…comes the adorable reply of a little girl promoting the fabulousness of a combination of hard and soft-shell tacos in one box. It's funny, as I was fast-forwarding through the commercials to get to the real heart of the matter (an episode of Conan where he tries and helplessly fails at playing Tomb Raider, so he compensates by killing her as many ways as humanly possible), I stopped to look back at this long-forgotten product. As two older siblings fight tooth-and-nail to get what they really want for dinner (hard or soft shell tacos…an argument that my household has had the fortune never to go through), the smaller of the family of three, an adorable little girl, asks in Spanish, "Why not have both?" And while the party music plays in the background with the family celebrating in joy ("Feed your Fiesta!") my mind instantly shifts to Newland Archer. No, not because of some taco-induced tragedy that he goes through in the second half of the book. Fair warning-I'm about to go on a rant that may or may not reveal the ending. So for those who haven't finished the book, you've been warned.
In truth, having the best of both worlds isn't always possible--with the exception of tacos, of course. As Newland Archer lives between two women, May Welland and Ellen Olenska, he figuratively digs himself a big and deep hole by wanting both women throughout pretty much the majority of the novel. What annoys me the most is his lack of future planning, of his brainless actions in wooing Ellen Olenska while wearing May Welland's ring. What did he expect out of this affair? What good comes out of being with Ellen as a married Welland man? In many scenes of the book his thoughts are just plain silly. There are notions of Newland wanting to run away from May and elope with Ellen, of sailing off to sea and never coming back…even of killing May so that his hook-up with Ellen will finally be seen as acceptable. His thought-process here is awful. Commit a crime--murder, per se-- to save face.
But let's look deeper here, to see why he wants two women in the first place. There's the obvious; they're both foils of each other. Each carries a characteristic, trait, or personality that the other is absent of. May is a reserved, optimistic, rich, yet delightfully dull human being. She has all the requirements fulfilled to be the ultimate housewife, but she has the experience of a 3 year-old girl. Newland describes May almost as a slave to her own social class, claiming that "[t]here was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free" (160). Brought up by her mother, she exhibits her mother's ways of living as a stable house puppet of a wife for Newland. And her analytic, creative abilities? Forget it. She may be a straight shot with a bow an arrow at the Beaufort's annual Archery competition, but she'd also be the one who gave up against a bear attack, even with a bow and arrow strapped to her back. Thoughtless. She isn't driven intrinsically, by a desire to prove her worth; rather, she is a pawn of the social hierarchy, an outlet to produce and maintain the Welland family line.
The other Welland--a classic attitude that many of the Wellands and Mingotts take on Ellen--is otherworldly and fantastic. Raised in New York, but inhabitant of Europe, she embodies the all-knowing qualities any travelled man should have. In terms of housewifery, she's a lost cause. She is an outspoken, down-to-earth woman who cuts through the superficial haze that the upper class created for itself. This is apparent in her criticism of New York. "It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country," (196), Ellen says, implying how conceited and unoriginal the American society really is, in contrast to what it claims to be. Her subtle yet hard-hitting jabs at the New York way of life irks the inhabitants of the city, and her family is no exception. She's lived through it all, and like the wise words of Tardar Sauce the grumpy cat, "I am not amused."
And being the greedy, expectant man Newland is, he wants both. He craves some type of stability and comfort, of an innate need to fulfill even his own mother's wishes of going with the high society flow in marrying May (and he does). He loves the idea of 'teaching' May all the things he knows, to shape her and play with her like a doll whenever he feels the need. But this idea of her being a hollow case with nothing on the inside to show for it is what makes him turn to the other woman--Ellen. He consequently also wants an equal, a woman who shares his interests in traveling, exploring, and admiring the arts. Ellen would be a perfect fit here, regardless of her sex. Newland doesn't care for other people's family business or clothes (like Jackson or Lefferts), and for this reason we see that he doesn't have many friends to begin with. So when someone like Ellen walks in, a beautiful damsel in distress and an intelligent human being, it's not surprising that he feels an instant attraction towards her. So which woman is the perfect one for him? I can't be sure. Newland is too complex of a character to really love May regardless of her faults, but he is also too rigid in stature to really love Ellen, including her gutsy attitude. And with that note, I believe that neither woman was a good fit for Newland. The fact that he kept jumping between the two women means (to me, at least) that neither had all the qualities he desired in a partner, so he couldn't have been happy with either one. Sadly, he's too blind from puppy-love with May and admiration with Ellen to really open his eyes. His saving grace is found in his children, specifically his first-born, Dallas. If he can't fulfill true happiness, at least teach to his offspring who can, right?
When the little girl in the TV asks, "¿Por qué no los dos?" I shrug and say that sometimes having two good things isn't always the best idea. Newland tried to have both, and look what happened to him. He nearly drove Ellen out of the country (and she later does, but on her own will--a loss for Newland). His life with May isn't exactly depressing, but he never expresses gratitude and happiness for his wife besides a reserved and self-taught affection. Has he fulfilled his purpose in life? Does he have regrets? I'll leave that for Newland to decide when he sits on the bench and stares out at Ellen's Parisian balcony, years and years later. As for me, I will continue fast-forwarding until I see Conan flail his controller around.
Taco Commercial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqgSO8_cRio
Conan 'playing' Tomb Raider (a bit inappropriate, but it is Conan after all): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCe8-1dbXZc
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Growing Pains
A Story, by Li-Young Lee
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can’t come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don’t go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy’s supplications
and a father’s love add up to silence.
Hmm. This is one of those poems that I can't quite work out. It is also one of the few that gives us (the teenage, pre-college population) an extremely different perspective from the adults who had the joy of raising us. Many questions circle around my naive head. Why can't he come up with a story? Why are they both silent? Why does the man live in the future? I honestly don't know. On the surface it sounds like the ultimate trade-off for having a child--having to let go of him when the time comes. But where does that pain come from? And how do 'stories' relate to it?
I breathe a secret sigh of relief that I wasn't an AP Lit student in 2011. This poem would have stumped me, and maybe rendered me heartbroken because it would have been even more relevant as I sat in the testing room, taking my last test as a high school senior living under my parents' roof. Then I'd realize how my parents loved me all along and wanted me to be with them forever, that I wasn't just a money sucker, and I would leave my tears along the edges of my Timed Writing paper when I finished. How are you supposed to to feel when that happens? Something along the lines of what the poem is trying to convey?
