As I said, I have not finished reading the book, but at this point, I think that I'm going to talk about Catherine and Heathcliff's love and its impact on other characters in the novel, especially on themselves and their spouses. If it turns out that the topic is too broad, then I'll most likely focus on the thematic relationship between the two families (besides the obvious connection...).
Monday, April 13, 2009
Don't Look!: Falling into Wuthering Heights
After reading a number of different books and much deliberation, I have decided to write my final paper on Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. I haven't finished it yet--I'm about a third of the way through--, but I find the novel and its themes incredibly fascinating. Superficially, it seems like such a basic and frankly boring story. However, Catherine's passion and Heathcliff's anger/resentment seem supernatural. Their moments together create so much tension and electricity, you almost expect a spark to go off or an explosion of some sort. At this point, my favorite moment from the book is when Catherine is talking to Nelly about her feelings for Heathcliff. She says, "If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.... Nelly, I am Heathcliff!"
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
A Lesson in Loss
Contrary to its initial appearance, Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art" is a multifaceted poem layered with complex and heavy themes of loss, love, and self-awareness. Bishop uses the French-originated villanelle to emphasize the speaker's emotions, yet she uses light, conversational tones to avoid infusing the readers with deep sadness or pain. In effect, the poem is rich with intricate and poignant meanings that, to fully comprehend, require an understanding of the villanelle form and Bishop's past.
The villanelle has a very interesting past that has led to its current, highly-structured style. When it first appeared during the Renaissance, the villanella was not a fixed form but an Italian and Spanish dance-song. French poets who called their poems "villanelles" did not adhere to any particular style. Rather, like the dance-songs, these poems portrayed pastoral themes. It wasn't until the late nineteenth century that the villanelle became a structured form under the auspices of Théodore de Banville. After Banville, the form grew increasingly popular among English-writing poets. Famous poets who have written villanelles include Dylan Thomas, W. H. Auden, Oscar Wilde, and Sylvia Plath. As we know it presently, the villanelle is a nineteen-line poem in the form of five tercets and a final quatrain. The poem contains two repeating rhymes (a, b) and two refrains (A1, A2). The first and third lines of the opening tercet serve as the refrains and are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrains serve as the poem's two concluding lines. The form appears as followed: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.
Bishop takes full advantage of this poetry style. At the beginning of her poem, the refrains sound like the speaker intends to impress the lesson onto his or her students. We learn about immaterial possessions that the speaker has lost: door keys, time, a watch, places, names, and destinations. As the poem continues, however, and as we learn more about what the speaker has lost, it appears that she is mostly trying to convince herself that she is not affected by these losses, particularly the loss of an unidentified loved one. She does not reference herself until the fourth stanza. Even in the fourth and fifth stanzas though, the speaker refuses to acknowledge her true feelings. She merely heightens the urgency to list all of her lost items, each item growing in size—from cities to realms to rivers to continents. The speaker finally reveals her struggling feelings in the parenthetical asides in the sixth stanza. In the final line, the phrase "Write it!" betrays the speaker as she resists confronting her hurt feelings.
In contrast to Sylvia Plath's “Lady Lazarus,” “One Art” was not meant to be a confessional poem. All throughout the poem, however, Bishop references her own experiences with loss to portray her conflicted feelings and to evoke the reader's empathy. When Bishop was only six years old, her mother was moved to an insane asylum and Bishop never saw her again. In the fourth stanza, the speaker says, “I lost my mother's watch.” If “watch” is a synecdoche for “time,” then the line literally says, “I lost my mother's time,” which is exactly what happened to Elizabeth Bishop—she lost her mother's time, or presence. After that brief glimmer of sadness, the speaker distracts us, saying, “And look!” Then she tells us about losing her “three loved houses,” houses that actually existed in Key West, Florida, and in Samambaia and Ouro Prêto in Brazil. Saying “houses” also reverts the poem to the previous impersonal tone and diction, even if she loved them. Suddenly, as if talking about her mother’s watch broke a massive dam, the speaker’s list grows larger, not only in number but also in size as we discover that she lost two cities, two rivers, and a continent—some realms. Bishop, who traveled a lot and lived for 17 years with her lover Lota de Macedo Soares in Brazil, finally left Brazil—a whole realm. She misses everything, but to her “it wasn’t a disaster.” The larger struggle seems to be the loss of the unidentified loved one. It is unclear who “you” is. Is it Bishop’s mother whom Bishop never saw since she was six years old? Is it Lota with whom Bishop had unfinished business? After all, Bishop left Brazil to move away from Lota after their relationship became bitter and difficult. When Lota followed Bishop to America and spent the night with her, Bishop awoke the next morning to find Lota had collapsed from a drug overdose. Lota died within the week. Bishop wrote “One Art” nine years later.
