In Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own," she crafts a character called Judith Shakespeare, William Shakespeare's sister. She describes Judith as being equal in poetic genius to her brother, however, because of her sex she has no real way of contextualizing her brilliance.
Virginia Woolf reiterates her desire to further women of "genius" by using an example such as Shakespeare's sister. Shakespeare's sister would have held all of the intelligence and poetic leanings as her brother, however, how would anyone have recognized it? When Woolf uses an example such as this, it makes the reader wonder how she really related this character to herself and to other female writers of the time period. Did Woolf see herself as the more privileged version of Judith Shakespeare? It makes you wonder what real character traits "Judith" would have possessed. Was her "personality" really that similar to Woolf's, or did Woolf actually aspire to be like the character she had created?
First of all, we can tell that Judith's artistic abilities were very much suppressed. She may have possessed the genius, but did she have the literacy skills? Could she even read or write? Or was her artistic ability only something that could have reached a point of culmination through education, and was this something that was even available to Judith? Virginia Woolf certainly had opportunities for education. She also was not "held back" from her desire to write. She had the ability to do as she pleased.
We can also assume that Judith Shakespeare probably felt as though she did have to live in the shadow of her brother, whether he was older than her or not. Virginia Woolf never seems to have been constrained by a sibling. Maybe this is what Woolf means by saying "a room of one's own." Not only does she mean to say that a woman (or anyone for that matter) should have privacy in her writing. Perhaps she also means to say that a woman should truly have a space of her own, devoid of any family relationships that could hinder her progress. How unfortunate for a daughter/writer to be better off an an only child!
It's clear that Virginia Woolf has her own perceptions about the environment that a writer should have. It seems a bit prejudiced. I imagine that Virginia Woolf would have like to have been such an undiscovered talent such as Judith Shakespeare. It seems that brilliance is brilliance no matter what. Whether or not she had recognition was irrelevant to the fact that she would be creating good work. The idea of being a suppressed poet is fairly romantic. Virginia Woolf might have imagined this to be an ideal situation after recalling all of her literary achievements. Judith was probably perfection, and we can never know otherwise because her genius was never realized on paper. Woolf, however, is exposed. Her faults are there for us to see. If Woolf sought literary perfection, she shouldn't have published anything.
Monday, June 23, 2008
A Wallet of One's Own
Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" speaks to the questions of "women and fiction," and grapples with the different ways in which these two entities can coexist. In the very first chapter of the work, Woolf claims that a woman cannot realize her literary potential unless she has money and a room of one's own. Only when these two requirements are fulfilled can a woman really have the space and comfort to express herself through prose or poetry, whatever her preference. It is after all, her room. . .but is it her money?
Woolf really has hit on something by noting that a woman during the turn of the century really did need money to sustain herself in her writing. She, after all, should not have any distractions from her writing. A real job, which, first of all would be difficult to secure, is only something set to carry her away from her artistic inclinations. And, of course, a job fit for a woman would occupy far too much of her time with little compensation for her labor.
It seems that, although Woolf speaks to an audience of aspiring woman writers, she seems to limit the demographic by income. When we imagine a woman having money during this time period, we can only assume that she comes from an affluent family or has had the pleasure of being wed to a wealthy gentleman.
So perhaps Woolf is actually only speaking to the women who never have to worry about financial stability. This doesn't seem like that hopeful, encouraging speech that we would expect from a female author. We easily forget that Virginia Woolf came from a very well-off family and did not really "work" until she opened up a printing press with her husband. She, also, certainly didn't have to worry about using the money generated from her writing to buy "necessities." In fact, I read once that Woolf used the paycheck from her first article to buy a Siberian cat.
In a foreward by Mary Gordon in my own copy of "A Room of One's Own," Woolf's prejudice is described in this way:
"Woolf is concerned with the fate of women of genius, not with that or ordinary women; her plea is that we create a world in which Shakespeare's sister might survive her gift, not one in which a miner's wife can have her rights to property; her passion is for literature, not for universal justice."
Is this fair? In the interest of literature, it probably is. In the interest of equality between the classes, it certainly is not.
