e une
: School One’s Journal Of Ideas Volume 11, Issue 1 June 2012
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e une
School One’s Journal Of Ideas
Volume 11: June 8, 2012
Contributors:
Taylor Boone
Max Brumberg-Kraus
Amanda Crausman
Nelson Healy
Justin Monti
Adam Price-Schaeffer
Chelsea Riordan
Alice Russell
Cover Art: Max Brumberg-Kraus
Welcome to our eleventh issue of e une, School One’s Journal Of Ideas. This is an opportunity for
our writing and reasoning intensive school to publish some of its students’ best work. The brave
authors volunteered these pieces to enlighten you. The topics in this issue largely cover the
literature (with a heavy dollop of Shakespeare this year), history, philosophy and a little science
from the ancient world until today. The works run in roughly chronological order.
Find a comfortable chair, and open your mind. E une plurimus!
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Contents
Medieval Matters
Page 4
Adam Price-Schaeffer examines gender in Chaucer, and Max Brumberg-Kraus casts a spell.
Shakespeare Studies
Page 12
Max doesn’t care who Shakespeare was, Taylor Boone and Max tackle the merchant of Venice and
Max assesses Cleopatra and Coriolanus.
The Enlightenment
Page 31
Adam returns to the subject of gender several hundred years later, and Max compares Hobbes and
Swift.
Romanticism
Page 37
Taylor introduces this year’s favorite period with musings about the pre-Romantics, Chelsea
Riordan considers innocence and experience, Amanda Crausman and Justin Monti tackle two of the
great Romantic novels and Taylor and Amanda assess Romantic concepts of time.
Modern Melange `
Page 52
Alice Russell addresses the early women’s movement, Justin joins Freud in considering gender in
Fairy Tales, Nelson Healy helps us see the Nitrogen Cycle from a first person perspective and Justin
assesses In Cold Blood.
Current Affairs `
Page 59
Taylor views Brazil, Amanda considers Bill Clinton and Taylor considers homeland security and
policies of the past ten years.
MEDIEVAL MATTERS
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Women and Chaucer
Adam L. Price-Schaeffer
The Middle Ages were not a time when it was fun to be woman. Marriage was usually a practice
undertaken for the sake of politics or money rather than love, and women were supposed to be
completely loyal and obedient to their husbands. Though such a thing was considered ideal, it was
instead expected that women would cheat, lie and otherwise defraud their way into either their
husbands’ wallets or other men’s beds. This led to misogyny so rampant that most writings of the
time were dangerously close to anti-woman propaganda. Chaucer was one of the few writers of the
time who was actually somewhat feminist in his views, and this is one of the few things expressed
rather clearly in The Canterbury Tales. While most of the tales in said book had some view of women
in them, I will be referring specifically to The Franklin‘s Tale, The Wife of Bath‘s Tale, The Knight‘s
Tale, The Miller‘s Tale, The Reeve‘s Tale, The Clerk‘s Tale, The Merchant‘s Tale, The Shipman‘s Tale,
The Man-of-Law‘s Tale and The Nun’s Priest‘s Tale for the duration of this essay. Christine de Pisan,
one of the very few known female authors of The Middle Ages, wrote a book called The Book of the
City of Ladies. An excerpt from this will also be discussed herein. As with any other issue or topic
that Chaucer brings up, many different viewpoints are spoken for throughout the tales, with the
sum for this topic coming to three. With the aid of Chaucer’s descriptions of the (respective)
storytellers and some judicious usage of common sense, though, it can be ascertained that Chaucer
is much more a feminist than almost anyone else from his period.
The first viewpoint expressed falls about midway on the misogyny spectrum. Said view is that
women are trustworthy but very passive. This is expressed in The Knight’s Tale when Emily (who is
about to have a massive battle fought over her) goes to the temple of Diana to ask that she “Let all
their violent loves and hot desires, Their ceaseless torments and consuming fires, Be quenched, or
turned towards another place”(Chaucer 79) This alone would make her seem quite independent,
but this is quite negated by the next installment of her prayer “Yet if thou wilt not do me so much
grace, Or if my destiny ordains it so That one will have me whether I will or no, Then send me him
that shall desire me most”(Chaucer 79). The other section of this premise is that a woman’s honor is
more important than anything else. This would be well and good if not for the fact that “anything
else” includes her life. The Franklin’s Tale includes the death of its heroine as a carefully considered
option but does not go through with it, as is best shown here: “Thus for a day or two she spent her
breath, poor Dorigen, and ever purposed death” (Chaucer 444). Perhaps the best example of this
view throughout The Canterbury Tales is The Man of Law’s Tale. Said tale is the story of the
adventures of a woman named Constance, who does almost nothing throughout the entire story
other than sit quietly as she is shipped across the sea several times and agrees to marry the king of
whatever nation she happens to be in at the time. This seems to be the most moderate view of
women, being neither terribly misogynist nor terribly feminist, and it would seem to be the
viewpoint closest to Chaucer’s own as nearly every story that includes it is told by a character
portrayed as being a reasonably good person.
What we consider to be a moderate view of women now was considered feminist during The
Middle Ages, making Chaucer quite a feminist when compared to the majority of his
contemporaries. Despite this, he does give the more misogynist view of women a place in his
stories. The majority of this seems to come in the more comedic tales, with a single exception. Said
exception is The Nun’s Priest’s Tale. Though not as explicitly misogynist as The Miller’s Tale or The
Merchant’s Tale, it does contain some misogynist material. For example: “O woman’s counsel is
often cold! A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe, made Adam out of Paradise to go…”(Chaucer
242). On the other hand, though, teller of this tale (The Nun’s Priest) also explicitly states that
“These are the cock’s words, and not mine, I’m giving; I think no harm of any woman living”
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(Chaucer 242), which seems to my mind to be Chaucer’s escape clause. The tales of the
aforementioned Miller and Merchant are honestly, completely and beyond a shadow of a doubt
entirely misogynist. The Miller’s Tale features as its heroine the young wife of a jealous old
carpenter whom she cuckolds and manages to portray as being insane in extremely comical fashion
with the help of her lover. The Merchant’s Tale stars yet another young bride with an old husband
whose activities are best surmised here: “And down he stooped; upon his back she stood, Catching a
branch, and with a spring she thence…went up into the tree, and Damian Pulled up her smock at
once and in he thrust”(Chaucer 402). The Shipman’s Tale also features some amount of misogyny, as
once again the wife cuckolds her husband, but it is much less focused upon than in the two I just
mentioned. On the whole, I’d say that this viewpoint is dutifully included by Chaucer. I do not,
however, believe it his personal view judging by what sort of characters he has telling the tales it
features in.
The final viewpoint represented on the subject of women is the feminist perspective. A couple of
tales feature this viewpoint, such as The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Clerk’s Tale, though the latter
does so in a roundabout sort of way. The former tale is unabashedly feminist, as its entire premise
is a young knight discovering that what women want most is control over their family. With lines
like: “‘Whatever pleases you suffices me.’ ‘And have I won the mastery?’ said she, ‘Since I’m to
choose and rule as I think fit?’ ‘Certainly, wife,’ he answered her, ‘that’s it.’ ‘Kiss me!’ She cried”
(Chaucer 307), it cannot be doubted that The Wife of Bath is a distinctly feminist character.
Meanwhile, The Clerk’s Tale would not seem to be a terribly feminist tale. Instead, this tale would
fall into the category of tales described in the second paragraph but for one thing. After telling a
tale of an unbelievably patient good and loyal wife named Griselda who is put through tests by her
husband that would seem nearly insurmountable to a normal woman and maintains her demeanor
throughout, The Clerk states that “Husbands, be not so hardy as to assail The patience of your wives
in hope to find Griseldas, for you certainly will fail. O noble wives, in highest prudence bred, Allow
no such humility to nail Your tongues, or give a scholar cause to shed Such light on you as this
astounding tale sheds on Griselda” (Chaucer 370-371), which seems to be yet another escape clause
inserted by Chaucer to ensure that The Clerk whom he had portrayed so well was not seen as being
at all misogynist in his views. The Book of the City of Ladies is also quite clearly aligned towards the
feminist side of the table, which doesn’t surprise me much as it was clearly written as an almost
“counter-propaganda” against the misogynist writings of the time. The extent of this “counterpropaganda” is only properly described with an example from the prologue: Christine notices that
nearly every author throughout history holds an anti-women viewpoint (at least in their writing)
and, believing them to be correct and more intelligent than herself, falls into despair that her entire
gender is so horribly vile. In the midst of her suffering, three female angels appear and explain some
things to her, concluding through some very confusing (and rather backward) logic that Christine
must “Come back to yourself, recover your senses, and do not trouble yourself anymore over such
absurdities. For you know that any evil spoken of women so generally only hurts those who say it,
not women themselves” (de Pisan I.2.1 8). While these tales are not in the majority in The
Canterbury Tales, they do seem to be favored somewhat by Chaucer.
Chaucer deals with the topic of women with the same level of mastery as he does nearly every other
topic found throughout The Canterbury Tales. He tells different stories with different points of view,
all on the same subject. Unlike with other topics, here Chaucer’s actual viewpoint seems to be rather
obvious, at least when compared to his (respective) viewpoints on other topics. The evidence I
would support this with is that every misogynist tale in The Canterbury Tales is comical rather than
serious and that the respective tellers of said tales are portrayed as being a tad slimy or even –in
one case- an unabashed robber! The tales told from the feminist point of view are told by characters
portrayed in a primarily positive light by Chaucer. On the whole I would say that (comparatively
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speaking, at least) it is fairly obvious that Chaucer is significantly more feminist than most other
writers of the time.
Magic
Max Brumberg-Kraus
In Medieval and Renaissance literature, magic often plays an important role. From fairy kings to
Merlin to oracles and witches, magic takes many different forms. In the medieval Canterbury Tales
by Chaucer, several of the stories deal with magic. The Wife of Bath’s Tale deals with fairies, spells,
and transmutation. The Franklin’s Tale includes a powerful magician. The Canon-Yeoman’s Tale is
about a fraudulent alchemist. In medieval times, magic is usually considered a supernatural,
fairylike thing. It is believed that there are people who can perform magic, but it is somewhat of an
innate ability. By the Renaissance, magic has become much more of a serious study. You have the
ars magica, “art of magic,” which is a mixture of several mystical traditions, like Cabala and
Hermeticism, with magic and alchemy. The ars magica is studied and practiced by the biggest
brains in Europe. Medieval magic seems to be more of an innate ability, while Renaissance magic is
more of an art to be studied. Also, in the Renaissance there is a surplus of books about angelology
and demonology, which has a large effect on what magic becomes. Most Renaissance magic involves
the invocation and/or summoning of either a demon or angel. By summoning supernatural
creatures, Renaissance magicians use them to gain power and learn the nature of the world.
Christopher Marlowe, a Renaissance playwright, writes The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
about a brilliant man who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for power. Faustus uses his devil
servant, Mephistophilis, for all sorts of tricks and pranks, but eventually, Faustus, who has refused
to repent for any of his sins, dies and is brought to Hell. In Shakespeare’s The Tempest we have a
different Renaissance magician: Prospero. Prospero is a brilliant man, the exiled Duke of Milan, and
a powerful magician. He has a spirit, Ariel, who he controls and uses to carry out supernatural
tasks. In this play, Prospero uses magic to test and teach his enemies who exiled him, his daughter
and her beloved, and his slave, Caliban.
Though medieval and Renaissance magic are different, they can be used in similar ways in
literature. Here are three categories that can sum up the use of magic in these literary traditions.
The first category is magic that tests us. In several stories, magic isn’t evil or necessarily good. In
tales like The Wife of Bath’s Tale, The Franklin’s Tale, and The Tempest, magic is a powerful device
that tests the characters and teaches them a moral lesson. The second category is similar but more
negative. The second way magic is used as a plot device is that magic tempts us. Specifically in
Doctor Faustus, magic is something negative and sinful. It can corrupt us. Finally, there are tales
that display magic as something that isn’t real. Tales like The Canon-Yeoman’s Tale talk about
magicians as conmen and magic as superstition. In medieval and Renaissance literature, magic is
something that tests us, something that tempts us to sin, or something that isn’t even real.
Magic Tests Us
The Wife of Bath tells a story that takes place during King Arthur’s reign. A knight rapes a woman.
Arthur is ready to execute the knight, but the queen decides that the knight as a year to answer this
question within a year: what do women want most of all? If he answers correctly, he will be cleared
of all charges. The knight hears many different answers, and the year is almost at its end. One day
in the forest, he sees several spirits dancing. They disappear and where they were, the knight sees a
hideous hag. This hag tells him that she will give him the answer to the question if he marries her.
The knight accepts, and the woman tells him that women want control over their husbands. The
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knight tells this to Arthur’s queen, and she and all the women in the land agree that this is the
answer. Now the knight has to marry the ugly woman. He doesn’t particularly want to, but he has
to keep his promise. During their wedding night, the ugly woman tells the knight that she can either
be an ugly but faithful wife or a beautiful but unfaithful wife. The knight says that she should make
the decision herself. He passes her test, and she becomes a beautiful and faithful wife. They live
happily ever after (Chaucer 183-204).
This story begins with a knight committing a crime. He is given a chance to save his life by
answering the queen’s question. However, by just answering the question, the knight hasn’t
changed or learned anything. The magic woman makes the knight prove that he’s changed. She
appears ugly to the knight to test him. She makes him promise to marry her. Even though he
doesn’t want to marry her, he keeps his promise. This is a noble action. Finally, when he lets her
choose to be beautiful or faithful, he has passed a final test. She transforms herself into a beautiful
woman. The woman has magically transformed herself, and in so doing, she transforms the knight.
He starts out as a criminal and ends up as an honorable and kind husband.
The Franklin’s Tale also uses magic to teach a lesson. In this story, Arveragus and Dorigen are a
happily married couple. They are devoted to each other. Arveragus leaves to England to quest, and
while he is away, a squire, Aurelius, tries to woo her (Chaucer 311-319). To get him away from her,
Dorigen tells him:
“Aurelius…by God above, yet would I well consent to be your love, since I hear you
complain so piteously, on that day when, from coasts of Brittany, you've taken all the black
rocks, stone by stone, so that they hinder ship nor boat- I own, I say, when you have made
the coast so clean of rocks that there is no stone to be seen, then will I love you best of any
man” (Chaucer 319).
Dorigen would only marry Aurelius if he could move al the black rocks off of the coast of Brittany.
Aurelius finds a powerful magician who, for a high price, accomplishes this feat. Arveragus comes
home and after finding out about Dorigen’s promise, tells her that she must marry Aurelius.
Aurelius sees, however, that Arveragus and Dorigen are in love, and he decides to let them stay
together. The magician is moved by this act and doesn’t charge Aurelius for the removal of the
black rocks (Chaucer 311-330).
The moral of this story is: don’t make promises you’re not willing to keep. Dorigen reasonably
doesn’t believe that Aurelius can accomplish this feat, but by using magic, he finds a way. Dorigen
should not have made this promise, even jokingly. Magic teaches her that anything can happen and
not to bet on things that really matter.
Finally, Shakespeare’s The Tempest incorporates the use of magic as test throughout the entire
story. Many years have passed since Prospero’s brother Antonio, with the help of the King of
Naples, usurped his place as Duke of Milan, exiling Prospero and his daughter Miranda in the
process. Prospero and Miranda live on an island with their slave Caliban, who is a native of the
island, and a magical spirit, Ariel. Prospero’s enemies Antonio, Alonzo the King of Naples, Alonso’s
brother, Sebastian, Alonso’s son, Ferdinand and Prospero’s friend Gonzalo, who went out of his way
to help Prospero when he was exiled, are on a boat near the island. Prospero tells Ariel to conjure
up a storm. The storm sinks the boat, and Prospero’s three enemies and Gonzalo are brought to one
part of the island. Ferdinand is brought to another. Also, a butler named Stephano and a jester
named Trinculo, who were also on the boat, are brought to a third place on the island. On the
island, Caliban meets up with the butler and the fool and with them plots to kill Prospero. Sebastian
and Antonio plant to kill Alonso and Gonzalo, so that Sebastian can become the next king of Naples.
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Prospero uses his magic to make his enemies repent, to scold Caliban for trying to overthrow him,
and to help Miranda and Ferdinand fall in love. Prospero pulls all the strings in this play, tests all
the characters, and when all is right, he drowns his books in the sea and sets Ariel free.
Throughout the play, Prospero sends Ariel out to torment and test the characters of the play. After
knowing full well that Sebastian and Antonio are still up to their usual plotting Prospero sends
Ariel, in the form of a harpy, to them. Ariel says:
“You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, that hath to instrument this lower world
and what is in't, the never-surfeited sea hath caused to belch up you; and on this island
where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
and even with such-like valour men hang and drown their proper selves… I and my fellows
are ministers of Fate… But remember…that you three from Milan did supplant good
Prospero; exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, him and his innocent child: for which
foul deed the powers, delaying, not forgetting, have incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the
creatures, against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, they have bereft; and do pronounce
by me: lingering perdition, worse than any death can be at once, shall step by step attend you
and your ways” (The Tempest Act 3, Scene III).
First of all, Gonzalo doesn’t see this horrible vision. Only those who deposed Prospero are subject
to this vision of Ariel as a harpy. Ariel torments their minds, tells Alonso that his living son is dead,
and reminds them of what they did to Prospero. The men who see this are all scared. Prospero is
on all of their minds, and Alonso does seem to feel remorse. He is at least acknowledging his guilt.
He says of the storm:
“O, it is monstrous, monstrous: methought the billows spoke and told me of it; the
winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, that deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced the
name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and I'll
seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded and with him there lie mudded” (The Tempest
Act 3, Scene III).
Alonso is so sad about his son, and guilty about Prospero, that he has become somewhat suicidal.
He threatens to cast himself into the sea. Sebastian and Antonio, on the other hand, have not
learned their lessons. They say to each other:
“SEBASTIAN
But one fiend at a time, I'll fight their legions o'er.
ANTONIO
I'll be thy second” (The Tempest Act 3, Scene III).
They don’t reflect on what they have done. Instead, they want to fight off any other monster that
they may see. In the end of the play, Prospero confronts Alonso, Antonio, Sebastian and Gonzalo.
He is happy to see Gonzalo, who is happy to see him. Realizing that Alonso has repented and
suffered for his crime, Prospero says:
“Behold, sir king, the wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero: for more assurance that a
living prince does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; and to thee and thy company I bid
a hearty welcome” (The Tempest Act 5, Scene I).
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He then says to Antonio and Sebastian:
“But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness' frown
upon you and justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales…for you, most wicked sir,
whom to call brother would even infect my mouth, I do forgive thy rankest fault; all of them;
and require my dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, thou must restore” (The Tempest
Act 5, Scene I).
He will not tell Alonso of Antonio and Sebastian’s plans, but Antonio must give back Milan to
Prospero. Everyone has learned what he or she has done wrongly, and everything is brought back
to order. Ferdinand and Alonso are reunited. Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo return what they
have stolen from Prospero, and Caliban tells his master:
“I'll be wise hereafter and seek for grace” (The Tempest Act 5, Scene I).
Everyone has repented for what he or she has done, and Prospero no longer needs magic. He
releases Ariel from his service.
Prospero is a morally ambiguous character. He uses magic to test and transform other people. He
doesn’t kill or harm. He tries to better his enemies and make the world fair. One hand, I don’t think
it is okay for someone to try to control what people will do. In many ways, Prospero doesn’t do this.
He sets up situations that test the characters. He doesn’t control what they do; he controls where
they are and what’s happening to them. However, Prospero also uses his magic to bind Ariel to him.
He keeps Caliban as a slave. In The Tempest, Prospero is an ambiguous character, and magic
becomes somewhat ambiguous. It can be used for good, and it can be used for evil. It is not one or
the other.
In all of these stories, the characters are better off after magic is introduced. Dorigen learns not to
make bad promises. The knight becomes a respectful and honorable person. The characters in The
Tempest end up married, freed, wiser, or forgiven. In these stories, magic tests these characters and
transforms them into better people.
Magic Tempts Us
In The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, Doctor Faustus hands over his soul to the devil in
exchange for the service of the demon Mephistophilis’s services for twenty-four years. Faustus is
brilliant, but he succumbs to his lust for power. He originally wants to study magic so that he can
help people. He talks about how as a doctor he has no power to save people from death, but as a
magician he could:
“Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, whereby whole cities have escap'd the
plague, and thousand desperate maladies been eas'd? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a
man. Couldst thou make men to live eternally, or, being dead, raise them to life again, then
this profession were to be esteem'd…Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine
call you this, che sera, sera, what will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of
magicians, and necromantic books are heavenly; lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters;
ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. O, what a world of profit and delight, of power,
of honour, of omnipotence, is promis'd to the studious artizan!” (Faustus Act 1, Scene I).
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Faustus originally wants to use magic to help people. Even then, however, he still wants power. He
likes the idea of playing God, it seems, but he does have good intentions. As the play goes on,
however, he quickly loses sight his noble goal, and instead he succumbs to sin and power and lust.
He plays pranks on the Pope, makes a man grow antlers, tricks another man into buying a horse
that is really made of straw, and finally, he degrades into using his powers to entertain the whims of
the nobility:
“DUCHESS. Thanks, good Master Doctor; and, for I see your courteous intent to pleasure me,
I will not hide from you the thing my heart desires; and, were it now summer, as it is January
and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes.
FAUSTUS. Alas, madam, that's nothing!—Mephistophilis, begone.
Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.
Were it a greater thing than this, so it would content you, you should have it.
Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes.
Here they be, madam; wilt please you taste on them?” (Faustus Act 4, Scene III).
Faustus is using his powers for trite and in many cases sinful things. In the end, Faustus doesn’t
repent, and he is sent to hell.
In The Tempest, Prospero may be morally ambiguous, but he doesn’t use his magic for trite things.
He uses Caliban as a slave. Caliban fetches wood and deals with the fire. Furthermore, Prospero is
obsessed with his honor, his kingdom, vengeance, and forgiveness. Faustus likes playing pranks.
He begins as a noble character but quickly falls. Though it is his own power-lust that depraves
Faustus, the magic is a key aspect of his downfall. Magic gives Faustus too much power. I think that
without magic, Faustus wouldn’t be on the path of sin. He wouldn’t have had the tragedy. Giving
Faustus the power that magic has destroys him.
Magic Isn’t Real; Magicians Are Frauds
The Canon and his Yeoman ride up and join the pilgrims. The Yeoman does most of the speaking
and tells the host that the Canon is an alchemist. The Yeoman, somewhat accidentally, admits this
about him and his master’s craft:
“To many folk we bring about illusion, and borrow gold, perhaps a pound or two, or ten, or
twelve, or any sum will do, and make them think, aye, at the least, it's plain, that from a
pound of gold we can make twain! It is all false, but yet we have great hope that we can do
it” (Chaucer 344).
