Just an extended metaphor for syphilis...

A (not so) Brief Rundown:
Act 1: It's the highly symbolic changing of the guard, and in that time of night a ghost appears to two guards and their friend Horatio, who was there because he wouldn't believe the ghost existed until he saw it with his own eyes. After the ghost vanishes, they have a long discussion about the socio-political happenings of the area to get the audience up to speed, and we learn about Old Hamlet and Old Fortinbras, and young Fortinbras' bid to take back the land his father lost. There's a lot of foreshadowing, and they decide to tell young Hamlet about the ghost. Then we see Claudius and Gertrude, being happy and carefree, and we see Hamlet raining on everyone's parade. When everyone leaves, he talks a lot about how much his life sucks and how his mother is a whore, et cetera, until his old friend Horatio shows up and tells him about the ghost. Hamlet agrees to go see it that night. Then, we cut to a different family-- Polonius' children, Laertes and Ophelia. Laertes is going on a long journey back to school in France, and he reminds Ophelia not to sleep with Hamlet. Then Polonius gives the 'never a borrower' speech, and bids Laertes farewell. When Laertes leaves, Polonius tells Ophelia not to sleep with Hamlet, and goes even farther, telling her to refuse to see him. Then, finally, we see Hamlet with the guards, and the ghost appears. He follows it, and it explains that Claudius killed it and asks Hamlet to enact his revenge. When the guards catch up to them, Hamlet makes them swear to secrecy not to reveal his plan to act crazy. For some reason.

Act 2: We open with Polonius instructing his servant to spy on his son in an incredibly roundabout manner, casting doubt on the healthiness of their family's relationship. Then Ophelia runs in, talking about Hamlet running into her closet and acting crazy. Polonius decides that this is because Hamlet is crazy with love, and resolves to tell the King and Queen about it. When we see the King and Queen, they are speaking to Rozencrantz and Guildenstern, who they instruct to spy on Hamlet to see what has disturbed him. They depart, and Polonius enters, with his news. Before Polonius can say anything, Voltimand returns with word from Norway, Fortinbras' uncle-- who has successfully stopped Fortinbras from invading Denmark, instead sending him to Poland. This point settled, Polonius shares his news about Hamlet's supposed lovesickness, reads one of his letters to Ophelia aloud, and insists that they spy on Hamlet and Ophelia together. Hamlet arrives, and he and Polonius have a loaded exchange, and Polonius departs defeated. Then it is Rozencrantz and Guildensterns' turn to take a crack at figuring out Hamlet, but Hamlet senses that they aren't working out of kindness, and shuts them out. Then, the players enter, bringing with them a whole host of symbolism. Hamlet jests with them, gives a monologue, and is given a monologue in return. When everyone leaves, Hamlet has a massive monologue where we learn he intends to tell if Claudius is guilty based on Claudius' reaction to the play.

Act 3: This begins with Rozencrantz and Guildenstern discussing Hamlet's actions with the king and queen. All but the King, Polonius, and Ophelia leave, and they set their trap for Hamlet to see if love is truly behind his madness. Hamlet enters with his famous "to be or not to be" speech, and he and Ophelia fight instead of make up. When it's clear that love is not behind Hamlet's madness, Polonius recommends that Gertrude should talk to Hamlet, to see if she can figure out what's wrong. Claudius agrees. Then we see Hamlet rehearsing with the players, bossing them around right before the show. Rozencrantz, Guildenstern, and Horatio show up. Hamlet tells Horatio to watch the king for signs of guilt. Everyone else files in, Hamlet rather aggressively flirts with Ophelia, and then the play begins. The play is basically the backstory to Hamlet: Brother kills king, takes his wife, &c. Then a dialogue between a dying king and his loving wife. Finally, as Lucianus (a character in the play within a play) pours poison into his brother's ear, the King gets fed up and leaves. Hamlet and Horatio determine the king's guilt, Hamlet yells at Rosencrantz and Guildenstern when they come to summon him to his mother. It is only when Polonius summons him, that Hamlet consents to go. He dismisses everyone, and has another monologue. In his own room, the King speaks to Rozencrantz and Guildenstern, and decides to send Hamlet away with them to England. Polonius enters, reminds the King that Hamlet will talk to Gertrude, and exits, and the King is left alone to monologue about his own guilt and corrupted soul. Hamlet sneaks in as Claudius begins praying, but decides not to kill him, instead going in to talk to his mother. They fight, Hamlet kills Polonius, they fight some more, the ghost shows up,  and then Hamlet leaves.

Act 4: Gertrude reports to the King that Hamlet is truly nuts, that he killed Polonius, and the King reassures her that he's sending him away. He sends Rozencrantz and Guildenstern to go apprehend Hamlet, they return with him, and the King interrogates him. He is sent to board a ship, and when he gets to the docks, he meets Fortinbras, his very own foil. Fortinbras' men are off to claim some podunk chunk of Poland, and this pointless act of war inspires Hamlet to be a man of action. Back in Elsinore, Ophelia goes crazy, sings her loaded songs about pregnancy and betrayal. A messenger runs by with the news that Laertes has heard of Polonius' death, and, blaming Claudius, has begun a revolution. He storms in, threatening the King's life, and is slowly calmed down when he learns that Claudius wasn't Polonius' murderer. Ophelia enters again, bestowing flowers to all around, and breaking Laertes' heart. Then Horatio gets the news about Hamlet and the *~*~magical plot device pirates~*~* and goes to bring him back. As Horatio leaves, the King and Laertes discuss what Hamlet's fate was meant to have been when word comes that Hamlet yet lives. They hatch a plan to kill him, with a poison blade during an innocuous duel. Then Gertrude enters, with news of Ophelia's death-by-drowning.

