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.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
"Pygmalion?" A Romance?
George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion" is play that easily resonates with any person who has ever taken the step toward reinvention.
Despite the fact that "Pygmalion" is the ultimate makeover story, one also wonders if the story line constitutes that of a "Romance." Is the story between Higgins and Eliza actually romantic? And what actually makes a story romantic--is it all about love and relationships, or can it also include transformations toward that which is ideal? "Pygmalion" gives rise to a lot of these questions, surprising the reader in finding that Shaw has sought to draw an accurate picture of a a real-life scenario.
Throughout the play, we watch Higgins morph an uncultured flower girl into a duchess. She becomes poised with elegance and style, disguised and ready to fool the questioning eyes of the upper class. She is deemed absolutely acceptable in the eyes of her superiors and finds herself elevated among them, and pursued by the enamored Freddy.
Ovid's original myth of "Pygmalion" describes the transformation of something of little significance to the most beautiful of creations. The flower girl stands in the town market selling a perishable and non-essential item. She is really quite unimportant in the scheme of things, finding her daily wages more through pity than through business. She is the scrap of England, fully formed in a useless state. Her sculptor, Henry Higgins, enters, ready to take that which is most undesirable in her and turn it into that of a respectable English woman. Although Higgins does his best to keep a cool and distant composure about himself, he still finds himself obsessed with improving Eliza's station. He takes pains to ensure that every minuscule detail of her composure is perfected. He feels quite sure that those who will observe her will find the faults of her upbringing. Instead, she presents herself as the perfect image of lady-like qualities, impressing her suitors and shocking Higgins.
In Ovid's myth, Aphrodite feel pity for the sculptor, seeing how he has fallen deeply in love with his perfect statue. She gives the statue life. In the play, Eliza has always had "life." This difference is that Higgins does not choose to acknowledge this living quality until after she has been transformed and found approval in society. In quarreling with the perfect image of womanhood, he sees the truth behind visual perfection and the instigation of love. The play shows that Higgins cannot love her. Although he sees her as a perfectly suitable partner, he never develops a romantic interest in her. He fights and argues with her up until the last page of the play. Shaw's afterward suggests that Higgins is distracted by the idea that no woman could ever equal to the stature of his own mother. And, of course, in any time period, the husband must allow for the wife to fill certain voids that the mother can no longer seek to occupy. Higgins resists such a situation. He feels perfectly at ease in the bachelor lifestyle and finds that he needs no real female counterpart to exist successfully.
What is romantic about not embracing romance?
Shaw suggests that this is a story of romantic themes for Higgins. He seeks no physical or legal gratification in marriage. He is already perfectly satisfied by his goddess of a mother. Perhaps Higgins seeks a woman with whom he can be rude and uncivil, with the presumption that she will never really leave him. The end of the play does not portray Eliza as leaving the company of Higgins. Instead, it shows her scoffing at him, but never really "leaving" for good. She recognizes that he will never seek a wife in her, only a companion.
Maybe Shaw was trying to instigate a new kind of "romance"--that which does not include a sappy love story. Higgins created what he wanted to create and he was pleased with it. Eliza grew to understand the quality of her inner personality over her outward appearance. Higgins gave her a new life, but did not necessarily mock this fact. Perhaps it was his plan all along. That alone is a different sort of romance. Higgins could recognize the class structure and selfishly sought out to develop and experiment that transformed into a real person. Perhaps it is romantic that Higgins begins to form this new feeling of utility in elevating the flower girl. He knows that he has done right by her, and that there is nothing more he could have done to make her happier with his disposition. Romance seems to include an outpouring of some emotion or action. Higgins romantic catharsis was labor toward reinvention. Romance also can be assumed as unusual, out of the ordinary, or unexpected. For if romance were always within expectations, one would never be able to recognize it. There's a lyric in Sondheim's musical "Into the Woods" that declares, "If life were full of moments, you would never know you had one!" I think this is very applicable to this story. Higgins did what was most unexpected of him, and he was able to recognize the "romantic" characteristics of his actions.
I think Higgins is very much aware of his chance romantic inclination when he makes this speech in the third act:
HIGGINS: You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be civilized and cultured--to know all about poetry and philosophy and art and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meanings of these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill] What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of art or science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know of philosophy?
Before we can receive any answers from the players, Eliza, his creation based upon an idealistic mold, enters and diverts the conversation.
Despite the fact that "Pygmalion" is the ultimate makeover story, one also wonders if the story line constitutes that of a "Romance." Is the story between Higgins and Eliza actually romantic? And what actually makes a story romantic--is it all about love and relationships, or can it also include transformations toward that which is ideal? "Pygmalion" gives rise to a lot of these questions, surprising the reader in finding that Shaw has sought to draw an accurate picture of a a real-life scenario.
Throughout the play, we watch Higgins morph an uncultured flower girl into a duchess. She becomes poised with elegance and style, disguised and ready to fool the questioning eyes of the upper class. She is deemed absolutely acceptable in the eyes of her superiors and finds herself elevated among them, and pursued by the enamored Freddy.
Ovid's original myth of "Pygmalion" describes the transformation of something of little significance to the most beautiful of creations. The flower girl stands in the town market selling a perishable and non-essential item. She is really quite unimportant in the scheme of things, finding her daily wages more through pity than through business. She is the scrap of England, fully formed in a useless state. Her sculptor, Henry Higgins, enters, ready to take that which is most undesirable in her and turn it into that of a respectable English woman. Although Higgins does his best to keep a cool and distant composure about himself, he still finds himself obsessed with improving Eliza's station. He takes pains to ensure that every minuscule detail of her composure is perfected. He feels quite sure that those who will observe her will find the faults of her upbringing. Instead, she presents herself as the perfect image of lady-like qualities, impressing her suitors and shocking Higgins.
In Ovid's myth, Aphrodite feel pity for the sculptor, seeing how he has fallen deeply in love with his perfect statue. She gives the statue life. In the play, Eliza has always had "life." This difference is that Higgins does not choose to acknowledge this living quality until after she has been transformed and found approval in society. In quarreling with the perfect image of womanhood, he sees the truth behind visual perfection and the instigation of love. The play shows that Higgins cannot love her. Although he sees her as a perfectly suitable partner, he never develops a romantic interest in her. He fights and argues with her up until the last page of the play. Shaw's afterward suggests that Higgins is distracted by the idea that no woman could ever equal to the stature of his own mother. And, of course, in any time period, the husband must allow for the wife to fill certain voids that the mother can no longer seek to occupy. Higgins resists such a situation. He feels perfectly at ease in the bachelor lifestyle and finds that he needs no real female counterpart to exist successfully.
What is romantic about not embracing romance?
Shaw suggests that this is a story of romantic themes for Higgins. He seeks no physical or legal gratification in marriage. He is already perfectly satisfied by his goddess of a mother. Perhaps Higgins seeks a woman with whom he can be rude and uncivil, with the presumption that she will never really leave him. The end of the play does not portray Eliza as leaving the company of Higgins. Instead, it shows her scoffing at him, but never really "leaving" for good. She recognizes that he will never seek a wife in her, only a companion.