The Canon chastises the Yeoman for saying this. He then rides away from the group. Now, the
Yeoman begins to tell his tale. The Yeoman begins by warning people of becoming alchemists. He
says:
“That slippery science has made me so bare that I've no goods, wherever I may fare;
and I am still indebted so thereby for gold that I have borrowed, truthfully, that while I live I
shall repay it never. Let every man be warned by me for ever! And any man who casts his
lot thereon, if he continue, I hold his thrift gone. So help me God, thereby he shall not win,
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but empty purse and have his wits grow thin. And when he, through his madness and folly,
has lost his own, by willing jeopardy, then will he incite others, many a one, to lose their
wealth as he himself has done” (Chaucer 345).
He says that alchemy doesn’t create gold; it loses gold. The Yeoman lost his money, possessions,
and health when he began serving the Canon. He says that once alchemists have lost their money,
they try to trick everyone else out of their money. After much discussion of haw alchemists are liars
and thieves, the Yeoman finally tells his tale. He starts with describing a renowned alchemist. He
makes people look like fools by tricking them, but still people travel from all over to see the
alchemist. A priest wants the alchemist to make him some gold out of base metals. The tale goes on
and on about how the alchemist tricks the priest out of tons of money by pretending he is
experimenting. He then charges him for the “transmutations” (Chaucer 346-353). The Yeoman
ends his tale by saying that the metal-transmuting Philosopher’s Stone should never be found by
any man:
“Since God in Heaven wills that philosophers shall not say even how any man may come
upon that stone, I say, as for the best, let it alone. For whoso makes of God his adversary, to
work out anything that is contrary to what He wills, he'll surely never thrive, though he
should multiply while he's alive. And there's the end; for finished is my tale. May God's
salvation to no good man fail!” (Chaucer 353).
The Yeoman says that if a man could transmute, he would be playing God, and that is a sin. His
whole story is a condemnation of alchemy and alchemists.
The Yeoman doesn’t believe in magic. Magicians and alchemists are frauds. Those who try to play
God will fail. I think that probably a lot of people in medieval times agree with the Yeoman. Even if
there is a belief in magic, I am sure many people would agree that it is wrong and sinful to play God
and try to manipulate the world around you.
One of the biggest differences between the medieval world and the Renaissance world is the
importance of the individual in the world. In the medieval world, few people have any importance.
Most people are serfs or poor craftsmen. The church and many kings in this time period look down
on change and reform. This even applies to alchemical transmutation, to some extent. You
shouldn’t change society, God’s laws, or the world around you. The Renaissance is a time where the
individual has some kind of importance. Discovery thrives. The world is beginning its
modernization. Magic becomes something to study, not just fear or mistrust. Eventually it is
disproven, but before it was just secret or considered false.
Conclusion.
Magical powers represent power in general. Stories about magic show what people choose to do
with power. They also show how we should react to power and how we do react to power. The old
woman in The Wife of Bath’s Tale and Prospero use their magic to teach and better other people.
Dorigen learns that she should be careful, because what she expects will happen may not occur.
There is a power more powerful than she, and her words can be binding. Faustus is corrupted with
power. The Canon and other alchemists described by the Yeoman are powerless and because of
that, they envy power, and they want to make other people powerless. Magic is just power over the
supernatural and control of nature. All these stories could be about powerful kings or politicians
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instead of magicians and they could have the same morals. However, there is something we like
about magic. Magic is appealing to us. It is something that we don’t or barely believe we see. It is
foreign and exotic. You can write amazing things about power struggles, kings, leaders, and
politicians. When you write about magic, there’s a timelessness and spirituality. There’s something
cosmic. At the same time, I think we can relate to magicians more easily than we can relate to
politicians or kings. Magicians don’t have to be royalty. They don’t have to be rich. Magicians can
be people from any class and race and place in society. Magicians are regular people, and in stories
like Faustus, we can see what a regular person might do with power. Sometimes this power is
beneficial. Sometimes power damns us. Sometimes we realize don’t even have power in the end.
Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Chaucer understand how power plays a role in our lives, and they
weave stories that warn us, bewilder us, and teach us about it.
SHAKESPEARE STUDIES
Much Ado About Nothing:
The Oxfordian/Stratfordian Dispute
Max Brumberg-Kraus
Shakespeare is often considered the best English writer and at least one of the best writers in any
language. His plays are brilliant; his poetry is beloved. His words are spoken by millions of people,
and his ideas continue to influence. His life is everlasting; he lives immortally. Of course, we can’t
just appreciate this mythic, superb Shakespeare living through plays and poems. We have to delve
into the life of the “real” man. We have a story about a guy who is from Stratford-upon-Avon,
marries Anne Hathaway, has three children with her, makes a name for himself, makes money for
himself, becomes affiliated with the court and eventually dies. Unfortunately, we humans are a
skeptical lot, seeing treachery in the face of truth. Shakespeare’s historical life is constantly
debated. Some suspects for the real Shakespeare include Christopher Marlowe, Francis Bacon and
Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford. For a while, Bacon is considered the most likely candidate,
but now, the war in academia and media is fought between the Oxfordians and the Stratfordians.
Oxfordians propose that the Shakespeare from Stratford is not educated enough to be the writer of
such profound work. Furthermore, they draw parallels between Oxford’s life and aspects of
Shakespeare plays. They scan Shakespeare’s poetry as well as statements from his contemporaries
and find Illuminati-esque clues that support Edward de Vere. The Stratfordians believe that
Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. They argue that Shakespeare is educated enough. They say he
was a brilliant man and remind us that brilliance isn’t a supernatural attribute. Furthermore, they
support their argument using computer data analysis and historical documents. After reading
several articles written by people on both sides, I definitely find the Stratfordians more convincing
than the Oxfordians, but I find the whole debate somewhat pointless and insulting to Shakespeare’s
work.
A Tale Told By An Idiot
The central point of the Oxfordian theory seems to be that Shakespeare wasn’t educated enough to
write these plays. Professor Daniel Wright, an Oxfordian, states this point:
“These works are the mature achievements of someone else (not the Stratfordian
Shakespeare)––a worldly and urbane littérateur, a dexterous and experienced writer
endowed with broad linguistic ability and an extraordinarily particularized knowledge of
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many arcane and specialized studies, an erudite, well-traveled man of prior achievement
with something more than money as a motive for his art who could not tell the world his
name” (Harper’s 43).
Oxfordians argue that the Stratford Shakespeare was a common man who fit none of the
aforementioned qualities of the true Shakespeare. The only things we have with Shakespeare’s
own writing on it are legal documents. We only have his signature. These documents include
certificates of his baptism and marriage, lawsuits, bills, and his will. Scholar Tom Bethell writes:
“We have no letter or manuscript in Shakespere’s hand, though we do have six
signatures, quavering and ill-written, on legal documents. (One imagines a bailiff helpfully at
his elbow: ‘Keep goin’. Will, now an S. That’s good…’) In Stratford, we have records of
baptism, marriage, lawsuits, death, and taxes. Not one gives us a reason to think that
Shakspere was an author. We don’t know that he went to school, though he may have
attended Stratford Grammar” (Harper’s 36).
Bethell believes there was a man named Shakespeare. He doubts that Shakespeare had any decent
education, it seems, by his critiquing of the handwriting. Though he is poking fun when he talks
about the bailiff, I think Bethell’s joke should be taken seriously. It shows an elitist mentality
central to the Oxfordian theory. Bethell acknowledges a possibility that Shakespeare went to
grammar school, but he doesn’t talk about what he would have learned at grammar school. He just
presents Shakespeare as a simpleton.
The Oxfordians have demonstrated that Shakespeare couldn’t have written Shakespeare, but why
Edward de Vere? De Vere was somewhat of a poet and a supporter of theatre. He was known for
being a pederast and probably homosexual. He married his oldest daughter to the Earl of
Southampton (Harper’s 37). These facts are relevant for a few reasons. Many of the sonnets are
written to a “fair youth.” It is often thought that Shakespeare, whoever he was, was probably gay or
bisexual. Oxford was definitely known for “buggering.” Furthermore, Shakespeare’s poems, Venus
and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece, are dedicated to Southampton. Bethell proposes that Oxford
may have had a sexual relationship with Southampton (Harper’s 37).
It’s strange that the writer of such marvelous works wouldn’t want to be known for writing them.
Why does Oxford write under the name of Shakespeare? According to Bethell, noblemen couldn’t
use their names when writing for publication (Harper’s 37). It was seen as dishonorable for
noblemen to appear as if they needed money from publishing. According to Bethell, it seems
noblemen were afraid of being recognized of as intelligent writers (Harpers 38). Still, why choose
Shakespeare? Writer Mark Anderson explains:
“Elizabethans knew that Pallas Athena was known by the sobriquet ‘the spearshaker.’ The hyphen in Shake-speare’s name also was a tip off” (Harper’s 46).
Obviously, Oxford wanted to present himself as wise, so he used Athena’s epithet and made it into
his pseudonym. That’s when the Masons come in and start plotting with a neo-pagan army of Nazis
who survived WWII. At least, that fits into the conspiracy. However, I’m sure Mark makes some
more grounded, reasonable claims. Mark inevitably proves that Oxford wrote Shakespeare when he
tells us that marked verses in Oxford’s Bible correspond to some of the verses used in
Shakespeare’s works. My God! Mark continues to talk about obscure aspects of de Vere’s life that
correspond to several Shakespeare plays. Oxford had an unhappy marriage and an old blabbering
father in law. Wait a minute…a crazy wife could be Ophelia… an ancient father in law could be
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Polonius…of course! De Vere is Hamlet (Harper 48). Oxfordians love this sort of exposition. To be
fair, so do the Stratfordians. Members of both sides of the argument like to read the plays as a
secret biography of Shakespeare.
The Oxfordians can’t imagine how someone other than a nobleman could have written Shakespeare.
De Vere is a smart guy, has traveled a lot, is totally gay, is wealthy and likes theatre. He must be the
real Shakespeare! The Oxfordians seem to think that Shakespeare couldn’t have written for the
money. He couldn’t have been a talented middle class businessman. They seem to be disgusted
with the idea that Shakespeare was a smart guy who wasn’t noble. It infuriates me when people
can’t imagine brilliance and artistic genius. The Oxfordians can’t deal with the idea that
Shakespeare might have been a regular guy with a brilliant mind and true talent. Instead, they
settle for de Vere.
Full of Sound And Fury
The Stratfordians are passionate defenders of the more traditional view of Shakespeare. They say
that the man who signed the legal documents is the same as the man who wrote the plays. They
believe that Shakespeare was brilliant but not some otherworldly, demi-human. Shakespeare was
born into a breed of happy men of a little world: Stratford-upon-Avon. His father was the head
alderman of the town, so Shakespeare wasn’t poor. He was middle class. Because of his place in
society, he went to grammar school in Stratford. The Oxfordians say that Shakespeare couldn’t have
written his plays without a nobleman’s education. However, Jonathan Bate, in his The Genius of
Shakespeare, describes a fairly impressive Grammar school education:
“Shakespeare’s education would…have begun with the fundamentals of Christian
doctrine, as laid out in the catechism of the Anglican Church. From there, it would have
proceeded to a thorough grounding in Latin grammar. Having been drilled in his grammar,
the young William would then have been led line by line through a range of set texts – first, a
variety of anthologies and selections, then some original works by the major authors of
classical Rome” (Bate 9).
Shakespeare was versed in Ovid. He read Plutarch. His plays reflect this knowledge. More
importantly, it wasn’t too hard to be learned in these writers. Grammar school taught the great
Roman writers. Another thing that these schools taught was a form of dialogue called a colloquy.
Bate writes:
“A colloquy is a miniature play, in which appropriate words are found for particular
situations and character types” (Bate 9).
Shakespeare was basically introduced to theatre in grammar school. Eventually, many of his
speeches use the forms and techniques taught in Latin grammar schools. In fact, de Vere wouldn’t
have known these techniques, because grammar school would have been beneath him. He wouldn’t
have had the training to write Shakespearean speeches.
Another piece of evidence, at least that disputes the Oxfordians, is computer testing of
Shakespearean plays. According to an article by Edward Dolnick, computers can calculate the
patterns of the words used by writers and figure out who is most likely to have written what. After
putting Shakespeare’s plays into the right program, the computer can calculate how many words he
uses, what his most common words are, and how he changes over time. When tested, it turned out
that Marlowe, Bacon, and de Vere didn’t match the patterns of writing. Unfortunately, Queen
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Elizabeth’s speech patterns came very close to Shakespeare’s writing patterns. This disproved the
computer theory until the program got better and she was kicked out of the race. Though this
method doesn’t prove who wrote Shakespeare, it can prove who didn’t. If none of his speech or
writing patterns match Shakespeare’s, how could de Vere write those plays?
The Stratfordians argue that Shakespeare was intelligent and had enough background to write his
plays. He would have learned enough background in grammar school. Based on the legal
documents, they ascertain that he was good with money and a skilled businessman.
The Stratfordians are just as passionate as the Oxfordians. They argue for Shakespeare and not de
Vere. They use some of the same tools, like pointing to the plays, to fuel their reasoning. However,
unlike the Oxfordians, they have the legal documents and probably a more reasonable
understanding of Shakespeare’s times. They know that much could be learned in regular schools
and how Elizabethan writers work. I think the Oxfordians equate a commoner of a different time
period, with less education and chance to become great, with an Elizabethan time where there were
chances for a commoner to become great. Finally, if you write like Shakespeare, having that
complete brilliance, you are most likely going to make it big.
Signifying Nothing
This whole debate about the real Shakespeare infuriates me. Why must we spend so much time
and effort on it? Will it make the plays better? Will it improve the sonnets? What makes
Shakespeare so great is that he’s universal. His work has a personality, but it can also reach and
reflect other personalities. Why do we need to figure out who wrote Shakespeare? Do we have to
make his work more conditional? This argument between the Stratfordians and Oxfordians is a
petty dispute. It’s nothing compared to the splendor that is reading a wonderful play. We try to
make Shakespeare human, something personal, but Shakespeare has become something greater
than human. We have raised him to such a high place that he has become something to which we
cannot relate. However, his characters are people. They have emotions and personalities that are
real. They are the people to whom we can relate. I think this debate between the Oxfordians and
Stratfordians is pointless. They aren’t doing anything helpful. They discuss nothing. If they want to
find the human Shakespeare, it’s too bad. He isn’t a person anymore. He is plays and sonnets and
many characters. He is many people. They’ll never find the life of the Shakespeare we know,
because the Shakespeare we know lives forever.
The Merchant of Venice: Antonio
Taylor Boone
William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice is an oddly titled play. The merchant himself,
Antonio, is far from the main character; Bassanio, Shylock and Portia all appear more often in the
play and leave a stronger impression on the reader/ viewer. The play starts off with Antonio, and
the plot technically revolves around him, but he becomes less and less important as the play
progresses. Antonio becomes lost in the subplots that permeate The Merchant of Venice. That being
said, Antonio is a very odd and interesting character. At the beginning of the play, the merchant
complains of ennui: “In sooth, I know not why I am so sad” (The Merchant of Venice I-I 1). Various
friends question him and try to cheer him up; Antonio admits to no one reason for his woe. His close
friend Bassanio wants to borrow money from him, and Antonio happily obliges, although he has no
money on hand. He visits the hateful Jewish moneylender Shylock, who offers him money free of
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interest on the condition that Antonio grant him a “pound of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
in what part of your body pleaseth me” (The Merchant of Venice I-III 146-148). Antonio, optimistic
and seemingly not quite grasping the bizarre cruelty of his situation, accepts. This sets into motion
the entire conflict of the play, but it is the only significant thing Antonio does in The Merchant of
Venice.
Bassanio wants Antonio’s money so he can travel to and woo a wealthy and beautiful heiress named
Portia, who lives in another town called Belmont. He has apparently borrowed from Antonio before
and been less than punctual in repaying his debt: Bassanio tells Antonio, “I owe you much, and like a
willful youth that which I owe is lost; but if you please to shoot another arrow that self way which
you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, as I will watch the aim, or to find both, or bring your letter
hazard back again and thankfully rest debtor for the first” (The Merchant of Venice I-I 146-152).
One gets the sense that this has happened many times before. Antonio, out of respect, appreciation,
kindness or the implied unrequited love, is still willing to give his friend the money he seeks. This is
the first sign that Antonio is easily swayed; the second comes when he accepts Shylock’s “pound of
flesh” bond without question. One has to wonder how he makes a business as a merchant
considering his consistently unthrifty behavior. That’s probably part of why Shylock hates him:
because he is relatively unconcerned with money despite making his entire living from it. The
reader gets a strong sense of Antonio’s contradictory personality from the first act, the most
significant act for Antonio: he is depressed, except around Bassanio, he is fairly intelligent and
dedicated but frivolous and strangely oblivious. His qualities become stranger as the play
progresses, and by Act IV he doesn’t seem to be acting like a real person anymore.
In the midsection of the play, Antonio hardly says or does anything. In fact, he does nothing at all:
the most important thing that happens to him is that he is informed that his ships, on which he
relies for income, have sunk. After this point, he is seemingly incapable of anything, certainly of
defending himself. Shylock has suffered a great deal, and upon hearing the news, relishes in the
thought of making Antonio suffer, viewing him as the root of his distress. The first scene of
interaction between Antonio and Shylock reveals a gleeful Shylock and a totally resigned Antonio.
When his friend Solanio tries to convince Antonio that things will work out, Antonio will have none
of it: “These griefs and losses have so bated me that I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh tomorrow
to my bloody creditor. Well, jailer, on. Pray God Bassanio come to see me pay his debt, and then I
care not!” (The Merchant of Venice III-III 32-36). Antonio will be happy if Bassanio finds a way to
save him, but he is stubbornly unwilling to find a way out himself. He is almost contemptible in his
passive, self-indulgent laziness; the reader wants to slap him and order him to save himself,
because, despite all this, we still like Antonio and don’t want him to suffer. He’s like an intelligent
teenager who has never had many real problems but feels free to whine anyway, but we can
sympathize with his confusion. He’s clearly dealing with something much more serious than
anything he’s had to deal with before, and it’s understandable that he’s overwhelmed. It’s just that
he takes advantage of his overwhelmed state and wallows in it, cherishing the opportunity to
complain about something real. It’s as though he has long wanted to die but could never bring
himself to suicide because of what it would do to his image and to his friends: now that the
opportunity for him to die a martyr has arisen, taking it seems like a wonderful solution. That’s
probably not the case, since Antonio seems genuinely happy around his friends for the most part,
but there’s definitely something driving him to be so thoroughly lost in his state, incapable of seeing
an escape even though one is eventually provided. Lucky him.
Even during his trial, Antonio is aloof and mopey. Speaking to the Duke of Venice, arbiter of the
trial, about Shylock’s bond, Antonio says: “I have heard Your Grace hath taken great pains to qualify
his rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, and that no lawful means can carry me out of his
16
envy’s reach, I do oppose my patience to his fury, and am armed to suffer with a quietness of spirit
the very tyranny and rage of his” (The Merchant of Venice IV-I 6-13). Antonio is incredibly weakwilled and passive, especially in the presence of the hell-bent, taunting Shylock. Antonio is a strange
character, because he manages to be the instigator of the conflict while also being the play’s “damsel
in distress,” and the reader gets the sense that he could have totally avoided both positions had he
actually put thought and effort into his situation. Another odd aspect of his character is that he has
no problem being cruel to Shylock when cruelty is unprovoked or unnecessary: when the two first
meet, Shylock says Antonio spat in his face, and when Shylock is convicted in court, Antonio salts his
wounds by adding extra sentences. Why is Antonio only like this when it is totally unnecessary,
even detrimental to his situation? It’s hard to think of Antonio, so good at playing the victim,
intentionally harming another person.
At the end of the play, Antonio doesn’t seem to have learned any lesson at all. He is thankful for
Portia for saving him, but he is no wiser. One gets the sense that he would act no differently if the
same situation should arise again. The other characters are like this too, especially Bassanio, who
seems to have totally forgotten his role in threatening his best friend’s life. The Merchant of Venice
is like an episode of a TV show like The Simpsons: at the end of it, everything’s gone back to normal,
and more whacky adventures will ensue tomorrow. Maybe someday Antonio will learn.
The Jew of Venice
Or
The Unhappy Subject of these Quarrels
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The Merchant of Venice has gotten a lot of backlash from people in regard to its apparent antiSemitism. Sure, Shylock the mildly murderous moneylender isn’t exactly the spokesperson we
want for our community. Because he’s such a stereotype, actors of the modern stage have tried to
bring humanity to the character. He needs to be more sympathetic. He needs to be more likeable.
It’s not fair; they had ghettos! In this pointless task of trying to pump humanity into a caricature,
we have, as a culture, neglected a hidden truth: Antonio, mister merchant, mister supposed antiSemite, is perhaps Shakespeare’s most Jewish character! Now, it has been thousands of years since
Jews have been around, and there still isn’t a consensus about what makes a Jew a Jew. Is it blood?
Is it culture? Is it where you live? Is it what you believe? There are so many questions left
unanswered! However, I think it’s fair to say that what makes a Jew a Jew is the ability to tap into
one’s emotion, manipulating desires, morals, and convictions in the most ancient of arts: Jewish
guilt. From bubbes to rabbis, our tribal leaders have used this (it would not be an overstatement)
martial art against our enemies and, in our downtime, our families and friends. There is no
character in Shakespeare’s canon that has mastered the art of Jewish guilt with such skill and vigor
as Antonio, the merchant of Venice.
It’s all right; I’ll sit in the dark
From the beginning of the play, Antonio, like every Jewish male, is burdened with an overwhelming
sadness:
“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: it wearies me; you say it wearies you; but how I
caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn”
(I.i.1-5).
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He tells this to his friends. I imagine he’s hoping for sympathy, but that’s not in the text, so I’ll
continue. When his friends Salarino and Salanio can’t reason why he’s so sad, he snaps at them:
“Fie, fie!” (I.i.46).
When his friends, tired of Debby Downer, decide to leave, Antonio utters such a phrase that would
make his mother kvell1:
“Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you and you
embrace the occasion to depart” (I.i.64).
In modern English, the above phrase translate to:
“Despite my utmost affection for you, I guess you have to go to work. I mean, leave, I don’t
mind. No, really. Please. I just though you cared about me, but all right” (Woody Allenesque Stereotype 3).
As if he’s okay with his friend leaving him! The nerve of those boys! Seriously, this whole beginning
scene shows us a guy with whom we’re supposed sympathize. Of course, when we meet his best
bud Bassanio, we can begin to feel sorry for the guy.