As the child asks for a story from a father who can't think of one, you can see that the child is still wholly dependent on the father figure; the term baba carries this meaning in itself, as it hints at the child's young age and inability to say "father" or "dad" (baba is a lot more fun, and easier, to say). This physical and mental weakness of being too small and immature to understand the world is the reason why he asks his father, the baba, to describe it for him in the form of stories. However, the father simply can't; the contrast in the third stanza between the father's lack of story time skills and the enriched environment around him emphasizes this point. But why? All these lessons to teach his young son, all the anecdotes in the world that the father can come up with from his past experiences, and not one single utterance from his mouth.
His fault lies in his mind's place elsewhere in the world, the future. The first half of the poem can be viewed in such metaphorical terms, the stereotypical situation where the father is never living in the present day, taking care of his son, because he's too worried about the future. It's a sad truth that many children live in and many fathers regret when the first true look they give to their son is one of his back, leaving the door for college, or a job, or who-knows-where. Once the father feels stable and comfortable about the future, he looks back only to realize that the son has already grown up, has already given up on those promised stories left in the past. It turns out to be ironic, then, when the son doesn't answer the father's question in the fifth stanza. At this point, the father is desperately grasping at straws, finally focusing on the present time of telling stories to a son who is already thinking about the future, seen in his packing of clothes and searching for car keys; he's all set on moving forward. The places that life takes him is seen as more important than the dull, childish time with his father. They've switched places.
This leaves both father and son at a standstill; they're never quite in the same place, thought-wise. The father's cries of defiance and the son's silence is mirrored immediately in the final stanza, when the son pleads the father for a story. He wants this knowledge that the father has been abstaining in fear that his child will grow up to be the all-knowing man the father fears to be. But it's all so futile! No matter how many stories the father tells (or refuses to tell), the son will always leave. That's part of life, part of child-rearing, is it not? This leaves the father thinking in sad circles, thinking not "logically" but "emotionally," almost a selfish need to keep his son by his side when the son is more than ready to leave.
But the last two lines present us with the final stroke of irony: how the child's pleads, added with the father's undying but worrisome love, "add up to silence." This again mirrors the future, when the son's and father's roles are reversed, but the end result is the same--the silent treatment. Thinking about this gives me this aching, heavy feeling in my heart. It's something none of us can really escape from, but the pain comes from the love we have with one another. It' just sad to think that this overwhelming passion for one another creates nothing but silence, a deadening feeling that leaves you numb. How do you fix something like that? I know my parents enough to realize I wouldn't get an answer if I asked one of my parents. I'd just be met with silence.
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can’t come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don’t go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy’s supplications
and a father’s love add up to silence.
Hmm. This is one of those poems that I can't quite work out. It is also one of the few that gives us (the teenage, pre-college population) an extremely different perspective from the adults who had the joy of raising us. Many questions circle around my naive head. Why can't he come up with a story? Why are they both silent? Why does the man live in the future? I honestly don't know. On the surface it sounds like the ultimate trade-off for having a child--having to let go of him when the time comes. But where does that pain come from? And how do 'stories' relate to it?
I breathe a secret sigh of relief that I wasn't an AP Lit student in 2011. This poem would have stumped me, and maybe rendered me heartbroken because it would have been even more relevant as I sat in the testing room, taking my last test as a high school senior living under my parents' roof. Then I'd realize how my parents loved me all along and wanted me to be with them forever, that I wasn't just a money sucker, and I would leave my tears along the edges of my Timed Writing paper when I finished. How are you supposed to to feel when that happens? Something along the lines of what the poem is trying to convey?
As the child asks for a story from a father who can't think of one, you can see that the child is still wholly dependent on the father figure; the term baba carries this meaning in itself, as it hints at the child's young age and inability to say "father" or "dad" (baba is a lot more fun, and easier, to say). This physical and mental weakness of being too small and immature to understand the world is the reason why he asks his father, the baba, to describe it for him in the form of stories. However, the father simply can't; the contrast in the third stanza between the father's lack of story time skills and the enriched environment around him emphasizes this point. But why? All these lessons to teach his young son, all the anecdotes in the world that the father can come up with from his past experiences, and not one single utterance from his mouth.
His fault lies in his mind's place elsewhere in the world, the future. The first half of the poem can be viewed in such metaphorical terms, the stereotypical situation where the father is never living in the present day, taking care of his son, because he's too worried about the future. It's a sad truth that many children live in and many fathers regret when the first true look they give to their son is one of his back, leaving the door for college, or a job, or who-knows-where. Once the father feels stable and comfortable about the future, he looks back only to realize that the son has already grown up, has already given up on those promised stories left in the past. It turns out to be ironic, then, when the son doesn't answer the father's question in the fifth stanza. At this point, the father is desperately grasping at straws, finally focusing on the present time of telling stories to a son who is already thinking about the future, seen in his packing of clothes and searching for car keys; he's all set on moving forward. The places that life takes him is seen as more important than the dull, childish time with his father. They've switched places.
This leaves both father and son at a standstill; they're never quite in the same place, thought-wise. The father's cries of defiance and the son's silence is mirrored immediately in the final stanza, when the son pleads the father for a story. He wants this knowledge that the father has been abstaining in fear that his child will grow up to be the all-knowing man the father fears to be. But it's all so futile! No matter how many stories the father tells (or refuses to tell), the son will always leave. That's part of life, part of child-rearing, is it not? This leaves the father thinking in sad circles, thinking not "logically" but "emotionally," almost a selfish need to keep his son by his side when the son is more than ready to leave.
But the last two lines present us with the final stroke of irony: how the child's pleads, added with the father's undying but worrisome love, "add up to silence." This again mirrors the future, when the son's and father's roles are reversed, but the end result is the same--the silent treatment. Thinking about this gives me this aching, heavy feeling in my heart. It's something none of us can really escape from, but the pain comes from the love we have with one another. It' just sad to think that this overwhelming passion for one another creates nothing but silence, a deadening feeling that leaves you numb. How do you fix something like that? I know my parents enough to realize I wouldn't get an answer if I asked one of my parents. I'd just be met with silence.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
If you Believe in Yourself, You Believe in God
I read a lovely poem the other day.
I didn’t realize it at first, of course. But it was after I finished analyzing that last line, sat back and smiled, that I came upon this ‘enlightenment.’ Well, not enlightenment, more of a playback. Reading Blake's poem "The Divine Image" was like reading a third person's account of my own beliefs of God that, no, aren't necessarily religious, but are more spiritual.