So, who could be the recipient of Bishop’s fraught love? Either way, it doesn’t matter because the poem is not entirely about Bishop’s admitting of her lingering feelings of love. Rather, the poem displays the poet or speaker’s self-exploration and –knowledge. The poem is initially a lesson for others, but that lesson for others results in a lesson for the speaker herself. She forces herself to look deep within, to ruminate over her losses and feelings. In the end, the path is for her alone. And no matter how difficult it becomes for the speaker to confront her emotions, she forbids resorting to maudlin and self-pitying tones and preserving human dignity. This is the “one art”: losing something and, whether valuable or not, maintaining poise and human strength. (931 words)
The villanelle has a very interesting past that has led to its current, highly-structured style. When it first appeared during the Renaissance, the villanella was not a fixed form but an Italian and Spanish dance-song. French poets who called their poems "villanelles" did not adhere to any particular style. Rather, like the dance-songs, these poems portrayed pastoral themes. It wasn't until the late nineteenth century that the villanelle became a structured form under the auspices of Théodore de Banville. After Banville, the form grew increasingly popular among English-writing poets. Famous poets who have written villanelles include Dylan Thomas, W. H. Auden, Oscar Wilde, and Sylvia Plath. As we know it presently, the villanelle is a nineteen-line poem in the form of five tercets and a final quatrain. The poem contains two repeating rhymes (a, b) and two refrains (A1, A2). The first and third lines of the opening tercet serve as the refrains and are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrains serve as the poem's two concluding lines. The form appears as followed: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.
Bishop takes full advantage of this poetry style. At the beginning of her poem, the refrains sound like the speaker intends to impress the lesson onto his or her students. We learn about immaterial possessions that the speaker has lost: door keys, time, a watch, places, names, and destinations. As the poem continues, however, and as we learn more about what the speaker has lost, it appears that she is mostly trying to convince herself that she is not affected by these losses, particularly the loss of an unidentified loved one. She does not reference herself until the fourth stanza. Even in the fourth and fifth stanzas though, the speaker refuses to acknowledge her true feelings. She merely heightens the urgency to list all of her lost items, each item growing in size—from cities to realms to rivers to continents. The speaker finally reveals her struggling feelings in the parenthetical asides in the sixth stanza. In the final line, the phrase "Write it!" betrays the speaker as she resists confronting her hurt feelings.
In contrast to Sylvia Plath's “Lady Lazarus,” “One Art” was not meant to be a confessional poem. All throughout the poem, however, Bishop references her own experiences with loss to portray her conflicted feelings and to evoke the reader's empathy. When Bishop was only six years old, her mother was moved to an insane asylum and Bishop never saw her again. In the fourth stanza, the speaker says, “I lost my mother's watch.” If “watch” is a synecdoche for “time,” then the line literally says, “I lost my mother's time,” which is exactly what happened to Elizabeth Bishop—she lost her mother's time, or presence. After that brief glimmer of sadness, the speaker distracts us, saying, “And look!” Then she tells us about losing her “three loved houses,” houses that actually existed in Key West, Florida, and in Samambaia and Ouro Prêto in Brazil. Saying “houses” also reverts the poem to the previous impersonal tone and diction, even if she loved them. Suddenly, as if talking about her mother’s watch broke a massive dam, the speaker’s list grows larger, not only in number but also in size as we discover that she lost two cities, two rivers, and a continent—some realms. Bishop, who traveled a lot and lived for 17 years with her lover Lota de Macedo Soares in Brazil, finally left Brazil—a whole realm. She misses everything, but to her “it wasn’t a disaster.” The larger struggle seems to be the loss of the unidentified loved one. It is unclear who “you” is. Is it Bishop’s mother whom Bishop never saw since she was six years old? Is it Lota with whom Bishop had unfinished business? After all, Bishop left Brazil to move away from Lota after their relationship became bitter and difficult. When Lota followed Bishop to America and spent the night with her, Bishop awoke the next morning to find Lota had collapsed from a drug overdose. Lota died within the week. Bishop wrote “One Art” nine years later.