Bassanio is a nice goy who wants to make it big in the world. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the
means. Enter Antonio. Antonio is rich, generous, and totally in love with Bassanio. I’m not saying
he’s homosexual, but I’m not saying he isn’t. Bassanio, however, is a savvy ne’er-do-well and uses
his boyish charm to get money off the guy. In the opening scene, Bassanio needs something.
Antonio sees this, and, being a Tzaddik2 of our race, offers Bassanio anything he desires:
“I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; and if it stand, as you yourself still do, within the
eye of honour, be assured, my purse, my person, my extremest means, lie all unlock'd to your
occasions” (I.i.135-139).
Bassanio, ever the greedy man, tells Antonio:
“In Belmont is a lady richly left; and she is fair, and, fairer than that word, of wondrous
virtues: sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: her name is Portia,
nothing undervalued to Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: nor is the wide world ignorant of her
worth, for the four winds blow in from every coast renowned suitors, and her sunny locks
hang on her temples like a golden fleece; which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,
and many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means to hold a rival
place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift, that I should questionless be
fortunate!” (I.i.161-176).
Bassanio wants to get some money, and there’s a bonus: a kind, intelligent, and beautiful woman.
He wants Antonio to fund his exploits. I mean the guy who loves you is going to fund your
marriage? You’re going to leave him, and you expect him to pay for your ships? The chutzpah! Of
course, Antonio, master of Jewish guilt, willingly funds this journey. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have
the money until his ships return. So now, Antonio gets involved with Shylock. Antonio needs to
borrow money, and after flinging insults (What! He’s a self-hating Jew!) at Shylock, he agrees to
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give up a pound of flesh if he doesn’t pay back the loan within three months. This is the first step in
a brilliant scheme to make Bassanio drown in guilt for leaving his beloved Antonio.
Here I am, giving a pound of flesh to some no good hoodlum; the least you could do is call.
As the play progresses, Bassanio wins the hand of his beloved Portia. Also, his friend Gratiano wins
the hand of Portia’s lady in waiting Nerissa. Furthermore, Shylock’s daughter elopes with the
shegetz3 Lorenzo. A shanda fur die goyim!4 For the most part, however, everything’s going
swimmingly. Right? Wrong! In Belmont, Bassanio receives this letter from Antonio:
“Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very
low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all
debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use
your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter” (III.ii.315-322).
When everything seems to be going so well for Bassanio, Antonio sends him this letter. He’s
basically saying, “It’s me, Antonio, remember me? I want you to call me! I mean, I’m gonna die for
you, the least you could do is call! But I don’t want to bother you. Just thought I should say
something.” Antonio is a master of the guilty arts. He’s brilliant. At this vital moment of pure joy
and excruciating happiness, Antonio blows everything to smithereens. He reminds the characters
and the audience that things aren’t going so nicely in Venice. He reminds Bassanio of the sacrifice
he’s making for Bassanio’s happiness. He’s making Bassanio really feel bad: really regret his use of
Antonio’s money. He learns to respect Antonio:
“The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, the best-condition'd and unwearied spirit in
doing courtesies, and one in whom the ancient Roman honour more appears than any that
draws breath in Italy” (III.ii.292-296).
In his guilt, Bassanio rushes to Venice. In a famous court scene, Shylock refuses to accept money in
place of the pound of flesh. What makes things worse is that Antonio is still going.
“I pray you, think you question with the Jew: you may as well go stand upon the beach and
bid the main flood bate his usual height; you may as well use question with the wolf why he
hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; you may as well forbid the mountain pines to wag
their high tops and to make no noise, when they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; you
may as well do anything most hard, as seek to soften that--than which what's harder?-- his
Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you, make no more offers, use no farther means, but
with all brief and plain conveniency let me have judgment and the Jew his will” (IV.i.70-83).
There’s nothing anyone can do. There’s nothing. Antonio will be a martyr. He’s so pathetic and
helpless; he’s a genius. Everyone feels bad for him. Shylock looks absolutely horrible next to him.
By the time Portia comes to the court disguised as a man and completely manipulates the law to
prevent Shylock from taking the pound of flesh, Antonio has already won. He has sculpted the
entire situation to make himself come out on top of the entire situation. He is the merchant of
Venice because he has bartered his flesh and happiness, and he has won everything he wants while
appearing as the noblest of the characters.
Conclusion
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Antonio is a master of guilt. He knows how to manipulate emotions. In fact, he’s a great foil to
Shylock because he is so similar to Shylock. Throughout the play, Shylock talks about the reasons
for his evil. In modern adaptations, Shylock is presented as a villain driven to his crimes. He wants
the audience’s sympathy. He makes his enemies feel guilty. I think that when modern productions
do this to Shylock they are just reinforcing a newer stereotype. Modern adaptations just make him
sympathetic so that his evil desires are considered just and deserved. I find that problematic
because I think he is written as a bad man. He was written about as a stereotype, and you cannot
change the nature of his character. Furthermore, the folks who present Shylock as guilt inducing
anti-hero have neglected that there’s a man who fits this stereotype: Antonio. He is the
grandmaster of guilt, and I find that this is written into the script much more than in the case of
Shylock. Throughout the entire play, he asks people to feel bad for him, and in the end, he does end
up receiving all the sympathy. He wins through guilt. Shylock loses without anyone feeling guilty
about the way he/she treated him.
1. Feel happy and proud.
2. Righteous man.
3. Attractive gentile male who steals good Jewish girls away from their fathers.
4. An embarrassment for the nations.
Egypt vs. Rome
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In Antony and Cleopatra there is a war between Rome and Egypt. This is both a literal war and a
symbolic war. Mark Antony, a great general and one of three triumvirs, is putting politics and honor
to the side in order to spend time with his beloved Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. In Rome, Octavius
Caesar is growing more and more aggravated by Antony’s behavior. Furthermore, Antony wife and
brother have just tried to fight against Caesar. Antony, after hearing that his wife died in the
conflict and that there is a new enemy of Rome rising, realizes he has to return to Rome. He is
pulled away from comfort and romance and sent to Rome. In order to mend the relationship
between himself and Caesar, Antony marries Caesar’s sister, Octavia. There is no military conflict
with Pompey and his followers, Rome’s enemies, and Antony eventually decides to return to Egypt.
Caesar is fed up with Antony, believes he has disgraced him and his sister, and is furious that
Antony is giving away Roman land to Cleopatra’s children. Caesar and Antony eventually fight, and
after many vital faux pas, Antony loses to Caesar. He is disgraced, his trusted friend Enobarbus has
left him, and he believes that Cleopatra is to blame for his losses. Cleopatra, in order to get back on
Antony’s good side, sends word that she is dead. Antony, hearing this, mortally wounds himself. He
is taken to Cleopatra’s tomb, where she is hiding, and dies in her arms. Instead of being paraded
around Rome as if she was plunder, Cleopatra poisons herself. Caesar does not get to humiliate
Egypt, but he has won the war, and he has become the Roman Emperor.
Before Antony and Caesar ever fight, we are shown an Egyptian court and a Roman court. We are
shown an Egyptian world and a Roman world. We meet an Egyptian pharaoh and the eventual
Roman Emperor. The story of Antony and Cleopatra is on one level a love story, but on another
level, it is a tale about two cultures clashing with each other. The leaders on either side of Antony,
in many ways, personify these cultures. The exotic Egypt is depicted as a sensual and relaxed place,
and Cleopatra is a relaxed and sensual leader. Rome is austere and orderly, and Octavius Caesar is
an austere and orderly leader. Antony is trapped between these two worlds: between these two
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leaders. Caesar and Cleopatra are incredibly different people with fairly different styles of ruling,
and the way they both rule displays not only a difference in personality but also in culture.
Rare Egyptian!
Egypt is presented as a relaxed and emotional place. Cleopatra pretty much represents
Shakespeare’s idea of the Egyptian way of life. Cleopatra is a sensual, passionate character. She
manipulates the emotions of her enemies, her friends and her people through appearances. She
uses her beauty as well the riches of Egypt to present a powerful image. This is most apparent in
Antony’s right hand man, Enobarbus’s, description of the moment when Antony and Cleopatra first
met after Julius Caesar’s death:
“The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
purple the sails, and so perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made the water which they beat to follow faster, as
amorous of their strokes. For her own person, it beggar'd all description: she did lie in her pavilion-cloth-of-gold of tissue-- o'er-picturing that Venus where we see the fancy outwork nature: on each
side her stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, with divers-colour'd fans…Her
gentlewomen, like the Nereides… tended her i' the eyes, and made their bends adornings…The city
cast her people out upon her; and Antony, enthroned i' the market-place, did sit alone, whistling to
the air; which, but for vacancy, had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, and made a gap in nature” (act 2
scene II).
Enobarbus is describing the moment when Antony and Cleopatra met in Tarsus. Cleopatra brought
a glorious barge, decorated with all things Egyptian. She presented herself as a goddess. Her
servants were nymphs. Her boat was Egypt. Cleopatra used powerful visual aids to project an
image of herself and Egypt for thousands to see. She used her beauty and exoticism to express
Egypt’s political might and wealth. Enobarbus describes this sight as creating a “gap in nature.”
Cleopatra wants to show how powerful and she and Egypt are, and they are powerful enough to halt
nature.
Cleopatra’s use of visuals to portray the might of Egypt is again used in the third act. Caesar
describes what she and Antony are doing with the eastern half of Rome:
“Contemning Rome, he (Antony) has done all this, and more, in Alexandria: here's the manner of 't:
i' the market-place, on a tribunal silver'd, Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold were publicly
enthroned: at the feet sat Caesarion, whom they call my father's son, and all the unlawful issue that
their lust since then hath made between them. Unto her he gave the stablishment of Egypt; made
her of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, absolute queen. I' the common show-place, where they exercise.
His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings: great Media, Parthia, and Armenia. He gave to
Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia: she in the habiliments of the goddess
Isis that day appear'd” (act 3 scene VI).
Caesar is furious because Cleopatra and Antony have appeared in Egypt’s capital with Cleopatra
appearing as a goddess and Antony giving away Rome’s countries to Cleopatra and her children.
Cleopatra is appearing publicly and in full pharaonic regalia. She is continuing to present herself
with a beautiful power. However, there’s a whole lot more going on here than just a visual
presentation of her strength. Antony is giving Cleopatra large chunks of the eastern half of Rome.
The reason he is doing this is because Cleopatra, although I think she definitely loves Antony, knows
how to use their love to her political advantage. She has children with Antony, and he has given
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their children Roman land. Antony is giving away all his power, because he is in love with her.
These Roman lands will be under Cleopatra’s family’s rule. I have a hard time believing that an
established queen in a time when queens are rarely the leaders of countries isn’t purposefully
manipulating the relationship between herself and Antony. Cleopatra is queen and pharaoh. She
understands politics, and she has definitely gained political power through her relationship with
Antony.
Throughout most of the play, Cleopatra spends her time with her servants. It’s almost unclear that
they are her servants. She asks them for her advice on love and also on politics. This behavior is
definitely another characteristically Egyptian quality in the way that Cleopatra rules. She lets her
servants have a voice. Here, Charmian, her closest servant, advises her on emotional games she
plays with Antony:
“Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, you do not hold the method to enforce the like from
him. In each thing give him way, cross him nothing…Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear: in
time we hate that which we often fear” (act 1 scene III).
In Rome, this behavior is unacceptable. A servant is definitely not supposed to tell his/her master
what to do or how to behave. Charmian has a loud voice in Cleopatra’s court. All of her servants
have a significant place around her. Her rank doesn’t seem to apply to whom her friends and
company are. She associates and talks with her servants more than anyone else in this play. This
definitely noted by other characters. Enobarbus, Antony’s right hand man, tells Cleopatra:
“'Tis said in Rome that Photinus an eunuch and your maids manage this war” (act 3 scene VII).
Cleopatra’s relationship with her servants is so strong that it appears to be scandalous and foolish
in her enemies’ eyes. In the seventh scene of the third act, Antony and his men are preparing for the
Battle of Actium. Cleopatra is with them. Enobarbus tells Cleopatra about what Rome thinks about
her while he is telling her that she doesn’t belong in Actium with soldiers. Cleopatra responds:
“Sink Rome, and their tongues rot that speak against us! A charge we bear i' the war, and, as the
president of my kingdom, will appear there for a man. Speak not against it: I will not stay behind”
(act 3 scene VII).
I think this is one of Cleopatra’s best lines. She appears extremely strong, and she makes a good
argument. She says that since Rome is fighting against Egypt, she deserves to be part of the battle.
Cleopatra is Egypt. She is the pharaoh. She has to be part of this battle. It doesn’t matter what
Caesar or the Romans think about her. She cares about her people. She cares about the Egyptians
fighting for her, and she wants to support Egypt by being there with its soldiers.
In many ways, Cleopatra is a terrible leader. She lets her love for Antony get in the way of being a
just and civil monarch. She nearly kills a messenger for telling her that Antony is marrying Octavia,
Caesar’s sister. She says to him while striking him:
“Horrible villain! Or I'll spurn thine eyes like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head: Thou shalt be
whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine, smarting in lingering pickle” (act 2 scene V).
She is rude and violent towards a servant. This is one of the most frowned upon actions a monarch
can make. “Don’t blame the messenger” is a recurring theme in this play, and in this scene,
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Cleopatra definitely should not be blaming the messenger. It makes her look emotionally unstable
and hostile towards Caesar because he’s Caesar’s messenger.
Cleopatra is fickle and is unstable throughout the play. Sometimes it’s purposeful behavior, as
when she toys with Antony. However, there are several instances when her flighty behavior is
dangerous to her and Antony’s cause. During the Battle of Actium, Cleopatra randomly decides to
take her ship and leave the battle even though Antony is winning. Scarus, an infuriated soldier,
reports:
“Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt (Cleopatra),-- whom leprosy o'ertake!--i' the midst o' the fight, when
vantage like a pair of twins appear'd, both as the same, or rather ours the elder, the breese upon
her, like a cow in June, hoists sails and flies… She once being loof'd, the noble ruin of her magic,
Antony, claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard, leaving the fight in height, flies after her: I
never saw an action of such shame; experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before did violate so itself”
(act 3 scene X).
Not only does Cleopatra decide to flee with no given reason, but when Antony sees her flee, he
follows her. I don’t think it’s her fault that Antony followed her. He should know not to disgrace
himself in such a way. He has fought many battles before this one. However, Cleopatra must have
realized that Antony would follow her. She is in part to blame for this. Antony should know better,
and so should she. A woman cannot become pharaoh without being intelligent, and Cleopatra
should use her intelligence. She shouldn’t run off in the middle of a battle. This action makes Egypt
look cowardly, disorganized, and weak.
Cleopatra’s leadership techniques utilize emotions. She taps into how people look at her. She
makes strong bonds with her people, including servants. She goes down to her people and appears
before them in all her splendor. She uses her relationship with Antony to further her family’s
power. She uses emotional technique to rule, and she taps into heart more than mind. She
manipulates emotion successfully because she is an emotional person. This trait that makes her a
great leader also makes her a terrible leader. Her emotion gets in the way of her country and her
rank. She dishonors herself because she is jealous of Octavia. She dishonors herself for what seems
like nothing in Actium. She says she must be strong and be present in the war, and then she decides
to leave the battle! Cleopatra knows how to flatter, and she is familiar with intrigue. However, she
is, in Antony and Cleopatra, too passionate and too emotional to rule effectively, and Caesar, in the
end, conquers Egypt.
Most Noble Caesar
The fire of Egypt burns within Cleopatra, but the cold, iron heart of Rome beats within Caesar.
Caesar has no patience for the revelries of Antony and his beloved Cleopatra. The first lines in the
play, which he tells the triumvir Lepidus, are:
“You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know, it is not Caesar's natural vice to hate our great
competitor: from Alexandria this is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes the lamps of night in
revel; is not more man-like than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy more womanly than he; hardly
gave audience, or vouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall find there a man who is the
abstract of all faults that all men follow…yet must Antony no way excuse his soils, when we do bear
so great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd his vacancy with his voluptuousness, full surfeits, and the
dryness of his bones, call on him for't: but to confound such time, that drums him from his sport,
and speaks as loud as his own state and ours,--'tis to be chid as we rate boys, who, being mature in
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knowledge, pawn their experience to their present pleasure, and so rebel to judgment” (act 1 scene
IV).
Caesar believes that Antony is a disgrace to Rome. He wastes away in Egypt. Cleopatra and the
lenient and playful atmosphere distract Antony from his duties. In seeing what Caesar thinks is
wrong about Antony, we can see what qualities Caesar upholds. He believes in duty before
pleasure. He believes in mind over bodily desires. He believes in loyalty to Rome. Everything else
is somewhat unnecessary, dishonorable or even uncomfortable for Caesar. In several scenes,
Caesar expresses the same attitude towards Antony and this kind of behavior. In the seventh scene
of the second act, Antony, Lepidus and Caesar have just made peace with their enemy, Pompey. To
celebrate, they have a huge party on Pompey’s ship. Caesar, in this relaxed and unofficial setting, is
completely out of place. While the drunken Antony tries to toast Caesar, Caesar responds:
“I could well forbear't. It's monstrous labour, when I wash my brain, and it grows fouler… but I had
rather fast from all four days than drink so much in one” (act 2 scene VII).
Caesar is completely uncomfortable. He doesn’t drink this much. He doesn’t party. He doesn’t
relax. When Pompey, Enobarbus, Antony and all the revelers begin to dance, Caesar tells them to
call it a night. He says:
“What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother, let me request you off: our graver
business frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part; you see we have burnt our cheeks: strong
Enobarb is weaker than the wine; and mine own tongue splits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath
almost antick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night. Good Antony, your hand” (act 2 scene
VII).
Caesar is a total killjoy. It’s a chore for him to drink and be friendly with these people. It is an
almost unbearable task for him. Singing and dancing: there’s no way Caesar could partake in such
absurdities. Indeed, in this scene, except when he’s trying to end the night, Caesar is quiet. He
doesn’t speak to the others very much. He doesn’t partake in conversation. He doesn’t laugh with
them. He doesn’t relate to them. He cannot relate to them. His quietness in this scene is
uncomfortable. He isn’t someone with whom you can have fun. He isn’t someone with whom you
want to spend your time. He is too serious.
Caesar is generally someone with whom it’s hard to connect. He is often quiet. His words, when he
does speak, are entirely deliberate. On one hand, this shows that Caesar is not someone with whom
it’s easy to talk. On the other hand, the quietness of Caesar does show the reader that Caesar is a
listener and a thinker. He uses his ears and mind more than his lips. There is a sense in Caesar’s
character that much of what he does is behind the scenes. In fact, much of what he does in the play
is a surprise, at least in the sense of Caesar didn’t tells us what he was going to do. He betrays
Lepidus and arrests him for “treason.” He continues aggression towards Pompey and defeats him.
He has taken over the western half of Rome and has taken Pompey’s ships and crews. He has
consolidated power. He has been preparing for war against Egypt and Antony. Caesar has
surrounded himself with the best Roman generals. While Antony has been embracing Egyptian
culture, Caesar has taken over Rome. He has covered all his tracks and all loose ends. He is ready
for war. He is ready to crush Egypt beneath the stoic might of Rome.
After Caesar has won the Battle of Actium, he refuses to give Antony anything. Antony sends a
messenger to Caesar asking if he can remain in Egypt or at least in Athens, where his home
technically is. Caesar tells the messenger:
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“For Antony, I have no ears to his request. The queen of audience nor desire shall fail, so she from
Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, or take his life there: this if she perform, she shall not sue
unheard” (act 3 scene XII).
Caesar will not break for Antony. He will not give in to Antony’s request. He will listen to Cleopatra
only if she kicks Antony out of Egypt or kills him. Caesar is cold, however since he has won and he
has done his job, I think he’s in the right. Antony has betrayed Rome. He has ignored his duties as a
triumvir. He has practically sold the eastern half of Rome to Cleopatra and her family. He has
grown fat and lazy in Rome. He has not serviced his country. He has fought against Caesar, and he
has lost. He lost because he ran away from the battle after seeing Cleopatra flee. There is no reason
Caesar should let Antony stay in Egypt. Other than compassion, there is no reason that Caesar
should let Antony go back to Athens. Antony has lost because of his own actions, and he has failed
at an incredible scale. Caesar owes him nothing. I imagine that Caesar is willing to speak to
Cleopatra only because she is still powerful in Egypt. She still has a powerful name. She is still
pharaoh. When Antony kills himself after believing that he’s lost everything, Caesar has won the
whole war. He has Egypt in his clutches. He tells a servant to tell Cleopatra that they will talk with
her because, “her life in Rome would be eternal in our triumph” (act 5 scene I). In the end, Caesar
wants to show his and his country’s strength by parading Cleopatra around Rome. However, this
final pleasure is not given to him as Cleopatra poisons herself.
Caesar can be cruel. Caesar is cold. Caesar has high standards for people’s behaviors. He has a
clear idea of what a man should be and how a man should act. He is governed by his intellect, and
he governs by his intellect. He is not a man of emotions. He is not a man to befriend. However, he
has a great mind and understands who to trust. He knows with whom he should surround himself.
He knows to trust his generals. He oversees Rome with pride and is willing to sacrifice others, like
Lepidus, for his country. Caesar is a paragon of Roman ideals. He is proud of his name and his
country, and he defends them with an iron fist.
Conclusion.
Caesar is cold. Cleopatra is hot. Egypt is inviting and tempting. Rome is dark and militaristic.
Caesar prepares for war in Rome. Cleopatra reclines in perfumed Alexandria. Caesar surrounds
himself with generals. Cleopatra surrounds herself with musicians, loving servants and eunuchs.
Cleopatra is an unmatched flatterer, lover and temptress. Caesar has to force himself to be friendly.
Caesar withholds information and listens intently. Cleopatra discusses her affairs with all her
servants. Caesar understands that he is not the best military man, so he surrounds himself with
best generals. Cleopatra decides she knows everything about war and convinces Antony to fight at
sea. Caesar has a collected mind. Cleopatra has a fiery temper and faints when she is in grief.
Caesar is stable. Cleopatra is flighty. These are two leaders with different personalities and styles
of ruling. These characters are opposites, and they and their worlds pull at Antony. He is stretched
between them. In Antony and Cleopatra Egypt and Rome are really just two different ideals. Egypt
represents what a person wants to do. Rome represents what a person should do. Caesar is duty.
Cleopatra is pleasure. We can relate to this play and to Antony because we all understand the
struggle between what we want to do and what we should do. Antony suffers because he
eventually chooses Cleopatra over Caesar. He chooses what he wants to do over what he needs to
do. Antony and Cleopatra is a play about sacrifice and duty. Antony and Cleopatra ignore their duty
in favor of pleasure and romance. They have a powerful relationship. They are legendary lovers.