In truth, my mother told me about her own theories of religion; I didn’t come up with a philosophy on my own. I’ve always been confused throughout my high school years when I hear people talking about/preaching about their religion, be it through Christianity, Buddhism, Judaism, etc. etc. They seem to know so much about their spiritual roots, and for a while I wondered why my mom didn’t do the same for me. She’s a devout Muslim–she prays 5 times a day, washes her face and arms 5 times a day, fasts 30 days every year for Ramadan…everything short of blowing something up (ha ha). Does she not think I’m able to handle a religion, or that there isn’t hope for me? (My dad doesn’t care about that sort of stuff. I’m a lot like my dad.) A couple of years ago, when I finally had the nerve to ask her why I don’t really practice a religion, she simply told me, “You don’t have to.”
This didn’t help.
“But I know nothing about Muhammad! I learned about my religion through AP World! I don’t even know who Adam and Eve are!” (That’s a truth–I didn’t know about that whole creation story until it was mentioned in Frankenstein for the senior summer reading assignment. I am currently a senior.) And then she looked into my eyes and told me, “Religion isn’t about whether you are a Christian, Jew, or Buddhist. Or atheist. It’s only about God. Don’t all those religions have a God? Do they not mean the same thing?”
I frowned. “Atheists don’t believe in God.” She asked me what God was, and I went silent. I didn’t know. A man that sits on a chair in the sky. No, that’s not right, lots of men (and women-gasp!) do that already, that’s what airplanes are for. I didn’t know.
And that’s when my mom told me the most crucial and insightful advice that I still keep close to my heart (besides marrying a rich Arab oil monopolizer for the monies)– “God is made in man’s image. If we strive to be with God, we only strive to be kind, caring, loving, and patient. Any good Christian, Buddhist, or Atheist would want to be these things to be happy in life. You already had all these things from a young age; from that point, I had nothing else to teach you.”
I was still confused. Keep in mind, I was a sophomore at this time, things never made sense to me as a sophomore. My mom continued, “For as long as you keep being these things, you will believe in God because you believe in yourself and those around you. God is within you. For as long as you can believe that, nothing will stop you.” Then she left to yell at my dad for not washing the dishes.
It took a good long while for me to figure this out, but it profoundly changed me as a person. For one thing, my lack-of-religion doesn’t bother me as much (hooray). I’m a lot more grounded as a person–or maybe I was all along, but never realized it. And when we read the William Blake poem, it just brought back this particular memory of how I became a devout spiritual believer (but not in the obvious sense, of course).
So, really, the whole point of this post is that Blake put into poetic words what I never could when someone asks me "What do I believe in?" I'm seriously starting to keep a pocket-version of "The Divine Image" around so I can recite it whenever someone asks. The four critical characteristics of religious association--"Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love"--are not only the goals that a religious person follows; they should be the ideals that everyone follows. It's ridiculous to say that I'm not a peaceful person because I'm not a [insert faith here]. Rather, it's much better to be these things for the sake of being human, for isn't that what separates us from other organisms? This idea of being superior in intellect? Thus, to be human is to embody these four spiritual (not religious) elements. If Blake believes that this is his idea of God, and you embody these things, then congratulations. You believe in God.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Spoiler Alert: Beowulf Still Wins
Today marks the end of another chapter of my life--the Grendel chapter, that is. All the headache, stress, and confusion that comes with growing up was condensed into this little novel, and we were lucky (?) enough to go through this intensive maturation phase in just under a month. Don't get me wrong, the novel was brilliant and wonderfully written--you could tell that the work came from the thoughts of a modern thinker, not an old hag that we couldn't possibly relate to. Grendel's struggle between two different forces--faulty religion and depressing existentialism--is part of the search for identity that all pre-adolescents face, even if it isn't as intense or even conscious. These questions of "Where do I belong? Why am I here? What's the point of my existence? What's the point of existence in the first place?" pass through our minds at some point, and some days we feel better than others about not knowing the answers to any of these questions.
But what is John Gardner saying about this transitory period in the human life through Grendel? I mean, the fact that Grendel was actually more than an evil monster doesn't change the end result; Beowulf still destroys Grendel. Is Gardner saying that our angsty selves will be the cause of our destruction, that we never really get out of the role and identity phase until the day we die? Look at Grendel. So philosophical and insightful, knowing the pros and cons of both religious and existentialist intentions, yet he ends up a hallucinating creature who doesn't know right fromm wrong…basically he goes crazy juggling all these ideas in this head and not finding a solid use for them. I like to imagine him like a chicken running around with its head cut off. And what's Beowulf's role in all of this? Is he a force to be reckoned with? A savior from our own thoughts?
What is a savior? Is he one who enlightens you, or one that destroys you to ease the pain?
Too many questions, too little words to answer them with. Reading this book was a whirlwind of these unnamed emotions that I frankly have a hard time describing (it's safe to say that this confession is a good indicator of how poorly I'll do on the timed writing). It is a physical tug of the heart, to decide between a comforting but lying religion, a truthful but futile existentialism. How do you choose between two extremes?
I think this is where Beowulf becomes an integral part of the story, even though he only takes up two chapters and does nothing but stare vaguely out into space and rip Grendel's arm off. Beowulf is able to live because he never actually chooses. His few (but important) lines of dialogue showcase his thoughts of life, a mix between the dragon's and Shaper's rants. Although he accepts the futility of life as the dragon sees fit, he rejects the notion of the meaninglessness of it. A Shaper's hope transmitted in religion is then taken by Beowulf and interpreted as a hope of impact and identity within each human being. He has the ability to control his own destiny, illustrated when he claims that "time is the hand that makes." Not quite the aim that a Shaper was going for, since it doesn't mention any religious fate that each man and woman has in this world, but it gives each of us an opportunity to do what we please in this life and be proud of it. This completely changes the backbone of the dragon's futility theorem, where the infinite span of time makes the impact of man infinitesimal. In Beowulf's opinion, time is in our own hands, something we create that expounds on our goals and achievements. Time doesn't rule us; we rule it.