I wonder if Virginia Woolf would have the same thesis in today's culture. We certainly are different, however, money will always remain an issue in accomplishing that which is not instantly lucrative.
Woolf really has hit on something by noting that a woman during the turn of the century really did need money to sustain herself in her writing. She, after all, should not have any distractions from her writing. A real job, which, first of all would be difficult to secure, is only something set to carry her away from her artistic inclinations. And, of course, a job fit for a woman would occupy far too much of her time with little compensation for her labor.
It seems that, although Woolf speaks to an audience of aspiring woman writers, she seems to limit the demographic by income. When we imagine a woman having money during this time period, we can only assume that she comes from an affluent family or has had the pleasure of being wed to a wealthy gentleman.
So perhaps Woolf is actually only speaking to the women who never have to worry about financial stability. This doesn't seem like that hopeful, encouraging speech that we would expect from a female author. We easily forget that Virginia Woolf came from a very well-off family and did not really "work" until she opened up a printing press with her husband. She, also, certainly didn't have to worry about using the money generated from her writing to buy "necessities." In fact, I read once that Woolf used the paycheck from her first article to buy a Siberian cat.
In a foreward by Mary Gordon in my own copy of "A Room of One's Own," Woolf's prejudice is described in this way:
"Woolf is concerned with the fate of women of genius, not with that or ordinary women; her plea is that we create a world in which Shakespeare's sister might survive her gift, not one in which a miner's wife can have her rights to property; her passion is for literature, not for universal justice."
Is this fair? In the interest of literature, it probably is. In the interest of equality between the classes, it certainly is not.
I wonder if Virginia Woolf would have the same thesis in today's culture. We certainly are different, however, money will always remain an issue in accomplishing that which is not instantly lucrative.
"The Second Coming"
"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" (1123)
William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming" is as confusing as it is provocative. It contains vibrant imagery, although it is difficult for the reader to picture what Yeats actually intended for us to perceive. The first stanza gives us an image of a "gyre" or spiral, swirling around and around. Where is this gyre? Is it of the world, or is it somewhere else? We can assume that it must be of the world since it discusses it's inhabitants: "The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity." This gyre, which seems to be the force that is continually holding things together, has finally lost its momentum and is now failing to support its inhabitants. When such a thing happens, the speaker begins to assume that a "second coming" is upon us.
At first thought, the reader can assume that Yeats speaks of the second coming of Jesus Christ. However, the description of the "messiah" seems very different from the common perception of Christ. The speaker describes it as a "rough beast." Christ, a beast? We begin to wonder if Yeats has any intention of this poem having even the slightest religious slant. After reading the poem completely, we see that this is supposed to speak to something much less organized than the church.
The scene that Yeats describes is chaos. We do not see any real human reaction to this "second coming" other than the speaker himself. He talks about some of the "people" in the scene, but does not explain how they feel about this "second coming." In fact, the speaker himself hardly explains his impressions of the "second coming." All he/she reveals is this : "The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out when a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi troubles my sight." The reading gives a footnote explaining that "Spiritus Mundi" is a "notion of the collective unconsciousness." Is this supposed to imply that the speaker is the only one who is aware of this Second Coming?
If the rest of the world is unconscious to what is going on, and the speaker is the only one who sees it, how can we really know that the poem implies that this is happening to the world? At this point, we can't rule out the idea that the Second Coming is actually happening in the speaker's own mind.
Is the Second Coming really the returning of a Messiah at all? The turbulent imagery of a Sphinx moving across the desert, a stone statue moving itself, maybe alludes to something other than an apocalyptic revelation. Could the Second Coming not be some sort of awakening, some sort of shift in thinking that causes one to believe that the world really is ending? Did the speaker have a "moment?"
Although this poem is extremely difficult to understand, it still seems very apparent that this "event' happens within the mind of one person. However, we can also wonder if it really is happening everywhere, but only one person (the speaker) is aware of it. Imagine, a real apocalyptic Second Coming, and no one can really see it.
