Names and Creation

I'm sitting in a bustling urgent care facility, fighting back nodding off to sleep while reading Frankenstein as I watch three kids coloring a Christmas tree, Santa, and Rudolph, respectively. Then one, talking about his baby sister who will soon be born, pops the question. Or questions. "Where do babies come from? Who makes them? Toys R Us?" 

I'm a teacher's assistant at Korean school, so I see a whole classroom of inquisitive--often to the point of being annoying--three-year-olds each weekend. Recently, I've been using my AP Lit and AP Psych knowledge to, yes, psychoanalyze these innocent three-year-olds. I've noticed that they always want everything to have a name. Even if they don't know what a crayon is made of, they want to know what that exact shade of red-orange that's not really red-orange is called. 

It's not only young children who do that. When we eat something new, the first thing we usually ask is, "What is it called?" rather than "Are there almonds or pecans in the filling of this cookie?" And even then, we want to know the name of the exact nut used. 

There's a certain almost magical quality in a name, defined as a word or set of words by which a person, place, animal, or thing is known, addressed, or referred to. We have the ability to be able to tune out everything else and hear our name being called in a noisy crowd. We literally name everything--from appliances to foods to works of art; even "Untitled" is essentially a name.

And yet, despite this almighty importance that names hold, Frankenstein's creature has no name. What provoked me however, was not only this lack of name, but also whether or not this creature had an identity. Though an identity is comprised of many aspects, a name is arguably most important. When I introduce myself, I don't say, "Hi, I obsess over Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky symphonies, I don't eat to live but live to eat, I seem pretty organized but I'm probably the messiest person you will ever meet, and did I mention I'm a half-OCD perfectionist?" I say, "Hi, my name is Stephanie." It is understood that my name is enough to reveal a part of my identity. But Frankenstein's creature is, essentially, nameless. Being named "human" or "person" would not really be considered a name, and though Frankenstein calls his creation "creature," that cannot count as a name. So the creature has no name; does it have an identity? Why does the creature have urges to kill? Is that part of its identity?

While the creature killing Frankenstein's younger brother William was ironic in its own sense, I felt that the creature's murderous tendencies were a part in his search for an identity--his identity. What makes this horror story so scary and chilling is not in the creature itself; what makes the creature, something who has risen from the dead and is not necessarily scarier than, for example, a zombie or a vampire. What makes Frankenstein's nameless creation is that we as readers don't yet know its identity. Mystery is always scarier than the known. 

Man's Condition: Fate?

Poor Grendel's had an accident. So may you all.
Grendel's last words. And like many last words, last phrases, last breaths, it is confusing. Meaningful, true, but almost indiscernible. What exactly is he saying? Is it a curse? A blessing? I'm still not sure. But I think it has something to do with fate.
Even before he knew what his fate was, Grendel had been desperately trying to change it. He tried speaking with the men, calling "Mercy! Peace! Friend!" to them, trying to alter his inadvertent downfall, his inadvertent transformation into monstrosity. As Grendel died, he was telling us that we can't change fate; it's larger than our lives and our world.
The scenes of Grendel throwing stones at the ram reminded me of Sisyphus, the Greek king punished to rolling a stone up a hill...only to have it come back down. No matter that he could control how quickly he pushed the stone up, or when he did so; it would fall back down anyways. Fate happens, whether we like it or not.
And we don't like it. We spend our whole lives tempting fate. From our first sounds to our first steps, our first words to our first books, from first grade to first job, we change our lives, bit by bit. If we really accepted fate--and, like it or not, everyone's ultimate fate is death--we would just sit there after birth, not crying for food, not taking in our surroundings. In fact, the world's billions of people would not have been born.
Grendel once thought that he alone could change his fate. And then, he gave in to his fate. Dazed and angered by what the dragon had told him--the truth--he wanted to change his fate, to resist, but ended up submitting wholly to his monstrous future. Whatever the dragon had told him, Grendel had not been a monster up to that point; though his identity had been unclear, he had not been what the dragon had foretold his fate to be: man's condition. Man's evil. Man's fate.
In the end, it was Grendel who made his own fate his fate. He became the monster, the evil one, man's condition; he followed and became what he didn't want to follow and didn't want to become. Such was the power that the truth had on him. Such was his mistake. Accident.
I feel like Grendel was warning us. For, the more I think about it, the more I think of Grendel as a human. Perhaps a more disfigured human with a different appetite, but essentially, he is man. Man in that his purpose in life is to find the truth. Both man and Grendel ask the same question: why? Why are we here, now? For what purpose? Who am I? I first thought that man's inability to understand Grendel symbolized his distance from mankind, his inability to ever come to similar terms with man. But Unferth understood him. And doesn't man speak a countless number of languages? If all the world's people were made to have conversation, not many would understand each other.
Like Grendel, I try to change my fate. A short, not-as-smart-as-others-believe, mediocre, Asian girl. What can I accomplish in life? My fate--not withstanding my death--is probably to sit around watching Korean dramas and open up a tofu restaurant. But I refuse to accept that fate. I make goals--often too high--and become disappointed easily. At times I study hard, at others, all I want to do is play. I'm short, but I don't lie about my height or wear heels. I accept my fate when I'm feeling down, I challenge my fate to a duel when I'm feeling particularly hopeful. I too ask, who am I? Why am I here? I too search for the truth. It would be a good idea to heed Grendel's advice. Or should I run away from his curse?