However, they end up sacrificing Egypt and their lives. Caesar sacrifices likeability and friendship
for Rome. He is cold but effective. He is unlikable but dutiful. He does his job well. In the end, he
25
wins, but the play isn’t called Octavius Caesar; it’s called Antony and Cleopatra. It’s not named after
the man who won; it’s named after the characters to whom you want to relate. It’s named after the
characters who sacrificed everything and made terrible mistakes and were linked together in a
tragedy. It’s named after the characters who we want to support: not after the man we should
support.
The Mutable, Rank-Scented Many
Error! Reference source not found.
Shakespeare’s play Coriolanus is a tragedy about Caius Marcius Coriolanus, a historical Roman
general. It takes place right as the Republic is forming. Caius Marcius is an arrogant, proud, and
blunt man obsessed with honor and war. In the beginning of the play, the peasants revolt because
they are not being fed while the senators are eating well. Menenius, an eloquent and witty
politician, tries to reason with them and explain to them how the city works and why they can’t just
go against the senate. Marcius enters and continues to insult the rabble, even saying that it should
be executed. However, before anything happens, Marcius hears that Rome’s enemies, the Volsces,
are attacking. He is an extremely talented warrior and defeats the entire army of Volsces. He wins
this battle at Corioli, and in honor of this feat, he is dubbed Coriolanus. However, because of his
personality and disgust of the citizens of Rome, the two tribunes, Brutus and Sicinius, rile up the
commoners and banish Coriolanus from Rome. With nowhere else to turn, Coriolanus goes to the
leader of the Volsces, his archenemy, Aufidius. Coriolanus is welcomed by his enemy and leads an
army against Rome. Coriolanus’s mother, Volumnia, saves Rome after she persuades her son not to
attack. Finally, at the end of the play, Aufidius and several conspirators, in an act of anger and
ambition, kill Coriolanus. There are many characters with great personalities throughout this play.
There’s the main character of Coriolanus. There are the deceitful and manipulative tribunes, Brutus
and Sicinius. There’s the loveable Menenius and the overbearing Volumnia. One of the most
important characters in this play is not a single character but a whole bunch of characters: the mob.
The mob is in many ways the enemy of Coriolanus. It kicks him out of Rome. It threatens to kill
him. It doesn’t fight for him in the battle with the Volsces. Finally, the Volsce mob ends up killing
him. The mob is portrayed fairly negatively. The mob is a fickle, cowardly, and impressionable
villain in this play.
1.
With every minute you do change a mind, and call him noble that was now your hate, him
vile that was your garland – Coriolanus (Coriolanus Act 1, Scene I).
One attribute of the mob is that it is notoriously wishy-washy. The citizens change their minds
constantly. This is most obvious when Coriolanus tries to become a consul after winning his title.
To become a consul he must appeal to the commoners and get their votes. When he asks for their
votes, the people respond favorably:
“Second Citizen
You shall ha' it (the vote), worthy sir…
Fifth Citizen
We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily.
Fourth Citizen
You have received many wounds for your country…
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Both Citizens
The gods give you joy, sir, heartily!” (Coriolanus Act 2, Scene III).
They are giving him their votes and happily doing it. Coriolanus leaves, thinking he’s done well.
However, the people begin to think that they were tricked and insulted by Coriolanus. Talking
amongst themselves, the citizens change their minds:
“Second Citizen
To my poor unworthy notice, he (Coriolanus) mock'd us when he begg'd our voices.
Third Citizen
Certainly he flouted us downright.
First Citizen
No,'tis his kind of speech: he did not mock us.
Second Citizen
Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says he used us scornfully: he should have show'd us
his marks of merit, wounds received for's country.
SICINIUS
Why, so he did, I am sure.
Citizens
No, no; no man saw 'em.
Third Citizen
He said he had wounds, which he could show in private; and with his hat, thus waving it in
scorn, 'I would be consul,' says he: 'aged custom, but by your voices, will not so permit me;
your voices therefore.' When we granted that, here was 'I thank you for your voices: thank
you: your most sweet voices: now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.' Was
not this mockery?” (Coriolanus Act 2, Scene III).
These people just said that they would support Coriolanus. Now, they are going back on their
words. They doubt themselves, and they begin to act as if Coriolanus is their enemy. The main
things that they are complaining about are that Coriolanus did not speak to them humbly and did
not show them his battle wounds. They begin to overthink what just happened, and they confuse
themselves. In fact, one of them, the first citizen, defends Coriolanus, saying that the way he speaks
to them is just the way he speaks to everyone. He tries to tell them that Coriolanus is not insulting
the commoners. However, the second citizen says that everyone already thinks that Coriolanus has
insulted him or her, and the third citizen continues on that stream of thought.
In this play, the masses are portrayed as inconsistent and fickle. It is not just the Roman citizens
who are portrayed this way. The Volsce mob acts in very much the same manner. Towards the end
of the play, Aufidius’s lieutenant reports the Volsces’ attitudes toward Coriolanus:
“I do not know what witchcraft's in him (Coriolanus), but your (Aufidius) soldiers use him as the
grace 'fore meat, their talk at table, and their thanks at end; and you are darken'd in this action, sir,
even by your own” (Coriolanus Act 4, Scene VII).
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The Volsces love Coriolanus even though he was once their enemy. They love him even more than
they love their true leader, Aufidius. Then, at the end of the play, their attitudes seem to change
drastically. The Volsce mob, some of whom are called conspirators and some of whom are called
people, end up killing Coriolanus:
“All The People
'Tear him (Coriolanus) to pieces.' 'Do it presently.' 'He kill'd my son.' 'My daughter.' 'He
killed my cousin Marcus.' 'He killed my father…
All Conspirators
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!
The Conspirators draw, and kill CORIOLANUS” (Coriolanus Act 5, Scene VI).
The mob completely changes its views about Coriolanus. Suddenly, at the end of the play, the
Volsces remember that he was once their enemy. The Volsces are just as bad as the Romans, and
they treat Coriolanus just as badly if not worse. The fickleness of the mob has a significant part in
Coriolanus’s tragic end.
It shows a lack of intelligence, strength and consideration when someone is incredibly fickle. You
need to take time to consider what you do and what you have done. At the same time, you need to
believe that you are at the least mostly right. Someone who can make clear decisions and who
sticks by them appears strong-willed and intelligent. The mixture of consideration and confidence
generally results in good decisions. The mob doesn’t take enough time to consider things and is
incredibly doubtful of itself. I think that the mob’s fickleness reflects the mob’s inner weakness. If it
were a strong and thoughtful entity, it would make the right decisions. It would not have chosen to
support Coriolanus, but it probably would not have antagonized him either.
2.
“Your affections are a sick man's appetite, who desires most that which would increase his
evil” – Coriolanus (Coriolanus Act 1, Scene I).
One of the poorest qualities of the mob is shown in the scene where Coriolanus tries to get its vote.
The mob is incredibly susceptible to the manipulation of the tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus. The
tribunes are enemies of Coriolanus and want him dead or at least out of Rome. Noticing that the
citizens are confused and doubting, Brutus decides to turn them against Coriolanus. He says to
them:
“Could you not have told him as you were lesson'd, when he had no power, but was a petty servant
to the state, he was your enemy, ever spake against your liberties and the charters that you bear i'
the body of the weal; and now, arriving a place of potency and sway o' the state, if he should still
malignantly remain fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might be curses to yourselves? You should
have said that as his worthy deeds did claim no less than what he stood for, so his gracious nature
would think upon you for your voices and translate his malice towards you into love, standing your
friendly lord… Did you perceive he did solicit you in free contempt when he did need your loves,
and do you think that his contempt shall not be bruising to you, when he hath power to crush?
Why, had your bodies no heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry against the rectorship of
judgment?” (Coriolanus Act 2, Scene III).
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Brutus preys upon the mob’s fears and doubts. He tells them that Coriolanus has always been their
enemy. He tells them that Coriolanus’s deeds in battle don’t apply to his hostility towards the
commoners. In many ways, Brutus is making some good points. Coriolanus has not been a friend to
the commoners. However, we can’t know if Coriolanus would do anything to them if he were
elected consul. He is not given the chance to change his attitude towards the citizens, because
Brutus spurs their doubt into anger. The citizens now completely agree with Brutus, who is using
them for his own vendetta against Coriolanus, and decide that they will take back their votes:
“Third Citizen
He's not confirm'd; we may deny him yet.
Second Citizen
And will deny him: I'll have five hundred voices of that sound.
First Citizen
I twice five hundred and their friends to piece 'em” (Coriolanus Act 2, Scene III).
In the next scene, Brutus uses similar rhetoric, and the mob wants to kill Coriolanus. Only Menenius
gets the mob to calm down enough to agree to banishment instead of execution (Coriolanus Act 3,
Scene I). Brutus and Sicinius have the mob in their clutches. The mob is completely on their side. It
is their tool and their weapon. Coriolanus is kicked out of the city (Coriolanus Act 3, Scene III).
Brutus and Sicinius have effectively won. It takes a furious, traitorous Coriolanus backed by the
Volsce army to disillusion the mob with Brutus and Sicinius. In the final act, Coriolanus’s mother is
sent to persuade him not to attack. While this is going on, a messenger tells Sicinius and Menenius:
“Sir, if you'ld save your life, fly to your house: the plebeians have got your fellow-tribune and hale
him up and down, all swearing, if the Roman ladies bring not comfort home, they'll give him death
by inches” (Coriolanus Act 5, Scene IV).
It takes a ridiculous measure for the mob to go against the tribunes. The tribunes were using the
mob, and it went along with them for almost the entire play. Now, when they stop listening to the
tribunes, the citizens are violent and emotional. They aren’t thinking clearly and aren’t acting
civilly.
The mob is easily manipulated. This, like the fickleness, shows us that at the core a mob is weak. If
it were a strong-minded entity, a mob would not be so malleable to a specific person’s will.
However, a strong-minded mob is unlikely to form. Mobs are made up of emotional people, many of
whom are oftentimes uninformed. In a heightened emotional state, no human’s mind is run by
his/her intellect. In this state, you’ll follow anyone who’s telling you what you want to hear or
something that fuels your emotions. A mob’s emotions are easy to manipulate, and Brutus and
Sicinius fuel these emotions to bring about Coriolanus’s downfall.
3.
“See here these movers that do prize their hours at a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden
spoons, irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would bury with those that wore them, these
base slaves, ere yet the fight be done, pack up: down with them!”- Coriolanus (Coriolanus Act
1, Scene V).
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The mob is shown negatively in other ways. In the first act when the Romans are fighting the
Volsces, the mob acts cowardly. The citizens refuse to fight their enemies, leaving Marcius to fight
their army by himself. When Marcius tells the soldiers to fight, they respond with:
“First Soldier
Fool-hardiness; not I.
Second Soldier
Nor I” (Coriolanus Act 1, Scene IV).
Marcius contrasts favorably with them in this scene as he is swallowed by the Volsce army and
fights his way out victoriously. In the next scene, the mob is portrayed as greedy:
“Enter certain Romans, with spoils
First Roman
This will I carry to Rome.
Second Roman
And I this.
Third Roman
A murrain on't! I took this for silver” (Coriolanus Act 1, Scene V).
The mob is stealing while Coriolanus is defending. Obviously, the mob is in the wrong. Throughout
the play there are scenes where the mob is acting poorly, and these are just two of the most
distinctively bad behaviors.
4. Conclusion.
When dealing with this play, it is important to note that there are depictions of common characters
in several scenes that aren’t necessarily negative. These are specific characters like a Roman and a
Volsce who simply pass on information and have reasonable thoughts about the war (Coriolanus Act
4, Scene III). There are also guards in the final act who criticize Menenius and Rome in general for
banishing Coriolanus (Coriolanus Act 5, Scene II). They make good points and appear on somewhat
of a moral high ground. These characters appear because Shakespeare isn’t anti-commoner. He is
anti-mob.
In the first act of the play, Coriolanus criticizes the mob’s fickleness (Coriolanus Act 1, Scene I).
When the reader is introduced to Coriolanus, he/she cannot stand him. Coriolanus is rude, blunt,
and insulting. His classism is revolting, and his behavior is appalling. However, as the play goes on,
Shakespeare demonstrates that in many ways the mob lives up to Coriolanus’s views. The mob is
fickle. It does raise people up and bring them down. It is susceptible to the manipulations of
corrupt men. The mob is not portrayed in the best light, and I imagine Shakespeare has a real fear
or dislike for mobs. I don’t think he has anything against common people, but when a whole lot of
people are together and are emotional and are not thinking, they are dangerous. Shakespeare
shows us that, though we may have been offended by Coriolanus’s insults of the commoners, there
is some truth in what he says. I believe Shakespeare thinks that the mob mentality is one of the
worst attributes of human nature. Groups are fine. People are social. Groups get things done.
However, when the individual forgets him/herself completely and stops thinking critically, the
group becomes a mob, and this mob can be as destructive in our age as it is in Coriolanus.
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THE ENLIGHTENMENT
Women and Marriage in the English Enlightenment
By Adam L. Price-Schaeffer
The English Enlightenment was a time when many new ideas were circulating. Authors were famed
for the wit rather (at times) than the beauty of their work. Both of these factors contributed to there
being a great and sudden uprising of feminist writers during this period. There were, of course,
some misogynist writers as well, or else there would hardly have been a need for the feminists. This
essay will discuss May Astell’s Some Reflections Upon Marriage, Daniel Defoe’s Roxana, Anne Finch’s
The Answer, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s The Lover: A Ballad, Epistle From Mrs. Yonge To Her
Husband, and An Answer To A Love Letter, Alexander Pope's Epistle 2. To A Lady and Mary
Wollstonecraft’s later essay A Vindication of the Rights of Women. While the majority of these pieces
are of the feminist side of the argument, the odds were really more evenly balanced. Most of the
feminist and some of the misogynist writers of the English Enlightenment had a very distinct and
vocal opinion about the pros and cons of marriage, so this subject combined with that of women
will be the topic of this essay.
As I just said, there were many feminist writers during the English Enlightenment, but there were
also many misogynist writers and many who simply chose not to comment. I won't go into much
detail on the latter two categories, but it is safe to assume that the feminist pieces I am about to
discuss are reacting to something. The piece that most obviously does so is The Answer, as it was an
answer to a piece by Pope that was mildly misogynist. Interestingly, The Answer seems to portray a
viewpoint supported by neither feminists nor misogynists. This view is that women are actually in
control of or able to control their own situations; they just don't seem to be. This is clearly stated
when she compares Pope to the Orpheus of the Ancient Greeks, saying that he, “Yet venturing then
with scoffing rhimes The women to incense, Resenting Heroines of those times Soon punished his
offence” (Finch l. 17). It could be argued that she was only referring to what would have been the
case in the time of the Greeks, but her very prophecy seems self-fulfilling as its goal is to combat
Pope. To gain an idea of what exactly Pope had said that caused Finch to react in this way, one can
look to his Epistle 2. to a Lady, a quite misogynist writing of his. The entire piece is based around
Pope's statement that “Most women have no characters at all” (Pope l. 2). One of his most
straightforward ways of saying this is to compare them to the Greek Goddess Diana, who was
Goddess of the constantly changing moon. His true goal seems to be a sort of flattery by comparison
of one person, though, as at the end of the poem Pope addresses her to whom the piece is written
and says that she has been gifted with “...sense, good humor, and a poet” (Pope l. 293). This
expresses at the same time a high opinion of the addressee and a poor opinion of women in general.
Between the obvious opinion difference of Pope and Finch, Montagu takes a middle ground with her
An Answer to a Love Letter and The Lover: A Ballad. Without knowing the exact content of the letter
to which An Answer to a Love Letter responds, it the disdain that Montagu has for men and, to some
extent, women is obvious. She makes this clear by expressing “How vile is man! how I detest their
ways Of artful falsehood, and designing praise!” (Montagu l. 7) and how vulnerable women are to
this. She says even that “Once, and but once, the devil charm'd my mind; To reason deaf, to
observation blind” (Montagu 21). This would suggest that she has some personal bitterness
regarding the subject that influences both her opinion and the stridency with which she expresses
it. This sentiment is echoed to some degree in The Lover: A Ballad, though that piece focuses
somewhat more on women than men. Montagu expressly speaks of all the types of men that she
wants nothing to do with, stating that she will only give herself to a man who fits all of her many
criteria because of her experience with the rest of them. She makes her only real statement of
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opinion regarding women throughout this poem in the last two lines, saying that any man whom a
woman did not fully approve of would find that “...as Ovid has sweetly in parables told We harden
likes trees, and like rivers are cold” (Montagu l. 46). It is quite obvious when all of these viewpoints
are compared that opinions about women in during the English Enlightenment did not line up
neatly but instead sprang up in a complicated web of reactions toward one another. Given this, one
might assume that the ratio of “Enlightened” to “unEnlightened” opinions is about even, but this is
not correct. In fact, nearly all of the opinions in the aforementioned pieces were nearly unheard of
before the Enlightenment if not entirely nonexistent.
The other piece of gender relations and opinion is, of course, marriage. Given the diverse and
complex opinions held about women during the English Enlightenment, it is hardly surprising that
there were many opinions about marriage as well. The first of these that I will present is that
expressed in Defoe's Roxana. The scene in which marriage is discussed comes when the protagonist
(Roxana) is discussing with her lover whether or not they shall marry. It is difficult to pinpoint
Defoe's exact opinion toward marriage throughout as he expresses three within this one scene. The
first of these comes when Roxana begins to argue the point with her lover. Her only true objection
to their marriage was “...on account of my money...” from the beginning, which suggests that Defoe
might view marriage as being primarily a conduit for Capitalism. Later, though, Roxana makes
many very strong arguments against marriage from a woman's point of view, though they are not
her own. This seems to suggest that Defoe views marriage as an arrangement that puts men at an
advantage. His final statement of this section contradicts both of these possibilities, though.
Roxana says this to the reader after the argument is finished: “Thus blinded by my own vanity, I
threw away the only opportunity I then had to have effectually settled my fortunes, and secured
them for this world; and I am a memorial to all that shall read my story, a standing monument of the
madness and distraction which pride and infatuations from hell run us into; how our ill passions
guide us; and how dangerously we act, when we follow the dictates of an ambitious mind” (Defoe
1949). This would seem to demonstrate a very strong opinion that marriage (at least between
those in love) is a very good thing for all involved, which is in direct contradiction to both of the
conclusions that could be reached given the rest of the scene. Compared to this complex web of
extremes, the other pieces that need be presented to explore the issue fully seem bland, so I shall
spend little time on them. Astell's Some Reflections Upon Marriage, for example, can be summed up
with the sentence “Again, it may be said, if a wife's case be as it is here represented, it is not good for
a woman to marry, and so there's an end of the human race.” An Epistle from Mrs. Yonge to Her
Husband by Montagu is slightly more involved, if only by virtue of the fact that it is regarding a
personal matter, so the author has rather a lot to say. The addressee of the poem and its speaker
are separated or in the process of becoming so at the time of this piece's writing, as they both
committed adultery while they had been apart for a while. Despite their having both transgressed
severely upon the bonds of marriage, the wife had been successfully sued by the husband for a
small fortune and was promptly left out in the proverbial cold. The entire purpose of the piece is to
condemn the law of marriage's bias toward women, as is clearly shown with “Too, too severely laws
of honor bind The weak submissive sex of womankind” (Montagu l. 9). The rest of the piece is made
up of echo, extolment and proof of this. Finally, we come upon Mary Wollstonecraft’s essay: A
Vindication of the Rights of Women. Though written nearly a century later, this essay shares and
illustrates the points on which the two pieces just mentioned are based. This excerpt from the
second paragraph forms a fine impression of the sort of borderline-ranting way in which
Wollstonecraft supports these points: “If then women are not a swarm of ephemeron triflers, why
should they be kept in ignorance under the specious name of innocence? Men complain, and with
reason, of the follies and caprices of our sex, and when they do not keenly satirise our headstrong
passions and groveling vices. Behold, I should answer, the natural effect of ignorance!”
(Wollstonecraft 187). Though it is very in-depth and eloquent, that's basically all there is to that
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piece as far as substance. This is the opinion most in tune with the Enlightenment, so its popularity
seems to indicate that the majority of well-read people were in tune with the Enlightenment on at
least one subject. Though several of the pieces I mentioned agreed, another had fully three opinions
all on its own, so it's safe to say that opinions about the subject of marriage during the English
Enlightenment were just as scattered as those regarding women.
As I have said, most of the opinions about women and marriage were quite scattered during the
English Enlightenment. Many authors agreed on the subject of marriage, so one can say that there
was some amount of unification on that subject, at least, but there were still many different
opinions. There is some degree of similarity between the opinions of writers in the 1600s and those
of the English Enlightenment in that women are held in much higher esteem during these periods
than many others. Also, because both were times of revolution (literal in the 1600s, intellectual in
the Enlightenment), the institution of marriage in the form it had then was challenged. Overall, one
can safely say that the opinions of most authors during the English Enlightenment were quite
scattered but mostly modern (for the time).
Enlightening
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The Enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is a time of scientific progress,
philosophy, and wit. Intellectual pamphlets are passed around amongst friends. Ideas are being
discussed in clubs. The university is not the center of intellectual activity. The city itself, at least for
middle to upper class, holds this place. Monarchy is being questioned: the church more so. Deism,
the idea that God created the universe with natural laws but didn’t stick around to meddle in
earthly affairs, becomes the predominant theological belief. Finally, there is a strong drive in this
period to better the lives of every man using the new sciences and philosophies. The Enlightenment
is a time of progress.
Two influential and fascinating characters of this period are Jonathan Swift and Thomas Hobbes.
Thomas Hobbes writes many philosophical and scientific books in both English and Latin, but his
most famous and influential work is Leviathan. In it, Hobbes discusses the nature of man’s
intelligence, the way people interact with each other, and how and why people exist together in a
commonwealth. Jonathan Swift is an essayist, satirist, and poet as well as the dean of a Cathedral in
Ireland. His famous pamphlet, A Modest Proposal, is a satirical piece that suggests that children
should be cannibalized to deal with poverty in Ireland. Swift satirizes the cold logic of his
contemporaries, criticizing their sometimes amoral perspectives. While Swift sees a higher
morality in society, Hobbes describes a materialistic and somewhat pessimistic worldview. Forced
by their natures, humans are untrusting, fearful, and proud. Only through fear of loss of their
possessions and lives do people give up their rights to work together in a society, specifically a
monarchy. For Hobbes, morality is the acceptance of and cooperation with natural laws. It isn’t a
good and evil model. Although both of these men definitely fit into the Enlightenment culture, their
views differ from one another: Swift is more religious and concerned with higher morals; Hobbes
has a cold, logical, and well-observed perspective.
Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook? Lay thine hand upon him, do no more. Out of
his mouth go burning lamps, out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething caldron.