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" (1123)
William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming" is as confusing as it is provocative. It contains vibrant imagery, although it is difficult for the reader to picture what Yeats actually intended for us to perceive. The first stanza gives us an image of a "gyre" or spiral, swirling around and around. Where is this gyre? Is it of the world, or is it somewhere else? We can assume that it must be of the world since it discusses it's inhabitants: "The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity." This gyre, which seems to be the force that is continually holding things together, has finally lost its momentum and is now failing to support its inhabitants. When such a thing happens, the speaker begins to assume that a "second coming" is upon us.
At first thought, the reader can assume that Yeats speaks of the second coming of Jesus Christ. However, the description of the "messiah" seems very different from the common perception of Christ. The speaker describes it as a "rough beast." Christ, a beast? We begin to wonder if Yeats has any intention of this poem having even the slightest religious slant. After reading the poem completely, we see that this is supposed to speak to something much less organized than the church.
The scene that Yeats describes is chaos. We do not see any real human reaction to this "second coming" other than the speaker himself. He talks about some of the "people" in the scene, but does not explain how they feel about this "second coming." In fact, the speaker himself hardly explains his impressions of the "second coming." All he/she reveals is this : "The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out when a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi troubles my sight." The reading gives a footnote explaining that "Spiritus Mundi" is a "notion of the collective unconsciousness." Is this supposed to imply that the speaker is the only one who is aware of this Second Coming?
If the rest of the world is unconscious to what is going on, and the speaker is the only one who sees it, how can we really know that the poem implies that this is happening to the world? At this point, we can't rule out the idea that the Second Coming is actually happening in the speaker's own mind.
Is the Second Coming really the returning of a Messiah at all? The turbulent imagery of a Sphinx moving across the desert, a stone statue moving itself, maybe alludes to something other than an apocalyptic revelation. Could the Second Coming not be some sort of awakening, some sort of shift in thinking that causes one to believe that the world really is ending? Did the speaker have a "moment?"
Although this poem is extremely difficult to understand, it still seems very apparent that this "event' happens within the mind of one person. However, we can also wonder if it really is happening everywhere, but only one person (the speaker) is aware of it. Imagine, a real apocalyptic Second Coming, and no one can really see it.
LONG LIVE THE VORTEX!
While flipping through the reading, it's a bit of a shock to encounter the excerpt from "Blast" magazine. Even reading the description of the cover of the hopeful periodical makes it seem extremely out of place in the literature that surrounds it. A pink cover with the words "BLAST" emblazoned across the front? It sounds more like a less-feminine version of Cosmopolitan. We read the list of entries that were found in the first issue and we think that it must have been an extremely diverse anthology. Reading the entry "VORTICIST MANIFESTO, LONG LIVE THE VORTEX," the passage seems more appropriate for a present day opinion of art than something ready for the turn of the century.
"We stand for Reality of the Present" (1082)
Who doesn't? Sure, this is a generalization, but how can we not stand for the reality of the present? It is the present, after all. It is difficult to deny. I think the intention was to say that they would not be influenced by the past or future, but only accept what is true in the present.
"WE NEED THE UNCONSCIOUSNESS OF HUMANITY"
The magazine starts off by asking for people to come with no preconceived notions. It even adds, "their stupidity, animalism and dreams." So, maybe it's not asking for them to rid of their presumptions. Rather, it wants the readers to come "as they are." They want their individual faults, problems, and desires to be exposed when thinking about whatever Blast contains. Blast is around for the individual.
"WE ONLY WANT THE WORLD TO LIVE, and to feel its crude energy flowing through us"
This statement alone seems very self-explanatory. "We only want the world to live." We only want the world to be itself? It's easy to see that this first entry in "The Vorticist Manifesto" was crafted to set the stage for an individualist way of thinking and creating Art, it's primary goal.
In addition to its content, which strives to make the reader aware of their own artistic inclinations, its form and structure is something extremely new and fresh to the writing scene. It reads mainly in short epithets, capitalizing its most important statements, and spacing them so that the reader might think it to be poetry rather than prose. While reading it, one gets the distinct impression that they are being shouted at. The passage declares that Blast does not care what class you are in or your income level. It only cares that you leave your baggage behind and just enjoy the Art.