Act 5: Two grave diggers discuss the socio-political reasons for Ophelia being buried in the church despite her suicide. Hamlet talks about dead kings and reminisces about poor Yorick. Ophelia is buried, and Laertes and Hamlet get into a fight about who mourns her more. Back in Elsinore, Hamlet and Horatio talk, Hamlet is summoned to the duel, and he makes his peace with death, much to Horatio's dismay. The duel with Horatio begins, and quickly gets out of hand as Claudius poisons a glass of wine as a plan B. Gertrude drinks the wine, both Hamlet and Horatio are cut with the poison blade, and Hamlet forces Claudius to drink his own poison. Horatio himself almost kills himself at the end, but is stopped by Hamlet. In the end, Fortinbras, who is simply passing through, is given the throne of Denmark, and gives Hamlet a soldier's funeral.

An actually brief character analysis:
Hamlet: Our protagonist, the possibly-crazy Prince of Denmark. He's a thinker not a doer, and it is made clear that we see him at the low end of his life. Prior to having his life apparently ruined, he was a scholar, and he is unsuited to the fate given to him. Still very much a child.

Claudius: A murderer, but not a happy one. He killed his brother for the throne, and for the right to marry Gertrude. but life is not all roses for him, especially once Hamlet begins to track him down.

Gertrude: Hamlet's mother. She's not as easy to pin down, because her character depends largely on acting choices. It seems at least that she still loves her son, but she did not hesitate to marry Claudius.

Ophelia: Hamlet's girlfriend of old. She goes insane (maybe) when her father Polonius dies, and it is heavily insinuated that she is pregnant, and Hamlet is the father. Her life is basically ruined when Hamlet goes crazy, and she drowns herself in the end.

Laertes: Ophelia's brother. Ends up killing Hamlet, with a poisoned blade, in order to take revenge of his father's death and his sister's suicide, but regrets it in the end and exposes the King as a traitor.

Horatio: The one true friend that Hamlet has left at the end. He's stable and unwilling to believe things he hasn't seen himself. He is one of the only characters left alive at the end of the play, and shares Hamlet's story with Fortinbras. He is probably dating Hamlet. 

Style
     The thing about discussing Shakespeare's style is that most of it has already been said (iambic pentameter rhyming couplets extended metaphors and time-specific political jokes, essentially). Within the actual content of his extended metaphors and rhyming couplets, however, there are a lot of recurring ideas. An image that often gets thrown around is the idea of the ear; characters are frequently told to listen, Hamlet calls Claudius a blistered ear, ect, to remind the reader of the cause of King Hamlet's death. Similarly, there is a lot of language with connotations of rot and decay, corruption and filth, and so forth. From the moment it is declared that 'something is rotten in the state of Denmark,' no one can drop the idea of decay and filth. Hamlet is especially fond of discussing weakness and corruption. He also frequently uses pregnancy words, references conception, and expresses disdain towards Ophelia for her interest in him. All that contributes to the idea that the entire royal house, and by extension the kingdom itself, is corrupted beyond repair.
     There are very few objects actually denoted in Hamlet for characters to have, another problem with discussing Shakespeare. Many directors, though, picking up on textual clues, litter the sets with mirrors-- because Hamlet has trouble discerning what is real. They are an added symbol, but a fitting one nonetheless. The four elements, however, are frequently referenced, particularly water, standing in for  madness. When Ophelia drowns herself after going crazy, Laertes remarked that she had too much water. Gertrude describes Hamlet's insanity as being similar to the air meeting the ocean. Snakes are another subtle symbol-- King Hamlet was purportedly killed by a snake, who was in reality Claudius. Hamlet relates Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to adders. Snakes are an oblique reference to the devil, and especially with King Hamlet's death in a garden, the image contributes to an idea of a fallen Paradise, that has been, as the diction I mentioned earlier indicates, hopelessly corrupted.
     Keeping all of this in mind, the tone of Hamlet isn't about to set you skipping. The whole play is intensely fatalistic, Horatio dropping approximately 4 'this is foreshadowing' words in the first scene of the entire thing. Hamlet, too, insists that his destiny calls him when he goes to confront the ghost, and his belief in fate carries through to the very end when he makes his peace with death, claiming that even if it isn't going to happen now, it will happen eventually. Everything contributes to give a general feeling that nothing could have been prevented, no matter what was changed, and Hamlet's insistence on the horrors of the world around him cast a gloom over the play regardless of whether or not the reader gives him credence.

Quotes:

• Hamlet: "Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black. . . That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play." 

          As I have mentioned, Hamlet is horrible at distinguishing what is real from what is represented, and he has an even worse time understanding that sometimes those two things are one and the same. A lot of what makes him suspect those around him (even if his suspicion is not reasonless) is his inability to accept anyone's outward displays of emotion. Although he vouches for the veracity of his own sorrow in this quote, he also informs us all that people certainly can and do fake emotions, which is a big freaking clue that he won't trust those around him. 

• Hamlet: "Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?"

           We get a couple interesting tidbits here. This involves Hamlet discussing the fate of great kings, and subconsciously the fate of his father, who he knows to be walking in Purgatory. Alongside the subconscious fear and possible revulsion Hamlet truly has for his father, Alexander's less-than-great fate is explained. It also tips a hat to Hamlet's religious bent, referencing the 'from dust we came, and to dust we shall return' factor of religion. Since the play could be considered Hamlet's long long journey to acceptance of his own death, this commentary on the transience of greatness (the journey from a conqueror to a beer-bottle stopper) is definitely a step in the process. What is the point of conquering and earning greatness if all that is left of you on Earth will end up with a menial fate? 

• Ophelia: "Methinks this imparts the meaning of the play"

          I will never get tired of talking about how meta Hamlet is, because it is so very, very meta. This line, dropped as it is while the characters we are watching in a play watch other characters in a play that were crafted to be a deliberate echo of the characters that we also recognize as characters, is almost a subtle hint that the people we are watching are semi aware of their role. Hamlet drops constant hints in his dialogue about acting, putting on plays, about art and pictures and there's a moment when talking to the players where he instructs them to be more lifelike, which is a very odd scene to put into a play itself. This, however, is the one specific quote that provides the biggest hint towards the fourth wall breaking nature of Hamlet as a play. 

Theme:

Hamlet is a play about the inevitability of decay.

