Wartime Letters

APO 96225, by Larry Rottmann

A young man once went off to war in a far country,
and when he had time, he wrote home and said,
"Dear Mom, sure rains a lot here."

But his mother--reading between the lines as mothers
     always do--wrote back,
"We're quite concerned. Tell us what it's really like."

And the young man responded,
"Wow! You ought to see the funny monkeys."

To which the mother replied,
"Don't hold back. How is it there?"

And the young man wrote,
"The sunsets here are spectacular!"

In her next letter, the mother pleaded,
"Son, we want you to tell us everything. Everything!"

So the next time he wrote, the young man said,
"Today I killed a man. Yesterday, I helped drop napalm
     on women and children."

And the father wrote right back,
"Please don't write such depressing letters. You're
     upsetting your mother."

So, after a while,
the young man wrote,
"Dear Mom, sure rains here a lot."

     This poem brings up tons of viewpoints of war, especially the Vietnam War that's specifically referred to in this one. I don't know if it's necessarily irony in the last line…it just makes your heart ache, and your face form a frown, and your eyes divert their attention from the poem to the floor, almost in guilt. The son is trying, from the beginning, to forget about whatever horrible things are going on in the war by focusing on what little beauty remained during that horrific time period in Southeast Asia. In a way, the son and the parents could also be symbolizing the larger, more complicated relationship between the citizens of the United States and the soldiers deployed in Vietnam. The unknowing, blissful ignorance of the American citizens keep prodding into the horrors of Vietnam, but when it comes time to know the truth about the violence, the same citizens become 'depressed' about the truth. The father (which could symbolize the government, or some censoring force) then reprimands the boy for saying such truths, and the substance of the letters goes back to circumventing the real issue.

     What does this say about the poet's attitude towards this war? He probably didn't have the most supportive of views on this debacle; from the symbolism provided, he displays the ignorance of the American population and turning a blind eye when the important issues are spoken. The misery of the war is effectively hidden from public view because of this 'father' figure, who refuses to drop in on the son's whereabouts and well-being unless the son poses as a threat to the mother's state of mind. It's a scarily accurate interpretation of the anti-war stance during this time period, or of any war-time period. Even now, I can relate this back to the Iraqi scuffle we had and the present-day struggle with relations in the Middle East. In the back of my mind, I know that this violent war exists in that far-off, exotic world. I know that in American context, we are the good guys and they're the bad guys. But other than that, I don't know the constant and never-ending violence that occurs on both sides of the war simply because it isn't released to the public. Is this because the public itself isn't willing to handle the hard truth, or is it censored from us?

     There is sadly no compromise to this battle of information. Like the poem suggests, rejection of the real data consequently leads us to the same useless information regurgitated to us from before. I can't tell if this poem is just part of a cycle of conversations that have happened before, or if this is the first time he brought up the napalm and the killings. The son may have been protecting the mother from these horrors, or he's been forced to keep quiet from his father. Either way, the ugliness of war is definitely apparent, even if indirectly stated, in this poem. The title refers to an apartment number, from what I gather in the footnotes. It is just another example of the catastrophes and heartbreak birthed from wartime.

The Hobbit for Prom King

     I'm sorry if my sentences seem less-refined (as if they weren't before) today, but my brain is operating in post-Prom sluggishness. However, this isn't to say that I haven't had any AP Lit experiences during that fun-filled Saturday night that was void of sleep. After we came back from Waffle House at an early 3:00 in the morning, we decided that maybe watching a dull movie would quiet our senses and lull us to sleep--that, of course, combined with a game of Cards for Humanity (an adult spin-off of Apples to Apples...definitely R-rated). We chose to watch the first of the three-part story The Hobbit, which ended up being the best/worst decision I made that night. On one hand, it was a movie that practically spelled out all of these literary roles we give to characters in a classic hero's journey (it was written by the father of the hero's journey himself: Tolkien); this was the best part about it. The worst part was that it was a 3 hour-long movie and lasted us until the wee hours of the morning. Most of my friends fell like stones when the card game was over and they diverted their attention to the movie. That was when they usually noticed that they didn't actually have any attention left for the movie at all and fell right to sleep. However, I was encaptured by the story itself and my curiosity for the story unfortunately forbade me to go to sleep at all that night.

     Many people view this movie as being slow to climax and overall a dull movie--ironically in line with the reviews for the book as well. But being the APLit Scholar that I am (a role that I can't leave behind because it's practically ingrained now), I honestly appreciated the 30 minute-long dialogues, the beautiful scenic shots of the dwarves roaming the countryside, and the ugly, frightening, yet comedic monsters that the company faces alnog the way to the biggest opponent of all: the dragon. If anyone wanted to learn anything about the rules and regulations in creating a hero's journey, one needn't look further than this movie. The development in each of the characters clearly points out the unlikely, yet brave hero (the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins) with his fatal flaw of pessimism; his trusty crew who help him along the way to his final battle (all of the dwarves); a wise old man to advise them in all their decisions (Gandalf); a journey into the deep unconscious where the crew is subject to evil desires they must avoid or conquer in order to be successful (trudging along the wild countryside and fighting fantastically grotesque monsters that can symbolize human ugliness. All of these components contribute to the classic hero's tale, all in an effort to, as Gandalf put it, "change you to be a dfferent man when you return home from your journey."

     I will agree, to some extent, that the movie is quite lengthy. The book itself isn't at all like any of the Lord of the Rings books; it looks like a regularly-sized novel. However, the content of the book is so heavy that the director split up a 400-page novel into 3 movies, something that I'm still having trouble believing. However, after watching the first movie I understand a bit better the detail that goes with making a great interpretation of Tolkien's famous book, and I'm super nerdily excited for the next two movies to see how it all plays out.

What does Happy Mean?

     So I just finished reading Memoirs of A Geisha. 
I've read lots of books--good books, bad books, ok books--but this one tops them all off in terms of vivid imagination and beautiful scenery that burns in the back of the mind. I noticed this as I would force myself to stop reading once in a while so as not to get too ahead of myself. I would be washing the dishes, or walking in class, and my mind would procure an image so intricate in detail, such as a geisha gliding in a garden with a beautiful red kimono, that I'd trick my mind into believing I've seen this scene from an old movie. Nevertheless, this scene--and so many more--come from simple words on paper. It's never been any easier to imagine the setting, the actions, and the characters moving, speaking, and emoting while I read this book, and I loved every moment of it.

