine, are ineffective in helping her overcome the adversity she faces. Essentially, Antoinette fails as much as Jane succeeds. But the victimization of Antoinette has a purpose. Teresa O' Connor believes that WSS shows how marriage subsumes the female, deprives her of liberty and autonomy, and contributes to her destruction, as evidenced by the loss of her name (195). Le Gallez takes a similar feminist viewpoint by implicating patriarchal standards as the primary cause of Antoinette's condition: "Underlying the tragedy of Antoinette's situation is her powerlessness as an individual in the patriarchal environment in which she lives" (141). Coral Howells echoes both O'Connor and Le Gallez, and she goes a step further by implicating imperialism: "Married against her will, deprived by her husband of even her Christian name as well as her fortune and brought into exile, the Antoinette Rochester of Rhys' novel emerges as the victim of a patriarchal plot devised by fathers and sons which chimes with the plot of imperialism" (108). On casual consideration, all of this feminist rhetoric would seem to indicate that the narrative of WSS undermines the theme of female empowerment of Jane Eyre. But in fact, WSS strengthens the theme of empowerment by exploring the consequences of its absence. Furthermore, the unbridled passion in WSS contrasts sharply with the generally subdued mood in Jane Eyre, in which the floodgates of passion are opened only under the auspices of social and financial equality. The implication seems to be that passion without equality breeds contempt, as one cannot respect what one dominates emotionally and financially so completely as Rochester does Antoinette.

Even if Wide Sargasso Sea is read without taking Jane Eyre into consideration, it is an entertaining, if dismal, tale in its own right and a compelling exploration of passion and despair. Through skillful utilization of the text's narrative form, language, and subtexts, Rhys constructs a tale of that augments the theme of restraint and feminine empowerment in Jane Eyre. Rochester's venomous passion withers Antoinette and makes her world his private tropical Hell. Rochester qualifies as a Byronic hero in the sense that his passion is invoked by external circumstances, although his sense of pity does not fit the archetype. Rhys scholar Selma James succinctly sums up Rhys' goal when she writes, "Ms. Rhys sets out to tell the other side of the story, to make Mrs. Rochester's case, to refute the distorted account given of her by English literature" (61). Indeed, the madwoman has come out of the attic: Antoinette is a victim of Rochester's passion and a victim of the patriarchal culture and imperialist mindset of her era. But this is Rochester's story, too. WSS reveals plausible facets of his personality that were not evident in Jane Eyre. We understand Rochester better now, and this greater understanding evokes in us a deeper compassion for him.
Works Cited

Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre Ed. Richard Nemesvari. New York: Broadview, 1999.

Davidson, Arnold E. "Wide Sargasso Sea" Jean Rhys. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1985.

Howells, Coral A. "The madwoman comes out of the attic." Jean Rhys. New York: St. Martin's, 1991.

James, Selma "Part II, Jean Rhys." The Ladies and the Mammies. Exeter: Falling Wall, 1983.

Le Gallez, Paula. "Antoinette and Edward." The Rhys Woman. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1990.

O' Connor, Teresa F. "The Long View: The Wide Sargasso Sea—Women: Daughters and Mothers." The West Indian Novels. New York: New York UP, 1986.

Rhys, Jean. Wide Sargasso Sea. New York: Norton, 1982.

Staley, Thomas F. "Wide Sargasso Sea" Jean Rhys: A Critical Study. Austin: U of Texas P, 1979.

Thomas, Clara. "Mr. Rochester's First Marriage: Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys." World Literature Written in English. 17, 1978.

# The Sorrows of Young Werther as a Rationalist Novel

"What a horrid little monster," W. H. Auden concludes of Young Werther in his foreword to Johann von Goethe's novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther. What Auden is referring to is the unfortunate protagonist of a work that seems decidedly Romantic. Indeed, most of Werther's writings are articulations of feelings and intuitions, which are chief concerns of the Romantics. True to Romantic notions of experiencing the world, Werther takes ordinary events around him, internalizes them, and experiences their sublime qualities. He feels love, pain, pleasure, elation, and gloom. His passions distort his view of the world and his place within it. Yet, if Auden is correct in his analysis, it follows that Werther's value system is questionable because of its ruinous effect on Werther and those around him. Thus, although the explication of passion makes Goethe's novel seem as though it were written in support of Romantic sensibilities, by the novel's conclusion, one finds the novel has instead expounded the virtues of Rationalism.

The epistolary form of Sorrows, typical of works from the Age of Reason, is an example of Rationalism. The epistolary form, with its absence of a preceding framing narrative, lends temporal linearity to the novel; flashbacks and digressions, used sparingly, take place on the same day the missive is written. Barring the digressions into Ossian, Sorrows is straightforward in time, place, and subject matter. Furthermore, the novel lacks the complicated subplots often found in Romantic works.

According to Rational satirists such as Swift and Pope, love is a form of enthusiasm in the pejorative sense. Rationalists considered florid outpourings of emotion as a type of insanity. Werther validates this Rationalist point of view because his love is the product of delusion. Astute readers see that while Lotte definitely likes Werther, she does not love him in the romantic sense. Werther could be considered a martyr if Lotte shunned him, yet she is actually quite civil to him at all times. Nonetheless, Werther continues to mortify his psyche with his obsession with her. He gives himself no respite. Dreams of Lotte keep him up at night; thoughts of her pervade his every experience. Indeed, suffering for love is a Romantic notion, just as is the communion with nature that Werther abandons early on. But Werther's suffering is self-inflicted. He is more in love with love than that with Lotte. He cannot see the incorrectness of loving one that is engaged in a mutual love affair with another. Werther may just as well have been in love with a doll, for there never was any chance that Lotte could love him in return. There is nothing nobly Romantic in such badly misplaced love.

Unlike a Romantic novel in which Romantic notions are championed throughout, Sorrows offers the reader dialectic between reason and passion. Several places in the novel, both schools of thought are argued convincingly. The chief example is the discussion that ensues between Albert and Werther after Werther points Albert's pistol to his own head. Afterward, Albert cogently argues the Rationalist point of view in that ideas provide empowerment, whereas Werther speaks "from his heart" (59), maintaining that excessive reasoning robs one of passion. Albert makes an excellent case for Rationalist ideals; Werther argues competently for Romantic notions, but in the end, it is Werther's Romantic notions that kill him. Thus, Albert's rational point of view is affirmed as the worthier of the two. Such an affirmation of Reason is not typical of the Romantic novel.

Werther lives in a society that is sympathetic to Rationalism. Hence, he is not allowed to succeed. An example of his failure in the Rationalist society is the party in which he is brusquely asked to leave by his patron count. Romantic Werther believes himself to be equal with the nobility in the room. He believes that his passion and sense of self-importance gives him this equality. Yet, in the era in which Sorrows was written, the reader would have noted Werther's error and sympathized with the Count's position. Another example of Werther not resisting the rational, lawful society is when he sympathizes with the crime of passion of the ex-servant. Werther seems oblivious to the reality that a man has been murdered. Instead, he posits that the servant's heated passion granted him the right to take another man's life. Ultimately Werther is unable to free the man despite his best efforts; hence, Rationalist society is again validated.

It can be argued that Werther is the underdog in both cases, and since underdogs are usually championed, so must be his system of belief. Yet, Werther does not prevail: he does not win Lotte from Albert; he embarrasses Fraulein von B.; his efforts to have the prisoner released fail. Even his correspondent, Wilhelm, seems critical of him, as evinced by Werther's responses to his letters. All Werther's passion-driven goals fail. Eventually his unbridled passion drives him to kill himself. Since Werther does not prevail, his viewpoints are not validated. Most tellingly, Werther dies without benefit of clergy, which may suggest Werther's disharmony with the universe, or at least with organized, hierarchical religion that reflects the Great Chain of Being.

Finally, if Sorrows were work of Romanticism, the novel would expound the virtues of love and the passionate nature instead of showing its negative effects the way it does. Passion appears to be absent in Albert and Lotte's relationship. Nevertheless, there is no denying that Albert and Lotte are happy. Whether they keep displays of passion in check while in Werther's presence is irrelevant. Their relationship is a model of decorum and order, which are supreme tenets of Rationalism. When the even keel of their relationship is held in contrast to Werther's agony, the rational point of view becomes infinitely more attractive. Furthermore, Werther's suicide born of unbridled Romantic passion places the future of Albert and Lotte's happy relationship in jeopardy. The role of Romantic ideals in the possible destruction of the lover's joyful relationship makes the reader sympathetic to the calmer Rationalist notions of stability, order, and reason.

Despite The Sorrows of Young Werther's deep exploration of the human psyche, the work is anti-Romanticist. Had Werther's suffering culminated in some sort of epiphany or auspicious circumstance, such as the acquisition of wisdom or the winning of Lotte's hand, Werther's Romantic ideals would have been validated. Instead, the opposite happens. Werther, driven by his Romantic notions, dies ignobly, and the Rationalist lives that Romantic Werther touched are subsequently cast into their own cataclysms of despair. In contrast, the orderly Rationalist world looks quite favorable.
Work Cited

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. The Sorrows of Young Werther. New York: Random House, 1990.

# The Overlapping Perspectives of History in Abeng and A History of the World in 10½ Chapters

The novels of Michelle Cliff's Abeng and Julian Barne's A History of the World in 10½ Chapters illustrate different perspectives of history, yet their perspectives overlap in some ways.

In Abeng, Cliff gives the reader two versions of history. First, she tells the history from a factual standpoint through the use of an omniscient third-person narrator. This factual history makes up a large portion of Chapter 1 and is interspersed in sections throughout the book. The primary focus of the factual history is the progression and eventual dissolution of British slavery in Jamaica. Second, Cliff gives us the history as understood by the Jamaicans through the lens of their biases. Whereas the narrative of third-person historical account seems objective, the accounts of history according to certain characters is quite colorful. For example, Mr. Savage believes that the Jews of the Holocaust deserved their fate because they "should have known better than to antagonize Adolf Hitler...a misguided genius in search of a scapegoat" (Cliff 72). Some of the characters censor history. The teacher, Mr. Powell, sanitizes the works he teaches by not revealing to the students some of the works' unpleasant contexts. For instance, he justifies censoring the context of a poem that was inspired by a bloody riot in America by thinking, "Better the children should not know this part of the history—America was American anyway, and not for West Indians. At least, not for those who could not pass" (89). Initially, Cliff gives the official version of history as understood by the Jamaicans, as in the case of the slaves being tossed overboard at sea because they were infected with the plague (7-8). Later, Cliff reveals that the ship captains had the slaves tossed overboard in order to collect insurance money. By setting forth an official account of history and then correcting it with an entirely different account, Cliff is showing how the selective remembering of historical events often hides the horror of what really occurred. It is worth mentioning that Barnes also notes how the awful truth sometimes comes back to haunt us: "We bury our victims in secrecy (strangled princelings, irradiated reindeer), but history discovers what we did to them" (240).

A few of the characters in Abeng have internalized specific interpretations of history. Two examples are Clare's father, Boy Savage, and Mrs. Phillips. These characters use history as a way of validating themselves and decriminalizing their ancestry. Yet these characters do not seem to realize that they are being taken in by biased versions of history that are not entirely accurate or that are born of specious reasoning. Their adoption of heavily biased interpretations of history suggests that knowing what event occurred does not necessarily bestow an understanding of why it happened.

In History, Barnes touches upon a similar type of historical bias in the first chapter in his retelling of the story of Noah's ark. As did Noah with the animals that displeased him, we tend to keep whichever notions of history fit into our view and discard the rest. Personal biases affect those who record history. We have evidence that writers of history sometimes distort what happened, which explains why our historical records may be faulty. Of course, some of Barnes' re-tellings of historical events are the product of his imaginative thinking. For example, what evidence does he have that Noah was a drunkard except that he accidentally got drunk once? In his tongue-in-cheek style, Barnes makes outrageous claims about the events of history. His method is to take a well-established historical record and then deconstruct it. Barnes gives the reader several ways of looking at history. But one must always be aware that history is a product of dreaming. The ambiguity between reality and dreaming is exemplified in "Survivor," in which the reader has no way of knowing whether the protagonist is really on an island or only dreaming that she is.

Cliff and Barnes have two viewpoints on who writes history. In Abeng, history, as taught in Jamaican schools, is written by the British. Not only is the British version of history not relevant to Jamaicans, it is outdated and stale: "The history, of course, of the English monarchs. The history of Jamaica as it pertained to England—the names of the admirals who secured the island from the Spanish, the treaties....the hurricanes...the introduction of rubber planting...all these things were dated and briefly described" (Cliff 84). Importantly, the history taught at the school glosses over the seamy underside of British slavery in Jamaica. Apparently, since no bloody civil war occurred between the British at the time they abolished slavery, the British seem to believe themselves to have atoned for their cultural misstep.

Barnes has a broader view of history. Through his example of the deconstruction of history, he shows us that truthful historical accounts can be made only through the inclusion of a wide variety of historical sources, which means that no one single source or historian should be relied upon as a truthful account of history. We should keep in mind that "History isn't what happened. History is just what historians tell us" (Barnes 240). As would a true deconstructionist who is always deferring meaning, Barnes goes a step further in suggesting that even when we cull a wide variety of sources, we may never have a true account of history, as too much crucial information has been lost through distortion and antiquity. And what information we have lost we make up for with fabrication: "We make up a story to cover the facts we don't know or can't; we keep a few facts and spin a new story around them" (240).

While Cliff elucidates how historical notions are created by the British and perpetuated by the Jamaican people, Barnes is a deconstructionist. He tries to show how mistaken we can be in adhering to traditional notions of reality. According to Barnes, history has two faces: what we think happened and what really did happen. Barnes intimates that history has at least two versions, as suggested by his repeated invocation of pairs throughout the novel. He suggests that not only are historical accounts clouded by intentional and unintentional distortion of the actual facts, but also contemporary modes of discourse shape accounts. As illustrated in Abeng and corroborated in History, reinterpretations of history sometimes serve to reverse the traditional moral judgments applied to horrific historical events, such as the Holocaust.

# The Elements of Deconstructionism in A History of the World in 10½ Chapters

A History of the World in 10½ Chapters is a predominantly postmodern novel primarily because of the deconstructionist ideas it articulates

First of all, Barnes' novel deconstructs our beliefs about history. The rule of the day is anarchy. The experimental structure of the book reflects Barnes' view of history as non-chronological and fragmented. History, according to Barnes, does not progress in a linear fashion, nor does it proceed toward the ultimate goal of God's plan for humanity, a plan of absolute reason and universal truth, as set forth by Hegel. Furthermore, historical accounts are subject to the Darwinian principle in that only the fittest survive; historical accounts are constantly being reevaluated through science investigation, and so an ultimate determinacy can never be reached.

Truth in historical accounts is ever elusive. Barnes illustrates how events thought of as "mythical" have a way of occurring in real life. He suggests that there may be truth in myth, and conversely, so-called factual events may actually be mythical. Barnes elucidates these concepts in his discussion of the story of Jonah and the whale in "Three Simple Stories": whereas scientists assert that one cannot live within the belly of a whale for more than a few minutes, there is an authentic historical record that counters their claim. Also, in his use of the Jonah story, Barnes shows us how we sometimes mistake the signifier for the signified: most people know about the whale but they cannot tell you what the story is about.

Second, the chapters are not historical records; rather, they are alternate versions of histories. In fact, each chapter seems to ask the reader to make up his or her mind as to what constitutes truth and value. In opposition to modernist notions of completeness, these histories are not complete; they are fragments. And unlike modernist writers but perfectly in line with deconstructionist thinkers such as Derrida, Barnes does not believe that the truth can be found. Truth is like the ark that is reincarnated throughout the book as a cruise ship, ocean liners, and rafts. What is thought of as impervious and/or unsinkable is eventually destroyed or subverted. Deconstructionist Barnes sums up our pursuit of truth using the metaphor of a floundering raft when he writes, "We are all lost at sea, washed between hope and despair, hailing something that may never come to rescue us" (137).

Third, the novel is postmodern because its narrative strategy is nontraditional. Barnes uses a remarkable variety of narrative voices and discursive strategies. In Chapter 1, the objective narrator is a woodworm. Chapter 3 is a mock transcription of a 16th century trial. The latter half of Chapter 5 is told by a breathless art historian. The half-chapter, "Parenthesis," is a didactic essay. Chapter 9 is a desultory first person narrative told by a soul in the afterlife. And so on. The variety of narratives and discourses belies the nontraditional approach of postmodernists in the construction of works.

On a first read, History seems disjointed in its approach. Each chapter appears to be a digression into some other aspect of history, an embodiment of some other deconstructionist tenet. The unity of the book can be found in the intertexuality of the chapters more so than in the recurring themes. One can find parallels and contrasts with the chapters. Many of these connections depend on irony or coincidence. Barnes points to this associative quality of the work when he writes, "The history of the world? Just voices echoing in the dark; images that burn for a few centuries and then fade; stories, old stories that sometimes seem to overlap; strange links, impertinent connections" (240). An example of a recurring connection is the appearance of pairs throughout the book. The concept of the pairs is established in Chapter 1 when the animals enter the ark two by two. The next chapter describes the tourists boarding the cruise ship as "obedient couples" (33). When the Arab hijackers begin shooting the passengers, they shoot two passengers at a time. Pairs appear frequently in other chapters. Notably, the half chapter, "Parenthesis," discusses, among other things, love within couples. The recurrence and substitution of images and metaphors fall in line with structuralist tenets. Structuralists do not believe in the genius of the artist or writer in that they can create something entirely new; they see the artist as creating meaning merely by recombining tropes and signifiers that already exist.

Fourth, events that occur in History's narratives seem to occur without reason. It appears that there is no such thing as fate with the exception that everyone is fated to randomness. Such ideas are postmodernist in that events are due to chance rather than design. Furthermore, there is no such thing as divine providence. Both good and evil, right and wrong, go unpunished and unrewarded equally.

Finally, postmodernism shows up in the book's conclusion. In contrast to the completeness of modernist works such as Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse, Barnes does not give us a sense of completion at the end of History. This concept of the "unfinished work" mirrors history, which Barnes views as indeterminate because it is constantly subject to reinterpretation and revision.

# The Role of the Castle in English Medieval Literature

For centuries, the castle played a prominent part in medieval literature. In works such as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, The Castle of Perseverance, and The Canterbury Tales, the castle serves as a symbol as unity and preeminence of nobility, the centralization of society, as well the cogency of faith and the steadfast constant of God's power.

The castle in medieval times was very often a microcosm of medieval society. Here you would find tradesmen that were common to the period such as the livery, the cartwright, tailor, cobbler, the apothecary, and of course, the knight. The sort of people who represented these trades could be found in Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, a superbly descriptive poem that offers us a broad cross-section of medieval society.

The castles themselves were built mainly with defense in mind and comfort a distant second. The earliest of these structures were constructed in Anglo-Saxon Britain around the mid-600s. These were mostly wood buildings on top of an earthen mound. This type of proto-fortress was called a "motte". Surrounding the motte was usually a ditch or a palisade made of upright wood logs. The open area between the outer palisades and the motte was called the bailey. In this bailey, the lord was able to shelter his villagers and livestock in case of enemy attack. One can imagine that a crude fort of this time is the same type Beowulf himself would have lived in when he ruled Denmark. Since these structures were constructed for primarily for defense, little thought was given to other practical aspects of their design. Therefore, these rude structures were damp, drafty, and often suffered from poor drainage unless they were located next to a river or stream. In other words, they were miserable places in which to live. When one considers the uncomfortable living conditions of the motte, one may also, suspect Beowulf had other, less noble impetus besides God's will for leaving his fortress in Denmark to fight Grendel in Sweden.

After the Battle of Hastings in 1066, fortresses in Britain became more sophisticated in their design as influenced by the Norman Conquerors. The wood motte gave way to a stone shell keep surrounded by thick stone walls called "curtains". Many other improvements were made to the structures to allow greater effectiveness in repelling an attack from a hostile lord or foreign invader. Some of these improvements were the joining of the walls at irregular angles, the additions of battlements, towers, portcullis and massive drawbridges.

The overall layout of the castle also evolved. The earliest stone castle was simply a keep surrounded by a curtain. By the time of Chaucer, the keep had been replaced by large gatehouses called "barbicans". The barbican served as both the residence proper of the nobleman and as the main defensive structure of the castle. Sometimes additional curtains were constructed as an auxiliary defense, an outer curtain that completely enclosed an inner curtain. This created structure known as a "concentric" castle.

As was stated earlier, castles were built for defense over comfort. Life in a medieval castle was often unpleasant. Castles were damp, drafty, and difficult to heat adequately. Still, they were a vast improvement over those of previous centuries. A prominent feature of most castles was great hall where feasts were held, private libraries, and most often a chapel. Sir Gawain in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight attended Mass in a chapel such as this.

The castle was often the center of the fiefdoms that were common in the Middle Ages. The basic fiefdom consisted of a castle inhabited by a nobleman and the serfs who worked the lands surrounding the castle. Since a common currency had not yet been created, the economics of the fiefdom were very simple. The serfs, who lived in villages outside the castle walls, cultivated the land and gave a percentage of the harvest to the nobleman of the castle. In return, the nobleman provided law and order, and protected the serfs from mercenaries and the armies of neighboring fiefdoms.

A small garrison, whose purpose was protecting the serfs and the land, fortified the castle itself, and foremost, the noble family that resided within. If the nobleman were wealthy enough, a small army of several hundred might reside within the walls of the castle. In this case, an equal number of tradesmen and apprentices needed to reside at the castle to keep the army ready and able for battle. In the case of a maintaining a small army of this size, a broad cross-section of the medieval trades might be found within the curtains of a large fortress.

The era of the impregnable castle fortress ended in the twilight of the Middle Ages with the introduction of gunpowder. Though the thick stone walls of the castle provided adequate defense against men carrying hand weapons and stone-throwing artillery (such as the catapult and ballista), even the most stout, well-constructed castle could not (for long) withstand the pounding of cannons or explosives planted at the base of the curtains. After the 15th century, the castles, still inhabited, were made more comfortable to live in at the cost of losing some of their defensive capabilities.

It may be puzzling to some why relatively few castles survive today in Britain as compared to other European countries such as Belgium or Germany. The primary reason for this is retribution after the English Civil War that took place in the 1640s when Parliament led by Cromwell revolted against King Charles and his noble subjects. After King Charles was defeated, Cromwell "slighted" all of the castles held by those who supported King Charles so that they could never again be re-fortified and used in opposition to parliament. These castles were "pulled-down" and reduced to rubble by Cromwell. Dozens of magnificent castles were lost to us in this way. Fortunately, a few survived. Most notable of these are the Heddingham in Essex, which is a good example of a Norman keep, Warwick castle in Warks which is an excellent example of a 14th century keep-less castle, the multi-towered Windsor in Berks, and the finally, the Tower of London, which exemplifies a small-but-majestic, concentric castle.

# Madness and British Literature in the 18th and 19th Centuries

Mental illness has been with humankind probably as long as civilization has existed. Consider this excerpt from William Shakespear's King Lear:

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you

From seasons such as these?"

This excerpt is a good example of how the mentally ill were treated before the sixteenth century. With all the mystery surrounding the causes of mental illness, these people were on their own. There was no treatment, and for all practical purposes, the mentally ill has might as well been lost in a raging storm.

Before the middle of the nineteenth century, the people of villages and small towns had a horror of those who were different. They had an authoritarian intolerance of behavior of those people who didn't conform to rigidly drawn norms. The people attached great importance to inherited social roles, to customs ordained by tradition. Those who deviated from these societal norms were dealt with in a most brutal manner and unfeeling manner. Their backs were beaten blue with bloody wounds.

Generally, if the insane person was peaceful, people generally let him run loose. But if he became raging or troublesome, he'd be chained down in a corner or an isolated room where his food is brought to him daily.

In Ireland in the early 1800s they would dig a five-foot hole in the cabin where the person lived (not high enough for the person to stand up in), put the person in the hole, then put a grate over the hold to prevent him from getting out. They would then give this person his food there until he died.

Other times, if a person was not chained at home, he might be fastened to a stake in a poorhouse or a workhouse, locked in small cages, and in unheated rooms or stables. Often, they were place in semi-public places where they would be taunted and tormented by the locals.

If turned out of their homes or villages, the mentally ill swelled the stream of beggars that roamed the streets of early modern Europe. Many of the "village idiots" were those who had suffered mental retardation or schizophrenia due to birth trauma (protracted labor in the days of pelves narrowed by rickets). Neurosyphilis also contributed greatly to the ranks of the insane.

The first asylums came into existence in the Middle Ages. These places had only custodial functions. The oldest psychiatric hospital in Europe was Bethlem founded in the 13th century as the Priory of St. Mary of Bethlehem, which by 1403 houses six insane men among other denizens. In later centuries the hospice was given over entirely to the insane. The eventually corrupted itself to Bedlam. In 1547, the City of London acquired custodianship of Bedlam. 1815, Bedlam boasted 122 patients.

The first asylums were considered a dumping ground for the insane. They functioned as museums for the collection of the unwanted.

William Battie, the founding medical officer of St. Luke's Hospital in London (opened in 1751) was the first psychiatrist to argue for the therapeutic benefits of institutionalizing patients. In 1758, at the age of 54, Battie wrote the Treatise on Madness which specifically attributed therapeutic virtues to the asylum. He emphasized isolation from family, friends, and servants as part of the cure.

The Lunatics Act of 1845 made provision of a county asylum for pauper lunatics mandatory. In contrast to the lovely, ornate architecture of the era, the buildings used to house the insane look quite dismal and austere. Bedlam and St. Luke's was thrown open to visitors every Sunday afternoon. For a few pennies, Londoner could promenade past cells arranged like circus sideshows.

There were two types of asylums in existence: Private and Public. The conditions in the public asylums such as Bedlam and St. Luke's were abysmal. These were overcrowded, understaffed, and most inmates were kept in line with brutal beatings and intimidation. Many inmates died from disease and untreated infections. The inmates were rarely washed. Most inmates, those that didn't have beds, slept on mixture of straw and their own feces. Their bodies were often covered with running sores. Violent inmates or those who were escape risks were chained day and night and were never allowed to leave their cell. The more docile inmates were allowed to run unsupervised in the hallways and were locked down only at night.

The private madhouses are where the wealthy were kept. The conditions at these places were generally better than those in the public asylums. Some of the names of were the Henley-in-Arden madhouse, Fishponds, Brook House, Clapton, Beaufort House, Fulman, Whitmore House, and Huxton. Although these places had better conditions, they were extremely expensive. Most of them were widely criticized for their "principle of profit." Around the eighteenth century, the idea came about that removing the insane from the environment that caused their disease could cure them. The tours stopped, and the conditions improved dramatically.

There is a whole litany of "ailments":

Monomania (also called Theomania): this person believes he or she is divinely immortal – basically, a god.

Monomania with Love: a person whose mind is dominated by sex; he or she is a nymphomaniac.

Monomania with Depression: a person driven into depression and made partially insane by psychological shock.

And so on.

Once someone was committed to Bedlam, they usually did not leave alive. A man named William Norris was an inmate of Bedlam for 14 years. He was chained to a post with fetters around his arms, legs, and neck. His sole crime was attempting to escape the asylum.

The treatment of mental illness before the 18th Century had hardly advanced from the medieval belief that insanity was caused by possession by devils. The devils were first forced to leave by tormenting them. If this did not work, the person was isolated and fettered to prevent them from doing harm to others. With the advent of asylums, however, treatments were made in an attempt to relieve the insane of his or her insanity. Here are some of the "cures":

Bloodletting, also known as "Venesection": This was done to release the bad humors in the circulated by the system though the blood. Veins that could be cut were the jugular, occipital, frontal, angular, or nasal internal vein. Closer to the head the better. Vein is slit lengthwise.

Purging done with brutal dosages of laxatives: This is a treatment for delirium. It was usually a tablespoon of Epsom salts and emetic tartar given every half-hour until the desired effect takes place. This is to clean out the bile that has accumulated in the maniac's system.

Vomits for Snivelling, Purging of the Phlegmatic humor, or treatment for hypochondria: This was confinement by restraint in a straitjacket to prevent the movement of the arms and hands. For ingenious inmates, iron manacles or special restraining devices (like this chair) are used. Restraint was supposed to calm raging lunatics and prevent them from harming themselves or others.

Freezing the head: First the head is shaved, and then the head is packed with ice.

Strapped to a swing or circular, rotating bed: Every eight minutes, abruptly change motion until the contents of the stomach, bowels and bladder are discharged.

Blistering the head or nape: A caustic compound such as antimony in plaster is dabbed on the scalp. A treatment for melancholia.

Seton treatment: This is where a tube is inserted beneath the scalp to supposedly drain away irritants around the brain.

There were some patients who refused to eat or drink, or were too violent to be fed. These patients underwent a procedure called "sprouting". This is when they had their front teeth knocked out so that they could be forced fed. One visitor to St. Luke's remarked that of all the female inmates, not one had any of their front teeth left.

Poets of the Neoclassical period were fascinated by insanity, and they wrote extensively on it. Madness during the romantic era was loftily presented as an object of interest and supernatural power. Occasionally, however, a poet or writer found himself incarcerated in an asylum. Sometimes, one of these people thought they belonged in one.

A poet named William Cowper (pronounced "Cooper") (1731-1800) was unquestionably insane at least three time in his life. He was once confined to a private madhouse outside London for over two years. In 1763, he failed in an attempt to commit suicide and was committed. His insanity was the result of spurious and degrading evangelical. He wrote of his state in "Lines Written during a Period of Insanity":

"Hatred and vengeance my external portion,

Scarce can endure delay of execution,

Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my Soul in torment."

And the following:

"Damn'd below Judas; more abhorr'd than he was,

Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.

Twice betrayed Jesus and me, the last delinquent,

Deems me the profanest."

These lines tell us a lot about his misery. Later, after he got better, he wrote:

"All at once my chains were broken,

From my feet my fetters fell,

And that word in pity spoken.

Snatched me from the gates of hell."

It is worth noting that Cowper wrote the words to many hymns still sung today. His most famous hymn is "God Moves in a Mysterious Way."

Unlike Cowper, William Blake was a visionary who rejoiced in his madness. Whereas Cowper yearned to return to sanity, Blake rejected sanity and celebrated it. Blake once wrote:

"I must Create a System or be enslav'd by another Man's.

I will not Reason and Compare: my business is to create."

Although Blake was never incarcerated, wrote poetry that described Milton entering his left foot; he claimed to speak daily and hourly with the spirit of his dead brother and other spirits; he wrote long, incomprehensible poems about unheard-of beings with names like Enitharmon and Glogonooza; and outside his "Songs of Innocence and Experience," his poetry is filled with violence and mental fighting between reason and imagination:

Some critics maintain that Blake was completely insane and only his relative inoffensiveness kept him from confinement. Other critics, however, suggest that a great part of Blake's madness consisted of anger at those who clung to what he regarded as insanities. He writes of John Flaxman, and artist and former friend:

"Madman" I have been call'd. "Fool" the call thee.

I wonder which they Envy. Thee or Me?"

I mock thee not, tho' I am Mocked.

Thou callest me Madman, but I call thee Blockhead."

Christopher Smart, who lived from 1722 to 1770, was a poet who was eventually incarcerated for his illness. He was overcome by a religious enthusiasm that caused him to constantly mutter prayers and religious epithets. Most critics find concur his poetry is marked by his mental illness. But despite his illness, his genius shines though in some surprising ways. One of Smart's most famous poems, "Jubilate Agno," has a section that speaks of his cat Jeoffrey. In this poem, he states his belief that his cat embodies praise of God.
Section II – American Literature

# "The Blues I'm Playing" as an Ethnic Interpretation of Art

Langston Hughes's short story, "The Blues I'm Playing," delineates the relationship between Mrs. Ellsworth, a wealthy middle-aged white woman, and Oceola, a musically talented, young black woman who lives in the slums of Harlem. Mrs. Ellsworth, a widow bereft of children, takes on Oceola as one of her protégés by paying for the young girl's musical education. What Hughes gives us is several years' interaction between the two women, illustrating a rift in understanding between white and black cultures and their interpretation of art.

At the beginning of the story, Oceola is initially suspicious of Mrs. Ellsworth's intentions. Gradually, she comes to accept the older woman's patronage. Mrs. Ellsworth, in return, pursues an interest in Oceola's personal life. She is dismayed to learn that Oceola shares her small flat with a man. Though the issue is not made explicit, Hughes implies that there is a romantic relationship between the housemates. Mrs. Ellsworth also fails to make the connection between Oceola's paying Pete's way through school and the black girl's affection for him; Mrs. Ellsworth thinks Pete is mooching off of Oceola. Later, the reader finds that Mrs. Ellsworth is so detached from the genesis of Oceola's inspiration that she cannot understand that her protégé's love for Pete is also a source of musical passion in her strange art form she calls the blues.

Oceola manages to attain a cool appreciation for the works of the old masters such as Beethoven and Schubert, yet she continually gravitates toward the contemporary music of her people. Her understanding is that the white people have forgotten the living origin of art. They had forgotten the human experience that went into the composition of the music, and instead of immersing themselves in it, they admire it from afar. Mrs. Ellsworth's admonishment of Oceola for her plan to wed Pete mirrors the rift between the older woman and her protégé in the appreciation of music. Despite Oceola's persistent denial to the contrary, Mrs. Ellsworth cannot understand how Oceola can have a husband and children, yet continue to produce music.

A striking exemplification of the disparate views of Oceola and Mrs. Ellsworth is the older woman's misunderstanding of what Oceola does during a church service while playing the piano. Without being bid to do so, Oceola, performs one of her own spirituals amidst a recital of classical works. While Oceola plays the spiritual, a black woman in the congregation unexpectedly jumps up from her pew and shouts, "Glory to God this evenin'! Yes! Hallelujah! Whooo-oo!" (1280). Mrs. Ellsworth sees both Oceola's spiritual and the woman's outburst as disruptions in the church service. Though it is apparent to us that the woman is merely feeling inspired by Oceola's playing, Mrs. Ellsworth does not have a clue that this woman is expressing her love for God (and the spiritual that inspires her) in much the same manner Mrs. Ellsworth appreciated her classical symphonies.

Mrs. Ellsworth is an idealist; Oceola is a pragmatist. Mrs. Ellsworth believes art exists for its own sake. She believes that art is bigger than life and love; it transcends the banality of the world. Oceola, on the other hand, believes that art is the product of both the spiritual and the prosaic, that rather than serving to elevate us above the commonplace, art serves to interpret and immerse us in the reality of the human condition. The older, white woman, therefore, does not understand how Oceola can be content living in the squalor of the Harlem slum. She does not understand that this life of simplicity and suffering, while not pleasant, is the underlying source of Oceola's soulful playing. Mrs. Ellsworth knows of black culture only through vicarious experience, i.e., she gathers knowledge indirectly by reading black novels written by whites sympathetic toward black culture. To her credit, Mrs. Ellsworth takes it upon herself to visit Oceola's cramped apartment in Harlem. Nevertheless, she does not enter Oceola's native environment to understand it, but rather, to satisfy her curiosity. Her lack of willingness to understand Oceola contributes to the denouement of the two women's relationship much later in the story.

There is a chain of patronage present in "The Blues I'm Playing". Just as Mrs. Ellsworth is the patron of Oceola, Oceola is the patron of Pete. Mrs. Ellsworth finances Oceola's music education; Oceola pays for Pete's college education. In both cases, the benefactors attempt to extend their influence over her protégé. Mrs. Ellsworth seeks to create, in Oceola, a work of art while Oceola seeks to create, with Pete, a life of love and human experience. Mrs. Ellsworth's intentions are good; she sincerely loves Oceola. This love is misguided, however. As with her appreciation of the music of the Old Masters, Mrs. Ellsworth seeks to isolate Oceola from the mundane world and keep her on a pedestal to be admired from afar as would be one of Schubert's love songs. Conversely, through Pete, Oceola seeks to immerse herself deeper into the human experience with marriage, children, and by being with those of her kind who live in Atlanta. Ultimately, Oceola politely, but steadily, resists Mrs. Ellsworth's influence, and instead, pursues her life with her own protégé.

Oceola's view of art is ingrained into her as a part of her culture. Likewise, she expresses her culture through her music. She embodies the Harlem Renaissance of black literature and art: though she has attained an appreciation of the white man's art, true to the Renaissance, she retains her ethnic roots and remains in touch with her particular ethnic muse. And despite the exquisite musical talent she has attained in rendering European classical works, she still seeks the same homey pleasures she experienced in her black upbringing. The coveted acclaim Oceola attains in the world of white musicianship does not sway her into disowning her black heritage. For example, after a long day of playing classical pieces, Oceola says that there is nothing quite so good as a pig's foot (1279).

The break between Mrs. Ellsworth and Oceola at the end of the story symbolizes the ongoing misunderstandings between black and white culture. Mrs. Ellsworth does not understand how Oceola's life and culture could inspire her. Mrs. Ellsworth's view of art is sterile, distant and cold as the stars above. To her, art is eternal, fixed, and therefore, ossified. This view of art is held in contrast to Oceola's experiential blues, a mutable, living form still in development. Oceola does not understand Mrs. Ellsworth's perspective and the white society's seeming compulsion to define and categorize art as if it were a trinket to be polished and set upon a shelf for display. To her, music is alive, born of human experience, suffering and joy; it is all things under the sun in the heavens, inspired by both the mundane and the spiritual.

Twice in the text, Hughes describes Mrs. Ellsworth as aging. From this, Hughes tells us that the belief system of art as a fixed form represented by the views of Mrs. Ellsworth is a sterile anachronism of the old school that will someday pass. Oceola does not understand Mrs. Ellsworth's view of art for art's sake. To her, art is simply a medium of expression for things that are spiritual and human. "Music, to Oceola, demanded movement and expression, dancing and living to go with it" (1278). This is comparable to the cool, sterile view of art presented by Mrs. Ellsworth.

By the end of the story, Oceola no longer needs Mrs. Ellsworth's money to further her career. We know that Oceola will continue along her present course in life, and music will continue to enrich her existence. We believe her when she says that Pete and family life will not drive the music out of her. Mrs. Ellsworth, on the other hand, muses dourly on how the girl could choose to marry a man unworthy of her, and have children, when presented with the opportunity to live for art and music. She believes that ordinary life will corrupt the purity of the art she had instilled within her protégé. She is disappointed by Oceola's use of her valuable training. "Is this what I spent thousands of dollars to teach you?" she asks pithily while the girl is playing a lusty blues tune (1282). In the end, Mrs. Ellsworth concludes that she has failed to bring Oceola's potential to fruition. We realize, however, that Mrs. Ellsworth has succeeded, for by giving Oceola the training that developed her talent, she has channeled the black woman's passion into an eloquent form of expression destined to someday transcend the differences between both races.

Although white and black culture clash in this tale, it is not a story about animosity that arises from racial differences; it is a tale of the contrasts between black and white culture and the misunderstandings that can exist between the two. The white view of art for art's sake, though not portrayed as "wrong," stands in direct contrast to the music of the blacks' soulful music born out of ordinary human experience. By the end of the tale, the reader is encouraged to sublimely feel the music as Oceola does, because unlike the starry, distant compositions of the masters Beethoven, Schubert, and Chopin, Oceola's music includes you and me. As Oceola says to Mrs. Ellsworth as her music segues from a classical piece into the blues: "How sad and gay it is, blue and happy—laughing and crying...How white like you and black like me...How much like a man...And how much like a woman...Warm as Pete's mouth...These are the blues...I'm playing" (1282). Indeed, the blues encompass all things sacred and profane, mundane and spiritual. Thus, when we listen to the blues, regardless of our race, we cannot help but feel that we are a part of their inspiration.

# Another Kind of "Passing" in The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man

James Weldon Johnson's 1912 novel The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man is a novel about "passing." Written to be published anonymously, the novel chronicles the life of a nameless narrator, an American of mixed ethnicity whose extraordinary abilities and indistinct appearance allow him unusual social mobility between black and white cultures. Though the narrator "passes" for both white and black sufficiently to be accepted by both cultures, in the end, he sells his birthright to attain financial security for both himself and his children. But there is another type of "passing" in Autobiography—there is evidence in the story that the anonymous narrator of Johnson's novel is also a homosexual, and by the end of the story, he relinquishes his true sexuality to pass as a heterosexual in order to maintain a comfortable niche within affluent white society.

The narrator's upbringing provides the first hints that the narrator may be homosexual. First, there is a poor father figure. Research has shown that most homosexual men have a history of a strong attachment to their mother along with a poor or non-existent relationship with their father. Second, many homosexuals show an early predilection for performance arts: acting, music performance, and dancing. Johnson's narrator's background has all of these characteristics. Although all of the above conditions do not guarantee that any child is homosexual, such key conditions contribute to the mosaic of homosexuality in Johnson's narrator.

Our next clue that the narrator is a homosexual is his preference for the company of men to that of women. Though he has speaking relationships with countless men, throughout the novel he makes a connection with only five women (his mother, the femme-fatale widow, and three "love" interests). The quality of these relationships with the women is much different from those with the men. Another clue is the scant descriptions of his female love interests. His descriptions of the women are purely topical; he admires their eyes or the sound of their voices, or their slender figures, but the descriptions do not go much deeper than that. The nuances of their personalities, their likes, their dislikes, are mysteries. It might be easy to attribute such two-dimensional portrayals of women to bad writing or a hidden bias against women, but in the narrator's descriptions of his male companions, we get a sense of their personalities, their likes and their dislikes. The narrator's relationship with these women is strictly platonic; nowhere in the novel does he describe any act of physical affection toward them.

In an offhand way, the narrator's male friends describe their own proclivity toward same-sex companionship. One example is the narrator's young male companion born in Jacksonville who states his preference for men while making a point about distancing between whites and blacks: "You see that young white man? We have played, hunted, and fished together, we have eaten and slept together, and now since I have come back he barely speaks to me" (37). This statement inadvertently reveals an unusual degree of closeness between the two men. The companion's feelings are hurt because the other man won't speak to him. This suggests something more meaningful than a superficial friendship. Furthermore, the phrase "slept together" suggests that the two young men shared the same bed, hinting at a sexual relationship.

The narrator, too, spends a great deal of time in the company of men. Male-male bed-sharing shows up many times in the novel. For example, after a night of visiting clubs with his friends (in which they weren't looking for women) the narrator says, "We went home and got into bed" (48). The narrator hints at his unity with the men in his life with: "We slept until late in the afternoon" (51). Though the narrator and his friends wander the New York clubs for months, not once do they interact with women. In fact, from the descriptions, one would scarcely believe that women even visit the types of places frequented by the narrator and his friends.

There are several other passages that suggest the narrator's homosexuality: "I was a hail fellow well met with all the workmen at the factory," and, "Several of the men at the factory were my intimate friends, and I frequently joined them in their pleasures" (39). Repeatedly, when the narrator walks into a new environment, he describes only the men: "The front parlor had been converted to a bar, and a half dozen or so of well-dressed men were in the room" (42). It is striking that the narrator and his young male friends go out on the town in search of gambling, and drinking, but women (and the age-old pursuit of easy sex) are strangely absent from the panorama of their experiences. It might be argued that the narrator's religious scruples prevent him from indulging in such debauchery, but the narrator is not religious, nor does he claim to play the part: "I do not wish to mislead my readers into thinking that I lead a life in Jacksonville which would make copy as the hero of a Sunday school library book" (39).

The narrator has ample opportunity to couple with women. In fact, he has no shortage of women chasing after him. Of when he plays piano in the club, he writes that "among my admirers were several of the best looking women in town who frequented the place, and who made no secret of the fact that they admired me as much as they did my playing" (57). And that is as far as it goes. Apparently, the narrator was not interested in such attractive women. Nowhere does he write that he reciprocates an attraction for them. One exception is the widow, but from a homosexual's standpoint, she is "safe" because she already has a love interest.

The narrator speaks of "love," but this is not genuine, reality-based love, as in "I love you for who you are, for what you are." The narrator, instead, speaks of the "ideal" of love. He is in love only with love itself. Note the way he describes his feeling for his first love interest: "She was my first love, and I loved her as only a boy loves. I dreamed of her, I built air castles for her, she was the incarnation of each beautiful heroine I knew" (13). Here, dreams have replaced action. He fills his school exercise book with "a rhapsody on someone's brown eyes" (14). Meaningful interaction with "she of the brown eyes" is replaced by the safety of fantasy: "We went through the duet several times. I was soon lost to all thoughts in the delights of music and love" (17). His "love" appears to be rooted in the fantastic as he describes "her eyes...the escaping strands of her dark hair wildly framing her pale face, and her slender body..." (13). On the other hand, he reserves a far more realistic description for the black friend he calls "Shiny." While Shiny gives the valedictorian speech, the narrator is captivated by "his eyes burning with excitement, his shrill musical voice vibrating in tones of appealing defiance, and his black face alight with such great intelligence and earnestness as to be positively handsome" (20). This description is much more complex and human than the one allotted to the brown-eyed girl. And while the narrator does not display a sexual attraction for "she of the brown eyes," neither does he express an intellectual attraction toward her. His love is essentially fantasy, and it will stay that way, for it has neither an outlet in which to manifest itself, nor direction in which to grow. This pattern resurfaces in the narrator's future romantic relationships.

Of the narrator's second love, the girl he met in Jacksonville, here is the total ink the narrator spends on detailing this relationship: "My joy took such an exuberant turn that I fell in love with a young school teacher, and began to have dreams of matrimonial bliss; but another turn in the course of my life brought these dreams to an end" (39). This is the entire text of the relationship. Not only is this a scant description of a major relationship, but once again, the word "dream" appears. We do not know if there was any physical connection in this relationship. This "relationship" is such a small part of the narrator's life that it seems almost tacked on.

The narrator's relationship with the millionaire is also suspect. The sexual preference of the millionaire is implied rather than stated. From what we know of the millionaire, he has never been married. Nor, in all of the balls he throws, does he show an inclination toward forming a connection with the female guests. Perhaps the female guests are aware of the millionaire's inclination, for they never remain after the party to hobnob with the handsome, rich bachelor. Oddly enough, the millionaire never entertains female guests, at least not in the presence of the narrator. Unless the millionaire were exceptionally homely and could therefore not find a date, it seems likely that he would, at one time or another, have invited a female companion to share with him some of the narrator's exquisite piano performances.

The private performances are an integral part of their association, at least at the beginning: "I often played for him alone at his apartments....He would sit for three or four hours hearing me play, his eyes almost closed, making scarcely a motion" (56). Then, "at length grew between us a warm relationship, and I am sure he had a decided personal liking for me" (56,57). Evidently, the millionaire did not truly keep the narrator around purely for musical entertainment, for the narrator notes of the millionaire: "I am not sure that he was always listening" (56). This observation, coupled with the lack of women on the scene, makes one wonder what the millionaire was imagining while he gazed at the narrator during the marathon solo performances. The narrator is likewise enthralled with the millionaire; he seems to express a subconscious (almost uncomfortable) thrill in being dominated by him: "This man, sitting there so mysteriously silent, almost hid in a cloud of heavy-scented smoke, filled me with a sort of unearthly terror. He seemed to be some grim, mute, but relentless tyrant possessing over me a supernatural power which he used to drive me to exhaustion" (56). Such a statement, replete with sexually suggestive terms such as "mysteriously," "filled," "possessing," "power," and "drive me to exhaustion" expresses a sexual tension between the two and the potential for a sexual union. The primary forces at work are the narrator's need to be possessed and the millionaire's need to dominate. The millionaire's failure to fulfill his role eventually destroys their relationship, as will be covered later.

The trip the narrator makes to Europe with his "millionaire friend" reads like a romantic interlude. Instead of treating him like a paid subordinate, the millionaire takes the narrator to the fanciest restaurants, and wines and dines him as he might a lover or a bride; the millionaire takes a keen interest in the feelings of the narrator, and he fawns over the narrator as if he were a lover. Likewise, the narrator describes their idyll in an effusive manner suggestive of a bride on her honeymoon trip: "My benefactor, humoring my curiosity and enthusiasm, which seemed to please him very much, suggested that we take a short walk before dinner" (59), and in another instance, "After dinner we went to one of the summer theaters, and after the performance, my friend took me to a large café on one of the grand boulevards" (60). The narrator says finally, "For weeks, we were together almost constantly" (60). The narrator now begins referring to his companion as "my 'millionaire.'" (60-66). In Paris, where the good-looking women join them freely at the tables, the two men never display the slightest inclination to proposition one of them (60). In decadent Berlin, however, the millionaire openly entertains a party of male artists, musicians, and writers (65). Later, the relationship deepens between the two men. No longer are they simply friends, but there "had grown a very strong bond of affection" (66). And when the narrator breaks the news that he wants to return to the United States, the following results: "When I finished he put his hand on my shoulder—this was the first physical expression of tender regard he had ever shown me" (67). This key passage is critical in three ways. First, it is the only physical affection openly described in the entire novel, which, interestingly, occurs between two males. Second, the narrator makes careful note of the tenderness involved in the touch. "Tender" is a word generally used in the context of romantic relationships. Third, it is in this passage that the narrator acknowledges what had been missing in his relationship with the millionaire—consummation of their mutual attraction.

It appears that the millionaire has been struggling with some sort of sexual identity crisis. Though he harbors a homosexual attraction for the narrator, he seems unable to give in to his latent homosexual impulses in order to possess him. And now, despite his realization that he may lose his potential lover, the best that the millionaire can do is feign a "cynical" smile and look upon his love interest in an impotent, "big, brotherly way" (67). Seemingly unable to force the moment to its crisis, the millionaire sidesteps the issue of his sexuality by digressing into a quixotic speech about the disadvantages of living as a Negro in the United States. Though swayed by the millionaire's ideas, the narrator is baffled by the sudden defensive digression. In fact, until that moment, he had "never heard [the millionaire] express any opinion" on the ramifications of being a Negro in the US (67). Afterward, the narrator feels troubled and confused, not only because of their thought-provoking discussion of racial issues, but because subconsciously, he may have hoped that the millionaire would seize the moment to admit his desire. The narrator has not given up on the millionaire, however; he lingers "for several weeks longer...in a troubled state of mind" (69) in the millionaire's presence while he works out his reasons for returning to the US. Perhaps he sustains the hope that the millionaire may yet approach him sexually. The millionaire does not, however. In their final parting, the millionaire, who is now the jilted lover, treats the narrator coldly (69).

The narrator quickly puts the relationship behind him. Once he is on his own again and on a ship back to America, he wastes no time in seeking out a new male companion: "Among the first of my fellow passengers of whom I took any particular notice, was a tall, broad-shouldered, almost gigantic, colored man..." (69). These two become very close during the voyage, and when they arrive in Boston, they stay at a hotel for a few days, then the man takes the narrator to meet his friends, much as one would introduce a new lover.

A major counter-argument to this reading of the narrator's sexuality is the fact that he gets married at the end of the novel. This does not, however, mean that he is not a homosexual. In fact, history is replete with homosexuals who marry women (and even father children) to "pass" in heterosexual society. Some are more successful than others, however, in pulling off the deception. Many of these sham marriages are never consummated, and in many, the homosexual's sexual anxiety (or fear of discovery) eventually takes hold, causing him to eventually flee the relationship. The narrator's relationship may have followed the same course had his wife not died prematurely.

We may draw many parallels between the narrator's first love interest and this third "love" relationship. Is he enthralled by her keen intelligence? Does he admire her views on racial equality? Does she even share his fondness for European cities? On all counts, the answer is "no." In his own words, the narrator says, "But it was not her delicate beauty that attracted me the most; it was her voice, a voice which made me wonder how tones of such passionate color could come from so fragile a body" (93). We never learn anything about the woman outside of her appearance and musical abilities. The summation is that once again, the narrator is in love with love, not with the person; he is out of touch with what he really desires. Since he cannot visualize her as a male romantic partner, he substitutes reality by placing her on a pedestal as his own Galatea, a romantic ideal. He can only "love" her as a fantasy because he is not truly attracted to women.

The narrator eventually marries his Galatea. But then, after a few years in which she is happier than he, there comes "a new dread to haunt me, a dread which I cannot explain...that she would discover in me some shortcoming which she would unconsciously attribute to my blood rather than to a failing of human nature" (99). This may suggest growing sexual anxiety, or, at least, the narrator's perception that he may someday acquire a sexual performance problem due to his homosexual tendencies. At the end of the novel, however, the narrator is off the hook with the untimely death of his wife. Significantly, he does not waste a lot of ink describing his sorrow for her. Also, importantly, he vows to never to marry again. This provides the narrator with an easy way out, for generally, marriages in which a suppressed homosexual marries a heterosexual do not last. The narrator stays single for the sake of his children, and in the meantime, he suppresses his homosexual urges in order to become, at least outwardly, a heterosexual. He justifies this with the statement, "My love for my children makes me glad that I am what I am, and keeps me from desiring to be otherwise" (100). So, in a sense, we have another occurrence of "passing," for the narrator has also sold his true sexuality for "pottage."

The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man is a story about two types of passing: cultural and sexual. It is not necessary for Johnson himself to be a homosexual (he apparently was not) to write such a book. Nevertheless, his novel effectively chronicles a homosexual man's life, not only because his main character seems to be latently homosexual, but also because the social stigma and problems faced by both minorities in 1910s America were very similar. If the inclusion of such a sub-theme was actually Johnson's intention, then the marriage of the homosexual man to the woman dovetails nicely into the primary theme. Along with the theme of the black man giving up his ethnic birthright for the sake of social security, we have a man giving up his true sexuality to conform to the status quo. And this also is a tragic, but perhaps from the narrator's point of view a necessary, "passing."

# The Negative Portrayal of Fatherhood in The Women of Brewster Place and Linden Hills

Without a doubt, there are no admirable father figures in Gloria Naylor's first two novels, The Women of Brewster Place and Linden Hills. The men of these novels suffer from such crippling character flaws that not only do they fail at fatherhood, but they also fail as husbands. Almost exclusively, brutality or absence marks the men's failure. The failure of fatherhood in these two novels plays a role in the perpetuation of poverty in the communities. But in many cases, these men are not singly culpable for the failure of the community, for the women are also partly guilty.

Fatherhood is not merely a biological act; rather, it is a cultural expectation of any male who conceives a child. Fatherhood, in the most complete sense, is rooted in nurturing capability and the presentation of a healthy adult role model to which children may aspire. Traditionally, fatherhood takes place within a marriage. But in contemporary times, a man may fulfill a parental role without stigma though he is not married to the mother of the child. The chief goal in being a father is to raise a child who can function properly within human relationships and integrate positively into his or her community. The absence of a positive paternal role model may hobble a child with the inability to envision and cultivate a stable home life, misplaced priorities and values, the lack of a work ethic and, in daughters, a poor understanding of men. All of these characteristics and others are present in most of the would-be fathers in both Brewster Place and Linden Hills.

The residents of Brewster Place comprise a maternal community. Here, the women rely upon each other for emotional support, for most of the men who have touched their lives are deeply flawed and have brought them only brief pleasure with lingering hardship and pain. Ben, the community's oldest black male resident, touches most of the women's lives in a more or less tangential way. His failure in fatherhood is that he did not have the strength to stand up to his wife when he suspected that the white store owner was sexually molesting his daughter. Ben has internalized his anger and grief to the point that it lashes out uncontrollably subconscious when he is not inebriated. At one time, Ben defined himself by his fatherly role toward his daughter. That role has been taken from him, so when he is not drunk, Ben's failure as a father and protector of his daughter's innocence weighs heavily upon his conscience. He finds some respite in becoming a father figure to Lorraine when the Brewster Place community has largely ostracized her.

The story of Lorraine represents another case of fatherhood gone wrong, though the complete story is only implied in the text. Lorraine's father has rejected her because she is a lesbian. Nonetheless, she still seeks his love and approval, so she sends him a birthday card every year. Pathetically, since the cards she sent to him were always returned unopened, she has stopped putting her return address on them so that she can imagine that he has opened them. The lack of fatherly love and support has left Lorraine with lingering feelings of insecurity. Lacking the validation her father could give her, which would lend her inner strength and confidence in herself, Lorraine must move periodically with Teresa when it becomes apparent that the community does not accept them. A subtext to Lorraine's father's behavior is that he suffers from the same deficit as Sophia in Brewster Place in that he is no freer of prejudice than the white society that oppresses the black community. Lorraine becomes a surrogate daughter to Ben as a mutual bond of sympathy forms between them. Ironically, she crushes Ben's skull with a brick after she is raped because she is a lesbian; by attacking her surrogate father, she is expressing repressed anger toward her father. Lorraine's anger toward her father leads us to suspect that he is ultimately responsible for her condition.

The story "Cora Lee" deals more explicitly with the problem of fatherhood in the black American community. Though Cora Lee is culpable for her condition because of her emotional immaturity, Naylor also implicates the men that impregnate her for their part in fathering children that they will not stay around to raise. The role of fatherhood in these men has been reduced to a mere shadow. Naylor's description of Cora's lovers as shadows (114, 126, 127) could suggest that not only do these men lack substance in the lives of Cora and her fatherless children, but also the darkness implied by the shadow also describes the blight in their moral character. Among other actions, one of them beats her in front of the children for burning a pot of rice. The behavior of these shadowy men serves to perpetuate the poverty of their race, and they are certainly not doing Cora Lee any favors by not using birth control. Tragically, because Cora Lee's sons lack father figures, they will likely grow up to become dysfunctional fathers. In effect, Cora's shadow lovers have begotten shadows, which will someday beget shadows of their own.

Naylor does not portray men in a positive light in Brewster Place. The men who visit the women of Brewster Place sail blithely through the women's lives leaving babies and vitriol in their wake. The one semi-positive portrayal of a father, the sketchily drawn Mr. Michael, beats his pregnant young daughter senseless when she will not reveal the identity of her child's father. Mattie's life is spared only by the intervention of her mother, which suggests a matriarchal rescue in the face of failed fatherhood; he probably would have killed her. But ultimately, Mattie is put out of the house anyway and left to fend for herself. Her father, in adopting a prideful, patriarchal attitude toward his obligation to nurture his child, effectively disowns his daughter.

Mattie Micheal's tale touches upon the effect of the absence of a male influence in the raising of a child. Probably due to a combination of guilt and mistrust of men, Mattie fails to heed Eva's advice that she should go out to find a new male companion: "[T]his boy did come C.O.D., and I'm willing to stay here and pay for it" (27). Not only does the absence of Basil's biological father prompt Mattie to use her son for emotional solace, but the absence of a positive male role model also prevents the boy from following a straight and narrow path in life, despite Mattie's best intentions. The problem is that Mattie's nurturing nature is not tempered with a disciplinary male presence in the home. Her nurturing, however well intentioned, cannot compensate for a lack of discipline. Furthermore, she herself does not discipline Basil. Hence, Basil becomes spoiled and eventually develops antisocial characteristics. This is Mattie's price for substituting her son for an adult relationship with an adult male partner. "Mattie Michael" illustrates how important it is for a child to have a positive male role model. The story tells us that a child raised in a broken home will be raised broken. Mattie, the nurturer, stakes her livelihood on her rose-colored image of Basil and pays highly for her self-deception; when Basil abandons her on the night before his scheduled court appearance, he takes her livelihood, her love, and her hopes.

The stories "Mattie Michael" and "Cora Lee" seem to implicate the women of Brewster Place themselves in the prolongation of their poverty. These tales exemplify the women's tacit willingness to bear children for men who show no inclination to remain at home and raise their progeny. Naylor seems to be insinuating that the women's gullibility makes them responsible for their condition. She also seems to be suggesting, on a broader level, that the proliferation of illegitimate children by unmarried black women is contributing to the perpetuation of the ghetto. The community of sharing and nurturing women has the potential for enormous strength, but without men to help raise its children through positive role-modeling and financial contribution to the household, the community has little chance of rising from the squalor of the ghetto.

One might draw the conclusion that the failure of the Brewster Place community to actualize itself results primarily from the absence of men in the women's lives to provide paternal support. The conjecture might also be made that the failure of community results from the lack of financial opportunity for the men; the men are unable to fulfill the demands of fatherhood because they cannot achieve financial prosperity. But even in affluent Linden Hills, the model of a patriarchal community in which men are necessarily present, there are no males that may be deemed fatherly figures. In fact, fatherhood is practically nonexistent in Linden Hills. There seems to be a fundamental reason for this phenomenon: the pursuit of material wealth has deprived the male residents of Linden Hills of fatherhood impulses.

Similar to that in Brewster Place, fatherhood in Linden Hills is marked either by a biological father who lacks nurturing capability or the complete absence of the father. With the notable exception of the Nedeeds, Naylor does not present us with a single complete nuclear family in Linden Hills. There are the material components for the family such as large houses, stable careers, adequate financial resources, and the security of a large homogenous community (for better or worse), but no actual family. In some of the homes, the resident lives without a mate because of a death, such as in the cases of Mrs. Tilson and Daniel Braithwaite, or a divorce, such as in the case of Laurel Dumont. Members of some of these single-member homes are marked by physical (and emotional) sterility or impotence, such as Maxwell Smyth and Reverend Hollis. In some of the other homes, the marital bond between the couple is dysfunctional and loveless to the degree that children are unwelcome, such in the case of Chester and Lycentia Parker, and newlyweds Winston and Cassandra Alcott. In all of these cases, the characters are so flawed that fatherhood (or motherhood for that matter) does not even enter the picture.

Just as she does in Brewster Place, Naylor illustrates, in Linden Hills, homes that suffer from the lack of a paternal role model. Case in point is the Tilson residence. No mention is made of Willie's father (though Willie does not come from Linden Hills), and only indirect mention is made of Lester Tilson's father. Evidently, Lester is following his now-absent father's negative role model as indicated by his general disdain for higher education: "Mrs. Tilson threw up her hands. He was his father's son and she'd might as well accept it" (20). Further implications are made that Mrs. Tilson did not get along with her in-laws. Lester looks to public figures such as Hank Aaron and Malcolm X (26). In the absence of a paternal role model, Willie keeps a four-foot poster of Malcolm X affixed to his bedroom wall (56). It is doubtful that such static role models, though representative of the positive, proactive aspects of Afro-Americanism, can make Lester the role model for his progeny. Thus, the cycle of negative (or absent) values will be perpetuated.

In some ways, the absence of a healthy role model is evident in the conduct of some of the Linden Hills men. For example, in searching for answers in his dilemma with Roxanne, Maxwell appeals to Xavier for some fatherly advice, instead of to his own father, presupposing he has one. But Xavier, who most likely lacked a positive male role model himself, as indicated by his fragile self-image and sexist/racist philosophy, reveals to Maxwell his cynical, distorted perception of the opposite sex: "So what they do...is starve themselves until they get you and then gain ten pounds before the reception is over....But the real question is not whether you can find [a black woman] who will fit into your Porsche, but who'll fit, period" (110). It is also worth noting that with the exception of Laurel Dumont, none of the residents of Linden Hills reflect upon their formative years in times of dilemma or call upon their family members for aid or inspiration. The absence of such familial references points to a deficient home life; something was missing in the way these people were raised, and they want to put their bad childhoods behind them. It is conceivable that the residents of Linden Hills come from homes in which the father was absent or presented a poor role model, as in the case of Laurel Dumont. At any rate, the residents' sordid lives evince that familial dysfunction is being perpetuated for another generation.

Candidates for fatherhood sparkle like fool's gold throughout Linden Hills. For example, it could be opined that Reverend Hollis might have pursued the role of fatherhood had he been able to conceive with his beloved Marie, since Naylor tells us that Hollis was more devastated by his sterility than she was (161). Perhaps the role of father might have started him on an upward path of self-fulfillment instead of down the road to the liquor store for more scotch. Could not he have adopted a child with Marie? But Hollis has a fatal flaw in that he suffers from a profound lack of devotion. Evidence of this flaw is manifest in his optional career choice when he applied for seminary school. If he had been refused admittance to seminary school, he would have become an electrical engineer (160). The fact that he would choose engineering school over a field closely related to the clergy, such as philosophy or social work, reveals hypocrisy and a lack of devotion to God, negative qualities that would make him a poor role model. Devotion is not a problem for Norman and Ruth, the sole couple represented in the novel, who also live outside of Linden Hills. However, Ruth is sterile, and Norman has periodic bouts of mental illness, so their relationship is not conducive to the rearing of children. Norman and Ruth's barren union probably should not say much about fatherhood, as Naylor's stylized portrayal of the couple serves other allegorical purposes in the novel. (By use of the word "stylized," I mean that Linden Hills is allegorical to Dante's Inferno: Ruth is analogous to Beatrice, and her relationship with Norman serves to illustrate her saintly nature, among other things.) Winston Alcott may eventually father a child—if he can overcome his homosexuality long enough to stomach making love to his wife—but his marriage is doomed. Whatever his capability for fatherhood, his child will be a product of a broken home.

Luther Nedeed is the only male member of Linden Hills who expresses any smattering of paternal inclination. But his paternal nature is not based on love or the desire to nurture; instead, it is predicated upon the need to raise a successor in order to perpetuate the Nedeed hegemony. As are the other residents of Linden Hills, he is deeply flawed, and his distorted sense of fatherhood has been subverted through marital distrust into a denial of paternity of his own child. Anger and frustration are the chief components of his fatherhood, and its fruit is cruelty. Luther would like to be a father, but his pride and jealousy block him. The perpetuation of the Nedeed patriarchy—his identity— is tied to his male offspring, but he perceives that his identity has been subverted through Willa's supposed adultery. Luther's desire to raise his son is powerful, so his reaction is extreme when he feels that he has been thwarted: he imprisons his wife and son in the basement of their home. Even if Luther had accepted his offspring as his own, in terms of childraising, the effect of his fatherhood could only have brought about negative consequences: he would have raised his son to be a perpetuation of his misogynist, patriarchal self. So, despite Luther's extreme eagerness to be a father, he cannot be deemed a positive role model any more than the other denizens of Linden Hills.

Naylor presents a bleak view of fatherhood and men in general. It is difficult to imagine a well-adjusted black middle class family existing within the environs of Brewster Place and Linden Hills. Most of the men portrayed in Brewster Place fail as fathers simply because they are not present in the raising of the children. Paradoxically, their absence is sometimes a blessing, for when these men show up, they often physically and emotionally abuse their women. The residents of Linden Hills do not sense the absence of children in their lives because they are too busy in their pursuit of material wealth. They have turned away from their cultural heritage of which family values are a part. They have sold their identities; hence, they lack the impetus to perpetuate their heritage in progeny. Only Luther Nedeed is able and willing to assume the role of fatherhood. However, his ideas of fatherhood are so distorted that we can learn nothing from them, even through negative example, except that there is more to raising a child than perpetuating one's identity.

Despite her negative portrayal of men in these books, Naylor is not singularly blaming men for the fragmented state of the black community; the women who choose to raise children without fathers are also at fault. Indeed, Naylor presents a pessimistic view of the whole black community. A matriarchal community, however strong, is only a consolation prize; it is always a poor substitute for a community whose primary constituents are secure families. Through her persistently negative portrayal of fatherhood in Black American communities, Naylor seems to be telling us that the community can be restored to its full potential only when the cycle of failed fatherhood, passed from father to son, has been broken. 
Works Cited

Naylor, Gloria. Linden Hills. New York: Penguin, 1985.

\-----------------. The Women of Brewster Place. New York: Penguin, 1980.

# An Examination of Female Heroism in Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye and Beloved

Many of the women of Toni Morrisons' novels The Bluest Eye and Beloved are subject to heartbreaking tragedy and suffering. Traditionally, female heroes are those protagonists imbued with male characteristics such as strength and courage that the reader would admire. The reader expects these protagonists to rise above adversity. Most of the female protagonists of The Bluest Eye and Beloved do not. These women cannot be deemed female heroes in the traditional sense because they fail in their endeavors. Most of them are victimized instead. Many of these victimized women are characterized chiefly by endurance, which is a heroic trait in itself, but not necessarily a male characteristic. Hence, in portraying her female protagonists as victims, Morrison leads the reader to another kind of feminine protagonist: the heroine.

There is a discrepancy between traditional definitions of "hero" and "heroine." According to The Chambers Dictionary (on the 1997 Microsoft Bookshelf CD-ROM), a hero is "a man of distinguished bravery; any illustrious person; a person reverenced and idealized; the principal male figure, or the one whose life is the thread of the story, in a history, work of fiction, play, film, etc." Moreover, the definition of a heroine is "a woman of heroic character, a female hero; a woman admired and idealized." The slippage between these two definitions is subtle. A heroine is not necessarily a female hero: a woman with a male hero's characteristics. Instead, a heroine is a female character who is admired and idealized. The chief admirable quality of the female protagonists in Morrison's novels is endurance, a characteristic that does not necessarily connote courage or proactive behavior.