     When we first hear Hamlet explain that he is going to pretend to be crazy, we all cringe, because we know what's coming next. He's actually going to go crazy, we assume. Either way, from the moment he says that, we know we can no longer trust him completely. Is he fully in control? Or is he just hiding his madness behind the veneer of acting again? This sort of spiral from bad to worse is a common occurrence in the play. From the bad of Claudius poisoning his brother, to the worse of the decay of the state of Denmark and the widespread death of the royal house. From the bad of Polonius' discovery of Ophelia and Hamlet to the worse of Ophelia going mad with despair and killing herself. From the bad of the vague threat of Fortinbras' takeover, to the worse of his eventual control over the kingdom, every single threat that appears to hold water in the beginning of the play simply spirals out of control. 

     Hamlet also likes to talk about death, about how since death is inevitable life is meaningless, about how Cesar and Alexander, great kings though they may have been, are now dead and dust. This entrenched fatalistic idea Hamlet carries goes far to explain his own inaction. Why kill Claudius and damn his immortal soul if his soul is all that he truly has left to cherish? Why become a king, why conquer a land,  why bother continually screwing over Poland, if they can be lost upon your death and granted to your enemy? His priorities have always been set with his death in mind, and he courts death almost from his introduction as a character. He 'does not set his life at a pin's fee' one moment, affirms that only fear prevents suicide the next. Truly, Hamlet never wanted to live, so he sees no reason to devote himself to life when he knows that death is inevitable.

     In terms of actual devices, Shakespeare leans very heavily on the foreshadowing stick in this case. From Horatio's friendly reminder about the ghosts that rose in Rome before it's fall, echoing not only the idea that Denmark will fall, but providing a hint to Horatio's insistence that he is 'more an antique Roman than a Dane' to the initial threat of Fortinbras' takeover, Shakespeare warns his characters quite clearly what is about to befall them. The constant mentions of poison, rot, undesirable pregnancy, and elemental madness also contribute to the inevitability and their persistence aids in the feeling of a constant downward spiral. 

Again, this is not a happy play. 

More matter, with less art

 (original)

1980. A recurring theme in literature is the classic war between a passion and responsibility. For instance, a personal cause, a love, a desire for revenge, a determination to redress a wrong, or some other emotion or drive may conflict with moral duty. Choose a literary work in which a character confronts the demands of a private passion that conflicts with his or her responsibilities. In a well-written essay show clearly the nature of the conflict, its effects upon the character, and its significance to the work.

             Living in sin is an outdated concept to those of us living in the present, but back in the days of corsets and feathered bonnets, the idea of living as man and wife without being actually married was shocking to say the least. To a young girl raised from birth to be devoted to the Christian faith and doctrine, the very idea would be synonymous with degradation and an assurance of hell in the afterlife. To a young girl hearing this proposal from a broken man who needs her, who also represents the only chance she has at bettering her life, the idea is far more tempting. This very scenario, the choice to throw her principles away for love or to cling to them and suffer, is presented to Jane Eyre on the very day she was meant to be married, and the choice she makes defines her character and sets the moral tone of the novel that shares her name.

            Jane’s true choice is not between purity and ruin; more accurately it is the choice between her duty to herself and her duty towards Rochester. From their first conversation, in which they debate about salvation, Jane is established as Rochester’s moral compass. Her true worry when she leaves him is that he will collapse into hedonism and damn him. However, Jane still chooses to go, largely due to the philosophy she learned from Helen Burns in her childhood—that as destitute and alone as she may become, her first responsibility is to her soul. In the end, her decision to leave is her recognition of her own value to herself. Regardless of how much she loves Rochester, she realizes that she cannot be responsible for both him and herself.

Jane would not be Jane if she bent ‘the laws given by God and sanctioned by Man’ to her own desires, but that does not mean that it didn’t cause her pain to leave Rochester. Her decision also ruined any chance of gaining a second employment—she was stranded without home, income, or reference of character in an uncaring and mistrusting society. She reaches the brink of starvation, but that is where the harmful effects begin to reverse themselves. Because she leaves Rochester’s employment at the same time she ends her engagement with him, Jane is given the chance to become her own woman, and discover her own merit. Although she misses him, she constantly affirms that she would rather be free and lonely than to be a slave to love. In choosing to leave Jane proves her worth; in her time away she proves her capability.

            Jane’s happiness at the end of the work is the true indicator of the moral nature of Jane Eyre. It affirms that those who make the right choices will be rewarded. Had Jane chosen the path that Rochester wanted, she would have become subservient and morally compromised. Her happiness would have been superficial and it would have evaporated quickly. Instead, she made her own way into her own life and job, and came back as an independent woman and an equal contributor to her own marriage. Not only did she maintain her responsibility to herself as a human being, she was made aware of her ability to care for Rochester. Jane’s choices are indicative of her strength as a character, and her choice to leave Rochester turns the entire book into an argument about willpower, morality, and marriage in an era where those concepts were seemingly set in stone.

            The events in Jane Eyre are carefully structured so that any given good thing couldn’t possibly have happened if a bad thing hadn’t happened first. Had Jane never left Thornfield, she would never have met her cousins on good terms. Had Jane never left Thornfield, as a matter of fact, she would have been burnt in her bed by Bertha Mason, a punishment reminiscent of hellfire for a woman who made the wrong choice even by her own moral code. Jane gains far more than she loses from her choice to remain true to herself, but her struggles with herself along the way prevent the novel from being too preachy. 

Response to Course Materials: Revolution

As we all run into the home stretch on our Hamlet annotations, I have to say that we spent a whole lot of time on this play. I'm still not done discussing it, though, maybe because I missed a few days here and there, or maybe because we haven't had a whole lot of discussion about the play itself. We've been presented with the mysteries- is Ophelia an innocent maiden or a conniving woman, what's up with Gertrude, is Hamlet truly crazy, and obviously most importatntly: Hamlet and Horatio- are they or aren't they? but we haven't had the opportunity to discuss what we ourselves think based only on the text. We've discussed them in conjunction with the films and their interpretation, but I think it would've been better if we'd had a chance to hash out our own opinions before seeing everyone else's. In case you were wondering about mine- Ophelia totally knows what's up, Gertrude doesn't, I still can't tell I need to talk about it, and yes they are. We've also had the chance to talk in groups about Hamlet's relationship with language, but that isn't a complete discussion of the whole play, and it leaves a lot unsaid.