Perhaps man's condition is not Grendel, but fate.

Truth in Perception Part 1

I've barely made a dent (okay, well maybe more like a quarter) in Poisonwood Bible, yet some of the images have struck me so hard. So far, it has been an interesting read, not only because of Barbara Kingsolver's beautiful writing, but also because I've been comparing the Price family to the Anglo-Saxons in Grendel. But more about Grendel later.
I adore Kingsolver's method of telling the Price family story, through each of the female members of the family. She gives the girls of the family the power of storytelling and shows us, through first person narrative, the personality of each family member. I can better understand Orleanna's discomfort and hard efforts to adapt to African life, Leah's almost sycophantic actions toward her father and desires to be the "good kid" of the family, Ruth May's immature simplicity, Rachel's unwillingness to accept the African lifestyle, and Adah's near-depressing passive observational tendencies. The switch from viewpoint to viewpoint--with some accounts of certain stories overlapping, helps to intertwine each character's story together to create a larger picture of the Price family's accommodation to African life and missionary work. In short, it makes for an interesting read. But without a doubt, this novel has literary merit; it is not one of those fast-read adventure novels, where a family encounters savages and has to learn to fight them off--partly because of Kingsolver's poetic writing (I still am unsure as to what the poisonwood tree symbolizes, but I think I'm nearing understanding) and partially because of how she describes the two clashing cultures. Leah Price points out that a large, buff African man is wearing what would be considered a lady's sweater in America. However, in Africa, if a man is wearing it, is it still a lady's sweater? Although the Price girls watch in horror as Mama Tataba brings just-killed chickens into the house to cook for them, are her actions really vulgar and uncivilized? If she is African, should she be subject to the standards of American society? Kingsolver's writing emphasizes a certain tension between the Price family, who have come to convert the Africans to Christianity, to "know the Lord Almighty," and the Africans, who simply want to live their own way of life. What makes the novel so interesting is that though the Price family view the Africans as uncivilized and vulgar, I can see that the Africans have their own organized society. They don't need the Western ideas--or even God--to live their own simple existence. Though Orleanna and the girls balk at the market being every fifth day instead of a certain day of the week, it is obvious that the Africans have their own way of living, and their method of organization is simply different from that of the Americans. They in turn balk at the Price family when the Reverend cuts down the poisonwood tree--doesn't he know that he will get a rash?
Like the Africans, Grendel is very misunderstood. Through Beowulf, he was portrayed as a rash, unthinking monster, a villain. But as we see in Grendel, it's all about perception. Who's really the monster here: Grendel or the Anglo-Saxons? To be continued...

Who I Am

I am always inclined to leave hard-to-answer blogs until the very last minute, these philosophical questions that really have no answer. Who am I? The thing is, I have two answers. I could give you the technical answer: I am a female, more specifically a teenage girl. I am Asian, and I absolutely love to eat. I'm exactly five feet tall, exactly the height at which none of my jeans ever fit me right.
But I have another answer, for I am not a demographic, not a number, not a word. I'm a person, a being, me. When I think of myself, I don't think: Stephanie Chang, AP Lit Student, Korean, 17 years old. Or college applicant: GPA not perfect, but love of learning pretty evident. I think of...well, me.
I'm an optimist.
I find my greatest successes in failure. I may never be able to play guitar while singing; I may never be able to understand Calculus.
I'm a cliche.
I'm that Korean girl who listens to Kpop by day and Shostakovitch and Dvorak by night.
I'm a nerd.
I've read Harry Potter and All the King's Men--and loved them both.
I'm a dreamer.
The girl with high hopes and dreams I will probably never reach: cure cancer. Eradicate AIDS. Invent a car that runs on fat. Train a pack mule to follow me around, carrying my things.
I'm an oxymoron.
I can confidently belt out a song in choir without a problem but begin hyperventilating when I think about college admissions.
I am everything, and yet I am nothing. I was put here on earth by my Lord, my God, to love, to learn, to change the world in some way. I am His special child, a blessing. And yet there are so many other children like me; I am not special. There's no saying that what I do in my lifetime, what I do in this world will make a difference in the end. Perhaps I will live and die away, fading into nothingness, having changed nothing for better or worse.

In the end, I am like Grendel.
I knew there was a reason I didn't like Beowulf (the man, not the poem). It's because I'm the monster.
I hope that I don't physically resemble Grendel, the hairy man-eater who shakes his fists at the sky. But I resemble him in mind. We are both confused, both searching for the truth, the meaning of our lives. I guess I would be half relativist, half determinist. Sure, I have my own morals, my own personal truths and beliefs, but I am under the impression that not everyone has to believe what I believe, not everyone must believe in my God. If someone has a rationale for what he is doing, a meaning behind the way he lives life, I am prone to question but not condemn. I believe that everything has a purpose; whether or not someone or something fulfills that purpose is a totally different story.