But like all good things, they all come to an end. I don't know how I really felt as I read the last page of Chiyo's memoir; should I feel happy or disappointed in Chiyo? There's no doubt that she's happy with what she's done in her life; she manages to stay with the Chairman after the 15-year dance into his life, despite all the obstacles. She's moderately wealthy, and in terms of status she's partying with the same ranks as the wealthiest men of Japan, from Generals to presidents to art directors. When I try to find Chiyo's true happiness, however, I realize that she's never truly happy until she ends up with the Chairman, and this doesn't happen until the ending chapters! How do you judge her quality of life when she's miserable for more than 3/4 of the novel? It makes me question whether or not Chiyo had the better life over Satsu; our literature group acknowledged this question, but didn't have enough time to discuss it. On one hand we have Chiyo, who has a definitely higher quality of life than a majority of Japanese citizens during this time period; she may have been treated like trash for the first couple of years in the okiya, but she was more-or-less guaranteed a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and some type of education that gavel her skills to use in the future. Later on, she's treated like royalty when she becomes a famous geisha and daughter of the okiya owner, and anything she asks, she will receive. She is the breadwinner of the whole house, making more money than we could ever imagine, in the form of jewels, donations, kimono, makeup…anything, really. What's really sad is that Chiyo never realizes how much of a better life--socioeconomically, at least--she has in comparison to other people. She gets a small taste, an inkling of it, when the war hits, of course. She burdens some of the harsh realities that Japanese citizens had to face in the wake of the war (rations, working, poverty), but what she had to endure in a mere 4-5 years, other Japanese have been struggling against their whole lives. It's almost shameful to say that Chiyo doesn't see how lucky she is to have a pretty face and extraordinary eyes, for they are what push her to become a famous geisha, not just her drive to become one.

Satsu, on the other hand, got the short end of the stick. Through first impressions, or perhaps solely by luck, she ends up in a whore house instead of an okiya, and this leads her to take drastic measures to escape such a hellhole. She could never afford such a life as her geisha sister unless she married into wealth (which I doubt she did). Her living conditions were probably sub-par to Chiyo's rich lifestyle. But what does this say about Satsu's happiness? Sure, she can't afford to wear thousands of dollars' worth of kimono, but does this put her emotional quality of life above Chiyo's? After escaping alone from Kyoto, we only have one other connection back to Satsu in the book, which is when Chiyo gets a letter from Mr. Ichiro who brings bad news of her parents' health. He mentions that Satsu ran off with the village boy, and that's that. It opens up a variety possibilities as to her whereabouts, and I can't definitively say that Chiyo led the happier life instead of her sister. She may have had the easier life, sure; but if Satsu really loved that boy and they got married, despite the troubles of everyday life and poverty, wouldn't she be the happier sister instead of Chiyo, who spends half her life chasing another man? This is what really depresses me, that the protagonist is forced to accept her geisha life, putting her happiness in the backseat for later. What's the point of all her wealth and parties if it's all for nothing? It may look like fun and games to put makeup on and entertain men all your life, but it's a wonder to me how Chiyo didn't end up like Hatsumomo, or even Mameha (who was forced into 3 abortions by her donna). Chiyo is considered extremely lucky even now, as she puts aside her happiness until the very end. This was what made the book such a struggle to read, because all I wanted was to see Chiyo happy, but now that she's happy in the end of the book I'm disappointed that her happiness wasn't discussed further in the book.

Robotic

in the inner city, by Lucille Clifton

in the inner city
or
like we call it
home
we think a lot about uptown
and the silent nights
and the houses straight as
dead men
and the pastel lights
and we hang on to our no place
happy to be alive
and in the inner city
or like we call it
home

No, none of these words--not even the title--is supposed to be capitalized. Yes, it pained me to type the whole thing out without touching the caps lock key. It's a very peculiar thing, to read something like this without capitalization or punctuation; it goes beyond childish scrambles of thoughts, but offers a very robotic (in my head, at least) change in tone that I'm not used to reading in. Capitalization, for example, adds some sort of human depth to the poem...maybe a definite beginning? And punctuation does the opposite; it offers a definite end. If you strip this away from a sentence, it just feels like a run-on phrase (in fact, it is a run-on phrase) that goes on forever and ever. The poet epitomizes this by ending the poem with the beginning lines. When I finished reading the poem aloud, my voice had automatically prepped itself for more words, more phrases, but it sadly found none. The poem simply...stops. There is no beginning nor end. It just is. 

And that brings me to the chilling tone of the poem itself. By taking away such human inflections implied in capitalization and punctuation, my inner voice reads this poem in a robotic, detached, monotone voice. The odd breaks between phrases contributes to the static, cut-and-dry feeling of the poem. I keep imagining a robot reading this, but trying to read it with human emotion (and doing so unsuccessfully, of course). Whenever the robot gets an emotional groove going, he seems to stop himself, not sure what to say next, and then stammers out the rest of the phrase. It's like an uncomfortable tick tick...tick tick tick...tick method of speaking, like a Morse code that no one quite understands.

And that was just me ranting on about the tone. The content itself is a whole other monster to conquer. If the tone depicts a creepy detachment and robotic lifelessness, then the content that follows will follow, either in an ironic or dreadfully accurate manner. Sadly, it's a mixture of both. I'm not sure I quite understand the significance of "inner" city as opposed to just "city," but I definitely see the irony in calling a city their "home." Despite personalizing a city as a place of dwelling and warmth, the houses are compared as standing as "straight as/ dead men." Combined with the awkward break between the phrase, it gives a sense that the simile used was hesitant, or accidental. Using the robot metaphor once again, it seems as if the robot is trying to find the most accurate description of its visual input; claiming that it's similar to "dead men" gives me the creepy vibe that this speaker has seen rows of dead men before. And if he hasn't, the implications of "dead men" completely negate the house-warming effects of "home." In a place of living, the speaker connects its with death and maybe even infertility (since he only mentions men).

The speaker continues this ironic contrast by "hanging on to our no place," yet "happy to be alive." Despite claiming a home, he has a "no place," and he's oddly "hanging" from it like a hangman game. Through it all, he has to plaster on a facade of happiness throughout the ordeal, or at least try to act happy in the given situation. These lines again dehumanize the speaker, as if he doesn't know any better but to be happy to "hang on to a no place." It's eerie! And finally, the last three lines repeat the first three, ending the poem with an incomplete thought. There appears to be no end to this type of lifestyle, this robotic functioning of living in the city. Homes are compared to dead people, happiness is compared to loneliness, and it all spirals in a circle to who-knows-where.