So, who could be the recipient of Bishop’s fraught love? Either way, it doesn’t matter because the poem is not entirely about Bishop’s admitting of her lingering feelings of love. Rather, the poem displays the poet or speaker’s self-exploration and –knowledge. The poem is initially a lesson for others, but that lesson for others results in a lesson for the speaker herself. She forces herself to look deep within, to ruminate over her losses and feelings. In the end, the path is for her alone. And no matter how difficult it becomes for the speaker to confront her emotions, she forbids resorting to maudlin and self-pitying tones and preserving human dignity. This is the “one art”: losing something and, whether valuable or not, maintaining poise and human strength. (931 words)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Happy Loman, the Foolish "Low-Man"
In Section 3, Stephen heavily criticized the three male protagonists: Willy, Biff, and Happy. Stephen argued that these three men are overall despicable characters who fail at life. Admittedly, they do, but, as we said in class, at least we feel sympathy for Willy and Biff because they realize the futility of their dreams. Happy, on the other hand, is not as sympathetic of a character because he is obtuse, in denial, and never gains some ultimate wisdom.
Happy is delusional and does not share Biff's realistic perspective on life. He represents many of Willy's worst traits--gluttonous/greedy, lustful, and self-deceiving. Happy is the epitome of all of these qualities: gluttonous or greedy, because he lives life to the fullest, always trying to live the charmed life; lustful, because, similarly to the reason for his gluttony, Happy lives a charmed life that includes hooking up with various women, trying to satisfy his insatiable sex drive; and self-deceiving, because Happy refuses to accept the truth even when all signs indicate that he is wrong. At the end of the play, Happy chooses to keep his sorry job. Happy believes that he is honoring his father, and he may be, but he also continues to believe in the false "happy American Dream.” For Happy, who has lived in Biff's shadow for years, there is no escape from the Dream's indoctrinated lies. Because Happy resumes lying to himself, it is difficult to empathize with him. He is one-dimensional and shallow throughout the play. Unlike Biff, he fails to examine himself and his life or to gain self-knowledge. Instead, he shares Willy's ability for self-delusion, praising himself as his store's assistant buyer, when he is actually only an assistant to the assistant buyer. Biff's ultimate self-understanding saves him, while Happy's lack thereof dooms him. He is a Loman, or "Low-Man," and he is at the bottom in every aspect of his life.
To be honest, though, it is also difficult for me to condemn Happy completely because he legitimately believes that he is living the "right life." While we as readers/viewers know him to be wrong, Happy does not necessarily know that he is wrong. I find a small shred of honor in him because he has unwavering faith in an incredible ideal. Futile, it may be, but a marvelous ideal, nonetheless. (389)
Happy is delusional and does not share Biff's realistic perspective on life. He represents many of Willy's worst traits--gluttonous/greedy, lustful, and self-deceiving. Happy is the epitome of all of these qualities: gluttonous or greedy, because he lives life to the fullest, always trying to live the charmed life; lustful, because, similarly to the reason for his gluttony, Happy lives a charmed life that includes hooking up with various women, trying to satisfy his insatiable sex drive; and self-deceiving, because Happy refuses to accept the truth even when all signs indicate that he is wrong. At the end of the play, Happy chooses to keep his sorry job. Happy believes that he is honoring his father, and he may be, but he also continues to believe in the false "happy American Dream.” For Happy, who has lived in Biff's shadow for years, there is no escape from the Dream's indoctrinated lies. Because Happy resumes lying to himself, it is difficult to empathize with him. He is one-dimensional and shallow throughout the play. Unlike Biff, he fails to examine himself and his life or to gain self-knowledge. Instead, he shares Willy's ability for self-delusion, praising himself as his store's assistant buyer, when he is actually only an assistant to the assistant buyer. Biff's ultimate self-understanding saves him, while Happy's lack thereof dooms him. He is a Loman, or "Low-Man," and he is at the bottom in every aspect of his life.
To be honest, though, it is also difficult for me to condemn Happy completely because he legitimately believes that he is living the "right life." While we as readers/viewers know him to be wrong, Happy does not necessarily know that he is wrong. I find a small shred of honor in him because he has unwavering faith in an incredible ideal. Futile, it may be, but a marvelous ideal, nonetheless. (389)
Monday, February 23, 2009
An Order of True Love, Hold the True
General Question #3: What dramatic question does the play embody? At what moment can this question first be stated?
The play, I think, poses a number of dramatic questions, all of them equally significant in meaning. However, the question that interests me the most is the most basic and human of the questions (in my opinion): how far would you go for someone you love?