Maybe Shaw was trying to instigate a new kind of "romance"--that which does not include a sappy love story. Higgins created what he wanted to create and he was pleased with it. Eliza grew to understand the quality of her inner personality over her outward appearance. Higgins gave her a new life, but did not necessarily mock this fact. Perhaps it was his plan all along. That alone is a different sort of romance. Higgins could recognize the class structure and selfishly sought out to develop and experiment that transformed into a real person. Perhaps it is romantic that Higgins begins to form this new feeling of utility in elevating the flower girl. He knows that he has done right by her, and that there is nothing more he could have done to make her happier with his disposition. Romance seems to include an outpouring of some emotion or action. Higgins romantic catharsis was labor toward reinvention. Romance also can be assumed as unusual, out of the ordinary, or unexpected. For if romance were always within expectations, one would never be able to recognize it. There's a lyric in Sondheim's musical "Into the Woods" that declares, "If life were full of moments, you would never know you had one!" I think this is very applicable to this story. Higgins did what was most unexpected of him, and he was able to recognize the "romantic" characteristics of his actions.
I think Higgins is very much aware of his chance romantic inclination when he makes this speech in the third act:
HIGGINS: You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be civilized and cultured--to know all about poetry and philosophy and art and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meanings of these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill] What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of art or science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know of philosophy?
Before we can receive any answers from the players, Eliza, his creation based upon an idealistic mold, enters and diverts the conversation.
Monday, June 16, 2008
John Stuart Mill and plain, clear Thinking
John Stuart Mill was a bonified oddball. How interesting it is to come across an intelligent, cultured young man who found himself advocating the ideal that could easily dispose of his social status. He was raised in a way that made him seem too smart for his own good--the reading even describes that he eventually found himself immersed in a nervous breakdown in 1826, probably the result of a young mind too bogged down with issue too mature for his consumption. Of course, this was forced upon him by his parents, and it probably produced the opposite effect of what they had intended. I am sure that Mill's mother and father had no real intentions of him submerging himself in issues that were mot of gentlemanly consequence. Instead, he became a true advocate for equality of the sexes and the right to divorce (along with many others.) Perhaps he was every woman's dream husband, but he was overcome by the new standards he wished to impress upon his nation. After realizing that achieving all of his goals of improvement could never really "satisfy" him, he had to find a way to move on with the new ideal that doing all he could was generous enough of a contribution to the welfare of his country.
John Stuart Mill's writing from "On Liberty" are candid and provide a sort of philosophical insight into the human practice of developing and arguing opinions.
"Were an opinion a personal possession of no value except to the owner; if it be obstructed in the enjoyment of it were simply a private injury, it would make some difference whether the injury was inflicted only on a few persons or on many. But the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is that it is robbing the human race...(515)."
Mill takes time to draw a simple picture of "opinions" as personal property--stating that thievery of opinions is an unjust as stealing a tangible possession. The way Mill write is extremely unadorned, almost bare. Every section of text is filled with real content, nothing is inserted to fluff the dialogue into something that it is not. He persistently uses semicolons, continuing his thoughts but willing that they not be interjected with the cumbersome presence of proper sentence structure.
His writing style is rebellious against what is expected of his social class. The style is neither beautiful, nor is it easy to read and understand. He makes no apologies in crafting and communicating his ideas and conclusions. He pays the reader a compliment, making the assumption that they are actually intelligent enough to slowly digest his philosophy and rightfully form their own opinions of it. In truth, his lack of effort toward making the text readable almost elevates his rhetoric. It is refreshing to encounter a writer/conversation-analyst who only seeks to give us real facts and observations, rather than dictate the reading with unnecessary accoutrement.
Mill in this selection, goes on to say that man "is capable of rectifying his mistakes, by discussion and experience. Not by experience alone. There must be discussion, to show how experience is to be interpreted (516)."
Here again, he simplifies his speech, seeking to please no one, and finds a way to utilize a three prong set up commonly used in philosophy:
1) Discussion and Experience rectify mistakes.
2)Experience it trivial without discussion.
3)Therefore, discussion must exist in order to interpret experience.
Of course, this is a bit of a stretch, but it speaks to the idea that philosophy (in this case "conversational philosophy") makes no effort to adorn its statements.
Perhaps the actual content of Mill's argument is disputable in such a time period as well. We can assume that many people come to such positions of power through the experience of themselves and their families. I feel quite sure that part of the prompt for the above statement was an encounter of John Stuart Mill with a man of "experience" who had gross amounts of trouble communicating the merits that derive from such an endeavor.
We can probably never know what prompted such a clear and concise, almost bitter statement. However, I am sure we can relate to such a recognition of a person of seasoned experience who appears twit-like in the presence of reputable conversation.
John Stuart Mill's writing from "On Liberty" are candid and provide a sort of philosophical insight into the human practice of developing and arguing opinions.
"Were an opinion a personal possession of no value except to the owner; if it be obstructed in the enjoyment of it were simply a private injury, it would make some difference whether the injury was inflicted only on a few persons or on many. But the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is that it is robbing the human race...(515)."
Mill takes time to draw a simple picture of "opinions" as personal property--stating that thievery of opinions is an unjust as stealing a tangible possession. The way Mill write is extremely unadorned, almost bare. Every section of text is filled with real content, nothing is inserted to fluff the dialogue into something that it is not. He persistently uses semicolons, continuing his thoughts but willing that they not be interjected with the cumbersome presence of proper sentence structure.
His writing style is rebellious against what is expected of his social class. The style is neither beautiful, nor is it easy to read and understand. He makes no apologies in crafting and communicating his ideas and conclusions. He pays the reader a compliment, making the assumption that they are actually intelligent enough to slowly digest his philosophy and rightfully form their own opinions of it. In truth, his lack of effort toward making the text readable almost elevates his rhetoric. It is refreshing to encounter a writer/conversation-analyst who only seeks to give us real facts and observations, rather than dictate the reading with unnecessary accoutrement.
Mill in this selection, goes on to say that man "is capable of rectifying his mistakes, by discussion and experience. Not by experience alone. There must be discussion, to show how experience is to be interpreted (516)."
Here again, he simplifies his speech, seeking to please no one, and finds a way to utilize a three prong set up commonly used in philosophy:
1) Discussion and Experience rectify mistakes.
2)Experience it trivial without discussion.
3)Therefore, discussion must exist in order to interpret experience.
Of course, this is a bit of a stretch, but it speaks to the idea that philosophy (in this case "conversational philosophy") makes no effort to adorn its statements.
Perhaps the actual content of Mill's argument is disputable in such a time period as well. We can assume that many people come to such positions of power through the experience of themselves and their families. I feel quite sure that part of the prompt for the above statement was an encounter of John Stuart Mill with a man of "experience" who had gross amounts of trouble communicating the merits that derive from such an endeavor.