I don't know who I am, what my purpose is, why I do what I do. All I am sure of is that I am here right now, I exist, to live. To enjoy life. And figure myself out.

Beowulf: Fake or Fiction?

While I was reading this epic poem, this revered and historical journey, I couldn't help but feel that Beowulf just wasn't real. Maybe it's because I'm not an Anglo-Saxon myself, and I never will be, but I just cannot imagine someone having that much bravery; that much loyalty to his king. Beowulf's descriptions of King Hygelac are almost as if he is describing the Almighty God or some other superior being. It just seems so...fake. Unnatural. I must say, the monsters certainly did not make the story any more believable in my eyes. When Grendel is mentioned to be "loping" towards Heorot, I can't help but imagine this scaly, green (I'm not sure why, but maybe because he lives in the swamps, I imagine him to be green and covered in nasty goo) creature, somewhat hunched over with uneven arms and legs, galloping towards the glittering hall of unity. It just doesn't seem real to me.
Sure, I admit that this poem was written for entertainment, and fantasy is allowed, but shouldn't the main character at least have more real human-like characteristics? I don't know that many people who would willingly take on a vicious monster with his bare hands, or dive underwater to kill a monster, and come up with another monster's head. Beowulf doesn't seem to be a real person, or even a hero; rather, he seems to be the ideal warrior, the legendary man that every little boy wants to grow up to be and every little girl wants to grow up and marry. He is too brave, too sure of himself, too much of an archetype of Anglo-Saxon society for him to be believable to me. Perhaps it is that I am not quite getting the grasp of what an epic hero is.
On the other side, I have found some more human-like and less god-like characteristics about Beowulf, especially as he gets older. He seems to have finally learned that he is not as strong as he once was, and brings his thanes with him. He understands he needs weapons in battle. He is ready to truly face death. However, I can't quite say this is a coming of age story, because Beowulf never really reaches that mature level of understanding that comes from a coming of age. He is not like the young girl who climbed the tree and saw the vast ocean in front of her. He is not like Edna, who finally sees the futility of her rebellion against society. I guess what I'm trying to say is there is no epiphany, no AH-HA moment. And I guess that's what made Beowulf so unreal to me. My belief is that in life (and in literature), almost all characters have that one moment of discomfort, of that feeling that something isn't right, and they move towards a goal: fixing that discomfort, whatever it may be. Maybe I'm missing something here, but Beowulf just seems...too epic to be real.

Marge Piercy's poem "A Work of Artifice" fascinates me. Writing about taking care of a bonsai tree, she seems to be writing about the plight of woman instead. Bonsai trees are a form of Japanese art. The purposes? Contemplation and ingenuity for the grower. Rather than growing gardens of bonsai trees, bonsai growers focus on developing one tree that mimics a full sized tree. In reading the poem, I felt that the bonsai tree was the woman, the gardener the man. Trapped by the confines of the concepts of beauty, women are bonsai trees, cultivated and controlled by men.

The "attractive pot" the author refers to symbolizes woman's outer shell. Her jewelry. Her clothes. Her hair. Though a woman may be beautiful, if her pot, her outer shell, is shabby, she too seems shabby. The bonsai tree, the author writes, "could have grown eighty feet tall on the side of a mountain till split by lightning." The bonsai had so much potential to become something great. Something huge. Something massive. In acquiring large size, the tree would have gained power, respect. The tree could have done great things; shaded an old man hiking up a mountain, housed a nest of birds. "But a gardener carefully pruned it." Suddenly, the tree's potential future crumbles. There is no hope for this tree, no hope for greatness. It's future? To be pruned by a gardener. If the tree is woman, the gardener must be man. Woman's fate is to be controlled by man. To be pruned, changed, morphed, into whatever the man wants her to. Like a tree, she is helpless to the man's pruning, cutting, chopping. She is dependent on the man for water, food, nourishment. The tree is only nine inches high. The gardener has pruned it well; it has lost its potential to be great, to be large. What could have been an eighty foot tall tree has now been confined, compressed into a meager nine inches. No wonder woman feels suffocated. The gardener convinces the tree that her situation now is better than what it would have been. He croons, "It is your nature/ to be small and cozy,/ domestic and weak,/ how lucky, little tree,/ to have a pot to grow in." The relationship between the tree and the gardener seems like that of a marriage. Dependent on each other, promised to each other, the man and the woman are tied together. There is no escape. The man convinces the woman she is lucky to be his wife, lucky to have a home, lucky to be a woman, to be subordinate to man. It is woman's nature, man says, to be subordinate to man. For the man to be the gardener, the woman the bonsai tree. Man knows that he must establish his power early. Piercy writes, "one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers" to describe man's power over woman. Her feet are bound, leaving her unable to walk properly, unable to escape. Her brain is crippled, derived of knowledge, derived of truth. She cannot think for herself. Her hair is in curlers; she is trapped by the confines of beauty, shackled to the person she must portray.