In the contextual background of Ibsen’s background, Nora commits fraud in an attempt to save Torvald’s life and her family. When Krogstad threatens to expose Nora’s crime, she becomes frantic. She turns to self-sacrifice as a possible saving grace. Nora loves—or thinks she loves—Torvald and is willing to disappear so that her husband can remain untainted from corruption or crime. The question most often arises in the conversations between Nora and Kristine and Nora and Krogstad. Especially at the end, however, this notion of genuine, powerful love yelled to me in the final moments with Nora and Torvald—the man she saved. During their confrontation, the husband and wife talk about the nature of their individual love:
Helmer: I would gladly toil day and night for you, Nora, enduring all manner of sorrow and distress. But nobody sacrifices his honor for the one he loves.
Nora: Hundreds and thousands of women have.
Helmer: Oh, you think and talk like a stupid child. (1733)
Torvald’s love is very limited and exists as long as his honor remains intact. On the other hand, Nora’s love is boundless, until she realizes that she hardly knows her husband and that she could not love someone who could not reciprocate equally.
I have always wondered, “Would you or I do anything for a person we love, even if it meant breaking the law?” Usually, I can answer steadfastly, “Yes.” Sometimes, however, I am forced to reconsider my answer when faced with extreme actions, such as killing or dying, because the answer is not as clear. In Nora’s case, I am sure that I would do just as she did, forge her father’s signature. Nora’s love, in my mind, is admirable and profound and rare. People who have share Torvald’s perspective are, I’m sorry, truly unloving. Nora did what she felt was necessary to save her husband. Torvald is ungrateful and superficial in response, and if I were Nora, I would have hit him. I would have hit him with a bat. I would have taken him outside, tied him up to my car, and dragged him down Tatum at 100 miles per hour. Anyway…
Thoughts?
The play, I think, poses a number of dramatic questions, all of them equally significant in meaning. However, the question that interests me the most is the most basic and human of the questions (in my opinion): how far would you go for someone you love?
In the contextual background of Ibsen’s background, Nora commits fraud in an attempt to save Torvald’s life and her family. When Krogstad threatens to expose Nora’s crime, she becomes frantic. She turns to self-sacrifice as a possible saving grace. Nora loves—or thinks she loves—Torvald and is willing to disappear so that her husband can remain untainted from corruption or crime. The question most often arises in the conversations between Nora and Kristine and Nora and Krogstad. Especially at the end, however, this notion of genuine, powerful love yelled to me in the final moments with Nora and Torvald—the man she saved. During their confrontation, the husband and wife talk about the nature of their individual love:
Helmer: I would gladly toil day and night for you, Nora, enduring all manner of sorrow and distress. But nobody sacrifices his honor for the one he loves.
Nora: Hundreds and thousands of women have.
Helmer: Oh, you think and talk like a stupid child. (1733)
Torvald’s love is very limited and exists as long as his honor remains intact. On the other hand, Nora’s love is boundless, until she realizes that she hardly knows her husband and that she could not love someone who could not reciprocate equally.
I have always wondered, “Would you or I do anything for a person we love, even if it meant breaking the law?” Usually, I can answer steadfastly, “Yes.” Sometimes, however, I am forced to reconsider my answer when faced with extreme actions, such as killing or dying, because the answer is not as clear. In Nora’s case, I am sure that I would do just as she did, forge her father’s signature. Nora’s love, in my mind, is admirable and profound and rare. People who have share Torvald’s perspective are, I’m sorry, truly unloving. Nora did what she felt was necessary to save her husband. Torvald is ungrateful and superficial in response, and if I were Nora, I would have hit him. I would have hit him with a bat. I would have taken him outside, tied him up to my car, and dragged him down Tatum at 100 miles per hour. Anyway…
Thoughts?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
To sympathize or not to sympathize--THAT is the question!
To sympathize, or not to sympathize—that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to offer
To the pitiful prince our compassion,
Or to be objective despite Hamlet’s sea of troubles,
And by opposing judge him? To judge, to scorn—
or hate—and by judging to say we don’t
Allow him to act with these immoral thoughts
That beast is prone to act on—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To judge, to hate—
To scorn, perchance to ourselves do. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that condemnation what future may come
When we ourselves commit the very same act,
Must give us pause. There's our hypocrisy
That makes calamity of so long life….
I applaud those of you who attempted to read my gibberish above. As you can tell, I tried to imitate Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, but I decided to cut it short to avoid redundancy and never-ending jabber. I hope it made at least a little bit of sense (to be honest, I don’t think I completely understand what I wrote). Below, I have a more clear discussion of what I attempted to poetically posit.