Black, White, and Paint

     After our class's third day of seminar with Invisible Man, I feel more or less conflicted with this book. The more I understand the metaphors and the allusions, the less I understand of the book itself. It's as if Ellison wants to fit all of the world's problems, be they historic (segregation and oppression), concerning identity, freedom, politics, gender, race…the list goes on and on. As we pondered all of these (and more) within the Liberty Paints chapter, the topic of black versus white came up, and this pervaded most of the discussion. The use of black and white doesn't just exclude itself to color or race--it also alludes to truth and lie, light and dark, yin and yang. It's genius, and it's frustrating, to make sense of it all; that leads me to believe that Ellison is able to write such an elegant novel not because he is necessarily "smarter" than the average guy, but that his brain capacity has so much more room and power to make these connections clearly. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the concept of "black and white," and here Ellison is, describing everything wrong with the world mainly using the colors black and white.

     Who would've thought that the concept of white paint, for example, connotes a 'fake truth?' My mind went completely over this simple fact in itself, and now every time I think about it my mind is blown at the level of symbolism within this chapter itself. The paint made at Liberty Paints (Liberty…another motif here) can only be brightened by adding a deep black something-or-other to the paint, which at first tints the paint an ugly dark color before transforming into luminescent white that Liberty Paints is famous for "If it's not white, it's not right." However, my horrible experience with paint a couple of years ago made me realize that the claim Ellison is making about the color white, especially in this pretense, is not positive.

     A couple of years ago, I wanted to repaint my room green. It was lavender before, but it matched the color of the bathroom, and because of that every time I walk in to my bedroom I have the sudden urge to go to the bathroom and take a shower. This is NOT good if you plan on sleeping and doing homework in your bedroom. So, being the independent and rebellious soul that I was, I bought the paint myself and got to work painting it by myself, against my mom's qualms about messiness and my inability to paint cleanly. I will say that the one job I did well was apply the painters' tape on the crown moulding; however, not even 10 minutes into the painting adventure, I tripped and fell on the bucket of paint. Don't panic; the floor was fine since I had covered it over with plastic. However, my whole left side was covered in disgustingly pale green tinged paint that simply wouldn't wash off after a quick rinse. I will never forget the next week afterwards, the week of the "green arm." It became a testament to my klutziness, a battle scar and an annoyingly green scab that I can't peel off. The image of the paint is still ingrained in my mind; like cracked skin, it hardens and then slowly (but surely) flakes off, one by one.

     Yes, it is a slight tangent to the main point. But when we discussed the paint itself my mind immediately went to this memory, an ugly outer skin to my skin, but turns out smooth on the right surface (a plastered wall). It makes me think that when the narrator is sent to Liberty Paints, it's almost like a test; will he react well to the white paint? Will he conform, or will the paint crack on him? Maybe Emerson Jr. was also a secret Brotherhood agent who sent the narrator out there to see if he's got the goods to be a Brotherhood member?

     The narrator comes to the inevitable end of regurgitation (ascension?) out of the underground valve room where Lucius Brockway resides. Once the narrator learns what really goes into the paint, what its purpose really is, the factory seems to spit him back out into the wild, as if he's a bad virus that can contaminate the paint. And maybe he is; the narrator is the only one to notice a slight gray tinge to the defected paint, even after inspection by Mr. Kimbro. The narrator doesn't see in black and white; he sees in gray. He acknowledges the necessity of truth and deceit in life, but lives in a world where truth loves to be painted onto things to give the facade of innocence while the insides are in black turmoil. In the narrator's head, white IS black, not a decision of white OR black. Is one scenario better than the other? Well, not necessarily. Everyone knows that the world doesn't run in black and white (in all senses of the two colors). We really do live in a bunch of gray. But it's also true that we crave truth and seek for it everywhere; we demand it, and it's given to us by the higher power. But how do we know that the nuggets of truth given out to us are truly white? What if it's painted over?

For the Love of Sonnets

     Despite the sleepless night beforehand, despite the hour and a half of going over the meaning and structure of sonnets, despite the countless comparisons and contrasts between Italian, Spenserian, and Shakespearean sonnets, despite my fear, anxiety, and nervousness upon entering the classroom yesterday to take my first Sonnet Timed Writing…I have to say, it went over pretty well. This isn't to discount the puzzling nature and the mysterious aura that sonnets bring to the table (literally and figuratively), but when we took the dreaded writing test I found myself enjoying the thrill of the wordy chase, astounded and pleased with the amount of analysis that I did, despite the high-pressured situation. Despite the big impact it could have on my grade.

     So what made it so much more enjoyable than other Timed Writings? Maybe I was just having a good day? Maybe the teacher had give us an-- God forbid-- easy sonnet? Nah. None of the above. When I walked out of the classroom with an unusually light heart, I started to ponder the nature of such Sonnet Timed Writings. They were just as difficult as short story analysis, just as frustrating as poetry comparisons, but I had the most fun with it. Unlike all those other horrifying Timed Writings, where you feel as if you're on the edge of a cliff, forced to explore an ocean that you barely know of--but are expected to cartograph (is that a verb?)--sonnets have that one descriptive similarity across all types that we can connect to easily: love. We know beforehand, before we even get the sonnet, what it is going to be about, and from that point on it's up to us to find those creative ways the poet uses his vernacular and wit to construct an idea of love to send across.

     This made me question my capabilities not only as an AP Lit student, but as a person in general. I've always thought that connecting academic concepts in real-life applications was time-consuming and only provided busy work, a distraction from the true concepts at hand. But what is the point, really, of learning such concepts if you don't apply it in the first place? I'm not saying I know the true secrets of love to a fine point, but I felt myself connect with the sonnet in some way, and this connection facilitated the reading and analyzing process. By connecting the sonnet to me instead of to a so what statement, I could find its meaning easier and the pieces fell more firmly in place. It was a great feeling. This got me wondering about all those dreadful timed writings in the past, and I made the same type of progress with the one other writing that I felt proud of: the Grendel timed writing. I found its content of existentialism so invigorating and so relatable that writing a timed writing was like blogging about my experiences with the book.

     That being said, I probably shouldn't treat every timed writing like a blog post. Using excessive first-person pronouns, cursing once in a while, and complaining aren't going to get me much higher than a 3 on the AP exam. But the attitude that I enter the writing with, the connection that I'm looking forward to explaining, will lead me to the so what and the analysis that I need for a great essay. It worked wonders for my sonnet essay, regardless of what grade I get--I'm proud of my work. Who's to say it wouldn't work for every other essay?