It's no surprise that Blast did not do very well. The reading says that it was only able to release two issues. At this point in time, there probably did not exist a demographic that would have found Blast appealing. This is ironic because Blast sought to demolish demographics in its audience.
"We stand for Reality of the Present" (1082)
Who doesn't? Sure, this is a generalization, but how can we not stand for the reality of the present? It is the present, after all. It is difficult to deny. I think the intention was to say that they would not be influenced by the past or future, but only accept what is true in the present.
"WE NEED THE UNCONSCIOUSNESS OF HUMANITY"
The magazine starts off by asking for people to come with no preconceived notions. It even adds, "their stupidity, animalism and dreams." So, maybe it's not asking for them to rid of their presumptions. Rather, it wants the readers to come "as they are." They want their individual faults, problems, and desires to be exposed when thinking about whatever Blast contains. Blast is around for the individual.
"WE ONLY WANT THE WORLD TO LIVE, and to feel its crude energy flowing through us"
This statement alone seems very self-explanatory. "We only want the world to live." We only want the world to be itself? It's easy to see that this first entry in "The Vorticist Manifesto" was crafted to set the stage for an individualist way of thinking and creating Art, it's primary goal.
In addition to its content, which strives to make the reader aware of their own artistic inclinations, its form and structure is something extremely new and fresh to the writing scene. It reads mainly in short epithets, capitalizing its most important statements, and spacing them so that the reader might think it to be poetry rather than prose. While reading it, one gets the distinct impression that they are being shouted at. The passage declares that Blast does not care what class you are in or your income level. It only cares that you leave your baggage behind and just enjoy the Art.
It's no surprise that Blast did not do very well. The reading says that it was only able to release two issues. At this point in time, there probably did not exist a demographic that would have found Blast appealing. This is ironic because Blast sought to demolish demographics in its audience.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Gerard Manley Hopkins and "God's Grandeur"
The poem "God's Grandeur" sounds very much like it would come from the mind of a clergyman. It contains that unapologetic style that never questions the omnipotence of God. This particular poem is interesting to me, because it has a couple of difference references to something you wouldn't find in the pages of a religious text: actual electricity. Hopkins uses words like "charged" and "foil" to illuminate the instantaneous spark that it accompanied with the onset of voltage. Everything before this point, in relation to God, has used the superiority of nature in discussing His benevolence. For the first time so far in the reading, we come across a poem that uses an extremely modern reference in such a pious subject. How should we approach this? We can assume that it was one of the first attempts toward bridging the gap between progress and religion, but we also don't know if this was really Hopkins' intentions in writing it. Did he really believe that a gap existed? Or did he find the new discovery of electricity to just be another facet of nature?
"It will flame out, like shining form shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed..." (774)
These few lines suggest the "gathering" or the undercurrent of electricity. Of course, an undercurrent is never really seen. It is more of something that we can feel, building up inside of a wire, getting warmer with strength. He then compares the instant spark of "foil" with the "ooze of oil," maybe trying to allude to two different ways of viewing God? Or is it really just "viewing or perceiving God?" Could it actually have nothing to do with God? When we think of an undercurrent, it's easy to think of a huge build up, usually of emotion. Then, typically, the undercurrent either has a point of culmination, or has the ability to sustain a certain level of power. How does this relate to God?
You could argue that spiritual encounters happen on a "foil" type of basis, particularly in stories from the Bible. A vision of God appears and disappears in an instant, with no premonition or build-up. So what does it mean to have an "oil" type of encounter, one that ruminates over time? Oil has a gooey consistency, sticking to everything and leaving a trail of its movement. Maybe the reference to the oil is actually a reference to Hopkins' perception of the presence of God. It is ever-present and has the ability to leave marks on the things that it touches.
