Farewell.

As most good literature is, Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" was, at best, confusing. Racking my mind during our class discussion for a good comment to make was difficult because, frankly, I don't think I am even close to understanding the true meaning behind her work. Perhaps the most confusing part of her short story was the Misfit. Sure, it was surprising that a seemingly normal family of six could go out on a family vacation together and get shot to death after having an accident on the road, but the Misfit's role in this tragedy was more confusing.
In class, many of my peers argued that the Misfit was either an Angel of Death figure, similar to the Devil, or a Christ figure. And while I usually can agree with most any comments that come my way--I have a knack of being able to change my perspective to support any claim(s) I hear--I just couldn't see it this time. I didn't see the Misfit as a Christ character at all. Sure, salvation and a "coming to Jesus" was an integral part of the grandmother's death, but I just couldn't see the Misfit as a Christ figure. On the other hand, however, he didn't seem a Devil figure to me either. You see, the Misfit seemed to know more about life than the other characters in the story. In a way, he is a type of Messiah, allowing the family members, particularly the grandmother, to see the wrongs of her life and achieve a type of salvation.
I found it interesting that the Misfit seemed to know and understand his own shortcomings. I feel that O'Connor felt that his only credentials for being able to take someone else's life in his own hands, for killing the grandmother, was because he understood life better than her and understood what it would take to help her reach a certain potential as a human before her death. The grandmother was not, by society's standards, technically evil. There are so many self-absorbed people in society, especially today, that the grandmother's selfishness--and blatant ignorance of it--does not seem a grave evil. In fact, I don't even believe that her self-absorption was her greatest, biggest sin. Rather, I see her belief that she is perfect and is therefore worthy of judging others as her tragic flaw, the sin that leads to her death. Perhaps O'Connor was trying to drive the point home that everything in life is a matter of perception, that no one else has any right at all to judge another.
This will be my last blog post for this blog, ever. I feel that reading "A Good Man is Hard to Find" as the last thing we will read in AP Lit proper because of its unsure view of life. Sure, I have looked forward to graduating for so long, and this year in particular has felt like trying to run through a swamp, I truly don't really know where I am going. Well, in terms of my life. I have my life planned out, just as the grandmother had--I'm going to college at Northwestern University, where I have always wanted to go; I'm going to be studying Psychology, something that has always interested me--but I still don't know my tragic flaw. I don't understand the meaning of life. I don't know where my future will take me. I'm so unsure. I need a Misfit to help me guide my way, though I hope the road I take won't lead to a premature death.
AP Lit, it's been good, but it's time to move on.

The Importance of Being E(a)rnest

I loved The Importance of Being Earnest. Perhaps it was because I actually understand what Wilde was trying to satirize. Or perhaps it was because I was comparing TIOBE to my Lit Circle book, Catch-22. Although I have mentioned this before, I did not like Catch-22 at all. Sure, I liked certain parts of the novel that I could actually understand and laugh at, but the overall structure of the novel confused me too much for me to completely understand Heller's satire. However, Wilde's style and structure, much more straightforward, was much easier to understand.
Something I wanted to comment on in TIOBE was Wilde's portrayal of women. There were four female characters throughout the play, whereas there were three male characters. That there were more female characters than male characters seems somewhat significant in that it emphasizes the contrast in power between the male and female characters throughout the play. The 4:3 ratio of women to men is significant in that the men, at first glance, seem to have more power over the women. After all, the play is set in Victorian society, a time when manners were king and men ruled over women. Both Jack and Algy seem to have power over Cecily and Gwendolen, at closer examination, the women have more power over their men than it initially seems. It is the women who persuade their men to even get another christening, who influence both Jack and Algy to become and remain Ernest, even if it means leading a double life and lying to both themselves and the women they love. Both women make the initial offers of marriage, acts that seem somewhat backwards in such a proper society as Victorian England. Cecily's imaginative stories in her diary--of her and Algy's engagement on Valentine's Day and of their broken and reformed engagement--serve to emphasize her power in her relationship with Algy. In hearing of her fantasy-filled stories, Algy does nothing but wholeheartedly agree with her, as if he takes her fantasy as truth.
I found it interesting that Lady Bracknell seems to also exude much power, particularly over Miss Prism. The two characters coming face-to-face surprised me a bit. Although Miss Prism seemed to have much power over Cecily in teaching her her lessons, she almost cowers in fear when Lady Bracknell enters the scene. Though this could be because of Miss Prism's past, I found it interesting that Lady Bracknell could have such a big effect on Miss Prism's disposition simply by being around her.
Although Algy often seems to take command of the scene in his blatantly true sarcasm, he almost cowers back into a shell when Cecily enters the scene. Though he maintains a certain wit, much of it transfers to Cecily as she playfully taunts him and he is unable to respond. He seems most comfortable around only Jack, as he freezes up when Lady Bracknell enters the scene as well.
Perhaps Wilde was commenting that men do not have as much as they seem to have...