As do male heroes, female heroes usually overcome adversity by the end of the tale—but this is not the case for the heroine. The success of the heroine hinges more on her methods than on her success in the outcome. Though the heroine may die or lose at the end of the tale, she remains heroic for her endurance. Furthermore, her success is not determined by her personal achievement; rather, it is determined by her positive effect on those around her. If a protagonist lacks heroic characteristics or ends up dead or broken-hearted by the end of the tale, she is a victim. All three types of protagonists are represented between The Bluest Eye and Beloved.

To have a heroine, or even to have a victim, one must first have an adversarial force or antagonist. In both novels, but particularly in The Bluest Eye, the adversarial force is the value system of the dominant culture, and the chief adversaries are those in the black community who have internalized the value system of the dominant culture. In Beloved, the adversary is also the brutal apparatus of slavery and an ironic disunity of the black community, both of which serve as the catalyst in the plot of the novel.

Morrison's The Bluest Eye is replete with resiliency in the face of adversity. The primary female protagonists of the novel are Claudia, and Pecola and Polly (Pauline) Breedlove. These three women advance the novel's narrative and should be considered the novel's primary female protagonists. Although they have admirable characteristics, none of them may be considered a female hero or heroine.

Of the three protagonists, Claudia has the greatest level of awareness of her social situation. She is the only character with whom the reader is likely to identify, for she uniquely recognizes the discrepancy between the dominant white culture's notions of beauty and the reality of her physical appearance, as evidenced in her scorn for the blue-eyed white doll. Despite her poverty, Claudia does not suffer much. Her family is able to achieve a modicum of prosperity in that they live in a regular apartment and there is food on the table. Importantly, her family members do not sexually or physically abuse her. Claudia represents the novel's "consciousness" in that through her relative normalcy, she represents the baseline against which many other characters in the novel are measured. Other than expressing her awareness of the negative racial stereotype that the others have unknowingly internalized, Claudia is primarily an observer; through her point of view, we see a cross section of the black community. Through her eyes, we see the effects of racism on the community, including the devastation wrought upon Pecola Breedlove when her father, Cholly, rapes her. Such events, tragic as they are, do not affect Claudia directly. Thus, although Claudia is the chief protagonist of The Bluest Eye, she is not a female hero, for she does not rise above her social situation in any meaningful way. Nor is she a heroine, for she does not endure extraordinary adversity. Her story is incomplete; at the end of the tale, she plants seeds, an act that represents hope. Whether the seeds will grow is unknown. Thus, Claudia can be best described as a "female hero in the making," for unlike the other female protagonists of the work, she may yet rise above her destitution.

No character in The Bluest Eye suffers more than Pecola Breedlove. In fact, her extreme distress drives her to insensibility by the end of the novel. Pecola's suffering arises from multiple sources: her community, her family, and the conflict between the reality of her physical appearance and the white dominant culture's ideology of beauty that she has internalized. Her skin is too black for her to fit in with the upper class blacks, as represented by Maureen and Geraldine, and she is too black to fit in with the greater underclass black community. Consequently, she is ostracized by all of her society. The separation from family and community leads to Pecola's first failure in achieving the status of female hero or heroine: she admires the materialistic lifestyles of the prostitutes, China and Maginot Line, who live upstairs. While Pecola's liking the prostitutes has more to do with their acceptance of her than her admiration of their personal qualities, her wanting to pass time with them indicates a breakdown in her ability to discern between appearance and reality. She does not grasp the implications of their being "fallen women."

Though social isolation takes its toll on Pecola, it is Cholly Breedlove who finally pushes her over the edge. In Cholly's story, we find that he has internalized negative racial stereotypes. Additionally, due to his lack of parental guidance and positive role models, Cholly has no concept of social or paternal responsibility. Cholly is a castaway within a society of castaways; he embodies all that is negative in the black culture. Pecola's descent into madness begins when Cholly rapes her. In effect, Cholly's rape of Pecola represents the rape by the dominant white culture of the potential of all that is good and pure in black culture. While the act of rape is terrifying in itself, what terrifies Pecola the most is that she cannot come to terms with the possibility that she may actually have enjoyed the rape. Such enjoyment does not take place from sexual pleasure, but rather, arises from her desperate need to be loved and accepted. Pecola has difficulty distinguishing between the sordid reality of the act and her unfulfilled desire for love and acceptance. This emotional clash destroys Pecola. No one in the community aids her. Her mother accuses her of seducing Cholly. At the end of the novel, Pecola has been reduced to insensibility. Pecola's heroism does not arise from her fortitude in the face of adversity; more accurately, arises from her victimization. Most importantly, Pecola never rises above the adversity, nor does she endure it—instead she succumbs. The fact that Pecola succumbs indicates that she is a victim, not a heroine.

Pecola wishes that her eyes were blue, because she has internalized the dominant culture's view that blue eyes are part of the composite ideal of beauty. Her last stop in the downward spiral of self-hatred is her visit to the Reverend Soaphead Church who is, through his position, a pillar of the black community. Church, rather than counseling Pecola on the politics of beauty, inviting her to find the beauty within herself, cruelly deceives her into thinking that God has granted her blue eyes. Though Church has selfish motives in having Pecola unknowingly poison the landlord's dog, his act of deceiving Pecola represents the black community's ironic self-destructive tendency. Pecola, desperate for the blue eyes that will make her beautiful, is taken in by the reverend's ruse. Again, she is the victim. Morrison does not allow Pecola to rise above her victimization. To allow her to do so would serve to under-represent the tremendous destructive influence of the black community's internalization of negative racial stereotypes.

The problems begin early for Polly Breedlove. She begins her life in a fantasy world, dreaming of a Presence that will lift her from her desultory life. She is not proactive, however: "In none of her fantasies was she ever aggressive; she was usuallly idling by the river bank or gathering berries when someone appeared....He was a simple Presence, an all-embracing tenderness with strength....She had only to lay her head on his chest and he would lead her away..." (113). Thus, Polly is ripe for her encounter with Cholly when he appears. Instead of taking control of her life, Polly puts her life in Cholly's hands. They fall in love, marry, and head north to where Cholly can find work in the steel mills. Soon, their marriage is wracked with quarrels. By this time, Polly's fantasy has broken down. In response to Cholly's irresponsibility, Polly finds work cleaning houses for wealthy white folks. By this time, it seems that Polly is beginning to overcome adversity by charting her own course: "She took on the full responsibility and recognition and returned to church. First, however, she moved out of two rooms into a spacious first floor of a building that had been built as a store" (126). Polly also shows signs of endurance: "[S]he bore [Cholly] like a crown of thorns, and her children like a cross" (127). But then, Polly is seduced by the material pleasures of the white folks' home. She begins to neglect her children and her home and instead projects her reality into the white folk's world of which she wishes she were a part: "More and more she neglected her house, her children, her man....Here she found beauty, order cleanliness, and praise" (127). Polly's tendency to resort to fantasy instead of proactiveness disqualifies her for the status of female hero. First, her courage is never put to the test. Second, she deals with her unpleasant reality by escaping it, even at the expense of neglecting her children to pursue her fantasy world: "Pauline kept this order, this beauty, for herself, a private world, and never introduced it to the storefront, or to her children" (128). It may also be suggested that Polly's emotional distance from Pecola contributes to her daughter's insanity. Her eschewal of responsible parenthood is also serves to cultivate anti-social characteristics in her son, Sammy: "Into her son she beat a loud desire to run away, and into her daughter she beat a fear of growing up, a fear of other people, fear of life" (128). Despite Polly's failure as a female hero, she has traits of the heroine in that she displays a level of endurance by resisting Cholly's abusive behavior. This display of endurance is not enough to qualify her as a heroine, however. Polly's issues are not yet resolved when the novel ends. There is still a chance that she will leave behind her bitterness and her fantasy world, and return to raising her children. There is also the possibility that she will leave Cholly. But at the novel's end, she is a victim, for she is both Cholly's victim and a casualty of her own overpowering desire to escape reality.

In contrast to The Bluest Eye, Morrison's Beloved gives us examples of resilience in the face of almost overwhelming adversity. Nearly all of the black female characters are protagonists, but not all of them are heroic in the same sense. The chief adversaries in Beloved are slavery and an ironic disunity in the free black community. Candidates for heroism in Beloved are Baby Suggs, Sethe, and Denver.

Baby Suggs is the most angelic and unquestionably the most admirable protagonist of the three. Through an extraordinary combination of charisma and wisdom, she is able to give the blacks of the river town a sense of community. Baby Suggs almost achieves the status of heroine, but she falls short in that ultimately she fails in her endeavor. The envy of certain members of the community destroys the unity and self-respect she cultivates through her sermons. Ironically, these members resent her presence within their community because, among other reasons, she did not suffer enough, since unlike many other residents, she did not make a harrowing escape from slavery; her freedom was bought instead. While Baby Suggs has a cohesive effect on the community, which is an important feature of any Morrison heroine, the black community eventually deserts her, the incident with Sethe in the tool shed breaks her heart, and she dies disillusioned. Despite Baby Suggs' admirable character and noble intentions, she did not have a lasting effect upon the black community. Nor does she succeed in a personal way. Thus, Baby Suggs, despite her admirability, is neither female hero nor heroine: she is a victim of her community.

Sethe is the principle protagonist of Beloved. Her greatest act of heroism comes when she takes the life of the infant Beloved (and tries to take the lives of her other children) when the slave owners come to retrieve her. Her fortitude, resiliency, and stubbornness enable her to overcome almost unbelievable adversity: slavery, the lynching of her mother, the loss of her children, sexual humiliation, abandonment by her husband, flogging, childbirth in a leaky open boat and, worst of all, the return of the spirit of her dead child—the reckoning with the past. This last test of fortitude breaks Sethe, however. She survives only through the intervention of her daughter and the aid of the community of Baptist women. And only through the love and nurturing effect of Paul D does she have any hope of recovery to some sort of normalcy. Although Sethe has the personal characteristics of a male hero—that is, courage and strength—she is not a female hero in the traditional sense; rather, she is a heroine. Though she acts heroically (albeit questionably so) in taking Beloved's life, she is not proactive—she is only reacting against her hostile environment. In this case, she is reacting against the community's failure to warn her in time of the slave owner's approach. The emphasis of this scene seems to be the black community's betrayal of Sethe, not Sethe's heroism, as it is evident that had they warned her in time, Sethe and her brood could have escaped. Importantly, whether or not Sethe acted heroically when she killed Beloved is debatable. Her tragic decision is questioned both by critics and by the characters of the novel, including the admirable Paul D, who says to her, "You got two feet, Sethe, not four" (165). In the end, through Sethe's actions, brought on by betrayal, Beloved becomes the sacrificial lamb offered in atonement for the sins of the black community. To take the religious analogy a step further, Beloved represents the Christ in the community in that she dies for its sins. And while Sethe sets in motion the mechanism of eventual regeneration of the black community through the sacrifice of her child, she never becomes a martyr.

Of the three main protagonists, Denver suffers the least. She was never a slave, and she has difficulty even understanding the ramifications of slavery. Sweet Home is a mystery to her: "How come everybody run off from Sweet Home can't stop talking about it? Look like if it was so sweet you would have stayed," she says to Sethe and Paul D (13). Nevertheless, Denver undergoes the greatest self-transformation of the protagonists in Beloved. She begins the novel in isolation from her community, but when her mother reaches a crisis in her psychic struggle with Beloved, she embarks on a physical, psychic, and social journey outside the house and into the community. Denver's newfound self-determination enables her to save her mother, for she is instrumental in the restoration of the community through which the power of God exorcises the "haint" Beloved from 124 Bluestone.

One might argue that Denver acts, as does Sethe, only because she is forced into doing so. She leaves the house only because the money and food run out and her mother's untimely death seems imminent. But Denver does more than simply beg for money or food: she betters her situation by first bettering herself. For example, rather than beg, she obtains a job in the city and learns to read. While both Sethe and Denver are put through dire straits, of the two, only Denver rises, while Sethe tries to plow through Beloved's influence by sheer force of will and stubbornness. Most importantly, Denver does what Sethe and Baby Suggs were never able to do: she brings cohesion to the fragmented black community. Considering the importance of community in Morrison's novel, Denver's accomplishment might be sufficient to define her as a female hero.

It appears that Morrison does not allow for the existence of heroines or the female hero in The Bluest Eye—only victims. In Beloved, we have a female hero, but her heroism arises not from suffering, but from self-betterment and from her ability to unite the community. Despite the existence of a female hero in Beloved, Morrison's primary focus appears to be on the heroine exemplified by Sethe. As are the female protagonists of The Bluest Eye, the protagonists of Beloved are not proactive; they react to their environment rather than take action of their own volition. Thus, it appears that the thrust of these novels is the demonstration of fortitude in the face of adversity.

Perhaps the existence of the female hero in these novels is unimportant, as the word "hero" is a male-oriented notion connoting a kind of independence that lies outside the mechanism of success through collective effort. Lack of cohesion in the black community is responsible for much of the victimization that takes places in these novels. Conversely, only unity within the black community can reverse the victimization. Morrison articulates the importance of communal teamwork over individual heroic action in Paul D's escape from the flooding ditch in Alfred, Georgia: "For one lost, all lost. The chain that held them would save all or none" (110). The heroine, not the female hero, is the best form of protagonist for exploring social issues, as Beloved does. The heroine is admirable because she endures suffering yet is not complicit in her own suffering. In fact, she must endure suffering to show that there is a problem with the social construct. While Morrison's heroines may succeed or fail in a personal sense, they succeed principally through the efforts of members of their communities. Conversely, the failure of the community to pull together when one of its constituents is in need does not reflect negatively upon the heroine. The absence of a heroine in The Bluest Eye not only attests to the dire situation if its protagonists, but it also implicates some of them as culpable for their situation. In both novels, however, community success is the only lasting form of success. Perhaps Morrison is telling us that there is no place in the betterment of the community for heroes, as positive change in the black community can come only through the collective effort of its members. 

# An Analysis of Linguistic Strategy in "In Blackwater Woods"

Mary Oliver's free verse poem "In Blackwater Woods" is a pensive soliloquy that utilizes images of a bucolic locale to express the transitory nature of life's experiences. Also, the poem seeks to instruct the reader on how to fully embrace ephemeral joys without being consumed in their eventual demise. Oliver utilizes a number of linguistic strategies to effectively set up a conflict and then resolve it.

Oliver chooses her words carefully in "In Blackwater Woods." Many words are linked to each other by patterns in their structure, an effect that adds meaning to the poem. For example, the word "side" (instead of "bank") in line 24 is an excellent choice, for the onset "s" sound complements the coda [s] sound in "loss" in line 24 and the onset [s] of "salvation" in line 25. With this opposing arrangement of the phonological [s] syllable, Oliver seems to suggest, obliquely, that loss is on the opposite side of salvation both in language and reality. This idea is further advanced with the mirroring of the [z] coda in "leads" and "fires" in line 22. A mirror rhyme of "back" in line 22 and "black" in line 23 suggests another symbolic relation.

Fragments of words are repeated to provide emphasis. Consider the repetitions of the word "ever" in lines 18-20: "Every year / everything / I have ever learned...." Oliver repeats these fragments to give emphasis to the problem of the poem, which is the impermanence of life. Next, consider the repetition of the word "to" in lines 29-32: "To live in this world /.../to do three things / to love what is mortal / to hold it...." This repetition effectively introduces the solution of the poem: profoundly love what you have for the moment, and be willing to let it go.

The few derivational morphemes in the poem serve to transform the verb to into a noun or adjective. Two examples of this are the transformation of "fulfill" in line 8 to "fulfillment" and "name" in line 16 to "nameless" in line 17. There is nothing particularly striking about the use of such morphological transformations. The inflectional transformations, however, have a much greater overall effect on the poem. Most of the morphemes in "In Blackwater Woods" are inflectional; that is, most of them modify nouns to make them plural. For example, the author transforms "tree" into "trees," "body" to "bodies," and "taper" to "tapers." Most of the inflectional morphemes that are applied to verbs change the verb's tense to the present and present participle forms. Examples of such morphological changes include "are bursting" and "are floating." The use of the present and present participle give the poem a sense of immediacy; this is not a poem of the past—it is a poem of the present; it is as vital and alive as the verdant scene it describes.

Assonance is not used frequently in "Blackwater." The only instance of assonance is within the second stanza, wherein we have the [] sound (as in "bit") in "giving," "rich," "cinnamon," and "fulfillment" (6-8) and in the [o] sound in "bones," "knowing," and "own" (33,34). The repetitions of these sounds add internal rhyme to the poem, which lends the poem some structure. But outside of word repetition, why does Oliver avoid the frequent use of assonance in "Blackwater"? Perhaps she is saving the assonance to add emphasis to the words and phrases she repeats, e.g. "Let it go / Let it go" (35, 36). And possibly, she did not want the assonance to mirror the meaning of the poem, as done in such poems as Sylvia Plath's "Daddy."

Alliteration, in contrast to assonance, adds a deeper dimension of meaning to this poem. Abundant in the first five lines are alliterations in the form of the alveolar stops of [t] and [d]. These alveolar stops are the voiceless [t] in "trees," "turning," and "light" and the voiced [d] in "bodies." Not only that, the voiced and voiceless fricatives of [z] and [s] appear frequently at the end of words in the first 16 lines: "trees," "bodies," "pillars," "shoulders," "tapers," "cattails," "bursting," "floating," etc. The profusion of these two sounds suggests the swish of the breeze as it sighs through the trees or buzzing of bees between the fragrant flowers that no doubt surround the pond. Figuratively, they suggest the passage of time while life continues. And the author is caught up in life—the first 17 lines of the poem flow together unbroken like the dark river that appears to have held the author captive within tumultuous "blue shoulders" (12) of its current.

There is more significant alliteration of the voiced lateral approximate [l] in lines 20-23: "learned," "lifetime," "leads," and "loss." These words are central to the conflict of the poem; read in sequence, these four words can be distinguished as the path that life eventually follows, wherein all things precious are eventually lost. But not all is insufferably gloomy—the alliteration of the [l] is also tied to key words in the resolution of the poem imparted in lines 28, 31, 34, and 35: "live," "love," "life," and "let," respectively.

"In Blackwater Woods" uses a lush pastoral setting to express the ephemeral nature of life's experiences. Hidden beneath the idyllic surface of the poem, however, is a coherent linguistic strategy consisting of repetition, alliteration, shrewd word choice, and effective use of morphological transformation. Using a combination of visual and phonological imagery, Oliver first presents the reader with the problem of loss, then resolves the problem with a valuable lesson on how to embrace experiences (and people) worth loving—those things that give us joy—and effectively make them endure. As a result of such profound introspection, "Blackwater" invites the reader to take an inventory of his or her life and cherish those things that are most worthy of endearment.
Works Cited

Morrison, Toni. Beloved. New York: Penguin, 1988.

— — —. The Bluest Eye. New York: Penguin, 1994.

# The Element of Feminism in "The Daughters of the Late Colonel"

To be certain, Katherine Mansfield's "The Daughters of the Late Colonel" contains feminist elements. What we have are two women whose spirits have been crushed by the oppression of their domineering father. Constantia and Josephine are indecisive to the degree that they suffer from paralysis of the will. In many ways, they are female versions of J. Alfred Prufrock, but in one critical degree, the sisters are worse off than the hapless Prufrock; they are unable to recognize that they even have an emotional problem. This lack of insight reduces the sisters' chances for improving their condition from slim to none, for the very first step in solving a problem is to be aware that the problem exists. But do these elements make "Daughters" a feminist work?

It is dicey to label "Daughters" a "feminist story," for along with feminist themes, the story suggests that women are inherently fragile and unable to make responsible decisions, even for the sake of sustaining their well-being. If one adheres to the belief that one is responsible for her (or his) conduct in life, then these women are culpable; they are not to be pitied. In other words, their choices have led them to their co-dependent state. Further, a person with a strictly male-centered viewpoint might argue that the story shows how meaningless women's lives are without the presence of a powerful male influence beneath the same roof, since the women badly miss the father who gave their lives order. And on a deeper level, the women are rendered ineffectual outside their stereotypical role as dependent nurturers. The state of the women is reminiscent of Emily Grierson's emotional condition in William Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," when she insists on "cling[ing] to that which had robbed her" by refusing to give up her despotic father's body for burial (737).

On the other hand, the feminist perspective is very strong in the story. Clearly, the Colonel was repressive. Though the Colonel does not appear in the story, through indirect references (such his intolerance of the organ grinder on the street below his window), we realize that he was cantankerous as well as oppressive. These women were under his control, probably since birth, and they did not have a chance to develop into fully actualized women. The anti-climactic ending where Constantia has an inkling that something is missing in their lives, yet fails to make the connection, solidifies this concept. The connection that Constantia was trying to make (but lost) is the unstated, feminist "moral" of the story. From a psychological standpoint, the women have acquired a condition called "learned helplessness," where their assertiveness has been repressed so many times that they have "learned" to be unable to help themselves, even when the solution presents itself.

From the feminist perspective, the Colonel has failed in his masculine role; he has proven himself to be an ineffectual father, for his progeny is, in every significant way, the opposite of himself. Whereas he was decisive, they cannot make a simple decision. While he possessed a toughness of will, they lack the willpower to release the unneeded nurse from service. Whereas he was able to amass wealth (probably through investments), his daughters are unable to decide how to give away a simple gold watch.

Strikingly, the sisters' names suggest unrealized potential. The name "Constantia" has its root in "constancy," a word associated with loyalty, steadfastness, and in a traditional religious sense, an unwavering faith in God. "Josephina," the long version of "Josephine" connotes heroism and valor. In this story, the women are inversions of the characteristics associated with their names.

Ultimately, "The Daughters of the Late Colonel" must be labeled as a feminist story for the simple reason that the women are oppressed. The story shows the damage wrought by oppression. On a broader level this feminist theme can be applied to other real-world issues where inequality result in oppression. Indeed, any story about a social condition that prevents the fulfillment of feminine potential lends itself to feminist interpretation.
Works Cited

Faulkner, William. "A Rose for Emily." Literature: The Human Experience. 5th ed. Ed. Richard Abcarian and Marvin Klotz. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1990. 735-42.

# Elements of Modernism in "Cruise" and "Strychnine in the Soup"

At best, the English in "Cruise" have become like "ugly Americans," obnoxious and disrespectful of the cultures they are visiting. They have been reduced to petty, indecisive, trinket-buying tourists. Though a pretense remains, gone is the haughty and self-righteousness decorum typical of British society of the pre-Great War eras. Such an attitude fits well with the modernist view of Britain as a receded world power. The English, particularly the upper class, are comically out of touch with their surroundings. We have a kind of role reversal from the Victoria Era when the British Empire was at its height, and England was "the source of civilization." On a deeper level, it appears that not only are the English painfully awkward outside their homeland, but they display a degree of insularity. The attitude of the guests mirrors post-war English foreign policy where, like the United States, England became isolationist. In fact, after the war, England was eager to part with whatever part of its far-flung empire that leftover from the war. Waugh may also be giving the nod to the dissident voices in the Victorian Era that accused the country of rampantly spreading the Empire without adequate resolve to run it properly, for in time, their accusation had been proven to be right on the mark.

Another symptom of Modernism in "Cruise" is the use of "stream of consciousness" to tell the story. Most often, this writing style is utilized with framing devices such as a series of journal entries or a monologue. The device Waugh uses is letters (and postcards) from tourists on board a ship which are mailed back to an unidentified recipient back in England. Through such stream of consciousness, we are able to view the events on board ship from the perceptions of the "Young Lady of Leisure," and, in an offhand way, we see the foibles of the correspondence writer as well as her family and traveling companions. The story ends, in true Modernist style ending inconclusively. None of the characters has reached an epiphany, and as far as we can tell, they will continue plodding through their lives, as they were when the story began.

On the other hand, "Strychnine" has characteristics reflective of the eras preceding Modernism. First, the story ends with the promise of a marriage between the protagonist and his beloved, a simple "happily ever after ending" typically found in pre-Modernist works. Second, there is the matter of the arranged marriage. Such an arrangement is an anachronism that dissolved, for the most part, around the time of the first World War.

But more so than not, "Strychnine in the Soup" shows its Modernist roots as a bright comedy that, like "Cruise," lampoons the upper class English who travel abroad. First we have a Modernist-era role reversal. Lady Bassett epitomizes the male English explorer—she even smokes a cigar! Cyril, the protagonist, displays much more genteel, feminine characteristics: he is an interior designer. This sort of role reversal is much more typical of the Modern Era than of the previous eras, although such a reversal also falls into the Decadent movement. Being a bookish interior designer, Cyril is not a typical masculine hero. This makes him an ideal Modernist hero, in whom gender roles are blurred. Mapledurham, the masculine potential suitor for Amelia, has become an obstacle for Cyril. By the end of the story, the classically heroic Mapledurham is deflated in Modernist fashion, and interestingly, the upper middle-class Cyril and distinctly upper-class Lady Bassett are linked by fondness for mystery novels. This link indicates a need for escapism (for both classes) suggested by the far-flung travelers in the story, "Cruise."

# Hemingway's "Cat in the Rain" and the Four Principles of Poetry

"There is seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows," Ernest Hemingway said of his work. If this is truly the case, then his work may be written in stylistic shorthand much like a well-crafted work of poetry. Critics have recognized that Hemingway adhered to four poetic principles set forth in a 1913 essay by Ezra Pound: withholding of all words that do not contribute to the general design of the work, selection of the natural object as the adequate symbol, treatment of the "thing" without evasion or cliché, and adherence to the rhythms of natural speech. In "Cat in the Rain," Hemingway expresses these principles primarily through careful word choice, small lexical variety, repetition, and simple syntax.

True to Hemingway's well-known style, the syntax in "Cat in the Rain" is simple, and the story's descriptions are succinct. Almost exclusively, subject noun phrases consist of no more than an article and simple noun. Sentence variety is limited, and Hemingway has no qualms about beginning five simple sentences in a row with the pronoun "she" (168). Adverb use is infrequent, and there is not a great deal of embellishment in description. The lexical variety of this piece is rather small, consisting of only 100 or so stem words. In effect, Hemingway is following Pound's principle of withholding all words that do not contribute to the general design of the work. The resulting narrow vocabulary lends the story a sterile and hollow tone. Starved of extraneous verbosity, the story's form itself becomes a metaphor for its topic: the malnourished skeleton of a marriage.

As does any skilled poet, Hemingway chooses his words wisely. His choice of words in "Cat in the Rain" may seem rather uninspired in an initial reading of the story. This may be because Hemingway uses unmarked nouns. By themselves, such nouns convey little meaning beyond the thing they represent. Nonetheless, these nouns transcend their literal meaning when the work is viewed as a whole. An example is the word "rain." The word appears not only in the title, but also five times in the first paragraph. Furthermore, never in the story does Hemingway substitute "rain" with the more evocative "deluge," "torrent," or "downpour." Even when the precipitation intensifies, he sticks with the word "rain" by writing that it was "raining harder" (168). Why does not Hemingway deviate from this chosen descriptor? Perhaps because unlike many other words he could have used, "rain" is pure in its meaning. It carries no significant connotation outside its association with literal wetness and water falling from the clouds. In fact, the word could safely be used in a weather report. But when the simple rain is applied to the situation of the wife and the cat, its wetness becomes a metaphor for the unhappy state of both. The husband alludes to the wetness of the rain as the wife leaves the room to go downstairs to get the cat. He cautions her, "Don't get wet" (168). His admonishment is laced with irony: her marriage is already as wet, cold, and inhospitable as the rain that falls outside. So, in a sense, the rain is in the room with them, and both of them are drenched. Hemingway's use of the word "rain" is a good example of Pound's precept of "selection of the natural object as the adequate symbol." In this, the thing selected as the "natural object" will carry symbolic meaning outside its literal definition only if it is used in the proper context. For example "bridge" cannot be readily understood as "reconciliation of friendship" unless it is used in the proper context. The natural object should not need explication for its symbolism to be understood.

At times, Hemingway re-defines the natural object by changing the noun. An example of this re-definition is his description of the woman as both a "wife" and a "girl." While the woman is with her husband, she is a "wife." When she ventures outside the room, she becomes a "girl." The word "wife" places the woman in a social context. The word "girl" is a descriptor of young age and suggests immaturity and, in the context of this story, is something pejorative. The exchange of nouns in describing the woman serves two purposes. First, it gives the reader a sense of the woman's age in relation to her husband, who by his reserved actions seems older and more settled. Second, the exchange of a pejorative "girl" for "wife" suggests that the woman lacks definition without her husband. Furthermore, once we realize that the wife is a girl, the childishness she reveals later in the story is made more plausible.

Hemingway's choice of the word "American" in describing the wife serves a symbolic purpose in that it makes her appear alien to her surroundings. She is an American in cultured, old-world Italy, where superstitions about having open umbrellas indoors are still observed (169). Clearly, the wife is a foreigner in an environment that is alien to her (boorish?) "Americanism." Like the cat, she is displaced from her proper environment; neither the cat nor she seems to have a place in the world. Further, the wife does not bear a proper name, in contrast to the husband, whom we learn is "George" by the last half of the story, which suggests indifference toward the girl on the part of the narrator. This is striking, considering that the story is told from the limited omniscient point of view with the story unfolding primarily through the wife's thoughts and experiences. An explanation could be that Hemingway is expressing his negative view of women through the narration. This is not unusual considering the misogyny that shows up in some of his other stories such as "Up in Michigan" (81-86), whose rape victim lacks real anger or psychological pain from the rape, and instead expresses a measure of tenderness for her attacker.

The sparse language and syntax that Hemingway uses extends to the dialog, which follows to Pound's tenet of adherence to the natural rhythms of speech. It also reveals certain relational aspects of the characters. Overtly, the syntax and vocabulary of all characters is simple. The language used is not stilted—it flows smoothly if read aloud. One does not get the impression that any of the characters in this story are well-read. The informal register of the verbal intercourse between the husband and wife, as indicated by the short Anglo words and use of contractions, signals the reader that the two have been married for a while. They are familiar enough with each other that the pleasantries are no longer present; the husband feels comfortable enough with his wife to tell her brusquely to "shut up and get something to read" (168). The wife is equally at ease in the presence of her husband. To express her desire, she says "I want" instead of a more genteel "I'd like..." or "It would please me if..." (169). Their dialogue is repetitive. They often make a simple statement then make the same statement again with an elaboration: "'I get so tired of it," she said. 'I get so tired of looking like a boy.'" (169). Such repetition suggests their lack of fluency. The hotel staff is much more comfortable speaking Italian, which is their native language. Nonetheless, they accommodate the wife by speaking English, though they realize she can speak their language. Like the husband and wife, they repeat themselves: "'Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It's very bad weather.'" (168). The syntax and lexical variety of their utterances do not seem especially complex or varied. The staff is neither excessively formal nor rude with the wife. The homogeny of the register of speech between the husband and wife and hotel staff indicates a kind of equilibrium in status.

Hemingway uses the cat as the primary natural object in this story. The cat first appears in the second paragraph. Hemingway lets the reader know that the cat is a female by using the words "herself" and "she" (167). These words initiate a symbolic connection between the wife and the cat. Hemingway's choice of pronouns tells the reader that the story is being told in the limited-omniscient third person point of view with neither of the characters' personal views biasing the storytelling. Lines such as "She liked the hotel-keeper" let us into the mind of the wife, and "George looked up and saw the back of her neck" lets us see from the perspective of the husband. Hemingway's choice of nouns also reveals that the narrator does not have affection for the creature, which is also a reflection of his attitude toward the wife. Throughout the story, Hemingway refers to the creature as "the cat" and "a cat." On the other hand, when the wife refers to the cat when speaking to her husband, she says, "I'm going to go down to get that kitty" (167) and "I wanted that poor kitty" (167). She uses the word "kitty" to convey her affinity for the cat crouched under the table, a descriptor that the narrator does not use. Note, too, that the wife uses the determiner "that" both times instead of the definite article "the." What may be suggested by her use of "that" is the distance of the cat from the wife. This distance could suggest that there are two "kitties"—one who is sheltered beneath the table and another who is sheltered in the hotel room. The cat is out in the rain in a literal sense; the wife is in the rain in a figurative sense. And neither has a place to go. When the wife speaks to the maid in the courtyard, she refers to the animal objectively as a "cat" and "il gatto" (168). Then she waxes wistful: "Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty" (168). She repeats herself a few lines later: "I wanted it so much," and then, "I don't know why I wanted it so much....It isn't any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain" (169). Here, the wife may be communicating a desire for the sense of endearment that is connoted by the word "kitty"; she may desire to express affection and, hopefully, to have her affection reciprocated.

The wife's dialogue manages a change in the symbolism represented by the cat. When the wife does not get a favorable response from the husband, she slips into a demanding mode: "And I want to eat at a table.... I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes" (170). Note that she refers to the kitty with the non-referential determiner "a." She reverts to this determiner after she realizes that her husband will not give in to her wishes. She expresses her intensified anxiety by becoming increasingly demanding in the hopes of receiving anything from him that she can. He rebuffs her: "Oh shut up and get something to read" (170). At this point, she would take anything that he would give her—even "a" cat, whose symbolism has now changed from affection to mere release from boredom. Shortly after the husband and wife's heated exchange, the maid shows up at the door with a tortoise-shell cat in her arms (170). It is unclear whether or not this is the same cat that the wife saw from the window. Nonetheless, there is no doubt in the reader's mind that the cat will suffice to appease the woman's desire, at least for the time being.

In view of the symbolic connection between the cat and the wife's desires, the appearance of the cat at the end of the story may suggest two things. First, it may indicate that men and women in marriages cannot rely upon each other to provide all of each other's comforts and emotional needs. Fulfillment from any source, as evidenced by the mystery of where the cat came from, may be adequate. Second, the appearance of the cat may the hotel staff's acknowledgement of the wife's unrequited desire for affection. The fact that they bothered to find any cat and bring it to her validates her desire. This causes the husband's conduct to appear particularly unfavorable. Once the cat is located, the reader is left to wonder why he did not adopt an active role in procuring the kitty. Certainly, if he had sought to please his wife, as would any good husband, he would have retrieved the cat from the public garden when she expressed her desire for it.

If one takes into account the themes of other stories written by Hemingway in the early 1920s, the cat may represent fertility and the wife's desire for children. Evidence for the cat as the symbolic representation of the woman's desire to bear and nurture a child is not articulated directly in the text, but is suggested, rather, by other stories written by Hemingway in the same era. "Cat in the Rain" bears many similarities to two other stories: "Hills Like White Elephants" and "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot." In all three stories, we have an unhappy, emotionally unfulfilled woman trapped in a relationship with a diffident man who is unwilling to allow her nurturing nature to articulate itself. Each story ends with an entity outside the marriage acting to pacify the frustrated woman's desire for motherhood and matrimonial intimacy. Consider the ending of "Mr. and Mrs. Elliot" after the Elliots' inability to conceive a child has evaporated the marriage. Mrs. Elliot now substitutes the company of a "girlfriend" and a diffident, immature husband for motherhood:

"Elliot had taken to drinking white wine and lived apart in his own room...Mrs. Elliot and the girl friend now slept together in the big medieval bed. They had many a good cry together. Elliot drank white wine and Mrs. Elliot and the girl friend made conversation and they were all quite happy" (164).

Other Hemingway stories that are vignettes of doomed relationships are "Out of Season," "Canary for One," "A Very Short Story," "Homage to Switzerland," "One Reader Writes," and "The Sea Change." If we adopt the view that Hemingway's early short stories are consistent in theme, then we can clearly see that the cat is the natural object symbolizing the motherhood that the wife desires.

Hemingway's utilization of the natural object is also evident in his description of the environment. Here, as with the cat, Hemingway uses objects that naturally lends themselves to establishment of the symbol. In the square just outside the hotel is a war monument. A public garden lies directly below the couple's window. Here, Hemingway takes two incongruent artifacts and melds them into the controlling theme of the story. The war monument represents conflict. The public garden is a symbol for the Garden of Eden, the lost ideal relationship between a man and woman. Juxtaposed, they suggest marital conflict, or possibly a battle between the sexes. The empty square adds to the gloom. The picturesque garden, visited by artists in good weather, is vacant in the doleful rain. Waves crash upon the shore from an unsettled sea. These things both symbolize and foreshadow the turmoil that will be revealed behind the hotel room window that overlooks the scene.

Never in the story does Hemingway tell the reader outright why the woman is troubled. His lack of exposition does not, however, indicate that he is evading the issue. On the contrary, he stays true to Pound's principle that the thing (theme) should be treated without evasion. As would a skilled storyteller, he allows the story to tell itself without narrator explanation. An example is the wife's thoughts about the hotel-keeper. It is true that she admires his professionalism, but her feelings also reflect what she is missing in her life. Consider the lines, "She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her.... She liked his old, heavy face and big hands" (168), and later, "The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time very important" (169). The wife is projecting her belief of what a benevolent and protective husband should be onto the hotel-keeper. Furthermore, the wife's vision of the hotel-keeper, held in direct contrast to the husband's remote countenance, suggests that she is not receiving the attention she needs from her husband. This lack of attention is further suggested with: "I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap to purr when I stroke her" (169). With this line, the wife is using the cat as projection of her desire to be "stroked," a word with both emotional and sexual connotations. The subtext here is "intimacy." The crux of the story lies in the wife's implicit answer to the maid's question: "Ha perduto qalque cosa, Senora?" [Have you lost something, Madame?] (168). Indeed, the woman has lost something—her intimacy with her husband. And now she has ventured into the rain in search of what she hopes will be an adequate substitute for her husband's affection.

"Cat in the Rain" displays Hemingway's skill in conveying a multiplicity of meanings by use of small lexical variety, repetition, and simple syntax. Additionally, the story proves that he is faithful to Pound's four principles of poetry. He does not use any words that do not contribute to the general design; noun phrases remain simple, and descriptions are scant yet packed with meaning. He treats the "thing" without evasion or cliché as shown by his straightforward use of "rain" and "cat" and by his using action instead of exposition. The dialogue is faithful to the rhythms of natural speech; the narration and dialogue sound natural if read aloud. And with the effective use of the cat to represent the wife's unrequited affection, Hemingway proves the validity of Pound's tenet that the natural object is an adequate symbol. 
Work Cited

Hemingway, Ernest. The Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1953.

# "Hills Like White Elephants" as an Embodiment of Poetic Principle

"There is seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows," Ernest Hemingway said of his work. If this is truly the case, then we may consider the sparsely worded "Hills Like White Elephants" as being similar to a well-crafted work of poetry with each phrase carefully chosen to yield the desired effect. In fact, critics have recognized that Hemingway adhered to four poetic principles set forth in a 1913 essay by famous poet, Ezra Pound: withholding of all words that do not contribute to the general design of the work, selection of the natural object as the adequate symbol, treatment of the "thing" without evasion or cliché, and adherence to the rhythms of natural speech. But is "Hills Like White Elephants" faithful to Pound's tenets of poeticism? And if so, does the story possess the subtle metaphor inherent in good poetry?

Like much poetry, "Hills Like White Elephants" possesses a certain level of ambiguity. This is partly due to scant descriptions and terse dialogue. A great deal is left unsaid. The main characters are also shrouded in ambiguity. We never learn their names, nor do we learn many specifics about them. Even their marital status remains a mystery. Hemingway tells us obliquely that the man is an American. The man calls the girl 'Jig' (Hemingway 654). The nature of the operation, the purpose for their trip to Madrid, is not stated outright. In fact, the word 'abortion' is never vocalized. But due to Hemingway's adept use of verbal shorthand, the nature of the operation and its ramifications are implicit. The operation is a dangerous one considering the time period (the 1920s) and the fact that the couple is in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. By not mentioning the operation by name, Hemingway leads us to believe that this is also a sore point between the man and girl. There is irony in the man's repeated statement that the operation will be "perfectly simple" (655). As the scant dialogue continues, Hemingway gradually fleshes out his characters without one word of superfluous detail. By the end of the story, we realize that we know these two very well. Thus, we find that Hemingway does not use words that don't contribute to the general design of the story; he repeats some words or phrases to create an undertone of irony, and conversely, he uses the absence of some words explicate the struggle in the story and develop its plot.

Like a well-crafted poem, this story is rich with subtle metaphor masked as ambiguity. Anis del Toro, the name of the drink, means 'Anise of the Bull.' Anise, of course, tastes like licorice. The girl does not like licorice, so she gives the man her portion. The man takes it because, unlike her, he likes licorice. This difference in preferences hints at a possible incompatibility between the two. Or maybe their relationship has simply run past its course. She says, "Everything tastes like licorice. Especially all the things you've waited for, like absinthe1" (654). The 'good times' are what attracted the man to the girl. She became absinthe to him, his licorice-flavored drug. The man, however, later orders and drinks an anise outside the presence of the girl. This furtive act suggests that he conceals his true desires from the girl. It also suggests that maybe he has unspoken doubts that he will ever enjoy the girl's companionship the way he used to before she became pregnant.

Pound stated that the natural object is always the best natural symbol. If Hemingway followed this tenet, then the setting of this story must hold significance. The terrain around the train station is brown and dry. This sterile landscape must evoke several meanings. The barren scenery in this story suggests the tone of the piece. There is no levity here. The words shared between the man and the girl are as dry as the surrounding terrain. One does not get the sense that these two are in love. Their lives are consumed with travelling from place to place trying new drinks. In this light, the dry, barren terrain may reflect the sterility of relationship between the man and the American girl. The fact that they wander from place to place trying new drinks suggests that they may be searching for something new to moisten (or add lubrication to) the dry friction between them.

There are other examples within the story where the natural object is an accurate symbol. While the man is focused on the physical, mechanically simple aspect of the operation, the girl focuses on psychological (and possibly spiritual) aspect. Their disparate viewpoints are symbolized by the firm, four-legged table that sits between them (653) and the position of the railway station between two parallel tracks (656). Like the relative positions of the table and the station, the forthcoming operation sits squarely between the man and girl, separating them, keeping them apart. The "two lines of rails in the sun" (653) are also a natural symbol for the semi-estrangement between the two: their feelings about the forthcoming abortion meet but do not converge. And if both followed their feelings, they would not arrive at the same destination.

"They look like white elephants," the girl says of the distant hills (653). Not only are the hills a natural symbol, but this is an instance where Hemingway is giving direct treatment of the 'thing' without evasion or cliché. The white elephant is a mythical creature with whimsical connotations. To mention one in a story is to flirt with the cliché. In this story, however, it is a creature that symbolizes a gift of questionable value. The fantastic creature alludes to the questionable result of the operation. It is possible that the operation will not bring the man and girl close together again. The girl especially has doubts that the operation will bring her closer to the man. Perhaps she knows him better than she knows himself. When he replies that he hasn't seen a white elephant, she retorts, "No, you wouldn't have" (653). Possibly, the girl knows happiness won't blossom between them again, yet she is resigned to her fate, and at the very least, intent on not becoming an unwed mother in 1920s Spain.

The white elephants also represent the girl's fancy and her foibles. She uses mention of them as a kind of 'litmus test' to prod his feelings toward her. She looks to him continuously for reassurance. When he doesn't give her the response she desires, she says, "But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?" (655). This question suggests an extant undercurrent of unhappiness and gives the impression that lately he has been unkind to her. She hopes that his acceptance of her silly white elephants indicates that he will remain devoted to her. She also hopes that he will become more patient with her after the operation, and that he will show more affection toward her than he has recently shown.

Hemingway develops his plot through a confluence of symbolism and dialogue. The girl's mind is clearly someplace else throughout most of the story. At times, she seems to be lost in a daze. Like the story, seven-eighths of her thoughts are below the surface. This is evident in the halting rhythm and nuances in her speech; she repeatedly loses the thread of her conversation with the man. "The beer's nice and cool," the man says. "It's lovely," the girl replies, still referring to the far away mountains (654). Later, when the waitress puts the beer on the table, the girl misses what the waitress says and has to ask the man to repeat it for her. "The train is coming in five minutes," he answers (655). The girl is obviously distracted by some turmoil inside her. And judging from these lines, one might believe that she wishes she were far away from the man, the rail station, and her predicament.

Hemingway skillfully telegraphs the friction between the man and the girl with half-statements in the dialogue. The effect is that the characters sometimes appear to be outwardly responding to past arguments that are being replayed in their minds. For example, while the two are talking about the taste of licorice, the girl enigmatically blurts out, "You started it...I was being amused. I was having a fine time" (654). Though this statement doesn't follow the topic of the conversation, it sounds natural, for it hints at the turmoil the girl feels inside. Hemingway correctly realizes that if someone is deeply troubled about something, the troubled person will often shift conversations back to discussion of the problem. In this case, Hemingway subtly lets us know who blames who for the pregnancy; the girl seems to be responding to the man's earlier accusation that it is her fault she became pregnant. Later, when the man tells her that the pregnancy is the only thing that has made them unhappy and that he knows lots of people that have had the operation, she replies dolefully, "So have I...And afterward they were all so happy" (654). This statement is laced with irony. It reveals that she would like to have the child, but only her submissiveness to his desires makes her push forward toward what she feels is obviously wrong. She will jeopardize her psychological well-being to maintain the relationship. In modern terms, the girl might be described as "co-dependent," or at least "unassertive." This is because she does looks to him for her happiness, and she sacrifices her values for the sake of maintaining her relationship with the man.

The girl's imagination takes hold of her when she parts with him at the table. She visualizes the shadow of a cloud moving across the field of grain (655). The cloud, another natural symbol, shields the grain from the light; the grain represents sustenance and fertility. This visual image may signify the guilt she feels over the abortion she is about to submit herself to. The cloud is also the man's will. The life-giving grain is going to be shut away from the sunlight forever because of the cloud. In further support of this interpretation, the man later asks her to come back with him into the shade. "You mustn't feel that way," he says (655). When she walked away from him at the table, symbolically, she broke away from his influence. Not comfortable with the idea of losing his influence over her, the man follows her to the end of the station to beckon her back. But the girl has had a glimpse of the corrosive effect of the man's will on her spirit. On one level she knows she cannot resist him. Yet, she has persistent reservations about his assurance of long-term happiness after the operation. "Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?" (656) she begs him later in vexation.

Nothing in the narration leads us to believe the girl has fully agreed to go along with the operation. The characters never state their true feelings outright. Yet, we know their true positions and what worries them. This information has been passed to us by their discourse alone. In fact, their dialogue has carried the plot. "Do you feel better?" the man asks the girl in the second-to-the-last line. But by now we know her well enough to know that her answer will be a play of irony. "I feel fine" she replies. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine" (656). Unfortunately, for her, nothing is fine. But after that point, we know she will move to the other tracks against her conscience. This symbolizes her final capitulation to the man's will. Though the story has ended, there is no real resolution. Nowhere in the story is there evidence that the relationship will endure. In fact, it is probable that their relationship will fail if the man is unable to deal with her remorse after the operation takes place.

"Hills Like White Elephants" displays Hemingway's skill in conveying a multiplicity of meanings through metaphor with an economy of words. Furthermore, the story proves that he is faithful to Pound's four principles of poetry: He addresses the 'thing' without evasion or cliché as shown with straight-faced mention of 'white elephants.' He does not use any words that do not contribute to the general design; his descriptions are scant, yet packed with meaning. His dialogue is faithful to the rhythms of natural speech; each line is filled with nuance; what is not said sometimes says more than what is being said. And with the effective use of setting, Hemingway proves the validity of Pound's tenet that the natural object is an adequate symbol. In this story, Hemingway follows Pound's advice and proves himself a great poet and master of understatement.

* * *

1 Absinthe is a highly alcoholic (180 proof), green liqueur made from anise and wormwood extracts. 

# Cries and Whispers: Multiple Voices in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Although T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is a monologue, there are multiple voices in the poem that allude to various aspects of the protagonist, his condition, and his environment. Some of these voices are suppressed; they exist only in the subconscious and distant memory of the protagonist. Other voices are much more strident; they mutter ceaselessly of their discontent in the nearly deserted streets and crowded, cheap hotels in the slums of St. Louis. One can gather a deeper understanding of "Prufrock" by discerning these voices, for when heard together as in a choral arrangement, the fragmented voices reveal a greater unity to the poem than if the poem were read strictly as a monologue that addresses the reader.

The most prevalent voice in "Prufrock" is Eliot himself intruding on his poem. According to Eliot, poetry should not be autobiographical. He believed that the greater the distance between the poet and the work, the greater the work. Nevertheless, some aspects of Eliot's personal life appear in "Prufrock." Of the poet's early years, and in the years leading up to "Prufrock," Eliot wrote that he suffered from "an aboulie and emotional derangement" (Eliot xxii). A modern assessment of Eliot's condition may be that he suffered from "depression." Nevertheless, Eliot denies his autobiographical touch in "Prufrock." Despite Eliot's denial of an autobiographical connection, in a 1960 essay, he wrote, "My urban imagery was that of Saint. Louis, upon which that of Paris and London had been superimposed" (Longman 2417). This statement from the poet solidifies his connection with the environment of "Prufrock."

The lack of a "love ethic" in Prufrock's monologue suggests an allusion to Eliot's marriage to Vivien Haigh-Wood, whom he had married in 1915. At the time that Eliot wrote his first strains of Prufrock's love song, Vivien suffered from what was at the time called "nervousness." This nervousness plagued her most of her life. She was eventually institutionalized in 1938. The Eliots' marriage could not have been a happy one, and this type of strained relationship (and subsequent disillusionment) exists in Prufrock's past: "And I have known the arms already, known them all— / Arms that are braceleted and white and bare / (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)" (Eliot ll. 62-64). It is not difficult to find fundamental congruities between "Prufrock" and Eliot's personal life.

Some critics maintain that Eliot was able to achieve a remarkable degree of detachment from his work. In support of his view, critic Hugh Williamson writes: "It was Eliot's observation, in part directed with uncanny detachment on his own youthful emotions, which enabled him at twenty-two to give us the picture of a middle-aged man" (63). Other critics see the connection: "As a body of work, Eliot's early poetry [of which "Prufrock" is a part] is a kind of spiritual autobiography" (Mayer 14). The connection between Eliot and "Prufrock" is undeniable. In fact, many of the poet's personal views are vocalized in "Prufrock," especially in regard to romance. An unhappy relationship in Prufrock's history (and Eliot's) might justify his conclusion on his failure to live up the ideal of romance and love: "And it would have been worth it, after all, / Would it have been worth while[?]" (Eliot ll. 99-100). From this statement, we can safely assume that Prufrock's history mirrors the couple in "The Wasteland" whose idealistic, romantic love has degenerated into something trite and nasty, leaving the participants wondering why they began the union in the first place. So effectively, Eliot is voicing his doleful experiences through his persona.

Another voice in "Prufrock" is that of Prufrock's love interest. Snippets of their private conversations appear in a few places in the poem. These snippets are comprised of "one-sided" dialogue in which only half of the conversation is intimated. A one-sided conversation is present in the lines "If one settling a pillow by her head, / Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all. / That is not it, at all" (ll. 96-98). In both cases, the side of the conversation that we hear sounds like an accusation. Although it is not entirely clear who is doing the talking, what is revealed suggests insurmountable misunderstanding between the sexes. In Prufrock's case, the snippets denote some failure in the relationship where carping and derogatory remarks have replaced ardent discourse. The recognition of the voice of Prufrock's past lover (or wife) is valuable to the reader if he is to understand Prufrock's fear of women.

While "Prufrock" is a monologue, it also contains a narrative voice. Being set in the mind of the protagonist, the poem operates primarily in the present tense with shifts both backward and forward. Contrary to being a random or haphazard collection of insights and events, the poem is tightly ordered. Nancy Hargrove astutely observes, "the structure of Prufrock is analogous to a series of slides, each of which presents a landscape or scene symbolizing a facet of the protagonist's soul" (48). Indeed, the poem unfolds like a slideshow. And when the poem viewed this way, the narrative voice appears. Hargrove breaks down the slide show into four parts: Part I (Eliot ll. 1-69) shows Prufrock's approach to the question and gives a good deal of background about his life and personality. Part II (ll. 70-74) is the climax of the poem in which Prufrock reveals his inability to ask the question and his agonized frustration at this failure. Part III (ll. 75-119) contains justifications for his rejection of the question, the rejection itself being stated directly only at the end of this section. Part IV (ll.120-131) reveals the emptiness of his future as the consequence of his failure to ask the question and act upon it (49). The narrative voice adds unity and cohesion to the structure of the poem and reveals Prufrock's ineffective strategy in dealing with what troubles him. It makes the poem read as a vignette. As a side note, Ezra Pound had a heavy hand in organizing this poem. Therefore, the existence of the narrative voice is mostly the result of his judicious editorial work. So, in a sense, the invisible narrator of the slide show of "Prufrock" could be Ezra Pound himself.

The voice of the city speaks in a language of symbols. By analyzing the language in which the environment is described, we may gain insight into why Prufrock's debilitated state may have been perpetuated. For example, the restaurants have sawdust strewn across the floors for the purpose of sanitation to absorb the wet and dirt brought in from the street and from the spillage of food and drink, which may include oyster shells. Streets that are half-deserted possess a different atmosphere from those that are bustling or crowded. The quietude alone connotes lack of activity, which translates to lack of prosperity, which suggests desolation. The hotels are cheap, which means that they are typically occupied on a one-night basis, suggesting troubled vagrancy as well as illicit sex or prostitution. There are also "muttering retreats" (Eliot ll. 5). These could be the "restless nights" and "sawdust restaurants." A bit later in the poem, we have a comparable passage: "Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets / And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes / Of lonely men in shirt sleeves, leaning out windows?" (ll. 70-73). In these lines, the impact of the imagery transcends the literal statement: another voice is created. It is a sad, urban environment languishing in decay. The imagery of this environment echoes Prufrock's fractured soul: "The mazelike, dirty streets paralleling the twisted and turning avenues of Prufrock's mind lead him to recognize the sterility in his own life" (Hargrove 50). Thus, the voice of the city tells Prufrock what he has become.

"Prufrock" also contains the voice of the inhabitants of the city. As mentioned earlier, Prufrock's "visit" takes place in a squalid environment redolent of the slums of St. Louis. Eliot writes, "women come and go, / talking of Michelangelo" (Eliot ll. 13,14, 35,36). The women, it seems, are not qualified to spout such a name. They do not own the Great Master's genius, nor do they have understanding of his accomplishments. "Michelangelo" is bandied about like a trendy catchword. Prufrock, perhaps not unjustly, is wary of them; he is afraid that he will be compared against their ideal of Michelangelo. In short, he is afraid of being judged by them and found wanting. He is well aware of their distinctive voice; it is scathingly critical: "They will say, 'How his hair is growing thin!'" and "but how his arms and legs are thin!'" (ll. 41, 44). And when the women are not speaking with their wagging tongues, they speak with their eyes: "The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase" (ll. 56).

In the final stanzas of the poem, Prufrock has left the city. Now as he walks along the beach, he imagines he hears mermaids singing on the fertile sea: "I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. / I do not think that they will sing to me" (ll. 124, 125). Of these voices, Hargrove writes, "Prufrock's agony lies in his awareness of the meaning life can have...and his realization that he himself cannot partake of the fertility" (54). The voices Prufrock hears in his environment will not allow him to escape self-recrimination.

Collectively, the voice of the city and the voices of its inhabitants echo the mourning of post-war Europe. In fact, "Prufrock" gives voice to the nearly universal pessimism and alienation in the early decades of twentieth-century Europe. Eliot established a pattern with three other great poems in this early period of his writing career: "A Portrait of a Lady," "Preludes," and "Rhapsody on a Windy Night." Like "Prufrock," these poems deal unflinchingly with loneliness, alienation, and isolation, and all three may be interpreted as microcosms of Eliot's view of society. In these poems, Eliot suggests, in modernist form, that our isolation from others derives from, and tragically mirrors, our isolation from ourselves. Further along those lines, the epigraph to "Prufrock," an excerpt Dante's "Inferno," is not only a metaphor for Prufrock's journey through his urban landscape (hell), but it is also an allusion to the early 1920s European man's pessimistic conjecture that his society, like the state of the damned soul in "Inferno," can never improve. And like Prufrock, locked into a "society" that he cannot escape, and feeling as though he has nothing to lose, the damned soul confesses to that which will disgrace him.

Much has been written about the "you" and "I" in line 1. Through casual parsing of the poem's introduction, we can interpret the "you" as Prufrock inviting the reader to join him on a "visit" through the "certain half-deserted streets" in which he will bare his soul "like a patient etherized upon a table." (The "I," of course, is Prufrock himself.) Such an interpretation performs a yeoman's task of carrying the reader through the poem. A psychological rendering of the "you and I" statement, however, yields a deeper, more complex aspect of the monologue. Critic John Mayer writes, "Eliot was tortured by conflicts and contradictions at the heart of his experience....In 'Prufrock,' this is seen in the implied exchange between the 'you and I'...It is more helpful to think of 'Prufrock' as an interplay of competing, overlapping awarenesses than as a debate between 'you' and 'I'" (14). In this case, the "you" may be interpreted as Prufrock's superficial self—the portion of him that possesses intelligence and reasoning, and pejoratively, immunity to pain and a lack of emotional connectedness. The "I" may be construed as Prufrock's suppressed sub-conscious, the part of him that feels the pain of his condition. In the poem, the superficial self (or "ego") is placed in an etherized, dream-like state (like a patient), leaving the normally suppressed conscious in control. So, in this interpretation, the "you" and "I" becomes a dialogue between the subconscious and the ego.

Unlike Prufrock's ego, his subconscious is wholly internal; it harbors no pretense or external appearances of gentility, nor is it shrouded in "tea and cakes and ices" (Eliot ll. 79). Prufrock's subconscious bears witness to the ego's advanced decrepitude. It examines the life created by the ego, and in response, conjures up the self-loathing and self-recrimination present in much of the poem. The effect of this conjuration is an outcry against paralysis of the will and the self-negation inflicted by the ego upon his soul. It is protest against the monotonous, fruitless life measured out with coffee spoons. So in effect, while Prufrock (the man) is taking a nocturnal tour of the decayed city, internally, and simultaneously, his suppressed subconscious is giving the man a tour of his decayed soul.

T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is a striking poem, for though it is a "stream-of-conscious" monologue, it manages to speak to the reader with a multiplicity of voices. The simplicity of the monologue invites us into the soul of the protagonist. Through his voice, we witness his self-abasement and profound disillusionment. But beyond the prattle of the protagonist's monologue, we also hear the voices that describe the pessimism of 1910s Europe. We hear the explication of failed romance. We hear the carping, critical tongue of past loves, and voices that define modern obsessions and universal human values. We also hear Eliot using Prufrock as a cathartic mouthpiece to air issues that troubled the poet. A significant revelation is that Prufrock's (and possibly Eliot's) experiences have brought both disillusion and wisdom. The wisdom is recognition of the things in life that are impossible, and "disillusion only means realizing that the individual's road to happiness may not in the least coincide with the course recommended by general opinion" (Williamson 64). In itself, "Prufrock" is a profoundly ironic "love song" in which neither lover nor beloved exists with tangibility outside the confines of "a formulated phrase." The "song" as a mode of expression, however, is actually a polyphonic melody that reaches its greatest splendor only when all voices are heard simultaneously. 
Works Cited

Eliot, T.S. The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Drafts Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound. Ed. Valerie Eliot. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971.

Eliot, T.S. The Wasteland, Prufrock, and Other Poems. Mineola: Dover Publications, 1998.

Hargrove, Nancy Duvall. Landscape as Symbol in the Poetry of T.S. Eliot. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 1978.

Jones, Ernest. Essays in Applied Psychoanalysis. London: International Psycho Analytical Press, 1923.

Mayer, John T. T.S. Eliot's Silent Voices. New York: Oxford UP, 1989.

"T.S. Eliot." The Longman Anthology of British Literature, Volume 2. Ed. David Damrosch. New York: Addison Wesley Longman, 1998. 2417-20.

Williamson, Hugh Ross. The Poetry of T.S. Eliot. London: Hodder & Stoughton Limited, 1932.

# Language Nuances in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Through casual parsing of the introduction of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," we can interpret the "you" as Prufrock inviting the reader to join him on a "visit" through the "certain half-deserted streets" in which he will bare his soul "like a patient etherized upon a table." (The "I," of course, is Prufrock himself.) Such an interpretation performs a yeoman's task of carrying the reader through the poem. A psychological rendering of the "you and I" statement, however, yields a deeper, more complex aspect of the monologue. Critic John Mayer writes, "Eliot was tortured by conflicts and contradictions at the heart of his experience....In 'Prufrock,' this is seen in the implied exchange between the 'you and I'...It is more helpful to think of 'Prufrock' as an interplay of competing, overlapping awarenesses than as a debate between 'you' and 'I'" (14). In this case, the "you" may be interpreted as Prufrock's superficial self—the portion of him that possesses intelligence and reasoning, and pejoratively, immunity to pain and a lack of emotional connectedness. The "I" may be construed as Prufrock's suppressed sub-conscious, the part of him that feels the pain of his condition. In the poem, the superficial self (or "ego") is placed in an etherized, dream-like state (like a patient), leaving the normally suppressed conscious in control. So, in this interpretation, the "you" and "I" becomes a dialogue between the subconscious and the ego.

Unlike Prufrock's ego, his subconscious is wholly internal; it harbors no pretense or external appearances of gentility, nor is it shrouded in "tea and cakes and ices" (Eliot ll. 79). Prufrock's subconscious bears witness to the ego's advanced decrepitude. It examines the life created by the ego, and in response, conjures up the self-loathing and self-recrimination present in much of the poem. The effect of this conjuration is an outcry against paralysis of the will and the self-negation inflicted by the ego upon his soul. It is protest against the monotonous, fruitless life measured out with coffee spoons. So in effect, while Prufrock (the man) is taking a nocturnal tour of the decayed city, internally, and simultaneously, his suppressed subconscious is giving the man a tour of his decayed soul.

The reason the patient is "etherized" instead of anesthetized is that ether produces a dream-like state while, anesthesia implies numbness. Prufrock certainly is not numb; he feels enormous pain in his disillusionment. Like an etherized patient, semi-awake, he is fully aware of his condition, yet he lacks the will to "bring the moment to its crisis." He is the "patient" being eviscerated by the subconscious, exposed, spread across the sky like the evening. And while Prufrock has receded to the role of the patient, his suppressed subconscious takes control, and "operates" on him by showing him, unabashedly, what he has become.
Works Cited

Mayer, John T. T.S. Eliot's Silent Voices. New York: Oxford UP, 1989.

# The Interpretation of Color Imagery in "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle"

On the first reading of a Wallace Stevens poem, the uninitiated reader may feel as if someone is trying to insult his intelligence with a mishmash of awkward sentences thrown together in seemingly random order. By the time the reader reaches the end of a poem, he may even feel that Stevens has given him a slap across his chops. But by delving deeper into the Stevens' work by rereading and interpreting stanzas in bite-size pieces, the logic becomes apparent. What was once the slap across the chops becomes the slap on the butt of newborn understanding. Certainly, Stevens' work is not accessible to the casual reader. The world's most astute scholars may never discover all the secrets buried within the poems. Nevertheless, it may be possible to gain a deeper understanding of "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle" by analyzing the shorthand Stevens places in this poem by the use of color imagery.

Before discussing the colors in "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle," it may be helpful to touch upon the primary theme of the poem. Determining the themes in Stevens' poems is a dicey undertaking, since many of the themes are complex and defy succinct, concrete description. Additionally, many of his poems are difficult to unpack because they contain awkward syntax, displaced meanings of common words, and the infusion his made-up words. "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle" is no exception. It is safe to say, however, that aging, the fading of passion, and the subsequent withering of the imagination are prominent themes in this poem. These themes are introduced early in the first few cantos. A particularly rich example of the theme in play is located in Canto IV: "This luscious and impeccable fruit of life / Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth" (11). The "luscious and impeccable fruit" is his enjoyment of the carnal aspect of life for its own sake. Stevens seems to be musing over his mortality in these lines. But even wisdom cannot save a man from the inevitable when the end of life approaches:

"An apple serves as well as any skull

To be the book in which read a round,

And is as excellent, in that it is composed

Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to the ground" (11).

Stevens compares a head full of wisdom and ideas, and perhaps imagination, to a simple apple. Though both are perfect in their own right, both must eventually fall to decay. And after death, a head full of wisdom, for all practical purposes, had might as well be a rotting apple.

Stevens has a propensity for using primary colors in his poems. His poems rarely contain half-tone blends such as lavender, azure, or mauve. Instead, he describes objects and themes with solid colors such as red, green, and yellow. With such a simple palette of colors, one would think we could create a kind of "Rosetta Stone" to guide the reader in understanding the verbal hieroglyphics of Stevens' poems. For example, the stone could read "blue means happiness," and "yellow means weakness." Then, whenever one of these colors appear in the poem, the meaning of the line in which it appears can be read in context of what the color represents. Unfortunately, this type of simplification is not always possible. The theme of the poem, if known, must be taken into consideration. Nevertheless, the reader may draw conclusions on the meanings of the colors based on Stevens' other poems and the commonly held meanings for certain colors.

Red and gold are mentioned only once in this "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle." They appear in Canto II. "A red bird flies across the golden floor. / It is a red bird that seeks out his choir among the choirs of wind and wet and wing" (11). The color red is nominally associated with youthful energy and excitement. Red can also symbolize sexual fertility in the same regard that flowers, which are essentially plant sex organs, are often bright red to attract insects. The color gold is sometimes associated with permanence and wealth. Here, we have the red bird sailing over a gold floor. Furthermore, birds typically fly in a blue sky, which can be generalized as imagination. The flight of this particular bird can be interpreted as a youth seeking his fortune in a flight through the imagination.

It is apparent that the color blue has meaning in this poem. Blue represents imagination as it does in the other Stevens' poem, "The Man with the Blue Guitar." In "Le Monocle," though creativity and imagination are still present at middle age, they have faded into a universal gray, which possibly signifies decent into the banal and mundane. This concept is exemplified in the lines: "If men at forty will be painting lakes / The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one, / The basic slate, the universal hue" (12).

Pink, a diluted form of vital red, appears in Canto XI. Red, as stated earlier, is nominally associated with youthful energy and excitement. Canto XI describes frustration arising from the loss of sexual virility. The presence of a pool of pink underscores this loss in middle age. The author and his lover sit passively beside this pink pool. This signifies the couple's resignation to the loss of passion that has come to pass.

In Canto XII, a blue pigeon circles in a blue sky. This pigeon could represent an artist, possibly Stevens himself, reveling in his imagination and creativity. The blue pigeon of heightened imagination becomes weary of flight and descends. This is the consequence of middle age. Once the pigeon reaches the ground, its color has shifted from blue to white. This absence of hue signifies a complete loss of imagination. The change to white may also indicate the time of death, for white indicates a blank slate, a void of human experience. It is also the bloodless skin of a cadaver.

The representation of white in "Le Monocle" may be compared to a thematically similar Stevens poem, "Sad Strains of a Gay Waltz." In both poems, Stevens is swept along and amazed by the swift passage of youth and the onset of middle age. Unlike in "Le Monocle," no colors are stated directly in "Sad Strains." Instead of color, Stevens uses shadow as the metaphor for intangible desire. Again, color plays a significant part in the poem, for shadows are black. In this regard, black shadows may be defined as the opposite of white; the black shadows are the manifestation of carnal desire, and in the case of the waltz of life, desires lost in middle age.

In Canto VIII, Stevens describes "Two golden gourds distended on our vines" (13). Decoding the rest of the canto reveals that these two gourds represent a couple in their middle age. Though the bloom of love is gone, the two are comfortable with each other. The mature, autumnal gold (and not green) color of gourds indicates this couple has acquired a level of comfortable affluence in middle age. Love is also present in this picture: "Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love / An ancient aspect touching a new mind" (13). This makes the imagery of the gold gourds on the vine a somewhat homey picture, though Stevens seems to feel misled by it all. In the lines that immediately follow, these gold gourds weather, freeze, and eventually rot in the rain. The gold of the gourds could not prevent the torrential rain of a merciless sky from washing them to rotting rinds.