The Mechanical Man

     After finishing our first major project of Invisible Man and looking back at all the major quotes I expounded on, one of the themes that really caught my attention (and interest) was this connection between man and machine. Like everything in the book, this relationship isn't directly explained or explicitly mentioned, but there's always a proximity between the two subjects when the narrator mentions one or the other. I was puzzling over this comparison when, in Psychology, reminded me of this idea.

The unit was Social Psychology. 

After studying numerous experiments and understanding multiple terms to explain social phenomena, the narrator's constant switch between man and machine suddenly became clearer. There is the act of man himself, physically and mentally unique in an individual setting (man), and then there's the attitude and behavior of a whole group of people acting as one entity (machine). It dehumanizes, it is not unique. It is a nonliving blob that does what the leader switch, or maker wants it to do. It's such a weird paradox, to know that human beings can be two different things.

In Invisible Man, the narrator relates himself as an individual, even though those around him--such as the vet during the bus ride to New York--see him as a machine. Even when the narrator is part of the Brotherhood and conversing with an editor of a magazine who calls him a new leader, the narrator simply replies with "I'm just a cog in a machine." When the narrator is pushing himself to be independent, to stand out from his peers at school, he is a man. When he is part of a movement fighting for a cause, he is a machine (though this can be argued because his passion, which makes him act out, makes him more human than the other members of the Brotherhood). Does identity play a part in this?

In psychology, people who are part of a group go through a phase of non-identity; it is a peculiar type of detachment that cognitively places the individual as part of a group, but not an individual person. This explains why, in group settings, many people are more prone to do inappropriate things or actions. For example, you never hear people enthuse, "Let's have a riot at 3:00!" It always starts as a calmer parade or protest march. Only then does it escalate into a riot, and this riot consists of average citizens who aren't known for being violent up until that point. The deindividuation power of a crowd makes this all possible for people to act out, even though it isn't intentional.

Similarly, the narrator gets caught up in all the Brotherhood plans, and this causes him to lose his own identity and values. Like he mentions towards the end of the novel, he realizes that he accepts all other people's opinions without having the time or chance to create his own. He gets eaten up by the ideas of others and, therefore, acts mechanically under Brother Jack's power for his larger cause, like a robot. What is peculiar about the narrator, however, is that in time he comes to realize that he is the one cog that doesn't fit correctly within the Brotherhood's very mechanical ways; the narrator's outbursts of passion and emotion in his speeches doesn't go over lightly with the Brotherhood, but that's what gets the crowd rallied up and energized. Without realizing it, the narrator acts out from the Brotherhood crowd, and his expression--only a window into his true identity--is constantly shut down by the others in order to promote unity.

Which is better? I honestly don't know. Choosing identity over harmony, individualism over unity, isn't cut-and-dry because one isn't better than the other. This makes the narrator's struggle relatable to our own struggles of fitting in or standing out, doing what they tell you to do or doing what you feel is right.

Arsehole, Artist, Joker, Judge

     While our Lit group was discussing some possible ideas for our new Hamlet filming project (something I'm ashamed to say I'm excited for--it gives me more time to procrastinate on the Invisible Man project), it became very clear what our challenge will be. Our goal that day was to get a main "gist" of what each character will be like, and then we can assign him a newer, modern version of that role. For instance, we labeled Gertrude a cold, heartless witch monkey, insert-derogatory-female-word-here, from the very beginning. It was nice to see her sweet and innocent and all in Kenneth Branaugh's version, but for some peculiar reason she never struck us as that type of lady. In a quick, concurring decision, Gertrude was going to be the nosy character that everybody loves to hate in the TV shows. Easy.
Next.

And it was that way for many of the characters we were planning on including except one-- one character that all of us unconsciously avoided, the elephant in the room, the main character--Hamlet. It seemed so easy for us to label all these characters that didn't go too much in depth in the story. Characters like Gertrude, Ophelia, Claudius, even Laertes, were easy to distinguish, label, and categorize into some sort of niche or cliche, no hard feelings. So why is it so hard to do Hamlet? As I sat there listening to all my classmates' great ideas for our reality show, the absence of a main character bugged me--not because I was worried we wouldn't find one, but that the sorting, the categorizing, didn't come as quickly as I had expected. It brought me back to the discussion we had with the post-it notes with some central questions as to Hamlet's being: Is Hamlet a philosopher or a moral judge? Is he an artist or a joker? Is he poison, or is that Claudius's role?

There are a million and one pieces of text evidence that can support and deny all of them. You can make a snap judgment and claim him a bearer of truth, but just as quickly find evidence of his fabulous acting skills within the majority of ACT III. Fine then, he's a liar and an actor. Just as well, but in ACT I he seemed to do quite well in morally judging his mother and Claudius as they festively drank to Claudius's kingship. As annoying of a brat he is, he's also complicated. He's multifaceted. And whether we want to believe it or not, we find a personal connection with Hamlet that we can't find in the more extreme characters, like Ophelia or Gertrude. Both ladies represent a more specific personality type that some, but not all of us, can connect with. Sure, I can sympathize with Gertrude's struggle in finding out what's wrong with her son; you could argue that she was just trying to be a good mother, finding the best for her son. But I can't forgive her for marrying her dead husband's brother--even though it isn't technically incestuous, it's a slap in the face in the name of the late King. No one our age, no one in our generation, could connect with that, face that same problem.

But with Hamlet, it's different. His personality splits off many ways, a paradoxical combination of good and bad, sweet and sour, dirty and clean. He's more human than the rest of them. His struggle of choice resides with our own struggles in making decisions throughout our lives. Do we not ask ourselves the same questions of being, of conscience and of choice? No, it isn't to Ophelia's extent to possible suicide. But it's there, isn't it, gnawing at our thoughts if we give them enough attention?

And with that, I look at Hamlet's empty space next to "Possible TV Show Character." Everybody else's slots are filled: evil b**** (Gertrude), innocent, dumb-blonde lover (Ophelia). How are you supposed to caricature a character who plays as a human? We'll figure that out soon enough.

The Life-Saving Poem

To the Mercy Killers, by Dudley Randall

If ever mercy move you murder me,
I pray you, kindly killers, let me live.
Never conspire with death to set me free,
but let me know such life as pain can give.
Even though I be a clot, an aching clench,
a stub, a stump, a butt, a scab, a knob,
a screaming pain, a putrefying stench,
still let me live, so long as life shall throb.
Even though I turn such traitor to myself
as beg to die, do not accomplice me.
Even though I seem not human, a mute shelf
of glucose, bottled blood, machinery
to swell the lung and pump the heart--even so,
do not put out my life. Let me still glow.