Catch-22 Ponderings

So, now to discuss all of the things I didn't have time to discuss in my measly, short timed writing on Catch-22. Overall, I didn't like this novel at all. Sure, there were some times where I chuckled to myself as I read it, and other times that I truly did get to think about life, it was too confusing and sporadic, too cynical for me to actually enjoy.
The ending of the novel took me completely by surprise. No, actually, it didn't. Heller had set Yossarian up to be a coward since the beginning of the novel, and by the time the novel was about to end, I had already suspected a kind of backed-off ending. The ending, to me, kind of symbolizes Heller's take on life. No, scratch that; the novel itself was a huge rant by Heller of his view of life. That Yossarian runs away, leaving his place of supposed responsibility and honor in the army, is significant in that first off, Yossarian, by escaping his place in the army, also escapes the corruption and hypocrisy that surrounds his position and life as a solider (more specifically, a captain). Not only does he run away from the "sure" and yet unsure death that life as a soldier offers him, he also runs away from a position of power into nothingness. As part of the army, Yossarian had only one sure thing: that he would die someday. However, he was unsure as to how he would die, something he hates about death. In running away from that unsurety and uncertainty, Yossarian defies society and the ideals that society puts forth about death. Death has always been and always be a mystery; Yossarian's wishes to know the uncertain and unknown distinguishes him from the rest of society, almost outcasting him at times. It seems that Heller wanted to--through Yossarian--point out society's ways of outcasting someone who does not conform, is not like the others. Although Yossarian is arguably the main character of the novel--after all, it does begin and end with him and centers a great deal around him--he is not necessarily the hero of the novel.
The ending of the novel seems to symbolize one's ability to walk away from one's current life in search of a new one. Much of the novel is concerned with identity--and often, a lack thereof. Yossarian seems at times to be a sort of an adolescent, angsty teen figure in that he doesn't really seem to know who he is. He wanders around causing trouble, be it getting the chaplain in trouble for signing Washington Irving or messing up the entire war by moving the bomb line, Yossarian seems to cause trouble in search for himself, in search for his own identity.
I didn't like the novel because it was confusing. But then again, life itself is confusing. Does that mean I don't like life?

22 Ponderings

So, Catch-22...a paradoxical, ironic, sarcastic, hilarious novel that seems superfluous on the outside but really has much substance within it. I've actually really enjoyed it so far. I had first been hooked by the knee-slapping humor in the first few chapters of the novel, but as I began to turn on my AP Lit thinking, I realized I didn't really understand the whole purpose of the chapters so far. Everything just seemed disjointed in a connected way--paradoxical yet funny at the same time. It was only after I had read through the ten chapters we had assigned for reading twice that I realized the (seemingly) random jumps from character to character and from time to time were intentional, to subtly tell the reader something. Sure, I believe the novel will be a great read even if I don't take the time to figure out the author's real meaning behind it all. The novel has a unique way of storytelling that really seems to captivate me. I'm not sure why, because I usually dislike books with only mainly male characters, and on top of that, this is a war novel. I hate war, war novels, war...anything, really. Oh, I can stand gore, and blood, and murder, and other gruesome things. It's just that the subject of war...eh. I've never understood war, why two countries have to fight each other, losing the lives of innocent men in the process. Why killing is deemed "okay" during a war, why soldiers have to suffer so much in patriotism. And I guess, in that sense, I'm kind of like Yossarian. He can't seem to understand the reason for the war, and I love the way that he tries to get out of everything. I found it interesting that Yossarian is the main character of the novel--and then he's not. We are introduced to him first in the novel, and I just assumed he would be the main character, as he is the one with the most action, the most thought processes lined out, the most development...And yet, he's not exactly the main character. We don't really get any of his background, whereas we do for the other characters. Each chapter focuses on a different character--all but Yossarian (at least so far). And thinking back on this, I feel like Heller was trying to tell us something. War is, with no doubt, a joint effort. No one man is significantly more important than the other man, and I feel like Heller was trying to tell the reader that in death, nothing else is really more significant than life. As Yossarian points out in almost every chapter, the men in the war are so close to death. Each of them deals with it in his own way, namely Dunbar, who tries to make time slow down so that he may die later. Though Yossarian seems the cowardly, overly sarcastic and overly worried character in the novel, maybe he has a point in his seeming cowardice. He actually understands that his life is in danger, that his life is precious. In admitting that he wants to save his own life, he is brave, not cowardly; he is a paradox. Life is a paradox in itself.