Silver, gold, and a variant of red are utilized in Canto X. These colors describe magical fruits: "I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs, / No silver-ruddy, gold vermilion fruits" (13). Silver and gold signify riches and something of value. The fruit Stevens refers to is a magical thing mentioned possibly by another poet. The silver and gold indicate this fruit is something to be sought after. Vermilion, a vivid reddish-orange, may indicate a return to youth. Whoever eats this magical fruit will become youthful again. Stevens writes that he knows no source of this fruit. He does, however, know of a tree that bears something similar to this fruit that may substitute for it.

In the closing lines of the poem at Canto XII, Stevens gives the reader a rabbi the color of a rose. He writes:

"Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,

And still pursue, the origin and course

Of love, but until now, I never knew

That fluttering things have so distinct a shade" (14).

When one thinks of roses, the color that most often comes to mind is deep red. Red is the color of passion and youth. Therefore, in describing a rabbi as red, Stevens speaks of a knowledgeable man that possesses youthful vigor. Rabbis are also associated with study of ancient mystery texts. This interpretation dovetails with the lines that follow. The rabbi is searching for meaning. The fluttering thing Stevens speaks about is most likely love. If this is the case, then the "shade" of the "fluttering thing" mentioned is also the color of a rose. This rose rabbi and the implied rose color of the fluttering thing lend unity to the last four lines of this poem. Stevens watches the fluttering passion with some measure of amazement; he is now middle aged, and after all, the burning red passion of love resides in the realm of youth.

As stated earlier, Stevens' work is often not accessible to the casual reader. The persistent reader, however, can find consistencies between the poems. The meaning of particular colors is one of these consistencies. The definition of a color of one poem can aid in fathoming the subtler meanings hidden within another poem where the same color appears. But there are caveats to this. First, the context of the passage where the color appears must be studied to avoid errors in interpretation. Second, the color in question may have multiple meanings if the poem is long and complex. And third, despite some consistency in color definition between poems, there are no interpretations that apply to every poem.

All in all, the reward for accurate color interpretation in Stevens' poems is great. As we can see in "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle," the colors in his poems, interpreted properly, may be viewed as notations on the blueprint of the imaginative mind.
Stevens' grave site, Cedar Hill Cemetery

Two golden gourds distended on our vines,

We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,

Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,

Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.

The laughing sky will see the two of us

Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

# Wallace Stevens Decoded – "Hoonian" Color Definitions

At last, for those fans of Wallace Stevens, here the meanings of the colors in his poems. Use these definitions at your own risk!

Blue:

1. Imagination

2. Expression of thought.

Red:

1. Youth

2. Youthful energy / Passion.

3. Naïve idealism.

4. Violence / Bloodlust / Anger (least often)

Pink (a dilution of red toward white):

1. Loss of youth.

2. Loss of passion.

Rose:

1. Zealousness, Enthusiasm.

2. Same as Red (less often)

White:

1. Death.

2. Absence of inspiration.

3. Spiritual Emptiness / Unfulfillment.

4. Loss of will.

5. Decay.

Green:

1. Mundane World / Ordinariness / Reality

2. Something uninspired, insipid.

Black:

1. Carnal desire / Lust / Sexual Passion.

2. The state of physicality or being made of flesh.

3. The material world.

4. Worldly experience.

Silver:

1. A valuable object or idea.

2. Of historical / mythic value (Argentine).

Gold:

1. Autumn.

2. Maturity (robustness).

3. Something of ephemeral value.

4. Abundance (least often).

Yellow:

1. Weakness or Sickliness.

2. Decay or Withering.

3. Inadequacy.

4. Lack of prosperity.

Gray:

1. Negation.

2. Old age / Infirmity.

3. Ennui.

Purple (or Lavender):

1. Something that gives pleasure.

Other Stuff of Significance

Bird (non-specific):

1. Activity.

2. The state of being.

3. Pursuit of something.

Cold (or Frost / Snow):

1. Death / The threat of death.

2, Something unpleasant.

Moon:

1. Subconscious mind.

2. Dream imagination / Unreality.

3. Something hidden.

Necklace:

1. Frivolity.

2. Vanity.

3. Boredom (least often).

Room:

1. Confinement.

2. An unchanging state of existence.

Sparrow:

1. Change

2. The pursuit of change.

Sun:

Reality.

# A Discourse on the Poetry of William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams is a premier, American poet of the 20th century. His free-verse poems are distinguished by their striking imagery, unusual construction, and intriguing interpretation of reality. By discussing Williams' poems in terms of phraseology, rhythm, and the influence of Cubism, we can elucidate some of the poems' hallmark qualities that lend this inventive poet his unique voice.

Although most of Williams' poems may be easily understood on a topical level, they are often packed with wry allegories that can be gathered only when the poems are viewed as a whole. Consider the poem, "This is Just to Say." The casual reader might wonder what sort of poetry can be construed by a simple note left on an icebox door. With intimate reexamination of the poem, however, we find that the poet articulates an unrepentant, yet affable admission of humanity. The subtext is, "The plums weren't mine, but I ate them anyway. And I enjoyed them, too." We can almost imagine a mischievous smirk of satisfaction on Williams' face as he jotted down this note. The poem appears so natural in its creation that it seems Williams could not have known it would carry so much meaning until he had completed it. The outward simplicity and appearance of spontaneity of this poem reflects Williams' genius. The simplicity extends to the economy of words. In his poems, no phrase is superfluous; every syllable carries meaning. The pastoral eclogues, "The Red Wheelbarrow," "Jersey Lyric," and the second version of "The Locus Tree in Flower" are examples of this verbal frugality.

"Cubism," a radical theory of artistic interpretation, has a significant role in Williams' poetry. Cubism is the reinterpretation and translation of whole images as viewed by the retina into an alternate, equal reality as seen by the mind's eye. Cubists believe that "perceptival" space is merely an illusion, an invention of the rational mind. Williams' poems such as "The Young Sycamore," "Hard Times," and "To a Solitary Disciple" present us with Cubist interpretations of the appearance of ordinary things. "To a Solitary Disciple," in particular, is a rich example of Williams' verbal articulation of Cubism. In this poem, Williams beseeches us to interpret an image of a church steeple against a sky, not as it appears at first glance, but rather, how it appears through the perspective of the mind's eye. First, Williams tells us to observe how the converging lines of the steeple meet at its pinnacle, and how the cross at the apex prevents the lines from converging. Then he writes, "See how the converging lines / of the hexagonal spire / escape upward— / receding, dividing!" (23). Instead of a church steeple set against a blue sky, we have a broad canopy of morning blue pierced and separated by the sharp, angular pinnacle of the spire.

Cubist principles also play a prominent role in the arrangement of lines and stanzas in Williams' poetry. The poems in Williams' 1923 collection "Spring and All" strongly exhibit characteristics of Cubism. The effect of Cubism, as represented in visual art, is compressed, high contrast images broken into geometric sections. Williams' poems mimic this type of painting; the stanzas are irregular and grammatically fragmented, and lines are juxtaposed with one another. The poems' fragments are separated by dashes, and lines are clumped into groups surrounded by blank space. In essence, Williams arranges his prose into geometric planes and rays as found in the Cubist paintings of Cezanne, Picasso, and Braque. "To Have Done Nothing," "The Rose," and "The Pot of Flowers" are good examples of Williams poems that embody the structural aspect of Cubism.

Williams maintained a mutual admiration with prominent artists of his era working in other media, particularly painting. Williams even admits his affinity with these painters and their art in the late poem, "Tribute to the Painters," and in first few stanzas of "Raindrops on a Spire." Williams and a painter named Charles Demuth occasionally influenced each other's work. "The Figure 5 in Gold" is Demuth's visual interpretation of the Williams' "The Great Figure," a Cubist poem that describes the clanging cacophony of a red fire truck (emblazoned with the numeral "5") speeding down a nighttime street. Williams pays homage to Demuth's semi-Cubist practices in his poem "Classic Scene." This poem is a summative translation of the industrial scenes of smokestacks, water towers, and brick buildings that Demuth was fond of painting. Williams wrote a symbolic, eulogistic poem in honor of Charles Demuth called "The Crimson Cyclamen" after the painter's death in 1935. This poem uses the blossoming of a cyclamen to represent the flowering and subsequent ebb of passion and life that epitomized Demuth's life and work.

Another defining characteristic of Williams' poems is that the first few lines almost invariably establish the setting of the poem. Though Williams' poems often convey abstract ideas, seldom do they float in the abstract themselves; the poems unfold coherently around a specific time, place, or person. There are numerous examples of disclosure of setting. Consider the first few lines of "Everyday": "Everyday that I walk out to my car / I walk through a garden" (179). Also consider "The Manoeuvre": "I saw two starlings / coming in toward the wires" (167). In "The Farmer," the poem begins: "The farmer in deep thought / is pacing through the rain / among his blank fields..." (41). In each of these cases, the establishment of setting early in the poem serves as a springboard from which the remainder of the poem is launched.

Williams' poems are quintessentially American; the language of the poems is spoken American English. Precisely, it is the language of America in the 1920s, '30s, '40s and '50s. And though the "message" of poems written in William's twilight years became increasingly abstruse, they retain their American vernacular; the vocabulary and expressions used in the poems remain indigenous. Note the natural, conversational prosody in "Tract," published in 1915:

"See! the hearse leads.

I begin with a design for a hearse.

For Christ's sake not black—

nor white either—and not polished!" (18)

Forty years later, Williams wrote "Tribute to the Painters": "For the last / three nights / I have slept like a baby / without / liquor or dope of any sort!" (221). Despite a span of four decades between the creation of these two poems, Williams consistently maintained his distinctly American phraseology.

Williams once stated, "Anything is good material for poetry. Anything. I've said it time and time again" (xii). "This is Just to Say" is exemplary proof of this. So is the inclusion of a grocery list in "Two Pendants: for the Ears" (188). Williams' poems exploit the essence of homegrown Americana. For example, in his poem, "At the Ballgame," he uses a great American pastime, attending baseball games, as the backdrop for a poem about the mindlessness, power, and potential danger of large crowds.

Not only does Williams use American vocabulary in his poetry, but he also uses conversational phraseology. This phraseology surfaces as snippets of dialogue within the poems. "The Last Words of My English Grandmother" is a superb example of Williams' colloquial discourse. This poem is part stream-of-consciousness and part conversation. We have Williams' infirm grandmother being taken to the hospital against her will. The old woman is no longer able to take care of herself, yet she indignantly protests the way she is being treated by those who are (with good intentions) taking her to the hospital. Williams fluidly melds his grandmother's self-disclosure and pithy delations into the poem:

Gimme something to eat—

they're starving me—

I'm all right I won't go

to the hospital...

Oh, you think you're smart, you young people." (139-140)

Note that Williams inserts pauses and hesitations to represent the nuances of her speech. Another example of this conversational tone is in "The Raper from Passenack." The victim in the poem says, "Only a man who is sick, / would do a thing like that...No one who is not diseased could be so insanely cruel," and "I'd rather a million times to have got pregnant" (99-100). With these words, Williams informs us that the woman is not highly educated and probably belongs to the lower class.

Sometimes, Williams covertly injects his free-verse poems with rhythm that is not readily apparent unless the poems are read aloud. Sometimes, the rhythm reveals as much about the subject of the poem as do the meaning of the words. An excellent example of this is "The Dance," a poem about a painting called "The Kermess." This painting frames a festive image of dancers swirling on a dance floor. Reading this poem aloud reveals an anapestic, waltz-like rhythm of the dancers' movement in concert with the music:

"In Bruegel's great picture, The Kermess,

the dancers go round, they go round and

around, the squeal and the blare and the

tweedle of bagpipes, and bugle and fiddles..." (147)

The painting is an image of movement frozen in perpetuity; the poem imitates this perpetuity. The last line of the poem meshes seamlessly to the first line. In this regard, the poem is an endless loop. We may read the last line of the poem through to the beginning of first without a break in the logic of the lines or a pause in the rhythm of the "waltz." Hence, just as the dance of the painting never ends, neither does the waltz of the poem.

Williams' poetry offers us inventive style coupled with vivid, descriptive verse. He is consistent in that his poems offer grammatical puns while whispering to us of latent, significant meanings. Most importantly, Williams is a visual poet; he uses striking imagery to convey the deeper meaning in his poems. Who can forget the "paper brain without a skull," or the sinuous movement of the cat walking over the jamcloset, or the fleeting image of the number "5" on a wailing, red fire truck as it rumbles past us? It is not necessary to search for a meaning in every poem, for sometimes there is no meaning at all, only observation, and therefore, enjoyment of the moment.

# A Confluence of Influences in Alan Ginsberg's "Howl"

A number of outside influences are present in Alan Ginsberg's poem of the counterculture, "Howl." In this poem, Ginsberg draws heavily upon the work of the poets he most admired including William Blake, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, and William Carlos Williams. "Howl," a poem that illustrates the absurdity that results from extremism in American society, is uniquely Ginsberg's poem in many ways. The influence of these poets, however, shows up in the poem's structure and theme.

At its lowest level, "Howl" is a quintessentially Ginsberg's poem. The poem is basically a vast compound sentence composed of hundreds of independent clauses. The effect is that Ginsberg is addressing us with one long breath. Before we can recover from one scarcely penetrable line, we are plunged into the next. The overall effect is a colorful-yet-confused montage of time, places and events. This montage is so overloaded with information that it is nearly impossible to take it all in when viewing the whole. "Howl" is best enjoyed in small doses, sipped like a glass of strong sherry. Though daunting at first, the surfeit of information allows the reader to discover previously unnoticed bits of information with every reading.

Ginsberg frequently uses parallel constructions in "Howl." Most lines show a loose connection between cause and effect. The first half of each line gives an action. This action, followed by an "and" or "until," is sometimes followed by an ironic twist, explanation of the action, or result of the action. Consider, for example, "who wandered around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts" (22). The words "wandered around at midnight" are the action. This is followed by the result, "went, leaving no broken hearts." A loose interpretation of line would be, "After they wandered around the railroad yard in the dark, they went away, and no one missed their presence."

Rhyme and meter are entirely absent in this poem. The irregular construction mirrors the confusion of ideas within the poem. Each line raises more questions than it answers. For example, "who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup" (28), and "who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg" (53). These enigmatic lines seem to explain nothing. Like most other lines in "Howl," they stand by themselves in the poem leaving us to wonder how and why such an irrational event came to pass.

Outside poetic influences become apparent on examination of the theme of "Howl." Ginsberg begins the poem with the line "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical, naked...." The title itself suggests a pain-filled, mournful cry. Ginsberg is howling for "his" society, presumably his generation born in 1920s era. Indeed, many of the lines in "Howl" appear to have been borrowed from doleful American newspaper headlines of the 1950s. Lines such as "who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism" (66) seem rooted in some actual event. This kind of borrowing follows the tenets of Ginsberg's mentor, William Carlos Williams, both natives of Paterson, New Jersey. Ginsberg admired Williams who stated that poetry can be constructed from anything and everything. An example of this is William's poem "This is Just to Say." Williams created this poem from a simple note he left on a refrigerator door for his wife. Likewise, Ginsberg has taken the ordinary language of America and used it in his poem.

Like Whitman's poetry, "Howl" is distinctly American because of the locations mentioned in the text. New York City appears to be the focal point of "Howl" from by mention of the Bronx (14), Empire State (17), Staten Island (32), the Brooklyn Bridge (16, 57), CCNY (66), among others. The city-to-city span of the poem is reminiscent of the popular "road trip" of the fifties and sixties. Part of the road trip is represented by the railroad. The railroad mentioned in "Howl" gives the poem a sense of connectedness just as the railroads connect most American cities to one another. Of the railroads, Ginsberg writes: "There are "boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through the snow" (23). Then in the following five stanzas, the poem lists people and events in Kansas, Idaho, Baltimore, Oklahoma, Houston, Chicago, and on the West Coast (24-29). The poem also hops between other US locations. Whitman does the same in "Lilacs." He mentions "The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri" (91). As in "Howl," mention of American locales in the Whitman poem yield a distinctly American feel.

"Howl" is replete with metonymy of American culture. Only an American would readily understand the full context of some of the phrases used by Ginberg. The poem contains distinctly American artifacts such as "jukebox," "dollar," and "subway." Los Alamos is metonymy for atomic power; Time represents the Time building at Time's Square in New York City. And the Southern Pacific is short for the vast North American railway system.

Unlike the poets he admires, Ginsberg uses ironic, oxymoronic, almost psychedelic phrases. Examples of these are "naked angels" (39), "orange crates of theology" (50), "nitroglycerine shrieks" (56), and "incarnate gaps in Time and space" (74). By writing such Zen-riddle-like phrases, Ginsberg seems to be telling us that the American experience is not only unexplainable, it is incomprehensible. Chaos and confusion rein unchecked by reason. The cacophony of images and discordant ideas suggest Ginsberg's ultimate portrayal of America and his feeling of alienation within the country. Alienation is indicated by the striking line, "ah Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—" (72). This is the only place in the poem where someone is addressed directly. Ginsberg has associated his wellbeing with Carl's. And therefore, while Carl is perilously lost in social alienation, he is too. Whitman makes a similar case in "When the Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed." In this poem, Whitman has hinged his wellbeing on the recently assassinated President Lincoln. And now that the president is gone, Whitman feels alienated.

Like some of the poetry of William Blake and Langston Hughes, "Howl" deals with social issues. "Howl" bears a similarity to Blake's poem, "London," a poem that shows a consciousness toward oppression and exploitation. Like the inhabitants of the poem's namesake, London, the people of America find themselves in "mind-forged manacles" brought on by social forces. Ginsberg does not copy Blake however. Ginsberg's poems are much looser than Blakes, that is, they are not as tightly structured. Both share mistrust for authority. Individuality is prized. In Blake's poem, "London," the Catholic church is at fault. In "Howl" the entire social structure are rotten to the core. Both poets want change: now, not later. In a sense, both poems represent the counterculture of the era. Protest takes place in "Howl," but the extremism of the protesters must be called into question: "who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism" (31), and "who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts" (34). With these lines, Ginsberg may be suggesting that extremism is no solution to America's problems.

Black American writer Langton Hughes was no stranger to oppression and its consequences. His poem, "A Raisin in the Sun," concludes with the ominous line "Or will it explode?" What we have in Ginsberg's poem are multiple individuals exploding in acts of self-depreciation and protests against the establishment. These are people "who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico" (28), "who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof" (35), "who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame" (50). Again, by listing sordid acts such as these, Ginsberg may be suggesting that extremism is futile and destructive.

"Howl" is distinctly American like Walt Whitman's poems. But though both poets write of the America of their era, Ginsberg's America is darker and much more cynical. While Whitman's poem "I Hear America Singing" celebrates the people of America working to build a better country through industry, Ginsberg's America has "yaketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories...." In other words, Whitman's America no longer sings. "Howl" lacks the industry and patriotism of the Whitman poem. It is as much an anthem for disillusionment and decay as Whitman's poem is a song of progress and untapped potential.

Portrayal of America is not the only aspect of Whitman's poems that Ginsberg borrows. Like Whitman, Ginsberg uses lists in his poems. In lines 26 through 30 of "When the Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed," Whitman describes the scenery along the road Lincoln's body takes on its way to the graveyard. We have woods, violets, gray debris, endless grass, yellow-speared wheat, and blooming apple trees. In a later section of the same poem, he writes, "The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, / The gentle soft-born measureless light, / The miracle spreading, bathing all, the unfulfilled noon, / The coming eve delicious, / the welcome night and the stars" (94-97). Ginsberg also uses lists in a homage/lament for Whitman's idealism in the poem, "A Supermarket in California." Note how Ginsberg creates a list as he gives us an overview of the supermarket: "What peaches, what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!" Likewise, lists comprise nearly every stanza of "Howl." A good example is the list in line 13: "Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wind drunkeness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations...." Though these lists make "Howl" as busy as the subway in New York during rush hour, collectively, they comprise a junk heap of American counterculture.

Although "Howl" might appear as if it were merely a confusion of lists, odd parallel constructions, and Zen-like riddles, Ginsberg does let us know what he is doing. Near the end of the poem he writes, "who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time and Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and jointed the elemental verbs and nouns" (74) and "to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame" (75). Ginsberg is telling us that he is verbally bridging images across time and space to expose the fallacies in human behavior resulting from extremism in both the establishment and in the reactionary counterculture. Topically, we may see only hyperbole and absurdity. On another level, the disturbing images and ideas in "Howl" explicate the distortion of human behavior resulting from oppression.

When one reads "Howl," one feels the nod to some of Ginsberg's favorite poets: Blake, Whitman, Hughes and Williams. But though Ginsberg loved the work of these poets, with Howl, he speaks with his own voice. With his swirl of convoluted ideas, he eviscerates the panorama of human experience like none of his guides. Nevertheless, their influence is evident the structure and meaning behind "Howl," a poem that illuminates absurdity caused by extremism in American society.

# Order in the Disorder: Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"

"Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell," writes William Carlos Williams in the Introduction to "Howl" and Other Poems. Indeed, "Howl" is a poem written for maximum emotional impact in live performances. But for all its shocking, disturbing images, the poem appears as a confusion of lists, odd parallel constructions, and Zen-like riddles. But there is order in the disorder; Ginsberg is verbally bridging images across time and space, combining events from the lives of his friends into a statement against the straitjacket of 1950s American society.

The overall structure of "Howl" is a vast compound sentence composed of hundreds of independent clauses. The effect is that Ginsberg is addressing us with one long breath. Before we can recover from one scarcely penetrable line, we are plunged into the next. It is a colorful-yet-confused montage of time, places and events. This montage is so overloaded with information that it is nearly impossible to take it all in when viewing the whole. "Howl" is best enjoyed in small doses, sipped like a glass of Jack Daniels. Though daunting at first, the surfeit of information allows the reader to discover previously unnoticed bits of information with every reading.

Within the vast compound sentence of "Howl" are parallel constructions. Most lines show a loose connection between cause and effect. The first half of each line gives an action. This action, followed by an "and" or "until," is sometimes followed by an ironic twist, explanation of the action, or result of the action. Consider, for example, "who wandered around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts" (Ginsberg 22). The words "wandered around at midnight" are the action. This is followed by the result, "went, leaving no broken hearts." A loose interpretation of the line might be, "After they wandered around the railroad yard in the dark, they went away, and no one missed their presence."

Rhyme and meter are entirely absent in the animal soup of "Howl." The irregular construction mirrors the confusion of ideas within the poem. Each line raises more questions than it answers. For example, Ginsberg writes, "who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup" (28), and "who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg" (53). These enigmatic lines seem to explain nothing. Like most other lines in "Howl," they stand by themselves in the poem, leaving us to wonder how and why such an irrational event came to pass.

So where did these events come from? Where did Ginsberg get this imagery? Are they random ramblings? Are they based in real events? Untangling the truth buried beneath the hyperbole is challenging. It may help to know that in many lines he is describing his fellow travelers, his fellow artists in Greenwich Village, unpublished novelists, psychotics, radicals, pranksters, sexual deviants and junkies: "who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island Ferry also wailed" (33-35). Many of Ginsberg's friends led remarkable lives. Therefore, many of the lines in "Howl" read like newspaper headlines. This kind of writing follows the tenets of Ginsberg's mentor, William Carlos Williams. Ginsberg admired Williams, who stated that poetry can be constructed from anything and everything. An example of a Williams poem that does this is "This is Just to Say." Williams created this poem from a simple note he left on a refrigerator door for his wife. Likewise, Ginsberg uses ordinary American language in his poem.

But Ginsberg is doing more than using headline-like declarations to chronicle random events in the lives of his friends. Our first clue to this is the title, "Howl." Such a word suggests a pain-filled, mournful cry. Ginsberg is howling for "his" society, the beatnik, the outcast artists of Greenwich village destroyed by "the establishment," American society. These are the "best minds of my generation" he saw destroyed (1). Around the time that he wrote "Howl" he had seen several of his promising young friends broken or killed. Some even committed suicide: "who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse..." (56), and "who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened..." (57). The persons acting in some lines may sometimes be traced to actual people. Carl Solomon, Ginsberg's borderline psychotic, hyper-intellectual friend whom he had met in a mental hospital years before was he "who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism" (66).

Without a doubt, it is American society that Ginsberg criticizes. Like much of the poetry of his mentor Walt Whitman, "Howl" is distinctly American because of the locations mentioned in the text. New York City appears to be the focal point of "Howl" since there is mention of the Bronx (14), Empire State (17), Staten Island (32), the Brooklyn Bridge (16, 57), and CCNY (66), among others. The city-to-city span of the poem is reminiscent of the popular "road trip" of the fifties and sixties. Part of the road trip is represented by the railroad. The railroad mentioned in "Howl" gives the poem a sense of connectedness just as the railroads connect American cities to one another. Of the railroads, Ginsberg writes: "There are boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through the snow" (23). Then in the following five stanzas, the poem lists people and events in Kansas, Idaho, Baltimore, Oklahoma, Houston, and Chicago, and on the West Coast (24-29). The poem also hops between other US locations. Whitman does the same in "Lilacs." He mentions "The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri" (91). "Howl," like the Whitman poem, mentions American locales to yield a distinctly American feel.

"Howl" is similarly replete with metonymy of the targeted culture. Only an American would readily understand the full context of some of the phrases Ginsberg uses. The poem contains distinctly American artifacts such as "jukebox," "dollar," and "subway." Los Alamos is metonymy for atomic power; Time represents the Time building at Time's Square in New York City. And the Southern Pacific is short for the vast North American railway system. Insertion of such American references leaves no mistake in the mind of the reader as to which culture Ginsberg is referring to in his poem.

Ginsberg uses ironic, oxymoronic, almost psychedelic phrases in "Howl" to reflect fractured, morally bankrupt American society and his alienation within it. Examples of this are "naked angels" (39), "orange crates of theology" (50), "nitroglycerine shrieks" (56), and "incarnate gaps in Time and space" (74). By writing such Zen-riddle-like phrases, Ginsberg seems to be telling us that the American experience is not only unexplainable, it is incomprehensible, or at least not linear. Chaos and confusion reign unchecked by reason. The cacophony of images and discordant ideas suggest Ginsberg's ultimate portrayal of America and his feeling of alienation within the country. Alienation is indicated by the striking line, "Ah Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—" (72). This is the only place in the poem where someone is addressed directly. Ginsberg has associated his wellbeing with Carl's. And therefore, while Carl is perilously lost in social alienation, he is too. Whitman makes a similar association in "When the Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed." In this poem, Whitman has hinged his wellbeing on the recently assassinated President Lincoln. And now that the president is gone, Whitman feels alienated. We see the parallel in "Howl" with the alienation that Ginsberg feels at the loss of his friend and his fellow Greenwich Village poets.

Like some of the poetry of William Blake, "Howl" deals with oppression. "Howl" bears a similarity to Blake's poem "London," a poem that shows a consciousness toward spiritual oppression and exploitation. Like the inhabitants of the poem's namesake, London, the people of America find themselves in "mind-forged manacles" brought on by social forces. Ginsberg does not copy Blake, however. Ginsberg's poems are much looser than Blake's; that is, they are not as tightly structured. Both share mistrust for authority. Individuality is prized. In Blake's "London," the Church of England is at fault. And in both "London" and "Howl" the entire social structure is portrayed as rotten to the core. Both poets want change: now, not later. In a sense, both poems represent the counterculture of the era. Protest takes place in "Howl": "who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism" (31), and "who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts" (34). It is difficult to determine who is culpable in these lines: the oppressor or the extremist. At the very least Ginsberg does show us how protesting with extremism mocks the oppressor.

Black American writer Langton Hughes was also no stranger to oppression and its consequences. His poem, "A Raisin in the Sun," concludes with the ominous line "Or will it explode?" (Hughes 11). What we have in Ginsberg's poem are multiple individuals exploding in acts of self-deprecation and protests against the establishment. These are people "who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico" (Ginsberg 28), "who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof" (35), "who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame" (50). Ginsberg may be listing these horrible fates to describe a distressing aspect of extremism: the risk of spiritual and physical self-destruction one takes when social oppression, alienation, or the extremists' cause, is internalized too deeply.

Though both Ginsberg and Whitman wrote of the America of their era, Ginsberg's America is darker, and he is much more cynical. While Whitman's poem "I Hear America Singing" celebrates the people of America working to build a better country through industry, Ginsberg's America has "yaketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories...." In other words, Whitman's America no longer sings. "Howl" lacks the admiration for industry and patriotism of the Whitman poem. It is as much an anthem to disillusionment and decay as Whitman's poem is a song of progress and untapped potential.

Portrayal of America is not the only aspect of Whitman's poems that Ginsberg borrows from his mentor. Like Whitman, Ginsberg uses lists in his poems. In lines 26 through 30 of "When the Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed," Whitman describes the scenery along the road Lincoln's body takes on its way to the graveyard. We have woods, violets, gray debris, endless grass, yellow-speared wheat, and blooming apple trees. In a later section of the same poem, he writes, "The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, / The gentle soft-born measureless light, / The miracle spreading, bathing all, the unfulfilled noon, / The coming eve delicious, / the welcome night and the stars" (Whitman 94-97). Ginsberg also uses lists in a homage/lament for Whitman's idealism in the poem, "A Supermarket in California." Note how Ginsberg creates a list as he gives us an overview of the supermarket: "What peaches, what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!" (Ginsberg 3). Likewise, lists comprise nearly every stanza of "Howl." A good example is the list in line 13: "Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wind drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations...." Though these lists make "Howl" as busy as the subway in New York during rush hour, collectively they comprise a junk heap of American counterculture.

Near the end of the poem Ginsberg writes, "who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time and Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and jointed the elemental verbs and nouns" (74) and "to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame" (75). Topically, we may see only hyperbole and absurdity. On one level, the disturbing images and ideas in "Howl" explicate the distortion of human behavior resulting from oppression. One also gets the feeling that Ginsberg is identifying with Solomon's insanity: "Ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—" (72). The poem mirrors the disorganized thought processes of Solomon by juxtaposing incongruous imagery. This imagery is superimposed onto American society.

When one reads "Howl," one feels the nod to some of Ginsberg's favorite poets: Blake, Whitman, Hughes, and Williams. But though Ginsberg loved the work of these poets, in "Howl," he speaks in his own voice; he has organized the events from his friends' lives into a mosaic that reveals the oppressive underside of the American Experience. As Whitman mourned for Lincoln, Ginsberg mourns the deaths of his beloved friends. As Williams uses the American idiom in his verse, so does Ginsberg. As Blake and Hughes railed against spiritual repression and the loss of innocence, Ginsberg cries out against the broken spirits of his friends. And amid the swirling animal soup of Williams, Whitman, and Blake, Carl Solomon's insanity peppers the broth with striking, almost surrealistic imagery. The result is a poem that documents the extremism and spiritual destruction caused by the straitjacket of America's culture. 

# Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and A Country Year: Living the Questions – Changes in the Narrators

Though both books take place in similar settings, Sue Hubbell and Annie Dillard are on dissimilar emotional journeys; therefore, the conclusions both authors reach are quite different. Hubbell is living on a farm in the Ozarks tending her 300 beehives and barely making ends meet after her husband left her. Hers is an adventure of independence and self-reliance. Dillard, at the time of Tinker Creek, had recently survived a near-fatal bout with pneumonia and is now on sabbatical in her bucolic retreat in Virginia's Blue Ridge. Here, she explores her spirituality and meditates on the nature of God and his relationship to His Creation.

After Hubbell's husband left her (for the last time), she finds herself alone (for the first time) to tend her farm. She ekes out a living by selling honey from her beehives. Using her examples of the "back-to-the-landers" who move to the area to get back to the land, she illustrates that outward appearances of rural life are sometimes deceiving: life is not simple anywhere. Nevertheless, she takes pleasure in her isolated, independent life style. Her questions seem to revolve around self-reliance. Each chapter of the book brings another challenge to her resourcefulness. At first awkward in many ways, particularly with using hand tools, Hubbell gradually becomes more self-sufficient. Yet, at the same time, she becomes more judicious in what she chooses to maintain on the farm and what she does not. She finds that opposing nature is not always profitable or worthwhile (such as with the wild roses in the pasture and termites in the cabin). She concludes that some things are better left alone so that they can resolve themselves. Much of this attitude evolves from her observations of nature. In everything, from the behavior of the bees to the birds, she recognizes the innate wisdom in the ecological system and finds that sometimes, the best course of action is to co-exist, rather than try to tame.

Hubbell's progress though Living the Questions does not portray any dramatic revelation or profound change in the author except that she is more self-assured at the end of the book than she is at the beginning. She feels her way though the year on the farm, defining herself and her place in the world in small increments. Most remarkable is her symbiotic relationship with nature. She links herself with the natural rhythms of the land and seasons and adopts a kind of stoic industry and economy that mimic the bees and other elements of the natural world in which she lives. Living near poverty gives Hubbell lessons balancing and frugality. Stripped to the essential task of making ends meet and limited in her resources, she realizes that she cannot have or achieve everything. What she does achieve, however, pleases her because it is earned. And she finds that she does not really need more than this to feel satisfied with her condition. Thus, she finds that self-sufficiency is a reward in itself, and there is beauty in a simple life that mirrors the rhythms of the natural world.

Dillard's journey, in contrast to Hubbell's, is a mystical one. It is evident that Dillard is quite knowledgeable and well-read on a wide variety of topics. Using this knowledge, she seeks to uncover the meaning of natural occurrences. She wonders about her own emotionality. She recognizes that of all the creatures on Earth, only us humans have emotions, which makes us "freakishly amiss." She wonders how we could have evolved with a characteristic that causes us so much pain. The conclusion is that our emotions, despite the pain the sometimes cause us, make us uniquely individuals. Furthermore, we should not use our emotions to pass judgment on the cruel acts that take place in nature. The creatures, perpetrators and victims of cruelty, are unconscious what is taking place. The seeming cruelty that we observe is part of the ecological design. We should realize that we are different; mercy, compromise, and a sense of morality are strictly human traits, blessings that distinguish us from the rest of creation.

Dillard often contemplates the nature of God. She wonders if He even exists. Are we children of God or products of evolution? Most of her meditations rest on the stark realities of pain and suffering in nature. To illustrate such suffering, she gives gruesome images such as with the water bug eating the frog and mating of the praying mantises. Death and cruelty permeate the outwardly peaceful pastoral setting where she lives. She wonders how a God who was wise enough to create the Earth in all its beauty could allow such pain and suffering to go unchecked? Dillard comes to the conclusion that beauty and suffering exist in order to define each other; one is irrelevant without the other to contrast and compare it with. The same relation exists between life and death: if you want to live you have to die. So death, because of its existence, heightens the experience of life. In other words, death makes life a gift. The subtext of this notion is that God exists. Recognition of this fact gives comfort to Dillard, who faced mortality during her illness and may have harbored suspicions that He did not exist. And furthermore, since there is a God, death is not meaningless; rather, it is part of the process of becoming closer to the Creator. Like the waters of Tinker Creek, we spring from the earth and flow incessantly toward the vast ocean to be dissolved and merged within all other things that are Creation. 

# Zora Neale Hurston's "Sweat" as an Allegory for Self-Destructive Forces in Black American Society

Zora Neale Hurston's short story "Sweat," written in 1923, is a product of the Harlem Renaissance, an especially brilliant era in Black American history. In this era of artistic blossoming, black writers wrote freely of social issues plaguing black culture at the time. In "Sweat," Hurston keeps in step with the Renaissance by using a ruined marriage as an allegory for the threat of self-destructive social forces in 1920s Black American society. And by careful manipulation of tone, metaphor, and symbolism, she gives us a tale of humanity and dignity in the face of oppression.

Hurston sets up the social allegory by juxtaposing Delia and Sykes. Delia is frugal and hard-working, and she possesses Christian values: "Sunday night after church..." (678). She has achieved a measure of success represented by the modest house she owns, a product of her industry and hard work. Delia is representative of the growing black middle class. Sykes, on the other hand, is not prosperous. Most of the time he is absent from Delia's life unless he wants something from her. He also treats her cruelly. For example, after he frightens Delia with the whip, he laughs at her terror. Then he insults her with, "You sho is one aggravatin woman" (679). Sykes is also an adulterer. In contrast to hard-working, pious Delia, Sykes represents a section of black society that tends to consume and weigh upon the nascent black middle class. In other words, he is an oppressor. His whip is a symbol of his brutality. The tactile imagery of the slithering whip also foreshadows the presence of the rattlesnake that will play a key role later in the story.

Hurston skillfully merges introspection with Delia's physical description. Of Delia, she writes, "Two months after the wedding, he had given her the first brutal beating," and "She was young and soft then, but now she thought of her knotty, muscled limbs, her harsh knuckly hands, and drew herself into an unhappy little ball in the middle of her big feather bed" (680). Hurston manages to make Delia a sympathetic character without making her a victim. We find that Delia's days of being beaten are through because years of toil have made her strong; she is fully able and willing to strike Sykes with the skillet. On a deeper level, "She was able to build spiritual earthworks against her husband. His shells could no longer reach her" (680). In those lines, Hurston uses images of war as a metaphor for Delia's and Sykes' marriage. The subtext is that Delia's strength is not topical—it extends into her psyche.

Sykes embodies the "wandering black African male," a concept written extensively about during the Harlem Renaissance. It is a social pandemic of perpetual unemployment accompanied by a decline in morality. This social condition has roots in the antebellum South. Sykes' unemployment and adultery is a symptom of his moral decline. Furthermore, his choice of a grotesquely obese woman of ill repute over Delia suggests his blindness to the reality of Delia's character. It represents black society's eschewal of community values in favor of decadence. And not only does Sykes debase himself with his open display of adultery, by doing so, he also devalues his virtuous wife.

Metaphors for "sweat" are sprinkled throughout the story. In one instance, sweat represents Delia's long hours of backbreaking work during Sykes' lengthy absences. "Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!" she laments in response to Sykes' insensitivity toward her (679). Delia then informs her unappreciative husband that the product of her sweat (her prosperity) is what puts food in his belly. Sweat is also used as metaphor for failed aspirations; it conveys Delia's vain struggle and subsequent failure to wring happiness from her fourteen year marriage: "Anything like flowers had long ago been drowned in the salty stream that had been pressed from her heart. Her tears, her sweat, her blood" (680). The confluence of tears, sweat, and blood in the metaphor suggest the presence of a profoundly oppressed spirit. The association of an oppressed spirit with backbreaking work has roots in the slave folksongs in the antebellum South. In this case, negative forces in black culture have replaced white oppression. But though Delia is oppressed, she does not take on a victim's mentality: "Sometime or ruther, Sykes...is gointer reap his sowing" (680), she ruminates with childlike hope. As were her slave ancestors, she is confident that her oppressor's evil deeds will someday overtake him, and she will be free as a reward for her perseverance.

The cane-chewing village men on Clark's porch exemplify the positive-but-ineffectual side of black culture. They compare women to sugar cane: when first acquired, the cane is fresh and full of sweetness. But then every drop of sweetness is wrung from the cane, and then it is discarded (681). This metaphor of the sugar cane accurately summarizes Delia's and Sykes' relationship. The men despise Sykes as much as they admire and sympathize with Delia. But though the men discuss taking Sykes and his mistress out to the swamp for a whipping, they do not act. Their inaction hints that black society refuses to purge itself of the negative internal forces that perpetuate its oppression.

Despite the heavy theme, Hurston maintains tonal levity with touches of humor. One example is the scene with the watermelon and the village men on the porch. Just as the men have brought out a huge watermelon to slake their thirst, they see Sykes and Bertha walking toward the porch. Then "[a] determined silence fell on the porch, and the melon was put away again" (682). In this humorous scene, Hurston not only shows us the degree to which Sykes and Bertha have been ostracized, but she does so with levity. Hurston does not let up; after the couple leaves the store, the men hold their watermelon feast and describe Bertha as a "hunk uh liver wid hair on it" (682). Of Bertha's gaping mouth when she laughs, one of the men jokes that "no ole grandpa alligator" (682) at the nearby swamp has one over her. Humorous quips such as this allow Hurston to convey the message of her story without coming off as didactic. In this case, though the dialog is humorous, the underlying message is that words have replaced action. The idle banter exemplifies the ineffectiveness of the village people in upholding moral values in their society.

The tone of this story also waxes pseudo-biblical to counterbalance the humor. Of the few months Sykes spends living with Delia making her life hellishly difficult, Hurston writes, "The heat streamed down like a million hot arrows, smiting all things living upon the earth. Grass withered, leaves browned, snakes went blind in shedding, and men and dogs went mad" (683). This transitional passage, located near the middle of the story, signals an increase in tension. Sykes and Delia are now in a sweltering pressure cooker—and sooner or later, something will have to give.

The biblical note in this story is sustained by the appearance of the snake. The snake is allegorical to the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Sykes' possession of this deadly creature indicates that he has fallen to temptation. Delia pleads with Sykes to kill the snake, but Sykes feels he has mastered the creature; he believes himself invincible to its deadly bite. He tells worried Delia, "He wouldn't bite me cause Ah knows how tuh handle 'im" (683). Sykes' perception of mastery over the snake parallels his ardent, lewd passion for his mistress. As with the snake, he is ignorant of his behavior's potential for destruction. On a higher level, Sykes' refusal to kill the serpent may be interpreted as an errant belief that corruptive influences within black culture can be mastered and therefore contained the same way the snake is contained within the basket. As Delia realizes, only by destroying the snake can one truly eliminate the danger it poses. In further support of this interpretation, Sykes tells Delia, "Ah think uh damn sight mo' uh him dan you!" (683). This brutal statement re-articulates Sykes' fall to temptation. In a similar vein, later, Delia refers to the rattlesnake as "ol' scratch" (685) which is slang for the devil.

One of the village men, Walt, is particularly wary of Sykes' new pet. He tells Sykes that he should club the snake to death. Sykes haughtily responds, "Naw, Walt, y'll jes' don't understand dese diamon' backs lak Ah do" (682). This seems to be true, for despite Sykes' handling of the snake he has thus far avoided being bitten. In the next paragraph, Hurston states that "the village agreed with Walt, but the snake stayed on" (682). The village folks know that the snake on Delia's porch is deadly, but they do not take it upon themselves to kill it. As in the earlier scene on Walt's porch, the village people's inaction represents their passive condoning of Sykes' immoral behavior.

After Delia finds the snake in the laundry basket, she watches in horror as "it pours its awful beauty" (685) from the basket onto her conjugal bed. In this scene, Hurston seems to acknowledge that though the snake is symbolic of evil, it does possess it own beauty, and therefore it is dangerously capable of evoking temptation. Delia runs from the house and takes shelter in a hayloft. She knows that Sykes put the snake there to kill her, but soon her initial rage dissipates, and she becomes introspective. She decides that she has done all she can in her relationship with Sykes. As a result, she absolves herself with "Gawd knows taint mah fault" (686). This remarkable attitude clearly defines Delia's fortitude in the face of the evil embodied by Sykes and his snake. Bolstered by her religious belief, Delia personifies the incorruptible positive aspect of black society, the opposite of that represented by Sykes.

Delia's reaction to the snake inside the house is humble fear—she runs for her life. Sykes, on the other hand, confronts the snake, possibly with the belief that he can regain control over it. His luck runs out—he is bitten. Sykes' first reaction is "a cry that might have come from a maddened chimpanzee, a stricken gorilla." Then he produces "animal screams" (686). With these descriptions, Hurston suggests that the snakebites have revealed Sykes' animalistic, true nature.

Later, Sykes cries out to Delia for help. She finds him on the bed, dying, one eye swollen shut from the venom, the other eye filled with hope. Instead of anger, she feels almost unbearable pity for him. She realizes that there is nothing she can do to save his life; the venom flowing through his veins, the result of his evil behavior, will consume him before she can return with a doctor. Nevertheless, she believes that Sykes has received his just reward: she hopes that in his dying moments, his single "hopeful" eye sees her washtubs, and that he recognizes them as the symbol of her sweat, the symbol of her virtue-through-industry that he had repeatedly scorned.

In the end, the snake, the symbol of temptation and decadence, consumes Delia's oppressor with its venom. From this evident self-defeat, we might conclude that evil, if left alone, will eventually consume itself. But by twice detailing the complacence of the village toward Sykes' behavior, Hurston suggests that Black American society risks destruction of its higher values because it allows its internal, immoral forces to remain unchecked. This idea is embodied by saintly Delia's close call with the snake after the village men neglected to rid the town of Sykes (and his venomous pet). Further allegorical reading of "Sweat" in context of the Harlem Renaissance reveals Hurston's belief that 1920s Black American society will achieve prosperity mainly through diligence and hard work. On the most basic level, by the skillful use of tone, metaphor and symbolism, and the striking portrayal of realistic, complex characters, Hurston gives us a well-paced, entertaining tale of humanity and dignity under oppression.

# Sula as a Study of the Propagation of Familial Dysfunction

It is a mistake to assume that every book written by a black author is racially oriented. Certainly, America's racial prejudice must be present in a novel involving black American society to make the setting accurate, but such a setting does not necessarily make the element of race relevant to the work's theme. Therefore, Toni Morrison's novel Sula is not necessarily a work that explores race issues; it is primarily a story about friendship and how the eccentricities of a dysfunctional household can affect an entire community.

Just as it is a mistake to read gender issues into every story in which a man and woman interact, it is incorrect to believe that Sula is a race-oriented novel simply because there is recognition of a difference in wealth between black and white societies. Morrison portrays white society as largely indifferent toward blacks. This is far removed from possible portrayals, considering the long, brutal history of white oppression of the Black American. For example, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison, Native Son by Richard Wright, Cane by Jean Toomer, the short stories of Langton Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, and other black writers, are true examples of works that deal with racial oppression.

Most of the main characters in Sula are not oppressed, at least not by whites. Likewise, these characters do not express true animosity toward whites in general. For the sake of plausibility, Morrison had no choice but to include some interaction between blacks and whites because of the racial friction extant in the era. This friction serves more as a backdrop than a theme. Of course, it must be conceded that white oppression had some influence on the characters' hardships. White oppression does appear when the white-controlled labor union passes up the black work force in construction of the tunnel, causing disruption in the economy of Medallion. Nevertheless, Sula is not so concerned with oppression as it is with chronicling the friendship between its two main protagonists, Sula and Nel.

Exploitation, however, has a presence in the novel, but it is not racially driven. The character, Sula, is reminiscent of Karintha in Cane, the young black girl whose potential is ruined by sexual exploitation by the black men in her town. Karintha, the epitome of all that is good and innocent in black culture in the rural South, had become emotionally incapacitated. Sula suffers a similar fate. Similar to Karintha, Sula has a dysfunction that results from the example given by her own people, in this case, the poor example set by Eva and Hannah. This means that Sula's dysfunctional behavior arises from her own society, not white oppression.

Emotionally damaged, Sula spreads her dysfunction. First, she instigates an affair with Jude, her best friend's husband. When that relationship ends, she then seduces other husbands in the town. It may seem that Sula is entirely at fault here, but her wanton behavior is only part of the equation. The ease in which Sula (and Hannah) finds men suggests the presence of the "wandering black male" portrayed in many stories by authors of the Harlem Renaissance. This social phenomenon, which has been noted since the antebellum South, is not caused by friction between black and white culture; it is the result of self-perpetuating, disruptive forces within black society.

Morrison gives us extensive, intimate details of Ajax and Sula's relationship. The lovers' liaison ends when he perceives that she is becoming possessive. He saw the question coming: "Where you been?" (Morrison 133). Ajax does not leave Sula because of white prejudice or oppression; he leaves because he is under the influence of the inherent negative forces within black society. Typical of the wandering African American male, Ajax is fearful of emotional commitment. Interestingly, Sula's lack of commitment to her best friend Nel, and her lack of comprehension of Nel's devastation, mirrors the motif of the errant Black American male. The point is that Sula is much more an illustration of social forces within black society than a novel of racial oppression

After Sula arrives back from college, she begins in earnest to seduce all the husbands in Medallion just as her mother had done. In reaction to brushes with Sula's blatantly anti-social behavior, the inhabitants of Medallion respond in an ironic fashion. For example, Teapot's abusive mother "became the most devoted mother: sober, clean and industrious" (114), and the women whose husbands Sula had ignominiously discarded "cherished their men more, soothed the pride and vanity Sula had bruised" (115). Here we have Eva's dysfunction, passed down to Hannah, who passed it down to Sula, now affecting the entire community. The effect is like the ripples that radiate outward from that of a rock tossed onto a placid pond.

Nel shares some of Sula's aberrant behavior. Shortly before Chicken Little appears on the scene, Sula and Nel dig the hole and cover it up again in a like minded manner, all without speaking a word. Morrison describes this to establish that Nel and Sula are like-minded. Later, in the crucial scene where they accidentally throw Chicken Little into the river, we find that Nel is culpable—she is the one who suggests that they not tell anyone of their deed. And what is the effect of Chicken Little's death on Nel and Sula? The girls show no guilt or remorse. Nothing in their character compels them to admit to the deed; their sisterly bond is enough to maintain the secret indefinitely. This critical part of the plot is nowhere close to suggesting a racial motive. The sisterly bond is where the emphasis lies. This is a story of the relationship between two girls who grew up together, not racism. Of course, some critics might point out the musings of the white man, who found Chicken Little's body, as evidence of racism in the novel: "He wondered, will those people be anything but animals, fit for nothing but substitutes for mules, only mules didn't kill each other the way niggers did" (63). This statement, spoken by a God-fearing white man, displays more of an ignorance of blacks than hatred. There is even a bit of dark humor here. Although the reader knows the innocuous circumstances of Chicken Little's death, offhand prejudice gives the white man, and later the sheriff, absolutely no chance of comprehending the true circumstances. The fiasco that later ensues amongst the whites in determining who has to transport the body back to Medallion (and when) shows the almost comical extent of their prejudice.

The most levelheaded of the pair, Nel is more than a foil to Sula whose "friendship was intense as it was sudden" (52). Though the two are like-minded in many ways while growing up, Nel eventually diverges from Sula; Nel does not adopt her friend's sordid lifestyle. Instead, she represents the consciousness of the novel. Complex, yet better balanced than most of the other denizens of Medallion, she is a reliable narrator. We would have had a much different story if it has been told from the perspective of, let us say, Eva or Shadrack. Importantly, aside from her childhood encounters with the Irish, white bullies, Nel has not had a bad experience with whites. This suggests that racial issues do not play a significant part in this novel as do eccentricity, insanity, and the propagation of social dysfunction.

There is no shortage of eccentrics in Medallion. In Chapter Two, we are introduced to a motley group of characters whose behavior ranges from quirky to profoundly eccentric. Eva, Hannah, Sula, and the Deweys are the primary examples of peculiar behavior in Medallion, but Shadrack and his National Suicide Day is the most extreme. In all cases, none of the extremes in behavior are brought on by white occlusion of black livelihood. Eva's brood, however, is the focal point of antisocial behavior in Medallion. This behavior seems to radiate from Eva's home like the signal from a radio antenna, affecting everyone in Medallion who tunes in to it. Evidence of the radio effect is that after Sula dies, Shadrack regains some of his coherence.

Sula illustrates how eccentric behavior and insanity are passed down from mother to child, from that child to his and her offspring. Therefore, racial themes do not figure prominently into the climaxes of the novel. For example, white oppression did not cause Eva to douse Plum with kerosene and set him aflame—it was her psychosis—a lucid dream where she believed the adult Plum was trying to get back into her womb. White oppression did not cause Jude to jump into Sula's bed, nor did it cause him to leave Nel and the children behind after the relationship ended. Racism did not drown Chicken Little.

Instead of racial issues, the novel is laced with subtle explications of how familial dysfunction is passed on to the next generation. For example, Sula's mother, Hannah, displays a nymphomaniac-like behavior in that she takes a new lover almost every day. Sula eventually imitates her mother's behavior. But long before this, we are shown how profoundly Sula has been damaged when Hannah's dress catches fire and Sula stands watching her without acting to put out the flames. Afterward, Sula shows no remorse over her mother's death. Sula's behavior reflects the lack of love in the Peace's home. It is no wonder Sula is unable to connect sex with love.

Sula is also a book about the long-term effect of decisions made in desperate times. Morrison sets up her characters so that they are forced to choose between two options, both bad, but in different ways. An example is Eva's (supposed) choice either to let her children to starve or to sacrifice her leg to collect insurance money. This kind of choice, however, is not restricted to any particular race—the same choice might be presented to an abandoned white woman.

At the end of the novel, we have come full circle. Years pass, and Medallion passes away to become a golf course for the white people. Morrison could be suggesting that time has changes all things. Medallion, Bottom, and all the things they stood for, are being razed for wealthy white-folks' homes and an expansive golf course. But not a lot of good things took place in Medallion. Though it may be argued that Sula, published in 1965, alludes to the social upheaval at the time, these things come too late in the book to figure prominently into Sula and Nel's relationship. Nel witnesses the change when she returns to Medallion in the final chapter, but she seems at ease with the idea that the sordid past is quietly folding away. From this, Morrison suggests that not all changes are for the worst. Yet Nel has some regrets; she still feels pain over Sula's betrayal; time heals most wounds, but not all. On a broader level, the destruction of Medallion alludes closely to Nel's positive personal change, reconciliation, and general optimism for the future despite the fact that she misses her old friend very badly.

Some critics may contend that Sula is an exploration of prejudice in the first half of the twentieth century. It is more plausibly a study on how familial dysfunction propagates itself, and how the actions of one family may resound throughout the community. It also chronicles the friendship of two women and the episodic shifts in their relationship over the course of two decades. Novels such as Invisible Man and Native Son are works that stridently illuminate social injustice and its corrosive effect upon the soul. Sula does not fall into this category. It is no less of a remarkable novel, however. Perhaps the key to best understand Sula is to realize that racial oppression does not tie directly into the book's central themes.

# The Uncovering of Feminist Concerns in Jean Toomer's Cane

Jean Toomer's Cane is composed of three sections. Of the three, Section I, which consists of six narratives and ten poems, easily lends itself to feminist interpretation. In this section, one can see the sexual repression of women as a metaphor for the destruction of black American culture. Concerns about racism considerably overlap feminist concerns in Cane, because at the time that the text was written, both blacks and women co-existed in the Otherness of the underclass. Of course, the worst situation of all was to be black and female—an underclass in a society's underclass.

The women of Toomer's vision of the South are archetypal heroines whose chief quality is endurance in the face of adversity. Apparently in reflection of this notion, all of the protagonists in Section I are women who are victimized by the conflicts, ironies, and forces of corruption (both internal and external) of the blacks' internalization of the patriarchal dominant white culture. Though Toomer intended Cane to be primarily a record the last vestiges of post-slavery experience before it faded into oblivion, within Toomer's record keeping, one finds that most of the works of Section I also articulate feminist concerns.1

Many critics have called attention to Toomer's striking portrayal of women in Section I of Cane. Hugh M. Gloster writes, "The chief importance of the stories [in Section I] lies in their departure from the traditional treatment of sex by Negro authors" (54). He also notes that Toomer represents women with such "candor, shamelessness, and objectivity" that black scholar W.E.B. Dubois wrote that Toomer was the first writer who dared to "emancipate the colored world from the conventions of sex" (54). Indeed, Toomer portrays women candidly and objectively in his work, as did none of his predecessors, and in an unusual turn, he portrays black women as victims of their own people.

It is difficult to determine why Toomer chose to employ only women protagonists in the first section of Cane. One explanation is that he wanted to associate sexual repression of women with the exploitation of the land. Women, just like the soil, are life-givers; thus, both women and land can be expressed in terms of potential and fertility. The association is an apt one, for humans are the progeny of women just as plants are the progeny of the earth. Hence, it is easy to see the connection between the sexual repression of women and the unchecked exploitation of resources. Such exploitation may even be compared to rape.

Another possible explanation for Toomer's artistic decision to make women his protagonists is that the author associated the oppression of his race with the cause of women's suffrage, which was a prominent political and social issue in the era that Cane was written. To be an underclass citizen in an underclass society is a particularly miserable circumstance. Such a person is worthy of sympathy. Thus, Toomer may have chosen women as protagonists because he wanted to invoke sympathy for them, though that consistent choice implies that he viewed the males in black society as partly responsible for the wretched state (as Toomer saw it) of their post-Civil War culture. One must also consider that the protagonists of Section I may be female merely because Toomer was recording real life events in which the main characters were really women, as is the case of "Fern."

"Reapers" in Section I does not articulate feminist so much as it does Marxist concerns, as it touches upon the effects of automation on humanity in an agrarian society. In this poem, a mower pulled by black horses kills a field rat. In its use of the death of the field rat as a metaphor, this poem expresses the insensitivity to nature wrought by automated industrialization. In other words, it expresses the commodification of the human spirit by the ruling class. The black workers unknowingly kill the rat, which indicates that they are subconsciously taking part in their own commodification, probably because they have adopted the materialist values of wealthy white industrialists, as evidenced by the black horses that drive the machinery.

"Becky" touches upon the sexuality of women and the communal estrangement that results when sexual mores are broken. Becky is a white woman who has given birth to a Negro son, resulting in her exile from society. It is implicit that Becky has broken two mores. First, she has willingly made love with a black man as evidenced by her having two black children. Second, by choosing a black man, she is indicating that she owns her sexual desire. By coupling with a black man, she has disempowered the white males in her community, for she does not allow them to control her sexuality. Unable to fathom the idea that she has resisted the white, patriarchal ideology, the whites attribute Becky's "shameless" behavior to insanity (8). So, Becky is ostracized by both black and white communities as though she were unclean. Ironically, the black male who burdened Becky with children does not take care of her. This lack of care is similar to the denial of financial prosperity that the white community inflicts upon the black.

Although Becky is shunned by both the black and white communities, anonymous benefactors build her a rude cabin, "a single room held down to the earth," on an eye-shaped piece of land bordered on one side by a highway and on the other by a railroad track (9). Becky dies when a "ghost train" rumbles down the track, causing the collapse of her chimney through the cabin roof. A Bible, representative of a male-oriented religion—a major work that helped establish the dual standard of male and female sexuality—is tossed on top of the mound of bricks that crushed and smothered Becky. The presence of the book suggests that the community has traded its humanity for adherence to the double standard. And mention of the pages of the Bible flapping in the breeze hints at the uselessness of its teachings, or perhaps how New Testament forgiveness and "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you" were somehow dropped from the community's treatment of Becky.

In direct contrast to Karintha, Becky is no beauty. Instead, she is a "wench" (8). Becky's status as a fallen woman is manifest in her physical appearance: "Her eyes were sunken, her neck stringy, her breasts fallen....Mouth setting in a twist that held her eyes, harsh, vacant, staring" (8). It is ironic that Becky's refusal to internalize societal mores has transformed her into a witch-like apparition. In effect, this tale illustrates how a woman, by owning her sexuality, is demonized by both the dominant white society and the black underclass that have internalized white values.

The woman in "Face" epitomizes the endurance typified in the archetypal heroine. Toomer describes the face of an old black woman as "purple in the evening sun / nearly ripe for worms" (14). He contrasts her strength and earthy beauty against the effects of oppression: "Brows— / recurved canoes / quivered by the ripples blown by pain." This woman has suffered a great deal and this suffering is manifest in her physical appearance, and yet she is described lovingly, admiringly, as though she were a personage of great beauty. The implication here is that her admirable characteristics—those that we would admire as we do beauty—arise from a physical manifestation of her inner strength, not from traditional notions of feminine beauty.

"Carma" exemplifies both the Western binary view of sexual differences and the contrast between the native African woman and her people's perception of her that has changed under the notions of male-oriented white values. In the first half of Carma, the woman takes on the qualities of an African goddess. She is the Earth Mother, the power of the African land and its flora transfigured into the land of the American South.

The problems in "Carma" begin in the second half when Carma takes possession of her sexuality: "Working with a contractor, [her husband] was away most of the time. She had others. No one blames her for that" (18). When Carma's husband, Bane, returns, he hears a rumor that Carma had been unfaithful to him in his absence. Operating on internalized patriarchal notions that women are naturally unchaste, Bane accepts the rumor as truth and accuses Carma. She denies his charges. He continues, but Bane cannot see that "she was becoming hysterical" (19). Toomer's use of the descriptor "hysterical" is peculiar, as this word has sexist roots. It connotes the Renaissance belief that a woman's womb causes tempestuous, erratic behavior. Indeed, this westernized, "hysterical" Carma is much different from the African goddess she was depicted as in the first half of the tale: grabs a gun and rushes into the canebrake.

This transformation is the result of Bane's internalization of the Western view that women are sexually promiscuous. His acts have disempowered her, causing her descent from African goddess to sexual possession.

"Song of the Son," "Georgia Dusk," "Evening Song," and "Nullo," though they do not easily lend themselves to feminist criticism, are key to understanding the text as a whole because they explicate the context and reasons for Cane. Waldo Frank, in his foreword to Cane, writes, "Innumerable books have been written about the South; some good books have been written in the south. This book is the South" (vii). Mirroring Frank's words, in "Song of the Son," Toomer establishes his relation to the black South, a culture exploited and in decline.

"Blood Burning Moon" begins with, "Up from the skeleton stone walls, up from the rotting floor boards of the pre-war cotton factory, dusk came. Up from the dusk the full moon came. Glowing like a fired pine-knot..." (51). This disturbing imagery at once warns the reader that the outcome of this tale will not be pleasant. In this story, an attractive black woman, Louisa, has two paramours: a black contract worker named Tom Burwell and the white son of a plantation owner, Bob Stone. The sexual rivalry of these two men over Louisa drives the tale. One may read Louisa's sexuality by the description of her body: "Her skin the color of oak leaves on young trees in fall. Her breasts, firm and up-pointed like ripe acorns" (51). White Bob, believing that he loves Louisa, in reality thinks of her as a possession; her sexuality and race is a commodity, like cane. The text insinuates the connection between female sexuality and commodity like the way Bob associates the scent of boiling cane syrup with Louisa while considering the danger of his liaison with her: "She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why just gal? No, it was because she was a nigger that he went to see her. Sweet...The scent of boiling cane came to him" (Toomer 61). Since Louisa does not own her sexuality, she does not have the opportunity to choose between her two lovers. Furthermore, stereotypes of female infidelity are in operation: both men believe that Louisa is strictly a sexual being, and that either may possess her with his sexual prowess. Indeed, the bloodshed that takes place later in the narrative arises from Tom's and Bob's notions of patriarchy in which each perceives Louisa as his possession. Louisa, however, benefits from the uncivilized male mob's disorganized mentality: since her role in the altercation between Bob and Tom is not discovered, her honor is unscathed. If they had deemed her responsible, it is likely that she would have been ostracized as a whore, as was Becky.

Jean Toomer's Cane is replete with feminist as much as it is racial concerns. In Section I, Toomer effectively uses the sexual repression of women and commodification of sexuality and natural resources to characterize the destruction of black American culture by white patriarchal forces. It is not entirely clear why Toomer chose women as his protagonists in this section. But, whatever his reasons, his choice of using women as the instrument of his "song" has increased the power of his work. Black women are the underclass of an underclass society, and it is here, at the basement level in the hierarchy of society, that we find the concentration of cultural poisons that have trickled down through American black society from the dominant white culture at the top. The female heroine, designated as such by her endurance in the face of oppression, is well-represented here, though she sometimes loses, as in the case of Becky, and sometimes she simply endures, as is depicted in the poem "Face." Indeed, Toomer's representation of women in Cane was remarkable for its time. But what is most remarkable is how many modern feminist concerns can be uncovered from beneath the surface of the work's simple poetic language.

# The Singing Tree: Jean Toomer's "Song of the Son" as a Revelation of Author Intent

"Song of the Son" is the centerpiece of Cane, Jean Toomer's thematically linked compilation of his prose and poetry. Cradled within the eloquent language of this poem is a distillation of author intent for the book. This book records Toomer's view of the last vestiges of black vernacular history in the antebellum South. By the orchestration of tone, diction, and metaphor and repetition in "Song of the Son," the poet articulates his reasons for writing Cane and what he hoped to gain by doing so.

Early in the poem, Toomer makes the reader certain of its setting and topic. He emphasizes the existence of open valleys in lines 4 and 5. Then in lines 6 and 8, he describes the land as having red soil and sweet gum trees, being "scant of grass" and "profligate of pines." These lines cue the reader that his "song" will originate from the deep rural South. The repeated use of the word "slaves" and "slavery" further clarifies the topic and era of the poem: recovery from the post-slavery experience in the rural South.

Toomer intended Cane to represent the swan song of the American blacks' slave experience. The major theme of this poem is author intent and the recovery of this experience. The poet states his intent with the line, "Pour that parting soul in song" (1). In other words, he is telling us that he is going to "pour" the "parting soul" (the fleeting black heritage of the post-Civil War South) into lyrical prose represented as the "song."

The oppression and exploitation caused by industrialization is a secondary theme of this poem. "O pour it in the sawdust glow at night, / Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight" (2-3). In these lines, Toomer suggests that industrialization is a major cause in the loss of black culture. Figuratively, sawdust and pine smoke indicate the presence of a sawmill. The sawmill consumes the old native pines that blanket the South, pines that date from before the time of slavery. Line 18 continues along this mode of thought with: "before they strip the old tree bare." Toomer uses the destruction of the pine trees as a metaphor for exploitation.

Admiration and affection comprise the tone of this poem. Toomer addresses the heritage of the black, rural South as if he were rejoining a beloved family after a long absence. Indeed, the title of the poem reflects this relationship. The poet himself is the "son," and after a long journey, the black northern poet has finally returned to his native Southern soil, the location of his ancestral roots. The phrase "a singing tree" (20) supports this perceived familial tie. The tree, a family tree, may represent his connection to a Southern heritage that spans multiple generations. This family tree has roots in the red soil of the South. The tree sings mournfully of the pain-filled history of his ancestors.

"Song of the Son" repeatedly articulates Toomer's devotion to interpreting the vernacular history of his black cultural heritage though his "song." It is an eleventh-hour mission to rescue remnants of the slave past from impending oblivion: "Now just before and epoch's sun declines / Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee..." (8-9). These lines give the poem a sense of urgency, for through exploitation and internal decay, the culture is in danger of being lost forever. In lines 14 and 15, the connection between the "song" and slave culture is sustained by mention of the "plaintive soul soon gone."

The song in this poem may also be interpreted as the folklore that the poet hopes to acquire, record, and pay homage to during his stay in his native land. The phrases "song-lit race of slaves," "everlasting song," and "caroling softly" (12, 20-21) suggest a poetic interest in slave work songs. The presence of ironic distortions of these folk songs in Cane lends support for this interpretation. The song also embodies aspects of the simple, rural life of the farmers that he felt was unnoticed by others. Evidence of this is the rural setting of the poem "Reapers" (223) and other poems in Cane.

Slavery ended nearly 50 years before Toomer wrote the material in Cane. In "Song of the Son" the poet repeatedly expresses his feeling that he arrived very late on the scene to record the post-slavery experience. Consider the lines, "Now just before an epoch's sun declines, /.../...the sun is setting on.... /...it has not set; / Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet," and "...to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone" (8,11-13, 15). Though Toomer arrived very late, he knows he is not too late, for "one plum was saved for me" (19). The poet realizes that most of the songs have been irretrievably lost. But he will fertilize the seed of the plum (picked at the onset of winter) with his imagination so that it grows into an "everlasting song, a singing tree" (20).

In lines 16 and 17, Toomer articulates the past and present suffering of the Negroes. He uses the image of a "dark purple ripened plum" to describe the bruised spirit of the black man "squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air." But why else would the poet choose a plum to describe the spirit of the black man? Why not a pomegranate, nectarine, or a walnut? Perhaps by choosing a plum he wants to emphasize an inherent delicate sweetness to the black man's soul, and like the soft, thin skin of a ripe plum, it is fragile and easily damaged.

The mention of "pine-smoke air" (3) is significant, for it suggests that industrialization is the current oppressor of black culture. "Reapers" supports this interpretation. In this poem, black men prepare for the harvest. A mower pulled by black horses indifferently cuts through the weeds. Unseen by all but the poet, the mower kills a field rat with its blade. This poem may be understood as a metaphor for the loss of humanity to automated industrialization, and it suggests that the black man is unwittingly acting in concert with external forces to drive this industrialization. Plausibly, the field rat represents humanity, the victim of industrialization.