One thing I really love about Hamlet is the sheer number of comparative characters there are for Hamlet- Fortinbras, Laertes, and Claudius. Similar to the familial situation of the play, with Claudius being Hamlet's uncle/stepfather, and Gertrude's brother in law/husband, ect, everyone's relationship to Hamlet shifts around and multiple characters act in the same role. Laertes, upon hearing of his father's death, RUSHES in and starts a revolution against Claudius in a revenge attempt, and has no compunctions about killing Hamlet until after the act. Hamlet, for all his protestations and flowery speeches about how wonderful and godlike his father was, waffles around for 4 acts and then some, not choosing to kill Claudius until a fit of passion strikes him. Fortinbras, the warlike and hasty prince of France, sends his troops into battle for unnecessary chunks of Poland (It is always Poland. Always), inspiring Hamlet to 'man up'- and not necessarily with positive results. That's part of what made the Branagh Hamlet so interesting, at least to me, was their choice to make Fortinbras' takeover a literal takeover. It definitely upped the foil-ing. Claudius, interestingly enough, is presented as more like Hamlet than unlike him. Hamlet says Claudius is 'no more like [his father] that I am to Hercules' which lumps the two in the same group. They use similar speech patterns. Patrick Stewart's Claudius (which was fantastic, might I add) expresses a lot of remorse for the crime he committed, showing a brooding nature that's similar to Hamlet's. And see there I go talking about the different movies again.

I might as well compare them, while I'm on a roll. As movies, I vastly preferred the Branagh. The hall of mirrors perfectly highlights what I personally see as the biggest theme of Hamlet; the question of the nature of reality and what makes us real. Having a bunch of reflective pretenders to reality floating around all the time really plays that up. Branagh's Hamlet is a little playful, but it does make his endless moping somewhat more bearable, and when he abandons the playful there's a dearth of talented portrayals of madness. His Hamlet is definitely more crazy than the BBC's is, although I applaud his decision to do his monologues facing the audience. That, I think, plays up on the meta nature of Hamlet as a play, which I thought was kind of nuts considering it came from the 1600s. When "I think this imparts the meaning of the play" is an actual line in an actual play, it ought to raise some eyebrows. Hamlet constantly discusses art, treats his life like he's acting it, Ophelia pleads with him to stop his "act" and I might be wrong but that all indicates to me that just about every character is at some level aware they're on stage. When BBC's Hamlet breaks the fourth wall, it's just the icing on the cake.

Obviously, there's a lot that I wish I had the opportunity to discuss in relation to Hamlet.

The only other thing in my notes is the mood/tone/atmosphere heading, and I must say that those exercises are fun, if difficult. As much as I love you guys, I'd rather have things pushed under my fingernails than write in a group, because it's such a long and arduous process and I turn into a huge baby when I don't get my way. It's just too difficult to try and please everybody with every phrase and word, especially when people's visions of the original subject differ. It is definitely helpful to learn how to craft a scene, and its interesting to hear everyone else's opinion and their ideas on how do to what we're attempting to do, but at the same time I flat out refuse to believe that any author actually does that, so the point is rendered half moot to me. I will believe that certain words and phrasings and syntax choices create certain moods, but not that conscious thought was put behind each and every one. It is proving immensely difficult to lose the bugbear of authorial intent, apparently.

'Tis the Season to Deconstruct Belief Paradigms

(fa-la-la-la-la....)

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/14/opinion/what-didnt-happen-in-bethlehem.html?ref=contributors&gwh=8A554D59C49B4A120F86B731F3FF0A9C

            The three topics it is considered polite to avoid in a dinner conversation are money, politics, and religion. Sadly, those three topics not only intermingle so much that they become inextricable, they are often the most interesting sources of conversation, but it is also true that the conflict that tends to arise over those topics often becomes too emotional for a polite dinner. Religion, especially, is a very personal issue for many people, and directly insulting or demeaning a person’s religion goes beyond a faux pas and becomes a personal attack.  T. M. Luhrmann, in his article ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Didn’t Sing’ understands that the issue he is covering is a sticky one, and deftly avoids stepping on any toes by keeping his article academic in nature.

            The first indication of this comes in the first paragraph, with a very sophisticated diction choice. This pattern is continued through Luhrmann’s entire article, as he follows up ‘transom’ with ‘encyclical’ and ‘lacuna.’ The density of the words themselves give an indication of the level at which the article should be read- it is not a casual piece that demands an emotional response, but one that requires thought and consideration. Even if one were to try to craft a negative response, Luhrmann uses positive language when addressing both sides of the issue he is discussing. Rather than painting one side as right or wrong, he describes the more embellished and imaginative interpretation of the Bible as ‘enriched’ ‘effective’ and ‘compelling’- all with positive connotations. To the more literal interpretations, he is less generous, but because his article discusses why the more vivid experience is more appealing, it only makes sense. He still respects them, calling their objections ‘concerns’ instead of using a more pejorative term. Luhrmann’s choice of words when discussing the issue shows a clear desire to avoid conflict.

            He also makes his goal clear in the structure of his work. While the introduction is a lengthy one, not arriving at his thesis until the seventh paragraph when he explains that ‘anthropology offers some insight into why imaginatively enriching a text taken as literally true helps some Christians to hang on to God when they are surrounded by a secular world.’ The next two paragraphs even use ‘first’ and ‘second’ to introduce themselves as body paragraphs, both with two analytical guiding sentences at the beginning, and supporting quotes. The ‘claim, evidence, warrant’ format is clearly detectable, and it lends a sense of credence to his words.