The Catch...22

The literature-lover in me is itching to get into Catch-22, arguably one of the best war novels of the twentieth century. I read the introduction to the novel yesterday, and I was struck by the absurdity of the logic of the Catch-22 itself. A Catch-22 is a situation in which a man is considered insane if he willingly puts himself in danger, but is considered sane if he takes himself out of danger. The catch is that if he is considered sane, he is ineligible to be relieved from service. I've always loved paradoxes, and I'm sure that I'll love this one as well. Scanning the first few pages of the war novel, I was intrigued when Yossarian says that he fell in love with the chaplain. A chaplain is defined as a member of the clergy attached to a private chapel, institution, ship, or a branch of the armed forces. The chaplain seems to be a male figure...what exactly is going on?
I already love the style of the novel. Heller writes in a style that is very active and sarcastic, and I imagine his character Yossarian, who is narrating the novel, to be the same way. I can understand why Yossarian would be slightly crabby and sarcastic, as he is fighting a war he doesn't want to fight, and in order to avoid his predestined fate, must remain cramped up in a hospital room feigning sick.
I found it interesting that Yossarian had to pretend to be sick in order to evade the war. Though I understand that the premise of the Catch-22 is that Yossarian has no choice but to remain in the hospital, I feel like the theme of seems vs. is will be prevalent throughout the novel. Yossarian obviously has a fun-loving and interesting personality, and I am excited to see how he handles the monotony of the hospital and faking his illness and whether he will even be able to stay in the hospital for the duration of the war.
One major idea that I came across even in reading the first few pages was whether or not Yossarian is a coward. At this point in the novel, I feel like he is a bit of a coward. True, I don't know his entire story, of why he even needs to get away from the war in the first place. But I believe, as a man, he should live up to his own masculinity and stop the Catch-22 madness. I mean, isn't that what all male heroes do in war novels? Fight to the death against the enemy, win, and go back home to his true love? Yet, I'm getting a good feeling about the anti-fairy tale this novel has taken on.

Little Love Songs: Gaming Version (In Spenser Terms)

I think I'm in love. With sonnets, that is. Oh, the irony. And while I love the beautiful imagery and double-meaning words the poet weaves into each little song, I cannot seem to understand why poets--Spenser specifically--would want to describe his woman as "the hunt," "the game," or any other animal-like name. I understand that love is a game. And the poet feels like a hunter. And the lady runs away, like a deer. Or flies away like a bird. I really get it, I do. But does courtship always have to be a hunt? A chase? One person pursuing and the other fleeing? I know this was the 15th and 16th century, when men called on beautiful women, but for some reason, it just doesn't feel right hearing woman continuously being called--to be frank--an animal.
An animal is defined as a multicellular organism part of the kingdom Animalia, a person who behaves in a bestial or brutish manner, a person considered with respect to the physical nature, a person having a specified aptitude or set of interests, or relating to human instinct. I don't know...most 16th century women just don't seem very "brutish" to me...
Now to Spenser. I found it interesting that his Sonnet 67, like that of Wyatt, described "the hunt" of the fair lady. He describes himself as a "huntsman after a weary chase," and I couldn't help but wonder, 'Why chase, then?' I have to applaud Spenser for his (assumed figurative) long and weary chase, even though he could have never imagined that the "gentle deer" would behold him with a "milder look" and let herself go with him.
But what is Spenser trying to comment about women? Even though he describes woman as a deer, the doe being associated with woodland goddesses, gentle, caring, and intelligent, is Spenser trying to say that even if a woman has these wonderful qualities, at the end of the day, she is still an animal? If that is the case, perhaps the doe's "own will beguiled" was her succumbing to the chase, allowing herself to be led by the man because that is her instinct: to submit herself to a man--any man--in order to be protecting from future hunters. I'm really not sure, just posing questions and answering...myself.
What I found even more interesting was that Spenser remains a human throughout the sonnet. While the woman oscillates in description, from being described as a deer to someone with hands, to something that can fly, Spenser remains the huntsman. From a feminist lens, Spenser could be commenting that woman can change personas and attitudes so quickly; woman is easily influenced.
Other than this discrepancy, I really enjoyed the sonnet as a whole. What really hooked me about this sonnet was the use of the word "game" in so many different contexts. Like a game, so many things in life and love can change in an instant. But what remains constant? Love will always be a game.