When he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid: by reason of breakings, they purify
themselves (Job 41:1-25).
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Thomas Hobbes’s views are very much a part of the scientific and logical aspects of Enlightenment
culture. At the beginning of the book, Hobbes describes a deistic God and the mechanical nature of
nature:
“Nature (the art whereby God hath made and governs the world) is by the art of man, as in
many other things, so in this also imitated, that it can make an artificial animal. For seeing
life is but a motion of limbs, the beginning whereof is in some principal part within, why may
we not say that all automata (engines that move themselves by springs and wheels as doth a
watch) have an artificial life? For what is the heart, but a spring; and the nerves, but so many
strings; and the joints, but so many wheels, giving motion to the whole body, such as was
intended by the Artificer? Art goes yet further, imitating that rational and most excellent
work of Nature, man. For by art is created that great Leviathan called a Common-Wealth, or
State (in Latin, Civitas), which is but an artificial man, though of greater stature and strength
than the natural, for whose protection and defence it was intended; and in which the
sovereignty is an artificial soul, as giving life and motion to the whole body; the magistrates
and other officers of judicature and execution, artificial joints; reward and punishment (by
which fastened to the seat of the sovereignty, every joint and member is moved to perform
his duty) are the nerves, that do the same in the body natural; the wealth and riches of all the
particular members are the strength; salus populi (the people's safety) its business;
counsellors, by whom all things needful for it to know are suggested unto it, are the memory;
equity and laws, an artificial reason and will; concord, health; sedition, sickness; and civil
war, death. Lastly, the pacts and covenants, by which the parts of this body politic were at
first made, set together, and united, resemble that fiat, or the ‘Let us make man,’ pronounced
by God in the creation.” (Hobbes 1701-1702).
According to Hobbes, God created the world and in it man. Man, by nature’s clockwork, recreates
himself on a larger scale as the commonwealth. In the commonwealth, every faction plays a part in
the “body.” There, however, forces that can, just like within our bodies, make the commonwealth
sick: famine, disease, and, most importantly, war. Observing the people around him, Hobbes has
found three principle reasons behind war: gain, safety, and reputation (Hobbes 1704-1705). It’s
after he presents these reasons that Hobbes presents the central point of his argument:
“Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a common power to keep them
all in awe, they are in that condition which is called war; and such a war as is of every man
against every man… Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war, where every man
is enemy to every man, the same consequent to the time wherein men live without other
security than what their own strength and their own invention shall furnish them withal. In
such condition there is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and
consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be
imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and removing such
things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no
arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent
death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Hobbes 1705).
Without something overpowering, without fear, men will not work together. Without a threat of
losing what he has, man will not work with his fellow man. When there is war, all of the great
aspects of the Enlightenment, industry, science, exploration, arts, culture, cannot evolve or grow.
War causes civilization to halt. There needs to be something keeping man in check so that
civilization can thrive.
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An interesting bit of Hobbes’s Enlightenment philosophy is his description of the difference
between natural law and natural right:
“The right of nature… is the liberty each man hath to use his own power as he will himself for
the preservation of his own nature; that is to say, of his own life; and consequently, of doing
anything which, in his own judgement and reason, he shall conceive to be the aptest means
thereunto…
A law of nature…is a precept, or general rule, found out by reason, by which a man is
forbidden to do that which is destructive of his life, or taketh away the means of preserving
the same, and to omit that by which he thinketh it may be best preserved…
And because the condition of man … is a condition of war of every one against every
one, in which case every one is governed by his own reason, and there is nothing he can
make use of that may not be a help unto him in preserving his life against his enemies; it
followeth that in such a condition every man has a right to every thing, even to one another's
body. And therefore, as long as this natural right of every man to every thing endureth, there
can be no security to any man, how strong or wise soever he be, of living out the time which
nature ordinarily alloweth men to live. And consequently it is a …general rule of reason: that
every man ought to endeavour peace, as far as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he
cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use all helps and advantages of war. The first branch
of which rule containeth the first and fundamental law of nature, which is: to seek peace and
follow it. The second, the sum of the right of nature, which is: by all means we can to defend
ourselves.
From this fundamental law of nature, by which men are commanded to endeavour
peace, is derived this second law: that a man be willing, when others are so too, as far forth
as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all
things; and be contented with so much liberty against other men as he would allow other
men against himself” (Hobbes 1707).
According to Hobbes, we have natural rights. Man has the right to defend himself and do anything
to anyone else. However, there is man’s reason, which is natural law. Natural law strives for peace
and order. Man works within this law by giving away some or many of his rights. He will, however,
only do this if other men give up their rights. Only within a group with a common fear with people
equally giving up some of their rights will man succumb to law and peace. Only when man
succumbs to peace will man’s civilization thrive.
Hobbes is presenting a rationalization for morality. He is explaining why we don’t or shouldn’t kill
each other or steal from each other or do any harm to each other. Instead of saying something is
right or wrong, he is saying that peace is beneficial. He is also saying that we succumb to laws
because we fear freedom. We succumb to peace because without it, we will be in danger. Hobbes’s
view is very much about the physical world. It is very much about protecting one’s body and
possessions. There is no cosmic right and wrong. There is a physical, materialistic, and logical
reason for the things we do and why we do them.
And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat (Leviticus
26:29).
Swift writes a satirical pamphlet that suggests a sustainable solution for poverty in Ireland:
“I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a
young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome
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food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally
serve in a fricasie, or a ragoust” (Swift 489).
Swift suggests that one sixth of all the Irish children should be processed into food. He uses the
often cold logic of the Enlightenment to make his case:
“I do therefore humbly offer it to publick consideration, that of the hundred and twenty
thousand children, already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof
only one fourth part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or
swine, and my reason is, that these children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a
circumstance not much regarded by our savages, therefore, one male will be sufficient to
serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be offered in
sale to the persons of quality and fortune, through the kingdom, always advising the mother
to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump, and fat for a good
table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends, and when the family
dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little
pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter” (Swift 489).
He explains how one child can serve as food for many meals. He continues to describe how the Irish
economy would go up by selling this “exotic meat.” Jobs as butchers and children farmers will be
open to the unemployed (Swift 490). He presents this completely ludicrous albeit entirely logical
solution to the problems at hand.
Towards the end of his proposal, Swift mockingly presents a list of humane and intelligent ideas to
solve the problem of poverty. He presents them as foolish ideas that he could never believe. He
writes:
“Let no man talk to me of other expedients: Of taxing our absentees at five shillings a pound:
Of using neither cloaths, nor houshold furniture, except what is of our own growth and
manufacture: Of utterly rejecting the materials and instruments that promote foreign luxury:
Of curing the expensiveness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: Of
introducing a vein of parsimony, prudence and temperance: Of learning to love our country,
wherein we differ even from Laplanders, and the inhabitants of Topinamboo: Of quitting our
animosities and factions, nor acting any longer like the Jews, who were murdering one
another at the very moment their city was taken: Of being a little cautious not to sell our
country and consciences for nothing: Of teaching landlords to have at least one degree of
mercy towards their tenants. Lastly, of putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and skill into our
shop-keepers, who, if a resolution could now be taken to buy only our native goods, would
immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us in the price, the measure, and the goodness,
nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair proposal of just dealing, though often and
earnestly invited to it” (Swift 494).
Swift presents a series of ideas that include economic and moral changes in Irish society. He is
presenting a helpful and positive solution to the problems of poverty. He is poking fun at the way
rich people try to “help” the poor, commenting, probably, on the stupidity and faults of
contemporary systems. He is also revealing his hope for a more moralistic and religious society.
Based on the Enlightenment logic that he ridicules, Swift seems to find his society filled with cold
science, vanity, and amorality.
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Enlightened Men
Hobbes and Swift, two men very much of The Enlightenment, are very different from one another.
Hobbes does not yearn for a new surge of morality. He doesn’t seem to care about church ethics at
all. He sees man and nature. Swift is a religious man, and though his wit is of the Enlightenment, he
yearns for an older theology. I also wonder if Swift is more liberal, in some ways, than Hobbes. His
religious views might be more conservative, but Swift is also presenting a path to bettering the
poor. He is talking about a work spirit. He is talking about making the city a better place. Hobbes is
in support of royalty, although he does seem to present an almost democratic idea that the people
must agree on their leader. The people have to compromise. They have a say. I don’t think one
writer is more of the Enlightenment than the other. I just think, as there can be two modern
thinkers with opposing ideas, these men just have different ideas. They are individuals, with
different goals and ideas, and both of them have interesting and even beneficial lessons to teach.
ROMANTICISM
Pre-Romantics
Taylor Boone
For a modern creative person, let’s say a School One student, to be transported to the 18th century would a
stifling experience. The popular and overarching ideas of creative writing, among other things, were very
technical in nature. Writers like Alexander Pope had mastered the poem as essay, and every written piece
was judged on its ideas, its wit and its ability to influence the reader. Many modern appreciators of poetry
and literature will say that there is and indeed should be no objective “purpose” to these formats; they are
art and should be appreciated as such first and foremost, and to try to attribute a practical use to them
would diminish their wonderful state and make them simple tools. Fortunately for our theoretical School
Oner, all was not lost in 18th century England: even at the height of the Enlightenment, “pre-Romantic”
writers like Thomas Gray maintained some popularity. Other pre-Romantic poets like William Collins
and William Cowper had influence but were largely overlooked in their time. Their poems rejected the
contemporary reason-based, essay-like popular poems in favor of “purer,” intentionally more subjective
pieces that focused on feeling rather than cold thought.
William Collins’s Ode to Evening is totally removed from the time in which it was written. Its free verse,
its belletrism and its reverence of nature make Ode to Evening feel much more like a Romantic poem than
an Enlightenment poem, although it was written many decades before Romantic poetry came into vogue.
As its title suggests, the poem’s subject is Evening, or simply Eve, to whom it is written. Not very much
happens in it; most of the poem simply describes the state of the world around evening: “O nymph
reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, with brede
ethereal wove, o’erhang his wavy bed” (Collins 5-8). Nature, with its systems and its untamable beauty,
is definitely the main theme of Collins’s poem, and it is definitely not an Enlightenment theme. Ode to
Evening is very similar to Anne Finch’s earlier poem A Nocturnal Reverie: both are written as long
continuous descriptive pieces with most stanzas beginning with words like “and,” “then,” “when” and
“which;” a typical section of A Nocturnal Reverie is, “When odours, which declin’d repelling day, thro’
temperate air uninterrupted stray; when darken’d groves their softest shadows wear and alling waters we
distinctly hear; when thro’ the gloom more venerable shows some ancient fabrick, awful in repose…”
(Finch 82). Ode to Evening follows this same pattern at the beginning of nearly every stanza. Collins’s
poem is similar in its detail and verbosity both to A Nocturnal Reverie and to James Thomson’s Winter,
in which dozens of lines are used to describe a snowfall. Winter, however, written many years before
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Collins’s poem, contains an actual story at one point, whereas Ode to Evening is centered entirely around
a state. Still, most of Winter consists of flowery description of frozen precipitation. Collins does with
evening what Finch does with night and what Thomson does with winter.
William Cowper’s The Castaway, written in 1799, at the beginning of the Romantic period, is very
different from Ode to Evening. The Castaway is more like Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written In A Country
Church-Yard. Both concern themselves with the plight and death of the common man. Gray’s poem is
mostly about farmers: “The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd wind slowly o’er the
lea, the plowman homeward plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me” (Gray 14). The central theme is poor people are just as worthy and have just as much potential as wealthy people.
Education and upbringing are what make the difference: “Knowledge to their eyes her ample page rich
with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, and froze the genial
[endowed with genius] current of the soul” (Gray 49-52). The Castaway is also about a person who is
innocent but dealt a bad hand. It follows a sailor who drowns after his ship crashes: “No braver chief
could Albion boast than he with whom he went, nor ever ship left Albion’s coast, with warmer wishes
sent. He lov’d them both but both in vain, nor him behind, nor her again” (Cowper 7-12). In this poem,
the valiant sailor does everything in his power to resist his watery grave, but ultimately, nothing will
suffice. The latter part of the poem is about how he will only be remembered because of his epitaph and
how this is the final fate of all people: “No poet wept him: but the page of narrative sincere, that tells his
name, his worth, his age, is wet with Anson’s tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed alike immortalize
the dead” (Cowper 43-48). Both poems echo Hamlet’s words about death as the great leveler, bringing
the greatest kings and the lowliest peasants to the same place in the end.
The themes of Ode to Evening and The Castaway are similar to those of non-Romantic poems of their
day, but the presentation is different. Ode to Evening is clearly written in second person to Evening,
invoking it like a muse. An interesting difference between A Nocturnal Reverie and Ode to Evening is
that the former references classical Greek and Roman ideas while the latter rarely does. It seems that
where A Nocturnal Reverie tries to make allusions and connections for the reader, contributing to the
world of human learning and erudition, Ode to Evening tries to portray nature as it really is without
relying on distracting human ideas. There are no prominent classical references in Elegy Written in a
Country Church-Yard, but it brings in many ideas that were much more of the Enlightenment than of the
Romantic era: it has an emphasis on knowledge, skill and discernable achievement, although human
happiness and comfort are given more importance. This is much unlike The Castaway, which praises
honor, glory and immortality above fleeting human things like knowledge. The Castaway is also more
open-ended; the ending is vague in comparison to Gray’s poem, and the whole thing feels more like a
proper “poem” and less like an essay or UNICEF advertisement. The most significant difference between
the poems that can be called “pre-Romantic” and those that are leaning in that direction but are still of the
Enlightenment is that the pre-Romantics make the portrayal of nature their ultimate goal. Human things
like skill and social inequality, influential pre-Romantic James Thomson would say, are not worthy of
poetry; only the greatest themes, such as the splendor of nature, can make a truly great poem.
Innocence and Experience
Chelsea Riordan
William Blake’s poetry collections Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience do not beat around
the bush when presenting the reader with subject matter. Songs of Innocence of course focuses on
innocence while Songs of Experience deals with the way innocence is affected by different sorts of
experiences. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is the story of Victor Frankenstein, who creates an
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unintentionally hideous monster with childlike consciousness. The creature faces violence,
disownment, and rejection due to his frightening appearance and soon becomes vengeful and sick.
In this novel and these poems, certain experiences lead innocent minds in strange directions. While
some experiences can be positive and very beneficial to the experiencer, all too often they kill
innocence, a quality that breeds bliss.
In both Frankenstein and Songs of Innocence and Experience, innocence has the potential to
generate contentment as well as lend itself to causing misery. Despite his grotesque appearance and
eventual descent into madness, Frankenstein's Monster was born just as innocent as a child. He
looked upon Victor, his creator, with a certain fondness. “...his eyes, if they may be called, were fixed
on me. His jaw opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks”
(Shelley 35). The Monster’s innocence suddenly dissipated, however, after Victor abandoned him,
which was no doubt a shock to his system. Being so new, he was naive regarding misfortune of any
kind, so he was not at all prepared. Had he maintained his innocence, it might have made him
happy, but because he had the rug pulled out from under his feet so early in his life, the Monster’s
initial purity only hurt him in the long run. In Blake’s Songs of Innocence, we focus on innocence that
has not yet been compromised. The epitome of this is Infant Joy, a short poem written from the
perspective of a parent somehow conversing with his or her two day old baby.
“‘I have no name;
I am but two days old.’
What shall I call thee?
‘I happy am,
Joy is my name.’
Sweet joy befall thee!” (1).
This poem is very simple, focusing only on how very elated this child is. Being so young and gleeful,
this child is the pinnacle of innocence. Another Song of Innocence, The Chimney Sweep, has
significant dissimilarity to Infant Joy. It tells the bleak story of a young sweep who was sold into
child labor as a baby. The boy is the epitome of innocence, not because he leads an innocent life but
because he retains powerful optimism throughout his dismal life.
“And by came an angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm” (Blake 13).
The other poems in Songs of Innocence are similar, focusing on softer topics, such as lambs, children,
and natural beauty. While innocence presented to the reader largely as something wonderful, we
39
can also see that it is only temporary, and being too innocent can ruin a kind soul that endures
tragedy or pain.
In many of Blake’s ‘Experience’ poems and throughout the majority of Frankenstein, people who
experience things are affected poorly, because most of the experiences are taken as negative. “I was
benevolent and good, misery made me a fiend” (Shelley 84). The Monster was born placid and
curious, but experiencing misery warped him and gave him a deep-seated hatred for all people,
especially beautiful ones. The Creature resents beauty because the extreme discrimination that he
faced was due to his horrific appearance, and if he’d looked different, he wouldn’t have faced such a
poor life. Frankenstein himself is also altered strongly by experiences. When he sees his creation
peering down at him in the night, he becomes ill in his mind and his body due to the disturbance his
monster caused. Positive experiences change Victor as well. Later, his troubled thoughts are eased
from spending some quality time with natural beauty. “‘Dear mountains! My own beautiful lake!
How do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid.
Is this to prognosticate peace or to mock my unhappiness?’ I fear, my friend, that I shall render
myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances, but they were days of comparative
happiness...” (Shelley 59). While this book, taken as a whole, is rather cynical in its portrayal of
experience, there are moments when certain exposures reap positive results. In Blake’s poems,
experiences made Infant Sorrow’s infant and The Chimney-Sweep’s sweep miserable.
“``Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe” (Blake 5).
This sweep’s tone wildly differs from The Songs of Innocence sweep due to his weary and cheerless
attitude. They both started out as innocents, but, there again, bad experiences ruined their sunny
dispositions. We can see the infant’s transition when Infant Sorrow is juxtaposed with its sunnier
preamble Infant Joy while the sweep’s descent into depression is illustrated in both Songs of
Experience and Songs of Innocence. In the ‘Experience’ poem Introduction, the Bard’s experiences
made him sage and wise.
“Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees” (Blake 1).
Though it is not specified, we can only assume that the Bard has had both positive and negative
experiences, as no one becomes weathered and worldly wise from a staid life. In the long run, both
sorts of experiences affected him positively. While experience aren’t always easy, everyone
experiences things every moment that he or she is conscious and whether an experience is good or
bad is subjective. Everyone reacts to experiences differently.
These writings convey to readers with certainty that if enough negativity is experienced by an
innocent, his or her naivety will eventually die. In Frankenstein, what was essentially a big, sweet
child grew up to be a deranged killer due to overexposure to pain very early on in his life. Blake’s
poems compared side by side are very much like looking at “before” and “after” photographs,
“before” representing innocence and “after” experience. Though experiences can be damaging,
40
innocence is easily just as dangerous. One who is very innocent will react strongly to negative
experience, more so than someone who is seasoned in overcoming adversities.
The Angel in the House and the Madwoman in the Attic:
A Literary Analysis of Jane Eyre
Amanda Crausman
Women living in Victorian era Britain were expected to be “The Angel in the House,” striving to
exemplify the perfect wife portrayed in Coventry Patmore’s poem of the same name:
Man must be pleased; but him to please
Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
She casts her best, she flings herself… (I.— The Wife’s Tragedy)
Despite the embedded societal beliefs that caged women in corsets and proverbial dollhouses,
Charlotte Brontë courageously challenged the status quo through her representation of a strong
heroine in the gothic bildungsroman Jane Eyre. In a striking rumination on feminine duties from the
confined woman’s perspective, Jane disputes female oppression:
Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but
women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for
their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as
their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint,
too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would
suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more
privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to
confine themselves to making puddings and knitting
stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering
bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at
them, if they seek to do more or learn more than
custom has pronounced necessary for their sex (82).
The truths of the previous passage are emphasized through Brontë’s symbolic portrayal of the
imprisoned female spirit in the person of Bertha Mason, the madwoman in the attic. In Jane Eyre,
Charlotte Brontë asserts gender equality and feminine power through the juxtaposition of Jane and
Bertha’s respective roles as the angel and the madwoman, as well as their responses to literal and
metaphorical attics of entrapment. The thematic societal implications of the novel are emphasized
through Jane and Bertha’s parallel, although disparate choices while caged by money, men, and
even their own minds.
Just as Victorian era society sought to establish firm gender roles and male dominance, it also
adhered to strict hierarchal categorization: the idea that an individual’s worth to society correlated
to wealth and power. Brontë contests the calibration of such a social compass through her
description of Jane’s moral impetus as she breaks the chains of societal oppression in congruence
with Bertha’s psychotic fight to free herself from the bonds of a marriage founded on monetary
gain. As a child, “charity carried the friendless thing [Jane] to the house of its rich maternal
relations” (273), thereby establishing Jane’s confinement on the fringes of society as neither a
servant nor a welcome family member. At Thornfield Hall Jane is again barred from outright
acceptance when her education, sophistication, and manners place her above servants while her
41
lack of connections and wealth leaves her below genteel society. Despite Mr. Rochester’s protests
that Jane’s status is of no consequence, “Station! station!—your station is in my heart, and on the
necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter” (191), she accepts true love only when her
inheritance renders them societal equals. Jane’s feeling of powerlessness towards her societal
betters is mirrored by Bertha’s insanity and her entrapment in a status-based marriage. Mr.
Rochester, pushed into his first marriage to gain his bride’s “fortune of thirty thousand pounds”
(220), did not foresee the fact that such avarice would result in his own future misery. The same
greed for wealth and power that leaves the naïve Jane on the outskirts of society locks the mentallyill Bertha in a marriage she was never equipped to handle.
As Jane develops her personal identity, she seeks fulfillment in the person of Mr. Rochester,
unaware that his love could overpower her sense of self. When confronted with the stifling
pressures of dominant men, both Jane and Bertha struggle to assert their autonomy. At the young
age of ten, Jane unknowingly champions feminist precepts after wrestling with her male oppressor,
John Reed: “Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?” (11). After confronting Mr. Rochester’s
subversive choice to make her his mistress, Jane proves she is no servant when she declares, “Do
you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think
wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart!... I am no bird; and no net ensnares
me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you” (184).
Brontë’s representation of Jane as the ideal independent woman is a clear foil for her depiction of
Bertha, a character who symbolizes the loss of female sovereignty in typical marriages. The
concealment of a woman in an attic at the hands of a man overtly confronts societal conventions.
Living as a chained animal—a “clothed hyena” (212)—in her own filth, Bertha repeatedly lashes out
through violence. Just as Jane affirms her independence from male dominance by seeking freedom,
Bertha exhibits the outcome of prolonged marital confinement when “she yelled and gave a spring,
and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement” (307).
Despite the external pressures of societal and marital confinement, it is ultimately a woman’s own
mind and morals that drive her to either conceal or free herself. Jane denies love and cages her
heart by choosing the righteous path while Bertha becomes buried deeper within her mind as she
commits heinous deeds. Jane’s moral code is shaped through the influence of such positive role
models as Bessie, Helen Burns, and Miss Temple in addition to her deep sense of spirituality. When
faced with the great moral dilemma of whether to deny love or deny her true self, Jane is forced to
make the most difficult moral decision of her life.