Despite whether or not the discussion of oil and foil are related to an "encounter" with God (this is just a guess as to what it could mean), it is obvious that the poem seeks to discuss "Nature." The poem describes Nature as an inescapable work of God, even with the onset of Electricity. We would typically think that a clergyman would fight against electricity, claiming that it degrades God's creation. We don't see that with this poem. These short allusions to electricity or progress are not reprimanded, but instead demand that the credit be given to God. The "undercurrent" was always there; humans just had to find a way to channel it.
We also see Hopkins' trying to make the reader understand that nature is not to be neglected:
"Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod." (775)
Hopkins suggests that when we don't take care of our environment, we are not taking time to observe God's work. He speaks of it as a crime to neglect that which is given to us gracefully. Overall, the poem seems to ask the reader to look at nature as a compliment to a Creator, to participate in the preservations of that compliment, and to reject human credit for newer innovations.
"It will flame out, like shining form shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed..." (774)
These few lines suggest the "gathering" or the undercurrent of electricity. Of course, an undercurrent is never really seen. It is more of something that we can feel, building up inside of a wire, getting warmer with strength. He then compares the instant spark of "foil" with the "ooze of oil," maybe trying to allude to two different ways of viewing God? Or is it really just "viewing or perceiving God?" Could it actually have nothing to do with God? When we think of an undercurrent, it's easy to think of a huge build up, usually of emotion. Then, typically, the undercurrent either has a point of culmination, or has the ability to sustain a certain level of power. How does this relate to God?
You could argue that spiritual encounters happen on a "foil" type of basis, particularly in stories from the Bible. A vision of God appears and disappears in an instant, with no premonition or build-up. So what does it mean to have an "oil" type of encounter, one that ruminates over time? Oil has a gooey consistency, sticking to everything and leaving a trail of its movement. Maybe the reference to the oil is actually a reference to Hopkins' perception of the presence of God. It is ever-present and has the ability to leave marks on the things that it touches.
Despite whether or not the discussion of oil and foil are related to an "encounter" with God (this is just a guess as to what it could mean), it is obvious that the poem seeks to discuss "Nature." The poem describes Nature as an inescapable work of God, even with the onset of Electricity. We would typically think that a clergyman would fight against electricity, claiming that it degrades God's creation. We don't see that with this poem. These short allusions to electricity or progress are not reprimanded, but instead demand that the credit be given to God. The "undercurrent" was always there; humans just had to find a way to channel it.
We also see Hopkins' trying to make the reader understand that nature is not to be neglected:
"Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod." (775)
Hopkins suggests that when we don't take care of our environment, we are not taking time to observe God's work. He speaks of it as a crime to neglect that which is given to us gracefully. Overall, the poem seems to ask the reader to look at nature as a compliment to a Creator, to participate in the preservations of that compliment, and to reject human credit for newer innovations.
I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day
"I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what lack hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I saw
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him the lives alas! away.
I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse." (778)
I have read this poem at least ten times already and every time I think I have begun to understand it, something changes my mind. During readings one through five, I had the impression that the speaker was pleased with the fact that he was not one of the "souls in Hell," finding himself saved from such a fate. However, the end of the poem claims that he feels worse than the "lost." This was my first conclusion: The pain he felt on earth was greater than the pain that he could feel in hell, although he knew that he was in the better situation. After readings five through ten, though, the short poem felt much more complex than that.
The speaker complains of a continual darkness and his inability to awake to "day." He continues on about the "hours" that rap away in his mind, calling them "black." "And my lament is cries countless" is a heavy statement. He implies that he can't stop crying out about being alive in these dark "hours." This is not exactly the sort of poetic rambling that you would expect from a priest, such as Gerard Manley Hopkins.
In Hopkins' biography, there is a long discussion about his time spent away from poetry so that he could further himself within the church. It mentions that when he received his ordination into the priesthood, he was so overjoyed that he couldn't keep himself from writing a couple of sonnets. After reading this poem, one gets the sense that maybe Hopkins wasn't entirely happy in his clergy position. The poem is so dark with hopelessness in what one would normally think as the ultimate position of hope: the clergy.
"...cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away."