Sonnet 73.

Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. 

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I wanted to analyze a soliloquy for this week's blog, seeing as I haven't been exposed to many. 
This sonnet breaks my heart; there is an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and an acceptance of death; the speaker has an existential tone, embracing death and his future loneliness without his love. The "yellow leaves, or none, or few," that the speaker describes highlight his loneliness even further. The yellow color of the leaves have both positive and negative connotations, symbolizing the duality of the man's love for the woman to whom he writes. Yellow often symbolizes sunshine or happiness, alluding to summer joy and delight. However, though the color yellow symbolizes summer and life, the "none, or few" leaves on the trees indicate that the season is fall, when the leaves change colors. In a way, the speaker alludes to a transition in life, the maturation of his love and his life from fall to winter. He feels his death is imminent, as the leaves on the branches of the trees are turning different colors, just about to fall off. While the yellow colors of the leaves symbolize a passionate, living love, they also represent a darker image of decay, once again reminding the reader of the speaker's imminent death. So heartbreaking. 

The number of leaves on the trees is obscure; it could be either none...or just a few left, dangling, hanging on for dear life. It's as if the speaker is afraid his death will hurt his lover too much, and is intentionally pulling back from her, slowly but surely, to let her forget about him even after he is gone from her world. Just as the "sunset fadeth in the west," he will fade from her life. 

The speaker's discussion of death is perhaps the overarching theme of the poem. His discussion of death is interesting in that I am unsure as to what he wants to get across by his discussion of death. Does he mean that his love for his lover is soon to die when his body deteriorates? Or is he insinuating that their love will rather survive the death of his physical body? The line that struck me as interesting was the line concerning "death's second self." Who? If Death has a second self, what would that be? Suffering? Life? Sorrow? Shakespeare's language seems even more cryptic in this sonnet than in his other writing, perhaps to underline the uncertainty of death. The speaker cannot be sure what will happen after his death, whether his lover will continue to long for him or will be able to forget him and move on. Perhaps Death's second self is uncertainty, as nothing in life is ever truly certain or uncertain...that is, but love.


And even love is somewhat uncertain, just as the dangling leaves on the tree. The speaker can't tell when they will fall off, and how many will fall off at one time. Sure, he could pluck them off, but that would be like trying to control the future, changing a fate. The sun will set and rise again, but there is no telling whether it the next day will be rainy or sunny. Love is changing, death is imminent. 


Life.

Hamlet Ponderings II

I think Ophelia committed suicide. The biggest question that I have is why. I know that she probably couldn't handle the stress and grief of learning that she was just a pawn in Cladius and Polonius' game, that Hamlet murdered her father, that her father is dead. But I just cannot seem to understand why she would commit suicide, all the same. Or why she would drown herself. As opposed to...for example, stabbing herself to death. Or asking Hamlet to kill her. Something more dramatic.

So, is Ophelia ultimately weak or strong? I'm sure that some people probably believe that Ophelia's suicide represents her strength, and I guess I can see why she could be seen as strong. In a way, her suicide is one of the only decisions she makes in the play. It is not revealed as to who first started the relationship between Ophelia and Hamlet--if it could even qualify as a real "relationship"--and seeing snippets of Ophelia and Hamlet's exchanges during the nunnery scene, the only scene in which Hamlet and Ophelia directly speak to each other and are alone in the play, Hamlet seems to have a certain dominance over Ophelia. Sure, in the time period in which Shakespeare wrote his play, it would be normal for the man to have the power in the relationship. However, that does not necessarily mean that the woman should be weak--she just simply had to be weaker than the man. So I can see why some would say that the fact that Ophelia made the decision to commit suicide, although it might have been an undesirable decision, was a decision, a show of strength. A frustrated "hey men of my world, I can decide what to do with myself too" cry.