But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it
and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my
own resolution: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid
the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out
for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by
the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped
her dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that
arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded
depths of agony. (215)
As expressed in the previous passage, Jane is willing to cage the feelings of her heart in order to free
her soul. She understands that in order bear a truly clear conscience she must experience the
turmoil Mr. Rochester so astutely prophesized during one of their first encounters.
42
But I tell you—and you may mark my words—you
will come some day to a craggy pass in the channel,
where the whole of life’s stream will be broken up into
whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be
dashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne
on by some master-wave into a calmer current—as I
am now. (106)
Jane’s moral choice to free her soul is paralleled through Bertha’s amoral attempts to free herself
from mental and physical imprisonment. Bertha is doubly ensnared, both by her mental illness and
her literal captivity. As a trapped woman, Bertha is ironically only able to express her humanity by
harming others, setting fires, and ultimately committing suicide—decidedly inhuman actions. The
description of Bertha as a captive animal, “it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and
growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark,
grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face” (212) demonstrates the degradation of the
human spirit in the face of mental and physical captivity. Similarly, Jane’s solitary confinement in
the red-room as a child caused her to behave like a “mad cat” (11). As evidenced by Jane’s virtuous
decision to deny her heart in order to free her conscience, and Bertha’s desperate attempts to gain
freedom through homicide, prolonged periods of stifling confinement result either in the validation
or degradation of personal morals.
In Charlotte Brontë’s coming-of-age tale Jane Eyre, readers are invited not only to explore the
development of one young girl into a mature woman but also to explore the confinement of women
in both Victorian and modern society. Jane, whose moral strength propels her honest fight against
monetary, martial, and mental captivity, challenges women’s angel in the house archetype. Bertha,
who struggles to break the chains of a greed-driven marriage, male oppression and mental-illness,
becomes the madwoman in the attic in order to express the debilitating affects of entrapment on
the female spirit. Through Jane’s quiet commitment to justice as well as Bertha’s psychotic acts of
rage, Brontë clearly emphasizes the power of women to escape entrapment through honorable or
dishonorable means.
Jane’s return to Mr. Rochester, finally free from moral and societal
constraints, allows them to unite in marriage as true equals.
Works Cited
I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he
knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the
pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate
bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be
together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as
gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to
talk to each other is but a more animated and an
audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on
him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are
precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the
result. (324)
Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Lightning Source, 2008. 11, 81-82, 106, 184, 191, 212, 215 220, 273,
324. Print.
Patmore, Coventry. "CANTO IX.—SAHARA PRELUDES. I.—THE WIFE'S TRAGEDY." The Angel in the
House. The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Angel in the House, by C. Patmore #2 in Our Series by
Coventry
Patmore.
Project
Gutenberg,
May
2003.
Web.
15
May
2011.
<http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4099/pg4099.html>.
43
Moby Dick
Justin Monti
When Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote the essay “The Poet,” he probably had no idea about who would
answer his proclamation. Emerson explained that the young country had all of the ingredients for
an original genre that defined America: “We have yet no genius in America, with tyrannous eye,
which knew the value of our incomparable values…” The stage was set, Emerson thought, but the
actors and scripts have been sought after in vain. Many authors made attempts to fulfill the role of a
trailblazer, but one author stands out. Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick utilized many elements of
American traits and consciously addressed Emerson by writing a novel that ideally summarizes
what it was meant to be an American.
Emerson was well aware that the plethora of great writing material existed and knew that he
should rally American authors to find their voice before somebody else did. In his essay, Emerson
gave an abundance of examples of these attributes that defined the country and set examples of
how to create this American identity: “Our logrolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries,
our Negroes, and Indians, our boats, and our repudiations, the wrath of rogues… are yet unsung.”
He is not stating that America is a perfect country but instead stating that the country has both
negative and positive traits that would make excellent stories. Emerson anticipated that the
American writers telling these stories would be the equals of the works of Dante and Homer. He
goes as far as saying that America in itself is a poem that is simply not yet organized into a work of
art that speaks on behalf of all its citizens.
In R.W. Emerson’s essay, he does not directly state that the American genre should be exaggerated
to mythic proportions, but Herman Melville inherently interprets it as such. When writing about the
scenery of the coastal Nantucket, Melville makes the effort to explain the seemingly fantastical
history of the island. While some of these statements are likely to be true, it is apparent that he
embellished interesting components. The reason he decided to include the passage about the
Native Americans discovering Nantucket was to entertain the readers while providing a historical
perspective. The whole book is filled with examples of these mystically underlying facets, such as
comparing the harsh winter wind, the Euroclydon, and the whiteness of Moby Dick. At a first glance,
these analogies seem irrelevant to the main plot, but in reality they significantly add to the
tantalizing aspects of the novel.
Nantucket was rightly chosen to symbolize America analogously on smaller scale, and Herman
Melville decided to implement this specific correspondent into his epic novel. The famous island
was ripe for an author to notice, and Melville recognized its original and beautiful qualities. The
small New England island was a bustling trading hub that attracted people of all different cultures,
akin to the mainland. He compared empires and emperors to Nantucket and Nantucketers,
implying that it was more than just a nice island; it was a prospering land that was generously
catered to by its inhabitants. This relationship corresponds to R.W. Emerson’s statement when he
said that Europe had its castles and swords while America had its groves and pastures. “A new
nobility is conferred in groves and pastures, and not in castles, or by the sword-blade any longer.”
This sentence must have sparked inspiration into Melville’s creativity, and it is evident that he
automatically connected that statement to the familiar Nantucket.
The closing scene in the film On the Waterfront, directed by Elia Kazan, answered Emerson’s call
but in a completely different manner. The similarities between the film and Moby Dick are few but
perceptible; they both exaggerate the plot to mythic proportions with the intention of amplifying
44
their purposes. The group of laborers on the piers represented the collective American worker and
their endeavors to survive. When the corrupt union leader was pushed off the dock by his workers
into the harbor, this was symbolizing the fall of inequality that befell the country during that time
period and was amplified to show how important this was for America. Marlon Brando’s character
Terry Malloy was considered as a savior of the American dream and rightly so.
During the 19th century, the United States of America was ripe for literary identity, despite being
disorganized into segments of writing material. Ralph Waldo Emerson was one of the first to make
an attempt to rally these potential voices of the country, and it did not go in vain as they did
previous to publishing “The Poet.” There were numerous pursuits to answer Emerson’s call, yet
only a few remain well known to this day. Herman Melville did an outstanding job at creating an
original work of literature that fit R.W. Emerson criteria along with adding some of his unique
characteristics. Using the island of Nantucket as a land of larger than life proportions and a white
leviathan as an antagonistic deity, Melville related them to life in America as he envisioned it to be.
Immortality, Annihilation, Mutability
Taylor Boone
The writers of England’s Romantic era, in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, set their minds to
subjects that had rarely been explored before. The value of childhood, nature for its own sake, and
the idea that humanity is not supreme on Earth are themes that were new ground to be treaded by
the Romantics. They still wrote about the immortal themes of poetry and thought: truth, beauty,
love, and all the classics are there. Writers like William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
William Blake, Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley, John Keats, Lord Byron and Charlotte Bronte all lived
and wrote during the Romantic period, and they all tried their pens at exploring themes both new
and old. Some writings, like Keats’s poem Ode On A Grecian Urn, looked far back at the past and
how it related to the present and the future. Others, like Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, were
much more focused on the issues of the day. These writers, as brilliant and eccentric people, often
disagreed about the truth behind the subjects on which they all dwelled. While they mostly agreed
about the temporary nature of human civilizations and the eternal nature of the natural world, they
disagreed about the notions that have boggled minds for millennia: what is truth? What is beauty?
What is love? Do these things change over time, or do they stay the same? Time shows up over and
over again in Romantic literature: sometimes it is a creator, sometimes a destroyer; sometimes it
alters, and sometimes it does nothing at all.
The Romantics mostly share a complex view of civlization. Percy Shelley’s opinion of human
civilization is powerfully demonstrated in his short poem Ozymandias: “On the pedestal these
words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and
level sands stretch far away” (Ozymandias 9-14). You can be the most powerful man alive, but given
enough time, you will be forgotten entirely. In this poem, it seems as though Shelley believes
civilization obeys a linear timeline: it will be born, flourish, and die, and that will be that. His
Choruses From Hellas takes a different perspective. It is about the constant changing of things;
specifically, it is about the evolution of Greece (at this time occupied by the Ottoman Empire) from a
backwater to the cultural center of the Western world and then slowly into a less important state.
Now, it states, Greece will reclaim its rightful place at the forefront of culture and thought: “Greece,
which was dead, is arisen!” (Choruses From Hellas III 38). This poem takes a cyclical approach to
45
time as it is applied to human civilization: “A loftier Argo cleaves the main, fraught with a later
prize; another Orpheus sings again, and loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore” (Choruses From Hellas IV 13-18). This line does not refer literally to
new incarnations of these heroes: it says that Greece has the means to produce new, greater
champions. Greece can never be what it once was, but it can still be great. Earlier in the poem, it is
implied that all the talk of Greece does not refer only to Greece; Shelley expected a new outpouring
of culture and greatness akin to that of ancient Greece to occur soon somewhere; he may have
expected it to happen in America, which Shelley admired and mentioned in Choruses From Hellas.
Greece is a popular subject for Romantic poets. In John Keats’s famous Ode On A Grecian Urn, the
poet muses over the unspecified (or unrecognized) figures portrayed on an ancient Greek urn:
“What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?” (Ode On A Grecian Urn 8). Keats ends the poem
with the lines, “When old age shall this generation waste, thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘beauty is truth, truth beauty’- that is all ye know on
earth, and all ye need to know” (Ode On A Grecian Urn 46-50). Ultimately, it doesn’t matter who or
what the urn portrays: the fact that it exists, has existed for so long, and will continue to exist for so
long is what is important. While the urn is not quite immortal, when compared to the human
lifetime, even to the lifetime of all human civilizations, it might as well be. Art is the savior of
civilization: the urn preserves a long lost culture for the ages just as the statue in Ozymandias
preserves the memory of a king otherwise forgotten.
Lord Byron, in the long, largely satirical Don Juan, includes a poem within the poem about Greece. It
is totally in support of Greek independence from the Ottomans. He encourages the people of Greece
to remember their brave ancestors, the Athenians and Spartans who accomplished some of the
greatest military victories of all time: “Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush?Our fathers bled. Earth! Render back from out thy breast a remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the
three hundred grant but three, to make a new Thermopylae!” (Don Juan LXXXVI 725-730). This is
very similar to what Shelley said about Greece: both poets drew upon the nation’s glorious history.
A civilization may die, but its memory will go on, and art can preserve the memory.
Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, like Shelley’s Ozymandias, is ultimately about the insignificance of man. In
Ozymandias, civilization is lost to time: the world forgot about the ancient “king of kings”
Ozymandias. In Kubla Khan, civilization is lost to nature: an inexplicable natural disaster destroys
Kubla’s most spectacular creation: “The shadow of the dome of pleasure floated midway on the
waves” (Kubla Khan 31-32). Whether to time, war, famine, drought, or nature, every single human
civilization will fall. Most, however, will live on in memory, and it falls to the poet whether a given
civilization will be remembered well or poorly. While the Romantic poets mostly agree about this,
their view of civilization as it relates to time is too complex to fit into the category of Immortal,
Linear or Changing. All agree that each civilization falls; thus, all civilizations ultimately follow
linear paths. However, they also agree that all civilizations (even the unfortunate Ozymandias is
immortalized in Shelley) live on in human memory, and are therefore more or less immortal. In the
case of a major civilization like the ancient Greeks, they left behind a lot of infrastructure, and
people of the same race still live in the same place; memories of the history of old Greece can spark
the modern Greeks to, in a way, rekindle the civilization that dwindled away eons ago. Civilization is
both mortal and not.
The natural world, unlike any human civilization, has existed and will exist for much longer than
humanity. Even a 19th century Christian who believed God intended man to be the center of the
universe had to be awed by it. The English Romantics adored nature and wrote about it extensively.
Perhaps nature’s most ardent proponent was William Wordsworth, who claimed that experiences
46
in the natural world were “stored up” and “released” as a calming, beautiful influence on human life
in stressful times. In My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold, he writes, “My heart leaps up when I behold
a rainbow in the sky: so was it when my life began; so it is now I am a man; so be it when I shall
grow old” (My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 1-5). Part of the reason nature is so much more awe
inspiring than the works of man to Wordsworth and other Romantics is that the natural world has a
different notion of time than humanity: Homer looked at rainbows too, as did the first human
beings to walk the Earth.
In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, natural beauty always looms majestically in the background. The
novel is full of lovely descriptions of the European landscape: “During this voyage we passed many
willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim, and, on the fifth
from our departure from Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below Mayence
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly, and winds between hills, not high, but
steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices,
surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a
singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking
tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a
promontory, flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river and populous
towns occupy the scene” (Frankenstein 112). Shelley’s heavy description of nature contrasts starkly
with Victor Frankenstein’s aberrant quest to create new life (hence, to defy nature). The book
seems to be reminding the reader how silly Frankenstein’s desire is when he is surrounded always
by the unchanging beauty of the natural world.
A character who learns the hard way to respect the power of nature is the mariner of Coleridge’s
The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner. The mariner, while out at sea, had shot and killed an albatross
overhead. Before long, the wind dies, and the ship slows to a standstill. A supernatural, ghostlike
ship moves alongside the mariner’s, and a frightening witch on the other ship casts a spell that kills
the mariner’s entire crew. Eventually, the mariner reaches shore and is overcome with joy. At this
point, convinced that killing the albatross was the act that brought such tragedy upon him, he
explains the lesson he has learned: “He prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear God who loveth us, he
made and loveth all” (The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner 612-617). Coleridge both respects and fears
nature. It is very old and full of secrets and power, almost too old and too great to be comprehended
by humans in our short, limited lives.
In Ode To A Nightingale, Keats expresses his wish to be able to abandon human society for nature.
He has found a nightingale and tells it, “Away! Away! For I will fly to thee, not charioted by Bacchus
and his pards, but on the viewless wings of Poesy” (Ode To A Nightingale 31-33). Nature, he says, is
free from “the weariness, the fever and the fret” of modern life (Ode To A Nightingale 23).
Nature is, to the Romantics, one of the most immortal, immutable things in existence. As human
empires rise and fall, mountains and forests and oceans stay exactly where they are.
One of the most prominent, and the most nebulous, themes brought up in Romantic literature is
that of beauty. William Blake’s poems seem to suggest that beauty is a subjective thing and that as a
person ages and changes, so does his notion of which things are beautiful. Sometimes this is a
drastic change. In Songs Of Innocence And Experience, we find two versions of a poem called Holy
Thursday. In the version in Songs of Innocence, the language is pretty and positive: Blake refers to
the children’s “innocent faces clean;” they are “flowers of London town” who “sit with a radiance all
their own.” He encourages people to “cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door” (Holy
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Thursday 12). The Songs of Experience version of the poem, however, is very dark: “And their sun
does never shine. And their fields are bleak and bare. And their ways are fill’d with thorns. It is
eternal winter there” (Holy Thursday 9-12). The experience of life has made the narrator,
(assuming he’s the same person) who has aged a lot between the two poems, into a person more
full of grim skepticism than of wonder.
Charlotte Bronte, author of Jane Eyre, disagrees completely with Blake if the tale of Jane reflects its
author’s opinions. Jane begins the novel as a child, meets and falls in love with Mr. Rochester late in
her teenage years, and is still married to him after many years have gone by when the book ends.
Jane and Rochester had at one point come very close to getting married, but it was then revealed
that Rochester was already married at the time. His mad wife lived in the attic of his house.
Disturbed by this, Jane fled and spent time with her cousins some ways away. A few years later,
filled with yearning for Rochester, she tracked him down; his old manor had burned down and
killed his wife, and it had left him crippled and blind. Jane seemed at this point more in love with
him than ever before; her love has only deepened. She loved Rochester’s personality and therefore
saw him as beautiful: “Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it
was that circumstance that drew us so very near- that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision,
and I am still his right hand” (Jane Eyre 421). Jane’s perception of beauty in Rochester has only
grown as her story has progressed, even though Rochester has lost much of the little physical
attractiveness he had.
Wordsworth takes the middle ground between Blake and Bronte. In Tintern Abbey, he explains that
he had visited the same abbey twice in his life, the first time as a man some years younger and many
years less wise than he is now. He describes his young self as appreciative of the beauty of the
natural world in the sense that he simply considered it pretty: “The tall rock, the mountain, and the
deep and gloomy wood, their colours and their forms, were then to me an appetite; a feeling and a
love, that had no need of a remoter charm” (Tintern Abbey 77-81). He saw everything just as it was,
with no deeper meaning, and that was enough. Upon returning to the spot, though, Wordsworth no
longer enjoys its prettiness the way he did before. He still loves the place, and he still considers it
beautiful: he now appreciates it for what it represents and for what it means to him rather than for
what it looks like, sounds like, and smells like. The site has not changed. All that is different is
Wordsworth. His perspective now is not exactly better or worse than it was a few years ago, just
deeper. The place got no less beautiful, and Wordsworth appreciates it no less. Beauty cannot die; it
is specific to each individual, as demonstrated by the wide array of opinions the Romantics held
about what beauty is. Beauty is eternal, but it changes every moment.
An idea as huge as beauty may well be ineffable. Even if one accepts Keats’s statement that “beauty
is truth, truth beauty” (Ode On A Grecian Urn 48), he is left with the question: what is truth? All the
world’s time could be spent searching for answers. Time is a leveler that heals all wounds. As
Heraclitus said, change is the only constant: even most of those things, like nature, that the
Romantics saw as eternal may well not be. One day all human civilizations will have fallen, and even
the memories will cease to be. There will be no one left to know what beauty is. None of this,
however, should matter very much to us. After all, we’ll all be gone. We do have access to the
world’s memories, to beautiful experiences, to art, to forests and to oceans, and we will for the rest
of our lives, as will countless generations after us. The writers of the Romantic era wanted to be
remembered for a very long time. Time is a very powerful thing; it might not be so powerful forever,
but it is as much so now as it was when Ode On A Grecian Urn was written, and when the urn would
have been made, and when Greece would have been founded and liberated.
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Romanticism and Time
Amanda Crausman
The Romantic period was a time of experiential and personal exploration of the natural world. Writers and
artists alike examined the temporality of life from a personal perspective. Themes of time, immortality,
mutability, and annihilation are present throughout the works of Percy Shelley, William Wordsworth,
Mary Shelley, Charlotte Brontë, Lord Byron, John Keats, William Blake, and Samuel Coleridge. The
temporality of human life, the nature of love, and the everlasting gifts of art are discussed in many of the
works of the Romantic authors. Romantics viewed time and effects from divergent perspectives. In some
cases the same writer will even present different perspectives in different pieces. The Romantic period
heralded an age in which the artist or poet examined elements of the natural world from a personal
viewpoint. Thus, it is only natural that the lessons of life, death, love, and music would permeate
Romantic pieces.
The temporality of natural life is a theme that recurs throughout the works of the Romantics. In the poem
“Mutability,” Percy Shelley emphasizes the fluid operation of the natural world. The impermanence of
nature is what makes all life so prized: “The flower that smiles to-day/ To-morrow dies” (Shelley 2). As a
member of the natural order, man too experiences shifts and changes. The values we cherish are merely
man’s characteristics, just as lightning, blue skies, and gay flowers are observable elements of our world:
Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call
(Shelley 8-14)
We must “make glad the day” (Shelley 18) whenever possible, for it is very possible that the following
morning we shall “wake to weep” (Shelley 21). While Shelley maintains a somewhat cautionary tone in
“Mutability,” “A Lament” inspires a far darker and more pessimistic mood. “A Lament” cries out “O
world! O life! O time!” (Shelley 1) as if this natural trinity could somehow reverse his path upon “whose
last steps [he] climb[s]” (Shelley 22). Seemingly, the speaker asks the world, life, and time “when will
return the glory of your prime?” Echoing a similarly gloomy poem yet to be written across the pond, the
answer rings out “No more—Oh, never more!” (Shelley 5). In William Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey,”
the poet juxtaposes his previous boyish enjoyment of nature with his more mature tendency to analyze. As
in Shelley’s “Mutability,” Wordsworth seems to appreciate “the coarser pleasures of [his] boyish days/
And their glad animal movements all gone by” (Wordsworth 73-74) more because of the fact that his
perspectives and attitudes have changed over time. He understands the fleeting nature of youth: “That
time is past” (Wordsworth 84). Rather than lament the passing of this time in his life, he values the new
phase of life he has entered:
For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.
(Wordsworth 88-92)
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After reading Percy Shelley’s “A Lament,” Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein practically reads as an
admonition to her husband. In the novel, she tells a cautionary tale of what happens when man contests
the temporality of life. Spurred to action by the death of his mother, Victor Frankenstein channels his
desire to gain knowledge into creating life from death. As he recalls his tale, the weary scientist struggles
to convey the power of the lesson he learned: “It was as strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was
ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible
destruction.” (Shelley 27). Thus, despite Victor’s best intentions, he was ultimately powerless in the face
of nature’s unchanging laws. Charlotte Brontë demonstrates the power of seemingly unfair natural
destiny through the person of Helen Burns. Helen, a student at Lowood who possesses wisdom beyond
her years, dies before her life could ever truly begin. Through her untimely death, it becomes apparent
that nature works without reason. There is no explanation as to why a holy child who never fails to “love
[her] enemies; bless them that curse [her]; do good to them that hate [her] and despitefully use [her]”
(Brontë 44) would perish so young. Her death emphasizes that life is often unpredictable and mutable; she
is but another “flower that smiles to-day” and “to-morrow dies” (Shelley 2). As highlighted in the
previous pieces, the Romantics struggled to accept that the true beauty of natural life lies in its state of
constant change and unpredictability.
The keen awareness of the passing of time during the Romantic period led writers to seek out that which
makes life worth living: true love. In Lord Byron’s “Maid of Athens, Ere We Part,” he communicates his
fervent desire to consummate his love—one he perceives to be everlasting. He begs that the “Maid of
Athens, ere [they] part./ Give, oh give [him] back [his] heart” (Byron 1-2). Concluding each stanza with
the Romaic expression, “My Life, I love you” (Byron 6, 12, 18, 24) his desperation is palpable (and a tad
pathetic). Byron pledges “Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No!” (Byron 23).