We can probably never know what prompted such a clear and concise, almost bitter statement. However, I am sure we can relate to such a recognition of a person of seasoned experience who appears twit-like in the presence of reputable conversation.
Victorian Ladies and Gentlemen
When reading about the practice of raising a young woman in the Victorian age, there seems to be an underlying tone of fear in the voices of the enforcers. In fact, many social commentators even acknowledged this idea. If the women were to begin to immerse themselves in Gentlemanly pleasures, then who would pick up the responsibility to "provide a sanctified haven from the rough-and-tumble world of business and politics (555)?" The women are continually objectified, associated with the seemingly trivial realm of leisure, parties, relaxation, and pleasure. Upon reading such a description of a catergory, one would think that perhaps women really do have the better end of the deal--one rarely complains about the perils of an easy and beautiful life. In the introduction to this section, the reading supplies small interjections of women who are not disappointed with the congenial atmosphere of their position, but are rather bored with the time they must spend mulling away the hours. How should they fill their time when they are not receiving callers or planning parties? Do they submit to circling up with their friends to dicuss their callers and said parties? Surely, after some time, the conversation shifts to meaningless, redundant content that can only be reiterated so much as to where the words are lost. I don't believe that a woman ever wished for her words to be lost, but they most certainly existed in a world where their words could not really be discovered.
Many women from this time period found that their real lives did not really begin until after their domesticated lives came to an end. These women endured the seemingly wonderful experiences of marriage and motherhood, only to find that their stifled existence dissipated only when these pleasures were also obliterated.
To indulge in reading or studying was viewed as a selfish combatant to a postion of privilege. Harriet Martineau describes it in this way: "It was not thought proper for young ladies to study very conspicously...If ever I shut myself in my own room for an hour of solitude, I know I was at the risk of being sent for to join the sewing-circle, or to read aloud (556)." How awful to be denied a bit of isolation! In today's culture, we find that a small amount of time set aside for our own solitary pleasure is encouraged--for it gives us the chance to rediscover a personality that we have developed in the absence of others. One could argue, of course, that personality cannot find embodiement in the absence of a community, but I disagree. We all find ourselves exposed to human fellowship at some point, and I believe that these experiences remain in our consciousness throughout all of our isolated moments. Such interatction builds upon our internal monologue, probably the strongest and most hidden aspect of our personality. The human persona could not disappear when we lack company, for it will always continue to exist within our own stream of consciousness.
These "fine" Victorian women were slowly being honed toward dissolving this internal dialogue. The less time we have to ourselves, the weaker our ability to objectively assess a situation, relationship, or conflict. Allowing women to only exist in the company of other women and a few carefully selected males, we establish what the painter Edward Jones aspired to idealize: "The great point is, not that they should understand us [men], but that they should worship and obey us (556)."
What is most interesting to me about the way in which the inferiority of women in communicated is the impeccable diction and syntax that is implemented by its female advocates. Sarah Stickney Ellis, who, "Advised women to accept their inferiority to men and devote themselves to the happiness and moral elevation of their borther, husbands, and sons," writes with an incredible sense of literary voice. She is most certainly educated and absolutely aware of how she should effectively communicate her ideology. This is so surprising, because you could argue that by writing with such a level of pretention, she seems to elevate herself, making her disposition seem catty and her ego enlarged. Such perceptions were probably very undesirable for a "Lady" of her stature.
Many women from this time period found that their real lives did not really begin until after their domesticated lives came to an end. These women endured the seemingly wonderful experiences of marriage and motherhood, only to find that their stifled existence dissipated only when these pleasures were also obliterated.
To indulge in reading or studying was viewed as a selfish combatant to a postion of privilege. Harriet Martineau describes it in this way: "It was not thought proper for young ladies to study very conspicously...If ever I shut myself in my own room for an hour of solitude, I know I was at the risk of being sent for to join the sewing-circle, or to read aloud (556)." How awful to be denied a bit of isolation! In today's culture, we find that a small amount of time set aside for our own solitary pleasure is encouraged--for it gives us the chance to rediscover a personality that we have developed in the absence of others. One could argue, of course, that personality cannot find embodiement in the absence of a community, but I disagree. We all find ourselves exposed to human fellowship at some point, and I believe that these experiences remain in our consciousness throughout all of our isolated moments. Such interatction builds upon our internal monologue, probably the strongest and most hidden aspect of our personality. The human persona could not disappear when we lack company, for it will always continue to exist within our own stream of consciousness.
These "fine" Victorian women were slowly being honed toward dissolving this internal dialogue. The less time we have to ourselves, the weaker our ability to objectively assess a situation, relationship, or conflict. Allowing women to only exist in the company of other women and a few carefully selected males, we establish what the painter Edward Jones aspired to idealize: "The great point is, not that they should understand us [men], but that they should worship and obey us (556)."
What is most interesting to me about the way in which the inferiority of women in communicated is the impeccable diction and syntax that is implemented by its female advocates. Sarah Stickney Ellis, who, "Advised women to accept their inferiority to men and devote themselves to the happiness and moral elevation of their borther, husbands, and sons," writes with an incredible sense of literary voice. She is most certainly educated and absolutely aware of how she should effectively communicate her ideology. This is so surprising, because you could argue that by writing with such a level of pretention, she seems to elevate herself, making her disposition seem catty and her ego enlarged. Such perceptions were probably very undesirable for a "Lady" of her stature.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
"Aurora Leigh"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Aurora Leigh" has the eminent ability to become a favorite poem of any female writer. For that matter, it could easily circulate among the preferences of women who, in general, feel stifled. The first three lines of "Aurora Leigh" begin the headstrong and rightfully self-centered account of the life of a young woman of the Pen:
"Of writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,--(532)"
Subtley rejecting the common propriety of educated young women, the semi-autobiographical poem sketches an image of a girl at odds with the expectations she must meet within her class. Towards the beginning, a discussion ensues about the untimely death of Aurora Leigh's mother, comparing the tender kiss of a mother to a child to the cold indifference to affection by the Father. Unfortunately, the Father is all Aurura Leigh has left. Already, we have a young girl who questions the nature of her sex--she is depreived of Motherly guidance, forced to allow the tactics of an unknowing Father to influence and bridle her upbringing.
The poem discusses friends that Aurura encounters along her journey to adulthood, one of which she compares to a caged bird. She describes herself as a wild bird, harmed by the restricting security of the metal bars. She calls her cage-bird friend "Very Kind," but seems to acknowledge that kindness and a good natured disposition are not sufficient in providing true contentment.