The winner of this battle of the philosophies goes to Beowulf, for being able to accept the Shaper and dragon within without throwing himself off a cliff to dull the pain. Acquiring knowledge is only one part of being successful, as seen in Plato's Cave Allegory. If he had just let that prisoner free, out into the world, then of course he wouldn't have an impact on mankind. He'd just be…there. Standing, sitting, whatever it is freed prisoners like to do. But going back to your origin, your people, and trying to enforce this knowledge, accommodate it to your own beliefs to find your own truth in this crazy world, is what determines heroism and success. Beowulf does exactly that; he has a dragon's knowledge but a religious heart, like Grendel. Unlike Grendel, he morphs the two to be in agreement with his own beliefs. He spreads this knowledge to those willing to listen to it. I can't say the same for Grendel, who berates his own mind for acquiring knowledge, but does nothing about it, remains inactive. Beowulf represents the ideal freed prisoner that crawls back into the cave, to spread his knowledge. Grendel only toys around with it, lives through it.
Thus, John Gardner presents us with two possibilities--the Grendel complex or the Beowulf complex. You can technically survive through either one, and neither actually guarantees a certain level of happiness that every living being hopes for in this world. Your desire for initiative will define the type of hero you are. Do you want to live a life full of 'useless' knowledge, knowing that you won't spread your thoughts with others? Or do you want to do something about it? It isn't necessarily saying that we've answered any of the questions listed above, but we have a basic idea of how to go about answering it, without getting to the answer. And knowing how to get there will at least give you the incentive you need to find an answer, and this gives you that purpose that makes life so meaningful.
But what is John Gardner saying about this transitory period in the human life through Grendel? I mean, the fact that Grendel was actually more than an evil monster doesn't change the end result; Beowulf still destroys Grendel. Is Gardner saying that our angsty selves will be the cause of our destruction, that we never really get out of the role and identity phase until the day we die? Look at Grendel. So philosophical and insightful, knowing the pros and cons of both religious and existentialist intentions, yet he ends up a hallucinating creature who doesn't know right fromm wrong…basically he goes crazy juggling all these ideas in this head and not finding a solid use for them. I like to imagine him like a chicken running around with its head cut off. And what's Beowulf's role in all of this? Is he a force to be reckoned with? A savior from our own thoughts?
What is a savior? Is he one who enlightens you, or one that destroys you to ease the pain?
Too many questions, too little words to answer them with. Reading this book was a whirlwind of these unnamed emotions that I frankly have a hard time describing (it's safe to say that this confession is a good indicator of how poorly I'll do on the timed writing). It is a physical tug of the heart, to decide between a comforting but lying religion, a truthful but futile existentialism. How do you choose between two extremes?
I think this is where Beowulf becomes an integral part of the story, even though he only takes up two chapters and does nothing but stare vaguely out into space and rip Grendel's arm off. Beowulf is able to live because he never actually chooses. His few (but important) lines of dialogue showcase his thoughts of life, a mix between the dragon's and Shaper's rants. Although he accepts the futility of life as the dragon sees fit, he rejects the notion of the meaninglessness of it. A Shaper's hope transmitted in religion is then taken by Beowulf and interpreted as a hope of impact and identity within each human being. He has the ability to control his own destiny, illustrated when he claims that "time is the hand that makes." Not quite the aim that a Shaper was going for, since it doesn't mention any religious fate that each man and woman has in this world, but it gives each of us an opportunity to do what we please in this life and be proud of it. This completely changes the backbone of the dragon's futility theorem, where the infinite span of time makes the impact of man infinitesimal. In Beowulf's opinion, time is in our own hands, something we create that expounds on our goals and achievements. Time doesn't rule us; we rule it.
The winner of this battle of the philosophies goes to Beowulf, for being able to accept the Shaper and dragon within without throwing himself off a cliff to dull the pain. Acquiring knowledge is only one part of being successful, as seen in Plato's Cave Allegory. If he had just let that prisoner free, out into the world, then of course he wouldn't have an impact on mankind. He'd just be…there. Standing, sitting, whatever it is freed prisoners like to do. But going back to your origin, your people, and trying to enforce this knowledge, accommodate it to your own beliefs to find your own truth in this crazy world, is what determines heroism and success. Beowulf does exactly that; he has a dragon's knowledge but a religious heart, like Grendel. Unlike Grendel, he morphs the two to be in agreement with his own beliefs. He spreads this knowledge to those willing to listen to it. I can't say the same for Grendel, who berates his own mind for acquiring knowledge, but does nothing about it, remains inactive. Beowulf represents the ideal freed prisoner that crawls back into the cave, to spread his knowledge. Grendel only toys around with it, lives through it.
Thus, John Gardner presents us with two possibilities--the Grendel complex or the Beowulf complex. You can technically survive through either one, and neither actually guarantees a certain level of happiness that every living being hopes for in this world. Your desire for initiative will define the type of hero you are. Do you want to live a life full of 'useless' knowledge, knowing that you won't spread your thoughts with others? Or do you want to do something about it? It isn't necessarily saying that we've answered any of the questions listed above, but we have a basic idea of how to go about answering it, without getting to the answer. And knowing how to get there will at least give you the incentive you need to find an answer, and this gives you that purpose that makes life so meaningful.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Happy Fall, I Guess...
Reapers, by Jean Toomer (1894-1967)
Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.
The poem is talking about farming, right? About harvesting, gettin' that corn out of the fields and onto the dinner table, gathering those last bits of gold before the sun sets in the distance.
Oh, who am I kidding.
There is something creepy, dark, and sinister about this poem; everything from the way the words roll off the tongue to the choice of phrasing used to describe what should be a harmless day out on the mower points to something more than just happily ending the season's harvest with food aplenty. There are two different scenarios that play out here, side-by-side. The obvious one is the one we mentally see in our heads--farming. Getting those horses out to the long corn fields, mowing them stalks down before any more cold weather spoils the vegetables. But what we feel--that is doubly more interesting, not to mention haunting. I feel an ominous presence, almost lurking feeling on the horizon, of something reaping instead of mowing, I smell blood, my skin breaks out in goosebumps as the darkness curls around my arms--honestly, the poem falls more under this latter description. It seems to me that there's a more powerful presence reaping here, and corn should be the last thing on our minds when we hear about this reaper prowling around, eager to find its real prize.
I'd first like to point out the genius in the first line itself--of "Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones". If there were any way to vocally describe the opening of a horror movie, this line would be the best fit. The first image that pops up is, of course, the infamous Grim Reaper cloaked in black with scabby fingers and a scythe at hand (looks scarily like a dementor from the Harry Potter series--but then again, isn't that where J.K. Rowling got the original idea?). What you hear in your imagination is a horrific dissonance of noise, a cacophony of high-pitched screeching from the "steel on stones" that makes you forget about the popcorn and be aware of controlling your stomach for the next scene to come. As the second line personifies the mowing machine, you're left uneasy--is the poem really talking about a machine? I've never heard of one with hip-pockets before. They can sharpen their own scythes? That's lovely...then, one by one, as if an army of black death is marching, cutting down any obstacles in the way, the hooded figures swing their scythes in your general direction. And when you're close enough to see each individual blade of the entity, blood-stained from the creatures whose lives its taken, you realize that there are no obstacles left, no more shade to hide in, and that you are the next weed that it's ready to cut.