Disregarding Byron’s known proclivities, the poem champions a kind of love that exists upon a higher
plane. In reality, however, this type of love is generally only held in the heart of one person in the
coupling. In this poem it is clear that the Maid of Athens is not reciprocating Byron’s advances (most
likely because the real maid was under fifteen years of age). Regardless, this love is painted as something
that remains untouched by the passage of time—at least in the heart of one. In contrast to Byron’s poem,
Keats presents his sad rumination on the nature of life and love, “Bright Star, Would I Were as Steadfast
as Thou Art.” The poem begins with the speaker’s wish to be as permanent and everlasting as the star that
hangs in the night sky. However, by the poem’s conclusion it becomes apparent that it is impossible for
life’s natural mutability to be contained by the immutable steadfastness of a star in the heavens. The
steadfast and unchanging nature of the star is contrasted with fluctuating human relationships: “Pillow'd
upon my fair love's ripening breast, to feel forever its soft fall and swell” (Keats 9-10). Unlike Byron,
Keats discusses a love whose value is based in an eternal state of change: “still, still, to hear her tender
taken breath” (Keats 13). The paradoxical nature of an everlasting love that is in a constant state of
mutability is emphasized by the word choice in the previous line. Keats’ juxtaposes “still” (meaning
“without motion”) with the changing motion of her tender breath. Similarly, in Jane Eyre Brontë
characterizes true love as a bond that remains forever present, although the strength of said bond may
change as time passes. Throughout the course of the novel, the bond between Jane and Mr. Rochester
grows stronger in proportion to the numerous obstacles their relationship faces. Just as they begin to
develop feelings for each other, Mr. Rochester foreshadows young Jane’s future:
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You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course
not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love.
You have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul
sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it.
You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that
in which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on
with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the
rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor
hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you—and
you may mark my words—you will come some day to a
craggy pass in the channel, where the whole of life’s
stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam
and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on crag
points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave
into a calmer current—as I am now.
(Brontë 106)
As demonstrated in the previous passage, just as time has the power to weather and reshape love, so too
does love have the power to weather and reshape lives. This sentiment is echoed in William Blake’s
“Never Seek to Tell Thy Love.” The poem tells the story of a man who faced the consequences of
confessing his love: “I told my love, I told my love/ I told her all my heart” (Blake 5-6). Despite the
gentle wind that moves one to confess, one must never tell—lest one be prepared to face rejection:
“Trembling, cold in ghastly fears—Ah, she doth depart” (Blake 7-8). The poem concludes with a stanza
that upon first glance seems clear, but (in typical Blake fashion) grows more ambiguous upon further
inspection:
Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly—
O, was no deny.
(Blake 9-12)
Initially, the traveller appears to be the young woman’s true companion, but then one must ask why is he
silent and invisible? Could he possibly be death? If so, does he come to take the life of the lovelorn
speaker who has died from a broken heart? Or perhaps does death come to avenge the speaker and take
the young woman’s life? Regardless of preferred interpretation, the theme of the poem is clear: love is a
force that leaves no man or woman unmarked. As learned from the poems studied, it is only the passing of
time that exerts control over love; for it is time that has the power to change love itself, as well as deepen
the marks love has left on the soul.
The works of many Romantics reflect beliefs about the artistic and musical process, possibly asserting
their place in history as the “original Hipsters.” In Samuel Coleridge’s “The Eolian Harp,” he suggests
that poetry and music should be inspired by nature; the artist must embody the voice of nature. The true
artist is like “that simplest Lute,/ Placed length-ways in the clasping casement,/ hark!/ How by the
desultory breeze carres’d/ Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover” (Coleridge 1-3): an instrument
of natural beauty. The immortal presence of music is suggested by the following: “O! the one Life within
us and abroad,/ Which meets all motion and becomes its soul” (Coleridge 26-27). Thus, music, art, and
poetry are the one constant as we journey from this Life into the next—this art moves us, intertwining
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itself with our soul until the two are indistinguishable. The relationship between music and death is also
broached in Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper.” In the poem a young girl harvests her crop as she sings
a sad tune: a “solitary Highland Lass!/…Alone she cuts and binds the grain/ And sings a melancholy
strain” (Wordsworth 2). In the following stanza, Wordsworth describes the somber beauty of her song:
“No Nightingale did ever chaunt/ More welcome notes to weary bands/ Of travellers…A voice so thrilling
ne’er was heard/ In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird” (Wordsworth 9-11, 13-14). Because the maiden
functions as a symbol of death, her song adds a sense of eerie suspense to the poem. The mystery of her
tune is amplified by the fact that the traveller cannot hear the words she sings: “Will no one tell me what
she sings?” (Wordsworth 17). The paradoxical nature of death (the uniting factor in life is the fact that we
are all going to die) is paralleled by Wordsworth perception of music: “As if her song could have no
ending;/ I saw her singing at her work” (Wordsworth 26-27). Music, like death, will remain constant as
long as life exists. In Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” he suggests that the unheard music of a boy
immortalized in art is sweeter than “sung melodies” because they remain unaffected by the passing of
time: “heard melodies are sweet, but hose unhears/ Are sweeter” (Keats 11-12). The unheard music will
never cease so long as the painting exists: The music of the “Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:/ Fair
youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not/ leave (Keats 14-16). Just as the artist exists as an instrument of
the natural world, so too does “the voice of the Bard,” sung in Blake’s “Introduction” to his Songs of
Experience. In the poem the Bard is portrayed as a kind of prophet who “Present, Past, and Future sees”
(Blake 2). The Bard exists in a generation and is yet unconstrained by the confines of time. The Bard
speaks “The Holy word” (Blake 4) of nature, just as a musician or artist works as an instrument of the
natural world. As evidenced by the previous works, the Romantics respected the relationship between true
artists and the natural world. Despite the mortality of man, art and music would forever remain a bridge
between nature and humankind.
The voices of the Romantic poets function as instruments of natural truth. Romantics sometimes view the
temporality of life as an extension of the natural world. Death is often portrayed as something not to be
feared but rather looked to calmly as a step in the cycle of life. In order to make this short life worth
living, Romantic writers glorify an everlasting love—a bond that cannot be broken. Like life and death,
love is a natural aspect of man’s time on Earth. As members of the natural community, it is the artist’s job
to interpret the messages of nature. Through song, the artist must voice lessons of love, life, and death for
the world to hear. The artist should act as a type of prophet unconstrained by the barriers of time,
spreading natural wonder and truth. As the world changed dramatically about them, the Romantic writers
were drawn to issues of temporality, mutability, and morality. Like Coleridge’s Eolian harp, the passing
winds of time inspired the authors to proclaim personal and natural truths.
MODERN MELANGE
Women’s Movement and Gilman
Alice Russell
Declaring that all men and women are created equal, Elizabeth Stanton and Lucretia Mott held the first
women’s conference at Seneca Falls in 1848 where they drafted the Declaration of Sentiments. Marking
the start of the Women’s Rights Movement, the document lists grievances against women, calling for
independence through equal rights to property, wages and employment. The movement that resulted from
the work at Seneca Falls sought to combat traditional ideals of woman’s role within society and, more
importantly, the home. In her 1966 work “The Cult of True Womanhood: 1820-1860,” Barbara Welter
discusses the major virtues expected of women in America during the Nineteenth Century; four values
distinctly emerge from the work: piety, purity, submissiveness and domesticity. In direct response to these
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constricting expectations, a new woman emerged with the turn of the century; economic and sexual
freedom became leading factors of new feminism as women began to gain independence. Charlotte
Perkins Gilman, a women’s rights activist of the time, describes this new woman: “Here she comes,
running, out of prison and off the pedestal; chains off, crown off, halo off, just a live woman.” As a
member of the Heterodoxy Club, a feminist organization that began in 1912, and writer of short stories,
Gilman believed in the advancement of women through economic equality and replacing male power with
social cooperation. In her work, feminist Charlotte Perkins Gilman praises the new, independent woman
while criticizing expectations of submission and domesticity in True Womanhood.
Through her 1890 short story “The Yellow Wallpaper,” Gilman conveys the limiting ideals of compliance
women faced at the start of the Women’s Movement. “The Yellow Wallpaper”’s unnamed narrator is a
subdued wife who conveys her submission as she slowly loses sense of reality due to undiagnosed
postpartum depression; trapped in a room lined with haunting, yellow wallpaper by her doctor husband,
she begins to see faces of equally trapped women in the walls around her. The story of this woman’s
entrapment directly demonstrates the ideas of submission that were being fought by women’s rights
activists like Elizabeth Gilman. In Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments this is listed as a powerful
injustice by men against women: “He has endeavored, in every way that he could, to destroy her
confidence in her own powers, to lessen her self-respect, and to make her willing to lead a dependent and
abject life.” An example of this demeaning submission forced upon women is found in the text of “The
Yellow Wallpaper” when the narrator first describes the relationship she shares with her husband: “John
laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage” (Gilman 3). This assumed inferiority of women
during the Nineteenth Century made it entirely acceptable for the balance of power and command within
marriage to be unequal. Through her use of entrapment symbols, Gilman conveys that there existed a
constricting facet of this compliant lifestyle; the bed in her narrator’s room is nailed down and described
as “immovable” (Gilman 11), and the women she finds in the yellow wallpaper appear to live behind bars
(Gilman 16). The narrator, stuck alone in this depression, is also often treated like a young child. John
addresses her as “little girl” and warns her about the cold weather (Gilman 14). It becomes evident that
the narrator is bound by this treatment, which is evidenced when she describes discussion with her
husband: “It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me
so” (Gilman 13). A perfect woman was, as Welter explains, a woman who submerged her intelligence and
talents for the benefit of her husband (Welter 4). Maintaining quiet compliance (Gilman 17) and hoping
for no better life than the one she lives at home (Gilman 10) is discussed in “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a
mark of achieving this true womanhood.
Writers during the Nineteenth Century approached this normality between men and women – a
submissive wife controlled by powerful husband – in varying ways, producing a range of explanations.
The Cult of True Womanhood suggested that “The order of dialogue was of course, fixed in Heaven…she
should submit to him ‘for the sake of good order at least’” (Welter 4). In his 1869 essay The Subjection of
Women, however, John Stuart Mill offers a distinctly contrasting belief concerning the origin of female
submission. Mill recognizes that the character of women is “opposite to that of men; not self will, and
government by self-control, but submission, and yielding to the control of other” (Mill 2). He explains
that the reason for this significant difference is in upbringing and education: men have “put everything in
practice to enslave their minds” (Mill 2) because they fear what equality means (Mill 3). In “The Yellow
Wallpaper,” the narrator is controlled by the men in her life, a brother and husband who are both doctors
(Gilman 4) and is unable to speak on equal terms with either. As delicate and pure creatures, wives of
True Womanhood were expected to reform their husbands, but when this meant argument or harsh
answers, they were compelled to “give up gracefully” (Welter 4). This is demonstrated in “The Yellow
Wallpaper” when Gilman’s narrator, on more than one occasion, attempts to speak to John about her
illness: “I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, reproachful
look that I could not say another word” (Gilman 14). Gilman’s short stories depicted and criticized
submission as it was addressed in the Declaration of Sentiments: an unjust destruction of power and
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confidence. This forced compliance was, however, only a single factor contributing to the concerns of the
Women’s Right’s Movement at the turn of the century.
Written in 1910, Gilman’s story “The Cottagette” examines the idea of a woman’s place in the world, and
within marriage, by addressing the classical idea of domesticity and the sphere of the home. The Cult of
True Womanhood believed that, “The best refuge for such a delicate creature was the warmth and safety
of her home” (Welter 5). Welter explains that the monotonous duties of a life spent in the household were
meant to be secure and sedative for women; housework was morally uplifting (Welter 5-6). “The
Cottagette” disputes this ideal of domesticity by depicting a life and marriage that exists beyond the
kitchen. Malda, a woman living with her friend Lois in a “cottagette” located in a mountainous area, falls
in love with a man named Ford Matthews. To woo Ford, Lois suggests Malda create a home within the
wilderness: “What they care for most after all is domesticity. Of course they’ll fall in love with anything;
but what they want is a homemaker…if I really loved this man and wished to marry him, I would make a
home of this place” (Gilman 102). Although Malda believes that the beauty of the world she’s living in
is its lack of domesticity, she heeds Lois’s advice and builds a home for Ford; soon, through, she realizes
that housekeeping disrupts one’s freedom and time: “I had no objection to the work, except that it
prevented my doing anything else” (Gilman 102). She begins to accept her fate simply as a homemaker
(Gilman 105) when Ford finally proposes marriage; however, he quickly approaches her with a condition:
Malda must give up cooking. To her bewilderment and joy, he explains, “I want to marry you, Malda, because I love you – because you are young and strong and beautiful…because you are so truly an artist
in your special way…because you are rational and high-minded and capable of friendship-, - and in spite
of your cooking!” (Gilman 107). “The Cottagette”’s Ford Matthews is Gilman’s example of an ideal
man, someone who accepts the strengths of women that transcend the household. At the close of the story,
Gilman questions the possible reality of Malda’s situation while disputing the theme of proper
domesticity as necessary to the success of a woman’s life. Feminists like Gilman during this time sought
to end the archaic concept of a stifling world confined to the home and the family.
Within the home and the marriage, a woman’s family emerged as a second important aspect of
domesticity that Gilman challenged in her story “Making a Change.” In her work Welter informs the
reader that, “The corollary to marriage, with or without love, was motherhood, which added another
dimension to her usefulness and her prestige. It also anchored her even more firmly to the home” (Welter
7). In “Making a Change,” the character Julia has been forced to give up her music in favor of her family,
including an overwhelming, newly born child, which makes her ponder “wild visions of separation, of
secret flight – even of self-destruction” (Gilman 154). The Cult of True Womanhood believed, “A true
woman naturally loved her children; to suggest otherwise was monstrous” (Welter 7); Julia’s searches for
peace and visions of escape were not those of a perfect woman. An important component of the story is
her husband, Frank, is his ability, as a man, to find escape beyond the confines of the home: “…he left the
house behind him and entered his own world” (Gilman 154). Julia is finally happy again when she give
care of the child to he mother-in-law and begins teaching music lessons again (Gilman 160). Although her
husband is initially angry with her, he quickly realizes that marriage is a flexible partnership: “’This being
married and bringing up children is easy as can be – when you can learn how!’ (Gilman 161). “Making a
Change” is Gilman’s call for a change concerning domesticity and happiness, which she expresses is
entirely possible when men and women can come together in shared unity. Domesticity, the woman’s
science in the home and family, was a leading facet of the Women’s Movement, which eventually,
through forces of change, gained independence.
At the start of the Twentieth Century, the new woman was emerging and with her came forces of change
in worldly education, occupations and marriage. The grievances that were first formally addressed at
Seneca Falls were now being addressed by an established women’s movement that was adamantly
fighting for equal gender rights. In her essay “Still a Man’s Game: Reflections of a Slightly Tired
Feminist,” Symes explains that an unmarried woman’s life does not differ drastically from that of a
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married one: “I can think of almost none who has been completely loveless. Except for their childlessness
and possible a more hectic emotional life, their experiences are more or less identical with those of their
married sisters” (Symes 680). This idea of female independence beyond the sphere of marriage is directly
discussed in Gilman’s “Three Thanksgivings” (1909), the story of Mrs. Morrison, a widow who starts a
women’s club in her town as a way of gaining financial freedom from a man named Mr. Butts. Butts, “a
florid, blonder person, a little stout, a little pompous, sturdy and immovable in the attitude of a self-made
man” (Gilman 80), wishes to gain Mrs. Morrison as his wife through gaining fiscal command of her
home. The women’s organization that Mrs. Morrison creates and runs promotes Gilman’s idea of
socialization: “…even a little money goes a long way when it is put together” (Gilman 91). Mrs.
Morrison eventually achieves freedom through support from her financial endeavors and is able to pay off
Mr. Butts, establishing equality within their relationship through her independence (Gilman 96). “Three
Thanksgivings” is Elizabeth Gilman’s response to, and encouragement of, the new social independence
women had begun to acquire by 1909.
The new and modern world that women were now gaining and demanding an important place in was a
time of change. Years earlier, John Stuart Mill was writing about ideas that resonated throughout the
women’s movement. In “The Subjection of Women,” Mill questioned what made the modern age
different from past times and offered this concept concerning the opportunity of advancement for men and
women alike: “It is, that human beings are no longer bound to their place in life, and chained down by an
inexorable bond, to the place they are born to, but are free to employ their faculties, and such favourable
chances as offer, to achieve the lot which may appear to them most desirable” (Mill 3). Mill distinctly
advocates equality through his belief that denying the rights of women means denying the advancement of
the world. The true progression of this change, however, is discussed by Symes as a double burden;
women have, instead of gaining much greater independence, “achieved the right to carry two burdens, to
embrace a new form of servitude” (Symes 684) by playing two roles in society as mother and worker. In
“Equality of Woman with Man: A Myth,” John Macy explains his belief that any true advancements
concerning equal rights is due to the intelligent work of men (Macy 707). Elizabeth Perkins Gilman’s
stories are a response to these claims and promotion of feminist ideals concerning society, economy and
woman’s place in a world that was quickly changing. Her worked appeared during a time of change,
forcing people to understand the distinct oppression women were facing and the detriment this caused
individuals and society. Gilman’s short stories, often told from a woman’s perspective, are influential on
the success of the women’s movement by dispelling societal claims controlling women and offering an
alternative way to view women as equals within the world.
Freudian Analysis of Little Red Riding Hood
Justin Monti
The story of Little Red Riding Hood has many different versions and has been around for centuries.
Even before the story was converted from an oral fairy tale to a written one, the similarities
between each of the versions are far-reaching. The earliest known written variant was that of
Charles Perrault from the late 18th century, about two hundred years after the first oral versions
were told in Europe. During this time period, psychology was in its infancy. By the time Sigmund
Freud was treating patients in Austria, the Brothers Grimm had already printed their famous
Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Despite the initial differences between fairy tales and Freudian psychology,
there are a variety of deeper meanings in Little Red Riding Hood that can be identified and
understood in a psychological manner.
The first and foremost metaphorical device seen in most variants of Little Red Riding Hood is the
red cap and hood that she wears. In the majority of the versions, she is adolescent and naïve. This
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can be interpreted as a woman going through the psychosexual stage of development of latency.
Since she often appears to be on the verge of leaving latency and entering the genital stage, she is
confused and does not understand her sexual urges. The color red is depicted as blood, which can
also be further interpreted as Little Red beginning her menstrual cycle.
In Perrault’s story, Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother is eaten, which is similar to most of the
postmodern versions. LRRH’s character personifies innocence and taintlessness. When she lies in
bed with the wolf, who is not even wearing her grandmother’s clothes, she is oblivious to reality.
Freud would probably think that this was because her unconscious sex drive was quietly becoming
active without her even knowing it. I don’t completely agree with Freud, but most of his
conclusions are based on the id. Her superego would have been developed, and you would think
that she would know better not to sleep with a wolf.
The Brother Grimm’s Little Red Cap is different in myriad of ways. The hunter can be viewed as a
symbol of the ego. Usually, the Oedipal thoughts are subconsciously making her not care about her
grandmother’s safety so much. Through Freudian lenses, the situation can be seen as her id wishing
that her grandmother would be eaten so she can be alone with the wolf. Freud coined the term
Oedipus complex, which is separate but like the Electra complex, and explains why she would act
this way. Both of these complexes originate from Oedipus, a character of Greek mythology who
murders his father to marry his mother. Her father is never even mentioned, so either the wolf or
the hunter is the father figure that the id desires to eliminate from her reality.
Fairy tales are almost always made up of metaphors and analogies. This is especially true in Little
Red Riding Hood: most notably in Perrault’s story. The red attire, the denial of her grandmother’s
death and her oedipal thoughts are influences her emotions or lack thereof. Upon a first glance,
most people would probably not even notice the underlying themes in fairy tales. By looking at this
from a different perspective, Little Red Cap/Riding Hood is somewhat more interesting than it
seemed at first.
Nitrogen Cycle Fiction
Nelson Healy
A loud bang shakes me awake: a large change from the normal peace found in my cloud home. An
arc of electricity jumps through the sky, punching two jagged holes into the soft fluff of the cloud. I
jump back, not wishing to leave the comfort that had been lavished on me over the last two years.
Suddenly, I hear a bang, and feel the current pass through my body. I feel a change take place, feel
myself growing heavier, heavier. Then I start to fall. The last thing I remember is grabbing at the
cloud, trying desperately to get a grip on something that no longer supported me.
I regain consciousness and find myself floating. But it is different than the soft, grounded feel of the
cloud home. This is more dense, and is harder to move though. I am not grounded, instead floating
blindly through space. I see large shapes moving around me. They are bigger than the cloud home,
bigger than anything I have ever known. Suddenly, one rushes towards me. I franticly move
backwards, but the water is too dense. I see a gulping mouth and two gills. I then see the inside of a
throat. After that, there is only blackness.
Suddenly, light reenters my world. I am back in the water, but something has changed. I am no
longer able to float; instead I am sinking, sinking. With a jolt I hit the seafloor, the impact jarring
me. Suddenly, I am swept off my feet, pushed backwards with great speed. I am dragged along the
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seabed, pushed along for what seems like hours. Suddenly, I come to a stop, and the water recedes.
The resistance of the water was gone! I am finally free.
Unfortunately, I cannot enjoy the luxury of firm footing for long. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a
long, tubular, serpentine shape. I dodge it as it snaps towards me, and it misses by mere
millimeters. As I jump back, I trip on another tendril and fall off my feet. The serpent moves
towards me and opens its mouth. I suddenly realize that it is no snake; it is, in fact, the root of a
clover plant. Relieved, I let it sweep me away. Once I stop moving, I fall asleep in one of the clover’s
green bubbles.
Sadly, I cannot rest long. I hear a large “POP” as the bubble bursts, a large white knife piercing
through it. It grabs me and almost crushes me. I see the mouth of a deer and am then swept down
into blackness. I cannot see, but can feel the deer moving. Frightened, I inch up against the wall of
the deer’s stomach.
After a while, I notice that the deer had stopped moving. There is a jolt as the animal falls. I feel the
stomach dissolve, and once again hit the soil. Finding a dead leaf, I attempt to finish my rest.
Alas, life is cruel. I am once again awoken by a large green bacteria. It chases me, trying once again
to consume me. I dodge, but it is too big. I am eaten and think, “Here we go again...”.
But this is no ordinary bacteria! It seems to be a special one. I do not see the blackness that
organisms normally provide. I feel myself getting lighter and lighter, then a rush as I am shot into
the atmosphere with a burst of compressed gas. I shoot up, but gravity soon takes hold, and I begin
to fall once more.
CRASH!!! I hit the ground. However, this ground seems softer, more comfortable. Shaking my head,
I look up. To my great surprise, I see the mangled, abandoned remains of the cloud home. Happily,
I grab a tuft of fluff and repair the holes the lightning had caused. WIth a sigh, I lie back down on the
cloud bed and close my eyes, looking forward to a peaceful sleep.