It might seem to the casual reader that the release from slavery would be a cause of great celebration for the Negro. But Toomer's language urges the reader to suspect that this not a poem of celebration. He describes the Negro slave as having been "squeezed and bursting" and the soul of Southern black history as "plaintive." By juxtaposing the squeezed, purple plums of Negro slaves and the current industrialization of the South, the poet makes it apparent that though freedom has finally come to the enslaved blacks, the oppression has not disappeared—it has only changed form. As Toomer implies in "Reapers," industrialization is mindlessly destroying black culture just as the reaper machine dismembered the field rat.

As for the structure of the poem, Toomer makes effective use of repetition. In the repeated lines, "And let the valley carry it along" (4-5) and "Caroling softly souls of slavery" (21, 23), he underscores his profound admiration for the subject matter. In lines 9 and 10, however, the poet plays a sleight of hand with word order and punctuation. Though both lines share the exact same words, Toomer shifts the position of the phrases "I have" and "in time." The result is: "Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee. / Thy son, I have in time returned to thee." But though the meaning of these two lines may at first seem the same, a dramatic shift in meaning has taken place that allows a secondary interpretation. Together, the two lines emphasize that not only has the time at long last come for the poet to return to the heritage of the South, but he is also travelling backward in mind and spirit to the specific period of the antebellum south.

Toomer performs another twist in phraseology in lines 9 and 10. He leads into the twist with an enjambed line, "Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet." In the next two lines that share the same words, he moves the word "leaving" from near the end of the line to first. The effect of this change in syntax is: "To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone, / Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone." Line 9 suggests that tangible traces of his ancestors' antebellum experience will be leaving soon. In line 10, the subject shifts to the poet himself. He tells us he is currently journeying from his northern home to catch the fleeting "plaintive soul" described in the previous line.

The narrative, lyrical imagery of "Song of the Son" is a personal outpouring of somber emotion that pays homage to a journey into the nearly forgotten past, now a distant epoch in American culture. In this centerpiece poem, Toomer focuses on his authorial intent to make Cane the swan song of black culture of the post-Civil War South. As he foresaw in 1922, the sun would eventually set on "a song-lit race of slaves." Indeed, the emotional impact of the post-slavery experience has drifted beyond the realm of living memory. But the "everlasting song, a singing tree," planted so tenderly during that nearly forgotten sunset, will weather well the winds of time.
Section III – World Literature

# Metaphor, Simile and Symbolism in "The Death of Ivan Ilych"

Most notable about Tolstoy's writing style is the sparseness of his language. Though he provides us with copious detail, for the most part, he makes infrequent use of metaphor and simile. Slight use of this type of embellished language extends to his longer works such as the 850+ page novel, Anna Karenina. Can you imagine a literary masterpiece of this length nearly bereft of metaphors and similes? On a smaller scale, "The Death of Ivan Ilych" follows this example. And despite the scarcity of metaphor and simile, the story is rich with symbolism.

"The Death of Ivan Ilych" is primarily a tale of warning to the complacent aristocratic Russian society. Ivan Ilych represents the banal, self-important lives of the Russian upper class. He leads a life of falsehood comprised of trite, insubstantial values. His family and acquaintances reflect his falsehood. Conversely, Gerasim represents the simple but content peasant, the opposite of all that Ivan represents. In his hours of desperation, upper class Ivan admires Gerasim's wholesomeness and virtue: "Health, strength, and vitality in other people were offensive to [Ivan], but Gerasim's strength and vitality did not mortify but soothed him" (1307). Humble Gerasim is not false like those with whom Ivan has surrounded himself. Also, the peasant displays sincere pity for upper class Ivan, something the dying man wants desperately. Gerasim represents values of honesty and humility that Ivan had lost or failed to adopt in his maturation.

Vasya is important to the "moral" of this story. He symbolizes Ivan's lost childhood. He represents the wonder and happiness Ivan once had but had lost through ossification of spirit brought on by leading a false life. In contrast to the animosity Ivan feels for his wife and daughter, he feels affinity for his son: "It seemed to Ivan that Vasya was the only one besides Gerasim who understood and pitied him" (1312). A few hours before Ivan's death, Vasya presses his lips against his father's hand and begins to cry (1319). This poignant act suggests Ivan's symbolic return to the childhood (and humanity) that left him long ago.

Metaphors for death are plentiful in this piece. The meaning of the metaphor is dependent on Ivan's state of mind at the time. In one section, "It" (1304) is a metaphor for faceless, inhuman death that continually reminds Ivan of its presence. In a few sections, death is referred to as "a narrow, deep black sack" (1313), a kind of prison. Death is also viewed as colorless "light" (1319) to represent passage into another state of existence. In another section, death briefly takes on a heartless persona that verbally responds to Ivan's questions. "Why these sufferings?" Ivan asks. And Death answers, "For no reason—they are just so."

Ivan's sickness is a physical manifestation of his insular lifestyle and a symptom of his unhealthy psyche. A commonly held belief in 19th Century was that ennui, ill temper, and a certain idleness of the spirit was caused by malfunction of the spleen. Ivan injures himself where his spleen is located: on the left side of his abdomen (1295). But even before Ivan injures his side, he has developed a spleen condition: "He experienced ennui for the first time in his life, and not only ennui, but intolerable depression." (1291). After Ivan injures himself, his spleen condition worsens dramatically: "He felt some discomfort on his left side....accompanied by ill-humor. And his irritability became worse and worse" (1295). These lines suggest that Ivan's injury did not cause his sickness, but rather, it simply precipitated a physical manifestation of his preexisting psychic condition. The fact that the doctors are unable to diagnose Ivan's damaged spleen suggests that they too suffer from Ivan's insularity.

Despite the surfeit of symbols Tolstoy disperses within "The Death of Ivan Ilych," he uses simile in only three instances. Two of these appear near the end of the story. The first of these two is: "He struggled as a man condemned to death struggles in the hands of his executioner, knowing that he cannot save himself" (1318). In this line, Ivan is terrified of the fate he knows he cannot escape. The word "condemned" suggests Ivan's feeling that he is being "punished" for a crime. It is ironic that Ivan, the judge, should now feel himself heartlessly judged as he had judged the defendants brought before him. Later, when Ivan falls though "the hole" into the light, Tolstoy writes, "What happened to him was like the sensation one sometimes experiences in a railway carriage when one thinks one is going backward when one is really going forward, and suddenly becomes aware of the real direction" (1318). This simile summarizes Ivan's spiritual journey toward enlightenment. Throughout the story, though Ivan thought he was merely dying (moving backward), in reality he is moving forward toward self-understanding. Only after this moment does Ivan finally accept the fact that his life is not what it should have been.

The simile of the railway carriage echoes Ivan's earlier rumination over his past preoccupation with money and position: "It is as if I had been going downhill while I imagined I was going up...I was going up in public opinion, but to the same extent, life was ebbing away from me" (1314). Once again, Tolstoy uses confused perception of movement for Ivan's realization that he was not headed to where he thought he was.

The "hole" Ivan is falling through is analogous to a birth canal, the end of which leads to a mysterious world outside the womb. The light in the hole is an inversion of Ivan's earlier perception of birth and the progression toward death. Consider the line in which Ivan recounts the moment of his birth and the subsequent advance toward decrepitude and death: "There is one bright spot there at the back, at the beginning of life, and afterwards, all becomes blacker and blacker" (1316). In the final moments before Ivan's death he is heading toward the light again. From this, we can gather that Ivan is not being punished, but rather, he is being reborn into a greater awareness.

# A Discussion of the Anti-hero in the 19th Century Russian Novel

Portrayal of the anti-hero or "negative protagonist" is prevalent in Russian novels in the 19th century. Five anti-heroes taken into consideration here are Eugene in Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, Pechorin in Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time, Chickikov in Gogol's Dead Souls, Bazarov in Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, and Raskolnikov in Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. There are many similarities and differences between these anti-heroes, and each anti-hero serves a different purpose in his novel.

Eugene Onegin was written in the early 1820s; A Hero of Our Time was written in the early 1830s. Both novels are the oldest of the five covered here. The Russian version of landowner/serf was still firmly entrenched in the political and social system. Consequently, neither novel delves too deeply into the politics of the Russian system at the time. Each, however, plumbs social society with an anti-hero as the main protagonist. A major issue with both books is the theme of corrosion of the soul, or "excessive spleen", and its effect on the protagonist's course of life. The cause of Eugene Onegin's spleen is unknown. Early in the novel, Pushkin writes simply of Eugene, the "illness" should have been analyzed when caught, and "it mastered him with slow gradation...to life [he] grew colder than the dead." (52). And so the story progresses from there. In A Hero of Our Time, Pechorin is stricken with spleen from before the beginning of the narration. But only in the final quarter of the book in "Princess Mary" do we discover Pechorin's self-analysis: "Fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings at the bottom of my heart. There, they died...One half of my soul did not exist; it had withered, it had evaporated; it had died. I cut it off and threw it away" (127).

The tale of Eugene Onegin concerns itself chiefly with the events of Eugene's life and Tatyana's secret dotage on his being. Eugene's anti-hero status is derived mainly from the aforementioned ennui and spleen condition. Like Tatyana, the book's second protagonist, Eugene, is a likable character, but we pity him more so than Tatyana because of his condition. We want to see Tatyana and Eugene consummate their relationship in a happy ending. Instead, the love passes between the two lovers unrequited, and in the end, the result is that they can never consummate their love. The bittersweet truth is that though Tatyana's evolved into someone Eugene could love, she also ensured that Eugene could never have her. At the end of the book, we have a kind of ironic equilibrium between Eugene and Tatyana—both are now in love with each other, but sadly, the opportunity for their union has passed. One may feel at this point that though Eugene and Tatyna may attain contentment in their separate lives, neither will achieve true happiness.

Eugene Onegin does not appear to make a consistent social statement. Social customs are mentioned as a backdrop. Pushkin describes characters that are forced into marriage. These characters lose their spirit; they cope by adjusting themselves to where they find contentment, but not happiness. Love, for its own sake, is considered a fanciful ideal by the older generation. The younger generation represented by Tatyana, Lensky, Olga, and to a certain measure, Eugene, adhere to a different set of ideals in terms of love relationships. Romance and marriage for love is the order of the day. A break between the views of the generations is exemplified by Tatyana's conversation with her nurse, "Nanya" in chapter three. Nanya, an old woman, does not understand Tatyana's feelings of love (92-94). Later, in the last chapter, we see a contrast between Tatyana's past feelings of love for Eugene and her present affable (but loveless) marriage to the general.

Pechorin's is a greater mystery to us than Eugene is. Though Pechorin is an anti-hero, Lermontov incites a perverse desire in the reader to want to learn more about him. At times, it is difficult to believe Pechorin can act so insensitively to those who love him. But there is more to Pechorin than the tale of a doleful, insensitive man. In the "Author's Introduction", Lermontov first rebuffs accusations that he has created a repugnant portrait of himself and his acquaintances. Then he states that Pechorin is not portrait of an individual, but is "composed of all the vices of our generation in the fullness of their development" (2). In other words, Pechorin the anti-hero represents a mosaic of the decadence in Russian society. Lermontov further states that Pechorin is the "bitter medicine" the public needs to recognize the moral corrosion at all strata of society. The anti-climactic ending for Pechorin indicates the pessimistic view that the social ills represented by Pechorin can never be cured for they are the outcome of fundamental faults in human nature.

Fathers and Sons's Bazarov is a different type of antihero. He does not suffer from ennui or bad spleen as Pechorin and Eugene Onegin. His qualification for anti-hero status is the result of his nihilistic social view and self-centeredness. As with the two aforementioned protagonists the qualities that make him the antihero involve him in conflict. In Bazarov's case, his conflict is with Arkady's Uncle Pavel, a representative of the old order. This results in a duel which can be seen a clash between generations. It must be pointed out that after the duel, wounded Pavel has summoned a kind of respect for Bazarov. This respect can be seen as the older generation (and its views) ceding its control to the ideals of the younger generation.

Late in the novel, Bazarov is becomes disillusioned with himself and his views. Even Arkady has tires of Bazarov; he breaks away from his former mentor to pursue a love relationship with Katya (272). Bazarov slips into a kind of pensiveness borne out of a re-evaluation of his ideals. He feels lonely, and in feeling so, he attempts to cultivate a relationship with Fenichka (231). Shortly after he returns home, Bazarov loses interest in his studies and is overcome with "gloomy notalgia and vague restlessness" (274). Strikingly, Turgenev further writes of Bazarov, "A strange weariness showed itself in all his movements; even his firm impetuously resolute stride was different." Compare this physical change in Bazarov to Lermontov's description of Pechorin in "Maxim Maksimich": "His gait was loose and indolent," and when he sat, "His straight figure flexed in such a way that you would think there was not a single bone in his spine" (56). Though Bazarov remains more agreeable and social than Pechorin, his shift toward melancholy, at least outwardly, resembles Pechorin's ossified spirit.

In the end, Bazarov's love for Princess Anna changed him irrevocably. Through her, he realizes that he is ultimately unable to follow his nihilistic system of belief. Bazarov the anti-hero has become Bazarov the neutralized. With his spirit broken and his enthusiasm for life laid low, one has to wonder if he intentionally cut himself (thereby deliberately infecting himself) while dissecting the peasant who died of typhus.

In Dead Souls and Crime and Punishment, our anti-hero is a criminal. Both criminals are, in a sense, victims of circumstance wrought by the social order. This makes these books more of a social statement than a previous two. Chichikov's ambition impels him in his search for the legal gray area of ownership for seemingly worthless "dead souls". Frustrated with the system, and repeatedly thwarted in attempts to raise his social status by both legitimate and illegitimate means, his pursuit of dead souls is the latest of Chichikov's schemes for getting rich quick. Raskolnikov, on the other hand is driven to extremes by dire poverty; he is trapped helplessly in its vice. Indeed, the squalor of Raskolnikov's environment and his resulting feelings of despair and hopelessness are some of the most powerful images evoked in Crime and Punishment. This makes Raskolinkov's break and subsequent withdrawal from society all the more plausible.

Thoughout most of Dead Souls, Gogol presents his central character as a mystery. Outside Chichikov's appearance, the reader does not know much about him. Gogol tactfully withholds critical information about Chichikov's motives until when he is leaving town. This was done probably to keep the reader interested. Though we cannot help but admire plucky Chichikov's persistence and cunning, we suspect his reason for wanting the dead souls is as illicit as it is unusual. Though not clearly defined as a criminal at beginning of the book, Chichikov uses duplicity and manipulation to procure the seemingly worthless dead souls—a symptom that his morals are questionable and his hidden agenda is something illegal. The actual extent of Chichikov's corruption is not completely evident until the end of the novel. But despite his corruption, he is not an evil man by any means. Gogol writes that Chichikov was not so harsh and callous that he did not have compassionate feelings for his fellow man, and sometimes, if the sum was not too high, to give away his money to someone in need (239). Gogol further writes of Chichikov, "He had no love of money for its own sake. Meaness and miserliness had no hold on him...he was dreaming of a life full of comfort and all sorts of luxuries" (239). Chichikov seeks only the life of luxury he had tasted in only a few fleeting occasions in his life. Chichikov probably has a very simple creed: he who is cunning enough to get away with graft and deception is rightly deserving of its monetary rewards.

Raskolikov's situation in Crime and Punishment is much more complex. He is a fundamentally good man who has fallen on hard times. He is a victim of circumstance. His desperate situation has made him susceptible to an act of desperation. Neither of these so-called "criminals" is inherently bad to the core; their crimes are not the result of disdain for society or simply evil for its own sake. Both of them seek financial gain. Indeed, if they were criminals in the malicious sense, there would be little point in the reader sympathizing with them. At the end of Dead Souls, though his success is still uncertain, Chichikov feels he is off to a good start. He seems self-satisfied with his progress in acquiring the dead souls as he is riding out of town at the end of the last chapter. We feel he will continue in what he is doing, and will probably be better at it since he has made mistakes and has learned from them.

Raskolnikov, on the other hand, has utterly failed in his criminal pursuit. His "punishment" begins immediately after he commits his crime. He is continually filled with remorse and self-doubt, and he agonizes over the possible consequences of the murder. Raskolnikov's agony is so intense that it pushes him to the brink of insanity. His mind becomes so muddled that he cannot even recall accurately why he committed the crime. Mostly, only his pride pushes him forward and causes him to further resist. Ultimately, he is redeemed by Sonia's love and understanding. Her steadfast faith in Raskolnikov gives him the strength to confess. Then, through suffering and humilty in the Siberian prison camp, he builds his life anew.

Raskolnikov's suffering in the camp serves a higher purpose than the suffering he faces before he confesses. The "punishment" before his confession is suffering without hope. Indeed Raskolnikov felt like he was without hope. After Sonia gave him hope, the suffering in the camp is more of a healing, character-building process. At that point, the punishment had already ended, and the regeneration of his soul had begun.

It should be pointed out that throughout most of the novel, Raskolnikov was surrounded by worthy family members and friends like Dunia, Sonia, and Razumkihin. In reality, people tend to surround themselves with those of similar character. The fact that these people surrounding Raskolnikov are basically good and that Raskolnikov vociferously rejects true scoundrels like Luzhin and Svidrigailov indicate that Raskolnikov is, at the core, a good individual. Therefore, the murder he committed is not a symptom of his character. Even the astute Porfiry Petrovich believes that Raskolnikov has the potential to do great things if he would only have a little faith in God and himself (442-444). In Part 6, chapter 2, Porfiry manifests his belief in Raskolnikov when he offers to lessen the sting of prosecution when he confesses. Raskolikov and Profiry are alike in many ways. As I read their discourses, I felt that these two men could have been great friends if they were not on the opposite sides of the law.

When the murder is viewed in light of Rasholnikov's good character, we should conclude that Raskolnikov's act was, in a sense, his desperate plea for help. A further interpretation that the old woman was murdered by the indifference of society; the murder is the result of hopeless the plight of the poor and the feelings of helplessness it breeds in those trapped in its clutches. In other words, Rashkolnikov was transformed into the murderous anti-hero due to his social circumstance. Of course, not everyone who is poor commits a murder, and Raskolnikov did have to possess a certain disposition toward the act considering his elitist social view that some are, by nature, above the law. It is, however, difficult to visualize Raskolnikov committing the murder he not had been in desperate straits brought on by his social condition. If he had not been in such dire straits, then probably his ideas on the elitist criminal may have remained latent ideas that would have perished without his testing them.

In summary, each anti-hero plays a different part in his novel. All of them are social outcasts to a lesser or greater degree either by choice or social circumstance. Their lack of malicious intent makes them admirable such a way that they are not repulsive to the reader. Pushkin gives us the love story between Eugene and Tatyana. Lermontov's Pechorin is the emblem and seal of corrupt Russian society flawed by human nature. Bazarov in Fathers and Sons is the nihilistic outcast who becomes disenchanted with his own belief after his love for Anna proves he cannot resist the ideals of those he belittles. Gogol's Chichikov represents the concept that determination and lack of scruples will make up for social disadvantage if one has the cunning to succeed. And finally, Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment tells us we can find meaning in our lives through suffering and redemption.
Works Cited

Dostoyevski, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Sydney Monas. Penguin: New York, 1968.

Gogol, Nikolai. Dead Souls. Trans. David Magarshack. Penguin: London, 1961.

Lermontov, Mikail. A Hero of Our Time. Trans. Vladimir Nabokov and Dmitri Nabokov. Dana Point: Ardis, 1988.

Pushkin, Alexander. Eugene Onegin. Trans. Charles Johnston. Penguin: London, 1977.

Turgenev, Ivan. Fathers and Sons. Trans. Rosemary Edmonds. Penguin: London, 1965.

# A Comparison of the Duel Scenes of Eugene Onegin and A Hero of Our Time

Both Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin and Mikhail Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time feature a duel scene that involves the protagonist. By comparing the cause of the duels, what took place during the duels, and the duel's effect on the protagonists in the aftermath, we are able to show how the duels equally foreshadow the destiny of the protagonist of both novels.

The causes of the duels are dissimilar: an imagined slight is the cause of Eugene Onegin's duel; a "false" accusation is the cause of Gregoiry Pechorin's. A love interest, however, is at the root of both duels. And in both cases, the opponent is a friend, or at least in Pechorin's case, a good acquaintance. Both protagonists accept the duel without giving serious thought to the consequences, and neither protagonist fears for his own mortality. Eugene's acceptance of the duel is more an act of absent interest rather than an active dislike of Lensky. He more-or-less goes with the flow of the situation. Pechorin, on the other hand, is more of an active participant in the proceedings. But though Pechorin does not like Grushnitski, he does not actively seek his death. The duel between Pechorin and Grushnitski is not so much a result of their mutual animosity as it is a by-product of external forces. Pechorin's original intent was only to deprive Grusnitski of Princess Mary's love, not kill him.

The opponents of our protagonists do not share similar circumstance. The day before the duel, Lensky seethes with anger toward Eugene. Only after his visit with Olga does he realize his error: the insult by Eugene was not what he thought it was. After that point, Lensky's anger is groundless. Though he feints ever so slightly toward second thoughts over the duel, he is nevertheless able to muster new animosity toward Eugene. In the end, he resolves to go through with the duel perhaps more out of pride than actual dislike for Eugene. Though Grushnitski felt slighted by Pechorin, murder is not his intent. Grushnitski was manipulated into the duel by the Captain of the Dragoons. Grushnitski's uneasiness over his deception on the morning of the duel is quite evident. He has more on his mind than killing Pechorin. During the duel, Grushnitski's guilt unsettles him enough that his misses Pechorin when given the chance to shoot first.

Involved with both duels is a promoter who goads the protagonists into the act. In Eugene Onegin, we have the mischievous Zaretsky instigating the two participants. In Hero of Our Time, we have the duplicitous Captain of the Dragoons. It is doubtful that either duel would have taken place if the promoter were not on hand to prod and cajole the opponents into action.

Pechorin prepares for his duel with cool deliberation. He is at the appointed place on time with his second, Dr. Warner. While preparing for the duel, Pechorin hopes that Grushnitski will come clean over his and the captain's furtive manipulation of the duel: "I wished to give Grushnitski every advantage; I wished to test him. A spark of magnanimity might awaken in his soul—but vanity and weakness were to triumph." (Lermontov 167). Strikingly, despite Grushnitski's evident cowardliness, Pechorin later gives Grushnitski a chance to spare his own life. This happens after Grushnitski has already fired (slightly wounding Pechorin). Now it is Pechorin's turn to shoot. Grushnitski stands at the edge of the precipice staring down the barrel of Pechorin's pistol. Pechorin may now shoot at will, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks Grushnitski to retract his petty "slander" against him in exchange for his life. This chance of absolution given by Pechorin is quite generous when one considers that 1) Pechorin had overheard Gushnitski and the captain planning the rigged duel, 2) Pechorin dislikes Grushnitski, and 3) Pechorin has nothing to gain as Grushnitski has already shot first. When Grushnitski cries out that he wants Pechorin to shoot, Pechorin obliges him. Grushnitski falls dead from the top of the precipice. The moment after Grushnitski's death, Pechorin nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders, courteously bows to the captain, then he walks away. Pechorin feels no remorse for the deed or sense of pity for Grushnitski.

Unlike Pechorin, Eugene is not wholly resolved to go through with his duel, nor does he seem to respect the ceremony of the event. First, he shows up late, then it appears he did not bring a second. Only after Zaretsky scolds him does Eugene improvise by volunteering his valet, "Monsieur" Guillot, for the task. (It should be noted that is was unusual and somewhat disrespectful to use one's valet as a second in a duel.) At the moment of truth, Eugene shoots first without really aiming. Lensky is shot just below the chest. He dies instantly. Eugene does not simply walk away from the scene as Pechorin did in his duel. Instead, he runs to Lensky, and seeing his friend lying still on the snowy ground with blood bubbling from the smoking wound, he calls out Lensky's name. After Zaretsky pronounces Lensky dead, Eugene realizes the gravity of the act he just committed. He quickly gathers up his people and leaves. Later, indirectly through Pushkin's digression, Eugene ruefully ponders the loss to the world of someone that may have become some great poet, or could have just as easily lived ignominiously to a ripe old age. This reaction of remorse from Eugene reveals a contrast in spirit between the two protagonists. Though Eugene and Pechorin both suffer from spleen, Eugene is definitely the more sensitive of the two. This tells us that Eugene's spirit has not ossified like Pechorin's.

Our protagonists do not share the same perspective after they leave the scene of the duel. After Pechorin dispatches Grushnitski from the cliff, he writes: "On my way down the trail, I noticed, among the crevices of the cliffs, Grushnitiski's blood-stained body. Involuntarily, I shut my eyes." (Lermontov 171). And that's all. Pechorin didn't look back again, nor did he waste another drop of ink in his journal writing about Grushnitski except to mention that Dr. Warner dutifully removed the bullet from the dead man's chest to make it look like the cause of death was an accident. Eugene, on the other hand, though always somewhat reticent by nature, drops out of sight altogether after the duel while he mourns the loss of his friend. This is supported by Pushkin's poignant words: "...my Eugene, an idle monk in glum seclusion, has lately wintered just a space, from Tatyana's dwelling place...though there he's no more to be found, he's left sad footprints on the ground." (Pushkin 180). Though Pushkin does not give us further information on how Eugene felt over Lensky's death, we can infer from that passage that Eugene feels genuine sorrow over his loss. Later, we read that a few months pass before Eugene (and Tatanya) stop visiting Lensky's grave.

As a side note, it should be mentioned that when Eugene and Pechorin kill their opponents, in an indirect sense, each protagonist kills himself. In Eugene's case, Lensky's youth and vitality was the doleful protagonist's link to the outside world. Eugene lived vicariously through the experiences his young friend. By killing Lensky, Eugene killed this part of his life experience. Pechorin's connection to Grushnitski is that they were mirror caricatures of each other. Pechorin knew this subconsciously. Perhaps this is why Pechorin disliked Grushnitski since their first meeting. Pechorin allowed himself to kill Grushnitski as a subconscious act of self-revulsion.

From all of this information, we may conclude how the duel scene foreshadows the destinies of our protagonists. In Pechorin's case, Dr. Warner abandons the friendless protagonist soon after the duel. Unaffected by this loss, and despite the fact he had killed the mirror image of his personality, Pechorin continues plodding through life just as he had before the duel took place. There is no reason to believe he will change his indifferent demeanor. Eugene is also made friendless by the duel, and after Lensky's death, it is tempting to believe that Eugene will never again find companionship in any form. Nevertheless, Eugene's feelings of remorse are a good sign for him for they are a symptom that his soul is not quite dead, at least, not like Pechorin's. These assertions of character follow through to the end of both tales. At the chronological end of the A Hero of Our Time, in continuance of his unaffected reaction after the duel, Pechorin's spleen has ossified his countenance to the point where he no longer seems human. Even at the warm reception of his old friend Maxim Maksimich, he feels nothing. Pechorin remains this way until he is killed. On the other hand, by the last pages of Eugene Onegin, we find Eugene is deeply in love with Tatyana. This tells us Pushkin's protagonist is still capable of feeling human emotion. Eugene's reaction of regret at the loss of Lensky foreshadows this regeneration of his spirit.

Thus, we find that through examining the tragedy that takes place in the duel scenes of the two novels, are we able to foretell the destinies of our protagonists. We find that the unaffected, world-weary countenance Pechorin brought with him out of the duel follows him into the grave, while Eugene Onegin's demonstration of sorrow after the duel portends the possibility of his gaining a new lease on life. 

# Self-Destructive Tendencies in Eugene Onegin and A Hero of Our Time

Eugene Onegin and A Hero of Our Times explore the theme of corrosion of the soul, or "excessive spleen", and its eventual effect on the protagonist. The cause of this condition in the protagonists of both novels is different, and the two authors delineate their story in different ways, but the consequence of their condition is much the same for both Eugene Onegin and Gregoriy Pechorin.

The cause of the excessive spleen of Eugene introduced early Pushkin's novel. He opens his novel with a summary of Eugene's life up to the point of his uncle's death. Eugene had a higher education in which he excelled. He was bright, promising, dashing, and knew mores of the time. He seemed destined for a long life in the Russian upper class society. Then at age eighteen, he lost his interest in life. And so the story progresses from there. In Lermantov's novel, we are confronted with an unsavory character, Pechorin, right from the beginning, observed third person. We are given his physical description and detail of his actions, but the motives of his actions and causative effect of his reactions to the world are a mystery to us. We know something is disaffected about him early on, but only in the last quarter of the book in "Princess Mary" do we discover Pechorin's self-analysis. We may get some insight here as to the severity of their states. Pushkin gives us the initial symptom of Eugene's spleen, for example, "...his life grew colder than the dead..." and "...nothing causes his heart to stir, and nothing pierced his senses blur". Pechorin's self-rending disclosure is much more choloric: "Fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings at the bottom of my heart. There they died," and "One half of my soul did not exist; it had withered, it had evaporated; it had died. I cut it off and threw it away...". From these passages, we can determine that Eugene is the victim of his affliction. By contrast, Pechorin has a pre-existing ill-tempered disposition that led him to chose his disaffected countenance. His affliction was a choice; Eugene's was not.

The duel scenes of both books are very similar regarding the action and reaction of protagonists. Though neither Eugene nor Pechorin wittingly provoke the duels, neither actively refuses, and both go along with it.

Though the two protagonists are similar in their disaffected states, Eugene is the more sympathetic of the two, Pechorin the more contemptible. This is evident in their love relationships. Compare Eugene's reaction to Tantyna's missive of love to Pechorin's final reaction to Princess Mary's admission of love. When Eugene meets with Tatyana after he receives her letter, he is gentle, kind and respectful to her when he tells her when he is incapable of giving her the kind of life she desires. He is flattered by her affection though he probably knows he did nothing consciously to incite it. He does not want to waste her time. Pechorin, on the other hand tells admits to Mary that he had has manipulated her. (Which he has out of spite for Grushnitski). In the end, Mary hates him, and she tells him so. Pechorin's reaction is to leave after a smug vow. He leaves the Princess and not another thought is given to her.

Most remarkably, while we see a continuous degeneration in Pechorin's character that is still in decline when the book ends, Eugene's soul is born anew. At the end of "Maksimich Maxim," the chronological end to the book, Pechorin has distanced himself from human companionship, including that of his former friend, Maksimich. He is thirty years old in a state of "nervous debility". His loss of life is clearly evident in his walk, and the way he sits. His skin is pale; Pechorin is clearly in decline. As he rides away, there is nothing in the text to indicate that he will ever break away from his malaise. Later, he is killed.

Things aren't so dismal for Eugene, in Book 8, he has been striken with love for Tatyana. She awakens in him a something perhaps he has never felt before: profound love. Whereas he was basically an unfeeling individual throughout most of the book, with the exception of his friend Lensky, Eugene now feels emotional pain and longing for Tatyana. It torments him. It affects his health. But though Eugene is basically miserable, he is restored, for ability to feel pain is a symptom of life. When we leave the story, Eugene is in a sad state at the realization he will never have Tatyana, but his condition is immeasurably better than Pechorin's, for with the restoration of his soul, a bitter-sweet gift from Tatyana, he might yet find love and contentment in a kindred spirit. It is possible that this would have happened had Pushin continued telling us of Eugene's life.

# A Comparison of Tone and Author Attitude between The Death of Artemio Cruz and Pedro Paramo

The Death of Artemio Cruz by Carlos Fuentes and Pedro Paramo by Juan Rulfo are quite similar in tone, yet the tone is set forth quite differently in the two novels. The tone of Artemio Cruz utilizes exposition and a limited omniscient point of view that delves into the motivations and thoughts of most of the characters. Those characters whose minds are not touched by the limited narrative are easily understood by their actions and words. Pedro Paramo is told in the limited third person point of view, or "camera view." This novel is free of rhetoric, and the tone is conveyed through action and dialogue. Though the point of view does not deviate from that of the main character, Juan Preciado, remote events unfold through phantasmal visions derived from the spirits who witnessed them. Though the two novels use radically different methods of storytelling, each is effective in its own way, and each author's implicit negative opinion of the central characters is readily apparent.

Rarely does one encounter characters as despicable and self-serving as Artemio Cruz and Pedro Paramo. Though each character exerts a different degree of social influence, and their realms of influence differ, each maintains his power with a kind of single-minded ruthlessness that borders on the pathological. The author of each novel imbues his respective work with a tone that reflects his view of the principal character. The view is expressed differently in each novel, however. In Artemio Cruz, the author's tone is infused into the work through rhetoric. The episodic action in each section is peppered with the characters' insights; their feelings are described to us directly by the narrator. Collectively, this rhetoric gives us a multifaceted perspective of Artemio Cruz as an unrepentant gangster, clinging to what vestiges of control he can maintain on his deathbed. He gives his wife and daughter false directions to the will. All of his dealings are designed to benefit himself first and foremost while giving the semblance of legitimacy. He is sympathetic to a degree, nonetheless, for he seems to possess insight. His love/infatuation for Regina continues to haunt him as it always did during the times of his life when things weren't going well. He regrets the loss of his son, Lorenzo, and he yearns for his distant past before he lost his innocence. He displays a modicum of well-placed respect for worthy characters such as Colonel Zagal and the Yaqui, and he does not double-cross his allies. Yet these characteristics do not elevate him to hero status. Too much water has passed under the bridge for that. And when Cruz dies, he is still unrepentant. Pedro Paramo, on a smaller economic scale, displays the same lack of integrity as Cruz. Similar to those of Cruz, his business dealings, if they can be called that, are one swindle after another. Of the two men, Paramo achieves the greater degree of absolute power. He is also the more cruel and murderous of the two. Juan Preciado does not judge his father, however. His reaction is never described. We can only assume that his reaction was cold, detached observation. And by the end of the book, we realize that his inner life is just as much as mystery as Pedro Paramo's.

The reactions of the secondary characters to the principal character also give us the authors' attitude toward their main characters. Consider Catalina and Teresa's displays of rancor toward Cruz at his deathbed. Like Artemio Cruz, Pedro Paramo does not seem to respect anyone. With the exception of Susana San Juan, he mourns no one's death, not even the death of his only son, Miguel, or of his loyal henchman, Fulgar. His lack of reaction gives insight into his character. Most importantly, the lack of sympathy the townspeople express toward Pedro after the death of his only son conveys the author's attitude toward Pedro, although it is easy to understand why the townsfolk of Comala despised his miscreant son. Rulfo does not judge Pedro Paramo for his deeds through rhetoric; instead, he expresses his sentiments through Father Renteria, who seems to find something to regret about every encounter he has with Pedro Paramo. At one point, his remorse is so overwhelming that he goes to another priest for absolution. Dolorita, his wife, despises him to such a degree that she leaves him, never to return.

The tone of Pedro Paramo is less strident than that of Artemio Cruz. This lack of stridence is probably due to the lack of rhetoric in Pedro Paramo. Rulfo does not tell us what we should feel—he lets actions speak for themselves. The tone of the work is found more in the subtext. On careful thought, one can wonder why the townspeople are so compliant toward Paramo's tyranny. They display helplessness akin to that of medieval serfs beneath a mighty overlord. Perhaps they tolerate the murders and his miscreant son's shenanigans for the sake of feeding the rumor mill. Ironically, the townsfolks' inaction amounts to a kind of collaboration that sustains their suffering. Artemio Cruz, like Pedro Paramo, with his self-serving nature, implicates those like him who hold power. He is a gangster. He is corrupt, and those he attracts are quite like him. If Cruz and Paramo are intended to represent the typical Mexican public official, the authors' view of the power structure in Mexico is profoundly bleak.

Though the authors of both novels are similar their attitude toward the central character, the interior dialogues of the novels differ radically. In Artemio Cruz, the more complex of the two novels, the author writes, as stated earlier, with a kind of limited omniscient narration. We are able to view see into the minds of some characters but not others. Contributing to the complexity of the Artemio Cruz narrative is the division of each section, which is broken into three voices. In first part of each section, we find Artemio Cruz in control of the situation as he relives a time in his past. The narrative style is direct; the simple past tense predominates. We are able to see the world through Cruz's eyes, and we can read his thoughts. We are also able to read the minds of those he comes into close contact with. The action is detailed with almost photographic accuracy. The second part of each section finds Cruz in his hospital bed. Most of the observations in the narrative in this part are shaped by Cruz's perceptions. We feel as though he is describing what is going on around him and how he feels about it. The third part is written in the second person, present tense. This part is strictly stream-of-consciousness. It is a monologue addressed to Cruz that ranges from pithy observation to scathing reproach. No details of the world outside Cruz are given in these parts; everything is internal. Cruz's introspection saturates the text. In Pedro Paramo, however, the point of view throughout the book is strictly objective. Unlike in Artemio Cruz, we receive very little insight into the feelings of any of the characters; the text is free of direct thought and descriptions of mood or emotion. We must rely upon the actions and words of the characters to determine what goes on inside of them. In other words, Pedro Paramo utilizes visuals rather than rhetoric or exposition to reveal complex attitudes and emotions.

The narrative aside, the fates of both Artemio Cruz and Pedro Paramo reveal the authors' attitude toward their respective antiheroes. The proof is in the pudding: both central characters have ignoble, unhappy endings; neither leaves a male heir to carry on the family name: and though we are not told so, we know that no one weeps at the funerals. Both men are destined for oblivion outside the chatter of ghosts, which is probably the ultimate backhand of fate, for even infamy bestows a kind of perverse immortality that oblivion does not. Importantly, neither man dies suddenly. Both have ample opportunity to repent, an opportunity of which they do not take advantage. Cruz dies delusional, unrepentant, convinced that he is surrounded by ingrates, feeling that his corruption and life of duplicity was justified. Paramo dies filled with spite and longing for an emotionally fragile woman he effectively killed when he murdered her father. His legacy is a ghost town, one that he starved out of existence. When all is said and done, the sordid endings of both Artemio Cruz and Pedro Paramo reveal unequivocally the critical, unsympathetic attitudes of Fuentes and Rulfo toward their central characters.

# Florentino Ariza and the Mirabal Sisters: Possibilities in Love and Romance

Given a hypothetical situation that Florentino Ariza in Love in the Time of Cholera were to find a love interest in one of four Mirabal sisters of In the Time of Butterflies Patria, Minerva, Dede, or Teresa Maria whom would he choose? Conversely, which of the four sisters would choose him as a lover or mate? None of the four Mirabal sisters resemble Florentino's object of adoration, Fermina Daza, in every respect, which makes it somewhat difficult to determine which of the four sisters would appeal to him the most. Likewise, comparatively little is known about the specific romantic preferences of the Mirabal sisters—most of their husbands are not clearly defined in the novel. To make an accurate judgment on who would like who the most, it would be best to first compare the key behaviors in each character that define his or her personality and then make inferences on how these behaviors would interact.

Florentino Ariza is a survivor. As evidenced by his long desire for Fermina Daza, persistence is his hallmark trait. Despite his long-standing love for Fermina, Florentino does not stay chaste in the 50 years that he waits for her: he bides his time with a succession of lovers. The lovers are primarily women that other men do not want or do not dare partake of, such as widows and women of questionable repute. These women are "placeholders" who serve primarily to fulfill Florentino's sexual desires and to help him placate his yearning for Fermina. He would drop any of them to run to Fermina's side. Evidence of his loyalty to Fermina shows up in the way he drops teenage America to be with Fermina, an act that results in the young girl's tragic suicide. But what does Florentino really know of Fermina? Aside from their correspondence during their early courtship, they spent very little quality time together and thus had little time to get to know each another. By abruptly spurning Florentino to marry a wealthy, renowned doctor, Fermina proves that she has a fickle nature and a propensity toward materialism. These are not entirely flattering qualities, yet Florentino continues loving Fermina, watching her from afar, waiting for the moment when he can approach her once again. It is important to note that Florentino continues loving her despite the indifference she shows him at the social occasions where they encounter each other. Certainly he idealizes her, but for what reason? It is conceivable that either Florentino wants a fickle, materialistic woman, or (more likely) he covets Fermina because she rejected him. Since, Florentino has the survivor temperament, Fermina is the perfect object of his desire—the undying hope that he might someday be able to reverse her initial rejection of him, and thus validate himself, gives him reason to live.

Above all, Florentino is attracted to Fermina's high-spirited strong will, and of the three Mirabal sisters, Minerva is the most willful. She is a leader. The other sisters, by contrast, are "followers." Minerva is so headstrong and passionate of her beliefs that it can be reasonably postulated that she is the one who lands the other three into trouble. Conversely, Florentino is not particularly interested in politics. One suspects that Florentino would not care a whit about the corruption of Trujillo's regime as long as the riverboat business is going well. So, if Florentino and Minerva were paired, Minerva's Sandinista streak might cause a rift in their relationship. Opposite of Minerva is Dede, who is the follower in the Mirabal clan. Though she ends up as a survivor, as does Florentino, her lack of resolve, which connotes a weak will, would not attract Florentino.

Florentino is very sexual as evidenced by the large number of sexual partners he has during his long life. His voracious sexual appetite makes him a good match for Patria. If Florentino were able to abide with Patria's premarital chastity, and these two married, he would probably enjoy her the most, since she seems to crave sex from her husband more so than her three siblings do from their husbands. Patria is also the most sexually adventuresome within the confines of her marriage. If Florentino fancies her breasts, she would accommodate him with their milk. It is debatable, however, whether Florentino, with his bachelor's attitude, would appreciate the large family that Patria wants. If having a large family were important to Florentino, he would have fathered children with one of his lovers. Not much is known about the sexuality of the other three Mirabal sisters with the exception of Teresa Maria, who reveals a measure of girlish curiosity toward sex in her personal diary. Florentino might be attracted to her because of her youth, but he would have tired of her follower's attitude. Teresa Maria is much like America, whom Florentino readily drops for Fermina. Dede, as may be concluded by her submissiveness, probably would not be sexually adventurous enough for Florentino. This leaves us again with Minerva. Minerva would please Florentino if he was able to channel her energy into sexual passion, but he would have a difficult time doing so, for Minerva has a great deal more on her mind than pleasing her husband and hoping he that will want to wean milk from her breasts. But Minerva's intractability may appeal to Florentino's survivor mindset. Holding out for perfunctory sexual encounters with her may be enough to keep him interested in their relationship.

Finally, survivor Florentino would be attracted to the Mirabal sister who is the least attracted to him. Each sister, for her own reasons, might not like Florentino. Patria, although she would enjoy Florentino's extreme politeness and decorum, would dislike him because he is not religious. Furthermore, if Patria ever heard the rumor that Florentino was a homosexual, she would write him off entirely. Minerva would think of Florentino as too submissive, for he would not be inclined toward rebellion against the government as she is. To get along with Minerva, he would have to learn how to use a gun. If perchance these two met in Florentino's world and not hers, the story would be different, as she might not feel the need to become as extreme. In this case, how well these two coexisted under the same roof would depend on Florentino's attitude toward Minerva's ideas of feminine equality. He would have to support her in her ambition to practice law. Dede, like Minerva, might find Florentino weak and not dominant enough. This determination is made in consideration of Dede's selection of strong-willed husband. And like Patria, Dede seeks to have a large family, something that Florentino would not particularly enjoy. If one operates under the assumption in this hypothetical situation that Florentino is as old as Patria, the eldest Mirabal sister, then Teresa Maria, the youngest, would regard Florentino as a father figure due to their vast difference in age. In her diary, Teresa expresses no desire to have an older man as a lover or a mate, so she probably would not consider Florentino as suitable for her. Teresa's choice of an adventurous young man for her husband supports the argument that she would not be attracted to Florentino.

From all of this conjecture, one can conclude that Florentino would be most attracted to Minerva. Her strong will, haughtiness, and sense of justice would fascinate him. He would interpret her aggression as pent-up sexual energy, and her lack of maternal desire would appeal to his bachelor's mind. The feeling would not be mutual, however. Minerva would see Florentino as weak, unprincipled, and perhaps too ambivalent toward her pet causes. His physical frailness would invoke her scorn. And if he pursues her after she dismisses him, her aggression would turn to hatred, which paradoxically would intensify Florentino's attraction toward her.

As to which sister would be most attracted to Florentino, most likely this would be Patria. She would adore him for his sincerity, politeness, and gentlemanly decorum. His frailty would appeal to her maternal instincts. Though Florentino was not as religious as she probably would like, she might consider his honesty and fidelity as sufficient grounds for compatibility. But where the relation ends up would depend upon spiritual circumstance. In Butterflies, Patria feels that God led her to her husband. Meeting her future husband during a summer break was pivotal in her decision as to whether or not she should join the convent. Likewise, she would have to feel the same kind of spiritual urging toward Florentino as she did toward her actual husband to resist joining, if the same situation presented itself. In other words, regardless of how much Florentino reciprocates Patria's love, if she does not feel God urging her into his arms, she would become a nun, a bride of Jesus, and Florentino would be left weeping at the convent gates for the rest of his life—something that, ironically, would suit him just fine considering his life-long wait for Fermina Daza. 

# A Comparison of the Survivorship of Dede Mirabal and Florentino Ariza

Without a doubt, Florentino Ariza and Dede Mirabal are survivors in their respective milieus. The worlds of Love in the Time of Cholera and In the Time of Butterflies are removed from each other in time and place, and the authors of these novels have divergent interests. Consequently, their depictions of survivorship and aftermath of surviving are quite different. Yet, when juxtaposed, the novels offer a composite image on what it means to be survivor, and they reveal that surviving is sometimes a double-edged sword in terms of psychological outcome.

Each book uses a different instrument to bring out the quality of survivorship in its characters. Time is Ariza's adversary as he waits out the span of another man's life for the object of his devotion, and an oppressive regime is the Mirabals' nemesis. The facet of aguante portrayed in each novel is related to the theme of the work. In Cholera, the struggle is personal. Unwavering love and devotion are pitted against the onslaught of time and change. In Butterflies, the struggle occurs within a social context. Courage and fortitude prove ineffectual against a corrupt dictatorship, at least in the short term. Despite the dissimilarities of the themes, the authors treat their subjects with reverence and sympathy. The causes of the protagonists are worthy pursuits. Ariza's persistence rewards him with the acquisition of his lifelong object of desire. It is a happy ending. Though three of the Mirabal sisters are murdered, they are not forgotten. Their lives become symbols of courage and taking a noble stand against tyranny. All is not lost, either: one sister lives to tell the tale. At best, the ending is bittersweet.

The tale of the Mirabal sisters touches upon social and political aspects of developing countries where dictatorships still thrive today. The common people in such countries do not necessarily condone the corruption of their government, although they are often coerced or manipulated into doing its bidding. The Mirabal sisters are remarkable in that they choose resistance over passivity. The destiny of the murdered sisters, it seems, was determined within their consciences. They had beliefs, and they took a stand. Their inner sense of right and wrong plays a role in why Dede has mixed feelings about her survivorship. On the one hand, she feels guilty. She feels that her proper place is with her sisters in the afterworld; their activism and perseverance in the face of adversity have left her behind. Her sisters took a stand; she did not, so she feels that she has lost out on life. On the other hand, she has awareness that it was her destiny to outlive the rest of the family, as was foretold by her father when she was a little girl. Of course, she is pleased to still be alive. She is now the reigning matriarch of the family, the one left behind to raise the children. Nonetheless, she feels a wistful sadness and perhaps a lingering sentiment that she had been a coward at a time when it mattered most. Perhaps she feels that she let her sisters down by not accompanying them on the fateful day they were assassinated. Indeed, she is a survivor, but her survival also comes with psychic wounds.

Ariza is a survivor of love in a self-instigated battle against time and age. Unlike the story of Mirabals, Ariza's story is a personal one. Politics and social oppression, salient forces in the other novel, play only a tangential role. During the course of his 50-year wait for Fermina Daza, his love and devotion for her never wavers. This persistence lies at the core of the novel. The source of Ariza's persistence is a belief in himself and a healthy measure of optimism. The love he harbors for Daza sustains him in his old age. When he finally has Daza at his side, even the ravages of time on her body do not faze him. Time has stood still for him, for he perceives the eighty-year-old Daza as the still the teenage girl he fell in love with decades before.

Both Ariza and the Mirabal sisters face tremendous odds. These odds serve to amplify their struggle. The passage of 50 years and repressive government are forces to be reckoned with. Nonetheless, Ariza and the Mirabals press forward as if the hand of fate guides them. But destiny does not guarantee a happy ending for all, though we can look for the gifts of insight that may be hidden within the unhappy ending—the silver lining of the thundercloud, so to speak. After all, death and failure define their opposites and give them value; without the presence of evil, there can be no merit in praising good.

Ariza's survival results in the celebration of lasting love and the renewal of youth it can cause. Dede's survival brings her feelings of loss, separation, and displacement. The theme common to the two books seems to be that survivorship is a double-edged sword. Though it is great to be still around when others have fallen to the wayside, it is lonely to be the last one standing. In one story, we have the victory of constant love and devotion against the ceaseless advance of time. In the other, we have the triumph of humanity and honor over evil and tyranny. Though the scope and themes of the novels differ, both demonstrate the magnificence of courage and perseverance against almost insurmountable forces.

# The Contrasts Between the Roles Played by Point of View in Love in the Time of Cholera and The Time of Butterflies

Without a doubt, Love in the Time of Cholera and The Time of Butterflies utilize differing points-of-view (POV) in the telling of their tales. While Cholera relies strictly on the omniscient, third-person point-of-view, Butterflies utilizes both the limited first and third person points of view, and it utilizes a frame narrative and storytelling devices such as diary entries. Not only does the point-of-view used by each book give each book its flavor, but it also has a tremendous effect on how close the reader is allowed to get to the characters. Hence, each storytelling strategy presents its problems and advantages.

The narrative of Cholera is simpler of the two. First, the book is told strictly from the third-person point of view, which covers the actions and thoughts of three primary protagonists: Florentino Ariza, Fermina Daza, and Dr. Urbano Juvenal. There are no direct thoughts from any of these characters, nor do any of these characters address the reader directly. The narrator of the story is transparent. We do not know who he or she is, nor do we know his or her relationship to the characters. The attitude of the narrator is overtly neutral; one does not get the impression that the narrator feels one way or another about the characters. A second feature of the narrative is that the tale is told from the omniscient point-of-view. The reader is allowed into the minds of all characters in every scene at all times. No actions are hidden from the reader, and the consequences of the actions are often interpreted and commented upon by the narrator. And not only is the reader allowed to view the actions, thoughts, and intentions of all characters, we often learn their history and what part their history motivates their actions as well. Importantly, we also gain background information and factual projections into the future.

The point of view in Butterflies is much more complex. The book is written from both the first- and third-person points of view. And along with multiple points of view and multiple voices, the tale uses storytelling devices such as diary entries and conversations. The story operates within the framework of an interview with the surviving Mirabal sister, Dede. Within each chapter is a limited point of view. The reader receives the story as it unfolds through the eyes of the characters.

Butterflies can be divided into two parts in terms of point-of-view. In one part of the narrative, the reader receives the story first-hand through the eyes of each deceased Mirabal sister. These first-hand narratives cover their formative years, years that shaped their personalities and explain how they would later become involve in the struggle against Trujillo's oppressive regime. The first-hand narratives also establish each Mirabal sister's personality, since the reader hears her voice in each. The second part of the narrative is the frame. The frame is Dede relating the story of the Mirabals. Her narrative provides the springboard from which the other Mirabal sisters can tell their stories. But it is through Dede, the survivor, that the reader gains perspective on the events of the past. Her life spans the other sisters' formative years. She faced the same oppression that the others faced, and she alone survived to the tale. It is through her that the author articulates the tragic loss of the sisters. Furthermore, the guilt Dede's feels at being the lone survivor of the clan (felt, in part, because of her inaction) validates the death of the sisters as a cause of liberty.

So, what is the effect of these points of view? How do they affect the telling of the stories? We get the feeling of the personalities of the characters better in Butterflies, as one often hears the characters tell their story in their own words. Each character infuses her narrative with her personality. For example, we hear the childlike innocence and child's concerns of Teresa in her diary; we hear the toughness of Minerva in her narrative, and Patria's religious personality come through in her narrative. A feature of this type of first person narrative is that the narrator cannot always be deemed reliable. Since these are first-hand accounts, the perceptions and biases of the one who experienced the events shape their telling. This potential reliability does not exist in the narrative of Cholera. In fact, the teller of Cholera is most reliable; the story has already taken place. All details are factual. The downside to the third-person point-of-view is that the reader does not get the visceral sense of the characters' personalities as well as one does with a first-person point-of-view. Cholera is further hampered by the dearth of extended dialogue between the characters. Instead of dialogue, a character will often make a single one- or two-line statement. The statement will be followed by explanatory or rhetorical prose. Though the rhetoric gives an accurate account of the verbal interchange between the two characters, it often stands between the reader and the characters—it blocks the characters from expressing themselves in their own words.

The pace of the story overlaps. We often have the same scene as viewed by two different characters. The interesting part of this is that two sisters will often have different opinions about some situation, and sometimes one can experience the consequence of the action of one sister upon the feelings of another.

Both Love in the Time of Cholera and The Time of Butterflies are effective stories despite the different points of view they utilize. Both read as historical accounts. Each has its strengths and weaknesses. Butterflies, because of its first-person sections, gives the reader a better feel for the personalities, since the characters are relating the story in their own words. But the first-person perspective makes it is somewhat harder for the reader to gather an accurate account of the events of the story since the telling of the story is affected by the perceptions and emotions of the characters. The effect is that some information may be left out, and trivial, non-essential information may be emphasized. The omniscient, third-person point-of-view in Cholera is rich in detail and gives presumably accurate accounts of the events of the story, but the book's particular type of third-person narrative stands between the reader and the characters. This intercession prevents the reader from getting a first-hand account of the characters' personalities. The third-person also allows the author to easily insert his biases into the story, yet he does not take advantage of this, which may leave the reader wondering where his sympathies lie. Despite the strength and weaknesses of the particular point of view in each book, the storytelling in each book is effective, for both works are entertaining to read. 

# A Discussion of the Contrasts Between the Portraits of the Dictators in In the Time of Butterflies and The Lizard's Tail

Without a doubt, the dictator Trujillo in In the Time of Butterflies and the Sorcerer in Lizard's Tail are scoundrels of the first degree. Both men control the forces of evil that set into motion the plots of the respective works in which they appear. Though the antagonists are similar in many ways, the different methodology of storytelling between the two novels allows the reader different levels of insight and perspectives into the motivations of each man. In addition, not only do portraits of both dictators serve to direct the focus of each story, but the portraits also take part in shaping the reader's perception of the outcome of the stories.

The primary similarity between both dictators is their egotism. But although Trujillo is an egotist, the Sorcerer is a megalomaniac. In fact, it would probably be difficult to find in literature any character more consumed with his or her self-importance. The Sorcerer, needless to say because of his title, uses witchcraft to attain his ends, and although the actual efficacy of his powers is suspect, he has an unwavering belief in them. Mention must be made of the Sorcerer's abnormal physiology such as his having a third testicle and the presence of a functional uterus. It is not entirely clear whether these anomalies are strictly physical or if they actually confer (or are an indication of) real occult power.

Valenzuela uses the question of the efficacy of the Sorcerer's powers to infuse some humor into her tale. Despite the Sorcerer's boasting of his almost god-like power, we see very few manifestations of his magical capabilities. When his magic misfires or simply does not work, he rationalizes it or blames external circumstances. For example, when the Sorcerer fails to resurrect the recently deceased Juan Peron, he blames the failure on Peron's stubbornness rather than on the failure his occult power. And when the Sorcerer's power fails him, he resorts to outright fakery. A good example of this fakery is when he plans to dry up the water supply to the peasant town of Capivari, then subsequently flood the town. Instead of calling upon his powers to conjure up drought then a thunderstorm, he plans to surreptitiously shut, then later open the floodgates of the Zone 3 dam, a plan that incidentally goes awry in more ways than one.

The portrayal of the sanity (or lack thereof) of the dictators is quite different. El Jefe, despite his despotism, is not portrayed as insane. Throughout most of his rule, he is consistently paranoid, a reasonable behavior for a ruthless dictator. Though Trujillo's propaganda machine portrays him as beneficient and savior-like, there is no evidence in the text that he believes the lies, though there is the offhand chance that his subjects are deceiving him by telling him what he wants to hear. Near the end of Trujillo's days as a dictator, he becomes a bit reckless and delusional. His years of drinking and stress show their effects and hasten his decline. The situation of the Sorcerer is completely different. His sanity is suspect from the beginning of the story. While Trujillo has vices typical for dictators— ostentatious behavior, heavy drinking, cruelty, and a tendency to murder his detractors—the Sorcerer has all of these tendencies and many more. In fact, by the end of the tale, he is guilty of almost every conceivable vice and perversion. While Trujillo knows the limits of his power, for the Sorcerer, nothing less of world domination will slake his thirst for power. Additionally, the Sorcerer's delusions of grandeur are outlandish and impractical. While Trujillo succeeds in improving his country's standard of living (at least during the early years of his reign), the Sorcerer's dream of world domination is always a confluence indifference toward humanity and a "scorched earth" policy. For example, he wishes to expand his "Kingdom of the Black Lagoon" by turning the town of Capivari, which he annexed, into a swamp.

There are other differences between the two antagonists. For example, while the Sorcerer prefers to remain secret in the press, Trujillo does not mind the press—as long as it praises him and the accomplishments of his regime. And while both men eventually fall through their hamartias, which revolve around excessive pride, the means are different: Trujillo is murdered by his subjects, and the sorcerer explodes at the top of his pyramid into a river of blood.

The effect of portraiture shapes the focus of each story. While both books are concerned with the oppression of dictatorships, the focuses of the two books are different. The focal point of Butterflies is the valiant struggle against the dictatorship. Though Trujillo's brutal regime is integral to the plot, it is not the plot's primary focus: the focus and purpose of the book is the Mirabal sisters' courage. Nonetheless, through the sisters, we are able to get an indirect, composite portrait of Trujillo and the effects of the oppression he causes. As evidenced by the interest that the media shows in the murdered sisters, the dead women are martyrs by the end of the story. Their martyrdom validates, in the mind of the reader, their cause against Trujillo's regime. In Lizard's Tail, the focal point is primarily Valenzuela's struggle to write her biography of the Sorcerer without his psyche overwhelming hers. A secondary theme is El Presidente's refusal to remove the Sorcerer from power. He repeatedly disregards the practical warnings of members of his cabinet that the Sorcerer is bad public relations for the government. In the broader picture, the inability of the Argentine body politic to expel the Sorcerer implicates the Peron regime as equally unhealthy in mind and intention as the Sorcerer they retain. Other symptoms of the symbiotic relationship between the Sorcerer and the Peronista government are the lewd activities in which they participate, such as the government–sanctioned attempt to transfer the departed spirit of Eva Peron (the Dead Woman) into the body of Isabella (the Intruder). Such activities suggest that this is a government that has lost touch with reality.

Trujillo in In the Time of Butterflies and the Sorcerer in The Lizard's Tail are both formidable, brutal characters that set into motion their prospective plots. Trujillo is not as well drawn as the Sorcerer, but this difference is due mainly to the disparate focus of the tales in which they appear. On the broadest level, Butterflies is concerned with the portrayal of courage and martyrdom in the face of oppression, while The Lizard's Tail, using Valenzuela (the character) as victim of the Sorcerer's dark charisma, implicates the Peron regime as being as evil and oppressive as its constituents. 

# A Comparison of the Protagonists of In the Time of Butterflies and The Lizard's Tail

Dede Mirabal in In the Time of Butterflies and Luisa Valenzuela in The Lizard's Tail, the primary protagonists of their respective tales, bear similarities to each other. Both women lose those they love most dearly to the maw of unchecked evil in their governments, and both women end up survivors. Paradoxically, however, the complacency of each woman also makes her the creator of the disaster she survives.

Dede Mirabal is most obviously a survivor because she outlives her three sisters by several decades. But this survivorship comes at a price. She suffers the guilt of not having been with her sisters on that fateful day when they were murdered. Her joy of living is tainted by a lingering suspicion that she is not the one who most deserves to live. After all, her sisters died supporting a cause for which she refused to take an active role, a cause that history bears out to have been a noble one. Thus, Dede's reticence in discussing the events that led to her sisters' deaths suggests that she may view her survivorship as a result of cowardice. Dede is furthermore burdened with her father's accurate prediction that she will live to bury the rest of the family. She feels as though her presence in the world—the providence that she is be the sole survivor of the family—somehow put into motion the sad destiny that befell her sisters. Thus, though Dede has survived, her inaction has placed her in a kind of emotional quandary. On the one hand, she is glad to still breathe. She has a reason to live; she raised and currently tends the progeny of her deceased sisters. On the other hand, Dede feels persistent regret that, because of her inaction, she did not join her sisters, whom history now regards as heroines. Her complacence in the face of her sisters' rebellion amounted to tacit support of Trujillo's regime. Dede is furthermore keenly aware that her notoriety and prestige come at the expense of her sisters' lives. Thus, during the interviews, she prefers to downplay her association to her sisters' activities and, instead, allows her sisters to tell their own stories with their own words through devices such as diary entries.

Luisa Valenzuela is a survivor to a lesser degree than Dede. Luisa took it upon herself to write a biography of the Sorcerer, who was in actual life an assistant to Juan Peron and one-time dictator Lopez Rega. Valenzuela writes her biography of the Sorcerer just as he is writing one of himself. Soon, she finds that her attempts at visualizing the machinations of his mind are allowing his all-consuming psychic energy to penetrate her mind. Through this infection, she feels that he is gaining control over her. This fascinates her at first, but her fascination gradually turns into revulsion. Eventually, Navoni, her lover, must go into hiding from the government. She is complicit in his disappearance, for her writing the biography of the Sorcerer has added to his power, extended his influence. She realizes that she has been deluding herself that she can ever really know the depths of the Sorcerer's evil. The realization of her error is her personal disaster. Sensing the synergistic relationship that has developed between her and the Sorcerer through the creation of their co-existing biographies, Valenzuela decides to stop work on her biography in hopes of erasing his influence. But stopping work on the biography proves to be more difficult than she imagined, and she struggles to stop work on it before finally doing so.

At the end of Butterflies, Dede Mirabal is struggling with guilt born of the persistent feeling that she should have joined her sisters in their struggle against the Trujillo regime, no matter what the cost. Though Dede is a survivor, a fact she relishes on one level, she is faced with a struggle against loneliness and lingering self-doubt that will last the rest of her life. Luisa Valenzuela, by the end of The Lizard's Tail, fares much better than Dede. She has successfully managed to desist writing her biography of the Sorcerer; therefore, she has freed herself of his power over her. And just as she had hoped, after she ceases writing the biography, the Sorcerer miscarries his god-child by literally exploding. At this point, he transfigures into an impotent razor-thin stream of blood that flows from the top of his pyramid into the heart of the capitol. Though we do not know exactly how Valenzuela reacts to this event, we know that she will be all right, since the malignant influence that threatened to possess her has been destroyed.

# The Portrayal of Women in Part I of Don Quixote

The source material that spurs Don Quixote on his quest is the literature of the Middle Ages that told of the exploits of knights in shining armor. The chivalric code of these knights highlighted the protection of the weak, romantic love, the idealization of women, and the role of the knight-errant who traveled from place to place doing good deeds in the name of his beloved lady. Embedded within the lofty ideals of the chivalric code represented in Don Quixote, however, is an unrealistic view of women and a portrayal of women as something other than human.

One of the primary themes of Don Quixote is the discrepancy between reality and appearance and how the lines between the two are sometimes blurred. Don Quixote has internalized the mythos of chivalry and attempted to manifest it in reality. Operating under tenets of chivalry, Don Quixote idealizes the women he encounters by placing them on a pedestal. These women, regardless of their actual appearance, are to him beautiful beyond compare. His flowery descriptions of the women's perfection reduce them to mere ornaments or symbolic figureheads. His perception of their virtue, a male-enforced trait, lies at the root of his servitude to them. Don Quixote disregards not only the women's true appearances and countenances but also their real personalities and characters. Hence, he dehumanizes them.

A woman is never an ordinary woman to Don Quixote; she is a princess or noblewoman. For example, Dorotea must be "Queen Micomicona," and Aldolonza must be "Dulcinea del Toboso." The common woman no longer exists. The problem with this viewpoint is that to have a noblewoman, one must also have the common woman, for things are often defined by what they are not. In the mind of Don Quixote, there is no difference. In his eyes, all women are "damsels in distress." By adopting such a narrow view of women, Don Quixote makes them appear helpless because they lack a powerful male protector while elevating his importance as their champion. Ironically, he finds women intractable and fickle, for he tells Sancho, "That is the way with women...to disdain the man who loves her, and to love the man who disdains her" (158).

The dehumanization of women in the work is not strictly Don Quixote's tangled view of reality; Cervantes is also complicit. Cervantes give us two types of women in Part I. We have the nearly impossibly beautiful woman as represented by Luscinda, Dorotea, Zoraida, and Clara. Then we have the homely worker woman represented by Aldolonza Lorenzo, Maritornes, and the innkeeper's wife.

The beautiful women are most notable by the absence of the matriarchal figure in their lives. It seems that Cervantes would want us to believe that women of value are those who are raised solely by their fathers. Either the mother of these women died at birth, as in the case of Zoraida, or the matriarchal influence is not present in the upbringing of the child, as in the case of Luscinda. These women are raised primarily by fathers and are subsequently cultivated as pawns in the exchange of wealth between patriarchal households. Even in the interpolated tale, the lovely Camila is the pawn whose virtue is debated between the two men. The beauty of these women is not so much a personal characteristic as a representation of the father's or a suitors' potential worth. Matriarchal impulses are absent in these women as demonstrated by their lack of desire to be a mother or raise children. For these lovely creatures, being romanced by the male has become an end to itself instead of a means to an end, so the possibility of bearing progeny is never articulated in their speeches of love and devotion.

The low-born women such as Aldolonza Lorenzo, Maritones, and the innkeeper's wife do not possess the beauty of their upper-class sisters. Their lack of prosperity and wealth is commensurate with their lack of beauty. In contrast to their illustrious upper-class sisters, they are notable mainly for their ordinariness, bad temper, or naughtiness. Mannish country girl,Aldonza (Dulcinea) is famous for her skill at salting pork. The innkeeper's wife, who is also no great beauty, screams like a fishwife after Don Quixote destroys the wineskins in the room. Homely Maritones plays a dirty trick on Don Quixote by tying his arm to a halter inside a narrow window, which eventually leaves him dangling when Roscinante moves. The woman in Sancho's aborted story which he describes a "plump lass, unruly and a bit mannish, because she had the beginnings of a mustache," (158) is misguided in her affection. Notably, we are not given a physical description of Sancho's wife; because she is a matriarch, Cervantes does not consider her interesting enough to describe.

Thus, we have two portrayals of women: the beautiful, virtuous, and even-tempered, and the homely, ordinary and flawed. Why is there no woman who combines the trait of both? Perhaps Cervantes sought to articulate some sort of binarism between reality and fantasy. The conflict between reality and fantasy certainly takes place within the mind of Don Quixote. Perhaps Cervantes wanted the dual representation of women to mirror the struggle between reality and delusional thinking in his hero's mind.

Although Cervantes divides the women of Part I into disparate categories, his representation of women is not misogynist. For one, he does not allow patriarchal notions to neutralize his women completely. All of the beautiful women, originally groomed as possessions by their fathers, eventually exert their wills to marry the men they desire most. Furthermore, the lower-bred women are practical and none lack virtue, with the possible exception of the two "dissolute wenches" Don Quixote meets at the inn in Chapter 2. All of Cervantes' women have a sense of humor, which humanizes them somewhat and makes them likable.

Chivalry is a double-edged sword in the portrayal women. On the one hand, women are placed upon a pedestal and worshiped as demi-goddesses. Crusades are launched in her honor; their faces can launch a thousand ships. On the other hand, these same women become something mythical; they become representative of the patriarchal ideal of virtue, and in upholding such virtue, they lose their identities and their humanity. Adoption of the chivalric ideal of women is tantamount to the adoption of myth over reality, which, as we see in Don Quixote, causes its hapless protagonist enormous unnecessary suffering.