When Aurora discovers books, a new feeling of excitement and worldliness fills the tone of the poem. Aurora Leigh immerses herself in any and every book she can find. She finds herself reading books about womanhood, and discovering truths about herself that could not really arise through a conversation with her Father:
"I read a score of books on womanhood
To prove, if women do not think at all,
They may teach thinking (to a maiden aunt
Or else the author),-- books that boldly assert
Their right of comprehending husband's talk
When not too deep, and even of answering
With pretty "may it please you," or "so it is,"--(538)"
It seems obvious that the underlying tones of feminine submission were inserted into this poem for sarcastic purposes. The empty responses of "may it please you," or "so it is" seem quite unfulfilling for the womanly temperment of Aurora Leigh, let alone for Elizabeth Barrett Browning. What does she mean, though, when she says, "To prove, if women do not think at all, they may teach thinking?" It sounds like wordplay, however, I cannot quite put my mind around what Browning is trying to say. Does she imply that women are so absent minded that they often are unaware of the fact that they are unqualified, yet they still push forward with instruction? Perhaps it is better to be unaware of our own ignorance--in practice it could prove to be useful. With such a lack of knowledge, we could easily push onward in a discussion with little selfconciousness of our unaquainted selves with the subject. We could discuss politics, economics, philosophy, art, and never wonder if our facts were truly accurate. But is that really better? Such a circumstance would only be ideal if all parties involved participated in this same purity of mind. If not, someone would surely find issues to correct or argue. Amongst the ignorant, there would be no disputing since no one would have the facts to support any such arguement, and opinions would generally be accepted and unified toward the group's full understanding of the subject. Of course, in Aurora Leigh, the batch of ignorance includes only the women. Her bitterness for this aquisition is brutally evident.
Continuing her bad taste for the woman's domestic occupation, she writes:
"The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight,
Producing what?...
...a cushion where you lean
And sleep and dream of something we are not
But would be for your sake (538)."
She writes about the trouble a woman must go through to create an illusion of something they can never really become. How depressing! Browning's view of a domesticated woman is one of misperceived identities, lost in the daily stitchwork of a housewife. Reading this poem reminds me of Mr. Darcy's sarcastic remark to Miss Bingley during a discussion of his prospective matriomonial future:
"Have you any more proposals for my domestic felicity?"
"Of writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,--(532)"
Subtley rejecting the common propriety of educated young women, the semi-autobiographical poem sketches an image of a girl at odds with the expectations she must meet within her class. Towards the beginning, a discussion ensues about the untimely death of Aurora Leigh's mother, comparing the tender kiss of a mother to a child to the cold indifference to affection by the Father. Unfortunately, the Father is all Aurura Leigh has left. Already, we have a young girl who questions the nature of her sex--she is depreived of Motherly guidance, forced to allow the tactics of an unknowing Father to influence and bridle her upbringing.
The poem discusses friends that Aurura encounters along her journey to adulthood, one of which she compares to a caged bird. She describes herself as a wild bird, harmed by the restricting security of the metal bars. She calls her cage-bird friend "Very Kind," but seems to acknowledge that kindness and a good natured disposition are not sufficient in providing true contentment.
When Aurora discovers books, a new feeling of excitement and worldliness fills the tone of the poem. Aurora Leigh immerses herself in any and every book she can find. She finds herself reading books about womanhood, and discovering truths about herself that could not really arise through a conversation with her Father:
"I read a score of books on womanhood
To prove, if women do not think at all,
They may teach thinking (to a maiden aunt
Or else the author),-- books that boldly assert
Their right of comprehending husband's talk
When not too deep, and even of answering
With pretty "may it please you," or "so it is,"--(538)"
It seems obvious that the underlying tones of feminine submission were inserted into this poem for sarcastic purposes. The empty responses of "may it please you," or "so it is" seem quite unfulfilling for the womanly temperment of Aurora Leigh, let alone for Elizabeth Barrett Browning. What does she mean, though, when she says, "To prove, if women do not think at all, they may teach thinking?" It sounds like wordplay, however, I cannot quite put my mind around what Browning is trying to say. Does she imply that women are so absent minded that they often are unaware of the fact that they are unqualified, yet they still push forward with instruction? Perhaps it is better to be unaware of our own ignorance--in practice it could prove to be useful. With such a lack of knowledge, we could easily push onward in a discussion with little selfconciousness of our unaquainted selves with the subject. We could discuss politics, economics, philosophy, art, and never wonder if our facts were truly accurate. But is that really better? Such a circumstance would only be ideal if all parties involved participated in this same purity of mind. If not, someone would surely find issues to correct or argue. Amongst the ignorant, there would be no disputing since no one would have the facts to support any such arguement, and opinions would generally be accepted and unified toward the group's full understanding of the subject. Of course, in Aurora Leigh, the batch of ignorance includes only the women. Her bitterness for this aquisition is brutally evident.
Continuing her bad taste for the woman's domestic occupation, she writes:
"The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight,
Producing what?...
...a cushion where you lean
And sleep and dream of something we are not
But would be for your sake (538)."
She writes about the trouble a woman must go through to create an illusion of something they can never really become. How depressing! Browning's view of a domesticated woman is one of misperceived identities, lost in the daily stitchwork of a housewife. Reading this poem reminds me of Mr. Darcy's sarcastic remark to Miss Bingley during a discussion of his prospective matriomonial future:
"Have you any more proposals for my domestic felicity?"
Thomas Carlyle's Political Activism
After reading Carlyle's Past and Present, the Condition of England, I am reminded of the written responses to the French Revolution in the earlier readings. It has the same pragmatic, assertive, and stubborn tone characteristic of war enthusiasts safe in England. "The Condition of England" deals with two major issues: what England should be and what England is. He begins his arguement by saying that, "England is full of wealth, of multifarious produce, supply for human want in every kind, yet England is dying of inanition (477)"--Inanition meaning exhaustion from lack of nourishment, starvation, and lack of vigor (or so says Webster). Using the idea of England starving while food is clearly in reach, he makes this assertion, "Touch it not, ye workers, ye master-workers, ye master idlers; none of you can touch it, no man of you shall be better for it; this is enchanted fruit (477)."
Our attention is immediately drawn to this seemingly Biblical allusion of "enchanted fruit." We think of the serpent tempting Eve to enlighten herself with genius that is not meant for her own self-understanding. Carlyle mimicks the command of God, urging the workers (in a sarcastic manner) to keep themselves away from the fruit--the product of their labor--stating that they will be better off not touching, or indulging, in it.
It's interesting how Carlyle begins his writing (which seems very appropriate for a pamphlet of sorts) with a satirical stance on the picture he paints of God in relation to the Wealthy. If anything, it is an affective allegory to the way in which the working class really viewed themselves. They were used to looking toward the wealthy in the manner of a feudal lord, and assumed that their master would maintain the servants' well being, since doing so would ensure a healthy workforce.
Learning about the drawbacks to the industrial revolution reminds me of the gradual decline and eventual disappearance of "mill towns" in the Southern states. A company would settle into an area and build their primary production plant in the central part of a town. They would, in turn, build housing, resturants, supermarkets, and gas stations, providing everything its employees would need to be close to the workplace and never again have a reason to relocate. This suolidifies retention. Families would settle into these mill towns for generations, always remaining loyal to "the company." However, what happens when the company fails? The worker who built their lives upon job security and stability were suddenly forved to enter into a new world of decentralized living conditions. Perhaps it is socialist in practice, relying on one central provider to foster an enviornment that allows work and production to flourish. When the mill towns disappeared, so goes the quality of living conditions. Maybe this is the same thing that happened with the demise of feudalism.