Woman is a bonsai tree, cultivated by man.

Death...by Birth?

I still cannot decide. Did Edna die at the end of The Awakening? Or did she simply walk into a better, freer life? The "seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting" voice of the sea calls to Edna, urging her to jump in. Because of all of this sea imagery, I am currently leaning more towards the belief that Edna died. However, I don't necessarily believe that she committed suicide. Rather, I feel like she let herself die. She let herself drown. "Her arms and legs were growing tired," Chopin writes, then goes back to narrating Edna's thoughts. Never does she even mention Edna fighting back against this weariness; instead, by thinking of all of the "failures" in Edna's life, all the incidents and people who have given her trouble, she only weighs herself down more, almost as if she is preparing to let herself drown, let the water rush over her head and push her to the bottom of the ocean.
We have talked frequently of how Edna is regressing into childhood. If she is regressing, her death must then, paradoxically, be her birth. The sea and bathing motifs are prevalent throughout the novel, and I found it convincing that a mother's womb is filled with--not exactly water--but fluid, nonetheless. Liquid. Perhaps the sea is Edna's mother, and she is experiencing birth once more. Or perhaps she was never born. I pull out my hair thinking of theories; there are so many! Chopin even alludes to Edna's death-birth when she describes Edna's naked form as a "new-born creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that it had never known." It is interesting, however, that the word is "familiar," yet Edna, this "new-born creature," had never known it. Perhaps this was Edna's grand awakening. Perhaps Edna's awakening did not regard her place in society, nor did it regard her role as a wife, or even a woman or mother. Perhaps Edna's awakening was that she could never escape her roles, that the only way out was truly death.
On another note, if Edna's death is her birth, I found it interesting that she is awakening to birth. Sleep is an important motif throughout the novel, and I have been wondering whether sleep is really necessary for Edna to awaken. Sure, for most people, awakening only occurs after sleep, but I often felt that Edna slept for the purpose of awakening. She comments to Doctor Mandelet, "perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one's life." Though Edna realizes that her awakening(s) often giver her more emotional turmoil, she is willing to sacrifice this turmoil for a chance to better understand her world.
After this lengthy discussion, I still cannot firmly state that Edna died. Her wandering into the ocean could just have been another of her periods of sleep and turmoil, and she may finally awaken and go on with her life. Get her act together.
The last chapter can certainly be read both ways, and perhaps Kate Chopin intended it to be so. Maybe, in her view, both are one and the same.

Choice

I found our discussion in class today very enlightening and, dare I say, awakening. The one thing that struck me particularly was the comment that this was a coming of age story. I had never thought of The Awakening like that before. To me, it had been more of Edna's rebellion against society, her shrugging off of the confining shackles that the Victorian society of that era had placed on her. I had seen the text as more of her journey to finding her real place in society, to finding herself. The image I had of her was a masculine woman marching with the women's rights activists of the 1960s. But looking back at the text, I realize that she is coming of age in so many different ways. As Edna begins to uncover who she really is, she becomes more irresponsible, even childish. She does the unthinkable: neglects her callers, essentially shunning the society in which she lives. In some ways, I can't help but admire her blatantly disregarding spirit. Even when placed in such a confining community, with rules for everything from what kind of clothes to wear to swim to who to confide in, she is able to shirk it off. She actually has the mind to be able to think for herself and understand that she doesn't necessarily even want to be a mother-woman, let alone a perfect wife. Yet, I can't help resenting her for her childishness. She is a mother, after all, and a wife. Sure, she can have her awakening and find herself; she can do whatever she wants to do, but I often feel that she is so childish and immature that she seems in a dream-like state. She just simply cannot seem to choose between her two worlds: the world in which she lives and the world in which she wants to live. Although "a certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her," I feel that Chopin emphasizes that Edna is not even ready to see the light, as the light itself "forbids it" (13). Though Chopin seems to be encouraging Edna's awakening, she hints that the awakening itself--the light that is beginning to allow Edna to be cognizant of who she really is--is paradoxically preventing her from awakening. This leads me to question: what is awakening in Edna? Why must she have this awakening? Is it even necessary?
I can by no means answer those questions. I am still swamped by the profundity of Edna's journey: what she notices, how she acts, even how others act towards her. But what I do know is that sleep has something to do with it. To awaken, one must sleep. The Merriam-Webster's definition of sleep is "the natural periodic suspension of consciousness during which the powers of the body are restored." If I think of sleep as the precursor to awakening, then Edna must be in an inactive, unconscious state, and her body powers must be being restored. Edna seems to rebel in a dream-like state. When she rebels, she rebels. When she conforms, she doesn't quite conform, but at least makes the appearance that she is. I gasped when I came to the passage where she stomped furiously on her wedding ring and tumbled the vase. While the wedding ring obviously symbolized her marriage to Leonce, I felt that the meaning of the vase was more complex. The vase seemed to me to symbolize the perfect mother-woman, the woman Edna can never--and does want to ever--be. Like the women surrounding Edna, the vase is glass; it is transparent. The intentions of the other women in the novel are clear: to conform absolutely to the norms and expectations that society has set out for them, and to do their job well. Their greatest desires are to be good wives, to be good mothers. Yet Edna is opaque, almost cloudy. She is unclear of who she wants to be, or even who she does not want to be. Although she appears to not want to be like the other women of the story, why does she become friends with Mme. Ratignolle and put on the airs of being a proper lady? Why even bother? Ah, Edna, please. Choose a future, choose a path. Choose something.