     Who are the Mercy Killers? The speaker references them twice here; once in the title, and once more in the second line as "kindly killers." I only want to know because this killer can change the definition and the meaning of this poem (whatever it is) in a heartbeat. At the beginning of this poem, I thought the speaker was talking about an obvious higher power that holds the treasure of life and death over human beings. But the more I read on, the more I realized that this speaker sounds like he's speaking to himself instead of this higher power (God, Zeus, Buddha, whoever). Throughout the poem I picture this speaker sitting cross-legged on the ground, gathering bits of himself to collect his strength before some type of onerous challenge that could cost him his life.

     The third sentence, which starts on line 9, was the first game-changer for me, when he says "Even though I turn such traitor to myself/ as beg to die, do not accomplice me" (lines 9-10). Who is he speaking to? Back to my imaginative scenario, it seems like he's talking to himself. He's reinforcing his mind to stay strong. "Do not accomplice me" refers to his more pessimistic, Debbie-downer side of him that always wants to give up, turn himself over…kill himself. This transforms the poem from a religious prayer of strength to a battle of inner ideologies, inner drives.

     Of course, like all well-written poems and novels and stories, noticing this tone change wasn't a coincidence. Upon reading the footnotes, Randall wrote this poem like a Shakespearean sonnet (ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG). However, the iambic pentameter is lost after the second line…that is because combines this technique with an Italian model of structure, which is a separation between the first eight lines with the last 6 lines. The physical structure is Shakespearean, but the tonal structure is Italian. And guess where the tonal shift is here? Yes. Line 9.

     So with all of this in mind, what is the tone of the first 8 lines? There is a paradox here in the first two lines; the first is the connection of mercy and killer. It's interesting that the title combines these two words, yet the first two lines deliberately separate the two. How does done kill out of mercy? The pain of life must be too overbearing, worse than death itself, the absence of being or feeling. So in a twisted way, the speaker pushes away mercy, does not wish for it to enter his own heart. The first four lines in general seem like the running monologue of anybody with a terminal condition, be it cancer or any type of disorder. The pain of life, for them, is not a blessing but a curse that can only be cured by death. But is pain better than "nothing"? The speaker continues with this motif of pain and suffering, and it seems to me that he prefers this pain over death. Even if the pain comes from "a clot, an aching clench," (line 5) and all these other horrible maladies, they are all simply reminders of the throb of life.

     The tone shift starting in line 9 transitions from physical ways of dying and suffering to more mental weaknesses that may push someone to take his own life. This is where the duality of minds, of angel and demon, come into play with a person's desire to live or die. Even if he turns on himself to take his own life-- even if he thinks he is nothing to this world, as noted by his self-examination as "a mute shelf/ of glucose, bottled blood, machinery" (lines 11-12)-- this mindset of being 'nothing', death-like, can be revived with the glow of life, even if means pain and suffering.

     You may think he's some self-deprecating, pathetic individual who can never put his life together. But don't we think about this all the time? Maybe not to this extent, but the question of life and death circulates in everyone, even if "life" and "death" aren't explicitly stated. When we are in pain, whether physical or mental, do we not think about getting better by stopping all this feeling? By putting the tears to a halt? And what better way to do this, if not to take your own life? Ok, so maybe that last question is over-stepping it a little bit. But for those poor souls who did take that next step into that type of questioning to take their lives probably went the opposite direction than Randall's poem. But that's why I love this poem so much; it is quietly powerful in its pain, and if I had the power to give each struggling, questioning person this poem to acknowledge the power they have over their own life (and why they should treasure it, not throw it away), it would give a fair amount of re-consideration and appreciation for the life that's given.

Shakespeare, the Scribe to my Morals

"My words fly up; my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to Heaven go"(Hamlet, III, iii, 97-98).

     After giving an honest try at understanding the twisty-turny words of Shakespeare, I must admit there is some level of connection between the reader and this ancient 1600s play. My freshman self wouldn't have believed it. I remember all too painfully the first time we attacked Shakespeare with what was presumably his funniest work: A Midsummer Night's Dream. How awkward it was, not only for me but for the teacher, as we skimmed through many of the "dirtiest," "funniest" lines with blank, confused eyes and a lack of understanding (on the students' part). But I've realized that really giving the time to analyze these words that Shakespeare is construing and misconstruing gives much more meaning than giving a straightforward, simple dialogue (which I guess is the case for all good literary work). Throughout my freshman and sophomore years, Shakespeare always made me angry. Since we never actually focused on the meaning of the words (which we're doing now), all Shakespeare meant to me was a writer for the lame stories we've come to base our pop culture around--forbidden love from Romeo and Juliet, the struggle for kingship in Macbeth, bundled up in an obsolete form of English language that I was too lazy to look into. There was an emphasis on the plot instead of the diction, and for that reason No Fear Shakespeare became my best friend.

     Geez, starting on a tangent before even addressing the quote. It's there for a reason, I promise. Reading the last two rhyming lines of the third scene of the third act of Hamlet gave me slight chills because of how incredibly relevant that sentence is. Relevance? In a Shakespeare work? Forget about it. And yet here we are, gasping and reeling at Claudius's hideous crime and getting extremely annoyed with Hamlet's indecision to do anything about it (in my opinion, at least). Everybody knows the basic story to this tragedy--if you've seen The Lion King, that is. Why bother reading it then? Suddenly it isn't about the plot anymore, but rather the relationships between the characters and the way they speak.

     But this specific quote is my personal favorite in Hamlet so far, mainly because it rings so true in my head for some reason. To simplify, Claudius says that his 'grief' and 'need to repent' is empty and false since he doesn't truly think or believe in the words he says. For this reason, any prayer he sends about his murderous deed or his dead brother-king isn't light enough with truth to float to heaven and be "heard" by God, or whoever it is that lives there and decides our mortal fates. It can be taken two ways, now that I think about it; his words may be fake without the input of thought, which disables him to get to heaven. Or, the heaviness behind the words due to his true murderous thoughts make it too heavy for it to go to Heaven. When I read these lines, I felt like I've learned something extremely important, even though a part of me knew this information already. It's almost like whatever I feel is moral and immoral has just been verbally described by Shakespeare. Me, connect with Shakespeare? Yeah, right.

But it happened. The desperate measures I take to avoid boredom during a snow-in are astounding, but I gotta say it paid off somehow.