# The Role of Romantic Literature in The Sorrows of the Young Werther and Madame Bovary

The protagonists of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther and Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary are intimately familiar with Romantic literature. In these books, when Werther or Madame Bovary are feeling emotionally aroused, their thoughts frequently dwell on Romantic notions expressed in the books they have read. Often it seems that the Romantic sensibilities and imagery they have culled from their readings have clouded their perceptions of reality. Emma's paramour, Leon, is similarly affected. Werther and Emma both end their lives with suicide born of frustrated love. To what degree did Romantic literature shape their lives and bring about their tragedies? Did Werther and Emma find in literature models of conduct and tenable aspiration, or did they read literature only because it mirrored their natural inclinations?

Little is known about Werther's life before his epistolary begins, so it is difficult to determine where Romantic literature begins playing a role in his world view. It is readily evident, however, that Werther loves nature; hence, much of his writings are a peon to the natural word of his new environment. It seems that his emotions are the primary agent of change in his life. For example, in his first missive to Wilhelm, Werther mentions that he left his town because he recently broke the heart of a woman named Leonora who lived there. Werther feels somewhat responsible for the pain he has caused her, though he claims he did not consciously cultivate her love. Leonora is never mentioned again, but within the first paragraph, Werther's emotional nature is already established outside of any connection to literature. Werther is educated, since he speaks Greek and has had some artistic training. Nonetheless he is adverse to the rationalism that comes with higher learning. Evidence of this adversity first appears after he encounters an "open hearted youth" whom Werther describes only as "V." Werther is unimpressed with the young man's learning; after listing a number of scholarly works that the youth is familiar with, including "a manuscript of Heyne's on the study of antiquity," Werther dismisses them by writing, "I let that pass" (Goethe 10). He further articulates a view that education is destructive to feeling and emotion: "This kind of love, this fidelity, this passion, is, as you see, no poetic invention. It is alive; it exists in purest form among those people we call uneducated and coarse. We educated people—miseducated into nothingness!" (105). Werther's adoption of emotion over rationalism will later cause his undoing.

Unlike Werther, Emma receives an early exposure to Romantic works. Such literature stimulates Emma's imagination and lends shape to the fantastic ideals she will carry with her throughout her life. Her first exposure to such literature takes place through an old maid who visits the convent to mend the linen. From that point forward, Emma educates herself: "Emma, at fifteen years of age, soiled her hands with books from the old lending-libraries. With Walter Scott, later, she fell in love with historical events, dreamed of old chests, guard rooms, and minstrels" (Flaubert 36). Eventually, she begins to see her yearnings articulated in the books she reads. First, she projects herself into a typically Romantic lifestyle: "She would have liked to live in some old manor house, like those long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the stone balcony, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the distant fields" (36). Later, she begins identifying with the fantastic women of literature who led existences larger than hers: "At this time, she had a cult for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women" (36). Eventually, Emma begins a pattern of manifesting Romantic sensibilities in her life. Her first foray into sublimity—her expressed desire to be buried in her mother's grave—is a success: "Emma was secretly pleased she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts" (38). Emma is affected enough by the literature she reads that her religious devotion slips, and by the time Monsieur Rouault takes her from the convent, the nuns are not sorry to see her go.

By the time their formative years are complete, Werther and Emma are imbued with Romantic notions. Of the two, Werther is more persistently Romantic. In the course of day-to-day life, he takes ordinary events around him, internalizes them, and experiences their sublime qualities. Romantic notions associated with nature, even when not connected to literature, affect him profoundly: "[W]hy talk of poetry, drama, and idyll? Do we always have to dabble in literature when we are allowed to witness some natural happening?" (Goethe 18). But his Romantic notions of nature also distort his view of the world and his place within it: "Our imagination, by its nature inclined to exalt itself, and nourished by the fantastic imagery of poetry, creates a series of being of which we are the lowest, so that everything else appears more wonderful, everyone else more perfect" (78). Instead of analyzing his behavior, Werther validates it by finding representations of it in literature. He cannot see the incorrectness of loving one that is already engaged in a love affair with another.

Emma's similarly distorted world view influences her relationships with the men in her life. On the one hand, Emma's unrealistic expectations block her feelings for Charles. She is unable to label her feelings for him as love because their relationship lacks the Romantic sublimity reflected in nature: "Love, she thought, must come suddenly with great outbursts of lightnings—like a hurricane from the skies falling upon life, revolutionizing it, rooting up the will like a leaf, and sweeping the whole heart into the abyss" (Flaubert 98). On the other hand, Emma's recollection of Romantic literature adds to her delight at the onset of her affair with Rodolphe. In an unconscious effort to immerse herself in her Romantic yearnings, she pictures herself as a character in a book: "She recalled the heroines in books she had read, and the lyric region of these adulterous women began to sing in her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her. She became herself, as it were, an actual part of these imaginings, and realized the love dream of her youth as she saw herself in this type of amorous women she had so envied" (163-4). Hence, both Werther and Emma's feelings express the profound influence of Romantic sensibilities. Both have internalized the Romantic imagery to the degree that it now spills into their perception of themselves. In Werther's case, his errant perceptions cloud his rationality. In Emma, these perceptions prevent her from seeing the underlying immorality of her actions.

When Werther's love for Lotte is in full swing, he tries to validate his emotional state by finding it expressed in literature. Similarly, he discards literature that does not fit his world view, just as he dismissed the academic readings of the young man mentioned earlier. He abandons the classic poetry of the ancients for the Romantic poetry of Ossian because the ancients do not validate his self-destructive behavior: "Ossian has taken the place of Homer in my heart! What a world this sublime poet has opened to me!" (Goethe 110). Ossian's protagonist expresses a willingness to take his own life out of unrequited love. Likewise, at this point in Goethe's epistolary, Werther has already indicated through indirect means that he may commit suicide if he cannot have Lotte. So it is seems evident that Werther idealizes Ossian's protagonist because the character embodies Werther's pre-conceived desire for self-destruction, not the other way around. Notably, as Werther's feelings change, so does his regard the ancients. His self-centeredness turns him into a literary critic. He thinks that no one can feel as bad as he does:

You see, dear friend, how limited and how happy were the glorious Ancients! how [sic] naive their emotions and their poetry! When Ulysses speaks of the immeasurable sea and the infinite earth, everything is true, human, deeply felt, and mysterious. What is the use of my present knowledge, which I share with any schoolboy that the earth is round? (97)

Of course, nothing has changed about the ancients, only Werther's perception of them has changed. He praises them or disparages them according to how well they reflect his Romantic world view of the moment.

Emma is the inverse of Werther. She falls for Rodolphe in part because she seeks to live out her Romantic fantasies. Her connection with Leon is also marked by the desire to manifest literature into reality. At the onset of their relationship at Yonville, the two discuss literature and agree on its aesthetic qualities and how it is experienced. Through Leon, Flaubert suggests how we internalize literature as Emma had done at the convent—how we make it real for ourselves: "Without moving we traverse countries we fancy we see, and thought, blending with the fiction playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating in their costumes" (80). Later in the novel, these two experience similar sensations when they spend time together. Furthermore, Leon sees Emma as a character in a romantic work: "She was the sweetheart of all the novels, the heroine of all the dramas, the vague 'she' of all the volumes of verse" (276). Leon's perception of Emma is replete with Romantic sublimity: "Often, when looking at her, it seemed to him that his soul, escaping toward her, spread like a wave about the outline of her head, and descended into the whiteness of her bosom" (276). Emma and Leon, more so than Werther and Lotte, internalize Romantic notions in literature to the degree that the literature has become the reality instead of a diversion from reality.

As Werther and Emma's disillusionment increase, both look to literature as a palliative for their yearning. Where Werther once found the writings of the ancient poets out of touch with his emotional turmoil, he now finds that he can identify with them—perhaps they have some merit after all: "Sometimes I say to myself: 'Your destiny is unique; call the others fortunate—no one has been so tormented as you.' Then I read an ancient poet, and it seems to me as though I look into my own heart" (Goethe 119). This quote reveals two facets of Werther's relation to literature. First, it reveals that Werther engages with literature in order to perform a kind psychotherapy on himself; he turns to literature to help him articulate his feelings the way a mental health professional tries to get a client to articulate troubling feelings. Second, the quote affirms that Werther uses literature to validate what he already feels, not as a template for his fantasies as Emma does. Recall that earlier in the novel, Werther scoffed at the writings at the ancients because he viewed them as too limited in their emotions. Now that his mental state has shifted from joy to suffering, he likes them again. Hence, his taste in literature changes with his feelings. Werther also hopes that literature will shape Lotte's feelings for him. His last act of desperation is to try to bring Lotte into his camp by reading Ossian's work to her. Lotte is enthralled by the Romantic writer's work while Werther reads. She swoons and becomes teary-eyed as she finds some of her own feeling reflected in Ossian's work. For a while, it appears that Lotte will try to make the literary work a reality in her life as Emma does. Nevertheless, although Lotte definitely likes Werther, she does not love him in the romantic sense. Nor is her nature as passionate as is Werther's or Emma's. The denouement occurs when, after Werther is done reading Ossian to Lotte, he loses control of himself and begins showering her with kisses. She pulls herself away from him and tells him that they should not see each other anymore. Irretrievably stripped of his delusion that a romance may grow between himself and Lotte, Werther no longer turns to literature to validate his feelings, probably because he finally sees the pointlessness of it. Lotte is out of his reach, and no literature, not even that of Ossian, can win her love for him. Literature cannot alter the reality of his situation.

Emma goes through a similar reality shock when her affair with Leon falters. As does Werther, she makes a last-ditch effort to bring literature and reality into convergence. First, she surrounds herself with literature that transports her into the realm of existence she yearns for so badly: "She read till morning extravagant books, full of pictures of orgies and thrilling situations" (302). When that no longer satisfies her, she tries to write Leon a love letter in an effort to rekindle their mutual fantasy, but it is not Leon she sees when she writes; it is an ideal man who exists only in her literary imaginings who "dwelt in that azure land where silk ladders hung from balconies under the breath of flower, in the light of the moon" (304). He is a man who can exist only within the pages of some Romantic novel: "She felt him near her; he was coming, and would carry her far away in a kiss" (304). Mentions of literature in Madame Bovary gradually diminish as Emma and Leon's relationship winds down. When the relationship finally expires, like Werther, Emma eventually abandons literature as a substitute for reality. Stripped of the romantic illusions that sustained her for so long, Emma now finds that reality is unbearable, just as did Werther.

So we have two tragic endings: Werther could not find happiness in his love for Lotte, and Emma's extramarital escapades could engender in her no respite from her restless heart. Is literature the cause or the symptom of the tragic endings of these two? More likely than not, literature is not the prime cause, but it is definitely a contributor. Both texts show that Emma and Werther begin with passionate natures, so they were drawn to Romantic works. Likewise, their passionate natures also make them susceptible to the influence of such works. An important distinction between the two protagonists, however, is that whereas Werther looked for manifestations of his fantasies in literature, Emma drew her fantasy from literature. Werther harbored romantic notions and endeavored to attain certain a state of existence, and he sought to validate such a state by finding corresponding representations to it in literature. For Emma, literature guided her desires and provided a model for a life she believed was attainable. Flaubert tells us, through Leon, what we look for in literature: "Has it ever happened to you...to come across some dim image that comes back to you from afar, as the completest expression of your own slightest sentiment?" (80). In other words, in literature we look for representations of ourselves or the person we endeavor to be. Werther and Emma operate under such a notion, as is evident by their frequent references to literature. Both go too far, however. Werther's mistake is in believing that representation of his views in literature validated them as being right. Emma's mistake is to believe that the literary fantasy was attainable. The fantasies Emma chooses to manifest into reality are not practicable to begin with. It can be concluded of both Werther and Emma that they are bad readers for mistaking appearances in literature as models of reality. 
Works Cited

Flaubert, Gustav. Madame Bovary. Ed. Dora Knowlton Ranous. New York: Bretanos, 1919.

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. The Sorrows of Young Werther. New York: Random House, 1990.
Section IV – Criticism on Criticism

# Coleridge and Wordsworth on the Aesthetics of Beauty and Pleasure

Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth wrote at length on how beauty produces pleasure in the observer. These two Romantic poets were friends who influenced each other's work, so one would naturally assume that they agreed on many topics regarding the aesthetics of poetry. For the most part, they do, yet there are dissimilarities in their opinion on what comprises good poetry and why the reader experiences pleasure when reading it. Though Coleridge and Wordsworth's beliefs differ, they do not deviate from those that define the Romantic Era, and in some ways, even when the poets disagree, their beliefs are complementary.

In Biographia Literaria, Coleridge discusses his definition of beauty and the psychological reasons of how and why it causes pleasure in the reader. Since Coleridge was a poet, one can make the assumption that the beauty, which he refers to in the work, is the outcome of well-written poetry. He makes the distinction between what is merely "agreeable" and what is "beautiful." Agreeability, the more superficial form of pleasure of the two, arises from three sources. First, agreeability may arise from whatever conforms to our nature. For example, the color blue may be agreeable to someone simply because it suits his or her senses and appeals to "a preestablished harmony between the organs and their appointed objects" (472). The second source of agreeability arises from force of habit. What is done repeatedly is familiar, and so each time this habit is recalled, it imparts a degree of pleasure. The third source of agreeability is an association of something to a pleasant occasion, such as the taste of tobacco that reminds a person of pleasing social events. Similarly, William Wordsworth, in his "Preface to the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads," states that the principal object in his poetry is to choose incidents and situations from common life (438). "Common life" refers to the prosaic experiences of the ordinary man. Like Coleridge, he believes that habitual experiences are those that the reader is most accustomed with, and so not only do these experiences resonate as authentic, they give pleasure because they are familiar to the reader. This position is not far removed from Coleridge's second and third sources of agreeability. Hence, one may conclude that both poets believe that ordinary experiences represented in verse impart pleasure to the reader.

Coleridge sets forth many abstract definitions of beauty and what comprises it. One definition is that "the beautiful is that in which the many, still seen as the many, becomes one." Succinctly put, beauty is "multiety in unity" (472). According to Coleridge, in something that is beautiful, one can trace the parts and their relation to each other into how they form the whole. Beauty manifests itself as seamless, natural harmony in the composition of the artifact. Subsequently, the observer's pleasure arises from "a preestablished harmony between nature and the human mind," even if the observer is only intuitively aware of the harmony (474). Coleridge further maintains that though beauty is innate to the artifact, the emotional associations that the observer makes in connection with the artifact determines whether or not it is beautiful to him or her (474). More directly, the perception lies in the realm of intellect. Therefore, if an observer declares an object beautiful, this person will feel an inward right to expect that others' feelings should coincide (475). For Wordsworth, the appreciation of beauty is much more cerebral and conscious because it is closely linked with knowledge and experience. He believes that knowledge is a necessary for the appreciation of beauty. Wordsworth uses the medical practitioner as an example: "However painful may be the objects with which the anatomists knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure, he has no knowledge" (442). While Coleridge emphasizes the role of the construction of beauty in causing pleasure in the observer, Wordsworth believes that the observer's knowledge of the artifact is the greater source of pleasure.

Of course, what the anatomist finds aesthetically pleasing, a sculptor may not, even though both may have a thorough knowledge of anatomy. Seemingly in response to this notion, Coleridge writes that though the underlying causes of beauty in the artifact are consistent, not everyone agrees on what is beautiful on what is not; even those who are equivalent in moral and intellectual cultivation may not agree. This disagreement may arise from differences in culture, transitory changes in what is fashionable, and "the peculiarities of individual temperament" (473). Wordsworth believes that objects, places, and events have no inherent importance, but rather, it is the perceptions and emotional reactions of the poet that make them important. The poet is a "translator" who takes the common experience and causes the reader to experience it with greater passion than he would otherwise (441). In this case, since the poet himself is being subjective, the actual importance of the object itself diminishes; all that matters is the enthrallment of the poet toward the subject. Thus, one may conclude that while Coleridge feels that the degree of pleasure is dependent on the inclinations of the observer, Wordsworth believes that pleasure in the reader swells from the passion for the subject instilled into the work by the poet.

Mention should be made of the role of meter and rhyme in causing pleasure to the reader. Though neither Coleridge nor Wordsworth feels that meter adds to the beauty of poetry, both concede that rhyme and meter impart a degree of pleasure. The pleasure conveyed by rhyme and meter, however, differs from the pleasure given to the reader by seeing himself within the poem. Coleridge writes that the reader finds pleasure in rhyme and meter by "anticipating the recurrence of sound and quantities" (479). Wordsworth disparages the use of the contrived, lofty tone used by such poets as Alexander Pope. He states that the most sincere poetry is that which is "a selection of the language really spoken by men" (440). He makes the distinction that "the language of prose may well be adapted to poetry" and that prose and good poetry differ only in their metrical composition (438). Like Coleridge, Wordsworth reluctantly admits that rhyme and meter are capable of inciting pleasure. Meter and rhyme amount to "small but continual and regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical arrangement" (444). However, he states that rhyme and meter "divest language in a certain degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of half-consciousness of unsubstantial existence of the whole composition" (444). In other words, rhyme and meter make poetry artificial.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth were quite specific in their definitions of beauty and how beauty produces pleasure in the observer. They agreed on many topics regarding the aesthetics of poetry. For example, both poets believed that ordinary experiences of common life represented in verse impart pleasure to the reader, and neither poet was enamored with the artifices of rhyme and meter, although they admitted grudgingly that such poetic devices caused pleasure. The two poets diverged in some areas: while Coleridge emphasized the connection of the observer's nature to the design of beauty in inciting pleasure in the observer, Wordsworth ascribed the observers' knowledge as the greater source of the pleasure. Coleridge felt that the degree of pleasure derived from beauty arose from the temperament of the experiencer; Wordsworth believed that the degree pleasure originated from the passionate translation of everyday life by the poet, i.e., "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" recollected in tranquility" (444). Although both poets differ in their views in many ways, their views do not differ radically, just as azure does not differ markedly from aquamarine. Thus, it would be safe to state that both poets' writings effectively contribute to the mosaic of thought that represented the Romantic Era.

# A Critique of M. Keith Booker's New Historicist Essay on Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

M. Keith Booker's New Historicist essay on Joseph Conrad's 1902 novel Heart of Darkness is in some ways a convincing, well-written essay. This essay lies within a textbook on literary criticism; one would assume that such a work would contain only exemplary works utilizing each type of criticism. Unfortunately, while Booker's essay has its strengths, one could not call it exemplary of the New Historicist method, because although it reaches some convincing New Historicist conclusions, it does not arrive at these conclusions using the New Historicist dialectic method of uncovering intertextual connections between literary and non-literary works (between the texts and the co-texts). This is not to say that the essay is a failure, but only that it does not adhere to many of the principles exemplified in Stephen Greenblatt's definitive New Historical essays.

Booker's essay has New Historicist aspects by virtue of what it leaves out. Reader response criticism is absent: Booker's essay does not discuss how Heart of Darkness' meanings are the product of what the reader brings into the text from his own biography, psychology, and experiences. Psychoanalytic interpretation is similarly absent. Feminist criticism, which is sometimes touched upon by New Historicists, is also missing. And as do formalists, Booker does not consider the aesthetic qualities of the text or whether the text is "good" or "bad," a "success" or a "failure." New Historicism's post-structuralist leanings show up in that there are no references to author intent or author biography in this essay, even though it is well known that Conrad spent considerable time in the Black Congo during the latter part of the 19th century, and his experiences there could shed some light on his perception of the culture he found there. Post-structuralism shows up in the essay's focus on the language of the literary text. In describing how Marlow characterizes Africa as primitive, Booker analyzes Marlow's word choice and phrases, i.e., "primeval forest," "cannibals," etc., and the linguistic implications behind these choices (217). Linguistic analysis does not, however, comprise a large part of the essay.

Unlike New Historicists, Booker does not use co-texts contemporary to the work he is analyzing. Whereas Heart of Darkness was published in 1902, few of Booker's co-texts are any older than 1979. Most of the quotes from works older than 1979 are embedded within newer works. The problem with the use of secondary quotes is that it removes the reader from the actual context of the source material. That is, if a quote is taken from a secondary essay instead of from the source itself, there is the danger that the context of the original quote will be lost. In this situation, we are forced to trust the interpretive power of the author of the secondary source as well as that of the author of the New Historicist text. Although Cultural Materialist essays will sometimes use source material much later than the literary text, New Historical essays should not use them almost exclusively, as Booker does. In reference to the canonical literary texts themselves, New Historicists try to separate such texts from the analysis of previous critical writings in an effort to see them in a new way. Contrary to this rubric, Booker often quotes recent critical essays on Heart of Darkness. An example of this problem can be found in the essay's opening quote in which he summarizes a point in a 1987 essay: "Benita Parry...notes that Conrad's work both undermines and supports the ideology of imperialism" (212).

At one point in the middle of his essay, as though he is feeling the need for validation, Booker defers the scholarship of Heart of Darkness to other New Historicist texts: "[N]ew Historicist critics have shown great interest in Conrad's work in recent years. Recent critical treatments...with a strong New Historicist component include...." (216). At this point, Booker lists four New Historicist works and their authors. Later, Booker writes, "A New Historicist comparison of Heart of Darkness with other contemporary cultural texts can...go a long way toward providing illumination of Conrad's text...." (217). Is not Booker being a New Historicist himself if he writes a New Historicist essay? Perhaps he lacks confidence in his scholarship. At any rate, one does not sense that Booker has the trailblazing spirit of a true New Historicist when he defers to other scholars to provide information, particularly in the middle of his own essay.

The typical New Historicist argument strategy is to begin the essay with a deep analysis of co-texts so that by the time the thesis is announced half way through the essay, usually within a transitional paragraph, the reader already has a good understanding of the context in which the literary text will be subsequently discussed. True to the New Historicist form, Booker delays the statement of his thesis to a transitional paragraph in the middle of his essay:

Situated exactly at the turn of century, Conrad's text participates in its historical movement [by dealing with] issues such as imperialism, capitalism, race, and gender that were very much at the forefront of the turn-of-the century European mind. For another, Conrad's ambivalent treatment of these issues is extremely representative of the way they were treated in any number of European discourses of the time. (216-7)

Although this is a well-articulated thesis, up to the point that Booker states it, he has not been following the New Historicist argument strategy. Frequently throughout his essay, Booker mingles the literary text with summaries of what other scholars have concluded about certain non-literary texts. While Booker's argument strategy works, the contrast-comparison structure is closer to that used by Old Historicists in that literary and non-literary texts are discussed point-for-point throughout the essay. No context has been set up in the first half of Booker's essay that sheds light on the second half; thus, it does not make sense to delay statement of the thesis to the middle of the essay. Booker's thesis would have more impact if it were placed at the beginning of the work as is done in traditional essays using other methods of critique.

New Historicists try to "defamiliarize" the canonical literary text, detaching it from the weight of previous literary scholarship and seeing it as if new. This unique approach is an area where Booker's essay falls short. The summaries of the co-texts, though they appear credible, covertly insert a level of interpretation. In contrast, New Historicists prefer to let non-literary texts speak for themselves, for they realize that modern ideology and discursive strategies can taint interpretations and summaries. To summarize a portion of a non-literary text without including the snippet itself for the reader to examine is to force the reader to share the biases and interpretive power of the author.

Another difficulty of this essay is that it does not have enough political direction. Booker seems aware of the potential for exploration, however. He mentions how Heart of Darkness deals with social issues such as gender and race that were "at the forefront of the turn-of-the-century European mind" (217). Yet, Booker does not go into detail in any of these areas. Most importantly, nowhere in this essay is the cornerstone idea of the Penopticon concept embedded. We are not shown the relation of power to authority, or how the authority exerts its patriarchal power over those it disempowers, which is a core issue in New Historicist essays.

Booker makes an almost anti-New Historicist argument as to how Conrad's work expresses ambivalence toward the major social issues it addresses. While ambivalence toward social issues is a plausible reading of Heart of Darkness, such a reading is more in the spirit of Old Historicism. Booker mentions a few instances where Heart of Darkness reflects the late 19th century European's ambivalence toward the salient socio-economic concerns of their era, and how the text is "rooted in its historical moment" (218). To help us understand why the book lies within its historical moment, Booker recreates for us the historical moment using second-hand interpretations of non-literary texts. True New Historicists try to create a new reality by revealing the intertexuality between the actual texts themselves. They do not try to find ambivalence in a work, as Booker does; instead, they try to find the underlying political direction of the work. Perhaps a better direction for Booker to have gone, in the New Historicist spirit, would have been to explore European ideologies represented in contemporary non-literary texts and then show how these ideologies penetrate the lives of the characters within Heart of Darkness. Such a direction might also entail exploration of how the ideology was constructed and how this ideology served to perpetuate the power of the hegemony.

Booker's essay has strong New Historicist aspects. For example, he discusses historical and cultural events that illuminate the text. He also argues that Conrad's work reveals a historically specific model of truth, which is the ambivalence that Europeans had toward dominant social issues. He notes how the text reflects European characterizations of the Africans as primitive and savage. Importantly, his essay illustrates why Heart of Darkness subverts the generally optimistic Hegelian view that history is an inexorable movement toward the realization of an ultimate goal of God's plan for humanity, a plan of absolute reason and universal truth. Indeed, New Historicists characteristically favor pessimistic views of social evolution, such as the cold-blooded Darwinian "survival of the fittest." Nonetheless, the direction of the argument is not polemical enough for New Historicists, they would want Booker to take a stronger stance and take his argument further. Not only would they want to know the ideology, but also they would want Booker to uncover how the hegemony controls the individual using these ideologies.

New Historicists look specifically at forces of containment and ways the hegemonic forces consolidate the status quo. Similarly, Booker's strongest New Historicist argument is how the European Hegelian model of progressive rational history is tempered by the Darwinian notion that it is possible for humanity to slide backward into primitiveness. Booker shows us, through Marlow's language, how the character of Marlow expresses a typical turn-of-the-century anxiety over the possibility of social degeneration, and how the Europeans viewed Africans as primitive versions of Europeans. Booker concludes, "The fundamental similarities between Africans and Europeans....is a call for distance, suggesting that those layers of civilization be maintained at all cost to ward off the threat of a descent into savagery" (217). This conclusion is strongly New Historicist, for it rises from a comparative reading of text and co-texts, and it reveals how authority contains a subversive influence.

The shortcomings of this essay are revealed in the final paragraph, in which Booker gives us not a New Historicist conclusion but rather an apolitical conclusion of what the text does and an analysis of its genre: "Conrad thus incorporates and challenges the major ideas of his day not only in the content of his book but also in the style. But this very doubleness is itself a quintessential late Victorian strategy" (218). The exploration of ambivalence in texts is not a New Historicist activity. Neither is viewing a work within previously defined classifications of "Modernist," "Victorian," etc. Furthermore, New Historicists do not particularly care about how well a text fits within a particular reconstruction of a period in history.

Booker certainly makes a valiant effort in this essay, but his work lacks the in-depth scholarship of essays by dyed-in-the-wool New Historicists such as Stephen Greenblatt and Oliver Stallybrass. Though Booker is a competent scholar in his own right, as evidenced by the excellent essays in his book, his achievement as a writer of a New Historicist essay pales in comparison to that of the dedicated New Historicists. Booker's conclusions are sound, based on logical reasoning, and free of contradiction, yet the essay lacks the depth of scholarship and the legwork evident in the true New Historicist essays. One does not get the breathtaking feeling that Booker is "treading new ground" as one does when reading an essay by Greenblatt. The shortcomings of the essay lend credence to the charges of critics who believe that the practice of New Historicism is highly dependent on the interpretive and stylistic virtuosity of the individual practicing it. Some of the essay's New Historicist shortcomings are due to improper technique: rather than excising and analyzing narrowly defined parts of texts and co-texts, as does a typical New Historicist, Booker frequently resorts to discussing the conclusions reached in recent scholarly texts. Therefore, many of the co-texts references are not reliable because they are removed from their sources by at least one layer of interpretation. The consequence of including interpretations of co-texts is that though Booker's conclusions are valid, they are not wholly the product of the New Historicist method in which the texts are allowed to speak for themselves. This is not to say that Booker's essay is a failure; it does make an excellent Old Historicist essay, for it argues successfully that Heart of Darkness reflects ambivalent turn-of-the-century European attitudes toward African culture. But though the essay has its merits, staunch New Historicists probably would frown upon the work for its lack of political direction, its improper usage of co-texts, and its Old Historicist conclusions. Booker's essay is a fine Old Historicist but not an exemplary New Historicist work.
Works Cited

Booker, M. Keith. "Approaches to Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad—New Historicist Criticism." A Practical Introduction to Literary Theory and Criticism. New York: Longman, 1996. 212-218.

# Aristotle on Tragedy

Tragedy is the imitation of complete action and events that inspire fear or pity in the audience. According to Aristotle, tragedy is composed of six parts. These are plot, character, diction, thought, spectacle, and song. Plot and character constitute the medium of imitation; the diction falls under the manner; and thought, spectacle and song are the objects of imitation.

Men of action, the object of imitation in a tragedy, may be morally higher or lower in type, but they are usually higher. These men may be represented as either better than real life, worse than real life, or as they are in actuality. The character of the men gives rise to their actions which are "serious, complete and of a certain magnitude."

The language of a tragedy possesses "artistic ornament," which means that both verse and song are used. The language of the tragedy is designed first invoke pity and fear in the audience and then purge the audience of them.

Action is the most important part of tragedy. A tragedy can exist without character, but it cannot exist without action. It follows that the action in a tragedy is the most important part since life consists of action. Thought and the moral intent of the characters cause actions to take place, and the success or failure of the characters depends upon these actions. The plot, which is the logical sequence of events driven by the moral choices of the characters, lies at the heart of a tragedy. The best effect is given when these events follow cause and effect and not mere chance.

A tragedy must have a beginning, middle, and end; the action must take place in a linear fashion from start to finish. Of the beginning, middle, and end, the end of a tragedy is the most important part since the end of life at the conclusion of the tragedy falls into the realm of action. Along with having three parts, a tragedy should be long enough so that it has adequate inspirational effect on the audience, and it must utilize appropriate stage setting. A tragedy is also restricted by constraints that it must portray a time period not longer than 24 hours, have a single plot, and take place in one place, scene, and city.

Tragedy, epic poetry and comedy are modes of imitation, but they differ from each another in their medium, objects, and manner of imitation. Aristotle makes the distinction that not only does the type of work define the differences, the differences are also result from the type. In tragedy, the object imitated is "men of action" who may be of a higher or lower type of character. Comedy portrays primarily the lower type of character who suffers from some sort of flaw that is not dangerous or destructive. Whereas epic poetry uses one type of meter and is narrative in form, tragedy can take many forms. Epic poetry may cover vast amounts of time, whereas the tragedy must not portray a time period much longer than 24 hours.

The elements of tragedy are a superset of those found in epic poems. In other words, all of the elements of an epic poem are found in tragedy, but not all of the elements of a tragedy are found in the epic poem. Furthermore, tragedy can combine the best elements of the epic poem (such as epic meter and rhyme) with other elements to heighten the effectiveness of the tragedy.

Aristotle believed that tragedy is superior to epic poetry because it attains its end more perfectly. The tragedy is superior partly because it "has vividness of impression in reading as well as representation," produces its effect without action, and "can utilize music and spectacular effects as important accessories." To its benefit, tragedy has greater unity than the epic poem. Though the epic can cover vast amounts of time and place and can sustain more than one plot, the tragedy is more pleasurable than the epic poem because it "attains its end within narrower limits" and is not diluted.

Since Aristotle was first in describing and classifying the elements of tragedy, his views may be considered the "originals" from which all others have sprung. His ideas can therefore be used as a springboard for launching discussions in relevant modern interpretation. For example, we can begin discussion of contemporary critics of tragedy by first comparing their ideas to those of Aristotle. In doing so, we would first look for consistencies in thought and then discover what has been changed or added.

Are Aristotle's ideas applicable to modern tragedy? When reading Aristotle's ideas on tragedy, one senses that he was in touch with what was popular and what was good in his time. Unfortunately, Aristotle does not make references to works that were popular outside his culture. His limited scope diminishes the applicability of his ideas outside the Greek literary practices that he discusses. Literature has become increasingly varied in form and theme since his era. We have much more to work with than he did. Therefore, we have to ask ourselves before adopting his rubrics: Are Aristotle's views on tragedy universally applicable to all tragedies, or are his ideas primarily an outgrowth of his observations of the tragedies of his era and should therefore be used mainly for those works?

# Structuralist Interpretation According to Roland Barthes

In his essay "The Structuralist Activity," Roland Barthes is referring primarily to structural interpretation of texts rather than their creation. He makes the distinction that texts themselves are not "structuralist," for they belong to the realm of language, and the meanings in language change over time and differ between readers. Interpreting texts, however, is a structuralist activity, which is in effect decomposing, then recomposing a text in the determination of how it creates its meaning. Furthermore, since texts belong to the realm of language, the meaning of a work cannot be found by knowing the author.

Though structuralism deals primarily with the interpretation of texts, there is some structuralist philosophy on the creation of texts. To structuralists, literary works are records of the artists' impression of the world encoded by language. In describing this mode of thought, Barthe writes, "Creation or reflection are not...an original impression of the world, but a veritable fabrication of the world which resembles the first one, not in order to copy it but to render it intelligible" (Barthes 1128). Along these lines, the structuralist first decodes the language of text, and then using linguistic and semantic conventions, he decodes the artist's impression of the world and forms a mental copy—an imitation of the original impression. Barthes refers to this imitation when he writes, "One may say the structuralism is essentially an activity of imitation" (1128). The imitation is a simulacrum, a construct in the interpreter, an imperfect reflection of the artist's original impression. Importantly, the whole meaning of a text is not found within the text itself; rather, the complete meaning is found within the reader: "It is not the nature of the copied object which defines an art...it is the fact that man adds to it in reconstructing it" (1129).

According to Barthes, the structuralist "takes the real, decomposes it, then recomposes it" (1128). This form of interpretation involves two typical operations: "dissection" and "articulation" (1129). In dissection, one puts together "mobile" fragments of the work according to their meaning, which is determined by their relation to each other. Each one of these fragments can be considered an organism. Barthes notes that even small changes in the relations of these fragments in the work can affect the entire meaning of the work. The dissection state first produces a "dispersed" state, but each group of fragments of the work "forms with its own virtual group or reservoir an intelligent organism" (1129), and the smallest difference between these organisms is used by the structuralist to interpret the meaning of the work.

The activity of articulation takes place after the structuralist organizes the fragments of the text in the process of dissection. In articulation, the structuralist establishes for the fragments "certain rules of association" (1129). These rules are determined by conventions in linguistic forms and "regularity of assemblages" (1129). Essentially, what the structuralist does is find form in the work.

The result of dissection and articulation is the manifestation of a new category of the object being interpreted "which is neither the real nor the rational, but the functional" (1130). Barthes asserts that meanings found in objects are not, however, fixed. Such meanings fall into the realm of scientific research, since they are always evolving, as does scientific theory. Thus, the goal of structuralists is to find how meanings are created rather than to assign specific meanings to objects. The process is concerned with how an idea is expressed, rather than precisely what is being expressed. This is why Barthes believes "technique is the very being of all creation" (1129).

In applying structuralism to literary texts, Barthes argues that when the author writes a text, his presence becomes submerged in the language. The work is not "an operation of recording of observation, of representation..." (1132). Instead, the text is a record of the speech-act in the here and now. The language of the text "is a fabric of quotations resulting from a thousand sources of culture" (1132). Thus, when Barthes discusses the "death" of the author, he is stating that since texts belong most properly to the realm of language, texts cannot be explained by applying knowledge of the author to the text. So what does the critic find in works? He finds language. Barthes writes that the author's hand, "detached from any voice, borne by a pure gesture of inscription (and not of expression), traces a field without origin but language itself" (1132). Thus, the critic is better off not to trying to find the representation of the author in his work, but rather, trying to find how the author uses language to create meanings in the text.

# Longinus and the Sublime

Longinus's essay "On the Sublime" reads as a kind of style guide for instilling the sublime in artistic works. Longinus does not give the reader a precise definition of the sublime, however; he gives fragmentary descriptions of the sublime to the reader as pieces to of a jigsaw puzzle that must be assembled before the whole can be viewed. Longinus covers several aspects of the sublime, and he gives a copious number of examples that illustrate the successful invocation of the sublime as well as failed attempts to produce it. Hence, the definition of the sublime must deduced according to what it is as well as what it is not.

Longinus does not go into great detail on the effect of the sublime on the reader. He is more concerned with methodology of the writer. Nonetheless, he writes of the sublime on the audience, "The effect of elevated language upon an audience in not persuasion but transport," and "the influences of the sublime bring power and irresistible might to bear, and reign supreme over every hearer" (76). He notes that the sublime is the "echo of a great soul" and "sublimity flashing forth at the right moment scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt, and at once displays the power of the orator in all its plentitude" (76). The writer benefits directly from the sublime, too. By evoking the grandeur of the sublime, he raises himself "above what is mortal; he elevates himself to "near the majesty of God" (94).

Essentially, the sublime, as represented in the work itself, is not novel or inventive language for its own sake. Sublimity focused and concentrated emotion and is "often comprised as a single thought" (83). Originality and inventiveness are not necessary to evoke the sublime. The sublime is "the imitation and emulation of previous great poets and writers" (83). Innovation and attempts at wittiness often detract the effect of the sublime in a work, sapping away its strength. Longinus states, "the pursuit of novelty in the expression of ideas" causes "parasitical growths" in literature (78).

There are five elements that contribute to the elevated language that produces the sublime. First, there is the author's ability to form great conceptions. The sublime is the product of nobility of the mind and soul, a fruit of noble inspiration. It is the "echo of a great soul." Second, the sublime is created through the expression of "vehement and inspired passion." The passions that Longinus refers to are not those of pathos such as fear, pity, or grief; he is referring to states of strength such as wild enthusiasm, madness, and frenzy. The first two elements are innate in the writer, which means they cannot be learned but are more of a characteristic. The next three elements, unlike the first two, are features of the work rather than the author. These elements are the due formation of speech, noble diction, and dignified and elevated composition. In the due formation of figures of speech, Longinus is referring to the order of words that conveys emotions and imitated the speaker's feelings. The tone of a work that evokes the sublime must be consistently persuasive and elevating, and all striking conceptions are eliminated. Noble diction is the careful construction and use of metaphors and appropriate word choice. And finally, dignified and elevated composition emphasizes the proper arrangement of its constituents. In a work of the sublime, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts, and the work possesses harmony and unity.

Longinus places a great deal of emphasis on the arrangements of words: "Harmonious arrangement is not only a natural source of persuasion and pleasure among men but also a lofty utterance and of passion" (95). Along with this, Longinus cautions against using words that are unfit or below the dignity of the subject. A word may be inappropriate not only because of its connotations and meaning, but also because of its sound. The use of inappropriate words detracts from sublimity and may possibly enervate the reader. He also notes the effective use of inversions. Such deviations from usual word order and sequence of ideas may be "the stamp of and impress of vehement emotion" (88). Renaissance poets such as John Milton and John Donne used such inversions to achieve this effect.

The purpose of any artistic work is the arousal of an emotional reaction in the beholder. Longinus is concerned with the methodology for creating this arousal. These are described under the latter three of the five elements. For example, in Section XXIV, he states that it is better to use singular words that represent the plural than to use the plural itself. In section XXV, he writes that it is better to write in the present tense rather than the past in order to transform narration into actuality. And in Section XXVI, he advocates using different points of view to "place the hearer [reader] on the very scene of the action (89). Detailing the use of such devices gives the reader the technical details of the sublime. Furthermore, the description of such detail comprises a kind of style guide for those writers who wish to evoke the sublime in their work.

# A Comparison of Historical and Structuralist Approaches in the Scientific Method of Interpreting Literature

In his introduction to the work of Hippolyte Taine in Critical Theory Since Plato, Hazard Adams writes, "During the latter half of the nineteenth century there was an attempt to relate scientific method to literary creation and criticism" (608). Taine's well-known History of the English Language, published in 1863, was the first attempt to bridge the gap between the scientific method and literature. This early attempt is important and still relevant, as the scientific method later became the underlying principle of Russian formalism, structuralism, and later, one of the issues explored by post-structuralism. About 100 years after Taine's influential work was published, Roland Barthes, a structuralist, published two papers, "The Structuralist Activity" (1964) and "The Death of Author" (1968). These essays explicate the methods and outcomes of using the structuralist scientific method in understanding texts, and they examine the role of the author in the interpretation of texts. Taine began the scientific method and Barthes wrote during the eve of structuralism, one of the last methods of criticism that used the scientific method. When the works of Taine and Barthes are compared, it becomes evident that the goals and concerns of the scientific method in the uncovering of meaning in literature have changed radically in almost every way over the course of 100 years.

In the introduction to his History of the English Language, Taine spends a great deal of ink emphasizing that works of literature are historical documents on the level of a written anthropological record. He stresses the value of the literature's historical background over its structure, writing that literature reflects moral sentiments, which are the "psychology of the soul, frequently of an age, now and then of a race" (608). He believes that encoded within literature is the history of the human race back to primordial times. But literature is not simply a staid body of facts; instead, it is a vehicle for experiencing the sentiments of the era in which the work was written.

Literature, according to Taine, evolves, adapts, and renews with changes in climate, situation, and cultural factors; it mirrors the character of the people from which it originates. For example, one can trace, in literature, the changes in climate of the Aryan people from the common fatherland in the Mediterranean to the cold, moist climes of northern Europe. Within the record of literature, one can identify old ideas reshaped by new ones, as the old remain embedded within the work even if their presence is recondite or must be found through inference. Such clues are present in literature because literature builds upon itself over the ages, suppressing but not quite eliminating its oldest elements: "New elements become mingled with the old; great forces from without counteract the primitive" (633). Thus, although literature evolves along with the people it represents, the earliest epoch of the people lies embedded within it.

Barthes, in "The Structuralist Activity," implies that history is not embedded in the literary text. According to Barthes, the structuralist herself adds the anthropological aspect to literature when she deconstructs, then reconstructs the text. This addition happens in the process of determining the meaning of the text, i.e., with the reader, not with the text. After constructing an "object" (or schematic) from a work as a representation of how the work "functions," the structuralist then adds her intellect to the object to create a "simulacrum." This simulacrum "has an anthropological value, in that it is man himself, his history, his situation, his freedom, and the very resistance which nature offers his mind" (1128). In other words, the historical aspect of the text is dependent on the intellect of the structuralist.

Taine and Barthes also do not agree on the permanence of meaning. Taine opines that meanings in literature shift according to culture, but that these meanings remain the same over time, since they have evolved from primordial experience: "The general idea has not changed; it is always the same human type which is its subject of representation or painting; the mold of verse, the structure of drama, the form of the body has endured" (615). Barthes, however, asserts that meanings found in objects are not fixed. Such meanings fall into the realm of scientific research, since they are always evolving, as is scientific theory. The goal of structuralists is to find how meanings are created rather than to assign specific meanings to objects. The process is concerned with how an idea is expressed, rather than precisely what is being expressed. This is why Barthes believes "technique is the very being of all creation" (1129). While Taine would believe the same, he would add that the technique used by the author tells us something about the cultural influences on the author.

Taine posits that knowing the author is key to understanding the culture under which the work was written, for the individual is a product of his culture: "Nothing exists except through some individual man; it is this individual with whom we must become acquainted" (609). In direct opposition to the structuralist, Taine elevates the role of the author's humanity while minimizing the role of language in the interpretation of a text: "A language...is never more than an abstract thing: the complete thing is the man who acts, the man corporeal and visible, who eats walks, fights, labors" (610). Taine is interested in delving into the creative psychology of the author to find the larger cultural context. And since the author is a product of the epoch in which he lives, his work necessarily encapsulates the era in which it was written. For this reason we must study documents in order to know the author who wrote them so that we can experience the world as he saw it, for "nothing exists except through some individual man; it is this individual that we must become acquainted with" (609). Taine believes that a reader must immerse himself in a work of literature to find its full meaning: "If his critical education suffice, he can lay bare...the special sensation whence detail, stroke, or phrase had an issue; he is present in the drama which was enacted in the soul of the writer...everything is a symbol to him....in short, he reveals a psychology" (611). But reader identification with the author is not enough: a reader must also place himself in the shoes of the audience for whom the work was intended. For example, if a work was written for a typical citizen of ancient Greece, the reader must try to view the work as such a person would view it.

As does Taine, Barthes believes that literary works are records of the artists' impression of the world encoded in language. The difference is the emphasis on value. Barthes perceives the author as only an instrument. His work is not "an operation of recording of observation, of representation..." (1132); instead, it is "a fabric of quotations resulting from a thousand sources of culture" (1132). The crucial difference between Taine's viewpoint and Barthes' is that Barthes believes that the whole meaning of a text, including its historical aspect, is not found within the author or the text; rather, the complete meaning already lies within the reader:

Here we discern the total being of writing: a text consists of multiple writings, proceeding from several cultures...but there is a site where this multiplicity is collected, and this site is not the author...but the reader; the reader is the very space in which are inscribed, without any of them being lost, all the citations out of which a writing is made. (1132)

The literary text cannot tell us anything about history because the meaning of the text is divorced from history. A text's historical significance is a product of the history within the reader. Paradoxically, Barthes states that the reader is "a man without history, without biography, without psychology" (1133). This lack of reader background is problematic, because if the reader is without history and without psychology, she cannot draw upon her history or her emotional responses to it for aid in interpreting the text.

One of the functions of the critic and scholar is to discriminate between good and bad literature. So, what makes good literature good and bad literature bad according to Taine and Barthes? Taine believes that the value of a particular literary work is determined by how well it reflects the cultural sentiments of the people from which it arose. Such literature allows personal insight into an age, insight that is not afforded by strict factual accounts. Taine makes the distinction that "a great poem, a fine novel, the confessions of a superior man, are more instructive than a heap of historians with their histories" (608). Taine also believes that the more cultural perspective there is embedded in a work, the more it is a work of literature: "The more a book represents visible sentiments, the more it is a work of literature; for the proper office of literature is to take note of sentiments" (619). Within the realm of literature, some works are more valuable than others: "The more a book represents important sentiments, the higher is its place in literature; for it is by representing a mode of being of a whole nation and a whole age, that a writer rallies about him the sympathies of an entire age or an entire nation" (619). By suggesting that the value of a work of literature is closely linked to how extensively it expresses the sentiments of the people, Taine is also suggesting that the best writers are those who consistently express more of these sentiments than other writers.

Taine also grades literature on a value system based on Plato's tenets of imitation: the further away an author is from the ideal "original," the less valuable is the reproduction. Taine writes that in authorship, there is a "precursor" and a "successor," and, "The first has no model, the second has; the first sees objects face to face, the second sees them through the first....many details are perfected...simplicity and grandeur of impression have diminished, pleasing and refined forms have increased" (615). In other words, though derivative works of literature may please more than their precursors due to refinement of language and style, the early work is closer to the original thought, more faithful in its treatment, and therefore more valuable.

By contrast, structuralism does not judge literature as good or bad; the structuralist method merely informs us of how meanings are made. All that remains to fill the vacuum are aesthetics and taste. But these are not readily evaluated by scientific method; hence, quality judgments are not a large part of the structuralist method. The absence of such an important rubric suggests a limitation of structuralism in evaluating literature. And since structuralists believe that meanings are already embedded in the reader instead of in the work, one may be led to believe that there is no good or bad literature—only good and bad readers.

Despite its lack of a value system, structuralism has a more systematic, pragmatic approach than Taine's so-called scientific method in the analysis of literature. Overall, the structuralist "takes the real, decomposes it, then recomposes it" (1128). This form of interpretation involves two typical operations: "dissection" and "articulation" (1129). In dissection, one puts together "mobile" fragments of the work according to their meaning, which is determined by their relation to each other. Each of these fragments can be considered an organism. Barthes notes that even small changes in the relations of these fragments in the work can affect the entire meaning of the work. The dissection stage first produces a "dispersed" state, but each group of fragments of the work "forms with its own virtual group or reservoir an intelligent organism" (1129), and the smallest difference between these organisms is used by the structuralist to interpret the meaning of the work. Barthes summarizes structuralist activity as "an activity of imitation" (1128). If all goes well, then the imitation is the simulacrum, a construct in the interpreter, an imperfect reflection of the artist's original impression.

Taine and Barthes both agree that literature is composed of systems. Taine believes the systems found in texts are products of the collective unconsciousness of the culture that has been internalized by the author: "There is...a system in human sentiments and ideas; and this system has for its motive power certain general traits, certain marks of the intellect and the heart common to men of one race, age, or country" (612). For Taine, these symbols and systems must be uncovered primarily from the content of the works. Structuralists ignore the content of texts, as they do not believe that content is ever original to the author; they believe that the authors can only rearrange the fragments of what already exists. Barthes writes that the author's hand, "detached from any voice, borne by a pure gesture of inscription (and not of expression), traces a field without origin but language itself" (1132). According to structuralists, the systems in texts are composed of linguistic relations within the text. One does not need to look outside the text to find its meaning. Consequently, since texts belong to the realm of language, we are back to the idea that the meaning of a work cannot be found by knowing the author.

To Taine, literature is a more authentic telling of history than historical accounts. Indeed, the historical aspect of literature is of practical value. Even on a topical level, literature provides us with insights into extinct cultures, bygone ways of life, and ancient philosophies not afforded by factual historical records. In defending structuralism against the charge that it is out of touch with reality, Barthes writes that structuralism "does not seek to withdraw history from the world; it seeks to link history not only to certain contents...but also to certain forms, not only to the material but also the intelligible, not only to the ideological, but also the aesthetic" (1130). Indeed, structuralism can be applied to anthropological pursuits just as it can be applied to uncovering any other meaning that one wishes, since structuralism is a versatile method of enquiry with a prescribed, logical approach. But it is often equally important and pragmatic to find the historical origins in a text as Taine describes, if not for information, then for reading pleasure. Hence, one may make the conjecture that Taine's description of literary text as historical documentation is at least partially accurate; judging a work of literature simply according to the way it creates its meaning without regard to its content subverts the purpose for which the literature was created in the first place. One must keep in mind, as the classical philosopher Horace wrote, that the purpose of literature is to entertain as well as to inform, so if one focuses on how meaning is created, rather than on the meaning itself, one does not reap the transcendent benefits of literature.

Perhaps the differing methods of Hippolyte Taine and Roland Barthes can best be summed up in terms of "how" and "why." Taine and his quasi-Romantic, historical method of interpreting literature seeks to answer why—why does this say what it does? Barthes' structuralism offers to tell us the "how" of literature—how meanings are created in texts. Of the two viewpoints, Taine's is certainly the more humanist because it touches upon two of our chief reasons for reading literature—to learn about ourselves and to have experiences beyond the confines of our own lives. In light of the rich, multifarious experience of humanity, one cannot help but think that one who adheres strictly to the cold science of structuralism is missing the big picture. There has to be more to literature than finding connections in parallelism, opposition, inversion, equivalence, etc. What is more, it is surprising that the interpretation of literature through the scientific method has changed so radically during the 100 years since literature and the scientific method merged. If a shift of this magnitude had taken place as a revision of the Hippocratic oath, then our doctors would now be licensed murderers. Taine does not explain, in his introduction, precisely how the scientific method operates in deciphering the distant past in literature. Presumably, the method is described in the main body of the text. What can be safely assumed, however, is that Taine's method of scientific enquiry takes into account the content of a text, an aspect of texts that is dismissed by structuralists like Barthes as recombined, regurgitated linguistic tropes, and that Taine, unlike Barthes, does not disregard the picture for the frame.
Works Cited

Adams, Hazard. "Introduction to Hippolyte Taine." Critical Theory Since Plato. Ed. Hazard Adams. Orlando: Harcourt Brace, 1992.

Barthes, Roland. "The Structuralist Activity." Critical Theory Since Plato. Ed. Hazard Adams. Orlando: Harcourt Brace, 1992.

\-------------------. "The Death of the Author." Critical Theory Since Plato. Ed. Hazard Adams. Orlando: Harcourt Brace, 1992.

Taine, Hippolyte. "History of English Literature: Introduction." Critical Theory Since Plato. Ed. Hazard Adams. Orlando: Harcourt Brace, 1992.

# Hippolyte Taine on the Influence of the Past in Literature

Hippolyte Taine, in the introduction to History of the English Language, has a great deal to say about historical changes in literature. Taine is not a formalist in that he stresses the value of the literature's historical background over its individual structure and merit. He writes that literature reflects moral sentiments, which are the "psychology of the soul, frequently of an age, now and then of a race" (Taine 608). In other words, the history of the human race, including the primitive eras, is embedded within literature. But literature is not history as represented by a staid body of facts; instead, literature is a vehicle for experiencing the sentiments of the era in which it was written. Consequently, the value of a particular literary work is determined by how well it reflects the cultural sentiments of the people from which it arises.

Taine believes that literature is composed of the essence of the man; it is a record of his sensations shaped by his psychology. Since the author is a product of the epoch in which he lives, his work necessarily encapsulates the era in which it was written. Therefore, we must study documents in order to know the author who wrote them so that we can experience the world as he saw it, for "nothing exists except through some individual man; it is this individual that we must become acquainted with" (609). Furthermore, a reader must place himself in the shoes of the audience that the work was intended for. For example, if a work was written for a typical citizen of ancient Greece, the reader must try view the work as it would be viewed by such a person.

Literature evolved, adapted and renewed with changes in climate, situation, and cultural factors. It is replete with the history of a people, for it mirrors the character of the people from which it originates, and "at any moment, we may consider the character of a people as an abridgment of all preceding actions and sensations" (614). For example, one can trace in literature the changes in climate of the Aryan people from the common fatherland in the Mediterranean to the cold, moist climes of northern Europe. Within the record of literature, one can find old ideas reshaped by new ones, yet the old remain embedded within the work even if their presence is recondite or must be found through inference. Literature builds upon itself over the ages, suppressing but not quite eliminating the oldest elements: "New elements become mingled with the old; great forces from without counteract the primitive" (633). Although literature evolves along with the people it represents, the earliest epoch of the people lies embedded with it.

Literature, according to Taine, allows personal insight into an age, insight not afforded by strict factual accounts. Taine makes the distinction that "a great poem, a fine novel, the confessions of a superior man, are more instructive than a heap of historians with their histories" (608). He also distinguishes the historical account from literature: "The more a book represents visible sentiments, the more it is a work of literature; for the proper office of literature is to take note of sentiments" (619). He furthermore writes, "The more a book represents important sentiments, the higher is its place in literature; for it is by representing a mode of being of a whole nation and a whole age, that a writer rallies about him the sympathies of an entire age or an entire nation" (619). Hence, not only is good literature historical, it has cultural significance in that it expresses the sentiments of the people from which it arises.

Taine discusses the differences between early and later authors of literary works. His ideas are reminiscent of Plato's tenets of imitation: The further away an author is from the ideal "original," the less faithful is the reproduction. Taine writes that in authorship, there is a "precursor" and a "successor." "The first has no model, the second has; the first sees objects face to face, the second sees them through the first....many details are perfected, that simplicity and grandeur of impression have diminished, pleasing and refined forms have increased" (615). Though derivative works of literature may please more than their precursors due to refinement of the language and style, the early work is closer to the original thought and is therefore more faithful in its treatment. Nonetheless, the topics and forms remain the same through the ages: "The general idea has not changed; it is always the same human type which is the subject of representation or painting; the mold of verse, the structure of drama, the form of the body has endured" (615).

In summary, according to Taine, the sentiments of a race are expressed within good literature. Literature encapsulates the essence of the era in which the author lives because the author is the product of his era as well as all preceding eras, from the earliest epoch. Thus, when we read, we should try to get to know the author to get an accurate perspective on his time, and we should try to imitate the mindset of his intended audience. And though later authors may refine the literature of their time—literature that has already been shaped by history— the work of earlier authors is closer to the original experience.

# A Collective View of the Role of History in the Creation and Critique of Literature

The influence of history on authors of literature and the critique of literature vary widely amongst critical theorists. There are two questions of primary importance that I am concerned with. First of all, how does history influence the author of literary works, and what is the role is a work's historical value and literary tradition in shaping the reader or critical response to a work? In this essay, I will compare the viewpoints of five critical theorists of different eras: Roland Barthes, T.S. Eliot, Hippolyte Taine, Elaine Showalter, and Sir Philip Sydney. Viewed collectively, their perspectives offer a cross section representative of the wide variety of concerns that critical theorists have about literature and the role that history plays in its creation and interpretation.

History, culture, and tradition (or the lack thereof) influences the way an author should compose and view his own works. According to T.S. Eliot, culture and history should not affect how the poet creates his poetry. In fact, Eliot goes even further to stress that the poet's personal expressions and experiences have no place in his poetry. This is not to say, however, that the poet should be unconscious of the past. The poets of the past are models just as contemporary poets are, and "the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past" (Eliot 762). Hippolyte Taine gives greater emphasis to the role history in the creation of texts. He believes that since the author is a product of the epoch in which he lives, his work necessarily encapsulates the era in which it was written. And on a broader level, literature reflects the history of the character of the people from which it originates, and thus "at any moment, we may consider the character of a people as an abridgment of all preceding actions and sensations" (Taine 614).

History and literary traditions may influence the reader and critic by affecting the way the work is read and interpreted. According to Taine, the duty of the reader and critic is to study documents in order to know the author who wrote them so that we can experience the world as he saw it, for "nothing exists except through some individual man; it is this individual that we must become acquainted with" (609). Within the record of literature, Taine also notes, one can find old ideas reshaped by new ones, yet the old remain embedded within the work even if their presence is hidden or must be uncovered through inference. Literature builds upon itself over the ages, suppressing but not quite eliminating the oldest elements: "New elements become mingled with the old; great forces from without counteract the primitive" (Taine 633). The reader must try to visualize himself in the audience that the work was intended for. For example, if a work was written for citizens of ancient Rome, the reader must try view the work as it would be viewed by such a person.

While Taine sees literature as a superior kind of historical record, Sir Philip Sydney believes that poetry transcends history by offering general and universal truths. Historical accounts, according to Sydney, offer only particular truth. Furthermore, since we are drawn to imitate what we read in books, historians at times inadvertently encourage wickedness. Put another way, Sydney believes that compared to poetry, strict historical accounts are inferior in moral instruction because the events of the past are laden with examples of profitable human wickedness and injustice.

Structuralism submerges the importance of history in uncovering the meaning of texts. Barthes believes that criticism should minimize historical aspect of texts when interpreting them, since the text is not "an operation of recording of observation, of representation" but instead, a record of the speech-act in the here and now (1132). The history that is relevant to the text lies in its language, which "is a fabric of quotations resulting from a thousand sources of culture" (1132). It is not surprising that Barthes writes this, since Structuralism is more concerned with how meanings are created than with the meanings themselves. Eliot is concerned with the history of form, but his methodology for critique is much different than Barthes's. Eliot states that a work's value is determined by comparing it to what has come before. He argues that the significance and appreciation of a literary artist originates in the "appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists" (761). Notably, the historical significance of a work does not determine its value, but the most valuable parts of a poet's work "may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously" (761).

Elaine Showalter sees history as an obstacle to be overcome when it comes to disinterested literary criticism: "If we study stereotypes of women, the sexism of male critics, and the limited roles women play in literary history, we are not learning what women have felt and experienced, but only what men have thought women should be" (1227). The problem is that all criticism is tainted by male-oriented bias. According to Showalter, "[New Feminist Criticism] begins at the point when we free ourselves from the linear absolutes of male literary history" (1227). Her solution is to "develop new [historical] models based on the study of female experience" (1227). Specifically, she believes that male-oriented models unwittingly followed by female critics have blinded the literary community to the uniqueness of female writers. She addresses the changes that must be made: "Before we can even begin to ask how the literature of women would be different and special, we need to reconstruct its past...to establish the continuity of the female tradition from decade to decade" (1231).

Each critic emphasizes an aspect of history according to his or her special interest.   
To Eliot, history is useful only for determining the value of works based on how well they compare to previously written works. Taine views literature as a repository of history, a record of an epoch codified by the author of the era in which it was written. "A great poem, a fine novel, the confessions of a superior man, are more instructive than a heap of historians with their histories," he writes (608). Sydney feels that poetry is a better medium for the telling of history, as strict historical accounts portray profitable human wickedness and injustice. Structuralist Barthes diminishes the importance of a work's historic content and instead emphasizes the importance of the history that produced the quotations. Finally, Showalter sees male-oriented history as an obstacle to the disinterested critiques of literature, in particular the critiques of the works of female authors. Collectively, these viewpoints touch upon the multiplicity of concerns about literature and history in the vast universe of critical theory.

# A Brief Overview of Feminist Criticism

Strictly speaking, the aim of Feminist Criticism take works by male authors and analyze from a woman's point of view. Feminist criticism seeks to expose and repudiate aspects of a work that reinforce or undermine gender-specific stereotypes. It also looks for aspects in a work that alter the place of women in society.

This is related something called the "Patriarchical or Male Hegemonic Theme," which, according to a book called the Undergraduate Guide to Critical Theory, is "The basic view that our civilization is pervasively male-centered and controlled, and is organized and conducted in such a way as to subordinate women to men in all cultural domains: religious, familial, political, economic, social, legal, and artistic." Feminist critics go as far to say that women are taught to read like men or to ignore their own gender.

Formal feminist criticism has its formal roots at the turn of the century and coincided with the women's suffragist movement. But one of the most influential writers on the topic was Virginia Woolf, published in 1929. In this essay, she gives a hypothetical scenario of the existence of Shakespeare's equally brilliant and talented sister, Judith. (Of course, records show that Shakespeare never had a sister.) Virginia Woolf's point is that if she existed, even if she were as equally bright and talented as her brother, she would not have been successful because of the difference in their education, financial independence and social freedom. Woolf doubts that Judith would have had a career at all, and in the end, would have died in obscurity. Woolf then uses her own career to show how the conceptions of women in her time has such a restrictive influence on the proliferation of "Serious Women Writers."

It is difficult to determine the impact Virginia's Woolf's ideas had on the criticism of literature in her own time, but the seventy years later, all of the major college textbook publishers are madly scrambling to include women authors in their historical literature anthologies.

We derive feminist criticism from work by noticing passages that refer to gender and paying attention to possible stereotypes. Once we track down key words and ideas (or even the absence of these) we need to think about them very carefully to mete out their relevance and significance in the feminist perspective.

Feminist criticism can be used to interpret disparate types of literature. A far-out example of this would be Samuel Cooleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," an epic poem of a long voyage to the north pole in which things go wrong after the captain shoots an enchanted albatross. Here is a simplistic way to read this work through the lens of Feminist criticism:

"Nearly all of the characters in this poem are male. The only powerful female character is Mother Nature, and she turns out to be one of the most capricious supernatural forces that the ancient mariner has to deal with. So in practicing feminist criticism, we might ask ourselves what this portrayal of Mother Nature says about femininity or women? What does it mean that the most powerful female figure is described as being indifferent to the mariner's fate? And if you want to be daring, you might ask what all this says about the author?"

Later, the conclusions are joined into a unifying whole in an attempt to find their greater significance within the work.

One might logically ask when a work should be interpreted with Feminist criticism. There are no hard and fast rules for this. The best thing to do is try it out. If the work to which you are giving a feminist reading does not deal directly with feminist concerns, then you may learn something previously undiscovered about the text. Some texts may require an excessive amount careful concern and imagination, but most will provide some material for feminist criticism.

Of course, some works of literature are easier to take apart than others. An easy mark for most students of literary criticism would be Earnest Hemingway's short story, "Hills Like White Elephants."

On a final note, feminist criticism is not related strictly to gender issues. Principles of sorting out feminist issues in literary works may also be used for race, culture, an ethnic group, or any place where there is oppression. And when you start delving into the socio-economic aspects of such oppression, you are moving toward Marxist criticism.
Section V – Film Studies

# A Comparison of Theme and Plot in the Film Adaptations of Frankenstein

The chief plot aspect of Mary Shelley's 1818 novel Frankenstein present in both the 1931 and 1994 film adaptations of the work is that a doctor creates a being from dead tissue, an act he later regrets. The work warns against the dangers of pride while embodying notions of the then-nascent Romantic era. The 1931 and 1994 film adaptations of Frankenstein change the story by altering characters and plot elements and emphasizing some while leaving others out entirely. These changes shift the theme of the film adaptations away from that of Shelly's original work.

Of the 1931 and 1994 film adaptations, the 1931 version takes far more liberties with the original story line. Some of these liberties are inconsequential such as the fact that Frankenstein's first name is swapped with that of his friend, Clerval, who also gets a new surname, so we have "Henry Frankenstein" and "Victor Moritz." And in the 1931 film version, Frankenstein has a sadistic hunchback helper, Fritz, who is not present in the book. Some changes in the plot, mostly omissions, have greater impact on the theme of this film version. For instance, several key plot elements in the book such as the self-education of the monster, North Pole scenes, and Captain Walton's symbolic decision to turn back his expedition to the North Pole, do not appear in this version. Most importantly, in the 1931 film, the monster never learns to speak, so we never learn what he feels. The lack of such elements results in a truncated, diluted version of Shelley's work.

The 1994 version starring Kenneth Branagh follows its source material much more closely than does the 1931 version. The 1994 adaptation is a longer film that spends much more celluloid delving into the characters' backgrounds and motivations. But though this film is closer to the novel in plot and theme, it also takes some liberties with plot elements. For example, Elizabeth is reanimated briefly—something that is reminiscent more of 1935's The Bride of Frankenstein than of Shelley's text. Other changes are the inclusion of a cholera epidemic, and the brain that Frankenstein gives to the monster is that of his mentor. Most artistic changes in the 1994 film version are merely extrapolations from what was vague in the book and do not significantly shift the primary theme of the work away from the original work as happens in the 1931 version.

The 1994 film and novel are sympathetic to the monster, whereas in the 1931 film, the monster is merely an instigator of mayhem and death. The 1931 film does not touch upon the Romantic notion of tabula rasa; the monster's evil actions are merely the product of an abnormal brain. This fact causes and important shift in theme between this 1931 film version and the other two. Whereas in the book and 1994 version Frankenstein's remorse is primarily the result of his conscience, in the 1931 version, Frankenstein's remorse results from the fact that he is disappointed with his work; his enthusiasm for his creation cools after the being does not live up to his expectations. It is easy to believe that had the monster had a normal brain or been able to speak, Frankenstein might have accepted him.

Though the 1931 adaptation deviates from the book in many ways, Frankenstein's motivation for creating the monster in the 1931 film is closer to his motivation in the book than the 1994 film. In both, his chief motivation is pride and a burning desire to be like God. In the 1994 film, Frankenstein's pride is commingled with the untimely death of his mother and a desire to conquer death. To its credit, the 1994 version is better than the 1931 version at emphasizing Frankenstein's fascination with outmoded, discredited classical philosophies. The Frankenstein movie of the 1931 adaptation is portrayed as more of a scientist than a man obsessed with alchemy and the occult.

Although there are quite a few differences between 1931 adaptation and the book and later film, the three do share a key thematic element. This element is Elizabeth's role as Victor Frankenstein's beloved fiancée. Elizabeth's virginity and naiveté represent all that is pure and good in Frankenstein's life. His error is to push her aside to indulge in his pride-motivated experiments. In all three renditions of Frankenstein, the disastrous events in his life are set into motion when he commits the original sin of turning away from Elizabeth.

It is doubtful that any film would be able to capture all the nuances of a tale as complex as Frankenstein. The book contains a great deal more background information that could be represented in a film of reasonable length. This is not to say that the films are inferior in every way. In some ways, they improve upon the original tale without affecting its fundamental theme. One improvement is their dramatization of when the monster is brought to life. Shelly's description of this scene is brief and sketchy. In both films, amidst the cracking of electricity, the mobilization of the arcane machinery, and the fervor of Frankenstein, the animation of the monster becomes a high point of the tale. Though such a spectacle does not affect the theme of the work, the dramatization enhances the believability of the tale, which in turn lends gravity to its theme, forcing the viewer to take it seriously.

Despite their differences, all three versions of Frankenstein may be viewed as cautionary tales that illustrate the cost of pride and irreverence for God's pre-eminent role as Creator. All three stories also illustrate the grave price that one may pay when he turns away from what is pure and good. Thematic differences aside, all three function independently within cultural iconography represented in Frankenstein: Shelly's book codifies the notions of the nascent Romantic era within a tale of the supernatural, the 1931 adaptation offers Frankenstein as a visually appealing tale whose purpose seems primarily to entertain, and the 1994 film is combines facets of both the novel and the 1931 film to create a striking theatrical interpretation of Romantic era sensibilities.