Hamlet truly is a tragic character who experiences some of the most disturbing and profound incidents ever imaginable: his father’s death, his mother’s remarriage to his uncle, his uncle’s succession to the throne, and a visit from his father’s ghost, and all within a two-month span. Throughout the play, the audience catches several glimpses of Hamlet’s madness (although the legitimacy of that madness is questionable). However, I don’t want to examine Hamlet’s insanity. There are already enough literary articles on that subject. I choose instead to focus on the people surrounding Hamlet, the audience, and all their thoughts/feelings.
I am in both the Shakespeare English elective and the AP class, and I read Hamlet before in eighth grade, so this is my third time reading the play. Consequently, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the plot and the themes. It suddenly occurred to me this weekend that no one criticizes Hamlet's intentions or actions in the book or during in-class discussions. Different literary critics have analyzed Hamlet as profoundly genius and incredibly insane. They examine the scenes in which Hamlet is or feigns being crazy, looking at what he says and how he acts. Regardless of Hamlet’s mental state, no one condemns Hamlet’s behavior as immoral or unjustified. This afternoon, I started to think about why we don’t force Hamlet to think more reasonably.
Objectively, black and white—Hamlet’s thoughts are downright lethal. He is incredibly suicidal. He confronts Ophelia in a wild, violent manner. In addition, his new objective is to kill his uncle to avenge his father’s murder. Furthermore, without revealing too much of the remaining plotline, Hamlet murders several people. Those actions are as heinous as Claudius’s crime. I’m not an expert on the legal system during Shakespeare’s era, but certainly, from a modern perspective, we would advocate bringing Claudius to trial rather than leaving Hamlet to determine his uncle’s fate. However, we (generally) do not denounce Hamlet as a criminal. And Horatio—Horatio was very aware of Hamlet’s intentions, so why did he not stop Hamlet? Even though Claudius’s actions are reprehensible, so are Hamlet’s.
And yet, how can we say Hamlet’s actions are unjustifiable? Claudius MURDERED Hamlet’s father. Wouldn’t we all be inclined to seek retribution for a crime committed against a loved one? Admittedly, I too have compassion for Hamlet and struggle to condemn him completely. His story is immensely tragic, and he feels abandoned by everyone he has ever known and trusted: his mother, Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and even his father—albeit King Hamlet did not intend to leave Hamlet.
To those who choose to respond to my blog: what do you think? Why do we sympathize with Hamlet’s plight and not criticize him for his behavior? Is there some clear explanation for our feelings, or is this just another unexplainable “grey zone” answer? Or am I simply a hypercritical, condescending oaf? (672)
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to offer
To the pitiful prince our compassion,
Or to be objective despite Hamlet’s sea of troubles,
And by opposing judge him? To judge, to scorn—
or hate—and by judging to say we don’t
Allow him to act with these immoral thoughts
That beast is prone to act on—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To judge, to hate—
To scorn, perchance to ourselves do. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that condemnation what future may come
When we ourselves commit the very same act,
Must give us pause. There's our hypocrisy
That makes calamity of so long life….
I applaud those of you who attempted to read my gibberish above. As you can tell, I tried to imitate Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, but I decided to cut it short to avoid redundancy and never-ending jabber. I hope it made at least a little bit of sense (to be honest, I don’t think I completely understand what I wrote). Below, I have a more clear discussion of what I attempted to poetically posit.
Hamlet truly is a tragic character who experiences some of the most disturbing and profound incidents ever imaginable: his father’s death, his mother’s remarriage to his uncle, his uncle’s succession to the throne, and a visit from his father’s ghost, and all within a two-month span. Throughout the play, the audience catches several glimpses of Hamlet’s madness (although the legitimacy of that madness is questionable). However, I don’t want to examine Hamlet’s insanity. There are already enough literary articles on that subject. I choose instead to focus on the people surrounding Hamlet, the audience, and all their thoughts/feelings.
I am in both the Shakespeare English elective and the AP class, and I read Hamlet before in eighth grade, so this is my third time reading the play. Consequently, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the plot and the themes. It suddenly occurred to me this weekend that no one criticizes Hamlet's intentions or actions in the book or during in-class discussions. Different literary critics have analyzed Hamlet as profoundly genius and incredibly insane. They examine the scenes in which Hamlet is or feigns being crazy, looking at what he says and how he acts. Regardless of Hamlet’s mental state, no one condemns Hamlet’s behavior as immoral or unjustified. This afternoon, I started to think about why we don’t force Hamlet to think more reasonably.