Mr. Invisible

     I've got many problems with this book.
It goes beyond the tough language, the seemingly endless sentences (that usually go on to create their own paragraphs), the sporadic way in which the narrator speaks, or even the narrator's own personal and quite twisted problems he's got going on in his head. No, this I can all deal with. At least, I can tolerate it. But the one thing that really grinds my gears, that I'm constantly reminded of as I open the annoyingly thin pages of this book, is that the narrator's name is never stated. There is no hint nor suggestion of his name anywhere in the 19 chapters that I have read so far. Like the drug commercials coined in their terrifying commercials--not even once.
   
     Of course, it didn't seem like a big deal five chapters in. I kept thinking that his name will pop up somewhere, when Dr. Bledsoe calls him into his office, or when he writes his name for a job application. Anything, really. But it was finally the last straw when I meant to annotate a specific portion of a reading and ended up writing "He told him that he wasn't supposed to go, yet he goes against his own judgement?" Yes. Word for word, an annotation. I don't even know who I'm referring to at this point. It's irritating and distracting for my nit-picky brain that wants to know everything. And of course, the pain of annotating. I've given up on that a couple of chapters later; he's a John Doe in my mind.

     But since all AP Lit books are written by genius authors who probably knew more or less what they were doing, I'm grudgingly guessing that Ellison had justification for leaving the narrator's name tag empty. Besides torturing future AP Lit students with the pain of not knowing, his the narrator's lack of identity from something as simple as his name probably says a lot about the nature of this guy in the first place. From the beginning, we read him as an unidentifiable character, and as I read throughout the chapters I've noticed that I find it easier to identify with his struggles and his pains against society's unbending rules. By avoiding a literal "label" for the protagonist, the author succeeded in having readers sympathizing with this protagonist (even if he strikes me as a little bit of a brat sometimes).

     And by acknowledging this style, the narrator's lack of identity becomes more profound in that his invisibility stems from his worthlessness in this world. Throughout the novel, the narrator loves likening himself to a machine of some sort, or as a minuscule fore in the grand scheme of things. When asked for an interview to represent the goals of the Brotherhood, the narrator replies, "I'm no hero and I'm far from the top; I'm a cog in a machine. We here in the Brotherhood work as a unit" (pg. 396-397). There are many cogs in a machine; you wouldn't waste your time naming each one. Likewise, he identifies himself as part of a unit; that is, he considers himself not even a whole being, but only a part of a larger picture. What is a name for, at this point? He is one out of millions of African Americans, one out of billions of human beings in this world. The absence of a name expounds on this statement that the author is trying to get across. In relation to the mass of humankind, this protagonist is nothing, even though he likes to think he's doing brave and innovational things. When he stands in a crowd with the rest of the population, he is invisible.

     The main point I want to get out of this is that this narrator is not literally invisible. Which, really, is a stupid assumption to make, but I honestly thought he was in the first portion of the book. While he's at school, driving around Mr. Norton, it seems as if John Doe is living through a haze in which he is unsure what is real and what is fake. For all we know, he may be just another patient in Golden Day imagining things, and the rest of the whole story is his fantasy. But his social invisibility, despite all his ambition to reach for the top of the social ladder driving luxury cars and getting people to notice him, is what dominates his life, and I don't think this is necessarily because of his skin color alone. Rather, his constant associations with an organization that doesn't consider each member's individuality is what renders him invisible. And unfortunately, I think this will get the better of him. He'll get so caught up with his self-important that he won't see his quick disposal by the organization once their need of him has run its course. I mean, that's what happened at the school, even though he was one of the university's brightest students; this is what happened when he took a job in a paint factory. I wouldn't be surprised if it happens again, but this time he'll take it so personally that it'll really mess with his head. He'll really start to question his individuality and purpose in the world he lives in. I can't wait for that to happen; then maybe I'll get a name out of him.

Hamlet, the Crazy One

     I hope for everybody's sanity's sake that their lives are nowhere near as bad as Hamlet's. He has every bad thing coming after him, and it's not even the end of the second act yet. To outline every problem he has so far:
-His girlfriend, Ophelia, has sworn to her father that she won't see him anymore because her father, Polonius, thinks Hamlet is using her and/or he's a bit creepy.
-His father, King Hamlet, just died.
-He was not given the crown; his uncle Claudius became king.
-His mother remarried to--guess who?--king Claudius.
-He was denied the opportunity to go to school by the king himself.
-He knows his father's killer--it's Claudius.

I think that covers everything…so far. Can you imagine a modernized version of this type of situation? Putting this all in a scenario, you are a 20-something year old man whose girlfriend unexpectedly stopped talking to you a mere month after you lost your father, who had owned a company with some type of inheritance plan. This inheritance plan doesn't include you, but in fact goes to his sketchy uncle who has the hots for your mom. And, despite your former belief that your mom only had her heart set on the man she married (your father), she happily jumps into marriage with this uncle less than a month after your dad dies. But somehow, you manage to get into contact with your father, who reveals that the true killer of his mysterious death is the evil uncle, and he places the sacred duty of vengeance on your small, young shoulders.

This is where I hit a small speed bump.

The use of the ghost is clever on Shakespeare's part in that the audience cannot help but distrust the bad omens the ghost brings. However, it tells Hamlet what seems to be the truth about what really happened prior to his death, and the ghost doesn't appear to be inherently evil; he doesn't come from hell, per se, but rather from Purgatory waiting to be purged of all sins. And yet, I find it hard to believe that Shakespeare himself was superstitious in comparison to the audience he was serving. And I too am pretty skeptical of this apparition. If we were to modernize this portion of the play, how would it be done?

I've had this theory run through my head a couple of times since I've thought about it, and now I can't help but notice how it could fit even in Shakespeare's time. Maybe the ghost doesn't really exist; maybe Hamlet himself is going crazy. It's plausible, at best. His mind is going through an incredible amount of stress, and to top it all of he has no way of releasing this inner tension that's eating off of him. In response, his mind starts projecting and hallucinating to account for this stress, to try and make sense of it (I worked on psychology for way too long today, being snowed-in and all). He imagines his conversation with his dead father's ghost and comes up to his own wild conclusion that his uncle killed his own father to put his own mind at ease. This is why his mother and Claudius want to keep an eye on him, and why everybody (including the sentinels) always seems so polite to him; they're afraid of doing something that could set Hamlet off. There's the outlier Polonius of course (who seems to hate Hamlet's guts), but I think I would be more sympathetic towards him if I knew that my daughter were to date someone as emotionally unstable as Hamlet during this difficult time. I have to admit that what Claudius and Gertrude have done, so soon after the late King Hamlet's death, is a bit creepy. But they could also be genuinely concerned for Hamlet's health; if they knew, as parents, how weird their situation was, they would do anything in their power to help Hamlet make sense of it. If Hamlet isn't responding the way they want them to, of course they'd be worried.