Ok, that's about as far as I can go with that spooky stuff. This is a great piece of scary literature, but what meaning is there besides trying to make you pee your pants during a Lit class? Some background inference would be helpful here. Days of harvest, of collecting food and grain, can be linked to death from another perspective: the seasons. And what we're talking about here specifically is Autumn. It only makes sense that all harvest must be collected to be consumed, but a key word choice changes this assumed meaning completely: the use of reap instead of mow. According to the dictionary, reap implies gathering or taking a crop or harvest, while mow is simply the act of cutting down crops with a scythe or machine. You can mow crop, sure, but you can't mow a person--this is where reap comes into play. The use of reap suggests that Autumn not only is the time for man to collect his harvest, but for Nature to collect hers as well--harvest of human lives, mind you. Personifying the reaper to be more like the dark-hooded figure we know today (sharpening scythes, fashionable Grim Reaper hip-pockets) in our culture includes the fall of human life as the season runs its course. Thus, Death's influential hand stretches out into our own 'field,' "cutting weeds and shade" so that no human has any other place to hide from Death. No single person will be treated differently from the rest under the wrath of nature and time, in the way that no farmer would let a mature crop go to waste by letting it be.
Does that mean that we're all destined to die in the Autumn? Obviously, no, or else I wouldn't have to turn in a blog post. But there's a definite change in the air, a change in the environment around us, that the supernatural, ubiquitous 'Reaper' shapes for us in this chilling season. We don't have to hope for imminent death in the near and coming months, but we are all susceptible to the colder winds, the drier air, and the dying greenery that surrounds us. Think of it as a friendly reality check that time stops for no one, and this under-rated season reminds us that death is necessary in the cycle of life, whether you imagine a Grim Reaper single-handedly sucking the life out of every flower and ray of sunshine, or only absent-mindedly realize that you had to wear a jacket today.
Don't be the lame neighbor that gives out apples and bananas this Thursday; go out there and buy some candy or else you'll be finding a rather angry reaper/mower knocking on your front door. Unless, that is, you're a dentist; in that case many kids already think you're some sort of Hell-spawn destined to make their lives a pain in the tooth (ha ha). Happy Halloween!
Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.
The poem is talking about farming, right? About harvesting, gettin' that corn out of the fields and onto the dinner table, gathering those last bits of gold before the sun sets in the distance.
Oh, who am I kidding.
There is something creepy, dark, and sinister about this poem; everything from the way the words roll off the tongue to the choice of phrasing used to describe what should be a harmless day out on the mower points to something more than just happily ending the season's harvest with food aplenty. There are two different scenarios that play out here, side-by-side. The obvious one is the one we mentally see in our heads--farming. Getting those horses out to the long corn fields, mowing them stalks down before any more cold weather spoils the vegetables. But what we feel--that is doubly more interesting, not to mention haunting. I feel an ominous presence, almost lurking feeling on the horizon, of something reaping instead of mowing, I smell blood, my skin breaks out in goosebumps as the darkness curls around my arms--honestly, the poem falls more under this latter description. It seems to me that there's a more powerful presence reaping here, and corn should be the last thing on our minds when we hear about this reaper prowling around, eager to find its real prize.
I'd first like to point out the genius in the first line itself--of "Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones". If there were any way to vocally describe the opening of a horror movie, this line would be the best fit. The first image that pops up is, of course, the infamous Grim Reaper cloaked in black with scabby fingers and a scythe at hand (looks scarily like a dementor from the Harry Potter series--but then again, isn't that where J.K. Rowling got the original idea?). What you hear in your imagination is a horrific dissonance of noise, a cacophony of high-pitched screeching from the "steel on stones" that makes you forget about the popcorn and be aware of controlling your stomach for the next scene to come. As the second line personifies the mowing machine, you're left uneasy--is the poem really talking about a machine? I've never heard of one with hip-pockets before. They can sharpen their own scythes? That's lovely...then, one by one, as if an army of black death is marching, cutting down any obstacles in the way, the hooded figures swing their scythes in your general direction. And when you're close enough to see each individual blade of the entity, blood-stained from the creatures whose lives its taken, you realize that there are no obstacles left, no more shade to hide in, and that you are the next weed that it's ready to cut.
Ok, that's about as far as I can go with that spooky stuff. This is a great piece of scary literature, but what meaning is there besides trying to make you pee your pants during a Lit class? Some background inference would be helpful here. Days of harvest, of collecting food and grain, can be linked to death from another perspective: the seasons. And what we're talking about here specifically is Autumn. It only makes sense that all harvest must be collected to be consumed, but a key word choice changes this assumed meaning completely: the use of reap instead of mow. According to the dictionary, reap implies gathering or taking a crop or harvest, while mow is simply the act of cutting down crops with a scythe or machine. You can mow crop, sure, but you can't mow a person--this is where reap comes into play. The use of reap suggests that Autumn not only is the time for man to collect his harvest, but for Nature to collect hers as well--harvest of human lives, mind you. Personifying the reaper to be more like the dark-hooded figure we know today (sharpening scythes, fashionable Grim Reaper hip-pockets) in our culture includes the fall of human life as the season runs its course. Thus, Death's influential hand stretches out into our own 'field,' "cutting weeds and shade" so that no human has any other place to hide from Death. No single person will be treated differently from the rest under the wrath of nature and time, in the way that no farmer would let a mature crop go to waste by letting it be.
Does that mean that we're all destined to die in the Autumn? Obviously, no, or else I wouldn't have to turn in a blog post. But there's a definite change in the air, a change in the environment around us, that the supernatural, ubiquitous 'Reaper' shapes for us in this chilling season. We don't have to hope for imminent death in the near and coming months, but we are all susceptible to the colder winds, the drier air, and the dying greenery that surrounds us. Think of it as a friendly reality check that time stops for no one, and this under-rated season reminds us that death is necessary in the cycle of life, whether you imagine a Grim Reaper single-handedly sucking the life out of every flower and ray of sunshine, or only absent-mindedly realize that you had to wear a jacket today.