Objectively, black and white—Hamlet’s thoughts are downright lethal. He is incredibly suicidal. He confronts Ophelia in a wild, violent manner. In addition, his new objective is to kill his uncle to avenge his father’s murder. Furthermore, without revealing too much of the remaining plotline, Hamlet murders several people. Those actions are as heinous as Claudius’s crime. I’m not an expert on the legal system during Shakespeare’s era, but certainly, from a modern perspective, we would advocate bringing Claudius to trial rather than leaving Hamlet to determine his uncle’s fate. However, we (generally) do not denounce Hamlet as a criminal. And Horatio—Horatio was very aware of Hamlet’s intentions, so why did he not stop Hamlet? Even though Claudius’s actions are reprehensible, so are Hamlet’s.
And yet, how can we say Hamlet’s actions are unjustifiable? Claudius MURDERED Hamlet’s father. Wouldn’t we all be inclined to seek retribution for a crime committed against a loved one? Admittedly, I too have compassion for Hamlet and struggle to condemn him completely. His story is immensely tragic, and he feels abandoned by everyone he has ever known and trusted: his mother, Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and even his father—albeit King Hamlet did not intend to leave Hamlet.
To those who choose to respond to my blog: what do you think? Why do we sympathize with Hamlet’s plight and not criticize him for his behavior? Is there some clear explanation for our feelings, or is this just another unexplainable “grey zone” answer? Or am I simply a hypercritical, condescending oaf? (672)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Letter to Kindly Yet Deranged Sigmund Freud
Dear Dr. Sigmund Freud,
I am Dr. Wilhelm Français. We met briefly once at the psychiatric convention in Vienna. We conversed on the subject of cocaine and its uses. I still insist, it is a very addictive and the chances of overdose are far too high for my comfort as a doctor. Nonetheless, I am not writing to you to continue this repartee.
It has come to my attention that you, after seeing the recent revival of Sophocles’s Oedipus the King, posited a recent theory regarding sexual development.
Truly, the play was a moving piece of literature—a tragedy indeed. Sophocles was an extraordinary playwright. He is a stubborn and great leader to the Thebans. It was deeply touching to witness his incredible human strength against the obstacles that stood between him and the truth, and even more to endure it. He accepts responsibility for all his actions. I admire him for his integrity, remaining true to his word and pursuing the truth even it led to his ultimate downfall. Never, I believe, has a character existed who is noble, courageous, and strong as poor Oedipus.
I confess, however, that I was perturbed by your interpretations of Oedipus’s conflict and the compassion that we feel for him. In your recent article “The Destiny of Oedipus,” you describe your curiosity in the similarities between the modern and contemporary Greek reactions. You thought that there must be a deeper and more profound significance to our feeling moved. You finally concluded, “His destiny moves us only because it might have been ours—because the oracle laid the same curse upon us before our birth as upon him” (1355). You propounded the notion that Oedipus’s story and destiny shows the fulfillment of our own inner wishes—to have sex with our mother and to kill our father. Apparently, we fear our fathers because they will castrate us. Your argument is fairly well developed albeit not well supported.
It is impossible for me to respond subtly, so I will get straight to the point: what the hell?! I have no desire whatsoever to think about my mother—may she rest in peace forever—in a sexual manner. I am certain that those sexual impulses did not exist either when I was a young man. I love my wife dearly, and I have never loved or desired any one like her. I find it difficult to believe that most boys would be attracted to their mothers, much less to kill their fathers. Even if those feelings existed and were to become suppressed, as you say they do, the mere notion is preposterous. The love we feel for our mothers is truly unique, yet it transcends animalistic, lusty feelings. In addition, our fathers are another recipient of love and admiration.
Moreover, thinking of Oedipus, how could Oedipus have been inclined to sexually desire his mother? Oedipus initially has no idea that Iocastê is his biological mother, and the man he kills, Oedipus believes, is a stranger on the road. He believes that he has run away from his true parents. When Oedipus finally discovers the truth about his past, my heart wrenched in pain for him. However, I, in no way, believe that I could have been him. My compassion for Oedipus stems from my admiration for human strength and courage and my wish for others to feel no pain. Even more venerable is Oedipus’s realization that true human happiness is based on an illusion.
I might be willing to concede that cocaine is acceptable because of its benefits for surgical patients, but I refuse to accept this new theory about Oedipus and psychosexual development. I say this with the utmost respect possible: you would do well to discard this theory. It is entirely perverted, and I a fear that others may condemn you as a lunatic.
Otherwise, I hope that you are doing well in your psychiatric research. May we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. Thank you for your time and patience.