# Joan Crawford: Faith in Herself

Beginning in 1923, Joan Crawford's film career spanned a continuous 47 years. Hers was one of the longest film careers in history. Unlike that of most of her contemporaries, her star never faded. Crawford changed with the times; whenever her popularity waned, she would reinvent her image (by changing her appearance and the roles she played) to reflect the latest trend in society. In her early formative films, she played ingenues. Gradually, she shifted toward playing fun-loving flappers. When that novelty faded, and the country was crawling out of the Depression, she moved on to stylish heiresses representing her audiences' longing for unobtainable luxury. As a reflection of the country's war effort, she became the struggling working-class girl. After the war, she played characters whose extremism bordered on the pathological, a reflection of Cold War paranoia and the political "witch hunts" of the 1950s. Finally, during the cultural upheaval of the 1960s, she languished in character roles and the portrayal of lonely, eccentric spinster women left behind by life.

Despite Crawford's chameleon-like ability to change her on-screen image, there are common denominators to most of her on-screen roles: cynicism toward men, unwavering belief in herself, steadfast ambition, and masculine presence. Crawford expressed sexual ambiguity in the way she dressed. Many of her vestments, though ostensibly feminine, were tailored to give her broad shoulders and make her appear taller and more substantial than her average 5' 4" and 120 lbs. Her broad, dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes, and bright lipstick-smeared lips highlighted the dangerous coupling of femininity and aggressiveness. Such iconography conveyed powerful threats to the male power structure during the narrative of the films. Crawford actively intensified her sexual threat by using aggressive language, both verbal and physical. When the patriarchy is eventually reaffirmed, Crawford falls precipitously. The fact that she was so formidable throughout the film but falls anyway underscores the unassailable order of masculine empowerment and female subordination.

It is difficult to find reasons for Crawford's stardom based on her personal life. She was frequently at odds with her studio, her co-stars, and, at times, the press. A positive feature of Crawford's personal life that may have contributed to her star power in her era was the viewers' knowledge that as many of her characters did, Crawford raised herself from poverty to wealth in a male-dominated society by means of her guile, savvy, and hard work. Thus, her credibility as a self-made rags-to-riches success within her films is made more plausible by the reality of her off-screen life. It follows that most of Crawford's fans were probably women who admired her because she possessed qualities of self-empowerment that they lacked in their personal lives. 

# The Desirability of Annie in "Annie Hall"

Both Annie and Alvy possess low self-esteem and neurotic personalities. These shared traits make them a potential couple. The two meet in a tennis match, a situation that foreshadows the back and forth tension that will result from their union. After the match, we find that like Alvy, her emotional paralysis nearly prevents her from making a connection with Alvy. The implication is that like Alvy, Annie has a low self-esteem and is hypercritical of herself. Her similarity to the protagonist contributes to her desirability.

Neither Annie nor Alvy dress stylishly. Annie's incongruous combination of slacks, vest, hat, and tie, reflect her disorganized personality and obscures her femininity. Though Alvy's clothes suggest a kind of stodginess, his disorganized emotional state is revealed mostly through dialogue. An example is his monologue at the beginning of the film. He states, "I keep sifting the pieces of the relationship through my mind and examining my life and trying to figure out—where did the screw-up come?" Alvy seems flawed from the beginning; Annie appears that way. The project is that these two confused individuals are compatible with each other, for like deserves like.

We first see Annie and Alvy within the same frame when she is driving him back to the apartment. This framing technique is used again in the next scene when we receive full view of them facing each other while sipping wine on the balcony. Despite her awkwardness, Annie is the more attractive of the two. With her round, pleasant face and shapeliness, she is closer to the conventional norm of beauty than is wiry, balding Alvy. But as the film progresses, through their verbal sparring we find that they are intellectual equals, though not in the same fields of experience. This dialogue not only demonstrates that she is worthy of masculine Alvy, it also serves as the foreplay to their upcoming romance.

Annie's desirability is further suggested through the innovative use of subtitles and voiceovers. These cinematic devices give the viewer a glimpse into the thought processes of the romantic leads. For example, in the balcony scene, Annie's susceptibility to objectification is hinted in subtitle, "I hope he doesn't turn out to be a jerk like the others." This subtitle tells the viewer that she desires Alvy and is considering him as a romantic partner. Alvy owns his desire, however. He eroticizes her by imagining what she would look like without her clothes. Male spectators that imagine themselves in Alvy's position would also see her as an object of desire.

The obstacle in this romance is Annie's threat to Alvy's masculinity. For example, she must smoke marijuana in order to feel pleasure in having sex with him. Alvy feels threatened by this because he sees it as an act of defiance. These sparks make their romance seem more plausible. Though Annie submits to Alvy's mentoring for a while, eventually, she asserts her masculinity. This masculinity shows in Annie's vestments. At Tony's party in California, she wears a tan leisure suit. Likewise, her posture is masculine; she stands with her legs apart with both hands stuffed into her pants pockets. Annie, who lacks a phallus, has assumed the masculine role, making her a threat to Alvy, disrupting their fragile patriarchal relationship. Not surprisingly, in the next scene, Annie and Alvy mutually end their relationship on the flight back to New York.

In the few final scenes after their relationship has imploded, in an act of desperation, Alvy proposes to Annie. This proposal intimates the ideology that marriage is the cure for the problems in a love relationship, and that the marriage will revive romance. Feminine Annie, with her flowing beige robe, rejects Alvy at the health food restaurant, thus castrating him. This presents a problem: she owns her desire, yet she is the desired one. But though Alvy loses Annie, he resolves his castration crisis by writing a play in which Annie accepts his marriage proposal. In this regard, the film has closure, for although Annie is no longer present in the relationship, he has managed objectify her. On another level, the ending suggests that marriage is the happy ending that should have been but never came to fruition.

# Manipulation of the Mise en Scene in "Love Story" – Overview

The two main projects of this film are the abandonment of wealth for the sake of love and the celebration of love that rejects and transcends patriarchal conventions. The film is rich in cinematic imagery, and it manipulates mise en scene to quickly establish the couple, comment on the action, and describe relationships between the characters. And by using different arrangements of the "Love Story" theme, the extra-diegetic music works hand-in-hand with the mise en scene to intensify the effect. The primary obstacle to Oliver and Jenny's romance is the disparity between their classes; Oliver comes from a wealthy, prominent family, while Jenny's humble Italian immigrant father owns a small bakery. The film uses the mise en scene to create a non-patriarchal couple and show their position in relation upper and lower social classes. This achieved primarily by camera angles and the positioning of the representative characters in relation to one another. For example, at the wedding, instead of highlighting either the bride or groom, the camera rotates around the couple so that the viewer sees them from all angles. This mise en scene suggests how Oliver and Jenny, by marrying, are creating their own world in which only they exist. The lack of visual emphasis on either character also suggests the presence of their non-patriarchal relationship.

# Manipulation of the Mise en Scene in "Love Story"

"What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?" begins "Love Story," a 1970 film based on the book of the same name by Erich Segal. Unlike a lot of other popular romance films, "Love Story" is a pure romance that sometimes waxes melodramatic. Although it may seem rather overdone and sentimental compared to today's romance films, when released in 1970, it was a tremendous hit. The film consists of a long flashback. It is about the son of a rich family, Oliver Barrett, who disowns his inheritance to marry lower class Jenny Cavalieri. The film chronicles Oliver and Jenny's relationship from the time of their first meeting, through their marriage, to her untimely death four or five years later. The two main projects of this film are the eschewal of wealth and influence for the sake of love and the celebration of love that rejects and transcends patriarchal conventions.

The film is rich in cinematic imagery, and it manipulates mise en scene to quickly establish the couple, comment on the action, and describe relationships between the characters. By using different arrangements of the "Love Story" theme, the extra-diegetic music works hand-in-hand with the mise en scene to intensify its effect.

The film opens with Oliver sitting alone on a park bench in Central Park, huddled up, gazing at the empty skating rink. All around him, the ground is covered in snow, and there is no movement, suggesting sterility and death. Though Oliver is just below the center of the screen, he is only a small part of the picture. He is facing away from the camera. As he gives a voice-over narration, the camera slowly closes in on him. The mise in scene is reflecting the numbing isolation he feels inside, and as the camera draws closer to him, we realize we are going to find out what brought him to this state.

After the scene in the park, the movie flashes back to Oliver and Jenny's first meeting. They first meet at the library where she works. Everything happens quickly. Jenny is a smart-ass, and they do some verbal sparring. This sparring continues at the coffee shop where they meet afterward. The coffee shop is also where they first appear together within the same frame. The verbal sparring also establishes the equal give-and-take that will become prevalent in their relationship.

Later, Oliver is playing in a hockey game. The game is chaotic, and the camera angles jostle about. Oliver gets into a fight and is penalized. Oliver's father is in the crowd. He sits on the bench quietly watching. We can tell by his facial expression that he is mortified by Oliver's behavior on the ice. The overall effect of the mise en scene here is twofold. First, the violent outbreak during the hockey game suggests the hostility that Oliver has pent up inside. Second, the father's calm-yet-pained expression suggests a conflict between the two men and sets the stage for Oliver's voluntary disinheritance.

The primary obstacle to Oliver and Jenny's romance is the disparity between their classes. As I said, Oliver comes from a wealthy, prominent family, while Jenny's Italian immigrant father owns a small bakery on Rhode Island. Predictably, this causes a lot of problems. When Oliver takes Jenny to meet his family, there is an interesting shot showing them sitting close together on the couch in the foreground facing the mother on a sofa on the left, and the father sitting on a chair on the left. This shot points to the tension between the young couple and Oliver's high-class family and Oliver's loyalty to Jenny over his family.

Jenny has a scholarship to study in Paris; Oliver is supposed to go to law school. They get married instead. We go through the "do it yourself" wedding, for which they have written their own vows. When the wedding takes place, instead of highlighting either the groom or the bride, the camera does an unusual thing: in one continuous shot, it rotates around the couple so that that we see them from all angles. What this strange camera angle is suggesting is how Oliver and Jenny, by marrying, are creating their own world in which only they exist.

The young couple falls into a life of domesticity. She teaches music at a local school for 3k/year, and he does odd jobs. There is a lot of give and take in their relationship. Neither of them seems to dominate in any real way. The apartment changes. Back when they started off, they lived in a modest apartment. Near the end of the story, when Oliver finishes law school and becomes a lawyer, they live in a much more modern building. The mise in scene here suggests that the couple is prospering despite Oliver's father disowning him.

In their first big fight erupts when Jenny tries unsuccessfully to reconcile Oliver to his father. She runs off, and Oliver searches the city and the college campus for her. Here, the soundtrack adds extra-diegetic commentary. While he is searching everywhere for her, opening doors at the music conservatory, the love them is played by a harpsichord, which makes it sound harsh and brittle. While Oliver is dolefully walking home on crowded city streets after just learning that Jenny doesn't have long to live, the soundtrack is a cold, mechanical hum punctuated by the Love Story motif in a minor key. The soundtrack here is working hand in hand with the mise en scene to juxtapose the human side of the tragedy against the capriciousness of fate and heartlessness of the world. The people on the streets are going about their business, involved in their own concerns, oblivious to the news of Jenny's impending death and Oliver's resulting emotional turmoil.

In a very striking scene, after Jenny finds out that she is going to die, Oliver cradles her in a chair while they discuss the inevitable. The room is dark, and the apartment is silent. This mise en scene suggests the position of the couple against the universe. Fate will soon separate them forever, but for now, they cling to each other for comfort, shutting out everything else. They have not been shown embracing each other this closely since their time at the college when their relationship was relatively new.

Shortly after, when she goes to the hospital for the last time to die, they walk across the snow, clutching each other, very small on the screen, in a field of snow. They are like two dots on a featureless white screen. The mise en scene is suggesting to the viewer that the couple is alone, isolated in their grief, and that their love dwindles to insignificance in the face of the vast threat of death.

After Jenny is dead, we have a long shot of Oliver walking away from the hospital while his dad looks on. He goes to the park where he has a seat on the bench. This is where the film began. Jenny dies of leukemia at 25, but their unconventional, non-patriarchal relationship was a success, and Oliver, by passing along Jenny's insight on love, establishes a connection with his father outside the stuffy strictures of their former relationship. Though Jenny is dead, their unconventional, non-patriarchal relationship was a success, and Oliver, by passing along Jenny's insight on love, has established a connection with his father outside the stuffy strictures of their former relationship.

The musical arrangement of the "Love Story" theme is lush and emotional as the camera pulls away from him at the end of the film. As Oliver gets smaller and smaller in the field of vision, the film manipulates viewers into feeling the great tragedy of his loss. Viewers who are sutured into the film should be crying at this point. Rumor has it that viewers were so disturbed by the movie's downbeat ending that Erich Segal was forced to write a sequel called "Oliver's Story." But that's another story.

# Edna Purviance: Charlie Chaplin's First Leading Lady

Edna Purviance was born as Olga E. Purviance on October 21, 1895 in Lovelock, Paradise Valley, Nevada, to Madison and Louise Purviance. After her parents divorced, she and her two sisters, Myrtle and Bessie, helped their mother run a boarding house for bachelor railroad men. She was locally noted as a pianist and played a solo for the 1911 high school graduation. In 1913, after her graduation, she promptly took a train to San Francisco, where she shared an apartment with her older, married sister, Bessie. She took a course in shorthand at a local college and got herself a job as a stenographer in an office on Market Street.

Around that time, Charlie Chaplin came up to San Francisco to search for a new leading lady in Broncho Billy's chorus review. Charlie was displeased with the girls he saw in the review—they didn't have that special charismatic spark he was looking for. So a friend of Billy's told him about a pretty girl he'd heard about that visited a local cafe. A meeting was arranged.

Charlie and Edna met for the first time in the lobby of the St. Francis hotel in 1914. He found her stunningly attractive. In his words, "She was more than pretty, she was beautiful...She was quiet and reserved, with beautiful large eyes, beautiful teeth, and a sensitive mouth." Edna seemed sad and serious at her interview with Charlie. He found out afterwards that she was recovering from a broken love affair.

Although Edna had no previous acting experience, Charlie signed her up as his leading lady. He figured that even if she couldn't act, she would at least look nice on screen. She later won his heart and respect when she good-spiritedly went along with a hypnotism gag he played on guests at a party they attended. While Charlie's new Los Angeles studio was being constructed, they took a month's rest together in Honolulu.

In 1915, Edna starred in her first picture, A Night Out. Their love blossomed before the filming of Charlie's next feature, The Champion (1915). In this film, and in many of those that followed, Charlie and Edna's love for each other is evident in their facial expressions when they interact on screen.

After making five films for Essanay, Charlie moved his production staff to the Los Angeles area to make films for Mutual. Edna took an apartment above the athletic club close to where Charlie lived. He visited her frequently and often took her to the club for dinner.

Although Charlie and Edna were serious about each other, marriage never materialized, for he felt uncertain of her and of his feelings. Edna was possessive, too. She became jealous when they went to parties together and she caught him mingling with lovely members of the opposite sex. Her trick was to disappear from the scene and send a message to Charlie that she had fainted and his presence was needed.

The dissolution of the couple began at a party they attended held by Fannie Ward, a friend of Charlie's. After one of Edna's "fainting spells," instead of Charlie she asked for the dashing Thomas Meighan, Paramount's leading man at the time, who was also present at the party. The next day, Fannie told Charlie of this incident. This revelation disturbed him so much that he couldn't work the next day. Distressed, he called her from the studio to discuss the matter. Edna was vague with him when he called, and though he pressed her about her attraction to this man, she was able to convince him that he had heard a lot of lies. That evening, Charlie visited Edna at her apartment, where she cooked him a dinner of ham and eggs. The pair reconciled, but the reconciliation ended a few weeks later when he unexpectedly encountered he at the studio escorted by Meighan. Of that moment, Charlie writes in his biography, "Suddenly, I felt as though I never knew her."

Although romance no longer existed between Edna and Charlie, she remained with him as his leading lady in about thirty films in the span of eight more years. She was not an exceptionally talented actress, and he often had difficulty wringing a decent performance out of her. Nevertheless, she sufficed for the roles he developed for her. With Edna steadfast at his side, Charlie's film career continued to climb.

Edna was popular with her Hollywood contemporaries and mingled well with the upper class set. She was close friends with fellow actress Mabel Normand and became romantically linked to a wealthy oil magnate named Courtland Dines. "The three of us were inseparable," Edna would later reminisce of the time.

On New Year's Day in 1923, a scandalous incident marred Edna's reputation and damaged her career. The morning after a New Year's Eve party thrown by Dines, Normand (driven by Edna's chauffeur) visited her at Dines' hotel room where he and Edna had been drinking all evening. Edna's chauffeur, seeing his "mistress" with the partially dressed Dines, shot the oil magnate in a fit of jealous rage. Later that day, while Dines recovered in the hospital, Edna tearfully gave an interview from her bedroom in which she voiced her regrets over all that had happened. Although Dines seemed jovial about the whole incident, the scandal spelled the end of any talk of marriage between him and Edna.

By 1923, Charlie deemed Edna's appearance had become too "matronly" to play the nubile heroines of his films. Her last leading role in one of Charlie's films was in A Woman of Paris (1923). She played the heroine, Maria, a part that Charlie had written especially for her to launch her career as a dramatic actress. Critics panned her performance in this film for her co-star, Adolfe Menjou, who became an overnight sensation. Nonetheless, Edna was offered $10,000 to spend five weeks to shoot a film in Italy. Although she wanted the job, she hesitated to accept it because she didn't want to break her ties with Charlie's studio. Charlie allowed her to shoot the film in Italy with the option to return. The Italian film was a failure.

Edna's last leading role was in The Sea Gull - A Woman of the Sea (1927), directed by Josef von Sternberg. By this time, Edna had developed a drinking problem, and, according to Sternberg, her performance was awful, and her excessive drinking caused her lips to quiver visibly before the camera. After privately screening the film, Charlie had it burned. One can only suspect he did this to save his once leading-lady from public embarrassment.

Although Edna never acted again, Charlie kept her on his studio payroll until her death thirty-two years later, even managing to pay her salary during his exile in Switzerland after which he had lost nearly everything. Edna never saw Charlie for a spell of twenty years, and though he often thought of her, he never called her in person, contacting her only indirectly through the studio channels.

In 1946, Charlie sent for Edna to audition for the role of Madame Grosnay in Monsignor Verdoux. Charlie once again found her very attractive. They worked together for three or four days. Although Edna threw herself into the part, Charlie felt she didn't possess the European sophistication necessary for the role. When he gave her the sad news, she expressed relief; apparently, she too felt the role was too much of a stretch for her. She and Charlie parted company amicably. They met again on the set of Limelight (1953), a film in which Edna appeared as an extra. This was the last time Charlie and Edna would ever see work together in their nearly 37-year association

Edna never married, and between her brief stints of work for Charlie, she spent her later years living in relative obscurity in a modest apartment just outside of Hollywood. Late in her life, she contracted cancer of the throat and spent a great deal of time at Cedars of Lebanon undergoing radiation treatment. She wrote a few letters to Charlie to thank him for the salary she still received and to tell him a silly joke she'd heard. In her second-to-last letter to Charlie, as her condition was worsening, she ended her letter with an appeal for him to return to America where she felt he belonged.

Edna died on January 13, 1958 at the age of 62. She was cremated and interred at Forest Lawn in Glendale, California.

When Charlie was asked how he felt about Edna's death, he replied, "What can I say? She was there with me from the very beginning."

*****

For Edna Purviance:

Today I noticed the flowers were still blooming in the forest I drive by every morning, though you're not with us anymore. Another generation has gotten older, leaving you and your great work just a bit more displaced, estranged, forgotten. The world moves on as if you've never existed.

All that remains of your youthful beauty is your image on grainy black and white. The sound of your voice has been lost forever. So ninety years later, I'm trying to discover what you were really like. I find few clues: only the same snapshots of you and your name listed in the index of some book, a footnote in the nascent days of film.

But you were Charlie's first leading lady. Your love for each other was captured in nitrate images, and there it still lives. Though Charlie no longer felt he knew you after that fateful day you chose another man, he still kept you in his heart. As the decades passed, perhaps his nostalgia and longing kept him away from you, the time he remembered when the future was all there was and the scenes were yet undone.

Though the warm sunlight no longer shines on your shoulders, your image remains on my mind, your presence today amidst the flowers of this lonely forest.
Section VI – Literary Summaries

# Gazing through the Pines at Dusk: An Exploration of Jean Toomer's Cane

Jean Toomer's masterpiece, Cane, is at once a product of the Harlem Renaissance and a cornerstone of black literature of the early 20th Century. Written in 1921 and 1922, and published in 1923, this book in three sections is a collection of writings that examine the American black experience not too distantly removed from the oppression of slavery. The Georgia stories and poems of Section I best embody the spirit of the era and follow the author's aesthetic objective of recording the post-slavery experience.

Toomer wrote Cane in a terse, rough-hewn style; many of the narratives appear as "rough drafts" as opposed to "polished prose." His prose is, at times, repetitive and simplistic, and the plot lines are sometimes disjointed. Nevertheless, he is able to evoke jarring, unforgettable images that linger with the reader. Toomer's writing also possesses a great deal of lush nature imagery. This imagery, along with resplendent lyricism, makes Section I the most vibrant, numinous, and affective part of the book.

Section I consists of six narratives and twelve poems, some of which were previously published in magazines and periodicals of the time. In this section, Toomer highlights many of the conflicts, ironies, and forces of corruption, both internal and external, that afflict black culture. At the time that Toomer wrote the works for Cane, he felt that the impressions of slavery were in peril of disappearing forever. This is plausible, because by the early 1920s when he wrote, slavery was nearly 50 years in the past. Toomer intended Cane to represent the swan song of the American blacks' slave experience. He also set out to describe aspects of the simple, rural life of the farmers that he felt was unnoticed by others.

Section I centers on the sordid lives of women in rural Georgia. As the section progresses, the lyricism shifts toward discord, cynicism, and irony. Narratives and poems of dissimilar tone and themes weave together seamlessly into a work exponentially more powerful than the sum of its parts. Writer Waldo Frank, a close friend of Toomer in the New York literary scene, is greatly responsible for structuring the novel this way. Though Toomer was a prolific artist, he seems to have lacked the organizational skills needed to assemble his work into a coherent whole. Frank performed that task. He also chose most of the narratives and poems included in Cane and advised Toomer on how to best revise them for the novel. If not for Waldo Frank, it is doubtful that we would have Toomer's only novel in its present form, if at all.

Cane begins with the following epigraph: "Redolent of fermenting syrup, / Purple of the dusk, / Deep rooted cane" (Toomer 1). Cane, literally the crop sugar cane grown in the South, is symbolic of the connection black Americans have to the land that shaped their culture. This symbol appears throughout the first section and is mentioned in the third. "Cane" is a metaphor for the harsh reality of black American life as reflected in the backbreaking work needed to extract sweet syrup from sugar cane grown on Southern soil.

"Karintha," the first narrative of Cane, juxtaposes loveliness and naïveté with corruption and baseness. Karintha is a child of nature, glowing and sensuous. True to the author's frequent use of poetic refrain, the narrative begins and ends with a serenade to Karintha's beauty: "Her skin is like the dusk on the eastern horizon" (1). Karintha is the symbol of all that is potentially precious and good in black culture. Tragically, the men in her community sexually molest her at an early age. This articulates the abuse one's own people may inflict upon the individual. Scholar Nellie McKay suggests that "Karintha" is a metaphor for how the black community, already victimized by oppression from external forces, oppresses itself further by damaging the emotional health of the women who will bear its progeny (102). Karintha, the woman-child, is symbolic of unspoiled nature, fertility, and ripe potential, but she was a "growing thing ripened too soon" (Toomer 4) and plucked before her time. Strikingly, the preacher, the representation of righteousness in the community, is blind to the reality Karintha's worsening state: "[Karintha] stoned the cows, and beat her dog, and fought with the other children... Even the preacher, who caught her at mischief, told himself that she was innocently lovely as a November cotton flower (2). Even the elders in the community are culpable of molesting Karintha: "Old men remind her that a few years back they rode her hobby horse upon their knees. Karintha smiles and indulges them when she is in the mood for it" (3). Eventually, the community's iniquity destroys Karintha, leaving her sterile and emotionally invalid. Fittingly, the acrid, wraith-like smoke from a smoldering pile of sawdust, where her illegitimate child burns, permeates the valley for weeks. . The lines of the final refrain, "...When the sun goes down / Goes down..." (5) reinforce the irony of Karintha's spiritual and emotional death despite her great physical beauty.

In the poem "Reapers," black men prepare for the harvest. A mower pulled by black horses indifferently cuts through the weeds. Unseen by all but the poet, the mower kills a field rat with its blade. This poem is a metaphor for the loss of humanity to automated industrialization, and for the fact that the black man, to a degree, acts in concert with external forces to drive this industrialization. The victim is humanity, black heritage, and the nourishment that would otherwise be obtained from the land.

"November Cotton Flower" lingers on the theme of "Karintha." In this poem, images of paucity, famine, and death are representative of the self-defeat present in the narrative. The impoverishment is so profound that it has sunken deep into the land: "Dead birds were found / In wells a hundred feet below the ground" (7). But amidst of this destitution in nature blossoms a confluence of natural and human beauty. It is a girl whose premature sexual maturation represents the possibility of regeneration in a dead world: "Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear, / Beauty so sudden for that time of year" (7). Such an image is reminiscent of lovely Karintha before sexual exploitation and complacence in the black community destroyed her innocence.

The narrative "Becky" takes on moral hypocrisy, and according an essay by critic Robert A. Bone, "dramatizes the South's conspiracy to avoid miscegenation" (60). Becky is a white woman who, at the beginning the story, has given birth to a Negro son. The birth of this child results in Becky's exile from society: "The white folks said they'd have no more to do with her. And black folks, they too joined hands to cast her out" (Toomer 9). Though Becky repulses both the black and white communities, her plight also arouses guilt and pity. Benefactors surreptitiously and anonymously build her a rude cabin, "a single room held down to the earth," on an eye-shaped piece of land bordered on one side by a highway and on the other by a railroad track (9). Others furtively supply her with food. Symbolically, the no-man's land represents the hopelessness of Becky's position. The railroad track on one side and the highway on the other symbolize the static separation of black and white culture. The eye-shaped separation represents a bubble-like rift between the two cultures. Of course, this rift does nothing to change the two cultures; it neither separates them nor brings them together. On either side of the "eye," railroad tracks and the highway come together again to run parallel without meeting.

Superstition mingles with religion in "Becky." Her death occurs when a "ghost train" rumbles down the track, causing the collapse of the fragile, leaning chimney through the cabin roof. This unusual event suggests that Becky's state was an anomaly that extended beyond the material world and into the realm of the supernatural. None of townspeople see her after her sons leave town, so they assume she is dead. Then, "a creepy feeling came over all who saw the thin wraith of smoke" that rose from the chimney of the cabin (11). Becky is so profoundly distanced from society that the townsfolk cannot accept that she still lives within the cabin. Wispy smoke rising from the cabin's chimney is perceived by them as more likely her ghost than smoke. A Bible is tossed on top of the mound of bricks that crushed and smothered Becky. The fact that the Bible and the mound of bricks are never disturbed indicates that the community has traded Christianity for superstition. Mention that the pages of the Bible flap uselessly in the breeze hints that even the teachings of brotherly love found on the pages are powerless to overcome the extant community hatred and shame that caused Becky's isolation and eventual demise.

Becky's death is the result of the racist and superstitious beliefs and actions of her town. Her oppression resulted from conflict between her will and the restrictive mores of her society. The reader realizes that in the end, the white and black communities learn nothing from the ostracized woman's death.

"Face" evokes a different perspective on the oppression of women than does the narrative of "Becky." In "Face," Toomer traces the contours of the face of an old black woman (perhaps close to death): "purple in the evening sun / nearly ripe for worms" (14). He plays images of strength and rustic beauty against the symptoms of oppression. Take for example, "Brows— / recurved canoes / quivered by the ripples blown by pain." In these descriptions, Toomer infuses the woman of the poem with the kind of worn hardness that denotes strength. McKay writes that this woman has withstood the pressures of her life and has emerged heroic in the struggle, and that "Face" is a poem that speaks to the possibilities of endurance that rises above the fates of Karintha and Becky (103).

"Cotton Song" is reminiscent of the slave work songs of the antebellum South. It connotes spirituality with the manual labor of the harvest of cotton bales. Interpreted in a historical context, this poem is a strident call to blacks to liberate themselves from the oppression of forced labor. Read in the context of the 1920s, the poem warns that unless action is taken to overcome the oppressors, nothing will be gained, and those who wait will have no one but themselves to blame for their failure to attain freedom. Consider the following lines of unambiguous meaning: "Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day / But lets not wait for it," and "Can't blame God if we don't roll, / Come, brother, roll, roll!" (15). The message in this poem is one of stridency and urgency.

In "Carma," as in "Karintha" and "Becky," Toomer adds poetic refrain around and within the narratives. These brief verses pre-interpret and then emphasize the central theme of the narratives they frame. Consider the lines before and after "Carma":

The Wind is in the cane. Come along.

Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk,

Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,

Wind is in the cane. Come along. (16)

McKay believes that the rustling noise that the wind creates as it blows through the cane leaves represents the sound of human voices that are louder than the sound of nature, and that this articulates a dissonant imbalance between humanity and nature (104). Further along those lines, the phrase "rusty with talk" suggests that the cause of the imbalance is the spread of rumors. The word "rusty" implies that the rumors originate from (or speak of) moral decrepitude. This introduces the role that malicious rumor will play in the following narrative. Then, Toomer urges the reader to "come along" to listen to another tale whispered by the wind blowing through the cane. There is also a sense of foreboding within the poem. The "come along" may be interpreted as, "Let us not linger here where bad things lurk."

"Carma" is a narrative of two disparate parts. In the first, Carma, the woman, is described as "strong as any man" (16). In the eyes of the narrator, she is a woman of almost mythic vitality. He is impressed when he watches her ride her mule-drawn, brown wagon down the Dixie Pike. The narrator uses verdant simile to describe her unusual qualities: she has a "yellow flower face" and "pine-needles, like mazda, are brilliantly aglow" (17). The woman takes on the qualities of an African deity; she represents the power of the African heritage. And with the words, "The Dixie Pike has grown from a goat path in Africa" (18), the narrator reverently proclaims that her power has transformed the rural Georgia landscape into a new African homeland.

The second half of "Carma" is drastically different in ambiance and style from the first. The author's reverence for Carma gives way to the tale of the "crudest melodrama" signaled when "Foxie, the bitch, slicks back her ears and barks at the rising moon" (18). The story, told to the narrator by the locals, goes as follows: Carma's husband, Bane, spends some time from home while working for a contractor. When he returns, he hears a rumor that in his absence Carma had been unfaithful to him. Accepting rumor as truth, Bane accuses her of infidelity. She denies his charges. In his persistent accusations, the oppressive Bane cannot see that "she was becoming hysterical" and that his venomous words are "like corkscrews, wormed to her strength, which fizzled out." Driven insane from his persistent accusations, she grabs a gun and rushes into the canebrake. Later, Bane hears a gunshot and assumes she had injured or killed herself. At dusk, a fearful Bane and some friends search for Carma in the fields. They stumble over her lying prostate in the canebrake. It is interesting that she is lying in canebrake; cane is a cultivated product, which may suggest that she is hiding within a cultivated nature that is contrary to her African heritage. Assuming that she had killed herself, the men carry her back to the house as "dead weight." Later, they discover that she was feigning death, something cowardly, unusual for a strong woman such as Carma. Bane becomes angry, believing he has been "twice deceived, and one deception proved the other" (19). In other words, the fact that Carma feigns her death is proof that she is capable of deceiving him in other ways. Bane knifes the man who found her lying in the canebrake. As a result, Bane is now on the chain gang.

In this tale, Carma is not viewed as culpable for Bane's fate, but rather, as only the victim. McKay rightly tells us that "Carma is another casualty of the intersection between racial and sexual oppression" (106). Indeed, Carma, who epitomized the noble, African goddess, now has eyes that are "weak and pitiable for so strong a woman" (Toomer 19). The townspeople wonder what will now become of her. This bleak outlook is the price of Carma's oppression.

"Song of the Son" is the emblem and pennant of Cane. In this poem, Toomer eloquently explains his reasons for writing the book, and what he hoped to gain by doing so. "Song of the Son" also establishes the relationship of Toomer to his subject matter—

a culture exploited and in decline. Further along this line, McKay writes that "this poem is an acknowledgment of kinship between poet and materials that permits the subjectivity and emotional involvement that otherwise would be difficult to justify in the work" (108). Along with this, "Song of the Son" articulates Toomer's devotion to interpreting the vernacular history of his black cultural heritage though his "song." He seeks to rescue the vestiges of the slave past from impending oblivion. The "son" is Toomer himself, a son of his ancestors' soil who, after a long absence, has returned to pay homage to his past and record his experience. "Now just before and epoch's sun declines / Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee..." (21). These lines give the poem a sense of urgency, for through exploitation and internal decay, the culture is in danger of being lost forever. This is the "plaintive soul soon gone" mentioned later in the poem. Toomer has returned to catch the fleeting, plaintive soul before it is too late.

The following poem, "Georgia Dusk," is an extension of "Song of the Son." Here, Toomer restates the close relationship of black heritage to himself. Like "Song of the Son," the melancholic "Georgia Dusk" is a realization of the loss of heritage, the intrusion of industrialization on the rural landscape, and the poet's fervent desire to record the historical experience of American blacks before the period fades into oblivion. Toomer believes he has arrived late in the period. Hence, his poem takes place at sunset.

The heroine of "Fern" does not possess the beauty of Karintha or the strength of Carma. She is, instead, a "creamy-colored solitary girl" with an "aquiline," "Semitic" nose (24). Fern's most remarkable feature is her eyes; they enchant and inspire the narrator. Though the insular Fern does not absorb her surroundings, the whole countryside flows into her eyes: "Flowed into them with the soft listless cadence of Georgia's South" (27). Enigmatic Fern is a metaphor for the beauty of the rural landscape and the black cultural heritage. In this light, the narrator's relationship with Fern describes his perceived success or failure to tap his subject matter for inspiration.

Fern unaffectedly submits to the sexual advances of men who, after satiating their lust, are haunted and perplexed by her. The narrator is also attracted to Fern, though not in the sexual sense. He endeavors to become something more to her than just another one of the men who have come to her on numerous occasions. But in the end, he realizes that he is unable to penetrate her heart the way he would like, and that he will never understand the sublime depths of her soul.

The narrative of "Fern" carries another meaning besides the pensive interaction between the narrator and its central character. McKay points out that Toomer brings together disparate elements of the black folk culture represented by folk songs and the Jewish cantor's song. Fern's surname (Rosen), her Semitic nose, and her calls to Jesus unite the African and Western cultures and make explicit the black American's close identification with the ancient suffering and bondage of the people of Israel (111-112).

Dusk and night time play important roles in the following two poems, "Nullo" and "Evening Song." "Nullo," the first, is a lingering reflection on "Fern." It is an eclogue of natural beauty at dusk: "A spray of pine needles /.../ Fell onto a path /.../ Rabbits knew not of their falling, / Nor did the forest catch aflame" (34). In reference to the goal established by the author in "Song of the Son," these lines represent the folklore that has already passed into oblivion unobserved and unrecorded. While "Nullo" is a lamentation for what has been lost, "Evening Song" is a soliloquy of veneration for what remains. In "Evening Song," the poet finds ease and tranquility with his lover in the subdued light of the moon. The lover in this poem may also be interpreted as the folklore that the poet has managed to acquire and record during his stay on his native land. The fact that both of these poems are set at eventide suggests the poet's belief that he has arrived very late.

"Esther" is a tale of class repression and the shame of white rape. Esther is the near-white daughter of a black merchant, the wealthiest man in town. Lonely and somewhat ostracized by the black community because of her color, she slips into a world of fantasy dominated by a black religious fanatic named King Barlo. At age 16, she dreams that she has immaculately conceived his child. Then when Esther is 27, Barlo arrives in town after a long absence. Esther tries to bring her fantasy into reality by offering herself to him, interrupting him while he is drinking with his seedy friends. Barlo does not recognize the "lil milk-white gal" (47) at first, but then he realizes, through an alcohol-induced haze, the reason for her visit. He acknowledges his understanding of her offer with a lusty, drunken smile. At that moment, the seamy reality of his presence clashes with Esther's preconceived fantasy of his piety. Made acutely aware of the difference, she is humiliated. Now, bereft of the fantasy that gave her substance, and shorn of hope for validation, Esther returns to the reality of the town in a shell-shocked state, spiritless, and unable to fathom the reality of her insubstantial existence represented by the darkened town.

Interpretations of "Esther" vary widely amongst critics. According to Charles Scruggs, "Esther" is a tale of social class within black American society. Barlo is a jack-of-all-trades. He is successful, not through hard work, but by speculating the wartime cotton trade. He embodies the new, working middle class of black Americans, and "the forces of modernity of that will transform the small towns" of the South. Esther, as the town's leading citizen's mulatto daughter, embodies the black elite that will eventually move north to intermarry with the wealthier whites. "Her loss of nerve [at the encounter with Barlo] indicate a failure of her social class; she is afraid to do what she most wants to do" (Scruggs 135). Scruggs believes that if Esther's fear is read in context of class, this translates into the recession of influence of the wealthy mulatto black in the South. In support of Scruggs' interpretation, the coarse woman's derisive remark, "So thats how th dictie niggers do it" (Toomer 47), indicates a separation of class between Esther and Barlo. Esther is obviously not within the same social class as Barlo, even though they probably possess equal wealth. Esther's class is determined by her milky-white complexion and interbreeding. This means she will always remain in exile from the greater black community as represented by the purebred black Barlo. Rejection by both black and white communities places Esther in a racial no-man's land.

A radically different but equally plausible point of view comes from McKay, who views Esther as the symbol of white rape in the South. She observes that Esther is not an epitome of black beauty as is Karintha; her white skin is a symbol of interbreeding, and therefore, shame. Of the narrative of "Esther," she writes, "There is no poetic introduction or poetic prose in the sketch. The sun does not go down and leave glowing tints on the horizon" (112). Some similarity does exist between the narratives of "Karintha" and "Esther," however. As McKay points out later, "Although men sought after Karintha and denied Esther, the life of each woman was ruined by the accepted sexual mores" (117). This elucidation further confirms the common thread of sexual repression woven into Section I.

"Conversion" is both an expression of reverence for the past and a cynical mockery of the white Christian God who has done nothing for the American black. The children of African heritage continue to suffer even though they have bought into the white man's religion. "Yielding to new words and a weak palabra / Of a white-faced sardonic god—" (26). Black Americans have abandoned African animism, the religion of their ancestors, and have instead adopted an ineffectual substitute to guard their souls against their oppressors whose god they have embraced.

Whereas "Conversion" concerns itself with spiritual impoverishment, "Portrait of Georgia" deals with physical brutality. "Portrait of Georgia" paints a composite, summative image of torment and death in the outward appearance of an unnamed black woman. Represented in the poem are lynchings, whippings, and death from exhaustion. Most striking are the final lines of the poem, "And her slim body, white as ash of black flesh after flame" (27). This line foreshadows the violence that occurs in the tragic finale of the last narrative of Section I, "Blood Burning Moon."

"Blood Burning Moon" begins with the lines, "Up from the skeleton stone walls, up from the rotting floor boards of the pre-war cotton factory, dusk came" (51). This sinister imagery at once warns the reader that the outcome of this tale will not be pleasant. According to the story, an attractive black woman, Louisa, has two paramours, a black contract worker named Tom Burwell, and the white son of a plantation owner, Bob Stone. Driven by sexual rivalry, these two men quarrel over Louisa. Tom slashes Bob's throat. Bob staggers away and lives just long enough to tell the white folks who slashed him. Tom is later caught by the white mob that forms as a result. Their fierce hatred of Tom is clearly evident; first they want to burn him alive over a well so that the body drops into the well after it is through burning: "Two deaths for a godam nigger" someone says (66). Instead, they drag him to a factory where they set him on fire with kerosene and rotting floorboards.

"Blood Burning Moon" takes place almost entirely under the light of the moon. Such a setting suggests the role of hysterical, irrational behavior that is sometimes attributed to the effect of the moon, which in this situation, applies to the white mob of the narrative. No effort is made to query Bob or Tom to determine the cause of the row between the two men. These facts lend support to Bone's assertion that Toomer "is not primarily concerned with anti-lynching propaganda, but in capturing a certain atavistic quality in Southern life which defies the restraints of civilized society" (61). This is only partially the case, however, since it is difficult to imagine that the white Bob would have been assaulted by a mob and burned alive for slashing black Tom.

Based on the precedent set by the previous works in this section such as "Reapers," the factory represents the corrupt influence of industrialization on southern black culture. In the finale, after Tom's immolation is well under way, his head slumps down and "A ghost of a yell slipped through the flames and out the great door of the factory. It fluttered like a dying thing down the single street of the factory town" (67). Tom Burwell's fleeting yell, a representation of his soul, is the only part of him that escapes the rotting factory on that moonlit night. This occurrence drives home Toomer's perception that the plaintive soul of southern black culture may find release only by escaping the industrial exploitation of its rural homeland.

Cane is rightly hailed as a pinnacle of the Harlem Renaissance and a superb novel in its own right. The narratives and poems of Cane are strung together like pearls suspended on a string of lyrical storytelling. Collectively, they breathe awe and valor into the heritage of the American black, offer an unflinching look at the horrors of racism, and weep for innocence and beauty ravaged by exploitation. Cane records an epoch of American culture that has since drifted beyond the realm of living memory. Indeed, the twilight years of the era faded long ago. But this song of the son, captured so eloquently during that nearly forgotten sunset, will play long into the night.
Works Cited

Bone, Robert A. "Jean Toomer." The Merrill Studies in Cane. Ed. Matthew J. Bruccoli and Joseph Cats. Columbus: Charles E. Merrill, 1971.

McKay, Y. Nellie. Jean Toomer, Artist: A Study of His Literary Life and Work, 1894-1936. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1984.

Scruggs, Charles. Jean Toomer and the Terrors of American History. Philadelphia: Pennsylvania UP, 1998.

Toomer, Jean. Cane. New York: Boni & Liveright, 1923.

# Summary of Virginia Fowler's Essay, "Mirror in Your Soul"

Virginia Fowler starts her essay by stating that Naylor's dream of writing a quartet of interconnecting novels became a reality with the publication of Linden Hills. The change in setting between Brewster Place and Linden Hills in some ways reflects the tense cultural shift that Naylor herself experienced when she moved from Harlem to Queens when she was a child. Naylor's concerns about the moral and spiritual risks associated with such a move are articulated in the model she used for Linden Hills, Dante Alighieri's Inferno. The stratified neighborhood of Linden Hills reflects the lives of blacks that have sacrificed their black culture for success, with those most successful at the bottom of the slope.

Fowler avers that Linden Hills is Naylor's most cutting and insightful critique of male patriarchy, which is the motivational force behind economic aggression and success. The novel reflects Naylor's own experiences with both class and gender at the time that she wrote the novel, particularly her visit to Europe, where she was mistaken for a prostitute because she traveled alone. Her time at Yale also reinforced her suspicions of upward mobility. She found that she was unable to pursue both creative writing and academic studies at the same time. Eventually, she came to associate the division between self-expression and academic pursuit with class division, with academic pursuit associated with moral and intellectual bankruptcy.

Naylor adopts the model of Dante's Inferno in three aspects: moral geography, narrative strategy, and moral allegory. The moral geography is articulated two ways. First, the layout of Linden Hills bears many physical similarities to Dante's Hell. Both are V-shaped, with the entrance at the top. Both have multiple concentric circles, each constituting both a physical and moral level. Second, the topmost five circles of Dante's Hell correlate to the upper five crescents of Linden Hills. The lower levels of Hell correlate to Tupelo Drive. And third, as in Hell, the greater one's "sin" the lower he or she lives within the topography of the Hills. The lowest part of Hell is the abyss, Satan's residence, which corresponds to Luther Nedeed's home. Unlike the inhabitants of Dante's Hell, who know they are being punished, the residents of Linden Hills, unaware of their destructive course, endeavor to move down the hill.

Willie, like Dante, begins his corrective journey at a crisis in his life. Both feel that they have gone somehow gone astray and are apprehensive about their future. Just as Dante is guided by Virgil, an inhabitant of the upper circle of Hell, Willie is guided by Lester, who resides in the First Crescent. Virgil and Lester are similar to each other in that each is a poet. Both speak in the vernacular, which suggests the belief that the written word should not be accessible exclusively to an elite group. Willie's journey through Linden Hills, like Dante's journey through Hell, gives him increasingly horrifying visions of the residents' lives. By the conclusion of his journey, he has decided that he will not involve himself in the pursuit of material success.

Similar to Dante's Inferno, Linden Hills operates on multiple levels of meaning. In Linden Hills, Naylor inverts Dante's central metaphor. The upper- and middle-class part of Linden Hills becomes a metaphor for Hell, a world of inhabitants who are engaged in destroying their souls through various means. Luther Nedeed's philosophy is similar to Satan's in that if he cannot rule creation, he will make hell its antithesis. Furthermore, in Naylor's allegory, materialism and white culture's single-minded pursuit of affluence is associated with destruction of the human soul.

Linden Hills departs from Dante's scheme in that Naylor presents two simultaneous journeys which are mirrors of each other. The first is Willie's journey down Linden Hills. The second is Willa Nedeed's journey up from her imprisonment in the basement/morgue of her husband's house. Fowler describes the ways Willa discovers how her situation stems from her internalization of male assumptions as to what constitutes history and how she has lost her identity through the Nedeed family's oppressive patriarchy. Luther, fixated strictly on mysticism and his ostensibly untainted patriarchal bloodline, is unable to see that he himself is culpable for the birth of his white-skinned child. Hence, he blames his wife. In the course of the novel, the reader follows Willa's growing sense of identity and recognition of power. Fowler notes that it is a "very cold day" when Willa succeeds in destroying Luther's patriarchal culture, which reflects the irony in Luther's earlier musings. Willie and Willa are similar in that both are marginalized citizens; Willie belongs to the working class, which makes him economically powerless, and Willa is imprisoned by her gender and status as a wife.

Fowler describes the motif of cold in the novel and how despite poverty and scant protection against the cold, Ruth Anderson's role as a "golden goddess" to Willie is not diminished. Ruth and Norman Anderson invite Willie and Lester over for coffee. Though the Andersons are poor, their home is held together with love. The spiritual and emotional richness of the Anderson home contrasts dramatically with the Tilson residence in Linden Hills; although the Tilson home is more richly furnished, it is hideous in its décor, which is a reflection of the sordid lives of its inhabitants.

Ruth remains with Norman despite his periodic bouts of mental illness, which is an indication that the couple's bond is based on love, not material possessions. Fowler asserts that the illness that Norman suffers from is in fact the same illness afflicting the residents of Linden Hills. Unlike Norman, however, they fail to recognize the need to fight the illness, "the pinks," which would necessitate the disowning of material possessions. In this part of the essay, Fowler makes a few connections between Naylor's scant mention of the color pink and its association with white people. She makes the conjecture that "the pinks" represents the sickness underlying the African American's embrace of white materialism.

Willie's straying from the path is represented in the jealousy he feels for Norman at not being able to have Ruth. A symptom of this waywardness is Willie's lashing out with the comment that Ruth and Norman should paint their home pink. Like Dante, Willie must go to hell to prove himself. This journey begins at the end of the visit when Ruth hears Willa's mysterious, mournful howling in the wind.

The mirror in one's soul is a metaphor for one's identity. One may always look into this mirror in times of uncertainty to find out where and what one is. When the mirror is sold to the highest bidder, one can no longer look into it for a reality check, and the person whose mirror has been sold becomes susceptible to believing and thinking according to the will of the mirror's owner. In Linden Hills, the metaphor of the mirror also extends to loss of integrity and culture. Fowler discusses the many places where reflections and mirrors reveal facets of the residents' empty lives.

Fowler notes that while Daniel Braithwaite has been unearthing history and ignoring its implications, Willa Nedeed is also unearthing her history and responding to it. She determines that she will not allow her husband and his historian to erase her from life and from history. Naylor uses Willa's gaze into the mirror as a way of insisting that a mirror represents the accurate image (and proof of existence) of the self. And after Willa sees her image, she understands the reality of herself, and with this understanding comes a healing calm.

Fowler ends her essay by discussing differing critical interpretations of the novel's ending. A few of the critics have mixed feelings about Willa's demise. One of them, Goddu, feels that Willa's triumph over the Nedeed patriarchy is subverted because she is destroyed before she is able to act upon her newfound identity. Fowler, however, feels that Willa's true triumph does not occur after she leaves the basement; rather, it occurs when she gazes into the mirror and becomes self-actualized. Fowler argues that though Willa did not intentionally set fire to the veil, the house goes up in flames because Willa resisted Luther's attempt to put her back into the basement. This resistance constitutes a kind of victory for Willa.

Willie is appalled that the residents of Linden Hills allowed the Nedeed residence to burn unabated. Lester counters that the residents' indifference constitutes their unstated recognition of a need for the destructive fire. The novel's final image of the friends' joined hands suggests a degree of optimism that the neighborhood might someday change now that it is free of its satanic ruler.

# Summary of Maxine Montgomery's Essay on Bailey's Café

According to Maxine Montgomery in her essay "Authority, Multivocality, and the New World," Bailey's Café completes a series of four novels in which Gloria Naylor acquired the self-confidence necessary to define herself as a career writer. As part of her ongoing search for authorial voice in which she seeks to tell the experiences of black women, Naylor locates Bailey's Café within a cultured and gendered context where voices are directed toward subverting patriarchal authority and constructing a New World among dispossessed women. The loosely connected stories cumulate with the Christmastime birth of Miriam's son, George, which is celebrated by the community, suggesting global harmony.

Montgomery posits that the novel's unresolved closure is typical of African American writing. Fatherly Bailey does not offer a satisfactory ending to the stories that unfold; instead, he invites the reader / audience to empathize. Naylor uses Bailey's voice to establish the time, place, mood, and character for each story except for that of Miram, whose poignant account recreates sisterhood across the other women who find themselves at odds with patriarchal notions of female sexuality. The effect of the novel's ambiguous final scene serves to bring about some sort of unity among the Diaspora both within and outside the text. Nadine's and Eva's duet in the retelling of Miram's tale gives a composite portrait in which the reader can find contemplation and immediacy in the women's private experience, since Bailey, being a male, can only offer empathy.

Bailey, unlike the male characters of Naylor's Brewster Place, is endowed with psychological depth and complexity. Bailey's offhand comments offer insights into the relationship between the written text and the black oral tradition from which the novel evolves. The other men of the novel are responsible for the oppression of the women. Most telling of this is matriarchal Eve's story. Despite her unfortunate experiences, starting with sexual escapades with the Godfather who raised her, she manages to escape a tragic fate. Godfather, a male authoritarian figure in the delta community, has a church that reflects the values of the patriarchal society. Though Godfather turns Eve out naked and hungry, she successfully recreates herself, but in the role of an outcast woman. Bereft of familial ties, she seems both natural and supernatural, and her story is replete with references to organic matter such as the delta soil. Her blossoming sexual awareness coincides with an awareness of her kinship with the rich earth. At this point in the essay, Montgomery cites a lengthy passage that illustrates Eve's affinity for the earth. Eve, because of her frequent references to Louisiana soil in her song, represents the dismantling of traditional historiography and liberation from gender-specific labels.

It is easy to associate Naylor's Eve with the biblical Eve who entices Adam to eat of the forbidden fruit in defiance of divine law. Eve similarly encourages a redefinition of the figurative spaces that traditionally have defined women's lives. The "thousand-year" walk she describes sets up an association between her matriarchal role in a community of women and the thousand-year rule of Christ. She is a redemptive figure for outcast women such as Jesse Bell. However, she does not do much for Jesse, who cannot see the ambivalent world around them as the hell it is. Eve is not "Eve" in the biblical sense, nor is she a Madonna; instead, she lies somewhere between the two extremes. Eve has supernatural qualities that invite comparison between her and figures such as the shape-shifting trickster and the conjure woman. Despite ambiguities about Eve, her role in the narrative must be considered in light of the positive effects she has on her female wards.

Naylor sets out to tell the stories of women whose voices have been excluded from history. Her dedication to two Luecelias serves to reveal the novel's blurring of time, space, and identity. She also uses Old Testament Scripture relevant to female sexuality intertextually in an attempt to restore dignity to her female characters. Biblically sanctioned notions of morality are scrutinized. In a verbal exchange of biblical Scripture between Carrie and Eve over Jesse Bell's succession of female lovers, Naylor encapsulates the value of global harmony among all women of the world. Eve subverts Carrie's narrow, dogmatic perspective by asserting a non-judgmental stance toward issues of morality set forth in divine law. In her revisionist use of Scripture, Naylor introduces a new era for closer readings of texts by Afro-American women and by women whose lives were dominated by male-authored texts.

Creative juxtaposition of chapter titles from the spheres of music and drama reminds the reader of the close relationship ship between the written text and the artistic performances that inspired the text. Naylor tells us that Sadie and the Iceman were inspired by the strains of Duke Ellington's "Mood Indigo." Blues-inspired repetition and variation themes influence the linguistic patterns of the text. Though the stories echo each other, they resist closure. Naylor feared the thematic finality she sensed at the end of Brewster Place, so she continued with Linden Hills, which exists within the same continuum, and so on into the next two novels. Naylor's texts are unique within the tradition of African American women's fiction in that her texts are symbolically related. Montgomery draws parallels between a few of the characters of Naylor's first three novels.

Collectively, the narratives move toward a reality, rooted in the black vernacular, that closely reflects the experiences of marginalized women around the world. Bailey's Café exists everywhere and nowhere, which points to its symbolic significance as the unexplored boundaries of creativity in the black female. Subjugation to male sexual desire is echoed throughout the women's stories. In the case of Esther, whose name means, "I will be hidden," hatred for men stems from the commodification of black women within a rural economic system. Esther's monologues express intense self-hatred in a world that has no place for her. When Esther adds her solitary voice to the other women's in "The Jam," she breaks through the distressing silence surrounding her sordid life.

Bailey's Café cumulates with a transformed society where all externally imposed limitations and labels are blurred. Montgomery compares Mattie's dream of the communal removal of the brick wall in the final story of Brewster Place to the emergence of a new world order constructed around the birth of Mariam's son, George. Miriam represents a type of Madonna, and George represents the future. Hence, outcast mother, Mariam, becomes a bridge between past and future. Eve, who is a midwife at George's birth, scores a plum, an act that represents a ritual reversal of Mariam's genital mutilation. In terms of her woman-centered cosmology, Naylor shows us a new social order in which the family of choice replaces the traditional nuclear family. Montgomery writes, "moreover, there is harmony between opposing rituals and traditions drawn from a multi-cultural community" (32). Naylor elevates the marginalized women to honor with a womanist revision of the domestic sphere than once burdened them.

The oral, female, and collective systems privileged at the end of the novel not only resemble those present in the unwritten approaches at the novel's beginning, they also suggest the dissolution of the male dialectic. Bailey's Café brings to a climax the concerns that Naylor explores in her earlier novels. The novel also represents her remarkable voice and vision, even as it reveals her attempts to revise notions of patriarchal power in male texts. Naylor, in her efforts to define herself as a writer, dares to explore crucial issues that affect women worldwide. In effect, she is rescuing, from silence and oblivion, the stories of women in a world where oppression of women is at an all-time high.

# Summary of Nancy Jessar's Essay on Beloved

Nancy Jessar begins her essay on Beloved with a discussion of differing viewpoints among feminist theorists regarding the appropriateness and feasibility of feminist utopia narratives. She then turns her attention to the role of the narrative process in the creation of "spatial formations" and "communal configurations." Morrison's reworks history and memory by describing bodies and social structures, which makes the novel useful for remembrance, revision, and the building new social configurations of the family. The novel also examines transformations of the body and soul, and it marks the processes of how spaces harden or soften. Jessar speaks of figurative "spaces" that are made hard by laws, walls, or armed guards. These places can also be made fluid and invisible to the law. It is more important to chart the interactions between the spaces than to categorize them.

Jessar discusses four places in her essay. Each place has its own method, outcome, and configurations of community. No single place dominates. All four places have a notion of escaping to new space or clearing new space, and no configuration of these spaces offers an optimal utopian configuration. Morrison writes her story without an end time; the unfinished processes in her novel make its issues continually relevant, forcing us to pay attention to history.

Sweet Home offers a critique on the (im)possibility of finding "home" within the institution of slavery. There are two landscapes in Sweet Home: the Sweet Home under Mr. Garner's rule and that under the rule of the Schoolteacher. Though Mr. Garner treated the slaves better than the Schoolteacher and gave them more liberties, the manhood he allowed them did not change the underlying relationship between owned and owner. Under the Schoolteacher's tutelage, through an "experiment," the pupils learn that "property is property because of its assigned properties" (Jessar 329). These assigned properties are considered natural and thus are not escapable; once a slave, always a slave.

Sethe, Halle, Paul D, and the other slaves bonded in different ways at Sweet Home, and so the place became their reference point, a communal reference, and "the invasion of the present by Sweet Home shows how the communities constructed in the past haunt the communities of the present" (329-30). From Africa through the unlivable plantation, each generation in Beloved escapes to a more livable place. The community of slavery that existed at Sweet Home also serves to bind together the slaves. Denver is excluded from this community.

Morrison provides the possibility for escape through Paul D's escape from Alfred, Georgia, where he was part of a chain gang. She shows that even under extreme violence, objectification, and intense abjection, a community emerges. And it is the reliance on the connections in this community that enables emancipation. Jesser details how, initiated by Hi Man, the men escape safely by communicating to each other through the chain. The metaphor of the chain is complicated by the fact that there is a time when the chain must be cut off. Paul D finds direction by trusting himself to the mutual goals of the community and then responding to an increasing range of possibilities by joining in new, transitory alliances.

Sethe describes the clearing where Baby Suggs would preach as a "blessed." It is a space outside the political and cultural domain of the whites that trouble the black community. Through singing, Baby Suggs creates imagined blessed spaces. She creates these imagined spaces because she is unable to create them in the real world. Although they are imaginary, these spaces have the power of transformation. Sethe comes to the clearing to find peace and to figure out what to do with her life: she is trapped between Beloved and her misery, and her desire to be part of a living family and community. By passing through the enchanted clearing, Sethe is able to figure out her attachments to the past, to Halle, and she is able to contemplate her desires for the future.

The space at 124 Bluestone is where Baby Suggs and Sethe create a place of warmth and sustenance to both the family and the community. But when the place is invaded by slavery's institution, it becomes an inescapable "hard" place. During the present in the novel, the house is haunted by the specter of reliving its past. The haunt and other intrusions of the past result in further hardening of the space, and, in some ways, increased permeability. Sethe's resistance to reliving the past places her in a kind of limbo without judgment or forgiveness. Jessar asserts that in this way, "Beloved is about joining together the stories of the past, making it impossible for them to be relived, and writing a new story into being" (334). Jessar then describes how the house served as the nerve center of the community during the time Baby Suggs inhabited it by herself and how the house became largely isolated from the community when Sethe began living there by herself.

When Paul D enters the house, he brings both the Sweet Home past and the future with him. His presence at first disrupts its timeless isolation, disrupting the physical spaces of the house, but the ghost of Beloved becomes flesh and moves him out, thereby shutting out the future. Jessar believes that the past that Paul D brings to 124 Bluestone must cause a painful rewriting of the past, "yet this threading together of stories allows for the fabric of their two lives to be joined into a potentially sheltering cloth in which the past is reworked into the present and into the future" (338). Paul D's arrival at 124 sets up his reexamination of the past when the rusted-shut tobacco box in his chest is opened by his encounter with Beloved. Eventually, he must make his memories a part of the present. Denver must live with the consequences of her mother's choice, but she must not allow herself to be absorbed by the past. In the scene wherein she takes the knife from her mother's hand, Denver explodes the past narrative (and her mother's compulsion to relive the past), thereby bringing her mother to solace in a cleared space, a place she can remain for the rest of her life.

In her conclusion, Jessar writes that Morrison's historically based "Beloved is a critique of millennial narratives, the fantasies of utopian escape" (342). The book shows feminists how they may re-write narratives that have people in newspaper clippings represented as property or animals. It also shows how the narratives (and the figurative spaces represented within them) will reassert themselves and cause us to relive them unless they are disrupted and resisted. Our own imaginings put us on the path to self-actualization, but unless the rewritten stories are shared and joined, their effects are diminished in that they become "dangerous, self-exhausting, domestic soliloquies," bereft of realizations and connections, and without "movement to a better home" (342).

# Summary of Michael Awkward's The Bluest Eye Essay

Michael Awkward begins his essay by stating that Toni Morrison, in her novel The Bluest Eye, revisits the writings of James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. In particular, Awkward points out the intertextual connection between the portrayals of incest in The Bluest Eye and Baldwin's "Many Thousands Gone" and the Trueblood episode in Ellison's Invisible Man. Awkward asserts that through her writing and the manipulation of a prefatory primer, Morrison gives "authentication and voice to specific types of black and feminine experiences" (58) whose credibility subverts the perspectives characterized in the writings of Baldwin and Ellison. Awkward also notes that while Baldwin and Ellison are responding to historical perspectives, Morrison is responding to literature based on these perspectives. It appears that she aims to challenge and reorder the male-oriented Afro-American canon of which Baldwin's and Ellison's writings are a significant part.

Awkward notices that Morrison uses manipulated primer text as epigraphs to chapters narrated by the novel's omniscient voice. The impoverished families presented in chapters introduced by the primer text are thematic inversions of the ideal white families portrayed in the primer. The juxtaposition of the primer text against the dismal reality of the black families also serves to deconstruct the "bourgeois myths of ideal family life" (59); it reveals that not only is the construct of family life in the primer inapplicable to black American life, but it is also inaccurate. Furthermore, Morrison's distortion of the primer text suggests "the inappropriateness of the white voice's attempt to authorize or authenticate the black text or to dictate the contours of Afro-American art" (59).

The white doll given to Claudia by the adults represents the ideal of perfection that she must accept. She does not readily accept this ideal of white beauty. Instead, she destroys the doll in an effort to demystify its beauty by finding its source. Claudia's dismemberment of the doll is reminiscent of the axe murder of the white female beauty in Wright's Native Son and suggestive of the repressed animosity that all Negroes feel toward all white people that Baldwin discusses in "Many Thousands Gone." Later, Claudia capitulates—she learns to worship Shirley Temple, the icon of white beauty. Her "conversion" is not motivated by a love of humanity, but rather by shame (61). In the process of her conversion, she rejects violence and replaces it with false love.

Morrison's feminist revision of Ellison's incest scene sets forth her view that rejection of male perspectives on women is necessary to accurately depict women's lives. Her vehicle in The Bluest Eye is the Breedloves, who are a parody of the Trueblood clan in the Invisible Man. Intertexuality is suggested by similarities in the families' living conditions and the ironies in their names. The problem with the Trueblood encounter is that male perceptions of incest are validated because the female side of the experience is relegated to the periphery; the reader does not get to hear Matty-Lou's (or Kate's) side of the story. Awkward writes, "Trueblood's incestuous act is judged almost exclusively by men....They form an exclusively male-evaluate circle which views Trueblood's act as either shamefully repugnant or meritoriously salacious" (63). Morrison's answer to this scene in The Bluest Eye is Pecola's internal dialogue, which allows the reader to hear her side of the story.

Awkward contrasts the differences in how the incestuous sexual acts are described in the two books. He states that Trueblood's dream encounter with an unnamed white woman has greater import than his actual presence inside his daughter's vagina. Trueblood's act symbolizes castrations, lynchings, the threat of black male sexuality, and the sharecropper's railing against his poverty. Cholly's act, however, does not bear the same symbolic weight. Driven primarily by lust, his "wild" and "confused" act represents his desire to enter and exit a place that is forbidden.

Awkward concludes by stating that Morrison is revising Ellison's phallocentric representation of incest that dismisses the female victim's experience. Case in point: Morrison gives explicit details to Pecola's suffering, while Ellison tacitly minimizes the significance of Matty Lou's perspective. The absence of Matty Lou's perspective suggests that the female incest victims' experience contains "no compelling significance" (66) for Ellison. Awkward believes that the notoriety arising from Morrison's "revisionary gestures" (66) will cause a great deal more "black and feminist" texts to be added to the presently overwhelmingly male-centered Afro-American literary canon.

# Summary of Barbara Christian's Brewster Place / Linden Hills Essay

Barbara Christian begins her essay by stating that like Toni Morrison, Gloria Naylor is intrigued by the effect of place on character. Both Brewster Place and Linden Hills are set in the same geographic area, and blacks inhabit both areas. Whereas the outside world perceives Linden Hills the symbol of black achievement, Brewster Place is seen as the manifestation of failure. While Brewster Place is a loose-knit community held together primarily by women, Linden Hills is a group of houses that never becomes a community—a showpiece held together tenuously through the maneuverings of a single wealthy black patriarchal family.

Christian states that it is unusual for a single writer to juxtapose two proximate Afro-American neighborhoods that hold different values and are estranged from each other because of class distinctions. Both Brewster Place and Linden Hills have been created indirectly from racism, or, more specifically, the racism of their founders. The origin of these communities is crucial to the structure of Naylor, Morrison, and Paule Marshall's novels; all three novels begin with the histories of their respective communities. The key instructive differences between these authors' treatments is that Marshall's and Morrison's communities are places where individuals may move up in social status and affluence, whereas the blacks of Naylor's Brewster Place are at a social and economic dead end. The physical separation of Brewster Place and Linden Hills from the surrounding areas represents the Afro-American's dilemma in the United States—the choice between identification with a part of the greater black community (including the less-fortunate blacks) and the possibility of achieving power in white America.

In her novels, Naylor uses forms that demonstrate the relationships between the shapes of her two neighborhoods and the ways in which power relations affect them. Since women have little power in greater society, black women, who are doubly stricken by their racial and gender status, are the central characters in impoverished Brewster Place. In relatively prosperous Linden Hills, the patriarchal Luther Nedeed holds the community together. Both stories have a scene in which the all members of the community appear, and the place ends as we know it. But while the residents of Brewster Place are having a block party, the residents of Linden Hills ignore the burning down of Nedeed's house by putting out their lights. The wall that isolates Brewster Place becomes the residents' symbol of community and willingness to interact with each other, whereas the houses of Linden Hills are a measuring stick of wealth that show the residents' unwillingness to interact.

Christian posits that while Linden Hills destroys itself from within, Brewster Place is destroyed through external forces. Most of the women of Brewster Place are there because their lives have been blocked by societal mores and by their individual responses to such restrictions. Naylor demonstrates how the individual personalities of the women are not the determining factor that brings them out into the street; rather, it is a confluence of their ill-fated relationships with men, white society, and their concept of themselves as women.

The theme of women mothering other women is prevalent throughout Brewster Place. Such mothering does not extend to the lesbian pair since the women of Brewster Place cannot fathom the idea of sexual love between two women. This is because the effects of racism have exacerbated the homophobia of the community. Lorraine makes the mistake of believing that since she is a black woman, the black community will accept her despite her sexual inclination. Though the women share culpability in her death, they do not mother her—instead they reject her. The death of her only friend, Ben, signals the community's inability to hold together. Later, the residents are dispersed after the Brewster Place tenement is condemned, revealing that the women are just as powerless as they were when they first came to Brewster Place.

Christian observes that Naylor, in her first novel, emphasized how female values are derived from mothering. She further posits that Naylor honors communal female values in response to the Western patriarchal emphasis on the individual. If women are to become empowered, they must perceive their primacy and acknowledge how disruptive patriarchal values are to social harmony. Black American women can draw upon their African origins and history, in which they had been strong central persons because of their matriarchal bonding, which served to hold their communities together. Afro-American women who internalize the dominant societies' sexist definition of women are courting self-destruction. The novels of Morrison and Alice Walker demonstrate that women sometimes fall prey to sexist ideology because the black communities themselves are sexist.