The new industrial ventures seemed to be fruitful substitutes for the stable oppression that sprouted from feudalism. However, industrialism's decentralization of power resulted in poor working conditions and meager pay. This poverty reaped from the harvest of industrial change sparked radical responses on the part of activists. One of Carlyle's more disturbing passages ends with this:
"The Stockport Mother and Father think and hint: Our poor little starveling Tom, who cries all day for victuals, who will see only evil and not good in this world: if he were out of misery at once; he well dead, and the rest of us perhaps kept alive? It is thought, and hinted; at last it is done. And now Tom being killed, and all spent and eaten, Is it poor little starveling Jack that must go, or poor litter starveling Will?--What a committee of ways and means (479)!"
If anyone could see the horrific and animal-like situation of the impoverished, it was the impoverished themselves. However great their awareness, they were absolutely incapable of breaking away from their destitution. They dutifully capitulated to industrialism's call.
Carlyle sums up his arguement for the inescapable and unjust ignorance of the poor by adding: "We have sumptuous garnitures for our Life, but have forgotten to live in the middle of them. It is an enchanted wealth; no man of us can yet touch it. The class of men who feel they are truly better off by means of it, let them give us their name (479)!"
Our attention is immediately drawn to this seemingly Biblical allusion of "enchanted fruit." We think of the serpent tempting Eve to enlighten herself with genius that is not meant for her own self-understanding. Carlyle mimicks the command of God, urging the workers (in a sarcastic manner) to keep themselves away from the fruit--the product of their labor--stating that they will be better off not touching, or indulging, in it.
It's interesting how Carlyle begins his writing (which seems very appropriate for a pamphlet of sorts) with a satirical stance on the picture he paints of God in relation to the Wealthy. If anything, it is an affective allegory to the way in which the working class really viewed themselves. They were used to looking toward the wealthy in the manner of a feudal lord, and assumed that their master would maintain the servants' well being, since doing so would ensure a healthy workforce.
Learning about the drawbacks to the industrial revolution reminds me of the gradual decline and eventual disappearance of "mill towns" in the Southern states. A company would settle into an area and build their primary production plant in the central part of a town. They would, in turn, build housing, resturants, supermarkets, and gas stations, providing everything its employees would need to be close to the workplace and never again have a reason to relocate. This suolidifies retention. Families would settle into these mill towns for generations, always remaining loyal to "the company." However, what happens when the company fails? The worker who built their lives upon job security and stability were suddenly forved to enter into a new world of decentralized living conditions. Perhaps it is socialist in practice, relying on one central provider to foster an enviornment that allows work and production to flourish. When the mill towns disappeared, so goes the quality of living conditions. Maybe this is the same thing that happened with the demise of feudalism.
The new industrial ventures seemed to be fruitful substitutes for the stable oppression that sprouted from feudalism. However, industrialism's decentralization of power resulted in poor working conditions and meager pay. This poverty reaped from the harvest of industrial change sparked radical responses on the part of activists. One of Carlyle's more disturbing passages ends with this:
"The Stockport Mother and Father think and hint: Our poor little starveling Tom, who cries all day for victuals, who will see only evil and not good in this world: if he were out of misery at once; he well dead, and the rest of us perhaps kept alive? It is thought, and hinted; at last it is done. And now Tom being killed, and all spent and eaten, Is it poor little starveling Jack that must go, or poor litter starveling Will?--What a committee of ways and means (479)!"
If anyone could see the horrific and animal-like situation of the impoverished, it was the impoverished themselves. However great their awareness, they were absolutely incapable of breaking away from their destitution. They dutifully capitulated to industrialism's call.
Carlyle sums up his arguement for the inescapable and unjust ignorance of the poor by adding: "We have sumptuous garnitures for our Life, but have forgotten to live in the middle of them. It is an enchanted wealth; no man of us can yet touch it. The class of men who feel they are truly better off by means of it, let them give us their name (479)!"
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Hemans versus Wordsworth
Felicia Hemans' poem "The Wife of Asdrubal" is a horrific story, recounting the wife of a governor and her brutal vengence upon her husband--by killing herself and her two sons right in front of him. The poem itself alludes that the Wife may have had some reasonable intentions in doing what she did. Perhaps her husband had done something really quite repulsive, unforgivable even--and this was the only rational way to accomplish vengence. The questions is: is vengence really the primary purpose behind her "homicidal suicide?"
The description before the actual poem in the reading states, "there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death hd been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below...(406)." Surely he did something to provoke such an action--or was the wife only overtaken with madness? The poem is faily ironic considering the fact that Hemans and her sons were "abandoned" when her military husband became "ill." She was left alone to care for so many children--perhaps she was a little overwhelmed by the circumstances, understandably.
In "The Wife of Asdrubal," the wife does what Shakespeare, in his beginning sonnets, might have considered the worst possible form on vengence on a loved one. She destroys his sons--the only way that his personage could be continued, truly exterminating any of his hereditary "beauty" from the world.
What's interesting about this poem is how much it differs from the typical writing style of Dorothy Wordsworth. Granted, Hemans and Wordsworth come from very different backgrounds, but both of them were female writers during a time when their breed was scarce. Dorothy Wordsworth came from a world that revolved around the supposed literary genius of her brother, only expressing herself through writing in order to "please" her brother. Felicia Hemans, however, found herself strongly encouraged as a child to pursue writing in a pre-mature professional form. The reading describes her as a child prodigy, pushed by her parents to immerse herself in her craft.
When you compare Wordsworth and Hemans' poetry, it's easy to see a shift in style. Hemans' is extremely developed and somewhat brutal at times, particularly in "The Wife of Asdrubal." Wordsworth's poems are much more pastoral and primarily focused on what she always surrounded herself with--nature. There's something to be said about being a poet with great versatility (for example, Hemans), but also, there is great merit in having the ability to artfully explore just one medium. Both poets speak to the idea that female writers were really quite "up and coming," whether they realized it or not.
What is interesting to me is the feeling of unwillingness that seems to accompany Hemans' work. From her biography, we can gather that she was pushed a great deal by her parents to make something of herself in poetry. Of course, she did as they wished, but her work still carries a deep undertone of "wanting to do something else." I wish that I could accurately pinpoint a moment in her work that speaks to this observation, however, I'm not sure if I can do it. Where I get this impression the most is in her poems that became almost synomymous with The Pledge of Allegiance in American schools. They are dutifully crafted, almost as if to get her admirers to ignore her for a bit. Wordsworth's poems are much more free-flowing and not necessarily forced.
I think that it's possible for a reader to tell if the author enjoy what he or she has written--it almost always come across in the reading.