From,
Dr. Wilhelm Français
(672)
I am Dr. Wilhelm Français. We met briefly once at the psychiatric convention in Vienna. We conversed on the subject of cocaine and its uses. I still insist, it is a very addictive and the chances of overdose are far too high for my comfort as a doctor. Nonetheless, I am not writing to you to continue this repartee.
It has come to my attention that you, after seeing the recent revival of Sophocles’s Oedipus the King, posited a recent theory regarding sexual development.
Truly, the play was a moving piece of literature—a tragedy indeed. Sophocles was an extraordinary playwright. He is a stubborn and great leader to the Thebans. It was deeply touching to witness his incredible human strength against the obstacles that stood between him and the truth, and even more to endure it. He accepts responsibility for all his actions. I admire him for his integrity, remaining true to his word and pursuing the truth even it led to his ultimate downfall. Never, I believe, has a character existed who is noble, courageous, and strong as poor Oedipus.
I confess, however, that I was perturbed by your interpretations of Oedipus’s conflict and the compassion that we feel for him. In your recent article “The Destiny of Oedipus,” you describe your curiosity in the similarities between the modern and contemporary Greek reactions. You thought that there must be a deeper and more profound significance to our feeling moved. You finally concluded, “His destiny moves us only because it might have been ours—because the oracle laid the same curse upon us before our birth as upon him” (1355). You propounded the notion that Oedipus’s story and destiny shows the fulfillment of our own inner wishes—to have sex with our mother and to kill our father. Apparently, we fear our fathers because they will castrate us. Your argument is fairly well developed albeit not well supported.
It is impossible for me to respond subtly, so I will get straight to the point: what the hell?! I have no desire whatsoever to think about my mother—may she rest in peace forever—in a sexual manner. I am certain that those sexual impulses did not exist either when I was a young man. I love my wife dearly, and I have never loved or desired any one like her. I find it difficult to believe that most boys would be attracted to their mothers, much less to kill their fathers. Even if those feelings existed and were to become suppressed, as you say they do, the mere notion is preposterous. The love we feel for our mothers is truly unique, yet it transcends animalistic, lusty feelings. In addition, our fathers are another recipient of love and admiration.
Moreover, thinking of Oedipus, how could Oedipus have been inclined to sexually desire his mother? Oedipus initially has no idea that Iocastê is his biological mother, and the man he kills, Oedipus believes, is a stranger on the road. He believes that he has run away from his true parents. When Oedipus finally discovers the truth about his past, my heart wrenched in pain for him. However, I, in no way, believe that I could have been him. My compassion for Oedipus stems from my admiration for human strength and courage and my wish for others to feel no pain. Even more venerable is Oedipus’s realization that true human happiness is based on an illusion.
I might be willing to concede that cocaine is acceptable because of its benefits for surgical patients, but I refuse to accept this new theory about Oedipus and psychosexual development. I say this with the utmost respect possible: you would do well to discard this theory. It is entirely perverted, and I a fear that others may condemn you as a lunatic.
Otherwise, I hope that you are doing well in your psychiatric research. May we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. Thank you for your time and patience.
From,
Dr. Wilhelm Français
(672)
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Boy is the Key
Vasya Ivanovich Golovin, Ivan Ilych's son, is a seemingly unimportant character. However, if you look closely at his appearances in The Death of Ivan Ilych, Vasya adds an essential aspect to Tolstoy's novel. While Ivan's schoolboy son has one of the smallest roles and does not speak in Tolstoy's story, his presence is memorable and significant because he is portentous and almost greater than human.
The story's central focus is on the mental, emotional, and spiritual battle that plagues Ivan Ilych's inner being. Ilych struggles to discover the cause of his illness. Finally, he determines that he is sick because he has not led the life that he was supposed to lead, and instead it was full of falsities and meaningless societal expectations that he embraced. Yet, Ivan has trouble accepting this explanation to be the root of his sickness. He rejects the idea, thinking, "How could that be, when I did everything properly?" (304). A couple of weeks later, the possiblity that Ilych failed at life occurred to him again when he sits with Gerasim one evening. Ilych tries to defend his life's actions, but he realized that "there was nothing to defend" (325). Then, the screaming begins. As he screams, Ilych thinks of two things: 1) the fear of his inevitable death, and 2) the horror that he feels for living a life that has been deceitful. Ivan finally stops screaming when he recognizes that he can rectify the situation and seeks to discover the right way to live.