Don't be the lame neighbor that gives out apples and bananas this Thursday; go out there and buy some candy or else you'll be finding a rather angry reaper/mower knocking on your front door. Unless, that is, you're a dentist; in that case many kids already think you're some sort of Hell-spawn destined to make their lives a pain in the tooth (ha ha). Happy Halloween!
Sunday, October 20, 2013
All the World's a TV Show/ And all the Characters in Grendel Merely Actors
I love the idea of Grendel; really, I do. Besides the fact that Grendel is actually a very amusing character to listen to, the themes of the book delightfully shake your beliefs and challenge your morals in a way that makes your head hurt (and I mean that in the best way possible, if that's possible). His rants about life go a lot deeper than any teenager's loathing, yet it carries a meaning and questioning that all human beings--teens, adults, my parents--have in their mind, but don't quite have the words to explain. One of them particularly interested me: the idea of truth. We had an interesting and mind-bending conversation regarding Grendel and Plato's allegory of "The Cave" and the possible implications between the two. Grendel is so relatable because of the questions he asks, the philosophies he ponders. What is truth? Is it in the eye of the beholder? Where can we find absolute truth? And even then, does truth carry a meaning if there's no one around to interpret it? At which point, the truth isn't absolute anymore, but just another interpretation?
I'm really tempted, every day in class, to slouch back in my chair and declare "I don't know, please don't ask again." But there's no fun in that, and I can't help but think about my own beliefs and how they match up with Grendel's. Throughout the book, Grendel contrasts the human version of truth against his own, and they definitely don't match up; the funny thing is, though, they're both essentially 'true.' This is the struggle that Grendel deals with. He seems to know his own version of life and death, all a pointless act that we live through aimlessly and hopelessly until the day we die--that existentialism exists, and nothing else. His solipsist view on life is true for him, and it is at its core true for everyone; we're born here, we do stuff, and then we die somewhere else. That's how life works.
On the other side of the coin, the human beings that inhabit the 'real world' above Grendel's cave attribute all wins, losses, and natural signs as an act of God or other intangible force, a message that is passed down, telling people what to do in order to get to heaven (or hell). Religion, a spiritual existence, is what human beings strongly believe in and live their life by, and it's sure more comforting and stable than Grendel's daily rants of helplessness and wanting to jump off every cliff he passes by. For a majority of people, religion is their truth, and who can deny that? It's an anchor and a solace, and if it works then power to them. But Grendel knows this not to be true. For one reason or another, he knows that religion does not exist, and these people are just living in lunacy. He was born in 'hell', for lack of a better term, and for this reason I believe in this statement that Grendel does seem to know more than human beings do. He is part of the religious background, but isn't affiliated with it, and that's significant.
What's most interesting about Grendel, however, is how willing he is to ditch his existentialist self and cross over to the more spiritual one, the human truth, regardless of its consequences. For example, upon hearing the Shaper's poem about how heroic man was for 'beating' Grendel, Grendel states,
"I knew very well that all he said was ridiculous, not light for their darkness but flattery, illusion, a vortex. [...] Yet I was swept up. [...] My heart was light with Hrothgar's goodness, and leaden with grief at my own bloodthirsty ways" (48).
Despite what really happened--Hrothgar's posse burned inferior halls to the ground, "hacked down trees in widening rings [...] till the forest looked like an old dog dying of mange" (40)--Grendel wants with all his heart to believe that these people are doing good in the world, even though they aren't (at an existential standpoint). He wants to fall into the notion that man supersedes all, is good to all, and is willing to sacrifice for his own kind (in reality, Hrothgar wants to eliminate competition in his land and expand his kingly hand). Grendel battles with himself, especially in the fourth chapter, about the contrast between what humans say and what they actually do. They say they glorified their men in epic battles to protect their homeland; but weren't they just murdering anybody who got too powerful? And when Grendel bursts into Heorot, pleading mercy and peace, the men hacked at him with poisonous blades and he had to retreat in an effort to save themselves from a monster; but all Grendel was trying to do was express his guilt and admiration for the human spirit.
And this is where I strongly believe that reading Grendel is like watching a TV show--and you're Grendel. TV dramas make such obvious plots, scenarios, for the watcher to fall into, be it romantic choices, conquering lands, singing your heart out to win the Glee cup. You already know how everything will end; the girl will get her heart broken, the king will lose his crown for being too greedy, the kids will lose because they had a shaky year and didn't practice hard enough. But you grind your teeth, you sit down in that sofa and believe as hard as you can that the opposite will happen. You are willing to disprove what you have believed will happen since you watched that first episode that none of it is true. And three months later, when the season ends, you're let down. See the parallel here?
Grendel fights with himself, to try and believe two completely different philosophies. He wants the cut-and-dry good versus evil that man puts their hearts into, but he can't. There are too many contradictions in human nature for this to be possible for a non-human creature to believe in. "It was a cold-blooded lie that a god had lovingly made the world, [...] that one of the races was saved, the other cursed" (55). Every time Grendel gives mankind a chance to walk the walk, to act upon what the Shaper proclaims that mankind is, it is shut down by violence, cruelty, and unfairness, and reality. Is this not the definition of a monster, a definition that Grendel was supposed to fill, not mankind?
I'm really tempted, every day in class, to slouch back in my chair and declare "I don't know, please don't ask again." But there's no fun in that, and I can't help but think about my own beliefs and how they match up with Grendel's. Throughout the book, Grendel contrasts the human version of truth against his own, and they definitely don't match up; the funny thing is, though, they're both essentially 'true.' This is the struggle that Grendel deals with. He seems to know his own version of life and death, all a pointless act that we live through aimlessly and hopelessly until the day we die--that existentialism exists, and nothing else. His solipsist view on life is true for him, and it is at its core true for everyone; we're born here, we do stuff, and then we die somewhere else. That's how life works.
On the other side of the coin, the human beings that inhabit the 'real world' above Grendel's cave attribute all wins, losses, and natural signs as an act of God or other intangible force, a message that is passed down, telling people what to do in order to get to heaven (or hell). Religion, a spiritual existence, is what human beings strongly believe in and live their life by, and it's sure more comforting and stable than Grendel's daily rants of helplessness and wanting to jump off every cliff he passes by. For a majority of people, religion is their truth, and who can deny that? It's an anchor and a solace, and if it works then power to them. But Grendel knows this not to be true. For one reason or another, he knows that religion does not exist, and these people are just living in lunacy. He was born in 'hell', for lack of a better term, and for this reason I believe in this statement that Grendel does seem to know more than human beings do. He is part of the religious background, but isn't affiliated with it, and that's significant.