To whom is he writing these "dead letters?" At first, I though that Hopkins meant to imply that he was sending pleas to God. However, he doesn't go along with the traditional practice of capitalizing "him." This may be a fairly insignificant aspect of the poem, but it stuck with me. The idea of a letter, a plea, or a request being "dead" is fairly disturbing. What does it mean? When I think of "dead," I think of something that is empty, lifeless, or limp. When we send a "dead" message, maybe we are already aware of the fact that our plea will do no good or have no real outcome. The speaker (which we can assume is Hopkins) sends his "dead letters" to whomever will listen, knowing full well that nothing will come of his requests. He feels stuck, trapped in the hours and "dark days" that follow him.
What does it mean when someone in the clergy feels trapped within an earthly prison? It's a hopeless poem, it seems, with the speaker claiming that he is absolutely miserable in his circumstances. If there is no hope for contentment in the church, where does one find it?
I think that these are very broad questions to ask, but within the context of this poem, they seem like they are inevitably stirred.
I wonder when it's time to "get personal" with the actual poet. Should we really take into account Hopkins' life when reading a poem such as this? Are we to assume that it is actually him speaking? When do we know the difference? Is it even possible to know? Attaching an actual person to the piece makes for such an interesting history. In this case, we know the writer's personality and past. However, it is also interesting when we do not know such background information. This adds a mystery to the poem, leaving us to fill in the blanks. I'm not sure if I have a preference between the two. I think it's fascinating to imagine Hopkins' writing this poem from his position of religious influence. It's also really something to picture a man summing up his religious doubts and depressions in only two short stanzas.
Despite the fact that it's hard to pin-point the drive behind this poem, it certainly was meant to be read aloud. I took a few turns at reading it aloud, listening to my voice and the sounds that the paired words made. Then I asked a friend to read it aloud. Listening to a voice other than one's own makes you realize the amount of pushing that is required when speaking through a line of alliteration. Particularly with the plosive and fricative consonant sounds, it's almost a struggle to "spit" out each word. This makes the the poem seems just as frustrating to write as it is to read aloud. Frustration, in most cases, causes one to be so overwhelmed with incapabilities or failures that it becomes difficult to think and communicate clearly. This is certainly reflected in the poem.
"Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours."
Try reciting these two lines "sweetly."
What hours, O what lack hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I saw
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him the lives alas! away.
I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse." (778)
I have read this poem at least ten times already and every time I think I have begun to understand it, something changes my mind. During readings one through five, I had the impression that the speaker was pleased with the fact that he was not one of the "souls in Hell," finding himself saved from such a fate. However, the end of the poem claims that he feels worse than the "lost." This was my first conclusion: The pain he felt on earth was greater than the pain that he could feel in hell, although he knew that he was in the better situation. After readings five through ten, though, the short poem felt much more complex than that.
The speaker complains of a continual darkness and his inability to awake to "day." He continues on about the "hours" that rap away in his mind, calling them "black." "And my lament is cries countless" is a heavy statement. He implies that he can't stop crying out about being alive in these dark "hours." This is not exactly the sort of poetic rambling that you would expect from a priest, such as Gerard Manley Hopkins.
In Hopkins' biography, there is a long discussion about his time spent away from poetry so that he could further himself within the church. It mentions that when he received his ordination into the priesthood, he was so overjoyed that he couldn't keep himself from writing a couple of sonnets. After reading this poem, one gets the sense that maybe Hopkins wasn't entirely happy in his clergy position. The poem is so dark with hopelessness in what one would normally think as the ultimate position of hope: the clergy.
"...cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away."
To whom is he writing these "dead letters?" At first, I though that Hopkins meant to imply that he was sending pleas to God. However, he doesn't go along with the traditional practice of capitalizing "him." This may be a fairly insignificant aspect of the poem, but it stuck with me. The idea of a letter, a plea, or a request being "dead" is fairly disturbing. What does it mean? When I think of "dead," I think of something that is empty, lifeless, or limp. When we send a "dead" message, maybe we are already aware of the fact that our plea will do no good or have no real outcome. The speaker (which we can assume is Hopkins) sends his "dead letters" to whomever will listen, knowing full well that nothing will come of his requests. He feels stuck, trapped in the hours and "dark days" that follow him.