            Luhrmann also has very clear explanations of his background information, providing details that are not only helpful to bring readers up to speed, but also prove he has a thorough knowledge of both sides of the issue. He opens with a quick Cliff’s Notes version of a book written by the Pope discussing the literal words of the Bible, and ‘that there was neither an ox nor a donkey in the stable where Jesus was born.’ Luhrmann expresses what would doubtless be the general response, a sarcastic ‘really’ before continuing his summary and explaining the Pope’s real message. He also includes quotes from his interviews with Evangelical leaders and followers alike, explaining their opinion of their personal connection with God, which he then uses to highlight his own point that adding personal details, regardless of their correctness, will make a religion more appealing. While he grants one side more effectiveness, he gives both arguments equal attention and comprehension, and passes those on to the reader, who is left to draw their own conclusion based on fact rather than an initial emotional response.

            The best way to avoid an outcry when discussing a loaded issue is to give each side an equal voice, and Luhrmann does an excellent job of giving both the literal and personal interpretations of the Bible their theological dignity. Nowhere does he try and determine whose interpretation of God is the correct one, instead choosing a more tangible discourse on which line of thought is most effective at pulling in and retaining members. While no article is truly unbiased, Luhrmann’s is, at the least, anti-inflammatory. 

Wish I wa-as... ho-oo-meward bou-ou-ound

2010. Palestinian American literary theorist and cultural critic Edward Said has written that “Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. It is the unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home: its essential sadness can never be surmounted.” Yet Said has also said that exile can become “a potent, even enriching” experience. Select a novel, play, or epic in which a character experiences such a rift and becomes cut off from “home,” whether that home is the character’s birthplace, family, homeland, or other special place. Then write an essay in which you analyze how the character’s experience with exile is both alienating and enriching, and how this experience illuminates the meaning of the work as a whole. Do not merely summarize the plot.

            Defining a home for Jane in Charlotte Bronte’s novel Jane Eyre is difficult in and of itself. Is Gateshead mansion, where she grew up alone and browbeaten, her home? Is Lowood, the school that shaped not only her knowledge but her ideology, her true home? Or is Thornfield, the home of her true love and the first place she experiences true happiness her real home? Of course, one must consider that she only truly suffered when she left Thornfield. Jane departed from Gateshead and Lowood with nary a backward glance or a despondent thought, but she described leaving Thornfield as akin to cutting out her own heart. Truly, then, at least for Jane, Thornfield is her home, because it is where her heart lies. Her exile from Thornfield is self imposed—but that doesn’t make it any less traumatic or upsetting, especially considering her position in the world. When she leaves Thornfield, she leaves behind her source of income, her shelter, and any friends she ever made, but she gains a self sufficiency that is crucial to bringing about her own happy ending, and to emphasizing the moral undertones of the story.

            In the three days directly following her exile, Jane suddenly turns from a respectable governess in a high-class home to a beggar woman, living at the whim of nature and depending on the generosity of complete strangers. In each place she wanders, she is denied employment, but she herself is unsurprised, claiming that because no one knew who she was, they were justified in mistrusting her. Because she left Thornfield so abruptly, she has no proof of identity or character that would aid her in finding the work she needs. Even when she does find asylum in the kind arms of the Rivers family, she still feels a sense of otherness as one who is relatively uneducated, and completely dependent. While she has genuine affection for the Rivers, she is certain that that affection cannot be requited until she is responsible for her own well being.

            The Rivers family, however, turn out to be Jane’s one true blessing. When Jane, who grew up a friendless orphan in a lonely house, discovers that the Rivers siblings are, in fact, her cousins, she is beyond ecstatic. Their initial charity to her is now justified, and there is a legitimate bond tying her to other members of the human race-- something that Jane has always longed for and never truly had. Along with the news of new relatives, Jane inherits an exorbitant amount of money, making her financially independent as well. Had she not set out from Thornfield in order to save herself, none of this knowledge could possibly have reached her. While her exile brought her near the brink of death, Jane gained not only a fresh start, but a renewed sense of self, and an assurance of security in the world that prove invaluable as she decides to return to her old home and see what has become of Rochester.

            Jane’s self imposed exile was not meant to be a reward, in her eyes. She left Thornfield fleeing temptation, rather than seeking a new life, and the sacrifice did not go unfelt. Even as she grew into a self-sustaining person away from her old home, she still mourned the absence of love in her life. The choice to leave Thornfield is the first pivotal choice Jane must make with regards to her own moral code, and because she chose correctly according “the laws given by God and sanctioned by Man” she is rewarded with another choice to make. When Saint John proposes to her, she must chose based on another set of rules- her personal beliefs about love and marriage. Her second pivotal choice, then, is to deny Saint John and return to her home; something she would not have had the strength to do had she not left it in the first place.

            

Death of a Man Sale... Sale of a Deathman... A Man Sale of Death... you get the idea

Summary:

Death of a Salesman follows the last days of the Salesman himself, Willy Loman, a man who has aged kicking and screaming, and lives half his life in hallucinatory flashbacks to better days where his sons Biff and Happy idolized him and his wife Linda smiled more. Back in cruel reality, however, things are far less idyllic. Biff has returned after living a vagrant life, and cannot hold down a job. Happy is working a banal desk job trying to work his way up through the corporate ranks, and has become a womanizer with no meaningful relationships. Willy himself is off of his actual pay, instead working only on commission, and is horribly abusive to Linda, who sticks her head so deep in the sand she could probably find fossilized dinosaurs. Through Willy’s flashbacks, we slowly learn the reason that the family is in the disarray that it is. We meet Willy’s vastly more successful brother Ben, who offered to take Willy with him on his journey to success. Willy didn’t accept the invitation, and missed out on Ben’s wealth. We also see Willy interact with his boys, instilling values of form over function into them, and encouraging laissez-faire attitudes about personal responsibility and hard work. Even as Bernard warns Willy about making Biff start studying and stop stealing, Willy brushes him off. Everyone ignores Happy. Biff’s personal failures also contribute to the family chaos, but the most notable issue is the failed math class, meaning Biff did not graduate high school. He could have redeemed himself over a summer course, but refused when he discovers that Willy is cheating on his mother with another woman in Boston. As things in the flashbacks get progressively worse, so too do the issues of the later dates. In the end, Willy kills himself by driving his car off a bridge, hoping to not only give his sons a good start with the insurance money but also to prove, by way of a lavish funeral, that he was known and loved. No one attends but the family.