And this would be a perfect modern adaption of our 'ghost.' Regardless of whether Hamlet's hunch on the killer is right or not, considering the possibility of mental disorder adds depth to Hamlet as a character. If we don't even know if Hamlet has his head on straight, how do we discern reality from imagination? It's an interesting take on Hamlet's disposition, that his insanity from grief caused him to be this way. At least, I find that more believable than a "thoughtful" ghost guiding him to avenge his murder with more murder.

Marriage Kills People

In Media Res, by Michael McFee

His waist,
like the plot,
thickens, wedding
pants now breathtaking,
belt no longer the cinch
it once was, belly's cambium
expanding to match each birthday,
his body a wad of anonymous tissue
swung in the same centrifuge of years
that separates a house from its foundation,
undermining sidewalks grim with joggers
and loose-filled graves and families
and stars collapsing on themselves,
no preservation society capable
of plugging entropy's dike,
under the zipper's sneer
a belly hibernation-
soft, ready for
the kill.

     This one's a toughie. Like the title implies, there's a heck of a whole lot going on for a one-sentence poem. But the tempo at which I read this poem is interesting; the weird spacing of the poem isn't only to manipulate the shape (literally) of the poem, but to push or pull the reader to speed up or slow down. I've noticed from the poetry readings we have in class that the shorter the line is, the slower (or the more emphasis) we place on the critical word in that line. So, as I was reading this alone in my room and creeping myself out, I noticed on the second reading that I always unintentionally rushed the longest lines in the middle while I spoke slowly in the beginning and the end lines. I think it has to do with the fact that we want to read each line in the same amount of time; for instance, if it took me 3 seconds to read "His waist," then my mind would want to use up only 3 seconds to read all the other lines too. At least, that's what I think my brain is doing. This completely deviates from a more common sonnet or ballad, which more or less contains the same syllables in every line and therefore takes up the same amount of time to read. So, in addition to giving the poem this beer belly-like shape, the spacing gives it verbal shape that's interesting to note.

     Sadly, that was the easy part. On to the content of the poem itself…let's separate the different topics the poet addresses. From what I discerned, there seems to be a fat man at his wedding, a small, yet repulsive discussion about skin and tissues, the world spinning out Of control in a centrifuge, an introduction to energy and disorders, which is then backed by the man's fatness which somehow is able to kill. Sounds about right. And like I said before, the shape of the poem almost takes a form of the belly of a man who's lost control. In media res is a popular phrase for many books and movies, which describes something as being "in the middle of the action." Open up a book, and it starts with a war before going backwards. Or see the beginning of a movie, which starts at the end of the whole story.

     The action here isn't "action-y" in a physically strenuous sense; it's in the middle of a drastic change in someone's condition, which falls in line with the media res claim. This fat man is about to get married, a huge next step in the process of life. However, the focus of the first couple of lines isn't about his wedding, but about his size. The wedding itself has already made him a different person, at least physically; he's gained a lot of weight so that his belt doesn't rest the same way. Then it goes on describing his belly's skin, which I strangely find revolting even though it wasn't described with any particularly vulgar words. Comparing this to a plant's "skin," I think, is the reason why. It de-humanizes the man's stomach to be this nonliving flap of plant tissue. The use of "expanding" brings to mind unbaked bread in an oven, growing to the point of explosion. It's really gross.

     And describing his body like a "wad;" gum, unshapely pile of blargh, comes to mind. Soft and malleable, the wad swings in a "centrifuge," the second word in addition to "cambium" that relates to some form of biology and nature. A centrifuge, as I've come to learn in biology, is a machine that spins tubes of blood extremely fast to separate the red blood cells (the living matter) from the nonliving plasma, which includes white blood cells and other extraneous liquids. From this point, many things come unhinged in the poem; a house comes off from its foundation, joggers are pulled away from sidewalks and dead people from the grave start shaking while the stars fall from their ceiling--eek. His home will be ruined, his efforts of maintaining his body weight by jogging, his relationship with his relatives, even his dreams (characterized by the stars) are flipped upside down, shaken and broken. This rapid movement and spinning can't be controlled, as he alludes to this shaking as an "entropy" that can't be tamed. He equates this spinning to a measure of disorder. As the zipper "sneers"--either in reference to the sound sneeeee that a zipper makes, or to its ironic and mean smile it makes as it's being zipped up--it contains this craziness that is his belly, his spinning, his disorder, behind a zipper jacket that is soft to the touch, but ready to explode.

     So what is he saying about this obese groom? In the middle of the action, we seem to see a future of his marriage as the growing of disorder and craziness, exemplified by his growing stomach (which is also stereotypical of men who get married). It seems that the poet is saying that marriage unhinges you, in the worst possible way. Behind the curtain of a happy marriage is a certain amount of uncontrollable disorder borne out of this marriage that will eventually ruin his life, if not his marriage. A fitting title then, for in the middle of his wedding is actually the beginning of his downfall as he walks down the isle with pants that, already, seem ill-fitting.

A Good Movie is Like a Good Book

     The Green Mile is my favorite movie. Some spoilers will ensue (sorry!).
It has been for the past 3 years, as nothing I've seen after that fateful summer day made me change my mind. But for those 3 years, I've never been able to accurately describe why it is I love that movie so much. The ending was horrible; that is, it made you feel horrible. There's Tom Hanks (no context necessary there) and Michael Duncan, two actors with the best chemistry I've seen in a movie. But what more is there to that?

I wasn't sure until last week when I watched it again, except this time with the knowledge of a 1 semester, 2 week-old AP Lit student. As we've learned, poetry and pose (and all of art, for that matter) is about capturing a moment in life and showing it to others. This is an ugly moment that The Green Mile captures, ugly and revolting…and accurate. Of course they execute the John Coffey because he's black; that was their definition of justice in that time period. However supernatural Coffey's powers are, it might as well not have existed in the eyes of most white men. A very existential judgment to make in the name of justice, but this same convoluted thinking is also why any person convicted is considered innocent until proven guilty; no evidence, no proof, then no conviction. The director succeeds in capturing this moment, to keep in mind the monstrous as well as the virtuous sides of humanity that should never be forgotten. And no matter how much I cried about it, the justice of that time period would not have changed. That is the beauty of this movie above all others; justice is served in a negative light here, leaving the audience extremely, without a doubt, gnashing-your-teeth, I'm-going-to-email-the-director-about-this, angry.  Angry, and sad, and shocked, and a whole bundle of inexplicable emotions that you can't place your finger on.