What does it mean when someone in the clergy feels trapped within an earthly prison? It's a hopeless poem, it seems, with the speaker claiming that he is absolutely miserable in his circumstances. If there is no hope for contentment in the church, where does one find it?
I think that these are very broad questions to ask, but within the context of this poem, they seem like they are inevitably stirred.
I wonder when it's time to "get personal" with the actual poet. Should we really take into account Hopkins' life when reading a poem such as this? Are we to assume that it is actually him speaking? When do we know the difference? Is it even possible to know? Attaching an actual person to the piece makes for such an interesting history. In this case, we know the writer's personality and past. However, it is also interesting when we do not know such background information. This adds a mystery to the poem, leaving us to fill in the blanks. I'm not sure if I have a preference between the two. I think it's fascinating to imagine Hopkins' writing this poem from his position of religious influence. It's also really something to picture a man summing up his religious doubts and depressions in only two short stanzas.
Despite the fact that it's hard to pin-point the drive behind this poem, it certainly was meant to be read aloud. I took a few turns at reading it aloud, listening to my voice and the sounds that the paired words made. Then I asked a friend to read it aloud. Listening to a voice other than one's own makes you realize the amount of pushing that is required when speaking through a line of alliteration. Particularly with the plosive and fricative consonant sounds, it's almost a struggle to "spit" out each word. This makes the the poem seems just as frustrating to write as it is to read aloud. Frustration, in most cases, causes one to be so overwhelmed with incapabilities or failures that it becomes difficult to think and communicate clearly. This is certainly reflected in the poem.
"Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours."
Try reciting these two lines "sweetly."
Thursday, June 19, 2008
"The Decay of Lying"
"The temper of a true liar, with his frank, fearless statements, his superb irresponsibility, his healthy, natural disdain of proof of any kind! After all, what is a fine lie? Simply that which is its own evidence (833)."
Oscar Wilde's dialogue, "The Decay of Lying," is so unusual in its theme. However, it actually culminates in very sensical thinking. The chat between two educated men revolves around a paper written by one of the men. He plans on having it published in a periodical that, in reality, no longer exists. It's already ironic that a paper discussing "The Decay of Lying" should assume it's publication under pretension!
The writer of the paper explains to his companion that true "Art" is something that rejects realism and also rejects the notion that one can produce Art through the "imitation of Life." If we decide that Art is not just an imitation of Life, then we begin to wonder from where Art is generated. If not Life, then what? It takes a minute to wrap your mind around the idea that Art could actually be perceived as something existing before a human conception.
What is most interesting to me about this work is how thoroughly it presents its arguments. The writer in the story makes every effort to "cover all of his bases." How smart of Wilde to make his case while inserting a character into the dialogue who can argue against his friend. He makes interjections asking "why?" and "how can you really say such a thing?" This separate participant in the writing makes for a deeper credibility to what is, obviously, a thought-process belonging to Wilde himself.
Another striking feature of the work is that the content is not the most pressing aspect. Of course, it is saturated with topics for fruitful discussion, but there is no real question as to what the writing concerns. It asks for "Arts for Art's sake." Although it is complicated, there is little to be argued about. What is most memorable about the piece, is that it is written in a play-script sort of mold, however, one gets the distinct impression that it is not meant to be performed; rather, it is meant to be read to oneself. It is so wordy that one can't stand to imagine watching it in a performance. Why watch someone read a paper aloud when you could read it yourself? Shaw's "Pygmalion" has this same readable quality. When reading it, we find that Shaw's intermittent narration was never meant to be read onstage. Eliza and Higgins' long, tedious speeches are much better understood when read slowly--not necessarily while watching them onstage. Perhaps this is why you are much more likely to find a performance of the musical My Fair Lady over Pygmalion itself!