Bird...Woman?

I've heard so many different descriptions of women. That women are snakes. Coy, sly, manipulative. That they are tigers. Protective of their young, quiet at times, but vicious at others. But...a woman...a bird? A novel idea for a new type of woman.
Edna is not your typical "Grand Isle mother-woman." First of all, she's not even originally from Grand Isle; how can she be considered "one of them"? How can anyone expect her to blend in completely? Her situation reminds me of mine. I was born in the U.S. In California, actually, but I am always looked at not as simply "American," but as "Asian" or "Asian-American." No matter what I do or say, I will never really fit the completely "American" stereotype. And believe me, there is one. Edna is almost the same. Though she tries to "assimilate" into the small society that Grand Isle is, she doesn't really put much effort into it. Sure, she takes up sewing winter clothes for her children, but only halfheartedly, and while commenting on its uselessness.
Bird imagery is packed throughout the first few chapters of the novel. The parrot in the cage struck me in particular. The woman's colorful pet seems devoid of attention. Wanting love. Desperate, even. Desperate enough to call out to those near, but proud enough to deny wanting love, pushing others away. That's how I see that parrot. To Chopin, it might have just been a parrot. But there I am, with my AP Lit magnifying glass, trying to see the small details of each cell that makes up the organism, the work.
I found it funny--no, maybe not funny--but definitely interesting that Madame LeBrun caged her poor love-seeking parrot. If the parrot represents the woman...then she just caged woman. Herself. 
But why is woman a bird? What made Chopin decide to characterize woman as a bird? On page 8, she describes a mother-woman as "fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened [her] precious brood." When reading this, I got the idea of a plump momma bird flying around from child to child, feeding each child this, cleaning up after the other...basically, a hectic "ideal" mother. So maybe I do understand why Chopin chose a bird. Because birds always come back to their nests. Even after flying far away, facing toils and troubles to look for food for their children, the mother bird always comes back. Always. So is this foreshadowing? Edna's hands are "strong" and "shapely" and in no way bird-like. Edna is not a bird. Therefore, she is not a mother-woman. Hence, she will not return after taking her adventurous flight...
Speaking of returning, I found so much symbolism in the scene in which Edna takes back the rings she had given to her husband before leaving to bathe. Could anything be more symbolic of Edna's pact to return? Her property-like state in her husband's view? She had to give him her rings, a symbol of his ownership of her, to him. And take them back when she returned. 
Whenever I think of birds now, I think of Wing Biddlebaum and his fluttering hands. While I felt that Wing's hands were described as somewhat feminine, caressing and gently touching, Edna's hands are described as almost the opposite. So if Edna isn't a bird, what is she? If she is not a "mother"-woman, then what kind of woman is she? Is she even a woman?

Success in Failure

What exactly is a "coming of age"? I feel that with each story and work we have read in this class, there is a type of "coming of age" story; although it may not always be clear and apparent, it certainly is there. "Literature changes the world," someone once said. And I feel that most writers try to do so, to change the world, by pointing out the journey of man. All their stories: love stories, maturation stories, and even adventure stories all depict a journey. After all, humans are constantly evolving, always on a journey to something greater, something bigger, something...anything, else.
Jack Burden took a journey, "came of age" in All the King's Men. Blanche took a journey as well, though her journey was to destruction in A Streetcar Named Desire. Not only did the old man journey through learning truths, but so did Tandy, realizing the potential that she had, despite the fact that she is a young girl. And of course, the little, adventurous Athena in "A White Heron" journeyed.
Tandy reminds me of that small heroine, conquerer of the Great Pine Tree. Sure, Tandy did not really conquer anything in Winesburg, Ohio. She didn't rise at dawn to climb up the tallest pine in the forest, didn't brave the dangers of falling off the precarious, swaying branches, didn't see the ocean at dawn and experience the best of life. But I still feel that she was a heroine, in a sense. I really don't know why.
Tandy's journey was finding her name. Or, rather, being given her name and finding herself. In all of the "coming of age" stories we have analyzed in class, every character understands himself better after the journey. And I found that interesting, significant. Why does every "coming of age" story have to end in epiphany? Why is it that every character who embarks on a journey to find more knowledge, to cover more ground, finds what she is looking for? Life isn't fair, but the journeys certainly seem to be.
So, I wonder...if someone doesn't find the truth he is looking for, will he ever be able to become a grotesque? Sherwood Anderson describes a grotesque as being someone who has learned a truth. Someone who has embarked on a journey to find a truth, and has been successful. How ironic. In successfully finding a truth, and declaring that truth "his," so begins the half-human, half-ghost life of a grotesque, haunting those who do not know the truths, and reminiscing on the days before he knew the truths. So was the journey successful? I guess it was. He found what he was looking for, the truth. And yet, he is not really living after finding the truth. Half-dead, half-alive. Half-successful, half-failure. Can it be one or the other? I know that Tandy and the tree-climbing heroine are frozen in time, frozen in literature, but I can't help but be concerned for them. Anxious. Anticipating. They have now come of age; will they now become a grotesque? Will they ever find the truth they are searching for? I hope not...and yet, I hope so.