Style:

One of our articles pointed out that Arthur Miller took a break from his usual basis of realistic and well-crafted dialogue to create a more surreal work, and I remember thinking nothing but ‘why.’ One of the things that made The Crucible an amazing read was its ability to force people to relate to characters that had been dead for hundreds of years. Salesman is completely absent of that trait, which made it a much less enticing read, at least for me. There is a sense of defeatism about the whole play, and Willy Loman is a walking tone shift, able to take a stable moment and holler away any sanity he had, and any patience I had left with him. Although Miller definitely succeeded at creating a more modern style work, I would not necessarily deem it a good choice in the first place.

Since this is a drama and there is no narration, the most important considerations to make have to do with the staging and setting and other features unique to dramas, and the most important of those in this work is the ‘wall-less house.’ This aspect was completely lost in the movie, but having actors go through wall lines in the flashbacks to the past is a choice that sends a very clear indicator each time it happens. One thing that I noticed as right before the “Requiem” is all the characters exit through the wall line of the kitchen. This action alone places the entire end of the play outside the realm of reality, which serves to justify the dialogue of the Requiem itself, which basically serves as an entire section summarizing each character’s opinions as they had already been expressed.

The symbolism in Salesman is also essential to understanding the work. Even the background music given in the stage directions is an important consideration- each time a flute plays, for example, becomes relevant when it is revealed that Willy’s father sold flutes. When Willy gives his mistress in Boston a pair of stockings, Linda’s mending them in the next scene becomes all the more painful because they stand for sexual relationships and her femininity- both of which apparently need fixing in the Loman household. The seeds Willy plants near his end and the end of the play, in dirt that can’t keep grass alive, are not only symbolic of his desire to improve life for his sons, but also provide a clear signal that such a desire is doomed to failure.

As far as imagery goes, the lighting in Salesman is integral to understanding the work. The golden halo around Biff at the end of Act One, the harsh glare of the radiator Willy was considering as suicide, but most especially the shadows of buildings in the background representing the city and serving as the “forest on fire” that Willy refers to once or twice in his ravings. Shadows of leaves appear during flashbacks, reminding the audience of the calmer more natural setting that was once there, and at the end of the play the last things to be seen are the overhanging buildings, surrounding and trapping our main characters. The lighting, truly, is what sets the despondent tone of Salesman in stone.

Quotes:

Ben: “Why boys, when I was seventeen I walked into the jungle, and when I was twenty-one I walked out. And by God I was rich”

• This statement is essentially Willy’s goal for his two sons- semi instant prosperity and fulfillment. Interestingly enough, in the minds of both men, prosperity can only be reached by material wealth (Ben also likes to talk about diamonds that can be held and touched). The problem is, Willy has no idea how to achieve that goal himself, and his guesses prove to be completely wrong. The constant repetition of ‘the jungle’ also underscores an interesting commentary on the corporate world, and how it isn’t far separated from the more brutal jungle that Ben gained his success in.

Linda: “Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid.”

• Again, this line sets up money (alongside fame) as the only measures of human success, ignoring the more interpersonal levels that happiness can take. What it also does, though, as add a prayer for human dignity. Linda expresses Miller’s feelings about the common man, and how nobility can still be found in those who have not achieved success in the eyes of the world.

Charley: “Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. . . He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake. And when you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy.”

• Charley’s little rant at the end of the play essentially serves as the cliffs notes for those who weren’t paying attention the whole way through. He discusses the difference between tangible and intangible successes, and along the way, points out several themes of the play. Notably, he addresses the importance of outward appearance, something Willy always stressed above all else. He also talks about the assignment of blame, which no character in the play is comfortable assigning or taking on. Charley absolves Willy completely in this speech-, which is not to say that he should be agreed with.

Theme:

            Death of a Salesman serves as a warning that it is not always possible to fix what has been broken.

            The Loman family is undoubtedly broken. Willy’s suicidal and out of work, Happy is desperate for any kind of attention, Biff is essentially a hobo, and Linda favors mothering her husband over mothering her actual children. All of these problems have clearly defined causes, as the play slowly reveals, but the problem is always what to do about the problems.

            In some cases, the characters are reluctant to even admit that a problem exists. Willy is particularly guilty of this, even in the past ignoring heavy warnings about Biff’s truancy and inability to apply himself. Linda, too, refuses to acknowledge Willy’s suicide attempts as a serious issue. Instead, she enables him to keep that option open in a misguided attempt to save his dignity in lieu of his life. Biff, in fact, is the only character who consistently insists that there are problems, and tries over and over to bring them up for discussion.

            It is only in the second act, and only then after Biff makes his disastrous meeting with Bill Oliver clear, that Willy realizes that his life may not be what it was cracked up to be. He has many conversations with Ben about what to do to make Biff see who he truly is, but most notably, he purchases several packs of seeds. He plants these seeds in ground that cannot possibly grow them, in an attempt to justify his life. Everyone else, be they characters in the story or audience members watching can understand the futility of the gesture, but Willy persists.

            None of Willy’s attempts to fix the problems he himself created end up coming to fruition. His garden doesn’t grow. His funeral is barely attended. Biff doesn’t go into business with the insurance money provided by Willy’s death. Everything that Willy did was too little, too late, and in the end he failed to break the never ending cycle of failure that the Loman family is trapped in. 

Response to Course Materials 4- The Revenge

I still don't like death of a salesman. I read the actual play, watched the full movie, got to discuss and break down every symbol and pattern of meaning, and the creepy incestuous relationships, and I still don't like it. Generally, I think the whole class was on board with this particular vein of thought. You are free to like it if you so choose, but I can't bring myself to do it. When we read the articles, the one I agreed with most was the one about the incestuous relationships, simply because that author was as sick as I am already of the canonization of Willy Loman as some kind of saint when really, he's a deranged and unstable man who ruined his own life and the lives of those around him. What I was surprised by is how this whole experience has changed my opinion of Miller. I fell in love with The Crucible, but as I read Miller's comments on his own work, they struck me as incomplete and just generally a bit off. He obviously has a clear definition, for example, of a tragic hero, but I personally don't think that he created one in Willy. (Also- what kind of guy writes analytical essays about his own works? Seriously).