The matriarchal culture of Brewster Place is based on a black tradition with roots in the era of slavery, and several contemporary works have also explored this culture of nurturing and sharing. Naylor's depiction of a community of women whose strong bonds do not break the cycle of powerlessness points to a theoretical dilemma that feminists have been grappling with: How does one break the cycle of powerlessness without giving up the values of a caring, nurturing society? Christian believes that the novel suggests two solutions: 1) Rejection of internalized negative societal values, and 2) Activation of the community as a political force. Kiswana's presence in impoverished Brewster Place, in relation to her relatively affluent Linden Hills background (which she rejects), suggests that the pursuit of power and money often derails attempts at community activism.

In Naylor's account of Linden Hills, she displays her central male characters both their attempts to develop their patriarchy as well as their failure. Their failure hinges on their inability to form a community, which is the Afro-American's best route to empowerment. Just as Naylor explored the intense friendships between the women in Brewster Place, in Linden Hills she shows that genuine friendship can develop between men who share the same values. Perhaps Naylor is suggesting that deep same-sex bonds may be crucial to the Afro-American communities' quest for empowerment. 

# Summary of Michael Awkward's The Women of Brewster Place Essay

Michael Awkward begins with the premise that explorations of female unity in Gloria Naylor's novel, The Women of Brewster Place, are related to the work's narrative strategies; the texts of the individual protagonists can be merged into a unified whole. The unity of the novel can be found in the protagonists' failure to achieve wholeness. Furthermore, The Women of Brewster Place does not serve to parody or correct Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God or Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye; rather, these texts provide foundation for Naylor's exploration of narrative disunity.

Awkward suggests that Elaine Showalter's and Sandra Gilbert's comments comprise a viewpoint that the The Bluest Eye clears the imaginative space for Naylor's prolonged exploration of the lives of Afro-American women by freeing the text from corrective revisionist chores. The disjointed narrative structure of Brewster Place bears many similarities to the first section of Jean Toomer's Cane, and there is evidence that Brewster Place is a reconfiguration of Cane's problematic form.

According to Awkward, Naylor is misreading The Bluest Eye because she states that Claudia's preface is of greater importance than the primer epigraph. The nature of her misreading is evident in her differing perception of white influence on black culture: while Morrison's text implicates the whites for their debilitating effect on black culture, Naylor's text depicts an Afro-American community free from the influences of whites.

The Women of Brewster Place may be fully understood when it is read intertextually with The Bluest Eye as the precursory text. Naylor's novel deconstructs and reconfigures Morrison's novel as Morrison's novel is driven by the deconstruction of its prefatory primer. Additionally, the reader must be cognizant of the decidedly different eras and social conditions in which the texts were written. An essential point is that while Morrison's novel implicates white institutional forces as culpable for negative Afro-American self-images, Naylor's novel looks elsewhere for the sources of pain.

"Cora Lee" is the clearest example of Naylor's revision of The Bluest Eye. Whereas Claudia destroys the dolls for reasons of racial pride and the desire for knowledge, Cora Lee destroys them because of her inability or refusal to mature and her avoidance of knowledge. Awkward asserts that Naylor is not questioning the accuracy of Morrison's representation of the destructiveness of white standards; instead, she is depicting the self-destruction of the black underclass. Awkward asserts that "Cora Lee," like the other sections of Brewster Place, explores the unachievable dreams of Afro-American women. The novel does not examine the societal forces affecting the lives of the black women as does Morrison's novel. Instead, Brewster Place explores the characters' own responsibility for their misfortunes. As does Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God, "Lucielia Louise Turner" responds to Langston Hughes' poem of a dream deferred. When Serena dies, Ciel is forced to confront not only the loss of her child but also her self-destructive acts and self-protective illusions. She is overwhelmed to insensibility by grief and the pain over the loss of the dream she has long deferred. The long deferment and the far-reaching damage it ultimately caused are represented by the removal of the symbolic silver splinter.

Awkward posits that in both Naylor's and Morrison's novels, sexually abusive acts invoke a sense of societal order. In The Bluest Eye, the black community is brought together under the assumption that with Pecola's demise, the community is purged of evil influence. In Brewster Place, a common abhorrence of the brutal rape creates a sense of community amongst the isolated women. In the latter case, the sense of community is not described explicitly in the narrative; rather, it is implied by Mattie Michael's dream in "Block Party." In Mattie's dream, all of the primary characters are imbued with a desire for female unity. But considering the pejorative depiction of female imagination up to this point, and considering the fact that this unity is portrayed only as a dream and not in reality, it is doubtful that Naylor considers such a show of unity a plausible event. Furthermore, Naylor's failure to represent female community at the conclusion of the work adds to the overall disunity of the novel's narrative structure.

The apparent problem of unity in Cane may be the result of Toomer's perception that Cane documents the last remaining vestiges of black communal folk spirit of the antebellum South before it passed away forever. According to Awkward, the disjointedness of the narratives in Cane mirrors the increased disconnectedness that Toomer perceived in the black culture's separation of its soul from itself. Despite its apparent disunity, Cane testifies to the resilience of Afro-American folk-spirit.

Evidence of Naylor's reconfiguration of Cane is represented by the introduction of "cane" in Mattie Michael's recollection of people and places in her past. For the informed reader, the mention of cane intimates a reconfiguration of Toomer's text. Toomer used cane to represent the black communal impulses of the deep South. Its appearance in Mattie's recollections, however, suggests that the social climate of Brewster Place is not amenable to such a spirit of community. As did Toomer, Naylor seems to perceive that the Afro-American folk spirit has died with the advance of modernity.

Awkward concludes that despite their differing narrative strategies, Naylor and Morrison perceive almost insurmountable obstacles to Afro-American unity in the modern North. Nonetheless, other texts such as Their Eyes Were Watching God, because of their deep South and timeless settings, present female resolution of division as possible.

# Summary of "Letter from Birmingham Jail"

Mr. King states he was invited to Birmingham for organizational ties. The underlying reason for his visit, however, is because of the injustices that exist there.

Though the authors of the letter deplore the effect of the demonstrations, they are ignoring its underlying causes. Negotiations with the economic community last September yielded only temporary results. Without recourse, King's people prepared for "direct action". The resulting marches aimed to increase tension so the community would be forced to renegotiate.

The Birmingham city administration has proven slow to react with its new segregationist mayor, Albert Boutrell. It is unacceptable to allow the slow passage of time to ease segregation while Negroes suffer in poverty, so external pressure must be applied to the administration to coerce it to immediate action.

King's people are not amenable to breaking the law, but any law not based on "eternal" and "natural law" is unjust, and therefore, not valid. Also, a law is unjust if it does not apply to all citizens, is used to maintain segregation, or if it deprives non-violent assembly as granted in the First Amendment. There is a moral obligation to defy unjust laws. And if the cause is justified, civil disobedience is not illegal.

The white moderate desires order over justice. He believes time will ease segregation, and marches and demonstrations do more harm than good. This attitude hinders social reform. Actually, the tension resulting from these activities force segregation to be dealt with in an expedient manner.

Peaceful demonstrations are compassionate when one considers the violent minority. And without the release provided by peaceful demonstrations, bloodshed would result from pent-up vexation with the system.

White churches have failed to support the cause of justice despite a biblical doctrine of love and spirituality. Instead, some church leaders have become staunch opponents. Some churches remain silent. If this persists, the churches will eventually lose their credibility. Nevertheless, the cause against segregation will succeed with or without the churches' support.

The discipline of the police at demonstrations is not commendable for they commit violence against Negroes. Furthermore, the police are not commendable if their purpose is to enforce segregation. Admiration should be bestowed instead on the participants of demonstrators who tirelessly pursue their just cause despite adversity.

Mr. King hopes his sincere letter will be received well, and that someday he will be able to meet with the authors of the letter as an equal.

# Summary of Lindsey Tucker's Essay, "Recovering the Conjure Woman: Texts and Contexts in Gloria Naylor's Mama Day"

Lindsay Tucker begins her essay by remarking about the oral quality of Gloria Naylor's Mama Day. The novel is comprised of many "speakerly" voices that are from the past and present, individual and collective, living and dead. Furthermore, it seems that Naylor's realist fiction has become imbued with magic and fantasy, which troubles some critics because such mysticism has introduced ambiguity and vagaries into the text. Tucker believes this criticism stems from Naylor's reliance on African magico-religious views of the world, which require a different narrative mode and reader response. The problem is that the reader may be likely to take the unreliable narrators' discourse as factual, even though they may be inaccurate.

Naylor's text is full of conjurers, and so the reader may be at a loss as to how to treat the subject, since the conjurer and conjure woman have heretofore existed only in the margins of folklore and thus are barely credible. Nonetheless, Naylor's treatment of conjure addresses the undervaluation of African medicinal practices and belief systems.

The first treatment of conjure was by Charles Chesnutt in his 1899 collection of folktakes, The Conjure Woman. Written during the increasingly repressing post-Reconstruction South, the book portrayed the conjure woman in her trickster capacity. Chesnutt wrote the tales in an attempt to teach whites about racism in ways subtle enough to escape notice. The ex-slave conjurer resorts to tricks and subtle manipulation to undercut his emasculation at the hands of the white master.

Possibly in response to this representation, Naylor seems to want to retell the story of the conjure woman to render her as a concrete presence. She establishes a connection between Miranda Day and the collective voices of history, legend, and myth in Willow Springs. Though Mama Day is firmly rooted in the communal voice and the past and present, she has a consciousness of her own. Through her, the communal voice narrative of the novel gains unity. But Mama Day is more than a vehicle; she is a carefully, plausibly constructed figure that is often distorted by European ethnocentric and Christian literature.

The earliest and most complete study of folk beliefs in the American South was Newbell Niles Puckett's biased Folk Beliefs of the Southern Negro (1926). Puckett portrays conjuration, and black religion and mysticism, as tantamount to witchcraft. He also minimizes the role of women in the practice. Two well-known conjure women from the 1820s and 1830s were voodoo queens Sainite Dede and Marie Sloppe. The most famous, however, was Marie Leveau, whom Puckett dismissed as a sham. To varying degrees, other studies done by white researchers, such as those done by Lenora Herron and Alice M. Bacon, are tainted with stereotyping.

From these studies emerges a composite conjurer woman. An important feature is a recognized closeness to African roots and the tendency of conjuring abilities to run in families. Conjure women often carry their mother's names and have considerable power within their communities. Conjurors also have psychic abilities. By virtue of the large volume of research on the subject, the practice of conjuration cannot be easily dismissed. When faced with the task of defining conjuration, however, scholars often oversimplify, insert ethnocentric bias, and malign conjuration as tantamount to demonic occult practices.

Naylor represents Miranda's skills as a root doctor, a practitioner of herbal medicine. Miranda's competence and knowledge are equal to those of an off island medical doctor, Dr. Smithfield, who respects her capabilities. Dr. Buzzard, in contrast to Miranda, represents the world of the occult. Ruby represents a combination of both herbal medicine and occult practice. The herbal knowledge of Ruby and Miranda is not magic, since modern medicine has found active ingredients in their prescriptions. Nonetheless, Naylor leaves enough ambiguity to suggest the actual presence of magic.

Tucker believes that Naylor's choice of a location for Willow Springs is dictated by the historical connection between the islands and African culture. The island also represents a world view in which the boundaries of reality are blurred. Tucker notes that Naylor differentiates between ghost fear and Miranda's acute listening powers. While ghost fear—the "haint" stories—are rooted in trickery, Miranda's communication with the dead seems genuine. Miranda communicates with her ancestors while walking through the woods, which is not surprising because of her lifelong acquaintance with the environs of the island. Tucker posits that Miranda's ability is actually a keen awareness of the behavior of plant and animal life.

There are some connections between Esu, tricksterism, conjuration, and the activities of Miranda, who also functions as a trickster figure. The connection with the lore of the trickster Esu Elegbara, the seventh son, is evident in the way that Naylor makes abundant use of the number seven in the novel. Miranda's constant movement along the roads, her divination, and her connection to the "other place" suggests that she has assumed the role of trickster. George follows Miranda's enigmatic instructions that which he sees as irrational, but he cannot make a genuine surrender of belief to Miranda, so he dies.

There is a close connection between conjuration and language. Language has the power to make something be, which is not far from creation. The stories needed for the displaced African's survival were carried on the passage to the New World by the trickster. In the oral retelling of the ancestral stories imbued with New World discourses, the displaced Africans were able to recreate their world through language and therefore survive. A number of texts in Mama Day are incomplete, which represents the subversion of the discourses of the New World.

Tucker writes signification has taken place in the appropriation of biblical and Shakespearean texts. The slaves became attached only to names of kings and leaders in the bible, such as David and Moses, suggesting the slaves' perception of a relationship between the name and the destiny of their offspring. The significance of women's names is more problematic, as some of the names are those of tragic and mystical figures. Naylor has also used Bible narratives as the basis of African American myths.

Miranda frequently remarks about hands and their power, and hands play an important role in the narrative. Hands are gifts, for they give the imitative power to create. Hands also play a part in the mythos of Willow Springs, which is related to the solstice ritual of Candle Walk. The candles used in the ritual are meant to welcome and accompany the spirit of the Great Mother who has returned to Africa in a ball of fire. Also, the light of candles stands for the light that burns in a man's heart.

Tucker concludes by writing that unlike folktales, myths serve an important purpose in that they embody ritual and theological constituents that are meaningful to the culture that produced them. The myth contains the ideological content in which sacred behavior is contained. Unlike in other cultures, for the African or African American cultures, the trickster functions as a mediator between the secular and the sacred. Naylor's text includes the story of a goddess who must be recovered. Her story is also that of the spirit of Africa that traveled to the New World. 

# Summary of Catherine Ward's Essay, "A Modern Inferno"

Catherine Ward begins her essay by stating that Gloria Naylor's Linden Hills is a modern retelling of Dante's Inferno, in which souls are damned because they have offended themselves, rather than God or a religious system. In their pursuit of affluence, the inhabitants of Linden Hills have eschewed their past and their sense of identity. Naylor avers that our chosen direction in life and sense of who we are is a question of the same gravity as the question of Christian salvation. Naylor's well-chosen structure for Linden Hills emphasizes the novel's serious moral tone and makes the novel's otherwise narrow subject much more universal.

Historically, Dante's work has had great influence on American writers and critics. By using the Inferno as a framework, Naylor places Linden Hills within the American literary tradition, which forces all of her readers to question themselves with the same hard questions that the novel raises. The novel also shows the influence of some of the best contemporary black writers without imitating them.

As did Dante, Naylor believes that man is a rational being with the freedom to choose his destiny. And as does Dante's Hell, Linden Hills represents more of a state than a place: it is the consequences of one's choices. Hence, Linden Hills is an allegory of Inferno in both physical and moral topography. Naylor's tale covers four days in the life of black poet Willie Mason, who lives in a poor neighborhood adjoining Linden Hills. Just as Dante passed through Hell's inferno, Willie passes through Linden Hills analyzing the moral failures of the souls he encounters. Once he crosses the frozen lake at the bottom of Linden Hills, he has a spiritual awakening. He decides to take charge of his life by accepting responsibility for his decisions and refusing to blame his problems on others or on fate.

The first five concentric "Crescent Drives" correspond to the five upper circles of Dante's Hell. Tupelo Drive corresponds to the City of Dis. At the bottom of Linden Hills is the home of Luther Nedeed, surrounded by a frozen lake. The novel traces two journeys: Willie Mason's physical journey through Linden Hills and Luther's wife, Willa Nedeed, as she uncovers the history of her predecessors.

The most prestigious lots in Linden Hills are those that are lower down the hill, which correspond to the lowest circles of Hell. To gain one of these lots, the residents must give up something. As do the souls of Inferno, the people in Linden Hills live in a circle that is appropriate to their moral failure. Most stay locked into their choices, while some move down the hill.

The novel begins outside Linden Hills when Willie meets his friend and fellow poet, Lester Tilson. As Virgil was to Dante, Lester is Willie's companion and guide. Willie dropped out of school, and Lester does not want to attend college. Willie has to "abandon ignorance," as the plaque says at the entrance to the junior high school, but the road to knowledge is fraught with danger. Most of the people Willie meets in Linden Hills have misused their knowledge. Ward believes that Naylor is suggesting that rather than imparting wisdom or "a true sense of one's cultural history" (186), educational institutions sometimes cultivate spiritual corruption.

Unlike Lester, Willie adores Ruth; she is an inspiration to him. (Ruth represents Beatrice in Dante's narrative.) It is her suggestion that Willie and Lester earn Christmas money on Linden Hills, which sends Willie on his spiritual journey. Ruth is not real as a character; rather she represents the expression of human love. Ward notes that although Ruth sacrifices her livelihood out of her love for Norman, she does not sacrifice her spirit; she does not lose her identity. In contrast to Laurel Durmont and the Nedeed women, in this respect she is a saint.

As Willie visits each of the houses in Linden Hills, progressively working his way down the Hill, the moral failures of the people he meets mirror the souls in Inferno. Ward points how each of Willie's encounters has an allegorical counterpart in Dante's Hell. Willie's journey to the bottom of Linden Hills is nearly complete when he reaches the home of the analytically detached scholar, Daniel Braithwaite. It is then, after witnessing Braithwaite's negative example of recording the moral decay around him in order to win an honor (while doing nothing to prevent the decay), that Willie becomes determined never to become a hired pen or live in Linden Hills, even it is the last place on earth.

The terrifying nightly dreams that Willie has during his odyssey through Linden Hills reflect his daytime experiences. Such dreams reflect Willie's crisis: he fears that he "will sell out for unworthy gains" and "lose touch with himself" (190), as have the residents of Linden Hills. He decides that he will leave Putney Lane for someplace other than Linden Hills. He will succeed in some yet undefined way. Willie moves on to his final chore at Nedeed's residence at the bottom of the Hill.

Inside the Nedeed residence, Willie meets Willa Prescott Nedeed, who has making her own spiritual journey through time, as Willie has made his through physical space. Ward goes into detail in describing Willa's discovery of how her predecessors had been neutralized, depersonalized, and ultimately destroyed by the Nedeed men. Willa realizes that she had been on the same path of obliteration as these women were. Ward closes the section with Naylor's assertion that the treatment of the Nedeed women represents the way that men have regarded women as having no history because they do not really exist. Now, Naylor is calling attention to that history.

Willa examines her life and realizes that she alone is responsible for her unfortunate state. She leaves the basement after Willie accidentally unbolts the door, and a physical struggle ensues between Willa and Luther. A fire begins when a strip of the old bridal cloth that Willa used to wrap their dead son with falls into the fireplace. The house is rapidly engulfed in flames. Later, the remains of Willa, Luther, and their son are carried from the ruined house as one lump of charred flesh. Willa is triumphant in her death, and the Nedeed hegemony has finally ended after five generations.

Ward concludes the essay by stating that Linden Hills is an "uncomfortable and dangerous book that pricks the conscience" (192); it is a book that compels the reader to "consider the hidden costs of his choices" (192). Ward further states that Naylor took a risk when writing this disturbing book because its concerns might seem too narrow to most readers, particularly in light of its medieval source material. But Naylor, because of her self-knowledge, tells her tale with authority, daring the reader to consider it.

# Plotting Time in "White Angel" by Micheal Cunningham

The story begins in the present with the narrator giving us some background information on his family and his reflections on his past activities with his deceased, older brother, Carlton. The flashback, which carries most the story, is signaled in the third paragraph with the lines, "Here is Carlton several months before his death." We are taken back several years to a breakfast table where Carlton and the narrator have taken LSD with their breakfast.

The next jump in time occurs at the break. We are moved ahead "hours later." The narrator and his brother watch television, enthralled the psychedelic experience, while the family goes about its domestic business. Though we are not told explicitly, we know it is winter by description of the snow and the intense cold.

"March" begins the first paragraph the next section. The snow is gone, and the narrator is walking through the city during the springtime. From this point the story progresses at a linear rate from the time the narrator chances across Carlton making love to his girlfriend in the cemetery. After the narrator arrives home, his mother, who believes that the narrator is being evasive, questions him.

The next break in time occurs after an indeterminate amount of time has passed, possibly several hours. Carton arrives home, and a family squabble ensues.

It is still spring when the next episode begins. The parents invite over some of their school teacher friends for a party to celebrate the "sun's return," a long-awaited respite from the long, harsh winter. In this pivotal scene, Carlton dies when he runs through a sliding glass window.

The next break in time transports us many years forward. This section consists of an introductory paragraph that begins, "He is buried in the cemetery out back. Years have passed—we are living in the future." We have another jump in time in the following paragraph that begins, "One April night..."

The final jump in time occurs in the last paragraph that begins, "Carlton's girlfriend moved to Denver with her family a month before." Here, the narrator describes the events of Carlton's girlfriend's life. These events take place in the months following the "April night" of the previous section.
Section VII – Mini-Reviews & Reactions
"My Kinsman, Major Molineux" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

The mood is the most arresting characteristic of this story. It takes place entirely at dusk. Hawthorne uses striking imagery to describe the buildings at night. The sounds that emanate from the darkness from give the town an austere feel.

This story is a puzzle from the very beginning. The reader has no idea why Robin is searching for his kinsman, Major Molineux. If this is a "moral tale," then it is a mystery to me as to exactly what the mystery is.

As stated in the critique of Simon O. Lesser, Robin does not try very hard to find MM, nor does he go about his task very efficiently. Robin does, however, possess a kind of persistence, which leads him to wait for long hours in front of the church.

The story ends in a surrealistic parade through the dark town street. It appears the Major Molineux is a Tory who has just been tarred. Robin, in the end, decides that he does not wish to be associated with him.

"Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Again, if this is a "moral tale," I fail to see what the moral is.

Like the previous story, the ending is rather enigmatic, but it is somewhat less ambiguous. It seems that Goodman Brown appears to have the gift of seeing his fellow townspeople (and possibly his own wife, Faith), in all their hypocrisy. In the end, this causes him to be lonely. Goodman Brown believes that beneath their outward pious appearance, all are willing participants of sin. This tale does not speak highly of the human condition, and it seems to question the validity of salvation. On wonders if salvation exists on any level.

An irony is that Young Goodman Brown himself seemed on his way to participate in the meeting of the witches. So in a sense, Goodman Brown was a hypocrite, too. Nevertheless, he chooses to ostracize himself from his fellow men.

As in the previous story, the action takes place at night. The sounds of the woods are frightful and mysterious. The night appears to be analogous to the hidden, dark nature of the soul of man.

"The House on Mango Street"

"Hairs"

"My Name"

"The Monkey Garden"

by Sandra Cisneros

This collection of stories richly describes of the shame of poverty. The Mango Street house is both a sense of pride for the Cisneros family and the symbol of failed aspirations. "It's not the house we thought we'd get," Cisneros says. But it is a step up from the rundown apartment on Loomis Street. Cisneros describes in great detail the dilapidation of the apartment: the loose bricks, the swollen door that is difficult to close, the lack of a front yard, etc. We can imagine Cisneros' shame when a nun from her school cannot believe Cisneros lives there (with the windows boarded shut). "You live there?" the nun asked in disbelief.

There is diversity within the Cisneros family. Cisneros illustrates this diversity by describing variety of hair textures within the family. Each member has vast different hair texture from the others. The appearance of the hair suggests a connection between the hair and countenance. Fittingly, the matriarch of the house, Cisneros' mother, has the most beautiful hair. "The rain and Mama's hair that smells like bread." This brief passage speaks volumes about the matriarch's wholesomeness. From this line and others like it, we can assume that despite their poverty, the Cisneros experience a rich family life.

Cisneros' true name, Esperanza, embodies the displacement she feels by being a Latino in American society. She takes pride in the name she inherited from her grandmother, but she does not want the sort of life that her grandmother led. Cisneros lapses into ludicrousness at the end of this section. "Zeza the X will do," she writes. Perhaps her name doesn't bother her all that much.

"The Monkey Garden" represents Cisnero's desire to leave behind the feelings of social displacement she feels. This is triggered by the event where Sally and the three boys the girl promises to kiss reject her. When Cisneros lies in the grass in the monkey garden, she tries to will her heart to stop beating. "This is where I wanted to die," she writes, "And where I wanted to try but not even the monkey garden would have me." The mythical powers of the monkey garden do nothing to help her escape from her state. She must face her life without its benefit.

"I am going to tell you a story about a girl who didn't want to belong," Cisneros writes in the final section. She does not wallow perpetually in her sad state. Instead, she embraces the world (and all it has to offer) outside the Hispanic community. The house on Mango Street (her nurturing family) lets her go without a struggle. The state they live in is "a sad, sad house [of poverty] I didn't want to belong to." After some years pass, and after she has found first found success through education and her writing, she returns for those she left behind.

"We Meet at Last" by David Leavitt

A skillfully executed story.

As a veteran of dozens of online meetings and blind dates, this story resonates deeply with me. Often when corresponding with or maintaining a relationship with someone you've never met in person, a kind of fantastic image of this person develops in your mind. The bubble often bursts in the few seconds of the first meeting.

This story illustrates that this phenomenon is not unique to heterosexual meetings. I sympathize with both men. I sympathize with Jack because of the awkwardness he feels. I sympathize even more with Stewart because he is the one being rejected. I have been in both positions.

It sometimes seems that the fantastic image tends to raise our expectations too high. The visual image we have of the person sabotages the meeting, because as we all know, reality can never match fantasy. In these cases, the fantasy is the best the relationship can ever be.

"The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" by Ursula LeGuin

Omelas is another dystopia with similarities to the world of Harrison Bergeron.

This story works on many levels. On one level, it seems to put forth the concept that happiness cannot exist without unhappiness. In other words, light cannot exist without its opposite—darkness.

Also, this story tests our sensibilities in discerning on what is believable and what isn't. Really, the world of Omelas seems like a complete idealistic fantasy (and is therefore unbelievable) when everyone is portrayed as happy. Only when LeGuin reveals the dirty secret of the child does Omelas seem plausible to us.

Perhaps Le Guin is suggesting that as humans, we need a certain amount of unhappiness in our world to truly feel happiness. The subtext is that a world where everyone is happy is really just a mythical ideal; such a world can never exist.

So where to the people go when they leave Omelas? It seems that they scatter, live by themselves, and perhaps live destitute, miserable lives to compensate for the happiness and rich pageantry they experienced while living in the great city.

"The Management of Grief" by Bharati Mukherjee

Topic: Bereavement

Theme: An East Indian woman living in Canada slowly puts her life back together after the sudden loss of her husband and sons in a plane crash.

The story examines the differences between North American and East Indian culture. North American culture is represented by a grief therapist hired by the airline named Judith Templeton. Her task is to counsel the surviving family members. Templeton does not grasp how grief is dealt with in Hindi culture. Her methods are clinical and fail to consider the management of grief outside the North American culture.

My favorite line is in reference to Ms. Templeton: "Remarriage is a major step in reconstruction (though she's a little surprised, even shocked, over how quickly some of the men have taken on new families)."

Each of the narrator's friends and acquaintances deal with grief in their own way. Some take jobs in faraway cities. Others visit India to be with their family members (and are subsequently forced into arranged marriages). Some move back to India for good. Of those who remain behind, Mukherjee succinctly summarizes their recast social standings by writing, "We've been melted down and recast as a new tribe."

The finale of the story comes when the narrator is released from her grief. The spirit of her family for the very last time appears to her and says "Your time has come. Go, be brave."

This story reminds me of the Jeff Bridges movie (and book) called "Fearless." It's a fascinating study of the grief, guilt and depression the surviving passengers feel after surviving an plane crash. In the movie, Jeff Bridges' fear has inverted to where his personality has dramatically changed—after surviving the crash, he feels invincible.

"How to Become a Writer" by Lorrie Moore

Story is told in the second person.

This witty piece reminds me of the frustration I sometimes feel in being an unsuccessful creative writer. The comedic aspect of this story conceals the tone of seriousness here. Moore is a serious writer—she loves writing, too. Don't believe her when she stumbled into the creative writing course because of a misprint in room numbers on the schedule—she wanted to write all along!

Moore is the master of exaggeration and hyperbole. (She has a style similar to Erma Bombeck). Yet, her words ring true for anyone who has tried to create—and failed. People write for a variety of reasons. Some write because it's therapeutic. Others write for profit. Whatever the reason, one must love writing for its own sake to succeed outside the realm of one's imagination. And it takes practice, practice, practice to hone and refine the craft.

"The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allen Poe

Like Hawthone's "Young Goodman Brown" and "My Kinsman, Major Molineux," this story conveys a striking sense of mood. The pervading atmosphere is that of darkness and gloom.

The narrator in this piece may not be deemed as reliable. Our first clue to this is that the "thousand injuries" inflicted on the narrator by Fortunato are not detailed. For all we know, the narrator may have been imagining these "injuries" and the "insult" that broke the camel's back, so to speak.

The narrator manipulates Fortunato deeper into the crypt with contrariness and counter-suggestions in much the same way Iago aroused Othello's misplaced suspicion of Desdemona's infidelity. Several times, the narrator attempts to get Fortunato to return to the surface: "...As for Luchesi." In fact, the narrator has a great deal in common with Iago. Both are schemers, masters of manipulation, and both possess a single mindedness purpose in destroying their unsuspecting victim. Their hostility, seemingly, is without true motive.

In the end, as D.H. Lawrence accurately states, by vanquishing Fortunato's soul, the narrator breaks the bonds of his own identity and becomes a monster. Strongly supporting this reasoning are the final lines in the story where we find the narrator is still gloating, quite insanely, over the yet undiscovered deed he committed fifty years before.

"The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allen Poe

Once again, we have a narrator who seems to have a tenuous grasp on reality. The narrator denies his madness at the beginning of the tale, and instead, describes himself as "very, very dreadfully nervous." He attempts to equate his calm when telling his story to sanity.

It is obvious to the reader, however, that he is a lunatic. His description of his act is laced with boast—he makes no understatement of his cleverness, for example: "Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust [the lantern] in." The point he seems to be missing is that he is confessing to a heinous, ugly crime. His lack of remorse for the deed overwhelms is occasional insistence that his is sane.

It is for this reason that we have to assume a psychotic break has taken place when her begins to perceive that the old man's bad (probably blind) eye is the "Evil Eye." The one uncertainty that Poe leaves in this tale is whether or not the officers at the end of the tale who stand around really do hear the heart, and therefore, suspect the narrator of the heinous crime. If events in the last paragraph of the tale occurred as the narrator describes, then indeed, the supernatural had taken part in this tale. Alas, Poe leaves us at the climax, and we never do learn if the murdered man's heart was really beating, or if the narrator's guilt-induced paranoia got the best of him.

"A Simple Heart" by Gustave Flaubert

This story chronicles the life of a common woman named Felicite. Felcite's most remarkable feature is that she is not remarkable at all, but rather plain. For fifty years she is the maidservant of a Madam Aubain. During that period, nothing unusual or out-of-the-ordinary happens. Felicite's love life is a failure in one act. At the end of the tale, her mind has become feeble, and at the moment of death, she associates her salvation with her worm-eaten, stuffed pet parrot.

Perhaps this story would best be classified as a character study more than a story. In this, the story excels. Flaubert is very adept at allowing us to walk in Felicite's shoes. She is fleshed out so entirely true-to-life that she seems like a real person much more so than in most stories. One feels like he or she has read a novel.

The charm of this otherwise bland story lies in its humor. Felicite is pathetic in her own way, but her foibles reveal a great deal about the fallibility and imperfections of people in general. I believe that most readers would see some part of themselves in Felicite's thought processes. On the other hand, Felicity lives simply and lives to serve others. In this sense, she is different from most people. I wonder if Flaubert intended Felicite to be somewhat of a role model...

"An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" by Ambrose Bierce

This excellent story probes the moment of death of Peyton Farquhar. Unbeknownst to the reader, most of the story takes place at the instant of death. A few seconds in time stretches into minutes, then an hour, and then a day. The story comes to a sudden halt when Peyton's neck breaks from the hanging.

Most of the story is a hallucination brought on by Peyton's yearning for his wife and children at the moment of his death. In a sense, Peyton gives himself the escape to freedom not afforded to him by the reality of his situation. The cruelty of this story lies in the fact that Peyton is never really free. In the end, his body swings lifelessly from the bridge. Ironically, but not surprisingly, to the observers on the bridge, nothing unusual has taken place; they are oblivious to the drama that has taken place in the dead man's mind at the moment his head was wrenched away from his body by the rope.

Bierce misleads us by giving us a copious amount of detail in describing the escape down to the swirling of the water and the temperature of the bullets shot into the water. The deception/illusion of the false escape could not have been made without these minute details thrown in.

The story touches upon man's mortality. It is a psychological study on how he will desperately cling to life despite the reality of imminent death. In this case, the subconscious mind has manufactured a new, time-delineated reality in the fleeting, last second of life.

"Desiree's Baby" by Kate Chopin

Topic: Prejudice, Racism.

Theme: Love cannot overcome racism. Racial hatred causes self-destruction.

Tone:: Irony.

From the way this story is told, it is improbable that Armand knew all along that he was of black ancestry:

  * The letter was stuck at the back of the drawer as if it were forgotten there a long time ago.

  * The letter was never addressed to Armand. It was intended only for his father. There is no reason to believe that he had read it previously.

  * If Armand knew all along that his child could turn out Negro, the nugget of irony of the story would be canceled. Why did Armand suddenly change his feelings toward Desiree when he had a Negro child when he knew all along that he had some Negro blood in him?

  * Kate leads us to believe that Armand truly loves Desiree at the beginning of the story. If he was being deceitful, then Kate's storytelling is flawed. This is probably not the case.

  * In any case, I enjoyed this story very much. Kate's writing is very clear. This tale doesn't suffer from excessive verbal embellishment. There is a subtle problem with a shift in viewpoint at the beginning of the story that jarred me. This is a minor quibble, though. I wish I had written this story.

"The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin

Topic: Appearance does always not match reality.

Theme: 1) The appearance of cause does not always match reality, but the end result may be the same. 2) The shock resulting from a sudden turnabout in expectations can kill.

Tone: Irony.

It seems that Mrs. Mallard was doomed either way. She could have suffered heart failure from news of the loss of her beloved husband, or she could have died just as she did when startled into a turnabout of expectations.

"The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Topic: Insanity. Schizophrenia.

Theme: An oppressive atmosphere in addition to a nervous/depressive condition may cause a decent into madness.

Mechanism: Episodic detail from an unreliable narrator gives the reader an intimate view of advancing insanity that feeds upon itself.

The end of the story is filled with vivid surrealistic imagery. Telling this story from the first person POV makes the narrator's perception all that much more believable.

The insanity has inverted the narrator's feelings of her environment along with distorting her perceptions. The phantom woman in the wallpaper gives the narrator a purpose to her existence: "Life is much more exciting than it used to be. You see, I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and I am much more quieter than I was" (585). Ironically, the narrator is happier in her insanity than she was in her facing her reality.

We never discover the name of the narrator. This makes me wonder whether Charlotte intended this story to a semi-autobiographical viewpoint of her mental/emotional state, or perhaps her tendency.

"Cathedral" by Raymond Carver

Topic: Enlightenment. Self-discovery

Theme: By "seeing" through the perceptions of a blind man, one can gain enlightenment.

Tone: Arrogance toward subject. Cynicism.

Plot: The wife of an arrogant man invites her long-time blind friend over for a visit. Though the arrogant man is prejudiced toward the blind man at first, and perhaps a little apprehensive, he has an epiphany and becomes less insular when helps the blind man to visual a cathedral.

The narrator of the story, whose name is not mentioned, starts the story as arrogant and quite prejudiced. Using subtle clues, Carver gives us more information about the narrator that he ventures to give us. For example, when the narrator states that he doesn't have any blind friends, his wife responds, "You don't have any friends." We have to trust her reliability. She seems much more pragmatic of the two.

The epiphany is very realistic on one level—it seems profound. One hopes that the narrator's insight will outlast the counter-inhibitive effects of the marijuana.

I don't have the feeling that the marriage between the narrator and the wife is stable. There seems to be an antagonistic edge to their verbal exchanges. As in the other stories, most of the personalities involved tend toward narrow mindedness; there is no sense that anyone seeks common ground. Typical of many of the marriages portrayed in these stories I've read by Carver, this marriage is skating on thin ice.

"Errand" by Raymond Carver

Topic: Anton Chekhov

Theme: A dramatization Anton Chekhov's last days.

It is obvious that Carver held enormous admiration for Chekhov and his work. The overall effect of this story is the author had an opportunity to interview everyone on the scene.

The significance of champagne cork is a mystery to me. The entire story seems to point toward it. Indeed, the story is named after the important "errand" that the bell boy has to go on to fetch the mortician. The young man picks up the cork. Is Carver trying to tell us that life goes on despite the fact that the world has lost one of its greatest writers?

Carver shares Chekhov's penchant for irresolute endings. Scholars love this type of ending; the ambiguity and possibilities for interpretation give them something to write about.

"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver

Topic: What is real love?

Tone: Cynicism toward love.

Theme: No one knows what love is. (At least not this bunch.)

Plot: Four people sit around, and while they get drunk, the try to convince each other of what love is. What they say about love is reveals contradictions in their character and fallacies in their viewpoints.

This story could have been written as a superb essay that probes the meaning of love, and how is true love manifested.

Almost everyone in this story is flawed in some way. They share the "Carverian" narrow-mindedness and the mono-manic trait that they must try to convince everyone else of their viewpoint.

Mel and Terri's marriage is marred from excess baggage carried over from their previous marriage. Their exchanges show fundamental incompatibilities. Terri is co-dependent; Mel has a great deal bitterness toward his ex-wife. At this time, they have an uneasy truce. Their marriage will eventually fail.

The narrator and his wife are still newlyweds. But Terri knows their love will fade, and they will bicker like her and Mel. It is still too early to tell if whether or not her prophesy will come try. Chances are, it will fail.

At the end of the story, everyone sits in the dark. This is symbolic of the fact that despite all the words shared, nothing has been accomplished; no one has convinced anyone of anything.

Along those lines, though the story contains a lot of back and forth banter about love, the story does not reveal any great insights into what love actually is. In the end, we are left in the dark just are as the characters.

"The Use of Force" by William Carlos Williams

Topic: Treating an unwilling patient.

Theme: 1) The use of force may sometimes fortify a caring, concerned nature. 2) Sometimes the use of force is much more humane than kindness.

Tone: Sympathy. Respect for defiance.

There is an undercurrent of gentleness and humility in Williams' writing. This is also evident in most of his poetry. Williams is astutely aware of human frailty.

Williams places the blame for the girl's behavior on the parents. In recognition of this, he lends the girl a kind of hesitant sympathy. Nevertheless, Williams realizes that he must prevail for the girl's own good. This arouses mixed feelings in him.

This story would not have worked so well if it turned out that the girl didn't have diptheria. Certainly, Williams earned his $3.00 on this house call!

"Paul's Case" by Willa Cather

Topic: Obsession

Theme: A lust for better things.

Something notable about this story is that though Paul loved to rub shoulders with artists and attend artistic events, he did not express any desire to become an artist himself. He seemed obsessed more with the luxurious lifestyle of affluent artists than actual artistic accomplishment. What Paul seeks above all else is diversion/escape from himself and the mundane world: "The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the overture to Mathilda, or jerked at the serenade from Rigoletto, all stupid and ugly things slid from him, and his senses were deliciously, yet delicately fired" (273).

Cather uses many "action verbs" to convey to the reader a sense of Paul's unbridled, frenetic energy. For example, to describe Paul's actions, she freely uses the words "ran," "dashed," and "bounded."

The red carnation, present from the beginning of the story, is symbolic of his aspirations beyond the dreary ordinariness of small town life. Only when after he buries his withered aspirations (symbolized by the carnation) does he take his life.

This story leaves me with many "what if's" I wonder what would have happened if an understanding teacher or family member sympathized with Paul and worked with him to develop his aspirations into some sort of artistic talent.

I also wonder what sort of artist Paul would have chosen to become. I would guess an actor or musician from his love of the stage and musical performance.

"A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner

Topic: The telling of a ghost story

Theme: 1) Eccentricity breeds insanity. 2) To possess someone is to be consumed by them.

Choosing to tell Miss Emily's story told from a third person's POV is quite effective. Like the narrator, we wonder what is really going on in the house. After all is revealed, it is a pleasure to think back on the story and compare the outcome with our previous perceptions.

Unlike a topic that came up during the class discussion of this story, I do not believe that Homer was a homosexual. To me, it appeared that he was exhibiting typical bachelor behavior. The fact that he spent time with young men suggests that he was immature. If he were a homosexual, why would he spend time with Emily at all? How could she choose to take interest in a man who is not even remotely interested in her? When one takes into account the sensibilities of the 1930s, it is improbable that it was the author's intent to portray Homer as a homosexual. I suspect Emily killed him because he was unwilling to marry her, and perhaps she discovered that he was untrue to her. Perhaps he feigned interest in marrying her until he had his way with her. Then, Emily's realization of his insincerity incited her to feel that he was a "rat."

I'm wondering what happened to Homer's carriage. Didn't the townspeople find it abandoned somewhere outside of town? Or did Emily break it up and use it for firewood? I think there could have been some mention of the carriage.

"The Evening Sun" by William Faulkner

The tension in this story is very thick. Though we know that Nancy is not entirely reliable, we cannot help but suspect for a moment that Jesus really is waiting for her in the ditch. Faulkner pulls cultivates this tension for the reader quite nicely.

There are quite a few comedic touches in this story. For example, Nancy's pathetic, thinly disguised attempts to keep the children at the cabin with her by distracting them with popcorn, etc... I wonder if the comedic effect was Faulkner's intent...

A clue: Nancy seems like a stereotype of the fearful, superstitious black that was popular in the comedic films of the 1930s.

"The Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant

Predictable, heavy-handed morale tale warning about the dangers of greed. At least we can hope that Mme. Loisel gave Mathilde back the $36,000 necklace so that the poor woman could enjoy the remainder of her days.

"The Darling" by Anton Chekhov

Topic: Co-Dependency (a modern term applied to old story)

Theme: Co-dependency that smothers.

Tone: Humane view of human relationships.

Plot: A woman finds her identity only though the love interests in her life. Chameleon-like, she seems to exist only as a mirror to those she loves. In the absence of these people, she has no identity, and she withers. After her last husband dies, after a period of withering, she becomes the surrogate mother of a young boy. The effect of her smothering co-dependency is apparent in the words the young boy utters in his sleep.

"The Lady with the Pet Dog" by Anton Chekhov

Topic: Falling in love.

Theme: Love is serious and complex. You never get you bargain for.

Tone: Humane. An unbiased look at relationships.

Plot: Two married people, one innocent and insecure, the other selfish and worldly, carry on with a surreptitious sexual affair. At first, their attraction is physical, but in the end, their attraction turns to love.

This story has a great deal in common with Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

Female protagonist's name is Anna.

Female protagonist is not in love with her flunky husband.

Travel by train.

Male pursues female love interest to her home city.

Love is obsessive.

Female protagonist is insecure.

Protagonists are upper class.

Story explores emotional consequence of forbidden love.

"So Much Water So Close to Home" by Raymond Carver

Theme: Misunderstanding between the sexes.

Plot: A woman feels differently toward her husband when she discovers that he and his fishing buddies left a drowned girl in the water during the three days of their fishing trip without bothering to call the authorities.

In this story, we have another frail marriage pushed over the edge by an incident that the wife (in this case) cannot come to terms with. The predominant feeling I have about this couple is that there is no love in Stuart and Claire's marriage, and the dissolution of their union began long before this story takes place.

Stuart cannot understand the Claire's viewpoint that he showed a blatant disrespect for life when he (and his friends) left the girl underwater for the duration of their fishing trip. Claire's unstated message is that the husband's preference to completing his fishing trip "shows" that he is a callous man inside.

The irony is that though Stuart shows insensitivity, on a pragmatic level, he is correct in that there was nothing he could do. What we have is Claire's rigid unwillingness to understand his point of view. She uses his apparent sensitivity as a springboard to dissolving the marriage. Stuart is the stereotypical clumsy male. When Claire is feeling ill toward him, he tries to seduce her. Her self-induced loathing of him causes her to make the final emotional break with her husband. Once mom moves in, it's all over. Isn't it interesting that Stuart's mother doesn't hold the fishing trip incident against him? (At least we don't hear about it if she does.)

I wonder what would have happened if Claire had talked Stuart into going to the funeral with her in Summit.

It's cool to see mention of local places when reading a world-renowned short story.

"A Small, Good Thing" by Raymond Carver

Topic: Grief.

Theme: Comfort may come from the most unlikely sources.

Tone: Sympathy.

Plot: While a couple is stressing over their child who lies in a coma, they receive anonymous, disparaging phone calls. After their son dies, they confront the baker whom they realize has been making the phone calls because they never picked up a birthday cake they ordered. After the baker realizes the situation, he contritely comforts the couple in their hour of grief.

The baker's life of isolation and loneliness is a plausible reason for his actions.

The "small, good thing" mentioned in the title is the simple muffins that the baker brings out for the bereaved couple. After an unfulfilling life bereft of social experience, this is best the baker has to offer. It is a humble gift considering the couple's great loss, but it is oddly appropriate. One also has to believe, too, that the baker is not so far out of touch with humanity that he cannot identify with the couple's grief.

Ironic ending. I'm glad that Raymond Carver didn't opt for a "Stephen King" ending where the couple take the life of the baker by somehow making a connection that he was the driver of the car who hit their son.

This is a very skillfully told, powerful and thoughtful story. I was moved to tears by this one. Far and away, this story is the most satisfying I've read by Raymond Carver.

"The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven" by Sherman Alexie

Topic: Social Awkwardness

Theme: A Native American is having difficulty fitting in with society.

Tone: Bitterness. Contempt. Self-loathing.

This story is more of a slice-of-life episode (or vignette) than a short story. Without looking at more of the author's work, I would say that this story is autobiographical.

Alexie has a wonderful talent for exposing ugly side of things. It's rather ironic that he described the 7-11 graveyard clerk so disparagingly when he worked that position himself.

It's difficult to determine what the author is trying to do. The main character doesn't seem to fit in anywhere. He has alienated himself from white society, Native American society, and his girlfriend (who seems to care for him sincerely). He is cynical of everyone. Everything strikes him as banal. I'm wondering what the author is trying to convey and how this message relates to the enigmatic title.

Can one really blame society for one's personal failure to find self-satisfaction?

"Mirrors" by Carol Shields

Topic: Getting old and becoming more like your mate.

Theme: Two people who have lived together for many years have become alike so that they are, in fact, mirrors of each other.

Tone: Cool observation.

This is a typical "plotless" contemporary story. Nothing much happens here, rather, the author presents us with an extended metaphor on how an elderly husband and wife have become mirrors of each other. Clever gimmick, but why should the reader be interested in this characters?

Writing is tightly controlled, conservative.

"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" by Joyce Carol Oates

Topic: Social Commentary

Theme: A young woman is seduced by a psychopath.

Tone: Wary observation.

This is the creepiest story of the bunch. Connie does not connect well with her parents which leaves her vulnerable to Arnold Friend's influence. Connie does not have a proper father figure. No one seems to understand her.

All the characters in this story are three-dimensional. One cannot fault Joyce Carole Oates for not fleshing out her characters.

One has to wonder what happens to Connie, whether or not she makes it home again after Arnold Friend takes her for a ride.

Arnold shows signs of a psychotic break with reality. He does not seem able to distinguish the dead from the living. For example, he asked Connie about the woman down the road with the chickens. He speaks about her as if she were still alive, though Connie knows (and tells Arnold) that the woman is dead. Arnold's inability to distinguish between death and life hints that he has only flagrant disregard for human life. "You're crazy," Connie says repeatedly. The reader, like Connie, knows the truth. Arnold does not seem to care, however. One of Arnold's redeeming features is that he tells the truth. He says what he is going to do, and then he does it. We have reason to suspect that he will do to Connie what he says he will do.

Part of the way through Arnold and Connie's encounter at the screen door, Ellie asks if Arnold wants him to cut the phone. This leads us to believe that Arnold has done this before, and some of his victims were not as compliant as Connie.

The language used by Arnold is reminiscent of the lyrics to Bob Dylan's songs. The lyrics are filled with sarcasm and underlying bitterness.

Arnold always knew Connie would leave the house to be with him. He knew Connie better than she knew herself. In the end, she breaks down; she succumbs to Arnold's spell: "She watched herself push the door slowly open as if she were back safe somewhere in the other doorway." Arnold was hungry. Connie was a plum ripe for picking. In the end, the girl must make a sacrifice to save her family from Arnold. Connie never had a chance.

"A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Type of Story: Fable, fairy tale.

This story is a delightful fairy tale. It revolves around an angel that mysteriously appears in a small seaside village. What is most striking about the angel is that unlike the classic idea that angels are divine beings, this angel seems organically based, that is, he seems to be made of flesh and blood. He is an old angel, too: "There were only a few faded hairs left on his bald skull and very few teeth in his mouth...." Marquez even says that the angel is flesh an blood in the fourth paragraph.

Incredibly, the village people are rather uninspired by the angel. They even debate clubbing him to death. The angel does not seem to have any magical powers as one would think angels would have. In fact, this angel is rather pathetic, even as compared to humans.

It is difficult to guess what the connection may be between the crabs and the angel. The crabs are dead and they begin to stink after three days. The angel stinks too. Perhaps Marquez is making a statement about he repugnance of religion. The angel is kept ignominiously in a chicken coop. (He has wings like a chicken, so why not?)

It becomes difficult to take the story seriously after traveling carnival comes to town with its unusual denizens such as the Portuguese man who couldn't sleep because of the noise from the stars and the poor woman who counted her heartbeats. The angel is made to seem like just another attraction. Finally, the spider woman arrives in town with the traveling show, and we know for certain that this is a fable.

By charging admission to see the angel, Pelayo has become wealthy. So, although the angel is flesh and blood, inadvertently, the angel brings good fortune to Pelayo and his family.

At the end of the fable, the angel flies off. One wonders where he flew too. He obviously had a destination in mind. This suggests that he may have had a home somewhere else on the planet. This story seems to take place in a parallel universe to ours: a world where the supernatural is commonplace.

"Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Topic: Social Satire

Theme: The result of personal and social equality taken too far.

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal." This is an ironic statement. The truth is that now everyone was mediocre. This line also suggests that this extreme, twisted form of equality is something society has sought for a long time.

This a negative utopia, or rather, a "dystopia."

Incredibly, instead of raising the bar of human achievement, the society of Harrison Bergeron has lowered it. This story seems to be a commentary on how it is just as wrong to discriminate against achievers as it is those who are handicapped. It seems to suggest that sometimes society needs excellence, and inequality is integral to the natural state of all things.

My favorite line: "Harrison's appearance was halloween and hardware." This line is memorably evocative of the extent of Harrison's handicaps.

The character, Harrison Bergeron, is the rebel. He represents reason. In this society, however, his call to revolution will result in failure. By complacency, all have submitted to the tyranny of Diana Moon Glampers and her ingenious handicaps. The people want this on a conscious level. Subconsciously, something else is at work—they still have remnants of their aspirations. This leads to the big question for this story: who handicaps Diana Moon Glampers?

"The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

Theme: The dangers of blindly following tradition.

The key to enjoyment of this story is the anticipation over what the lottery might be about. Jackson leads us to believe that there the lottery will result in something good for these the winner. Only in the final paragraphs do we realize the horrible thing in store of the loser of this sordid game.

Funny use of the name "Warner." Old Man Warner takes a baleful view of those who would buck tradition by doing away with the lottery.

The lottery is entrenched so deeply in the town psyche that the townspeople have made it the centerpiece of their life. There are even epithets surrounding the lottery: "Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon." References to the lottery even show up in their figures of speech.

This story warns of the danger of blindly following traditions as these people are doing. They don't even know why they still participate in the lottery. The black box was shabby, and the documents that once came with the box had been lost a long time ago. One thinks that the townspeople are being misled by tradition. One can picture Old man Warner saying without any real thought, "This is the way we've always done it, and this is the way it's gonna stay."

There is heavy irony in the final line Mrs. Hutchinson screams before she is stoned to death: "It isn't fair. It isn't right." Indeed, it was fair. She took the same chances everyone else did. And truly, it wasn't right, but by her submission to the lottery, she has tacitly accepted the terms of the lottery for better or worse.

"In the Cemetery where Al Jolson is Buried" by Amy Hempel

Topic: Death, loss, and motherhood.

Theme: Something "important" about death, loss and motherhood.

Plot: None.

"Tell me things I won't mind forgetting...Make it useless stuff or skip it."

These opening lines sum up what this story means to me. I'm eager to forget this story.

Although this story is an award winner, I found that in reality, it is a non-story. It suffers from a flaw in short story writing called the "X leads to X" syndrome. In other words, this story goes no where. The main character is unchanged by the events that take place in the story. There is no plot: it's just bits and pieces of trivial information that look like they were plucked out the Entertainment / Lifestyle section of a daily newspaper.

I don't buy the grief thing, either. The story ends with a poignant moment where the chimp signs her dead newborn, "Baby drink milk...Baby play ball." Hempel hopes that the reader will somehow to tie this into the drama of the dying rich woman. Hempel strives to convey some confused confluence of motherhood, loss and death. In my humble opinion, she fails. I think Hempel relies too much on the reader to make the connections here.

If this story is truly award-winning material, then I'd might was well give up writing my own fiction and paint houses for a living instead. Better yet, maybe I ought to get a rope and hang myself because I'm never going to get anything published. And if I do, my work will never receive recognition.

"Two Kinds" by Amy Tan

Topic: Teenage rebellion

Plot: A girl struggles against her mother's misplaced aspirations.

This is an episodic coming-of-age story that expounds on the timeless struggle of children against their parents. Nothing is new here.

Tan struggles against her mother's unrealistic expectations; her Chinese refugee mother wants Tan to become "famous." Tan rebels. Story climaxes with a talent show where Tan plays the piano badly. She makes everyone look like fool, including herself.

At the end of the story after her mother long is dead, Tan thumbs through her old piano book and wistfully realizes that things would have been a lot easier for her in her younger years if she had only gone with the flow.

Why do we need stories to learn of these simple things?

"Menagerie, A Child's Fable" by Charles Johnson

Topic: Social satire

Theme: Society needs laws and control to maintain order and equality.

This story is a social satire reminiscent of George Orwell's Animal Farm, only in Johnson's story, the issue is racial / social tolerance vs. anarchy instead of totalitarianism. As in Orwell's novel, the animals in "Menagerie" talk. The story is told from the Berkeley the watchdog who is also the consciousness behind the story. The owner/proprietor of the pet shop, Mr. Tilford, though oppressive, is the positive force that keeps the pet shop under control.

Johnson seems to suggest that without laws to keep our vicious natures in check, us humans would soon kill each other. So much is being said here.

Here's a quick breakdown of some of the symbolism involved:

Mr. Tilford = Law, government.

Berkeley = The conscience, the observer.

Pet Shop = World

Monkey = Id

Tortoise = Worldly wisdom

This story reminds me of a 1960s Simon and Garfunkel song called "At the Zoo." In this song, a menagerie of animals at a zoo are described with human characteristics. Not all of these characteristics are good. Like this story, the song gives us an outsider's view of our social behavior.

"Life" by Bessie Head

From the title, one would believe that this story is about life. Instead, it is the name of the main character of interest in a Botswanan village. But "Life" is not only the name of the character, he name is a metaphor of the day-to-day experience of the village.

After Botswana gains independence in 1963, Life returns to her home village bringing with her the worldly experience she attained while living in the big city. At first the village people welcome her, but later they realize that the values she has brought back from the big city are toxic to their way of life. In time, she corrupts the men in the town with debauchery and prostitution.

The irony comes at the end of the story when Lesogo, the man who married and subsequently killed Life, was given a lenient sentence of five years imprisonment for murdering her. One can wonder what the sentence would have been if it has been a woman who had killed her husband. Furthermore, what would be different if the perpetrator of the crime were white?

Incidentally, Lesogo never answers her friend Sianana's question of why he killed her. The song, "When Two Worlds Collide," mentioned in the following, final paragraph seems explanation enough.

My favorite line in the story: "They [the village men] could get all the sex they needed for free in the village, but it seemed to fascinate them that they should pay for it for the first time." This revelation doesn't make the men seem altogether too bright, but this behavior is sadly typical of men in every part of the world.

"A Good Man is Hard to Find"

"Good Country People"

"Everything That Rises Must Converge"

by Flannery O'Connor

Fascinating bunch of stories. They have some features in common. The grandmothers in "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and "Everything That Rises Must Converge" are irritating. Both view the world through their fantasies and "rose-colored" glasses. Both have a hen-pecked son who seems dysfunctional as a result of their upbringing.

In a sense, the grandmother in "Good Man" is a misfit herself. She lies and exaggerates occasionally to place herself at the center of attention. For example, she exaggerates about the house having secret panels then she says nothing about her error when she realizes the house they are driving towards is actually in another state.

The grandmother in "Good Man" is particularly irritating. The misfit mirrors the reader's possible feeling toward the grandmother when he says: "She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her everyday of her life." It is surprising that she met her end that way, but fitting just the same.

The women in "Good Country People" are quirky like the grandmothers in the other two stories. "Good Country People" also view the world from their narrow perspectives. One of the women, Mrs. Hopewell, uses canned anecdotes as part of her speech. For example, "Nothing is perfect" is one of Mrs. Hopewell's favorite sayings. "That is life" and "Everybody is different" are others she uses. Mrs. Freeman is quirky in that she focuses on the dark undersides of things and enjoys hearing repeated details of sickness and death.

Hulga/Joy has allowed herself to become a victim over the loss of her leg. I'm wondering what Mrs. Hopewell could have done differently in raising her to bring her out that mode. One does not feel sorry for Hulga when the Bible salesman leaves with her leg. The deceiver has been deceived herself.

The son in "Everything That Rises" knows his prejudiced mother well, probably better than she knows herself. He despises her behavior. He wants to disassociate himself from her. By the end of the story though, at her death, he realizes that no matter how much he may try to disassociate himself from her, she is an integral part of his being. The scene at the end reminds me of the adage that you don't know how much you value something until it is gone.

Flannery pays a great deal attention to clothing. She describes the clothing worn by nearly every character in her stories. Ingenious device: we may draw conclusions about the characters by visualizing the type of clothing they wear.

"Videotape" by Don DeLillo

Topic: Voyeurism

Theme: People have a morbid fascination with recorded acts of mutilation and death.

Story is told in the second person. This story appears to be an essay. Probably, it is considered to be a story since it is 1) Told in the second person. 2) Is fictional; the situation never happened.

"Videotape" explores our morbid fascination with "real-life" video. He is well aware of the voyeuristic tendency in people, and he expounds upon it, viewing all aspects of the phenomenon. He is correct on all counts. People are fascinated with videotaped events of people dying, or being hurt or mutilated or killed. This is why there is such as proliferation of television shows that give us exactly that. "Cops" is an example. These shows are wildly popular.

Like a good essayist, DeLillo summarizes the point of his essay his final paragraph: "They show it because it exists, because they feel they have to show it, because this is why they're out there. The horror freezes your soul but this doesn't mean that you want them to stop."

"River of Names" by Dorothy Allison

It is very difficult to read this story and not be affected by the violence it describes. On one hand, I cannot believe that people can life and die the way Allison describes. On the other, I'm ashamed to think that all this takes place in our country.

Story is broken into episodes. It seems that Allison is describing these brutal events to her lover, Jesse. Occasionally, Allison breaks out of her recollections to describe some interaction between the two women.

The "river of names" in this story appears to me as a river that flows through hell. Carried within its waters are the innocents in her sordid childhood who met violent ends, those who were victims of brutality and abuse. She describes it as "I've got a dust river in my head, a river of names endlessly repeating. That dirty river rises in me, all those children screaming out their lives in my memory." Allison cannot help but feel affected by her memories. One feels certain that Allison, in Jessie, can find sustenance and possibly salvation.

The last line is problematic for me. Why does Allison admit that she lies? Does she mean this in an ironic sense: reality cloaked as "funny" stories? Or is Allison admitting that she isn't telling the truth about her past?

"The Lesson" by Toni Cade Bambara

I would like Sylvia in "The Lesson" to meet some black leaders to give her awareness of her social condition. The three I'd like her to meet are Malcom X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jessie Jackson. Though the message of all three of these leaders is radically different in a lot of ways, all of them spoke of black pride and the hope that there is a greater world out there worth taking hold of.

Malcom X could show Sylvia that although she is downtrodden, she must have pride in herself and strive to take control of her destiny. Malcom could make her aware that her life is not as it should be. Martin Luther King Jr. could teach Sylvia that "passive resistance" is the best way to attain her goals; she must stand up for what she believes without resorting to violence. Jessie Jackson could give her the example of blacks living on the brink of the 21st Century. He embodies the value of education and the potential of the black political force. Mr. Jackson could also teach Sylvia about honesty and the need to act responsibly in regards to all races.

It seems that Sylvia is a leader of a sort. If she learned something useful from meeting these men, then perhaps, Rosie, Sugar, Flyboy and some of her other friends (present) in the story might be influenced to change. If Sylvia realizes her predicament, that is, she realizes that there is life outside the ghetto, and that there are goals in life worth attaining, she could guide those who look up to her. Perhaps with some guidance, Sylvia could become a leader of Black community. Perchance this came to pass, Miss Moore would be proud.

"A Good Man is Hard to Find" by Flannery O'Connor

This story reminds me of the movie, "National Lampoon's Vacation." I'm not referring to the part at the end where the Misfit's gang shoots the family, but rather, the odyssey of driving on vacation with the family.

Most components of the movie are present in story. We have the pain-in-the-butt grandmother in the back seat, the tense son (son-in-law) driving the car, the grandmother's cat (dog) that has come along for the ride (that later starts trouble), the car accident, scarcely concealed annoyance with one another, and the fighting kids. I don't think it was stated in the story, but probably both parties are driving a station wagon. A "Family Truckster," maybe? Both stories have comical qualities. With the O' Connor story, of course, the comedy is much more subtle.

Incidentally, the short story that appeared in National Lampoon that "Vacation" is based on is a chronicle of an actual family vacation that took place in the early sixties. The time frame of the Lampoon story is close to the period when O' Connor's wrote her story. Therefore, there are similarities in setting.

"Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her" by Susan Griffin

Tagline: "You bad men, you! You should be ashamed of yourself with your half-baked notions of womankind! You abusers! Up with the woman—down with the male!"

I was not aware of how profound a woman's love of nature can be and how closely it can be linked to well-being. Evidently, women experience nature differently than men do.

Susan Griffin is right; men typically view nature as something to be conquered, tamed, and exploited. Without a doubt, men have historically the same things to women as he has done to nature. But a lot has changed in the last 30 years since "Woman and Nature" was written. Men are not the creatures they used to be. We are much kinder, we listen more, and I think a woman would be hard pressed to find one of us who thinks that she deserves less pay or fewer rights than we do. Perhaps I am being a bit overly optimistic, I believe that the vestiges of social inequality that remain in our society will eventually dissolve as more women enter politics and the decision-making bodies of large corporations.

On a similar note, I'm inclined to think that big business and multi-national corporations are currently the world's greatest enemy due to the environmental destruction they cause and oppression they perpetuate in third world countries.

Competitive nature of men, woman's sympathy, Negroes and Mongols as inferior beings, dates of momentous occasions, energy, man as source of all that is wholesome with women as fuel (?), sexual traits of gender.

I should have read the epigraph, first. It reads, "These words are written for those of us whose language is not heard, whose words have been stolen or erased, those robbed of language, who are called voiceless or mute, even the earthworms, even the shellfish or the sponges, for those of us who speak our own language...." Now, who do we suppose the oppressors are?

Whenever I read a feminist work with the tone and slant of Susan Griffin's Women and Nature, I wonder, "What is the ultimate aim of feminism?" Do women want to be considered equal to men in every way, or do they simply want celebration of their distinction from men? Is release from oppression enough, or do they seek a position of superiority?

I think that this book is a difficult read for men, partly because it reads like an accusation. As for myself, I felt as though I was being punished for a crime I did not commit. In other words, the roaring lioness bit me.

"A Country Year: Living the Questions" by Sue Hubbell:

I enjoyed this book very much. Part of what kept me reading is the scientific fact interspersed within the details of nature and Hubbell's down-to-earth personal introspection.

Sue Hubbell has such an easy writing style that I simply devoured this book in one sitting. Needless to say, I found that this book was much easier read and infinitely more accessible and enjoyable than Woman and Nature.

"Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" by Annie Dillard

Dillard seems fixated on death; death is a dominant theme throughout the text. Her philosophy is a confluence of Zen-like mysticism and Darwinian survival of the fittest. Consider the lines, "Everything is a survivor" (Dillard 9), and after the creek floods, "Most things simply die. They couldn't live. Then I suppose that when the water goes down and clears, the survivors have a field day with no competition" (155).

Dillard's has a Zen-like take on the relationship between innocence and the spirit: "What I call innocence is the spirit's unself-conscious state at any moment of devotion to any object. It is at once receptiveness and total concentration" (83).

For Dillard, death is ever-present: "But moments are not lost. Time out of mind is time nevertheless.... From even the deepest slumber you wake with a jolt—older, closer to death, and wiser, grateful for breath," and later, "I'm in the market for present tense" (86). According to Dillard, we are all creatures of time. She states nicely the intertwining of time and human existence: "Time is the one thing we have been given and we have been given to time" (87).

At times, Dillard lapses into incoherence both literally and figuratively. The scientific research is not wholly accurate, either. But most importantly, her text contains some philosophical contradictions. For example, first she writes, "There is more to life than a series of snapshots. We are not merely sensitized film; we have a memory for information and an eidetic memory for the imagery of our own pasts" (85). The inference is that this statement is a universal truth, applicable to everyone. Yet Dillard later contradicts herself, or at least she suggests that she does not possess such a trait: "I can never discover the connection between any one scene and what I am more consciously thinking, nor can I ever conjure the scene back in full vividness" (94).

She seems to enjoy subjecting the reader to hyperbole and overstatement. Consider the lines: "The world is wilder than that in all directions, more bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain or Lazarus" (274). Let's not forget that she decided to live a few years in the woods because she needed to take a "time-out" from life. Figuratively, what she is doing during the course of writing this book is the contemplative activity of making hay and raising tomatoes.

Fecundity is definitely a sore topic for Dillard. The chapter "Fecundity" opens with her dour reaction to the mating of two Luna moths: "It was the perfect picture of utter degradation" (161). For reasons she never states directly, the process disgusts her. "I don't know what it is about fecundity that so appalls," (162) she admits. It seems that it is mostly fecundity in the animal kingdom that appalls her the most: "Fecundity is anathema only in the animal. 'Acres and acres of rats' has a suitably chilling ring to it that is decidedly lacking if I say instead, 'acres and acres of tulips'" (167). While reading the chapter, I suspected that Dillard's abhorrence of fecundity was the result of her anxiety over childbirth or the despoiling of nature from overpopulation. But after finishing the chapter, I felt that her chapter articulated a hidden fear/revulsion of sexual intercourse.

Dillard uses a lot of ink expressing her meditations on mortality. She has a superb way of stating large concepts with succinct word-bites. If impending death ever became an occasion for celebration, I believe that much of her witty prose would be suitable for quotation in a new line of Hallmark greeting cards. Imagine getting a Dillard Hallmark card from a friend in response to your protracted, serious illness. Depicted on front of the card is a lovely pine forest blanketed by a soft, white mist. Inside the card is a quote from Dillard in elegant cursive script: "It is not a pine tree I see but a thousand. I myself am not one, but legion, and we are all going to die." [Taken from page 163.]

I was disappointed to read that Dillard had manufactured many of the incidences in this book. I will admit that during the reading, small cues and inaccuracies within the text had made me doubt the veracity of some of the events. I attributed the peculiarities mainly to overstatement rather than outright fictionalization, however. So, I admit that I was fooled. I believe that although most of Dillard's philosophies are sound (if one can disregard the contradictions), that the fictionalization of events detract from the work as a whole, and the lack of authenticity blights her reliability. Nonetheless, the fact that she actually admits to the fictionalization (many years later) indicates that she has progressed in her personal life since the book was written, and this is not a bad thing.

"Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place" by Terry Tempest Williams

Trite Tagline: "Suffering and death are part of nature. Get used to it because it happens to people who don't deserve it."

Like Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, this book meditates on suffering, existential loneliness, and death. This time, death is much more tangible, and thus its impact on the reader is more powerful.