Monkey. Bird. In a cage.

An ugly monkey in a zoo.
After reading "Respectability" today in class, I fell in love with this story. My reading felt rushed, hurried, anxious as I scurried to finish my test, and I feel I did Anderson an injustice. After all, he dedicated his writing to his mother, who "awoke in him the hunger to see beneath the surface of lives," and what better way to look beneath the surface than to reflect on the thoughts swimming in one's head.
I guess I should start with the monkey. Ah, the monkey. Trapped in a cage in a zoo, being stared at by disapproving faces, intrigued by the hideousness and yet repulsed by the same hideousness that attracts them to the poor thing. In contemplating why Anderson chose Wash to be represented by the monkey, I can only say this: the whole metaphor is ironic. Although Wash is being characterized as the monkey, primitive and ugly, in fact, it is society that is primitive and ugly, while Wash--although not exactly refined or cultured--is the more sophisticated of the two. In trapping an innocent but ugly monkey in a cage and proceeding to stare at it for enjoyment, the people of Winesburg exhibit a hypocritical cruelty. I think that is what Anderson was trying to point out in writing "Respectability." The monkey is grotesque, and knows a truth. It is probably grotesque because it knows the truth, but the people of Winesburg simply call it off as an ugly monster. So are they indirectly saying the truth is ugly?
I can't help but feel sorry for Wash. He had given that tall blonde girl his everything, and she had given him nothing in return. What was most interesting to me was that she was tall and blonde, with yellow hair. Most of the other women portrayed in other stories are tall and dark, and are imparted with a truth. However, Wash's wife is different from the other women not only in appearance but also in action. No other wife cheats on her husband, at least not with more than one man (if you count Elizabeth's "relationship" with Dr. Reefy "cheating"). While men are shown to have lust throughout the stories, the women usually do not manifest it as defiantly, as clearly.
What intrigues me is why Wash feels sorry for men while hating women. His hatred for women is understandable, as a woman put out the fire ablaze in his soul. But his sympathy for men is curious. I wonder if he really does believe that women control men into doing certain actions or he feels sorry for men because he too is one and knows the pain of woman.
In ways, Wash is like Wing. And yet, he is also the exact opposite. While Wing is nervous, fluttery, like a bird, scared of the rest of society, like a hurt animal who is afraid to trust, Wash is defiant, angry, spiteful, like a hurt animal who lashes out at whoever comes near. They are both animals. And yet, they are so different. Wing is gazed upon. Wash is laughed at. Yet they both know a truth. And they both use their hands. I didn't understand what the seeds that Wash planted symbolized. His love for his wife? The sorrows and anguish that would spring up later that she handed him and he willingly and happily planted? As with all of Anderson's stories, something remains a mystery. Will the monkey and bird ever escape the cage?
I wonder...

Paper balls...pills?

I find it funny that whenever I reread a story of Winesburg, Ohio, I have this fluttering in my heart as I discover a deeper meaning. Another layer. As I reread "Paper Pills" today, in the midst of a bustling urgent care hospital, with babies crying, parents shouting, and Madagascarplaying on the TV in the background, I strangely felt a certain peace. I know, it's weird.

I still can't exactly decide what Sherwood Anderson means by "paper pills." I find it interesting that Anderson never once used the phrase in the story; rather, he constantly referred to the "paper balls" that Dr. Reefy crumpled up and placed in his pockets. I have so many questions. Why his pockets? Why did they become such a great storing place for these pills? What do these pills represent? A faction of the truth? What truth? Is Dr. Reefy a grotesque? Mr. Anderson, I demand an explanation.

But since he is not here to interpret these questions I have, I must attempt to do so myself. Albeit hesitantly.

Seasons. This story seems to be driven by the four seasons of the year; a complex story driven by a seemingly simple thing as the weather. Dr. Reefy and the tall, dark girl begin their relationship in summer, when passion is rampant and she comes to him because of some mysterious illness. Their relationship grows in the fall, and winter represents the height of their relationship. She dies in the spring. I found her spring death ironic. Spring, a time when flowers bloom and the dead return to life, became the time of death for the doctor's wife.