But personally, I find Ophelia weak. Sure, I understand that Ophelia has a "duty" to her father, and certainly to the king. But I don't find that enough reason to allow yourself to participate in your father and your lover's stepfather's conniving plots, especially without protest. Come on. If you really loved Hamlet as much as you said you did, shouldn't you be a little more reluctant about lying straight to his face? Of deceiving him? Of allowing yourself to become a small pawn in a plan? I don't know, Ophelia, but your passivity just about killed me. But what was most passive? The greatest show of your weakness? Your suicide. I see Ophelia's suicide as her way of escaping the madness that surrounds her, not only in her own mind but also in the people around her. She obviously becomes crazy after learning about the death of her father, presumably learning about Polonius' death by Hamlet, and ultimately decides to end her life to escape it.

I guess Shakespeare is attempting to illustrate the frailty of woman in Ophelia. She escapes conflict rather than facing it. Hamlet decides to take revenge for his father. Though he takes no action, he makes long speeches about being conflicted and wanting to make sure that his uncle really did murder his father before acting on anything. But, I mean, at least he has all the "right" intentions and doesn't give up on his life, though he does have some bouts of existentialism and depression--see "quintessence of dust" speech--he doesn't commit suicide.

Frailty, thy name is woman Ophelia.

Hamlet Ponderings

Whoa there, Hamlet. Ease up on the sexual innuendo, please.
Just kidding; it only gives us more to analyze.

I was a bit taken aback by Hamlet's sudden outbursts both during the "nunnery" and the "play within a play" scenes, but I assume that Shakespeare was trying to remind the audience of the previously mentioned prostitution imagery. What made me really think about Shakespeare's use of prostitution imagery and Hamlet's lashing out at Ophelia in Act III was how prostitution is connected to the whole play.

I keep seeing prostitution in the light of betrayal, a direct contrast to the duty that is described so often throughout the play. A prostitute would be "faithful" to many different people; this confused sense of duty seems to correspond to a lot of the characters in the play, most markedly Ophelia. If we interpret her and Hamlet's relationship as a once loving and intimate relationship--I, for one, do believe that their relationship was very passionate and intense at one point in time--then Hamlet's feelings of betrayal are understandable. However, I feel at times that he is a bit too much of, pardon my language, a drama queen about Ophelia and her actions. If Hamlet and Ophelia had such an intimate and caring relationship, I would feel that it would only be just for her to be called a "prostitute" if she had cheated on him with another man. His outright feelings of betrayal at her actions don't seem to correspond to their relationship. After all, I believe she should have a higher sense of duty to her father than to her lover. As Laertes insinuated, Hamlet would most probably not be able to marry Ophelia anyways because she is not of royal lineage. Therefore, it would stand that Hamlet and Ophelia were most likely going to be girlfriend/boyfriend and stay girlfriend/boyfriend. If they were not engaged or going to be engaged, I certainly hope that she felt a higher sense of duty to her father--although I do understand if she did not initially feel as loyal to her father because of his mistreatment of her, but that is beside the point--rather than to her lover, Hamlet. I guess what I am trying to say is that Hamlet really doesn't have that much of a right to continue to talk to Ophelia in such vulgar terms and feel so betrayed by her part in the plot to spy on him as he does. Just a thought...or maybe it's my inner feminist coming out trying to defend Ophelia.
Perhaps Shakespeare has made Hamlet into this hurt, sneering animal for another reason, and knowing old William, he probably has. I would like to think that in Act IV, the prostitution and betrayal themes would be more developed as Hamlet starts to understand and take in the situation more clearly. Perhaps, in the end, Hamlet will be a "prostitute" in his own sense to his father's ghost and memory.

With Shakespeare, anything is possible, and everything has another interpretation.

Thoughts on Hamlet

Prostitution is everywhere in Hamlet, and I feel that it probably has a higher purpose than to simply illustrate the dirty minds of men. In fact, it sometimes seems as if Hamlet himself is a prostitute. Hamlet comments in his final soliloquy of Act II that Hamlet must, "like a whore, unpack [his] heart with words." I thought of his comment as likening himself to a prostitute in that he must not get emotionally attached to anyone or anything on his quest. Prostitutes cannot allow themselves to get attached to any of their "clients," and must fill their hearts with a hardness that leaves them almost incapable to love in order to achieve their goals. Similarly, Hamlet must harden his heart on his quest for his father's revenge. That is, if his father even needs revenge. He must fill his heart with words instead of of love or even soul, and his attempts to fill himself with words explain his conversation earlier in the scene with Polonius.