When Ivan stops screaming, he remains in a trance. However, Vasya touches Ivan’s hand, and the touch draws Ivan out of his stupor. In both this scene and the scene before the family leaves for the play, Vasya does not speak but emanates an overwhelming sensation that Ilych feels. The father relates his son to Gerasim, the only other person in the novel who represents honesty and liberation from societal conformity and falsities. Vasya and Gerasim are the only characters who feel real human pity for Ivan. The other family members are full of self-pity, and Ivan's "intimate acquaintances" are self-centered, feel awkward at Ilych's funeral, and seek to obtain his official position. These low-lifes, these self-serving characters starkly contrast the two figures of light and true humanity as well as Ivan Ilych, who is caught precariously and painfully in the middle. Ilych experiences the tension and the pull between society and his conscience. Ultimately, Ilych fully earns our pity and compassion when he firmly decides to follow his conscience.
Vasya is a crucial character in this story for a number of reasons. Firstly, as I said before, Vasya creates a clear contrast between societal deceit and human love. The narrator's tone unambiguously condemns the falsity by, for example, portraying Ilych's wife and daughter with haughty personalities and by demeaning them in the story's subtext and word choice. Secondly, Vasya's appearance at Ilych's funeral and his demeanor hint that there is a negative quality to Peter Ivanovich's presence at the funeral. When Vasya saw Peter, he "scowled morosely" (48). And finally, Vasya "awakes" his father from the screaming trance in the final moments of the story. The boy's touching gestures—the kissing and crying—further display the human love that the boy represents. In addition, Vasya's actions convince Ilych and the reader that love is the "right way" to live life.
Tolstoy's title "The Death of Ivan Ilych" suggests that it is a grim and tragic story. And it is, but we learn that there is a much deeper and very profound message embedded in the plot that is intertwined with the characters. Ultimately, the story contains a mildly happy, and Vasya reminds us that death is pleasant and meaningful if we live with genuine, human love in our hearts. (631)
The story's central focus is on the mental, emotional, and spiritual battle that plagues Ivan Ilych's inner being. Ilych struggles to discover the cause of his illness. Finally, he determines that he is sick because he has not led the life that he was supposed to lead, and instead it was full of falsities and meaningless societal expectations that he embraced. Yet, Ivan has trouble accepting this explanation to be the root of his sickness. He rejects the idea, thinking, "How could that be, when I did everything properly?" (304). A couple of weeks later, the possiblity that Ilych failed at life occurred to him again when he sits with Gerasim one evening. Ilych tries to defend his life's actions, but he realized that "there was nothing to defend" (325). Then, the screaming begins. As he screams, Ilych thinks of two things: 1) the fear of his inevitable death, and 2) the horror that he feels for living a life that has been deceitful. Ivan finally stops screaming when he recognizes that he can rectify the situation and seeks to discover the right way to live.
When Ivan stops screaming, he remains in a trance. However, Vasya touches Ivan’s hand, and the touch draws Ivan out of his stupor. In both this scene and the scene before the family leaves for the play, Vasya does not speak but emanates an overwhelming sensation that Ilych feels. The father relates his son to Gerasim, the only other person in the novel who represents honesty and liberation from societal conformity and falsities. Vasya and Gerasim are the only characters who feel real human pity for Ivan. The other family members are full of self-pity, and Ivan's "intimate acquaintances" are self-centered, feel awkward at Ilych's funeral, and seek to obtain his official position. These low-lifes, these self-serving characters starkly contrast the two figures of light and true humanity as well as Ivan Ilych, who is caught precariously and painfully in the middle. Ilych experiences the tension and the pull between society and his conscience. Ultimately, Ilych fully earns our pity and compassion when he firmly decides to follow his conscience.
Vasya is a crucial character in this story for a number of reasons. Firstly, as I said before, Vasya creates a clear contrast between societal deceit and human love. The narrator's tone unambiguously condemns the falsity by, for example, portraying Ilych's wife and daughter with haughty personalities and by demeaning them in the story's subtext and word choice. Secondly, Vasya's appearance at Ilych's funeral and his demeanor hint that there is a negative quality to Peter Ivanovich's presence at the funeral. When Vasya saw Peter, he "scowled morosely" (48). And finally, Vasya "awakes" his father from the screaming trance in the final moments of the story. The boy's touching gestures—the kissing and crying—further display the human love that the boy represents. In addition, Vasya's actions convince Ilych and the reader that love is the "right way" to live life.
Tolstoy's title "The Death of Ivan Ilych" suggests that it is a grim and tragic story. And it is, but we learn that there is a much deeper and very profound message embedded in the plot that is intertwined with the characters. Ultimately, the story contains a mildly happy, and Vasya reminds us that death is pleasant and meaningful if we live with genuine, human love in our hearts. (631)
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