Even our discussions of Salesman were a little bit flat, at least to me. When we talked about The American Dream it was hard to get us to shut up, but I felt that we all just ran out of things to say. The play just saps the life out of the atmosphere around it, and doesn't invite discussion so much as it does silent personal reflection on just how awful life can be sometimes.

Also, while I can appreciate the leading themes that tie all our works together in a coherent structure, from American wealth grabbing and family issues to American wealth grabbing and family and tragedy to family issues and tragedy that we've now arrived at with Hamlet, reading two commentaries on the concept of the American Dream with very similar outlooks on its effectiveness is enough to drive anyone bonkers. There's something to be said about variety as much as there is to be said about consistency.

Still, we've moved on from 1950's America and rocketed ourselves back in time to Shakespeare's very own imagined Denmark and the political swamp that it entails. The whole lesson on tragedy was excellent to gain perspective, but I'm still finding it kind of hard to absorb it all into something that I can apply right off of the bat to get a picture of what Elizabethan audiences would be expecting or feeling at any given development. Because of this, I'm grateful that Ms. Holmes is taking time out every now and again to explain the nuances, because Shakespeare really doesn't make much sense any other way. I am also pretty desperate to figure out Ophelia and her motivations.

I'm not sure how pleased I am that we're reading it aloud, though. No offense meant to any of you reading this, of course- it's just that none of us are professional actors and Shakespeare is hard. And if it's read wrong, it doesn't make any sense. And if I have to keep looking down at footnotes and trying to follow along to someone else's pace, or fumbling my own lines whenever I talk, it just makes it very hard to conceptualize what's actually happening, and I'm fairly sure I'd get a better idea of Hamlet if we all just watched it and read along, but ah well. Participation is still fun.

I'm no Cinderella but I think I see a pattern here...

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/18/opinion/sunday/throw-out-the-rules-and-read-the-grimm-tales.html?ref=editorials

            One part book recommendation, one part reminiscence, and one part philosophic musings, Verlyn Klinkenborg’s article Throw Out the Rules! Read a Fairy Tale manages to avoid the inconsistency that would normally come with trying to do so much by being inconsistent on purpose. With jovial nods to other pieces of literature, fanciful figurative language, and a penchant for alliteration, Klinkenborg creates a light and enjoyable piece that perfectly suits the fairytales that he himself is discussing.

            Even in the opening paragraph, he comments on the seeming abilities of an enchanted prince, stating “This is not a truth universally acknowledged in our humdrum world” which is a paraphrased version of the opening line of Pride and Prejudice. In the next sentence, he’s left the Victorian era behind and is comparing the foreshadowing of the tale to that of Sophocles. Most notably, he directly contradicts himself while simultaneously referencing a contemporary author. He mentions that “It feels at times as though all these imaginative worlds will someday converge…” and in the next sentence insists that “Someday? Terry Pratchett has already done it.” Even in less specific references, Tolstoy, George R.R. Martin, Kierkegaard, and J.K. Rowling are all welcome comparisons drawn in this article. These references hop unperturbed around the literary time stream, detaching the article from any sense of severity or regulation, and giving it a whimsical sense that only a piece on fairy tales could excuse.

            Klinkenborg also uses similes to his advantage, crafting them carefully to suit the subject matter at hand. For example, rather than reading the fairy tales, he will have “absorbed them from the air around [him], where they abide like a haunting cultural mist.” The diction even within the simile is appropriate to the vague realm of fairy tales, with ‘haunting mists’ obscuring truth and setting the atmosphere. Also fitting with the fairy tale theme, some of his comparisons are far more whimsical, comparing fairy tale rules to “embroidered samplers you might find hanging in a witch’s kitchen.” Not only topical, but delightfully childish to consider. Even the feelings evoked by these expressions differ completely- one giving a sense of foreboding and one a chuckle, and again this perfectly emulates a fairy tale.

            Most notably, Klinkenborg uses heavy alliteration to keep his work playful and fresh. In discussing the prevalence of fantasy, Klinkenborg notes that “The Tolkein-tide shows no signs of subsiding, and if your taste runs to dragons, darkness and derring-do...” which alliterates Tolkien’s ‘t,’ the ‘s’ of signs, and the darting consonance of ‘dragons’ and so forth. This musical quality that he gives this phrase allows a narrative weight to settle on his own article. When discussing the original Grimm tales and the laws that govern them, he says that they “veer vertiginously,” using not only colorful alliteration but a choice of diction that perfectly encompasses both the Grimm tales and his own work- a dizzying switch between ideas and mood that still creates an enjoyable whole.

            This article shows a genuine sense of humor and a true thoughtful creativity that makes it almost as much a joy to read as the fairy tales it recommend. As a sales piece both for Phillip Pullman’s rewrite and the Grimm brothers’ original tale, it is effective and invaluable. By creatively weaving in narrative techniques usually reserved for the media he is recommending, he creates a sense of harmony in the world, along with a desire to whip out he nearest copy of Cinderella. 

My Type is Byronic, Can You Tell?

1979. Choose a complex and important character in a novel or a play of recognized literary merit who might on the basis of the character's actions alone be considered evil or immoral. In a well-organized essay, explain both how and why the full presentation of the character in the work makes us react more sympathetically than we otherwise might. Avoid plot summary.

            He lies. He coerced a young girl into becoming his bride, with a wife still living. He manipulates this girl, making her jealous by pretending to love another. He’s the only man this girl has ever known personally. He treats those that displease him with uniform scorn, he lived a life of debauchery for several years, and he has mood swings. Yet, because we see him through the eyes of a woman who loves him with all her heart, we cannot despise Mr. Rochester from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.