The description before the actual poem in the reading states, "there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death hd been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below...(406)." Surely he did something to provoke such an action--or was the wife only overtaken with madness? The poem is faily ironic considering the fact that Hemans and her sons were "abandoned" when her military husband became "ill." She was left alone to care for so many children--perhaps she was a little overwhelmed by the circumstances, understandably.
In "The Wife of Asdrubal," the wife does what Shakespeare, in his beginning sonnets, might have considered the worst possible form on vengence on a loved one. She destroys his sons--the only way that his personage could be continued, truly exterminating any of his hereditary "beauty" from the world.
What's interesting about this poem is how much it differs from the typical writing style of Dorothy Wordsworth. Granted, Hemans and Wordsworth come from very different backgrounds, but both of them were female writers during a time when their breed was scarce. Dorothy Wordsworth came from a world that revolved around the supposed literary genius of her brother, only expressing herself through writing in order to "please" her brother. Felicia Hemans, however, found herself strongly encouraged as a child to pursue writing in a pre-mature professional form. The reading describes her as a child prodigy, pushed by her parents to immerse herself in her craft.
When you compare Wordsworth and Hemans' poetry, it's easy to see a shift in style. Hemans' is extremely developed and somewhat brutal at times, particularly in "The Wife of Asdrubal." Wordsworth's poems are much more pastoral and primarily focused on what she always surrounded herself with--nature. There's something to be said about being a poet with great versatility (for example, Hemans), but also, there is great merit in having the ability to artfully explore just one medium. Both poets speak to the idea that female writers were really quite "up and coming," whether they realized it or not.
What is interesting to me is the feeling of unwillingness that seems to accompany Hemans' work. From her biography, we can gather that she was pushed a great deal by her parents to make something of herself in poetry. Of course, she did as they wished, but her work still carries a deep undertone of "wanting to do something else." I wish that I could accurately pinpoint a moment in her work that speaks to this observation, however, I'm not sure if I can do it. Where I get this impression the most is in her poems that became almost synomymous with The Pledge of Allegiance in American schools. They are dutifully crafted, almost as if to get her admirers to ignore her for a bit. Wordsworth's poems are much more free-flowing and not necessarily forced.
I think that it's possible for a reader to tell if the author enjoy what he or she has written--it almost always come across in the reading.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Grasmere Journals
One of my favorite genres to read are memoirs in the style of diaries--or just entirely collected journals themselves! It seems nosey, of course, to want to peek into someone's own reflections on their everyday activities or their personal relationships and encounters. This is why I was particularly excited when I came to "The Grasmere Journals" in the reading. I was curious to see who this woman though herself to be apart from her brother, William. As it turns out, she didn't think much of herself at all.
The first section of her journals in the reading is subtitled as "Home Alone." She begins by explaining that William and a friend have just left for Yorkshire and that she must endure a brief stint of time apart from her beloved brother. She explains her feelings on the departure by saying, "My heart was so full that I could hardly speak to W when I gave him a farewell kiss. I sate a long time upon a stone at the margin of the lake, after a flood of tears my heart was easier (294)." The last thing she wants is to be apart from her brother. To keep herself from becoming too depressed by the subject, she changes it, moving on to describe the scenes around her--the flowers, the landscape, and the animals. Most of what she writes is very episodic within every few sentences. Her writing flips like her mind, fickle in choosing a topic to fixate herself on. Then again, maybe this is really an accurate depiction of her everyday activities. She seems to have no real occupation of her own, other than being a loyal right hand woman to her brother. Maybe the activities of her life really do primarily consist of observing other people very quickly and then allowing her mind to wander to perception of other instances within her sight. She maintains her fmaily loyalty and devotion even while writing a personal journal. "I resolved to write a journal of the time till W and J return, and I set about keeping my reslove because I will not quarrel with myself, and because I shall give Wm Pleasure by it when he comes home again(295)." Why does she capitalize "Pleasure?" By giving it the status of a proper noun, she personifies it, making a reader wonder if there was some kind of goal that she continually tried tried to feed for William. She would work to do her bst to accomplish this Pleasure for him. It seems similar to the way in which people personify "Success, " "Love," or "Failure." To achieve "Pleasure" in William's eyes was ther purpose--for in truth, she had no occupation to willfully pursue.
Reading her observational commentary on her surroundings makes it easy to realize that this is also the way she carries on conversations. She mentions, "Oh! that I had a letter from William (295)!" She has quite alot to babble about, but not one to receive it.
Her comfortable state of being supported by her brothe also makes it unusual to listen to her make mention of the beggars she encounters. In each case, she takes pains to say why it is they are left to beg. Perhaps she mentions it because she wonders why she is so lucky to not have a professional life and still not beg--or because she knows that without the support of her brother, she would be reduced to a similar situaiton of destitute circumstances.
In her other entries, she usually starts a discussion by explaining something that William had said or observed. When her observations are recorded alongside William's, she always allows his to take precedence. At one point, she begins to discuss their encounter with a mailman--they were in the process of travelling to recieve their letters when they happened upon him on the way. Dorothy takes a moment to reflect on his occupation, as she often seems to do with the people abot which she writes. She records that the mailman "takes it all quietly, & though perhaps he beither feels thankfulness, no pleasure when he eats his supper & has no luxury to look forward to but falling asleep in bed, yet I daresay he neither murmers nor thinks it hard. He seems mechanized to labour (296)." Of course, this passage is interesting because Dorothy Wordsworth is not necessarily familiar with the "working world." She seems to consider labor to be a very long walk to pick up the mail, or finishing a particularly wordy piece of literature. To walk for so long everday delivering letters seems to be only means to survival. She does not understand nor embrace this behavior, stating that he must be absolutely "mechanical" in his actions. However, she alludes to neither approval or disapproval in her written observaion.
The first section of her journals in the reading is subtitled as "Home Alone." She begins by explaining that William and a friend have just left for Yorkshire and that she must endure a brief stint of time apart from her beloved brother. She explains her feelings on the departure by saying, "My heart was so full that I could hardly speak to W when I gave him a farewell kiss. I sate a long time upon a stone at the margin of the lake, after a flood of tears my heart was easier (294)." The last thing she wants is to be apart from her brother. To keep herself from becoming too depressed by the subject, she changes it, moving on to describe the scenes around her--the flowers, the landscape, and the animals. Most of what she writes is very episodic within every few sentences. Her writing flips like her mind, fickle in choosing a topic to fixate herself on. Then again, maybe this is really an accurate depiction of her everyday activities. She seems to have no real occupation of her own, other than being a loyal right hand woman to her brother. Maybe the activities of her life really do primarily consist of observing other people very quickly and then allowing her mind to wander to perception of other instances within her sight. She maintains her fmaily loyalty and devotion even while writing a personal journal. "I resolved to write a journal of the time till W and J return, and I set about keeping my reslove because I will not quarrel with myself, and because I shall give Wm Pleasure by it when he comes home again(295)." Why does she capitalize "Pleasure?" By giving it the status of a proper noun, she personifies it, making a reader wonder if there was some kind of goal that she continually tried tried to feed for William. She would work to do her bst to accomplish this Pleasure for him. It seems similar to the way in which people personify "Success, " "Love," or "Failure." To achieve "Pleasure" in William's eyes was ther purpose--for in truth, she had no occupation to willfully pursue.