What's most interesting about Grendel, however, is how willing he is to ditch his existentialist self and cross over to the more spiritual one, the human truth, regardless of its consequences. For example, upon hearing the Shaper's poem about how heroic man was for 'beating' Grendel, Grendel states,
"I knew very well that all he said was ridiculous, not light for their darkness but flattery, illusion, a vortex. [...] Yet I was swept up. [...] My heart was light with Hrothgar's goodness, and leaden with grief at my own bloodthirsty ways" (48).
Despite what really happened--Hrothgar's posse burned inferior halls to the ground, "hacked down trees in widening rings [...] till the forest looked like an old dog dying of mange" (40)--Grendel wants with all his heart to believe that these people are doing good in the world, even though they aren't (at an existential standpoint). He wants to fall into the notion that man supersedes all, is good to all, and is willing to sacrifice for his own kind (in reality, Hrothgar wants to eliminate competition in his land and expand his kingly hand). Grendel battles with himself, especially in the fourth chapter, about the contrast between what humans say and what they actually do. They say they glorified their men in epic battles to protect their homeland; but weren't they just murdering anybody who got too powerful? And when Grendel bursts into Heorot, pleading mercy and peace, the men hacked at him with poisonous blades and he had to retreat in an effort to save themselves from a monster; but all Grendel was trying to do was express his guilt and admiration for the human spirit.
And this is where I strongly believe that reading Grendel is like watching a TV show--and you're Grendel. TV dramas make such obvious plots, scenarios, for the watcher to fall into, be it romantic choices, conquering lands, singing your heart out to win the Glee cup. You already know how everything will end; the girl will get her heart broken, the king will lose his crown for being too greedy, the kids will lose because they had a shaky year and didn't practice hard enough. But you grind your teeth, you sit down in that sofa and believe as hard as you can that the opposite will happen. You are willing to disprove what you have believed will happen since you watched that first episode that none of it is true. And three months later, when the season ends, you're let down. See the parallel here?
Grendel fights with himself, to try and believe two completely different philosophies. He wants the cut-and-dry good versus evil that man puts their hearts into, but he can't. There are too many contradictions in human nature for this to be possible for a non-human creature to believe in. "It was a cold-blooded lie that a god had lovingly made the world, [...] that one of the races was saved, the other cursed" (55). Every time Grendel gives mankind a chance to walk the walk, to act upon what the Shaper proclaims that mankind is, it is shut down by violence, cruelty, and unfairness, and reality. Is this not the definition of a monster, a definition that Grendel was supposed to fill, not mankind?
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Vicious Circle
"The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock" is, number one, not a love story. Number two, it is not heart-warming. His language and diction may be eloquent, his imagery may be beautiful, but if this poem doesn't leave you in a jumble of nasty, afflicted emotions after an intense close reading, then get out of my face (not really...just read it again, please). Is it ironic that all these depressing truths about the meaning of true love and how impossible it is to attain is learned in senior year, almost as an intro-to-real-life class? I'm not sure...that might just be me being pessimistic. Unless it's actually true, then hooray, I guess?
But that's the thing with this poem, and even with Winesburg, Ohio, that always bugs me: all this guessing, the lack of concrete feelings, the unsureness, the "I guess"-ness of it all. No one really knows what they're really talking about; all you can get out of these two pieces of work is its emotional baggage that the characters perpetually carry, and this emotional baggage is what ties Winesburg, Ohio with "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock" so well. Whoever it is that's speaking in both works talks about an inevitable loneliness and lack of communication that is tied into love. As we age, love seems to dissipate into nothingness and we have no one left except, well, us. Love looks like an impossible ideal that no one can reach because of our human incapability to describe our feelings and communicate this in a way that the other party, be it a loved one or a stranger, can understand. Is this all due to fear? Maybe...but fear of what? A misunderstanding, of exposure, of dependence to this other person who may know all your secrets and desires if you over-communicate? Who knows? (I sure don't.)
Take the first stanza of Eliot's poem, for example. He is describing a journey that "you and I" are about to partake (with "you" referring to whoever you want it to be--a lover, a friend, maybe even you, the reader). In a type of dream-like state, the speaker describes these uncomfortable places that we can go: "half-deserted streets" (Eliot, line 4), "one-night cheap hotels" (Eliot, line 6), "sawdust restaurants" (Eliot, line 7). I don't know about you, but this sounds like a foolproof plan to ruin date-night. But the real connection here is in its last three lines, where the speaker states "Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"/ Let us go and make our visit" (Eliot, lines 11-12). Immediately, the image I see is this boy and girl staring down a long road, with the buildings stretched out to the point of the road far in the distance, on the horizon line. What blew me away was when we went to class the next day for the rotating poster activity, and at least 3 people drew the same picture. Why? Why do many of us imagine this same picture?
It's the uncertainty of life that pops up in many of our minds as we read this first stanza that is also evident in Winesburg, Ohio when George is trying to overcome childhood and graduate into the lovely new world of adulthood. This uncertain attitude could refer to relationships, love, the future...practically everything that you didn't have to worry about when you were still a child. Thus, the vision of the long road gives off that unpredictable, uncharted feeling. The ideal of perfect first dates, lovely strolls in the evening, is ruined by the reality of cheap restaurants and dingy hotels. The speaker of the poem mentions an "overwhelming question" that cannot be asked because no one knows the answer. George is a young boy in Winesburg, Ohio who wants to grow up and make something of himself, but doesn't seem to do so successfully because he doesn't know how. It's like the same story, the same problem, in two different formats--poetry and short stories.
Secondly, there's this problem with communication that I never seem to understand as a problem in our society (probably because I talk way too much, so I wouldn't be able to empathize with this point). Eliot's poem is peppered with unanswerable questions directed towards himself about this overwhelmingly large question: "Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?" (Eliot, lines 45-46); "And should I then presume?/ And how should I begin?" (Eliot, lines 68-69). All of this questioning yields no answers, sadly enough; all this questioning, only to realize that "It is impossible to say just what I mean!" (Eliot, line 104). Enoch Robinson immediately comes to mind when Prufrock laments about who-knows-what. Both of these characters want to be understood, but in such a specific way and form that they can't communicate it easily. All they're left with in the end is their own, unsolvable questions that never even leaves their lips. ""I'm alone, all alone here," said [Enoch]. "It was warm and friendly in my room but now I'm all alone"" (Anderson, 177). Neither character can take that first step in asking the right question, or saying the right thing, in a way that can be understood and empathized by the people they're surrounded with. They don't want to end up like Wing Biddlebaum, in other words--shunned from society because of his miscommunication with kids. And the fact that a majority of American kids sitting in an AP Lit class thinks he's gay. That's a heavy burden to carry!