Apples. They are everywhere in this story, from being specifically referenced to being alluded to. Apples always remind me of Snow White. Naive and delicious on the outside but containing some toxic poison on the inside, unbeknownst to the taster. However, Dr. Reefy's apples are the exact opposite. Although they are "twisted" and "gnarled," shunned by the apple pickers and exuding evil qualities, they are actually sweet on the inside. A complete oxymoron.

I wonder why the tall, dark girl remains unnamed. And why she is linked so much to blood. She dreams of blood. Or, rather, a vampire-like figure sucking her blood. And when Dr. Reefy pulls the teeth of the woman (who, interestingly, also remains unnamed) the blood "[runs] down on the woman's white dress." I find it important that the dress is white (like Dr. Reefy's beard), and the blood runs down the dress, as if it is dripping down the mouth of someone who has just sucked blood. I wonder if the blood imagery has something to do with her illness and premature death.

After re-reading this story, I found so much more depth. The nuances Anderson includes that allude to apples. "seeds of something very fine" "tree nursery" The hypocrisy of the vampire-like man, who talks of virginity (vampires were once thought to feed on virgins) constantly. And yet, I need more. I still don't understand everything. Maybe I should follow what Dr. Reefy does. Write down my ideas and make them into paper balls. Or pills, if you will.

Moths.

Blance DuBois is a moth. At least, that is what Tennessee Williams implies when he comments that "there is something about her uncertain manner, as well as her white clothes, that suggests a moth" in A Streetcar Named Desire. When I first read that specific line in the play, I passed over it. Yes, I passed over such strong, profound symbolism in my hurry to get to the actual "action" of the play. But in retrospect, the beauty of Streetcar is not in the actual plot of the play, but in the symbolism that it contains. No, I'm not criticizing the play's plot line in any way, but I just find the fact that white is referenced multiple times throughout the language of the play to represent innocence, that music swells and fades at the appropriate times, and that Blanche DuBois, prim and naive (on the outside, at least) is compared to a moth.
Moths are interesting creatures. Constantly attracted to light, they never seem to be satisfied with their place. After having found a spot near the light, they often spontaneously fly to another spot. Only to do the same spot-hopping once more. All night. And yet, while being attracted to light, they can never seem to stand being in the bright light for more than a few moments at a time before flying off to find another spot, another light. Moths do not usually have a positive connotation either. Unlike their more beautiful, elegant counterparts, butterflies, moths do not fly beautifully around flowers. No, they reveal themselves at night, and become a nuisance to late-night backyard chats as they zigzag around any and all light sources. Moths are pests. They can destroy large expanses of fruit orchards, can eat away at beautiful flowers.
Blanche DuBois is compared to a moth. And I can totally see it. Like a moth, she is attracted to light. Fervently. Whenever she sees any relation to light, she quickly latches onto it and attempts to showcase herself in the light. She relates light to white, to innocence. And Blanche desperately desires to be innocent. Or, at least perceived as innocent. She wears white frequently to "symbolize" her innocence. She explicitly states that her astrological sign is Virgo: the virgin. And while her attempts at being perceived as innocent seem blatantly obvious to me, she seems to be utterly unaware of her obvious attempts.
Blanche ultimately fails at being perceived as innocent. Once Stanley finds out about her past, her cover is blown, and his intuitions about her are confirmed. Mitch realizes that he has never seen her in the light and removes the paper lantern from the light. Blanche the moth is revealed. Although I cannot say that Blanche is corrupt or completely delusional, I must say that she is not innocent. She does have problems with reality and fantasy, as evidenced by her actions and thoughts, it may be because of her moth-like qualities. She may be blinded by reality. Or fantasy. Or both.

Seeing Things in Color

Are Willie and Jack good or bad?
I see the world in color. No, this isn't a post about colorblindness or rainbows. It's just that discussing religion and God just naturally leads me to think of those moral books that were read to me every Sunday in Bible study. 
Is it right for Sally to tease Bob? Should Katie tell the teacher that she saw Michele eating someone else's lollipop?
These morals have been drilled into my head, and I doubt that I will ever forget them. Ever.
But having learned these morals, to me, seems to defeat the purpose of having morals. Don't get me wrong, it's not as if I condone theft and applaud bullying (I am adamantly against both those behaviors, actually). But whenever someone's morals are discussed, the definition of that word, moral, always seems to be an ethic or truth that is self-derived, but not always tangible or even visible. I have heard one too many stories of seemingly "good" people who committed heinous crimes. This doesn't mean that they had no morals or even lost them and became "bad." On the other hand, they could have had innate badness in them and have suppressed it long enough to commit the crime. 
In my view, there is no black and white. Only color. 