Speaking of Polonius, he is a kind of prostitute in one sense. He doesn't seem to have a strong sense of loyalty, rather changing sides whenever it benefits him most. Hamlet even alludes that he is like a dog, but a dead dog at that one. Hamlet hints that Polonius doesn't even have enough loyalty that he can be classified as a dog, and will eventually die, and maggots will come out of Polonius' dead, decaying, corrupted body. What a beautiful image. Polonius is also related to prostitution in a different way. He is a "fishmonger," someone trying to sell his own daughter in order to gain the favor of the king. Salesmen always try to boost up the image of the product they are trying to sell, usually lying in the process. However, Polonius is almost worse than the normal salesman; he is not only trying to sell a person, but trying to trick not only Hamlet but also Ophelia and, in some ways, even Claudius.

On an unrelated tangent, I wanted to discuss my views of Hamlet's relationship with the other characters. Now that we've watched the Kenneth Branagh version of Hamlet, I can't imagine Hamlet and Ophelia's relationship as anything more innocent. If Hamlet is as old as he seems, and as passionate and emotional as Hamlet is in his soliloquies, I can't help but imagine the only love Hamlet will have as fiery and completely passionate. He doesn't strike me as the type to slowly approach Ophelia to wait for her hand in marriage; rather, in his irrationality, he probably did open her chaste treasure.

Although I can understand Hamlet's feelings of betrayal towards his mother, I feel like he often takes his father's side a bit too much. If his mother had married anyone but his uncle, I wonder, would he be as upset and appalled? I really wonder what Hamlet's relationship with Claudius was before King Hamlet died/was murdered. It might help explain Hamlet's confusing attitude.

Keeping up Appearances

"'Seems,' madam? Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'"
"Do you believe his 'tenders,' as you call them?"
"Ay, 'fashion,' you may call it."


When I imagine Hamlet in real life--because I usually visualize what I'm reading in my head--I see a lot of people faking things. It seems to me that pretty much everything has a double meaning, which, yes, makes things a bit more interesting, but also makes it much more complicated for my simple brain to understand. Sure, I love that most of Shakespeare's words could be interpreted in two or three or even four different ways, but I don't like that Hamlet could be acting crazily either because he is madly in love with Ophelia and needs her love, or because he just saw his father's ghost, or because he's still mourning for his father's death. Or all three.
Maybe I actually love the complicated-ness.
But it does make my head hurt, regardless. It's kind of like deciphering my grandmother's words of wisdom: whenever she feels the need to impart some of her wise advice to me, she speaks in Korean proverbs only.

What struck me so much about all of these double meanings is the sense of a type of betrayal. It seems ironic in the sense that I've always found lying and having different facades to be a type of betrayal, not only to oneself, but to the people around the dishonest person. And although the characters all speak of some kind of duty to one person or another, all have different faces they do not wish to reveal. Pretty much all the characters are lying. Tsk, tsk. Undutiful.

The women in the play strike me the most as deceitful backstabbers. Gertrude, for her to have married Claudius so quickly after her late husband's death, must have had a relationship going on with her brother-in-law before King Hamlet's death. Although her betrayal may have been more understandable if she had been mistreated as Queen Hamlet, but as Hamlet describes, his father would have blocked the wind so that it wouldn't hit her face too harshly. That's definitely a deep love. It is obvious from Hamlet's disgust and utter flabbergastedness that he too cannot understand his mother. Though I'm not sure whether or not he knew about the affair (if there was one in the first place), but I think that if he had, he would have been a bit less surprised and angry at his mother's actions. Ophelia too surprises me. Although she doesn't seem as two-faced as Gertrude, her almost-hidden relationship with Hamlet seems quite naughty for a woman in her days.
The line "Frailty, thy name is woman," seems to be Shakespeare's way of mocking society, as the women in this play are not exactly "frail"; they both have their secrets and deceitful lies.


I have a feeling that Hamlet will be betrayed by somebody, though I have absolutely no evidence for that statement; it's just a gut feeling. With all of these double appearances and lies circling the country of Denmark, something truly is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Hamlet, Hunger Games, (un)Happiness.

I was completely blown away by Hamlet yesterday in class. Who would have thought that "suit" would have so many deeper meanings?