One wonders, though, if Wilde breaks his own rule in writing "The Decay of Lying." We know within the first few paragraphs that it is meant to be informational, but we are also aware that it is still written with an inclination toward "art" over "academia." We have to wonder how realistic the dialogue actually is. When you think about it, it is not as if the writer in the "play" is simply reciting his paper. He is actually reading it aloud. He writes the stage directions as if there were really no stage, simply declaring that they are "outside." The dialogue is definitely unbalanced for a two-person scene, the writer having precedence over his companion. They casually smoke together. Everything about which he has written is extremely natural. Isn't this exactly what he was writing to fight against?
Perhaps Wilde has managed to satire that which he rejects, probably intentionally. After reading "The Decay of Lying," it is difficult to not agree with Wilde and his argument. It is so well delivered in a way that is natural enough to be considered a sharing of perspectives in the company of our own friends. Maybe that is the difference. "Art" can oftentimes take on such a form of abstraction that we cannot really begin to easily understand it. Realism is different. It doesn't have to "lie" to be convincing and clear. It would seem typical of Wilde to use Realism to make a point and Art to leave an impression.
Oscar Wilde's dialogue, "The Decay of Lying," is so unusual in its theme. However, it actually culminates in very sensical thinking. The chat between two educated men revolves around a paper written by one of the men. He plans on having it published in a periodical that, in reality, no longer exists. It's already ironic that a paper discussing "The Decay of Lying" should assume it's publication under pretension!
The writer of the paper explains to his companion that true "Art" is something that rejects realism and also rejects the notion that one can produce Art through the "imitation of Life." If we decide that Art is not just an imitation of Life, then we begin to wonder from where Art is generated. If not Life, then what? It takes a minute to wrap your mind around the idea that Art could actually be perceived as something existing before a human conception.
What is most interesting to me about this work is how thoroughly it presents its arguments. The writer in the story makes every effort to "cover all of his bases." How smart of Wilde to make his case while inserting a character into the dialogue who can argue against his friend. He makes interjections asking "why?" and "how can you really say such a thing?" This separate participant in the writing makes for a deeper credibility to what is, obviously, a thought-process belonging to Wilde himself.
Another striking feature of the work is that the content is not the most pressing aspect. Of course, it is saturated with topics for fruitful discussion, but there is no real question as to what the writing concerns. It asks for "Arts for Art's sake." Although it is complicated, there is little to be argued about. What is most memorable about the piece, is that it is written in a play-script sort of mold, however, one gets the distinct impression that it is not meant to be performed; rather, it is meant to be read to oneself. It is so wordy that one can't stand to imagine watching it in a performance. Why watch someone read a paper aloud when you could read it yourself? Shaw's "Pygmalion" has this same readable quality. When reading it, we find that Shaw's intermittent narration was never meant to be read onstage. Eliza and Higgins' long, tedious speeches are much better understood when read slowly--not necessarily while watching them onstage. Perhaps this is why you are much more likely to find a performance of the musical My Fair Lady over Pygmalion itself!
One wonders, though, if Wilde breaks his own rule in writing "The Decay of Lying." We know within the first few paragraphs that it is meant to be informational, but we are also aware that it is still written with an inclination toward "art" over "academia." We have to wonder how realistic the dialogue actually is. When you think about it, it is not as if the writer in the "play" is simply reciting his paper. He is actually reading it aloud. He writes the stage directions as if there were really no stage, simply declaring that they are "outside." The dialogue is definitely unbalanced for a two-person scene, the writer having precedence over his companion. They casually smoke together. Everything about which he has written is extremely natural. Isn't this exactly what he was writing to fight against?
Perhaps Wilde has managed to satire that which he rejects, probably intentionally. After reading "The Decay of Lying," it is difficult to not agree with Wilde and his argument. It is so well delivered in a way that is natural enough to be considered a sharing of perspectives in the company of our own friends. Maybe that is the difference. "Art" can oftentimes take on such a form of abstraction that we cannot really begin to easily understand it. Realism is different. It doesn't have to "lie" to be convincing and clear. It would seem typical of Wilde to use Realism to make a point and Art to leave an impression.
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