Reading her observational commentary on her surroundings makes it easy to realize that this is also the way she carries on conversations. She mentions, "Oh! that I had a letter from William (295)!" She has quite alot to babble about, but not one to receive it.
Her comfortable state of being supported by her brothe also makes it unusual to listen to her make mention of the beggars she encounters. In each case, she takes pains to say why it is they are left to beg. Perhaps she mentions it because she wonders why she is so lucky to not have a professional life and still not beg--or because she knows that without the support of her brother, she would be reduced to a similar situaiton of destitute circumstances.
In her other entries, she usually starts a discussion by explaining something that William had said or observed. When her observations are recorded alongside William's, she always allows his to take precedence. At one point, she begins to discuss their encounter with a mailman--they were in the process of travelling to recieve their letters when they happened upon him on the way. Dorothy takes a moment to reflect on his occupation, as she often seems to do with the people abot which she writes. She records that the mailman "takes it all quietly, & though perhaps he beither feels thankfulness, no pleasure when he eats his supper & has no luxury to look forward to but falling asleep in bed, yet I daresay he neither murmers nor thinks it hard. He seems mechanized to labour (296)." Of course, this passage is interesting because Dorothy Wordsworth is not necessarily familiar with the "working world." She seems to consider labor to be a very long walk to pick up the mail, or finishing a particularly wordy piece of literature. To walk for so long everday delivering letters seems to be only means to survival. She does not understand nor embrace this behavior, stating that he must be absolutely "mechanical" in his actions. However, she alludes to neither approval or disapproval in her written observaion.
Wordsworth on Poetry
It's always interesting to listen to writers give advice and perspective on their artform. I remember reading once that Virginia Woolf believed that a woman only needed a room to herself and 500 pounds a year in order to write. In the reading, William Wordsworth does just this. The Preface of his "Lyrical Ballads" includes a long and detailed discussion of what makes good poetry and how to distinguish a true poet from any other writer.
"It' is supposed, that by the act of writing in Verse an Auther makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain habits of association (206)." This opening line struck a chord with me. Is this really the first step toward understanding what sorts of poetry are truly affective? Is ths best kind of poetry the kind that seems to communicate what you had expected, without you knowing that you had expected it? Perhaps the best example of this is rhyme. Often with lullabies or children's poems, the rhyme scheme is very simple, but still something easily rememered and persistently popular. Is this what it means to spark "habits of association?" It sounds as hough poetry through Wordsworth's eyes has the ability to be amind game, making us think, "Oh, I probably would hav said that too if I just had the right words!"
One of my favorite poems is "For a New Mother" by Dorothy Parker. The poem begins by descibing a young mother who has just given birth and goes on to ask if she will sing silly lullabies to him like any other mother. The speaker wonders if it will be difficult for the mother when her son is persecuted in his thirties. In the ed, it is obvious to the reader that Parker is speaking of Mary and and her son, Jesus. She presents the poem as if it is just an observation on a new mother and whether or not she will be just like the other mothers of the world. Maybe Parker's intention in wriing the poem was to show that the "habits of association" in reading about a young woman who has just given birth to her first child is the same association of the Virgin Mary.
When Wordsworth discusses what it is a poet actually does, he states, "He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure (211)." Don't all writers do this in some capacity? We create characters by drawing images of them in the world by which they are surrounded. How a character responds to different enviornments, people, relationships, and conflicts describes the nature of their personality and gives the reader a clear picture of how they might act in reality. What does it mean to "produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure?" It is accepted that all human beings are exceptionally complex, so why doesn't he explore the complexities of contentment or anger? We know that our daily human emotions do not just focus on pain and pleasure. I suppose that you could assume that all humans seek pleasure and actively avoid pain. Maybe this is what Wordsworth is trying to say with this particular passage. He almost describes a basic economic guidepost: People will rationalize actions of self-interest and all people make decisions that are specifically rational to them. I know that this statement in the Preface is very fleeting and seemingly unimportatn, however, I was struck by his direct use of "complexity of pain and pleasure." He seems to have hit the nail on the head, so to speak.
Wordsworth refers to another great poet in his description. He states, "Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, 'that he looks before and after (211).'" Maybe the poet sees the person not for where they currently are in the world, but where they have been and where they are going. His poem "We Are Seven" could serve as an example for this. In the poem, the "little cottage girl" refuses to acknowledge her currect situation that reveals the death of many of her siblings. The litter girl only recognizes the brothers and sister that she has had in the past and the ones that she will have in the future when she rejoins them in heaven. Perhaps this litter girl is an example of the persona that Wordsworth believes is "poetic." She looks at the past and future, but not at the present in expressing her impressions.
The final stanza solidifies her stubbornness:
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay, we are seven!"
"It' is supposed, that by the act of writing in Verse an Auther makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain habits of association (206)." This opening line struck a chord with me. Is this really the first step toward understanding what sorts of poetry are truly affective? Is ths best kind of poetry the kind that seems to communicate what you had expected, without you knowing that you had expected it? Perhaps the best example of this is rhyme. Often with lullabies or children's poems, the rhyme scheme is very simple, but still something easily rememered and persistently popular. Is this what it means to spark "habits of association?" It sounds as hough poetry through Wordsworth's eyes has the ability to be amind game, making us think, "Oh, I probably would hav said that too if I just had the right words!"
One of my favorite poems is "For a New Mother" by Dorothy Parker. The poem begins by descibing a young mother who has just given birth and goes on to ask if she will sing silly lullabies to him like any other mother. The speaker wonders if it will be difficult for the mother when her son is persecuted in his thirties. In the ed, it is obvious to the reader that Parker is speaking of Mary and and her son, Jesus. She presents the poem as if it is just an observation on a new mother and whether or not she will be just like the other mothers of the world. Maybe Parker's intention in wriing the poem was to show that the "habits of association" in reading about a young woman who has just given birth to her first child is the same association of the Virgin Mary.
When Wordsworth discusses what it is a poet actually does, he states, "He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure (211)." Don't all writers do this in some capacity? We create characters by drawing images of them in the world by which they are surrounded. How a character responds to different enviornments, people, relationships, and conflicts describes the nature of their personality and gives the reader a clear picture of how they might act in reality. What does it mean to "produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure?" It is accepted that all human beings are exceptionally complex, so why doesn't he explore the complexities of contentment or anger? We know that our daily human emotions do not just focus on pain and pleasure. I suppose that you could assume that all humans seek pleasure and actively avoid pain. Maybe this is what Wordsworth is trying to say with this particular passage. He almost describes a basic economic guidepost: People will rationalize actions of self-interest and all people make decisions that are specifically rational to them. I know that this statement in the Preface is very fleeting and seemingly unimportatn, however, I was struck by his direct use of "complexity of pain and pleasure." He seems to have hit the nail on the head, so to speak.
