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. 

Love Drunk

"Love," by anonymous

There's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
And the love of a staunch true man,
And the love of a baby that's unafraid--
All have existed since time began.
But the most wonderful love, the Love of all loves,
Even greater than the love for Mother,
Is the infinite, tenderest, passionate love
Of one dead drunk for another.

     I don't like to think that I'd have to be drunk and dead in order to love completely, but this poem makes it sound like I need to be. But that's the 'wonderful' irony in the poem, created by a tonal phenomenon that we, as the reader, can sense by cold, Times New Roman text; we can feel its subtle, sadist message, the teasing and almost condescending nature that the poet uses regarding the concept of love in the human condition. He (or she) gives me the impression of a failed explanation of what love is, as if the reader were a complacent 5 year-old that he could influence and convince that love is not what the little girl thinks it is. Almost like reading a children's story to a group of kindergarteners, except you have the Grimm Brothers; edition. Something along those lines.

     But on to the tone itself. the rhyme scheme is what really sets the mood as childish and playful. It isn't until the very last line that we're hit with preliminary confusion, realization, and final discomfort at the message that this poet is trying to convey. There isn't really a shift in tone, per se--I read it with that same happy bouncing inflection that most rhyming poems deserve to have when read. But the meaning and implication of that tone changes drastically when the dead drunk is involved. Suddenly, the chipper voice of love transforms into a dry, sarcastic, and flat retrospection as to the meaning of love. Not of a love that is defined by coherent and acceptable people of society, but of a pure love borne out of drunkenness, confusion, and pain. The grating connotation of a dead drunk dissonates the tone that is used to read it, leaving the reader a bit disarmed in the process.

     So love must not have the greatest implications for the sad, sorry guy that wrote this. The concept of love is ripped apart as he not-so-subtly contrasts the allusion of true love in virtuous people (beautiful maids, stauncy men, and unafraid babies) with the realistic, passionate love that drunkards have of each other. Depressing to think about, really. the drunkard's love give rise to many implications; maybe of an unrestricted love? Of a proliferating love? The common assumption of drunks is that they have a looser tongue and less inhibition with each other, so it only makes sense that the love that they may share for one another appears to be unrestrained. Does this translate to true love, to pure love? Depends on the reader and what she thinks of drunk people, I guess. but gonig under the assumption that drunks are more free-spirited, the implication of love from the three 'virtuous' people  therefore seem rehearsed, taught, and controlled.

     And let's not forget that these drunkards are dead. The poet presents the stages of life backwards from the beginning to the end, starting with man and women, leading to a baby, and ending in death. What's up with that? He seems to suggest that in order to experience the "infinite, tenderest, passionate love," we have to have experienced its oppositve first: death. It sounds very similar to what my mother says about affluence and appreciation; one cannot appreciate the value of money unless he was poor first at some point in time. Is the true passion that comes with love only available to those who have experienced its opposite (death) to appreciate it more than face value, and be 'drunk' off societal pressure, without inhibition, in the process?

     I can only imagine what must have happened in his life to make him write something like this, so universally unacceptable to believe in, but realistically rings truer than any optimistic notion we have about true love and caring. Love might just be yet another human ideal that we all strive for, but never achieve. The existential me asks "What's the point?" though the ideal, optimistic me says "Let's change that notion." Maybe I should get drunk and see what happens. But knowing me, I'd be the type to fall asleep if I really lost all that inhibition.

Started at the Bottom…Still at the Bottom

     I'm no fan of Drake, but the titular lyric seemed fitting. After finishing A Doll House by Ibsen, I feel much obliged to state that I, in accordance to many many many (I assume) other students and teachers, hate the alternate ending that Ibsen imposed to please the audience he was stuck with. It's no wonder the poor dude can't even live with himself after releasing such an atrocity. Nora, the supposedly enlightened woman and an ideal that all men and women strive for to reach intellectual freedom and self-worth, goes mainstream and stays in her stagnant relationship with her clueless (and just as inexperienced) husband. Where's the sense of closure in that? There isn't any feeling, no artistic and symbolic thought that went into the writing of this ending--a huge contrast for Ibsen, as he wrote most of the play with subtle hints of deeper meaning without giving everything away. All of his artistic credibility as a playwright is lost with that ending.

     The main problem I have with this alternate version is the hypocrisy with which the husband uses to get Nora to stay. That, in itself, seems like a cheap move even for Torvald. In the heat of Act III, Torvald shows his true colors as a selfish husband who cares more for public appearance and perfection instead of the well-being of his family; his cries of "I'm saved! I'm saved!" are testimony to that. Krogstad's letter, which was more or less addressed to Nora instead of Torvald, is seen as Torvald's own saving grace (I'm saved) instead of Nora's (We're saved). It's as if she should have never deserved this solace, that she still has to suffer the burden of 'doing the wrong thing', or pay Torvald a price for making him so angry (even though she did all of this to save his life). There is absolutely no mention of their kids, or of their kids' futures, as far as Torvald's concerned; their well-being is nonexistent. It's like that classic test of parental wit; if a fire alarm sounds in a house, the first thing a thoughtful parent would look for is the child. If a fire alarm had sounded in the Helmer home (or any 1800s equivalent of an alarm), Torvald would be the first to bolt out the door. Sadly, Nora would be the second.

     So the hypocrisy is only overstepped when he uses the children (not his children--he doesn't deserve children) as an excuse to get Nora to stay at home. We see that his offspring are just as much as strangers to him as Torvald is to Nora when Torvald exclaims, "But first you shall see your children for the last time!" 'Your children'. Nora's children. Not 'our children,' a collective responsibility that makes a family whole. He is basically separating himself from his wife and kids here, creating a dividing line to separate 'family' into 'me' (Torvald) and 'you' (everyone else). He manipulates Nora into thinking she's the selfish one for leaving the kids, even though Torvald doesn't give a second thought of them, doesn't even consider them his own. Where is the justice in that? The 'honor'? The concept of a "real marriage"?

     The counterproductive conclusion of the whole story here is that nobody wins. The fact that Nora doesn't escape from her prison doll house shows that no change has happened, that Nora will revert back to her old ways despite her exposure to the benefit of knowledge and independence from the real world (through Dr. Rank, Krgostad, and Mrs. Linde). And, more importantly, the audience will see these three characters as villains for trying to break up such a 'perfect' marriage that the Helmers have. The message it sends is twisted in itself: 'keep living with me because I don't want to raise kids that aren't mine! And I like to control you!' Lastly, Ibsen's message of the struggle for individual freedom is completely lost in translation as Nora changes from a dynamic character to a static one. In the beginning of the play, she's a ditsy lost girl who does not know how to mother her children and happily submits to a husband who doesn't know any better; she climbs up the ladders of self-fulfillment and virtue, an arm's stretch away from the key to happiness and self-adequacy, at the end of it all she tumbles back down to the bottom of the cliff because she feels bad about leaving her children motherless, even though she isn't even qualified to be a mother.

To sum up my feelings, an equally fitting meme: http://img01.lachschon.de/images/155928_SadDoge_1.jpg

Alternate Ending:
http://ibsen.nb.no/id/11111794.0

¿Por qué no los dos?

     …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  

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. 

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.

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.