As today is Sunday, I made my weekly visit to church, where my preacher discussed God's plan. Quoting various Bible passages, he emphatically stated that God has a plan for each and every one of us; that every action we take, every person we meet, every scene that we experience all has a certain profound meaning that will someday materialize into a part of God's plan for our lives. Thinking of All the King's Men, I couldn't agree more. 
For some reason I keep going back to that spiderweb metaphor. Thinking about it. Referring to it. Thinking some more. It just resonates with me,and thinking about God's plan made me, unsurprisingly, think of the spiderweb. Just like God's plan, everything that happens to the spiderweb also has a consequence, a greater meaning. A nudge to the spiderweb will make it tremble, but not necessarily break it. Morning dew accumulating on the web will allow it to sparkle in the sun. A human crashing through it will break the beautiful masterpiece. 
In class the other day, we mentioned both Adam and Willie attempting to be God. To think like Him. To act like Him. But I don't think that either character could have ever attempted to be a God-like figure in any way. First of all, I think neither had a set plan. Both Jack and Willie lived their lives on the road--both literally and figuratively. Although it seems as if Willie knew where he wanted to be and what he wanted to do, he actually didn't. He got distracted easily. In my opinion, he ultimately failed. He had no plan. Jack seemed to meander through his life, not really making any choices for himself. 
In the end, both characters reveal that life is in color. There is no black and white. Willie was neither good nor bad. He outwardly exuded goodness in the beginning of his career, when he was perceived as naive, but by the time he had obtained his success, he was unable to keep his innocence. Jack, by blaming Willie for his deeds, tried to lift the blame off of himself, but in my opinion, incriminated himself more by doing so. He reconciles with his actions in the end, but he knows that he cannot change the past. No one can. I see things in color. There is no right, no wrong, just as Jack and Willie are both good and bad. As Willie said, you make the goodness out of the badness.

The Burden of Time

Time. What I live by, literally. Tick, tick. The ticking of the clock, the rising of the sun, even the upbeat singsongy "Good morning, good morning, ba ba ba ba" alarm that rings every dark morning at 7:05 a.m. drives my actions, my words, my thoughts. If I had all the time in the world, I would like to imagine that I woke up in the mornings thinking about the Greek myth of Sisyphus rather than how much time I have to eat breakfast before I have to scramble down the hill to the bus stop, which, it seems, has a habit of leaving me behind. 
I never seem to have enough time, and I often find myself regretting things I have done. Like why I spent my entire summer tirelessly caring for a naughty bunch of fourth-grade campers, giving forth every ounce of energy I had to teach them Korean, belaying them while they rock-climbed, and making sure they got a plate of lunch...and another plate...and another. Or why I decided to take a class, AP Calc BC, that I was sure to hate (and surely did). Or why I am spending so much of my time (which could be spent mulling over college applications) attempting to make my first blog post sound somewhat presentable. And I often have to remind myself that I use my time for good reasons--that everything that I do has a purpose, has an effect on something else.
While jogging in the park today, thinking my usual thoughts (what to eat for dinner), I ran headfirst into a huge spiderweb. After squealing and swatting madly at myself, I was reminded of the spiderweb in All the King's Men. And finally realized how true Robert Penn Warren--or Jack, whomever you prefer--meant. By running into the spider's carefully crafted web, I had destroyed a part of its livelihood. In an instant. Bam. What it had worked on for hours had been destroyed in the blink of an eye. And in that instant, I had been covered in the silky, sticky web. 
My first interpretation of the spiderweb metaphor was simple: that creating something--anything, from a political name to a spiderweb--took time, effort, and craftiness. That the maker had to be committed and tireless. Just like the spider. But after having pondered over time for a while, I think I may have a new interpretation. 
But first, I have some questions. Mr. Warren, why did you create Jack Burden as a historian? What were you trying to say about time...the passage of it, the changes over time? 
In my opinion, Jack's occupation of "historian," philosophical and fact-based at the same time, has deeper meaning. I think that Jack, the narrator of the novel, has to be able to both relay the facts as they played out as well as give his own overtly superficial, actually profound insight. Although he often comes off as a normal guy with no dreams, no ambitions, and no hopes for the world, he actually helped me understand the author's purpose better than Willie Stark, the confusing protagonist/antagonist of the novel. In retrospect, of all of Jack's often cynical insight throughout the novel, I thought that his mentions of time were most important. Because, if you think about it, time changed almost everything. It changed Jack, his relationships, and the society in which the story takes place. Time also changed the Boss. Although other factors most certainly affected these changes, I am convinced that Warren was trying to convey to the reader the effects of time. Although I can't really put my thoughts around exactly what he was trying to convey, my abstract idea, currently, is this: that time is precious, and the passage of time doing a certain thing does not necessarily lead to success.
So now I go back (finally, I know) to the metaphor of the spiderweb. Though the spider spent so much time and (probably well-meaning) effort into making the web, it was destroyed within seconds. Willie is the spider. Though he spent countless hours, days, and years to get to his position of power, he couldn't necessarily enjoy it to its fullest. Although he trapped a few bugs, he wasn't able to display his beautiful web to the world when dawn broke and the sun shone on his masterpiece. Time, which helped him create his web--in other words, his political career--also destroyed it. In a second.