In their fright of miscommunication, the people of Winesburg and the people in Prufrock's poem create their own loneliness. It's a vicious circle; there's no discernible endpoint because no one wants to take that first step, to be outspoken about their identity. We've seen the product of such people who try to communicate their ideas and feelings: Elizabeth Willard, Kate Swift, Wing Biddlebaum, to name a few. These characters' endings are not happy endings, I can tell you that much. In an effort to communicate their ideas and truths, they end up being labeled as loose women (sorry, Elizabeth), hard-headed and strict (yes Kate, you), or gay (it's not your fault, Wing). The complete opposite side of the spectrum is Prufrock, this man who stays silent for too long and ends up stagnating. In time, he grows old and realizes his silence contributed to his demise, but it's far too late to change, he's too old. Either action leads to loneliness, and it seems that we've only got two ways to go about this: die alone with a preconceived notion from society about who you are, or die alone with no one actually knowing who you are, or what impact you've made on life.
I can't decide yet. I'm way too young to make this type of decision; I'd rather believe that communication and understanding is possible in this world, not an impossible ideal to strive for. But doesn't that make me sound a lot like George in his naivety? Probably. 'Vicious circle', remember?
But that's the thing with this poem, and even with Winesburg, Ohio, that always bugs me: all this guessing, the lack of concrete feelings, the unsureness, the "I guess"-ness of it all. No one really knows what they're really talking about; all you can get out of these two pieces of work is its emotional baggage that the characters perpetually carry, and this emotional baggage is what ties Winesburg, Ohio with "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock" so well. Whoever it is that's speaking in both works talks about an inevitable loneliness and lack of communication that is tied into love. As we age, love seems to dissipate into nothingness and we have no one left except, well, us. Love looks like an impossible ideal that no one can reach because of our human incapability to describe our feelings and communicate this in a way that the other party, be it a loved one or a stranger, can understand. Is this all due to fear? Maybe...but fear of what? A misunderstanding, of exposure, of dependence to this other person who may know all your secrets and desires if you over-communicate? Who knows? (I sure don't.)
Take the first stanza of Eliot's poem, for example. He is describing a journey that "you and I" are about to partake (with "you" referring to whoever you want it to be--a lover, a friend, maybe even you, the reader). In a type of dream-like state, the speaker describes these uncomfortable places that we can go: "half-deserted streets" (Eliot, line 4), "one-night cheap hotels" (Eliot, line 6), "sawdust restaurants" (Eliot, line 7). I don't know about you, but this sounds like a foolproof plan to ruin date-night. But the real connection here is in its last three lines, where the speaker states "Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"/ Let us go and make our visit" (Eliot, lines 11-12). Immediately, the image I see is this boy and girl staring down a long road, with the buildings stretched out to the point of the road far in the distance, on the horizon line. What blew me away was when we went to class the next day for the rotating poster activity, and at least 3 people drew the same picture. Why? Why do many of us imagine this same picture?
It's the uncertainty of life that pops up in many of our minds as we read this first stanza that is also evident in Winesburg, Ohio when George is trying to overcome childhood and graduate into the lovely new world of adulthood. This uncertain attitude could refer to relationships, love, the future...practically everything that you didn't have to worry about when you were still a child. Thus, the vision of the long road gives off that unpredictable, uncharted feeling. The ideal of perfect first dates, lovely strolls in the evening, is ruined by the reality of cheap restaurants and dingy hotels. The speaker of the poem mentions an "overwhelming question" that cannot be asked because no one knows the answer. George is a young boy in Winesburg, Ohio who wants to grow up and make something of himself, but doesn't seem to do so successfully because he doesn't know how. It's like the same story, the same problem, in two different formats--poetry and short stories.
Secondly, there's this problem with communication that I never seem to understand as a problem in our society (probably because I talk way too much, so I wouldn't be able to empathize with this point). Eliot's poem is peppered with unanswerable questions directed towards himself about this overwhelmingly large question: "Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?" (Eliot, lines 45-46); "And should I then presume?/ And how should I begin?" (Eliot, lines 68-69). All of this questioning yields no answers, sadly enough; all this questioning, only to realize that "It is impossible to say just what I mean!" (Eliot, line 104). Enoch Robinson immediately comes to mind when Prufrock laments about who-knows-what. Both of these characters want to be understood, but in such a specific way and form that they can't communicate it easily. All they're left with in the end is their own, unsolvable questions that never even leaves their lips. ""I'm alone, all alone here," said [Enoch]. "It was warm and friendly in my room but now I'm all alone"" (Anderson, 177). Neither character can take that first step in asking the right question, or saying the right thing, in a way that can be understood and empathized by the people they're surrounded with. They don't want to end up like Wing Biddlebaum, in other words--shunned from society because of his miscommunication with kids. And the fact that a majority of American kids sitting in an AP Lit class thinks he's gay. That's a heavy burden to carry!
In their fright of miscommunication, the people of Winesburg and the people in Prufrock's poem create their own loneliness. It's a vicious circle; there's no discernible endpoint because no one wants to take that first step, to be outspoken about their identity. We've seen the product of such people who try to communicate their ideas and feelings: Elizabeth Willard, Kate Swift, Wing Biddlebaum, to name a few. These characters' endings are not happy endings, I can tell you that much. In an effort to communicate their ideas and truths, they end up being labeled as loose women (sorry, Elizabeth), hard-headed and strict (yes Kate, you), or gay (it's not your fault, Wing). The complete opposite side of the spectrum is Prufrock, this man who stays silent for too long and ends up stagnating. In time, he grows old and realizes his silence contributed to his demise, but it's far too late to change, he's too old. Either action leads to loneliness, and it seems that we've only got two ways to go about this: die alone with a preconceived notion from society about who you are, or die alone with no one actually knowing who you are, or what impact you've made on life.
I can't decide yet. I'm way too young to make this type of decision; I'd rather believe that communication and understanding is possible in this world, not an impossible ideal to strive for. But doesn't that make me sound a lot like George in his naivety? Probably. 'Vicious circle', remember?
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