A lot of the peripheral information that Tempest Williams provides appealed to me. I particularly enjoyed reading her reference to "Carnival of Souls," which is one of my favorite horror films of all time. Mention of the film was apt for the book. A principle articulated by "Carnival of Souls" is that death is frightening because it is mysterious, and it is easy to make the connection that death is awful because the decay of the body is such an ugly thing. It is difficult to see how anything can come of death, particularly the death of one so young and attractive. But do those leering spirits really seem to be having such an awful time in the afterlife?

I also enjoyed the historical references to one of my favorite books, Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward. I did not know that Bellamy based some of his ideas on the Mormon concept of the community general store.

The lake is a metaphor for the struggle between nature and man's technology. As the level of the lake swells, as the state of William's mother's health deteriorates. And similar to the uselessness of technology to eradicate her cancer, the lake swells out of control.

In the end, both situations take care of themselves, and the cancer can even be viewed as an opportunity for personal development. Williams also associates her love for the birds with her love for her mother. When the birds suffer and eventually fail to thrive so does Williams's mother.

Tempest draws a great deal of inspiration from her Mormon faith; nonetheless, she does is not a stereotypical Mormon woman. She is too outspoken, too independent for that role. And paradoxically, she does not mention her husband very often.

There is no shortage of powerful writing here: "Cancer. The word has infinite power. It kills us with its name first, because we have allowed it to become synonymous with death" (Williams 43).

The story takes a surprising turn in the final chapter, "The Clan of the One-Breasted Women," when fallout from the testing of atomic weapons is implicated in the genesis of cancer in Tempest William's mother. I did not expect this turn, but indeed it adds unity to the story.

I am always struck with wonder why male doctors always choose to do radical mastectomies instead of simply removing the tumor, as would be done if the tumor were located in some other fleshy part of the body. Does not he believe that breasts are essential organs, too? Doesn't the woman's self-esteem count? Is there no sympathy to be had? I believe that the prevention of mutilation should be a close secondary consideration of the surgeon when it comes to eradicating cancer from the body.

I'm afraid that I couldn't find my way into this book for a number of reasons. I must mention that I was partially put off by the extended references to birds, creatures that mean nothing to me in terms of symbolism. I believe that birds are a tired, overused metaphor in the world's literature. Without intending to slight the writing of Ms. Williams, I would like to say that using birds to represent this or that is the easy way out for a writer or poet who is bankrupt of original ideas.

By the way, the noble-looking great bald eagle, the symbol of our natural pride, is actually a carrion-eater. Like the vulture, the eagle prefers rotting flesh over live game because it is too lazy to hunt. Does this tell us anything about our country other than the fact that we are obsessed with appearances?

"The Solace of Open Spaces" by Gretel Ehrlich

Tagline: "Misconceptions about prairie life abound. Women have their place there, too."

As does Hubbell, Ehrlich has such an accessible, easy writing style that I finished her book in one sitting. So far, I am undecided on which of the two books I enjoyed more.

I was soundly impressed with Ehrlich's descriptions of the immense rustic beauty of Wyoming. But evidently, depending on the time of year, the weather can make the plains a hellish place to live. One description of the brutal winters stands out in my reading: "A Wyoming winter laminates the earth with white, then hardens the lacquer work with wind.... Every three days or so white pastures glide overhead and drop themselves like skeins of hair to earth... Patches of frostbite show up on our noses, toes, and ears. Skin blisters as if cold were a kind of radiation to which we've been exposed (72). This description could very well be of an Alaskan winter.

There is an unusual amount of tenderness in the sheepherder, the cow herders, and the other men who work the ranches. Her descriptions cut through the stereotypes of these men (and women) to reveal them as people much like anyone else with fears and concerns, loves and prejudices. I did notice, however, that the plains do seem to attract a large number of oddball characters and misfits. Possibly, sheep herding is just the vocation for someone who is borderline mentally ill, because out in a rustic trailer in the middle of no where, no one will trouble this person, and he or she will not trouble anyone else.

Ehrlich drops many quotable lines in this work, but a significant one that touches upon the core of the work is the line she wrote to a friend: "True solace is finding one, which is to say it is everywhere" (41).

Another significant theme in the work is that nature is the mirror and the catalyst that pushes us forward like river: "Everything in nature invites us constantly to be what we are. We are often like rivers: careless and forceful, timid and dangerous, lucid and muddied, eddying, gleaming, still" (84). Later, to make her point, she quotes Thoreau: "A man's life should be as fresh as a river. It should be the same channel but a new water every instant" (84). In other words, we should keep moving and renewing ourselves with new experiences.

Erhlich does not romanticize the Native Americans, yet she does spend a significant amount of ink describing their ceremonies. But she does not leave out the small details that suggest the cheesy influence of Americana on the Native Americans—they drive pick-up trucks, work corn-dog stands, play Bingo and poker, and have an abhorrence for pink medicine teepees.

"Gift from the Sea" by Anne Morrow Lindbergh:

Tagline: "Life on the half-shell. The alternate title of this book could be 'All I ever need to know about Life I learned from the Sea.'"

I purchased this book used. Inside the cover, someone wrote in red ink, "Cindy—A special little book that speaks of our past & our future. Enjoy—Love, Sue." After reading that when I sat down to read this book, I was worried. I figured that if this book were any good then Cindy would have kept her gift after she was done reading it. I prepared myself for onerous read. Well, I didn't have to. This book is excellent, and Cindy must have been crazy to sell it back to the bookstore.

This book reminds me very much of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. As I did with The Prophet, I will pass this book on to some people that I know will benefit from it, after the course is over.

Of all the books we have read so far, I believe that this one is the most profound and applicable to day-to-day life—even for men. Lindbergh has successfully used the dangerously tired images of the seashore and seashells in a novel, innovative way. This book is so full of great quotes that I could not possibly list them all here. There are a few ideas that are lingering with me. I'll try to paraphrase them here:

Relationships start off as simple and uncomplicated. The beginning is the most carefree time of a relationship. Soon, however, things become complicated, and the relationship changes forever. Sometimes relationships thrive; other times they die. The certainty is that relationships continually evolve, and "one learns to accept the fact that no permanent return is possible to an old form of relationship; and, more deeply still, that there is no holding of a relationship to a single form" (Lindbergh 74-5)

The double-sunrise shell is the symbol for romantic love. It is elegant, but unlike the oyster, it is fragile: "It is the bond of romantic love which fastens the double-sunrise shell, only one bond, one hinge. And if that fragile link is snapped in the storm, what will hold the halves to each other? In the oyster stage of marriage, romantic is only one of the many bonds that make up the intricate and enduring web that two people have built together" (82-3).

Loving someone does not mean loving someone always the same way continuously. Love changes; it ebbs and flows like the tide, which is a natural thing. Furthermore, there is no "one and only" person you love, just one and only moments with that person. Life does not allow the expression of love to be any other way, nor should it be.

These are the seashells Lindbergh discusses and what they represent:

Channelled Whelk: Represents the ever-widening circles of contact, a simplification of life, and the understanding that answers must come from within.

Moon Shell: Signifies solitude and the need to turn inward for strength.

Double Sunrise: Represents unity in love and a periodic, temporary return to a simple, pure relationship.

Oyster: Symbolizes the additions and changes to life during the course of marriage due to children.

Argonauta: Signifies the idea that two can love together but grow separately.

And finally...

The Abandoned Shell: Represents the emptiness one feels after the kids have grown up and moved away. (This shell is discussed in afterward "Gift from the Sea Re-opened.")

Lindbergh seems to have become rather jaded while the process of raising her five children. Frequently, she refers back to how difficult is to maintain her household. In one instance, she writes, "My life in Connecticut lacks this quality of significance and therefore of beauty, because there is so little empty space. The space is scribbled on; the time has been filled...too many activities, and people, and things" (115). I believe that there is some validity in Lindbergh's belief that women do not achieve greatness often compared to men because they are mired in the demands of domesticity.

"Uncommon Waters: Women write about Fishing" edited by Holly Morris

Tagline: "Some women who fish really like it, but they like it for different reasons."

Who would have guess that women would be interested in fishing? A woman who fishes certainly does not fit the stereotype. Evidently, some of the women are filled with enthusiasm for the hobby just as are some men.

Personally, I'm not into fishing. I remember catching trout from an ancient concrete dam on the Platte River in Colorado during my boyhood. I recall my uncles and older cousins afterward gutting the fish by the barbecue. I witnessed a fish's heart beating one of them cut it away from the body and dumped it, still beating, into the trash can. After that, I decided I didn't like fishing anymore. That was over thirty years ago. The urge to fish has never returned.

Nevertheless, I can appreciate the hobby, and I enjoy reading about someone's enthusiasm. Like the other books we read this quarter, I probably would never have read this book on my own. I'm glad I did.

A significant phenomenon that was mentioned in several stories was the personification of the fish by the angler and the empathic bond that the angler sometimes feels for the fish at the other end of the line.

My favorite piece in this book was "Abe Lincoln Slept Here." I particularly liked the character of Sutherland's mother. I found her enthusiastic ruminations hilarious. Some of my favorite lines spoken by her are "You just know there's a ten-pound bass waiting for me in there! I hope it's a stupid one!"(Sutherland 18), and "I regret to inform you, Lord Bass-ship, that the inscrutable order of the universe has destined you to serve in the dual role of Guest and Dish at this evening's festivities" (19). And did they really set up camp in Abe Lincoln's cabin? I wonder if this story is true.

I also enjoyed "The Bassing Gal" by Sugar Ferris. This story offers us a unique perspective into the experiences of both the silvery bass and the clever gal who catches her. I was so involved in this story that I nearly held my breath while the Gal was deciding whether or not to toss the bass back after she caught her. (I wanted her to!)

Lorian Hemingway's "The Young Woman and the Sea" is indeed reminiscent of the elder Hemingway's novella, "The Old Man and the Sea." This is a tale of personal growth; the struggle with the marlin mirrors her struggle to live up to her grandfather's legacy. After Lorian finally catches the marlin (after so many years) she realizes that she has nothing left to prove. She later realizes that her "cross" has different dimensions that the one her grandfather bore, and so now she must find her own way through life instead of trying to duplicate his.

"The Treatise of Fishing with an Angle" by Dame Juliana Berners was also a notable work, particularly of its historical value. The author of this work makes quite a convincing case for the practicalities of fishing over other forms of outdoor activities such as hunting and trapping. After she does so, she writes "Thus, I have proved, according to my purpose, that the sport and game of angling is the true means and cause that brings a man into a merry spirit" (99). What is remarkable about this work is that it expounds upon the spiritual benefits of fishing as well as the material benefits. Notably, the treatise covers fishing etiquette. According to some of the other writers in this collection, fishing etiquette is becoming less and less common at the overcrowded fishing ponds.

The other story of historical significance is "Woman's Hour has Struck" by C.R.C., which was written in 1890. So women weren't expected to enjoy fishing in those days, and so they had to keep it their secret passion hidden like everything else they did?

"Women" by Alice Walker

These are the tough, old black women that Alice Walker writes about in "In Search of our Mother's Gardens." Of Jean Toomer, she writes, "When the poet Jean Toomer walked through the South in the early twenties, he discovered a curious thing: black women whose spirituality was so intense, so deep, so unconscious, that they were themselves unaware of the richness they held" (Paragraph 2).

"Women" is reminiscent of a poem in Jean Toomer's Cane called "Face." In this poem, Toomer traces the timeworn contours of the face of an old black woman that is "purple in the evening sun / nearly ripe for worms" (Toomer 14). The woman has "Brows— / recurved canoes / quivered by the ripples blown by pain." In these descriptions, Toomer blends the description of the woman of the poem with the kind of worn hardness born of suffering that denotes strength, which is not unlike the women of Alice Walker's poem.

The black woman is much more spiritual than she may realize, and if she searches inside herself for the Christ-like self-sacrifice and suffering of the collective soul of her race, she can articulate this spirituality.

"Forgiveness" by Alice Walker

Does maturity prevent us from resolving the guilt we feel?

I suppose that we find it easy to forgive ourselves when we are children. But as we age, we become increasingly unable to let go of those things that we regret doing. We soon become unable to forgive ourselves. And if we are unable to forgive ourselves, what does that say about our capacity to forgive others?

"Rolling Naked in the Morning Dew" by Pattianne Rogers

Lillie Langtry was a famous socialite/actress of the late nineteenth century. Born in England on October 13, 1853, she is widely considered America's first superstar.

There are probably few better representations of felicity than the act of rolling through the soft dewy grass without a care in the world, enveloped within gentle, bounteous nature. The problem with this act, which is not mentioned, is the presence of chiggers. Rolling through the grass naked, particularly in the Midwest where the author lives, would cause a calamitous, body-wide case of chiggers, which would have tormented her with unbearable itching on every surface of her body for weeks after. Rogers does not indicate in the poem whether or not she rolled naked in the dew after her first time. Thus, we can conclude that rolling naked in the morning dew is best suited as an ideal rather than an actual practice.

Despite my poking fun at it, I enjoyed this poem very much.
Section VIII – Other Works

# Possibilities in Active Interpretation of Nonverbal Communication

There is an old folk saying that actions speak louder than words. Nonverbal communication conveys more than 65 percent of the meaning in a message (Brownell 186). Outside this 65 percent, only about 7 percent of the emotional meaning of a message is conveyed through explicit verbal channels. The rest is communicated through paralanguage (Mehrabian 118). It follows that there is a wealth of information to be gained by consciously noting and analyzing such nonverbal cues. Nonverbal communication appears to offer a great many possibilities for gaining insight into a speaker's message. But can conscious recognition of nonverbal communication really be used to gain accurate information about the speaker? How accurately can an active listener decode one's nonverbal cues?

Nonverbal communication is comprised of facial expression, eye contact, body movement and posture, touch, vocal characteristics, and appearance. Of all of these, the face is the most powerful source of nonverbal cues. Facial displays are partly innate and partly learned. People learn to use facial expressions to intensify or de-intensify feelings and to neutralize or mask other emotions. According to researcher and author Judi Brownell, most people can accurately identify six distinct facial expressions: happiness, sadness, surprise, fear, anger, and disgust (189). Faces are also able to blend two emotions simultaneously. The problem with trying to read faces is that the face readily hides nonverbal messages. When one is telling a lie, the nonverbal cues in the face often mislead the listener. In this case, a lack of expression can hide deceit. This is where the term "poker face" originated.

Eye contact is closely tied to facial expression, and is affected by both situational variables and by such factors as gender, status, age, attraction and personal style. The amount of eye contact is also influenced by culture. (For the purposes of this paper, I will limit the discussion to eye contact in the United States.) Eye contact tends to be greater when the communicators are female, extroverted, self-confident, discussing impersonal topics, when they are distanced from each other, and when one is interested in the other's reactions. Conversely, the frequency of eye contact decreases when one is embarrassed. Notably, there is a tendency to avoid eye contact while one is telling a lie. If the situational variables would indicate that eye contact in a speaker is likely, but eye contact is minimal, then the speaker is suspect.

Eye contact can also be used as a gauge to determine a speaker's attitude and sincerity toward a listener. Researcher Patricia Webbink has observed that eye contact also serves to identify both positive and negative feelings. For example, if one says "I love you" or "I hate you," the lack of eye contact may decrease the intensity of such a statement (128). She further observes that "the deeper the love is (and, one may presume, the deeper the intimacy), the more eye contact will be evident" (89). Miles Patterson has found numerous studies that found that the mutual gaze between a man and woman increases as the relationship becomes more intimate (477). These findings suggest that an active listener who watches a speaker's eyes may be able to gauge the attitude of the speaker toward him or her.

It must be stated that not all facial expressions are noticed consciously, particularly those related to the eyes. Observers often react to dilated pupils in the absence of other verbal or visual cues. They think something such as, "I just get a feeling that she likes me." Pupils dilate when the speaker is excited, happy, or interested2. Conversely, the pupil shrinks when one is bored, disinterested or angry. Listeners react to the degree of dilation; people with dilated pupils are usually judged as warm and approachable. Those with small pupils are viewed as cold or unfriendly. When one gets a feeling about someone in the absence of other cues, it may be due to a subconscious reaction to pupil dilation. Many factors affect pupil dilation besides emotion. The level of light and some medications also affect pupil dilation. When consciously using pupil dilation to draw a conclusion about a person's emotional state or attitude, these factors should be taken into consideration.

Paralanguage, which refers to the nonverbal aspects of a person's voice, accounts for up to a third of meaning assigned to a given message. The parameters of paralanguage are volume, pitch, and rate. Volume is often associated with credibility and conviction, and people who speak loudly often project ideas with self-confidence and force. The opposite holds true for soft-spoken speakers. Often, listeners assume these people are embarrassed, lack conviction, or are less confident. Pitch may convey sarcasm by placing emphasis on certain words. Pitch also conveys emotions. A person who is upset or anxious will speak in a high pitch since these states cause the vocal cords to tighten. The rate at which someone speaks reveals clues to his or her emotional state. A tense, excited, or upset person is likely to speak faster than one who is feeling exhausted, jaded, or calm. Most of the time, one does not have to listen consciously to the volume, pitch, and rate of a person's voice to pick up on nonverbal cues. This comes naturally to most people.

Another aspect of paralanguage is the quality of one's voice. A person's character and emotional state affect voice quality. Voice qualities can be described as nasal, hoarse, raspy, or breathy. Most voice types are attached to stereotypes. Subconscious identification of voice type with these stereotypes influences one's interpretation of the message. For example, a carping wife's voice might be described as "harsh," and a social misfit (or geek) might have a voice described as "squeaky." Additionally, whenever one is feeling emotionally charged, this causes a corresponding change in voice quality. The problem with using the quality of one's voice to determine character are the stereotypes we carry around with us. These ingrained stereotypes, such as the gravelly voice of a "John Wayne" type can mislead us. Before including the quality of a person's voice to determine character, it is wise to evaluate other verbal and nonverbal cues.

Paralanguage has a part in revealing when one is being deceptive. Research shows that virtually everything one uses to discern whether someone is lying comes from the nonverbal and paralanguage realms (Zukerman 45). Researchers Paul Ekman and Mark Frank write that lying can sometimes be detected in a person who carefully considers each word spoken, particularly in contexts in which responses should be known without thought. This hesitation in speech is often coupled with a flattened voice intonation, averted gaze and a decrease in hand gestures (185). Therefore, conscious recognition of cues in paralanguage, particularly with other types of nonverbal cues, may be useful in detecting lies.

In addition to paralanguage, there are a wide variety of unconscious gestures that a listener may observe to determine a speaker's intentions or emotional state. One of these is self-touching, which is a subconscious gesture or movement that one uses to calm him/herself in moments of stress. Such an unconscious gesture usually expresses emotions that may be concealed in the face. Researcher Michael Argyle states that self-touching is sometimes associated with hostility and suspicion. Touching the face goes with shame or other negative attitudes towards the self (198). Self-touching can also be a courting display. A mild flirting gesture used by most women is the flipping back the hair over the ear with the hand. Gestures such as these are performed (and usually observed) on a subconscious level. Though the verbal component of a sender's message may differ greatly from the nonverbal component, the nonverbal gesture will often "leak" a sender's true inner feelings, emotions and attitudes.

Posture plays a role in conveying mood and feeling. Posture conventionally refers to bodily position as distinct from body movements. A forward lean conveys a more positive feeling than a reclining position. Researcher Peter Bull notes that "increased intimacy results in increased eye contact and increased number of forward leans" (23). In addition to body orientation, the degree to which a communicator's shoulders and legs are turned in the direction of, rather than away from, his addressee, can also serve as a measure of his status or of his liking of the addressee (Mehrabian 24).

Just as affinity affects orientation, the distance that people stand from each other may reveal their feelings toward each other. Argyle states that people stand closer to others whom they like, and "people generally sit side by side with close friends, while with those they do not like they choose a directly facing opposite position" (172, 173). Males, in a hostile situation with another male, adopt a directly facing position with a high level of gaze, suggesting vigilance in the reaction to perceived physical threat. The exception to this is when two friends eat (male or female), they prefer to sit across from each other. Consciously recognizing these cues in bodily position, particularly as an outside observer, can yield useful insights into the relationships between two individuals.

Overall appearances also play a part in nonverbal communication, particularly in first encounters. For better or worse, initial reaction to a person often has a powerful influence on subsequent interactions. Negative first impressions, once formed, are difficult to overcome. Furthermore, there is a strong correlation between physical attractiveness and success. Attractive women, in particular, are judged to be more credible than women who are plain or unattractive. These assessments are constructed by comparing the person's appearance to stereotypes. A skilled decoder of nonverbal cues is aware of this temptation and will resist making snap judgments of a person based on stereotypes.

Most nonverbal communication is performed unconsciously; that is, the subject is not aware that he or she is sending signals. But how unconscious is nonverbal communication? Rime and Schiaratura conducted an experiment in which they had two people communicate with each other across a partition in which neither could see the other. The researchers found that the nonverbal cues did not decrease significantly (240). Since the subjects made nonverbal gestures outside the presence of a listener, it is safe to conclude that the gestures probably originated from the subconscious, which means that they reflected an accurate part of the subjects' messages. This case is not unusual considering the gesturing and facial movement observed in people holding phone conversations.

Not all nonverbal communication is initiated outside of awareness, however. Some gestures (with mutually agreed meanings) are used as an adjunct to speech and are often used on their own. Some of these are the pat on the back, which indicates encouragement; the thumb down, which indicates disapproval; clapping, which suggests approval; and rubbing the stomach, which indicates one is hungry. Most of these universally interpreted nonverbal cues do not usually need conscious interpretation unless deceit is suspected.

Nonverbal communication is also used in listening feedback. These "back-channel" gestures, given by the listener, influence the speaker, and in return, affect his or her nonverbal communication. According to Argyle, the two most common nonverbal gestures given by listeners are head nodding and shaking (111). He also refers to the research of Krasner and Weiner indicating that back-channel signals have a powerful effect on speakers. Small reinforcements such as head-nods and smiles will rapidly increase the rate of production of whatever is reinforced, and the absence of back-channel signals is taken as a negative reaction and will result in the speaker repeating his utterance more loudly or shutting up. Therefore, for speakers to be most effective, the listener must take an active role in the communication process: "Speakers look at the point in which they need feedback from listeners. They need to know that the listener is still attending, or is willing to hear more, understands what was said, likes it, agrees with it, and so on" (Argyle 113). It is also vital that a communicator listens with empathy and be actively interested in what a speaker is saying. If this is not done, the astute speaker will sense this and react accordingly. Therefore, as a listener, when interpreting nonverbal cues, it is imperative to give proper feedback to the speaker or else conflicting nonverbal cues may result.

Some writers of popular literature have taken the position that nonverbal communication is an alternative system to speech, offering a more reliable indicator of people's true feelings. This view was started by a bestseller book by Julius Fast called Body Language (1975) in which he extolled nonverbal cues as a kind of road to the unconscious, providing information about people's real feelings and attitudes outside of their verbal messages. Fast argues that "if the spoken language is stripped away and the only communication left is body language, the truth will find some way of poking through" (9). But what must be understood is that verbal and nonverbal communication should be considered as complementary systems, and incidences in which nonverbal cues conflict with speech are the exception rather than the rule.

Subsequent popular books on body language claim that one may read a person as if he or she was a book. The implication is that conscious decoding of nonverbal cues is an important source of valuable information for the skilled observer. Some of the claims made by these books are that one can tell a person's temperament by his body shape, or that a woman with her arms crossed across her chest is not approachable. Many researchers in the communication field argue that such pat definitions of nonverbal cues may not be accurate. One reason is that we often refer to our stereotypes when analyzing nonverbal cues. For example, we may automatically judge ectomorphs as "brainy" or "nervous." Or crossed arms may indicate that a person is cold instead of unapproachable. In these cases, body language cues should be thought of as "informative" rather than communicative, perhaps a springboard from which analysis may be launched, rather than strict indicators. Bull makes note of the close connection between words and nonverbal cues when he writes, "the meaning of nonverbal behavior cannot be divorced from context. Only this way can its meaning be fully appreciated" (13). Along similar lines, Argyle writes, "Nonverbal signals are often verbally coded...and nonverbal signals are closely integrated with speech in conversation" (295). Simply put, there are no hard and fast rules in decoding nonverbal cues, and any attempt to decode body language needs to take into account the environment, the actual verbal message, and the individual's psychodynamics. Bull takes a particularly pragmatic view when he states that the claims of body language in popular literature should be treated with caution, because even if reading such books raises people's level of awareness, it will not necessarily improve the quality of their social relationships (12).

Though there is a wealth of information to be gained by consciously noting and analyzing nonverbal cues, we should do so with caution, for accurately interpreting nonverbal cues can be difficult for a number of reasons. First of all, nonverbal cues are ambiguous. No dictionary can accurately classify them, and their meanings vary with culture and context. A random gesture can be interpreted to have meaning when none at all was intended. Second, nonverbal cues are continuous. Though it is possible to stop talking, it is generally not possible to stop nonverbal cues. Though it is easy to tell in spoken language when a subject has changed, nonverbal gestures do not lend themselves to this kind of analysis. Third, nonverbal cues often occur simultaneously. The implication is that while watching someone's eyes, one may miss something significant in a hand gesture. With everything happening at once, it may be difficult to keep up. And finally, some people are simply poor nonverbal communicators. For example a person who is poor at expressing sympathy may inadvertently "leak" (through nonverbal cues) happiness about another matter on his or her mind (Feldman 329). Such instances of nonverbal communication may baffle the most expert reader and cause conflict or resentment.

There are ways, however, for one to improve his or her awareness and ability to accurately decode nonverbal gestures. First, the context in which they occur must be checked. And cues of different types must not be isolated from one another. For example, crossed arms may indicate nothing more than physical discomfort from a cold room. Second, it is important to look for clusters of nonverbal cues. For example, if the arms are crossed, are they accompanied by a resistance to eye contact and a flat tone of voice? Third, the past experience with the person must be taken into consideration. By knowing someone, one can more accurately interpret patterns of behavior. Fourth, perception should be validated by asking questions. This is particularly important if conflicting cues are received. And finally, one must give proper attention and listening feedback. Listening with empathy, and giving sufficient eye contact and appropriate feedback, best accomplishes this. The bottom line is that rather than making assumptions, it is best to use interpretation of the nonverbal cues to corroborate an observation, not to pass judgment.

The value of accurately interpreting nonverbal cues is undeniable. Such a skill, if practiced with prudence, can play a useful role in everyday social interaction by enhancing our ability to understand others. In addition to that, "the knowledge of...nonverbal cues enhances the ability to interact effectively with one's social environment" (Feldman 344). And at the very least, active interpretation of nonverbal cues may aid in the detection of deceit. Without a doubt, if practiced judiciously, active interpretation of nonverbal cues can add a new dimension to active listening.

* * *

2 Historically, women have decorated their eyes to increase their allure. In fact, European women in past centuries often dilated their pupils with drops of belladonna in order to appear approachable by the opposite sex (Argyle 162). 

# Winning by a Nose (Article)

Midterms are here, and test anxiety is running high at Central Washington University. But some students believe they have found an ally in their quest for good grades - the goat sculpture in the lobby of Black Hall. Rumor has it that rubbing the nose of the bronze sculpture shortly before an exam guarantees the student will do well.

Sara-June Treadwell, English graduate student, has used the goat frequently since 2000, when she first came to Central to begin work on her graduate degree. She is a firm believer in its powers.

"I've used the goat since my first quarter at Central," Treadwell said. "I was skeptical at first, but it really does seem to work. I also rub the nose before I start working on papers."

The sculpture, titled "The Discoverer" by its creator, lower Yakima Valley artist Brad Rude, was purchased by Central in 1999 for an undisclosed sum. Engraved onto the goat's body are cryptic images and a map of the world. Towering on top of its head is an odd assortment of items that suggest knowledge of all things.

Students who rub the nose of the sculpture report anywhere from a 20 to 50 percent increase in their expected grades for the exams they take.

Tom Rockey, junior computer science major, began using the goat earlier this quarter on a tip from a friend after he was having problems in his calculus class.

"The goat's great for math," Rockey said. "It doesn't seem to help much for programming, but for math it's awesome."

Not every student is a believer in the goat. Some, like Kim Chen, sophomore management and information systems major, are stubbornly skeptical.

"That's nonsense," Chen said. "I mean, it's just a statue. It can't really do that."

Chen admitted that he has never tried the goat himself, but he insisted that it could not do what some students claim.

The phenomenon of the goat has attracted the attention of professors, some of whom are interested in its cultural significance.

"It's not unusual for societies to have such relics that bestow good luck," John Vifian, English professor and historicist, said. "It wouldn't surprise me if some people started claiming the goat can also cure diseases, as some religious relics in Old Europe were thought to do."

Although Vifian is intrigued by student claims about the goat, he believes that such phenomena should be approached with caution.

"Claims of this type should undergo some sort of scientific scrutiny," Vifian said. "This way, things don't get blown out of proportion."

Kathy Gonzales, senior anthropology major, believes there is a scientific explanation for the goat's effect on students and has even developed her own theory.

"Rubbing the goat's nose could be causing the release of endorphins in the brain, which might cause a chemical high like you have with some drugs," Gonzales said. "The effect would be like taking methamphetamine-like substances, only it's entirely self-generated. Still, it can be very powerful."

Michael Tari, senior biology major, doesn't see a physiological connection. He believes the power of the goat is a mind game.

"Students are just psyching themselves up when they use the goat," Tari said. "They rub the nose, become confident, and so they do better on tests than they normally would."

Some students think there's more to the goat than a mere placebo effect. Jacob Odiaga, sophomore computer science, claims he no longer has to study. Last quarter, he passed a first year Russian final exam for which he didn't have time to prepare.

"A friend of mine thought I should rub the nose, so I did and took the test," Odiaga said. "I couldn't believe I got an A- on it. I thought for sure I was going to fail."

Odiaga makes sure he uses the goat before every major exam. So far, he has been pleased with the results.

"I guess I kind of rely on it a little too much, but I work a lot at my job in Cle Elum and don't always have time to study," Odiaga said.

Some instructors are not pleased with students' reliance on the sculpture and would prefer it removed. To them, the powers of the goat serve as a crutch.

"That goat might be a panacea for students now, but it won't be with them when they go to find a job in the real world," Deana York, reading instructor, said.

Despite the goat's detractors, it looks as though it is here to stay.

"Oh, students just love the goat," Patricia Rice, library manager at Black Hall, said.

Rice has a full view of the goat through the glass walls of the Educational Technology Center where she works. She frequently witnesses people standing around the goat and touching it.

"The students like to run their hands down its face," Rice said.

Apparently, the goat's admirers sometimes get carried away. Rice said she's seen students touching every part of the goat and even dressing it up.

"Once, they put a pair of shorts on it," Rice said.

It is reputed that some of the metal Rude used to create the statue had been reclaimed from a good luck totem removed from a village in Madagascar. It was supposedly bad luck to remove the artifact from its resting place, however. These rumors could not be substantiated, as Rude was unavailable for comment.

# She's the Ninth most Beautiful on Campus (Article)

Spring has arrived with the promise of blossoming flowers on the Central Washington University campus. But Central has another type of beauty: Estelle Turner. This self-proclaimed, ninth most beautiful woman on campus adds as much beauty to the campus as the tulips she walks past every morning on her way to class.

Slender, twenty-two-year-old Turner has short brown hair, dark eyes, perfect skin, and she moves with the grace of a gazelle. Her appearance calls to mind another great beauty, but she is quick to distance herself from the icon.

"Barbie has nothing on me," Turner said. "I'm real. She's not."

When asked why she declares herself the ninth most beautiful woman and not the first, Turner is nonplussed.

"That would be very egotistical of me to consider myself the most beautiful woman on campus," Turner said. "Obviously, I'm not, and I know I'm not. I'm just happy being in the top ten."

Turner, a second-year student of Russian, is majoring in child psychology. Those who know her personally, claim she's as intelligent as she is beautiful.

"She's tops in our Russian class," Jeffrey Walker, senior Russian major, said. "And she's really good-looking. Damn! I love it when she comes to class in shorts!"

Turner also has fans of the same sex.

"Oh, I just adore Estelle," Sarah Wolfrom, sophomore undecided, said. "She's just awesome."

Turner's first name, "Estelle," means "star." Indeed, Turner had been a model and has even been offered a part in a student-produced film. She's not interested in the limelight, however.

"I've done some modeling, and I've been offered a role in a video, but it's really not my thing," Turner said.

Many claim the more beautiful a woman is, the more stuck-up she tends to be. Turner acknowledges the tendency toward snobbery but claims she is immune to it.

"Beauty is only skin-deep, so I can't be expected to be nice all the time," Turner said. "But I realize that some people might look up to me, so I try to behave. I think I get along well with most people."

The mantle of beauty brings a lot of unwanted attention, so Turner feels the need to limit herself socially.

"I am very selective with who I hang around with, so I'm forced to shut out some people," Turner said. "But let's say there's some creepy guy in one of my classes who wants to talk. I'll be nice to him as long as he's respectful toward me, but outside class, we're strangers. I'm sorry it has to be that way."

Being ostensibly the ninth most stared-at woman on campus, she has a personal standard to uphold, and she works out to maintain the status quo. But there are times when she has to give in to circumstance.

"It's impossible for me to look my best all the time," Turner said. "For example, sometimes I don't have time to fix myself up after gym, so I just put a clip in my hair and go."

As do most world-class beauties, Turner has a method for keeping herself beautiful.

"I exercise a lot. I don't smoke, drink very little, and I'm nice to myself," Turner said. "I try to eat well, but it's hard when you're a full-time student."

Does Turner have any advice for other women on campus who aspire to be in the top ten?

"Pay close attention to your eye make-up," Turner advised. "Guys always look at the eyes. I spend more time on eyeliner and eye shadow than anything else."

It seems that the "ninth most beautiful woman on campus" might envy the eight who are more beautiful than she is, but Turner is content with her place at number nine. In fact, she has a word of advice for lower-ranking women who might be envious of her.

"Don't feel bad if you can't be in the top ten," Turner said. "It has nothing to do with how worthy you are as a person. Beauty is more genetics than anything else. I suppose I've been very lucky in that way."

# Education is Wasted on the Young (Editorial)

Famous playwright George Bernard Shaw wrote, "Youth is wasted on the young." Here at Central Washington University, there is a similar relationship between higher education and the young, meaning there are "youngsters" attending Central that don't belong here. By youngsters, I'm referring to the students in the 18 to 22-year-old age range.

Fresh out of high school and with nothing better to do, these aimless youngsters come to college intending to party while Daddy foots the bill. Often because of their lack of maturity, they didn't get along with the folks at home, and so they land here. It's not difficult to find them; many of them populate the dorms across campus. When they're not out vandalizing the campus and stealing textbooks, laptops, bicycles and breaking into cars, you'll find them drinking and smoking pot in their dorm room. They'll be happy to tell you about all the pornography and MP3s they've downloaded using university-provided Internet access. They've heard every CD in their collection 50 times, yet they haven't read a single page in their textbooks over the course of the quarter. They miss half of their classes. On odd nights, you can find them passed out on the bathroom floors, covered in their own vomit. Regrettably, some of them have written editorials for The Observer.

Now, I realize that not all 18 to 22-year-old students in the fall into the category of a youngster. Many students actually paid attention in their high school classes and learned how to write a paper, do simple algebra and can tell you what the US Declaration of Independence is about. But my observation is that there is about an equal mix.

It would seem that the problem with youngsters on campus is self-limiting. That is, the youngsters go through three quarters of D and F grades and they're out. However, it's a slow decline into expulsion, and in the meantime, the youngsters disturb the older, more mature students in various ways. They play their music loudly during study hours, make a ruckus in the dorms with their drunken behavior and vomit into the bathroom sinks. They take up our overworked instructors' valuable time, particularly near the end of the quarter when they make frequent office-hour visits to beg the instructor not to give them an 'F' after they didn't attend class all quarter. And, on weeknights 2:00 a.m. after the bars close, you can hear them staggering down the boulevard knocking over trash cans, screaming vulgarities at passing cars and each other. So, the problem is not isolated.

If there is a benefit to having these students around, it is that they sometimes provide humorous material for the Police Blotter, and their tuition and housing dollars help keep the university's coffers full.

If you can avoid jumping into college while you're too young, you will reap three benefits. One, you will know better what you want to do with your life. If you can hold off going to school for a while, you won't find yourself at age 28 with a degree in a field you hate. Second, you will save your money. At $2,500 on average per quarter (booze, pot, and fines not included), Central is an expensive place to party. And when it comes time to pay off those student loans—you'd might as well have something to show for it. Third, your relationship will improve with your parents. After you've slaved for your money for a few years, you will appreciate your parents more and what they had to sacrifice to earn the money to send you to college in the first place.

So what if you're a youngster who's on academic probation and won't be back in the fall? I suggest entering the military. (In 1981, I enlisted in the Air Force right out of high school and got to see the world.) Or, if you happen to have a criminal past or a fresh new DUI at age 18 as do many youngsters, you might have to rough it out for a few years in the graveyard shift at 7-11 until you find what you really want to do with your life. Whatever you do, get the party animal out of your system before you return, if ever. This is not a zoo.

For those of you youngsters who managed to slither though the system with your 1.8 grade point average and are now about to graduate, I recommend the Armed Forces, or, if you abhor violence, the Peace Corps. There is nothing like the humbling experience of seeing how the less fortunate live in other parts of the world. Two years of that should build some character and allow you to give back to the world what you've taken in the first 22 years of your life.

College is not only a place of academic learning, but a passage into adulthood by virtue in that it's also the first time away from home for many students. It is not an escape from the inevitability of adulthood; it is the opportunity to gain wisdom and become an adult. So please, if you're a youngster, save yourself a truckload of money and do all the serious students at Central a favor—take a few years off.
Works Cited

Argyle, Michael. Bodily Communication. London: Methuen, 1975.

Bull, Peter E. Posture and Gesture. New York: Pergamon, 1987.

Brownell, Judi. Listening Attitudes, Principles and Skills. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1996.

Ekman, Paul and Frank Mark G. "Lies that Fail." Lying and Deception in Everyday Life. New York: Guilford, 1993: 184-200

Fast, Julius. Body Language. New York: Evans, 1970.

Feldman, Robert S., Philippot, Pierre and Custrini, Robert J. "Social Competence and Nonverbal Behavior." Fundamentals of Nonverbal Behavior. Ed. Robert S. Feldman. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991: 329-350

Mehabrian, Albert. Non Verbal Communication. Chicago: Aldine-Atherton, 1972.

Rime, Bernard and Schiaratura, Loris. "Gesture and Speech." Fundamentals of Nonverbal Behavior. Ed. Robert S. Feldman. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991: 239-281

Patterson, Miles L. "A Functional Approach to Nonverbal Exchange." Fundamentals of Nonverbal Behavior. Ed. Robert S. Feldman. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991: 458-485.

Webbink, Patricia, Ph.D. The Power of the Eyes. New York: Springer Publishing, 1986.

Zukerman, M., DePaulo, B., and Rosenthal, R. "Verbal and Nonverbal Communication of Deception." Advances in Experimental Social Psychology 14. (1981): 1-59.

# A Reaction to "Here Comes the Groom: A (Conservative) Case for Gay Marriage"

It appears we have a controversial issue on our hands as to whether or not gay marriage should be legalized. Andrew Sullivan has written an essay, "Here Comes the Groom..." in advocacy of legalization of gay marriage. He charges that society unfairly, and without good reason, denies gays the legal privileges reserved for heterosexual couples. He feels that rather than adopt a hodgepodge of laws to grant individual rights to members of cohabitant gay households, society should simply legalize gay marriage. He believes this is a logical step for society to take since gay marriages are able to imitate, in nearly every aspect, heterosexual marriage, including the rearing of (adopted) children. Sullivan also states that gay marriage would provide an enormous emotional benefit to gays unlike any other social change without devaluing traditional heterosexual marriage in the process. Though Sullivan creates a convincing argument for the gay minority, in actuality, society as whole would not benefit from the legalization of gay marriage.

Sullivan believes that there is no good reason why society should deny gays the right to marry. He laments that society does not recognize cohabitant gay couples as a viable legal entity as are heterosexual married couples. This slighting of the gay community, however, is not without reason. Societies must enact laws that encourage certain behaviors and deter others. Many privileges such as legal custody of children, health insurance benefits and joint ownership of property were created by our society to foster the existence of the nuclear family. By allowing privilege strictly to these families, society is doing what it can to encourage the family's existence. It is society's method of acknowledging that raising children is a difficult, expensive undertaking, yet vital to the continuation of society itself. Pejoratively, legalizing gay marriage will dissolve the heterosexual norm. What is now considered traditional marriage (between a man and a woman) will become merely another alternative lifestyle to choose from among others. The nuclear family will no longer be defined as traditional, or even desirable. This can only further dilute the appeal of a nuclear family, possibly leading to a rise in single-family households and increased divorce rates.

Sullivan believes that gay marriage can successfully imitate the role of traditional marriage in our society. And in lieu of the biological viability to produce children, he believes that partners in a gay marriage should be allowed to adopt and raise children. There is a flaw in that endeavor, for a major function of the nuclear family is to prepare the child for traditional marriage, primarily through example. This is problem for gay couples even if they provide the child with a loving environment. Just as the child in a single-parent (father) household, a child raised in a gay household may not be emotionally prepared to successfully navigate the intricacies of adult heterosexual relationships through lack of a female role model. Furthermore, this lack of understanding of the opposite sex may confer marriage problems for the child further down the road.

Sullivan states that aside from the obvious legal privileges, recognition of gay marriage would greatly benefit the gay community. With gay marriage, young gays who are just "coming out" would have an example to live by, an aspiration of sorts. And with the model of gay marriage, they would be less likely to plunge into short-term relationships and insecurity. To further this point, Sullivan also states that "homosexuals, in the absence of a socially sanctioned same-sex marriage, may involve themselves in a traditional marriage in order to find focus in their instincts in a personally positive environment—with disastrous results." From these statements, Sullivan makes marriage seem as if it were a panacea for gay couples. He mistakes deep emotional commitment with the stability of marriage and believes that marriage provides a moral anchor to the chaos of sex and the single life style. But just as with straight married couples, marriage between gays cannot endow the betrothed with fidelity and economic wellbeing. Nor does marriage of a homosexual couple necessarily make an exemplary "happy" couple. As with a heterosexual relationship, the longevity and quality of a gay relationship depends on the perseverance of its members, not the possession of a marriage license. Therefore, gay couples must not seek traditional marriage as enclave of faithfulness and the material cementing of emotional bond. They should, instead, look to themselves for the success of their relationships.

Perhaps the author's Egalitarian reasoning is flawed at its core, for by seeking marriage, gay couples seek to equate themselves with traditional, heterosexual married couples. The key word here is "traditional". The roots of marriage are based in a scriptural, religious context; it is a union sworn "under the eyes of God". Homosexual activity is explicitly warned against in both the Old and New Testaments of the Bible. So, what is the point of a traditional marriage for gays? To equate gay marriage to traditional marriage is to abase and dilute the value of the heterosexual marriage. Only marriage between man and woman is sanctioned by God. This dogma excludes the existence of a gay union. In the strictest of terms, the kind of marriage the gay population seeks is simply not applicable to them.

In conclusion, there is no reason why gay marriages should be permitted by law. The best social solution, in the interest of gay rights, is the adoption of individual laws that grant specific property and insurance rights to cohabitant gay couples. To do otherwise would ultimately undermine and devalue the establishment of traditional marriage and the nuclear family.

# Compassion without Compromise: The Case for Medically Assisted Suicide

Fifty-one year old Donald "Doobie" Dobbins has been confined to a wheelchair for the last six years. His body is ravaged by Lou Gehrig's disease, an incurable affliction of the nervous system. Painful muscle spasms coupled with paralysis make his life a living hell. Donald has been given a year to live at most, but already the cost of medical care has nearly drained his and his wife Lydia's retirement account and the children's college funds. As Donald sits helplessly by the window gazing at the "For Sale" sign on their front lawn, he wonders if there is an option to his suffering and the financial ruin he will leave behind for his wife and children by the time of his death...

Proponent for medically assisted suicide Dr. Jack Kevorkian has admitted participation in at least eighty medically assisted suicides over the years (Mercy Killing 1). It is undeniable that most of his patients suffered as Donald does in the scenario above. Kevorkian states that his participation in these suicides was driven by compassion (Kevorkian Convicted 1). The conviction of Kevorkian in a second-degree murder charge last March warns us that taking a human life may be interpreted as murder despite compassionate intent. The verdict has stirred the ongoing debate on medically assisted suicide and the right to die. Is active euthanasia an act of compassion, or is it murder? Close examination of this moral and legal debate shows that medically assisted suicide is not murder, but is in fact, morally and legally defendable.

We must first clarify the difference between passive and active euthanasia. Passive euthanasia takes place when an attending physician withholds treatment from a patient, and instead, allows the disease to take its course. This is done at the patient's request when the patient is suffering from incurable disease or when all options for cure have been tried. Passive euthanasia also takes place when a family elects to withdraw life support from a comatose family member whose severe brain damage makes it unlikely that he or she will ever regain consciousness. Active euthanasia, on the other hand, takes place when an attending physician enables a patient to commit suicide in order to prevent suffering. As William May succinctly states in his essay "Rising to the Occasion of our Death", "Active euthanasia aims to relieve suffering by knocking out the interval between life and death" (479). This latter form of euthanasia is at the core of the debate.

A common fear of those who oppose active euthanasia is that those who suffer from terminal illness will automatically seek euthanasia before exhausting all other options of treatment such as pain management and learning illness-coping skills. This potential problem is a reasonable fear. To address this problem, laws that legalize active euthanasia must require the patient who seeks euthanasia to undergo mandatory counseling by a psychologist trained in the field of death and dying to ascertain this is what the patient really wants to do. If the patient is likely to have second thoughts, or if family members are coercing the patient into an insincere decision, these situations would be revealed during counseling.

Opponents to active euthanasia often state that after we allow active euthanasia for the terminally ill, we will next kill deformed babies who need only a simple operation, invalids who are otherwise healthy, and those who are unable to speak for themselves (Rachels 474). The Massachusetts Physicians Resource Council voiced this slippery slope concern when they wrote to CBS urging them not to broadcast Kevorkian performing a lethal injection. They wrote, "America would not tolerate the deliberate, serial killing of healthy persons" (Mass. Phys. Group 1). Active euthanasia is sometimes conflated with policies enacted by the Nazis during World War II where thousands of the mentally handicapped and those with birth defects were either sterilized or put to death because they were "life unworthy of life" (McCurdy 478). Supporters of active euthanasia, however, do not seek euthanasia for those who are unwilling or unable to make the request. They insist a person must consciously seek active euthanasia to relieve extreme suffering caused by terminally illness, or by law, that person is disqualified from the procedure.

The best way to address the possible abuse of active euthanasia is to examine the Oregon Death with Dignity Act passed in 1994. This comprehensive work of legislation legalizes active euthanasia with several important safeguards: 1) The physician in attendance must first confirm the patient has a terminal condition, then he or she must notify next of kin and refer the patient for counseling. 2) Another physician besides the physician in attendance must evaluate the patient for a second opinion. 3) A counselor must certify that the patient is mentally competent and is making an informed decision. 4) The patient must provide both a written and oral request for active euthanasia, then reiterate the oral request fifteen days after the first request. 5) The patient retains the right to rescind his or her request at any time. 6) No provision in a will or contract can waive the patient's right to rescind the request. 7) Voluntary refusal of medical treatment will not have an effect on pay out of annuity or life insurance policy (Oregon DWD Act 3). The Oregon law shows active euthanasia can work without rampant abuse. A 1998 study showed that only 5 out of every 10,000 deaths in Oregon in 1994 were due to physician-assisted suicide (DWD First Year 1). This relatively small number hardly constitutes widespread abuse of the law.

In his essay "Active and Passive Euthanasia", James Rachels touches upon doctors' legal and moral conflict of interest regarding active euthanasia when he writes: "Doctors should also be concerned with the fact that the law is forcing upon them a moral doctrine that may well be indefensible, and has a considerable effect on their practices" (476). But not only does the law prevent doctors from responding to the requests of their patients, the greater medical community believes that intentionally causing the death of a patient is counter to the primary purpose of medicine. Death is not considered a treatment or a cure, but rather a consequence that must be avoided at all costs. This view is further summed up by the statement: "Medicine aims at preventing illness and healing disease in order that a person may achieve optimal human functioning in accord with his or her capabilities" (Allowing to Die 1). Nevertheless, we must look beyond the physiological aspects of illness and treatment, and instead, concern ourselves with the quality of life of the patient and the family. Death by slow, terminal illness such as cancer is often excruciatingly painful, particularly if the patient develops a tolerance to pain medication. Family members who witness the day to day worsening in the condition of the loved one are also affected. Sometimes, the family's reaction of grief over the patient's suffering becomes an additional source of heartache for the patient. Hence, there comes a time during the course of terminal illness when the quality of the patient's life has decreased to the point where it is no longer practical to continue treatment. Doctors must then be free in both the legal and ethical sense to accommodate the patient's possible request to end his or her misery. Therefore, along with adopting laws that decriminalize active euthanasia, we must revise the Hippocratic Oath and AMA bylaws to permit mercy killing as a morally acceptable, humane option to suffering. This will ease the ethical (and legal) dilemma that currently blocks doctors from acting in the best interest of their patients.

One of the strongest arguments against active euthanasia is that consciously causing the death of a human being is morally wrong in the religious sense. The main source of religious opposition comes from the Jewish-Christian religious authorities. Of these, the Roman Catholic Church is the most zealous in its stance (VES Religion 1). The problem is that religious beliefs are not relevant to those who do not belong to these religions. In denying someone the choice on basis of religious dogma, we are forcing the religious persuasions of one group on other. Opposing a law that grants the right to die is tantamount to denying our rights to free choice of religion. Active euthanasia must be considered a right, not an obligation.

On a deeper level, we must take into consideration the interpretation of "killing". Are we killing as an act of criminal intent or to relieve the suffering of one we love? Though we do so reluctantly, we "put down" our pets when they become very old or when they suffer, yet we deny beloved family members this simple act of mercy. When we deny the wish to die, we need to question our motives for refusal. Are we imposing our fears of death and the love of our own lives on the terminally ill? Are we denying them the choice of death because we are selfishly afraid to do without these people we love? Do we sincerely believe the terminally ill must suffer because the experience benefits them in some obscure way? Or is it that we deny the terminally ill their wish in self-righteous hope they will later thank us? Whatever our reasons, we are imposing our will and bias on a sovereign human being; we are slighting the right of the individual. Forcing life on the terminally ill is analogous to imposing death on those who wish to live. In both cases, individual rights are breached.

In final reflection, the question of euthanasia comes down to respect for the rights of the individual. The goal in the legalization of active euthanasia is not to regularize mercy killing, but rather to allow the individual to follow the course of life he or she has chosen. Responsible legalization of active euthanasia, however, requires laws that protect the individual from hasty decisions brought on by grief caused by the medical condition. Counseling would play an important role in determining who is and who is not a candidate for the procedure. Also, the medical community, as a whole, needs to reevaluate the goal of medicine and take a more humanistic approach to its application; physicians must take part in the alleviation of suffering instead of the postponement death at all costs. Changes such as these, borne of compassion, will grant the terminally ill the option of humane death with dignity.
Works Cited

Hyde, Justin. Kevorkian Convicted. ABCNEWS.com. March 26, 1999. Online. Internet. 14 May 1999. Available http://www.abcnews.go.com/sections/us/DailyNews/ kevorkian990326.

Massachusetts Physicians Group Condemns CBS Broadcast of Mercy-Killing. Nov 23, 1998. Online. Internet. 10 May 1999. Available http://massnews.com/cult32.htm

May, William F. "Rising to the Occasion of Our Death". The Christian Century, Christian Century Foundation: July 11-18, 1990. Rpt. in Writing Arguments: A Rhetoric with Readings. 4th ed. John C. Ramage & John C. Bean. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1998. 479-480.

McCurdy, David B. "Saying What We Mean". The Christian Century, Christian Century Foundation: July 17-24, 1996. Rpt. in Writing Arguments: A Rhetoric with Readings. 4th ed. John C. Ramage & John C. Bean. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1998. 477-479.

Mercy Killing or Senseless Suicide? Miningco.com. March 10, 1998. Online. Internet. 10 May 1999. Available http://arthritis.miningco.com/library/weekly/aa031098.htm.

O' Roarke. Mercy Killing and Allowing to Die. VII/1. September 1985. Online. Internet. 10 May 1999. Available http://mac.theramp.net/Domcentral/study/kor/ 85090701.htm

Oregon Death with Dignity Act. Complete text online. Internet. 10 May 1999.

Oregon's Death with Dignity Act: The First Year's Experience Oregon Health Division. March 16, 1999. Online. Internet. 10 May 1999.

Rachels, James. "Active and Passive Euthanasia". New England Journal of Medicine. Massachusetts Medical Society: January 9, 1975. Rpt. in Writing Arguments: A Rhetoric with Readings. John C. Ramage & John C. Bean. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1998. 472-477.

Voluntary Euthanasia Society Factsheets: Religion. The Voluntary Euthanasia Society. Online. Internet. 10 May 1999. Available http://www.ves.org.uk/factsheets/ objects.htm

# Glossary

Allegory: The extended use of a metaphor where an object, person, or action in a work refers to something outside the work.

Edmund Spenser's epic poem "The Faerie Queen" contains multiple levels of allegory that involve the Catholic and Anglican Churches, English and Spanish Royalty, the state of England, the Legend of King Arthur, and Biblical scripture.

Alliteration: Repetition of an initial sound in poetry.

Classic example: "Five miles meandering with a mazy motion."

Antagonist: A person whose aims or desires conflict with those of the protagonist.

In the short story "Sweat" by Zora Neal Hurston, the abusive Sykes proves himself to be the worst kind of antagonist when he tries to kill his wife, Delia.

Archaic Language: The use of obsolete of no-longer-used words, terms or phrases.

In Samuel Coleridge's long poem "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," he uses archaic language to give the work the feel of antiquity. Edmund Spenser does the same in "The Faerie Queen."

Archetype: Universal standards in being and behavior that arise from the collective unconscious.

Examples are some characters in the Bible and what they represent as archetypes:

Eve: one who succumbs to temptation.

Job: suffering and steadfast faith in God.

Judas: one who betrays.

Atmosphere, mood and ambience: The salient emotional effect conveyed through details in the setting of a work.

Edgar Allen Poe uses descriptive language to convey a mood of gloom, decrepitude and decay in "The Fall of the House of Usher."

Ballad: A story written in poetic form (verse) with roots in song. The ballad often has an a,b,a,b, rhyme scheme, and the subject matter often deals with romance and adventure.

Lord (Gordon) Byron's "Don Juan" is an excellent example of a ballad, and it is written in ballad stanza form.

Character: This is any person depicted in a fictional work.

All stories, to be considered such, must have at least one character in them. Some famous Shakespeare characters that need no introduction are Macbeth, Iago and Cordelia.

Characterization: When the writer feeds the reader background information and physical description to flesh out a character.

By skillful use of physical description alone, Joyce Carol Oates lets the reader know that Arnold Friend in "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been" is evil and cannot be trusted.

Chorus: Commentators that verbalize audience response to a work. They often advise the hero, reflect accepted viewpoints, and offer traditional perspectives on the action.

In Woody Allen's movie "Mighty Aphrodite," the action that is taking place in modern day New York City is periodically commented upon by masked actors in the ruins of an ancient Greek amphitheater.

Connotation: A thought, feeling, or idea suggested by a word outside its literal meaning.

An example can be found in the word "silks" in the poem "Upon Julia's Clothes" by Robert Herrick. In the poem, the word "silks" connotes a sexy nightgown or evening dress.

Another example is the title of the poem "Collar" by George Herbert. In the context of the poem the "collar" is the yoke, in this case, the restraining device of religion.

Culture: The broad, holistic aspect of society that includes the language, art, traditions, customs, habits, and history of the people.

When we read the short story "Life" by African author Bessie Head, to best understand the story, the reader must consider the story's cultural context.

Diction: Word choice and phraseology used in a work.

In the poem, "Upon Julia's Clothes" by Robert Herrick, the word choice and phraseology contribute to the tactile imagery in the poem.

"Whenas in silks my Julia goes

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see

That brave vibration, each way free,

O, how that glittering taketh me!"

Dramatic Irony: When a situation ends up in reversal of what a character (but not the audience) expects.

In Flannery O' Connor's short story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find," the grandmother pushes her luck with The Misfit, and so she is shot in the chest. But she had it coming anyway. In fact, the reader sees it coming when the other two criminals lead the other family members into the woods to shoot them. The grandmother seems oblivious to her fate, and instead, until the very end, she tries to coddle The Misfit because she feels sorry for him.

Elegy: An elevated, formal statement that laments a death.

Two good examples of an elegy are Thomas Grey's "Elegy in Written in a Country Churchyard" and Lord Alfred Tennyson's "In Memoriam A.A.H."

Epic: A long poem, written in elevated language, that tells a story of national or cultural significance with the use of heroes and supernatural beasts. These stories typically involve an extended journey into mythic realms.

Two famous epics are "Beowulf" and Homer's "The Iliad."

Essay: A prose work written to persuade by intellectual, emotional, and imaginative assessment of a subject.

On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection is a collection of essays by Charles Darwin. The works caused a furor in Victorian England. Evidently, Darwin's essays were quite persuasive.

Figurative Language: Language that is not literal, but rather uses tropes or rhetorical patterns for effect or to clarify a difficult meaning.

Examples of figurative language:

Gerard Manley Hopkins describes the flight of a kestrel by saying that it turns "As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend."

Edith Sitwell says of rain pattering against a window: "The pale silken ribbons of the rain, / Knotted, are fluttering down the window pane.

Foreshadowing: A plot device that creates a doubt or a state of expectancy as to the outcome of a situation or story.

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, when the monster angrily vows to be present on Dr. Frankenstein's wedding day, we expect that something terrible will happen to Elizabeth.

Frame Story: This is a story inside of which one or more other stories are told. Characters within the frame story tell these stories.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelly is an excellent example of a frame narrative. The story consists Robert Walton telling the story of Dr. Frankenstein as it was told to him.

Free verse/open form: This is poetry that has no consistent or discernible meter or rhyme.

Some poems that use free verse are "Piano" by D.H. Lawrence, "A Lesson in Anatomy" by Liz Rosenberg, and "The Collar" by George Herbert.

Genre: The broad classification that a literary works falls under. The genre of a particular work is determined by critical interpretation and the writer's artistic vision.

Examples of genres: Romance, science-fiction, westerns, and detective.

Hyperbole: Overstatement or exaggeration.

In John Keat's "Ode on a Grecian Urn," he used hyperbole to signal a change of tone and to indicated his recognition of the exaggerated happiness of the gods emblazoned on the urn: "More happy love! More happy, happy love! / For ever warm and still to be enjoyed..."

Imagery: The mental images that writers compose in readers' minds by appealing to the senses through descriptive language.

In William Wordsworth's poem "I wandered lonely as a cloud," the reader gets a feeling for the rural imagery by Wordsworth's descriptions of "A host, of golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, / Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

Incongruity: This is a feature of some literary works in which the reader encounters a disparity or conflict in aspects within the work. Dramatic irony, paradox, and polarity are effects of incongruities.

There are incongruities in Arnold Friend's manner and appearance in "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" Arnold's appearance is a poor attempt to look younger than his age, yet he is a smooth talker who is nevertheless able to mesmerize Connie.

Lines, line breaks: An intentional division of a phrase whose arrangement is designed to change meaning or add significance.

In the poem "Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe, the lines are broken in the middle of the phrase to symbolize emotional mis-adjustment and blocked ambitions.

Lyric: A poem in which a speaker expresses strong emotion or mindset. This is often meditative work.

Sylvia Plath's "Daddy" is a poem in which a woman longs for her father, whom incidentally, she also hates. This poem is filled with intense emotion.

Metaphor: An implied analogy identifying one thing with another, an implicit comparison.

In John Keat's "Ode on a Grecian Urn," the pictures of happy gods that adorn the urn are a metaphor for a false, transient kind of happiness.

Meter: The rhythm of a poem determined by a pattern of vowel, consonant, and/or rhyming sounds.

Example of iambic pentameter from a sonnet by Henry Constable:

My lady's presence makes the roses red,

Because to see her lips they blush for shame.

Metonymy: Naming a thing by using something closely associated with it.

In Edmund Spenser's poem, "The Faerie Queen," when the knight is fighting the serpent called "Error," the serpent vomits "pamphlets" on him. These pamphlets, in context of the era, represent the doctrine of the Catholic Church.

Monologue: This is a discourse in which a character speaks uninterrupted, at length, to one or more listeners. Sometimes, by use of a monologue, a character will expose his or her private ruminations (relating to motivations or self-explanation) to an audience.

An example of a monologue: Robert Browning's "Caliban Upon Setebos."

Novel: A narrative work of fiction of at least 50,000 words in length. By contrast, the novella is between 30,000 to 50,000 words in length, and the short story typically has fewer than 20,000.

Examples of novels: "Sula" by Toni Morrison, "In Country" by Bobbie Lee Mason, and "Looking Backward" by Edward Bellamy.

Ode: A long, lyric poem characterized by a serious tone, intense emotion, and high level of imagination.

John Keats wrote a wonderful, succinct ode called "Ode on a Grecian Urn" in which he ponders whether the picture of happiness on the urn isn't more beautiful than living things.

Onomatopoeia: A word whose sound imitates its meaning.

Examples of onomatopoeia: "snap," "crack," and "whisper."

Persona, Speaker, or Narrator: A character created for the telling of a poem or story. This speaker is often created by an author to make a point.

In Ezra Pound's poem, "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter," he creates the persona of the wife in an arranged marriage, in ancient China, who is missing her husband.

Personification: Giving human attributes to an animal, inanimate object, idea or abstract quality as if it were a living person.

An example personification is Charles Johnson's "Menagerie: A Child's Fable" where the main characters are animals in a pet shop.

Personification is common in fables and children's cartoons where the animals represent human stereotypes.

Plot: The framework of events in a story designed to capture suspense and hold interest in the audience or reader.

Plot example in a nutshell: In William Shakespeare's tragedy, "King Lear," we have a king betrayed by two selfish daughters to whom he had foolishly bequeathed his kingdom. In the end, the one beloved daughter he had once spurned takes him in, but she is executed, and the king dies of a broken heart.

Point of View: The perspective from which a reader experiences a story. Basic points of view are omniscient, limited-omniscient, first person, third person, and rarely, second person. Each point of view has its advantages and disadvantages. The writer usually chooses this important aspect of a story very carefully so that he or she may achieve the desired affect in the reader.

Joyce Carol Oates's "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been" is told from the third person, limited-omniscient POV.

Don DeLillo's short story "Videotape" is told in the second person POV.

Protagonist: The central character around whom the action takes place.

In "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" by Ambrose Bierce, the protagonist is Peyton Farquhar. The reader hopes Peyton is able to make it home after nearly being executed by the Union army.

In "A Simple Heart" Gustav Flaubert, Felicite is the protagonist as we follow her life through several decades.

Qualitative Progression: A form in which the progression and climaxes of a story are determined by feelings conveyed, rather than the events.

A good example of this type of story is "In a Clean, Well-Lighted Place" by Ernest Hemingway. Though not much happens in the way of events in this story, the climax comes near the end of the story when the older waiter describes (to the young waiter) the existential desolation he senses in the old man.

Repetition: The conscious recurrence of an image or event designed to steer the reader through the story by providing a frame of reference to which the story's progression can be viewed.

In the poem "You Didn't Fit" by Susan Musgrave, she repeats the word "fit" in each stanza to indicate and reinforce the number of ways her father didn't fit in with the world.

Rhyme: The repetition of the same sound at the ends of (or at regular intervals within) two or more lines.

Consider the a, a, a, b, b, b rhyme in "Upon Julia's Clothes" by Robert Herrick:

Whenas in silks my Julia goes

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see

That brave vibration, each way free,

O, how that glittering taketh me!

Rhyme Scheme: The specific way that a writer uses the repetition of sound to add emphasis or contribute to the meaning of his or her work.

In Jean Toomer's short poem "Reapers," he uses the rhyme scheme a, a, b, b, c, c, d, d. In effect, he rhymes stones and hones, done and one, weeds and bleeds, and blade and shade.

Setting: The environment where the action in a story takes place. The setting can be conveyed to the reader with any reference to time, place, and inanimate objects.

In Earnest Hemingway's short story "Hills Like White Elephants," the entire story takes place at a railway station out in the middle of the desert someplace in Spain during the 1920s. Earnest conveys the setting to the reader with sparse-but-evocative descriptions of the local environment.

Short Story: A prose narrative under 20,000 words. The shortest forms of short stories are called sketches and vignettes. Short stories generally have a single plot as opposed to the multiple plots found in most novels.

Examples of short stories: Edgar Allen Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," Earnest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," and Ray Bradbury's "The Golden Apples of the Sun."

Simile: An explicit analogy identifying one thing with another. In effect, this is like that. Usually the two things compared are unlike one another.

Here is a simile in the poem "A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns: "O, my luve's like a red, red rose/That's newly sprung in June."

Situational Irony: When the events and circumstances in a work do not lead to an expected outcome.

In Theodore Roethke's poem "My Papa's Waltz" the poet describes his father as an alcoholic working long hours a blue-collar job. Yet, at the end of the poem, we find the poet, as a young boy, clings to the father he waltzes the young Roethke off to bed.

Sonnet: A poetic form in which the English and Italian forms are comprised respectively of three quatrains followed by a couplet, or an octave followed by a sestet. The quatrains develop an argument, and the couplet usually involves a turn in meaning.

Example of an English sonnet: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" by William Shakespeare

Stanza: A group of lines set apart from other groups. They come in several common flavors, the couplet, tercet, quatrain, etc., depending on the number lines in the stanza. The organization of stanzas plays a part in defining certain poetic forms such as the sonnet and villanelle.

In Aphra Behn's poem, "On Her Loving Two Equally," there are three sextet stanzas.

Style: The way in which a work is expressed. The style is rooted in the author's word choice, phraseology, diction, syntax, and tone. Essentially, style is the manner in which his or her ideas are set forth.

Earnest Hemingway has a very terse style; he uses the least number of words to convey his theme. Paragraphs are short, and simple, and one and two-syllable words are used. Not much is outwardly stated, but a great deal is implied.

By contrast F. Scott Fitzgerald is quite verbose. He tends to use very long, convoluted sentences that are sometimes complete paragraphs on their own. The language is flowery and complex, and he almost overwhelms the reader with copious detail.

Syllogistic Progression: The logical progression of an argument contained in a work. It is composed of a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion. In a work that contains a syllogistic progression, one point in an argument logically leads to the next point until a valid conclusion is reached.

In Charles Darwin's book, The Descent of Man, based on his evidence and a series of logical assumptions, he arrives at the conclusion that man descended from a "lowly-organized life form."

Symbol: Something that stands for or represents something else.

In William Blake's "The Sick Rose," the rose represents ruinous adulterous love.

Syntax: This is the grammatical pattern of sentences. The syntax consists of the arrangement of words and phrases. Writers will often manipulate the syntax of sentences within a work to achieve an effect.

In Algernon Charles Swinburne's "A Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell," a parody of a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson, the poet uses convoluted sentence structure to question faith in God's existence:

"One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is:

Surely this is not that: but that is surely this."

Tone: The implied attitude of a work toward its subject or theme.

In William Blake's "London," the poet reveals a very bleak view of the London of the late 18th century: "In every voice, in every ban, / The mind-forged manacles I hear."

Verbal Irony: When a speaker says of opposite of what he (or she) means.

In Robert Browning's poem, "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," the speaker says hateful things about Brother Lawrence, the supposedly "evil" subject of the poem. In fact, by saying these hateful things, we realize that Brother Lawrence is pious, and the speaker is the evil one.

# About the Author

Charles Rocha is a graduate of Central Washington University in Ellensburg, Washington. Currently he works as an ESL instructor in Ukraine. He has had stories and essays published in small journals and online story websites.

# Other Books by this Author

A Very Long Night – short story collection

Beyond the Twisted Ring – science fiction novel

A Stranger in Eden – science fiction novel

Unprojected Images – short story collection

Очень Длинная Ночь – Russian translation of A Very Long Night

The Skinny One – poem collection

Zyloft – short story collection (upcoming)

The Aperture – fantasy novel (upcoming)