            By all rights, Rochester should be the villain of the tale. He seduces and coerces Jane into marrying him, ruining the stability of her life in the process. With that detail alone, he is a vicious debaucher. However, with Jane as a narrator, the reader gains a new perspective. Having Jane’s story from the beginning as a timid young girl, the positive changes that Mr. Rochester brings onto Jane are apparent. Even before their love is found to be mutual, Jane’s spirits heighten. She laughs more, is freer to speak, and no longer feels trapped as she was before at Lowood and Thornfield. Once they become engaged, Jane blooms. Rochester’s positive affects on Jane endear him to the audience.

            Jane is also very open with Rochester’s faults from the beginning. Even on their first meeting, when they were strangers in a lane, she noted his brusque nature. Rochester, for his part, is also frank with his faults to Jane. He tells her he has not lived as purely as he would have liked. This small honesty, despite how much it conceals, is still enough for him to earn a reader’s trust. Beyond even his admissions, though, Jane is perceptive enough to see that there is a dark secret somewhere in his past. She knows about Celine Varens, even, and yet as a narrator she only expresses the desire to delve deeper into Rochester’s past. She makes him appear desirable through her own desire. In Jane’s eyes, even his faults and foibles are mere ‘seasonings’ that make him more appealing.

            All of the hinting and secrets lead up to the large reveal of Bertha mason at Jane’s would-be wedding, and Rochester tells Jane his story, from his marriage to his meeting of her. By then, the reader has felt Jane’s grieving, and is emotionally connected to her, so Jane’s pain for Rochester’s past also carries over. Jane doesn’t blame or fault him so neither does the audience. Rather than anger at a treacherous man, Jane creates a picture of desolation – two people with the world against them, which invites sympathy for both rather than ire for one.

            The most obvious reason for this is, of course, that Rochester is Jane’s soul mate, and a romance doesn’t work if one half of the couple is despicable. However, the sympathetic portrayal given to Rochester also represents the shedding of traditional dealings with those who do wrong. If Jane, with her ethics carved into her heart, can forgive this sinning deceitful man, can still love him entirely, then why should anyone else not be able to? Jane Eyre is a character with the ability to love the sinner and hate the sin, the same doctrine that Helen Burns gave her so long ago. Being put in her shoes invites sympathy for sinners as a whole. Rochester isn’t inherently evil to Jane, he is a man that circumstances have worked against. Jane Eyre casts sinners as victims, which challenges the entire morality of the time period.

            Of course, Jane Eyre is first and foremost a love story, but it is also a cry for acceptance, change, and for people to remember what true goodness really is. Jane herself is the perfect example, loving Rochester for all his flaws. Bronte begs for a more forgiving society in her novel, and redefines love to allow for it.

            

Response to Course Materials 3- The Reckoning

Going by the state of my notes, a lot of these past couple of weeks has been a lot of talking.

I have to say, though, the in-class discussions we had over The American Dream were some of the best I've had in my entire life. Nothing is worse than a discussion that is more awkward silence than it is talking, and nothing is better than one where everyone chips in a bit. I always find that it's easier to figure out what the heck an author is talking about if you can bounce ideas off of people, and it's nice to have so many people to bounce ideas off of. Truthfully, we came to some mind blowing conclusions (The leaking johnny is their dead kid! Mommy's hitting on her adopted son! Daddy doesn't realize Mrs. Barker exists! &c). I'm still reeling. I'm still not sure, though, that I would call The American Dream a comedy, though. It might have comic elements, but they're not trying to make anyone laugh.

Then we did a lot with the "objective" half of the AP test, as opposed to the essaying half. I can't say that they're any easier for me than an essay will be. Sure, the essay prompts might be completely impenetrable and layered with triple meanings, but subjective tone questions and pick definitions, it seems, will always come back to bite me in the butt. Looking at how the test is scored, however, was a bit of a relief. Regardless of the few questions I consistently get wrong, with a good enough essay grade, I can still safely get a 4 or a 5. Writing our own questions was a bit of an experience--as hard as it is to answer someone else's bizarrely crafted question, trying to come up with one yourself that still has a clear answer about a poem that (while it was incredibly good) you aren't entirely clear on, is just as hard, if not worse. I can't even blame the other group for getting questions wrong, because our group didn't even agree on the answer that we should make correct.

I still disagree with the sheer existence of an objective literary test, but at least now I can sympathize a little with the poor jerks who have to write the questions for it.

Death of a Salesman came next, and then I went to Stratford, and then I stayed home a day, and then I saw the end. It made discussion on Wednesday just a little bit difficult. Somehow, I ended up with the impression that Willy had sold his soul to Ben, and died to give his family what he thought they needed. I watched the movie on Thursday, and, to tell the truth, I really disliked it. I've read Arthur Miller before, and I've seen two different versions of The Crucible. I love The Crucible. I love John Proctor and I love Abigail and Mary and I love the story and I love how angry it makes me. I don't understand how the same man could write such diametrically different sets of characters. What makes The Crucible for me are the characters, and how real they feel. Death of a Salesman is totally lacking in that. I don't like anyone in it, and I don't think they have any redeeming qualities. There are a few things in them that pull out bits of sympathy, but I also think that most of the suffering they all go through was brought about by their own hands, so I can't feel anything but disdain and a vague pity. To be fair, this is my opinion before we discuss it in class. Maybe I'll discover hidden depths to Biff or to Willy or to someone that will make me appreciate their character, but as-is, no one in the play has redeemed themselves.

Interestingly enough, this play is going to be harder to analyze, I think, than The American Dream. While none of the dialogue of American Dream makes sense in and of itself, it's much easier to sense narrative patterns when one doesn't have to consider what the playwright is doing to make their characters believable. Absurdism might look difficult from afar, but really what it does is strip down a piece to its basic components, without believability getting in the way. Death of a Salesman, on the other hand, is not only trying to prove points and be literary, but to create a family and characters and a world that audience members feel is real and genuine. Now, personally, I don't think it does a terribly good job of it, but it's still trying, which adds a whole new layer to any given analysis.