Most movies aren't like that, only because an angry audience can do horrible things to your ratings, I can only imagine. At least, that's how I felt watching The Shawshank Redemption, which oddly enough shares the same director as The Green Mile. The ending was a bit too fulfilling, it was definitely too good to be true. Yeah, John Coffey may have had unnatural powers that sucks evilness out of people's mouths, but I find that incredibly more realistic than digging through a prison wall and finding success after 19 years in prison. He should have died in prison, whether he was an innocent man or not; that would have better captured "the moment in life," where injustice exists in a man who just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. A conventional movie can't give out unhappy endings.

But books can. Who is there really to blame? The author? Oh please, he/she couldn't care less. You can have an unacceptable, yet rich ending that leaves just enough open ends to make you question what really happened, while being substantial enough to leave you satisfied (if even a bit angry). That's why The Green Mile still remains my favorite movie to this day; it acts like a book. I'll try very hard not to ruin anything, but everything in that movie is convoluted, much like a book. Symbols are twisted, allusions are turned inside out, and the ending will break you. The Green Mile does this brilliantly; it takes a giant of a black man with the kindest heart and the most unbelieving power of healing and life…a physically black man who is a figurative Jesus Christ in the prominently white South. He is the Jesus that anonymously saves lives without expecting anything in return, who would not hurt a fly. And this Jesus dies by the hand of man. What?!

What are the implications of this? That the eyes of man can't see graciousness and religious sanctity if it were right under their nose (or sitting in an electrocution chair?) That we are blind to prejudice that supercedes even Jesus-like figures? Who's right? Who's wrong? But of course there are no clear answers; like a good book makes you question without getting answers, The Green Mile does the same. All it does is capture that grotesque moment, a moment in our human history that needs to be remembered so it won't be repeated. The rest is up to you, viewer/reader.

Amateur Predictions

Old empty bed...springs hard as lead
Feel like ol’ Ned...wished I was dead
What did I do...to be so black and blue

Even the mouse...ran from my house
They laugh at you...and scorn you too
What did I do...to be so black and blue

I'm white...inside...but, that don't help my case
’cause I...can't hide...what is in my face

How would it end...ain't got a friend
My only sin...is in my skin
What did I do...to be so black and blue.

I've got to admit, this is one of the creepier songs I've listened to, not only because it was the dead of night when I was listening to it and the recording was soft and scratchy, but the lyrics themselves make you feel utterly alone. In the prologue of The Invisible Man, it makes even more sense to have this song playing as the narrator--whoever he is--descends onto some trance-like state and has these visions captured by the 3 whole pages printed in italics. Since I have to Inception-ize everything, when I read this passage it was immediately like being transported into this dreamlike phase, where the song is playing 1000 times slower than it actually is. "Black and Blue" in itself is a creepy song, but when it's slowed down I can only imagine the horror of the rumbling trombones and the droning trumpets as the narrator struggles to navigate his way through his own unconscious. It's so disconnected down there. I don't like it.

Then there's the content--and context--of the song itself. Louis Armstrong, a legend in the jazz world and an imperative instrument in the fight for equal rights between all races in the United States, adds depth to the struggle the narrator already has in being 'invisible' (which I'm still trying to figure out--literally invisible, or contextually invisible?). A question comes to mind: does he believe he is invisible because he may be black? Is he invisible to the eyes of white men, if this is true? Invisibility is associated with darkness and secrecy, yet the narrator is obsessed with light and truth. Yet, he claims also that white men are nothing but corrupt beings. What in the world is going on here?

I keep going at a tangent about this; ok, back to Louis Armstrong. The real question here is why this song, "Black and Blue," is introduced in the Prologue. If the first chapter of every book gives away the whole purpose of the novel, then this song must be pivotal in its makeup. The song has nothing to do with being invisible; it focuses more on the struggle of dark-colored people in the United States during Armstrong's period, understandably. You can infer that by the way he states that his sin is found in his skin, and that in addition to feeling blue, he also feels "black;" it may allude to the figurative meaning of being dismal, of course, but also may hint at his skin color. But feeling both black and blue…feeling both dismal and depressed, maybe? He feels the blackness of death and despair, along with the blues of sorrow and calmness. These two colors do a good job in visually describing what the narrator feels like whenever he's invisible. 

And the recurring question preceding the colors--"What did I do…?--gives way to the lack of control both the singer and narrator feels about his current situation. There's the obvious point: neither had the choice to be born dark-skinned (or invisible). And then there's a deeper, emotional aspect of it. Why are they always so dismal and in despair? Was it through each own's fault? 

With all this in mind, it's time to predict. I might get a good laugh at this in two months when I finish the book and look back at this, but it's worth a shot. Judging from the emotions this song captures, the narrator is trying to find the cause of his isolation and sadness. This could be taken from a literal perspective (being centered around the Civil Rights movement, he could be an activist?) or from a personal perspective, as he tries to find out why he's invisible and comes to terms with why he ends up the way he ends up. Very existential, very grendel (yes, I just made that an adjective.). "The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead" (pg. 6)? And what about "The truth is the light and light is the truth" (pg. 7)? I'm telling you, this narrator's ambition is to be Grendel, and Plato is his mentor. 

Anyways.

The novel also centers around isolation, either because the narrator is shunned from society, or because he feels himself intellectually separated from human beings…or a mixture of the two. "Aint got a friend," says Armstrong, and since the narrator is invisible I find it hard to believe that he has any friends either. But again, this parallels with the possible struggle of the dark-skinned man in a white-skinned community as he is shunned by the rest of society and carries the burden of ebony skin. Like Grendel's inner turmoil exemplified in his wrath against humans and Beowulf, the battle for equality here runs along the same lines as the narrator's internal struggle against his state of invisibility. There's the surface, and then there's the deeper level.

I'm interested to see where this book goes. It definitely takes getting used to; like the jump from Winesburg, Ohio to Grendel, I have to take the time to take off the gender glasses and rummage around my room for my existential ones again. But more than that, I'm curious to see why he's invisible, and if I've hit anywhere close to the mark on this prediction.