I must admit that I went into Hamlet prejudiced against Shakespeare's works. I'd always viewed his writing as convoluted, wordy, pretentious, and, most of all, boring. But I am proud to say that yesterday's discussion in class completely overturned my previous opinion of Shakespeare. Now, on to analysis.

Hamlet's character is extremely interesting, as he obviously has very strong morals and opinions, especially about his mother's life. His sarcasm seems appropriate for the situation, yet at times, the drama of the situation seems almost comedic to me. Strange, I know, but perhaps it is because I could not ever imagine my mother marrying my father's brother, my uncle. I'm rather excited to see how Hamlet's character will be developed, and how he will respond to that famous quote, "To be or not to be. That is the question."

It was interesting to observe the various cultural and societal aspects of Shakespeare's writing. What was most interesting to me was Claudius' comment of "'Tis unmanly grief'" to Hamlet's explanation of his true grief (Act I Scene II, line 94). I have found that in most cultures, a man's tears are considered a huge weakness, a sign of cowardice and almost femininity. However, Hamlet seems almost proud of his tears, considering them a show of his true inner self, of his true grieving and true emotions. I applauded him for realizing that his grief and sadness were not signs of his weakness as a man, but he has yet to show his true inner strength. If Hamlet can remain strong even when his heart has been wrenched and twisted, I can only imagine his strength when he stands up to Claudius. I can't wait.

I am currently reading the Hunger Games series, and I found a certain parallel in the characters of Katniss and Hamlet. I must admit, they really are not that similar. Hamlet is a prince, while Katniss is almost the exact opposite, a poor girl who must feed her entire family single handedly. However, both have a certain specific inner strength and anger at society and the world that make them somewhat similar. They both have a fight ahead of them--Katniss has the Hunger Games, and Hamlet most probably has a fight against Claudius (either for the throne or for power)--that allow them to keep on, to prevail and persist. But what makes the two similar in my mind is their abandonment of happiness. It seems to me as if the two have, in a way, accepted the unhappiness of their lives and are willing to take it on, but not necessarily to gain happiness later in their lives. I'm a pessimist, so obviously, I assume that both will ultimately not find the happiness of fairytale endings but will end up failing in a way. But then, life's unpredictable.

New Year's Ponderings.

It's a new beginning. A new start. A new year.
Fresh. New. Infantile. Eager. Anticipating. Timidity.

We've finally started a new year, and the only thing we've really done in class so far is discuss the past--the final exam, that is--and the future. I guess it is up to me to discuss the present.

I'll start by making a confession. I'm surprised.
Pleasantly surprised, that is. I went into AP Lit thinking it would be like my previous Language Arts classes, save AP Lang: confining, way too focused on grammar, and way way too much emphasis on analysis of literature...even the thought repulsed me. But as we began our class discussion of All the King's Men, I was hooked. I never knew writing could be that beautiful. That a few words on a white page could give so much more meaning to life.
Now, I'm proud to say I'm hooked on literature.

As I was frantically attempting to finish my college application essays over winter break--I'm still not done--I was often frustrated by my writing, as I often am during timed writings. Sometimes I can't find the right words, sometimes it's that my sentences sound awkward. I've edited and rewritten, used my backspace button until it it is much easier to press than the other keys on my keyboard, and yet my writing never seems to be perfect. As I reread some of my favorite works: Invisible Man, My Sister's Keeper, and A Tale of Two Cities, over the break, I began envying the writers' abilities. How each one could--in such differing styles--create plots so interesting, characters so alive, and sentences so riveting?

I guess my goal for the new semester is not only to better my skills as a writer, but to take more pride in my writing, to love what I have done rather than hate what I haven't. For it seems that all good writers seem to love their style of writing, seem to love their uniqueness. Perhaps what I view as my weaknesses as a writer could someday turn into my best strengths.

I've read many books to which I was indifferent of the plot, but fell in love with the writing. I want my writing to be like that. Even if I am writing about cultivating goats, I want readers to be able to completely be enamored by my writing.

I read Ishmael once again over the winter break, and I was completely immersed in the novel once again. Not only is the subject interesting--a man talking to a gorilla about the end of the world--but the writing is so beautifully engaging yet concise and clear.

My goal this school year, and the school years to come, is to become a better writer. A stronger writer. A confident writer. I want my writing to convey my ideas, but do much more. I want to be able to change others' lives the way Rowling's writing pushed me to value friendship and loyalty, the way Kingsolver influenced me to weight the pros and cons before acting.

A new year and a new hope.

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.