Wordsworth refers to another great poet in his description. He states, "Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, 'that he looks before and after (211).'" Maybe the poet sees the person not for where they currently are in the world, but where they have been and where they are going. His poem "We Are Seven" could serve as an example for this. In the poem, the "little cottage girl" refuses to acknowledge her currect situation that reveals the death of many of her siblings. The litter girl only recognizes the brothers and sister that she has had in the past and the ones that she will have in the future when she rejoins them in heaven. Perhaps this litter girl is an example of the persona that Wordsworth believes is "poetic." She looks at the past and future, but not at the present in expressing her impressions.
The final stanza solidifies her stubbornness:
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay, we are seven!"
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"
When we read William Blake's lengthy and dense work, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell," one takes immediate notice of his brutal sarcasm toward the organized church. However, the sarcasm is not the only aspect of the work that is most apparent--it also contains a well developed arguement for a spirituality that is non-religious, non-institutionalized, and non-organized. The piece, with its crafty combination of poetry and prose, seems to imply Blake's inherent yearning for a spirituality that answers his own hesitations. The passage that strikes me the most as directly philosophical, yet inherently spiritual, is spoken by the Devil in the fourth plate:
"1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that calld Body is a portion of the Soul discernd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.
2. Energy is the only life and is from the Body and Reason is the bound or outward circumfrence of Energy.
3. Energy is Eternal Delight. (97)"
These three statements introduce six key entities that underlie the remainder of the work. They are Body, Soul, Senses, Energy, Reason, and Ethernal Delight. These six components, according to Blake, recreate Man. The fact that Blake gives a particular capitalization to these words implies a sense of personification. Blake is no stranger to this literary tactic-- his poesm "The Divine Image" and "The Human Abstract" seem to work to a similar effect.
The first numbered statement intertwines Body, Soul, and the Senses. Most will argue that the Body and the Soul are two very separate entities, only conjoined in the physical context of Earth. Blake not only argues that they are spiritually conjoined, but also that the Body is actually Soul in itself. He claims that it is the five Senses that allow us to discern the Body as a portion of the Soul in disguise. What Blake does not specify in this portion is whether or not the Soul can exist without its Bodily component. Can it? He has already stated that the Body is the Soul when we interpret it with our senses--but what about the Soul by itself in singularity? From a philosophical perspective, his arguement is lacking. He leaves out a discussion of contraries within a list of contraries. Why doesn't Blake delve deeper? My experience with good philosophy is that it is very difficult to permeate--for the most part the philosopher makes it very difficult to find holes in his arguement. A more open-ended declaration such as Blake's speaks to the rhythm and form of a religious text--not a philosophical piece.
Blakes goes on the mention Energy and Reason in his list of three-fold truths. Energy, he decides, doesnot come from the Soul as a whole, but derives rather from the Bodily portion. He makes obvious pains to allow the reader to discern Energy as "sin" in a Biblical sense. Maybe like sin, Energy is a component of the Body, not of the Soul. Then, Blake explains that Energy itself is circumfrenced, or surrounded by Reason. When I read this passage, I immediately picture Man continually seeking to rationalize his Energies. I would imagine Blakes' modern illustrated component of this section ot be an image of a child eating pizza, arguing that the meal really does contain most of the essential food groups.
The final entity that Blakes discusses is that of Eternal Delight. He states that "Energy is Eternal Delight." And why wouldn't it be? If we have the ability to rationalize all of our Energies with Reason, we will never feel as if we have done something wrong--therefore, we are eternally delightful? However, what is this feeling of Eternal Delight? What does it look and fee like? Is it similar to contentment? Purposeful existence? Joy? Perhaps Blake expects us to interpret this on our own, once again straying from the philosophical claims in which the piece is grounded. Within the context of spirituality, do we not ask the same questions about Love, Eternity, and Wisdom?
Blake leave much to be decided after reading "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell." It rouses the quintessential curiosity of spirituality. In fact, it is almost as if Blake seeks to re-define the institutionalized character of religion. Perhaps it is not an institution--but rather, a movement, a collection of impulses that work toward the illustration of Truth.
"1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that calld Body is a portion of the Soul discernd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.
2. Energy is the only life and is from the Body and Reason is the bound or outward circumfrence of Energy.
3. Energy is Eternal Delight. (97)"
These three statements introduce six key entities that underlie the remainder of the work. They are Body, Soul, Senses, Energy, Reason, and Ethernal Delight. These six components, according to Blake, recreate Man. The fact that Blake gives a particular capitalization to these words implies a sense of personification. Blake is no stranger to this literary tactic-- his poesm "The Divine Image" and "The Human Abstract" seem to work to a similar effect.
The first numbered statement intertwines Body, Soul, and the Senses. Most will argue that the Body and the Soul are two very separate entities, only conjoined in the physical context of Earth. Blake not only argues that they are spiritually conjoined, but also that the Body is actually Soul in itself. He claims that it is the five Senses that allow us to discern the Body as a portion of the Soul in disguise. What Blake does not specify in this portion is whether or not the Soul can exist without its Bodily component. Can it? He has already stated that the Body is the Soul when we interpret it with our senses--but what about the Soul by itself in singularity? From a philosophical perspective, his arguement is lacking. He leaves out a discussion of contraries within a list of contraries. Why doesn't Blake delve deeper? My experience with good philosophy is that it is very difficult to permeate--for the most part the philosopher makes it very difficult to find holes in his arguement. A more open-ended declaration such as Blake's speaks to the rhythm and form of a religious text--not a philosophical piece.
Blakes goes on the mention Energy and Reason in his list of three-fold truths. Energy, he decides, doesnot come from the Soul as a whole, but derives rather from the Bodily portion. He makes obvious pains to allow the reader to discern Energy as "sin" in a Biblical sense. Maybe like sin, Energy is a component of the Body, not of the Soul. Then, Blake explains that Energy itself is circumfrenced, or surrounded by Reason. When I read this passage, I immediately picture Man continually seeking to rationalize his Energies. I would imagine Blakes' modern illustrated component of this section ot be an image of a child eating pizza, arguing that the meal really does contain most of the essential food groups.
The final entity that Blakes discusses is that of Eternal Delight. He states that "Energy is Eternal Delight." And why wouldn't it be? If we have the ability to rationalize all of our Energies with Reason, we will never feel as if we have done something wrong--therefore, we are eternally delightful? However, what is this feeling of Eternal Delight? What does it look and fee like? Is it similar to contentment? Purposeful existence? Joy? Perhaps Blake expects us to interpret this on our own, once again straying from the philosophical claims in which the piece is grounded. Within the context of spirituality, do we not ask the same questions about Love, Eternity, and Wisdom?
Blake leave much to be decided after reading "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell." It rouses the quintessential curiosity of spirituality. In fact, it is almost as if Blake seeks to re-define the institutionalized character of religion. Perhaps it is not an institution--but rather, a movement, a collection of impulses that work toward the illustration of Truth.
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