In Cold Blood
Justin Monti
Truman Capote’s nonfiction In Cold Blood begins as an ordinary narrative, introducing and
describing the setting and the main characters. Herbert Clutter, family man and owner of the River
Valley farm, was the respected, hardworking father of Nancy and Kenyon. His wife Bonnie had a
spinal injury, making her spend much of her time resting in her austere bedroom. The two
antagonists of the book are introduced early on, although their purpose in the novel is not evident
initially. Perry Smith and Richard “Dick” Hickock take the spotlight, and the focus shifts from the
Clutters’ point of view back to the murderers’ cinematically with the intention of increasing
suspense, analyzing and thoroughly implying what the characters thought and creating a more
solid, nonlinear story line.
After the novel explains the Clutter family murders, Truman Capote starts to go into the depths of
the killers’ minds. There is a lot of emphasis on the lives of Dick and Perry years before the
Holcomb incident. Both of the murderers’ childhoods had not been a “bed of roses,” which turns out
to be a significant factor in influencing the actions and thoughts of the killers. By giving such a vast
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description of the duo, it creates an emotional bridge between the reader and the characters.
Perry’s life prior to the murders was pretty much as rough as it could get; his father was strict and
rigorously brought him up, his mother Florence “Flo” left Tex John Smith after being abused by him,
and Perry was beaten in a Catholic orphanage for wetting the bed. His siblings did not have great
lives either, as two of them committed suicide, and his remaining sister severed any contact with
him. Despite all of the negativity that Perry suffered and ultimately withstood, his reasoning and
familiarity with reality remained pristine for the most part. In almost polar opposition, Perry’s
counterpart Dick contrasted to him in many ways, both psychologically and physically.
The pair of antagonists’ motives makes more sense when you take into consideration what goes on
through their thought-process. Dick Hickock was generally less sensible when compared to Perry.
Dick’s childhood was noticeably more ordinary; his parents were respected residents of their town,
and he had a decent education. Despite his wishes to pursue college, he was restricted by his
family’s lack of money to pay for tuition. One of the more negative physical misfortunes that Dick
has to live with was when he became slightly disfigured in an automobile accident in 1950 that
inhibited him from walking without a limp and altered his habits, and he often complained about
this throughout the novel. For the duration of his life, Dick had been dealing with a violent greed
and jealously towards more fortunate people than himself. When he and Perry were at Miami
Beach, he became impetuously possessed by envy against a man who looked as though he knew the
glories of money and power. After a few moments, Dick could not bear to be near him and stormed
off furiously, after which he tried to woo a young girl by helping her build a sand castle. He thought
that his perversion was not necessarily wrong, and that people just did not understand him. Dick
was also conscious that society shunned upon his habits, thus he did his best to hide it from the
world, although Perry was suspicious about him. Dick was aware that Perry was disgusted by
pedophiles, but that did not stop Dick from giving in to his weak proclivity.
Throughout both Perry’s and Dick’s lives, they were basically doomed from the cradle to the grave.
Perhaps if they had never met, they could have recuperated from their mentally scarring
childhoods, as they drew negative vibes from each other since the moment they met. Willie-Jay,
Perry’s old friend and prison mate, had known first hand of Perry’s normalcy, and knew that if
Perry was only a little psychologically stronger, he may have been able to pull his act together and
become a functioning part of society like he had always wanted to be. By assuming the form of his
alter ego, “Perry O’Parsons the One Man Symphony,” he tried his best to keep a firm grasp on moral
reality but eventually lost his grip and never could fulfill his dreams of performing in a Las Vegas
hotel. On the night of the Clutter massacre, both men really did not know what to expect, and they
did think about concealing their identity but chose against that decision as they thought there were
no witnesses. Perhaps if they had found the Clutters’ safe, they would have been less distraught and
may have spared the four innocent lives. Perry and Herb discussed life and other subjects while
Dick was upstairs looking for the safe, and Perry contemplated walking out and forgetting the
whole scheme or simply just killing Dick himself. Dick did not have nearly as much of a morally
acceptable thought process as he brooded about raping Nancy because there was not much else to
gain from the “robbery.” Dick was also viewed by Perry as being more in charge and masculine
since he met him in the Kansas State Penitentiary. This viewpoint was shattered almost
instantaneously when Perry realized how pathetic they really were together. What triggered this
sudden realization was when he finally comprehended that holding up a conservative family of four
that did not have much money to steal from by crawling on his hands and knees for a silver dollar in
a girl’s bedroom. These examples prove how both Perry’s and Dick’s actions were not entirely
intentional but an accident that occurred within their minds.
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From what has been learned through Capote’s painstaking detective work into the depths of the
minds of the killers, it makes the distinction between morally acceptable to morally unacceptable
more ambiguous. Of course, the criminals are completely responsible for their actions, considering
they specifically planned to have all of the witnesses killed when they probably would have gotten
away with the robbery if they had just concealed their identities. Their upbringing did play a crucial
role in determining the outcome of the Clutter incident, as their psychology was not considered
acceptable by any normal standards. They would not be viewed by society as “evil” if they had just
robbed the family instead of murdering them, and they also had a lot of opportunity to simply walk
out and forget about everything. Only after they had killed the Clutters they could be truly classified
as evil, because it was very unnecessary to end four lives, and they are perfectly responsible for
their actions. Truman Capote did a superb job at depicting how Perry’s and Dick’s consciences
worked and made them look like human beings who endure the everyday struggles of life.
CURRENT AFFAIRS
Brazil
Taylor Boone
In one of my favorite moments in the TV show The Simpsons, the Reverend, Lovejoy, explains the
history of his relationship to local churchgoer Ned Flanders. Lovejoy describes arriving in the town
of Springfield in the mid ‘70s when “people were once again willing to feel bad about themselves.”
Flanders, sensitive, neurotic, and very religious, calls Lovejoy on many occasions to ask ridiculous
questions about religion, and Lovejoy “finally just stopped caring. Luckily, by then it was the ‘80s,
and no one noticed.” To date, this is the best description of the 1980s I have ever heard, and it is
exemplified excellently by Terry Gilliam’s 1985 film Brazil, a surreal, funny, brilliant dystopian
movie in which hardly anyone seems to care about anything. Brazil is set “sometime in the 20th
century” in an undisclosed location that resembles England. The main character is Sam Lowry, a
youngish man who works a menial, go-nowhere government job. He has vivid dreams that are
beautifully portrayed, most of which involve being a winged hero and flying around trying to save a
pretty young blonde woman. Early in the film, a typing mistake by a distracted government
employee sets in motion the entire conflict of the film: a man is wrongly arrested and accidentally
killed, and the man’s neighbor complains unsuccessfully to various government agencies. Sam, in
going about his daily life, sees the neighbor and sees that she is in fact the woman he tries to save in
his dreams. He tries to find more information about her but needs to be a part of the Ministry of
Information Retrieval in order to view her classified profile, as she is a suspected terrorist. Luckily,
Sam’s well-connected mother had gotten him a promotion to the Ministry, which Sam simply hadn’t
wanted before. Most of the film after this point consists of Sam tracking down the woman, whose
name is Jill, and getting caught up in an ever-expanding series of unfortunate events beyond his
control until he himself is considered practically a terrorist.
It’s hard to make a dystopian story as late as 1985 without resembling the earlier influential
dystopian works that so influenced 20th century Western culture, and Brazil feels free to reference
such famous dystopias as George Orwell’s 1984. Comparisons can also be made to Ray Bradbury’s
Fahrenheit 451 and Franz Kafka’s The Trial. In Brazil, unlike 1984, one doesn’t get the sense that
the government’s constant presence is necessary to control the populace. The people, for the most
part, keep themselves ignorant and nonthreatening in their materialism and their greed; Brazil is
1984 for the ‘80s.
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Brazil is a spectacularly dense movie; each viewing reveals new things, and while it only focuses on
a small number of subjects, an enormous number of things are subtly included. The film is
permeated by a confusing, dreamlike atmosphere, and no definitive answers are given. The viewer
is left with more questions than answers. There are points that seem contradictory. As such, it’s
difficult to judge exactly what director Terry Gilliam was trying to accomplish in making it.
The most noticeable oddity about the film is the manner in which people behave. In one scene, a
group of characters, including Sam and his mother, are in a restaurant. A bomb goes off in the room,
and military men rush in to find the culprit. The people at the tables don’t even flinch; they continue
their inane conversations as though nothing had happened. Waiters set up physical blockades so
that the wreckage doth not offend the eyes of the customers. Whenever civilian characters are seen,
this sort of insanity follows close behind; in another scene, at a shopping center, a group of people
march about carrying signs with crosses that read “CONSUMERS FOR CHRIST.” This sort of
emphasis on the self and on materialism and gratification is perfectly appropriate for a movie made
in the middle of the 1980s. As an American with British citizenship, Terry Gilliam would have
encountered similar cultural trends in both the USA under Reagan and the UK under Thatcher.
The character who best represents the selfish denizen of the ‘80s is Sam’s mother, a woman
obsessed with her appearance and social standing. In her first appearance, she is having work
done on her by a cosmetic surgeon in attempt to make her appear younger. A small subplot of the
movie is the competition between two doctors with different techniques. Sam’s mother is
employing one of the doctors, and a good friend of hers uses another. The mother’s friend has a
“complication” caused by “delicacies of the skin” that puts part of her face in a bandage. Nearly all
of the dialogue between the two women concerns their surgeries. As the film progresses, Sam’s
mother starts to look younger and younger until at the end of the film she resembles a woman no
older than 25, surrounded by a half dozen young suitors. Her friend, on the other hand, gets more
and more “complications,” and eventually they kill her. In a disturbing scene near the very end of
the film, Sam stumbles upon her funeral, and nobody is paying attention. He opens her coffin, and
her flesh and skeleton collapse immediately. While the film takes it to an extreme, it has points to
make in satirizing the excesses of the time. Sam’s mother and her friend have their heads in the
clouds; they are clueless about reality even in their pursuit of simple physical things. Sam,
unambitious and forever daydreaming, is far more down to earth than these ladies, as well as nearly
every government man in the film.
It is largely the government that supports this vapidity in the people. The first line of the movie is:
“Central Services: We do the work, you do the pleasure,” and from that point on, similar slogans can
be seen everywhere. In a government office, a poster reads, “Act with haste; regret at leisure.” If
Reagan or Thatcher had been completely honest and literal about their policies, such a phrase can
easily be imagined coming from one of their mouths. Brazil reveals only a tiny part of the universe
it has created; the audience only sees the unnamed major city in which the action takes place and a
small amount of surrounding countryside, and as such everything about the rest of the world must
be extrapolated from what we do see. The minimalism of what is shown works well to support the
overarching ambiguity of the film. For example, a major theme of the movie is terrorism, but
everything to do with terrorism is so vaguely revealed that there’s no way of knowing the truth
about it. Near the beginning of the film, the heating system in Sam’s apartment malfunctions, and
he calls Central Services for help. When no one from the government heat engineering monopoly
arrives, a “renegade handyman” (2) named Harry Tuttle arrives and fixes the system himself. Tuttle
has been called a terrorist by the government and they are after him, but all he does is harmlessly
repair a duct. Jill, the dream woman, is also considered a terrorist, but this is never proven. In fact,
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she is technically innocent of every charge brought against her, but her manner and her behavior
make it seem otherwise. It is never revealed who commits the bombings that occur throughout the
film or why; the AMC Filmsite’s review of Brazil says, “It is very probable that the central threat of
terrorism is the government's way to silence deviation, provoke fear, cover up its multiple errors,
and provide a scapegoat enemy. Viewers must interpret this central theme of the film for
themselves - and recognize the fact that ironically -- there may be no terrorists at all” (1).
Terrorism, in short, may be the “Big Brother” of Brazil; but if so, it’s not doing a very good job:
people outside the government don’t care one bit about terrorism. As long as they have their
cosmetic surgery, they’re happy. Unless you’re one of the few unlucky ones who actually gets hurt
in the attack, all you have to do is ignore it. It’s not like it will affect you.
Sam, Jill and Harry are the only characters who care about anything. Everyone else is an ignorant,
materialistic civilian, a faceless soldier, or a droning bureaucrat. One of the funniest and darkest
scenes in the film is when Sam has been arrested and is being held before various men in suits, each
of whom has something boring and strictly procedural to say about the situation, such as listing all
the petty crimes that Sam has committed, including (at the end of the list) “wasting government
time and paper.” While all this is going on, shadows of what look like people being hanged are
visible through the frosted glass. As with so many undesirable things in Brazil, people just ignore
this. Optimism is the thing; as in the ‘80s, things weren’t as great as they seemed; many problems
(such as growing income inequality and problems for the poor) lurk just under the surface. In its
excess, it its indiscretion and in its absurdity, the universe of Brazil is similar to the 1980s. One of
the few differences is that in the film, government’s glut is the cause of many of the problems rather
than its lack of oversight.
Mr. Helpmann, head of the Ministry of Information Retrieval, at one point says, “The rules of the
game are laid down. We’ve all got to play by them. Even me.”
By the end of the movie, Sam Lowry has lost his mind. But we can’t blame you, Sam. You’re living in
a crazy time.
SOURCES:
Filmsite Movie Review (http://www.filmsite.org/braz.html) Source 1
Filmcritic.com review by Keith Breese
(http://www.filmcritic.com/reviews/1985/brazil/index.php) Source 2
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Clinton Impeachment
Amanda Crausman
Think of the first thing that comes to your mind after reading the following name:
Bill Clinton
Despite the booming economy and social change that characterized William Jefferson Clinton’s time in
office, the term the author of this essay associates with our forty-second president is “scandal.” The sad
reality is that the public nature of Clinton’s indiscretion is far easier for history to remember than the
political successes he had at the helm of our nation. During Clinton’s presidency the nature of what it
means to be president changed before the bleary eyes of a media saturated nation. His position amidst a
whirlwind of new technology led Americans to reevaluate the president’s basic rights as a citizen of the
country. Despite Clinton’s attempts to charm the populace—jamming on his sax or attesting to
experimentation with marijuana—it is imperative to remember that the president is not the average
citizen, and he (or she) should therefore be held to a higher standard of public and private behavior.
Technological advancements of the 1990s revolutionized the way our nation receives and processes
information. No longer did Americans have to read words to learn what was happening nationally and
internationally; instead we flocked en masse to the powerful deity that reigns supreme in our culture:
cable television. All of a sudden the news was available twenty-four hours a day. This twenty-four hour
news cycle conditioned Americans to crave “semi-automatic weapon” style news broadcast (in which
headlines are shot rapid fire at a receptive audience). To temper the traditional news broadcast format,
political talk shows began appearing one-by-one. We slowly forgot what it meant to analyze the news and
consider information in context. After years of accepting relatively unbiased print news for granted, it
was easy to accept the far less regulated televised twenty-four hour news as truth.
Enter Bill Clinton. He erupts onto the American stage of consciousness at a time when the world is
approximately the size of a penny. Word travels quickly through various social channels: be it television,
radio, print media, or the Internet. Gone are the days when it was possible for Edith Wilson to conceal
her husband’s stroke or for FDR’s proverbial wheelchair captivity to remain concealed. Our President
was everywhere, and I mean e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e: The Daily Show, Dave Letterman, newspapers,
magazines, tabloids; you name it, and Clinton was probably on it (no pun intended). In all seriousness,
the President was painting himself as a kind of Everyman. He was a charmer, someone you could sit
down and have a beer with: a stupendous quality in a neighbor but not necessarily traits that warrant a
position alongside the likes of Washington and Lincoln. It was no longer good enough for our president
to embody national values. Sure, the country valued a man who was trustworthy, articulate, and kind—but
did he look the part? Did he hold his own against witty Dave Letterman? Is he funny? Most importantly:
Is he famous?
Just as American culture evolved along with the development of media, so too did the values we held
dear. It was widely acknowledged that JFK’s apocryphal Camelot was just that—a myth. The spread of
information left us disillusioned and depressed. Nothing, not even the presidency, was sacred any longer.
Thus, we dug our claws in to President Clinton and his family. We needed to know everything: What
kind of dog food is Buddy’s favorite? What suit will Hillary wear today? Does Chelsea have a boyfriend?
Does Bill wear boxers or briefs? Foreign policy took a backseat to the personal issues of the president in
the mind of the public. We couldn’t bear to waste our time with such issues as Rwanda (psshhhaw, how
trite!); dissecting the celebrity of the President seemed far more worthy of national attention.
As the president, one must be able to contend with public scrutiny. As the pages of the calendar have
drifted away and the decades have passed, it has become more and more difficult for the leader of our
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country to maintain any semblance of a private life. The stress is surely unimaginable. In this day and
age, the country is not only responsible for handling our foreign and domestic affairs but also for
behaving in a manner befitting of ethical and moral standards of behavior. It is likely that the combined
stress of being in America’s political and social consciousness contributed to Clinton’s ultimate fall:
succumbing to the temptress that was the twenty-three year old intern Monica Lewinski. As much as the
author of this essay wants to “give the guy a break,” it is impossible to reduce the President to the level of
the average person at the time of his indiscretion. He was the President of the United States. The
charming and joking aside, it is not the president’s job to dominate tabloids and talk shows for private
scandals but rather to set an example as pillar of what is right and just in America.
Clinton was someone who loved to be loved. He craved the acceptance of the American people and
found it by portraying himself as an Everyman. The truth is, he was not an Everyman, and somewhere
along the line he forgot that. In his quest to be loved by all, he forgot to stop and think about his duties to
the American people. In turn, our country as a whole lost sight of what it means to be president. To be
president does not mean political figure by day and clever, witty, handsome celebrity by night. It is unfair
to ask that one person be the social, cultural, and intellectual face of the nation. It is not the president’s
job to relate to every person individually but rather to present the best vision for bettering the future of our
nation. The author of this essay would much rather have a president who calls to mind the terms “honor,
dignity, and hope” rather than “scandal.”
Making The Homeland Secure
Taylor Boone
In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, America was experiencing an array of emotions. Americans
were frightened that an attack might occur again. They were sad for the thousands of lives lost; many,
many Americans had friends, relatives and relations who worked in or around the World Trade Center.
They felt a sense of unease, since no foreign attack had occurred on U.S. soil since the Pearl Harbor
bombing, and America had long been seen as more or less impervious to such a thing. Americans were
also drawn together by the catastrophe: conservatives, liberals, New Yorkers, Southerners,
Midwesterners, Christians, Jews, Muslims, atheists, rich people and poor people could all rally around the
flag of the United States of America and make it through the difficult days together. The emotion that
won out over the next few years, however, was anger and the desire for justice to be done. President
Bush’s “War on Terror” had some successes, but ultimately it caused a great deal more harm than was
necessary; half a million Iraqis were killed during the American bombing and occupation (mostly by other
Iraqis, but the death rates exploded following the execution of dictator Saddam Hussein, a principal goal
of the Americans), over a hundred times the death toll of the 9/11 attacks. The wars in Iraq and
Afghanistan eroded much of the respect and love America had earned from the rest of the world in
September 2001. In retrospect, Bush’s wars were rash and poorly executed, but what’s done is done. The
question remains: what steps should the United States take to ensure such a tragedy never happens again?
Unfortunately, there is nothing to suggest that a similar attack could not occur. While airport security has
been heightened, armed undercover government agents intending to test their effectiveness routinely get
through airport security systems unscathed. America has not stopped doing the things that incited Islamic
extremists to acts of terror (obviously Muslims are not the only potential terrorist threat to America, but
for as long as fanatical factions like Al-Qaeda exists, they will be the most significant). In 2001 and today,
the United States of America is culturally, economically and militarily the most recognizable nation on
Earth; billions of eyes are trained on it, and not all of those eyes are loving. In an interconnected world, a
tremendous number of factors must be taken into account in order to ensure the safest America possible.
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It sounds clichéd, but it’s completely accurate to say that the men who flew into the World Trade Center
simply hated America. They hated American materialism, American political systems, and (in the case of
Osama bin Laden, at least) America’s perceived “defilement” of the Islamic holy land. These are not
hatreds without reason: many Americans hate these aspects of American culture (at least the first two).
Obviously, the difference between a Saudi Islamic extremist’s hatred of America and a rebellious
teenager’s hatred of America is that only one of these people is willing to kill scores of innocents. This,
naturally, is where it becomes a problem. What can America do? Hunting down all the terrorists has
proven incredibly difficult, expensive and inefficient and has resulted in the unnecessary deaths of
Americans as well as large numbers of Afghans, Pakistanis and others. As with Vietnam, the more
involved we are in other people’s countries, the angrier and more fanatical they get. War, or “police
action,” should always be a last resort.
The American people can’t very well change their entire approach to life in order to be more in tune with
the opinions of a small, radical group of Muslims on the other side of the world. There is too much wrong
with this even to address, and virtually no Americans would consider it a good idea even if it were
possible. If war and cultural change are off the table, what else can be done? The methods of racial
profiling promoted by some on the right lead to a very slippery slope indeed and dredge up the horrible
aspects of earlier America that so much effort went into correcting. The vast internal surveillance system
put into place by Bush’s Patriot Act is reminiscent, to use an extreme example, of the German Democratic
Republic. Absolutely no one is comfortable with the idea of being under constant surveillance by
anonymous, unseen government agents, but is it as bad as it seems? If asked if giving up some freedom
in exchange for increased security is a good deal, most people will say it is. Naturally, people value their
lives more than their choices, and, as most people are law-abiding citizens, they have little to lose from
such a trade. However, many people will also contend that the government has no right to extend so far
into the lives of its citizens as to tap phones, read mail and Email, and take non-consensual photographs
of people who are only vaguely suspected of terrorist intent based on, say, books checked out at a library.
This is a legitimate point, and the government under Bush repeatedly did Constitutionally questionable
things in the name of “protecting the American people.”
An event as world shattering as the 9/11 attacks can’t be prepared for. If Bush had had a decade in which
to prepare, knowing exactly when and how the event would occur but unable to prevent it, it would still
have been next for impossible for him to have a truly good response. That Bush was able to make the
decisions that he did during the day of and days following the event is commendable. However, most of
what Bush’s administration did in the months and years afterward was absolutely disastrous, and no
terrorist act would have made it acceptable. Obviously, there was no way to expect the events of
September 11, as such a thing had never happened before in history. When the first plane struck the first
tower, Bush himself assumed it had been an accident, even though he had long known that bin Laden had
planned to attack the United States directly. As time goes on, the potential tools of terrorists grow
exponentially. To be able to locate and deal with all the new bombs, diseases and electronic powers under
the command of determined terrorists is an enormous challenge. A question worth asking is: Is it even
worth it? Relatively few people have ever been killed by foreign or domestic terrorists in this country.
As tragic as even a single unnecessary death is, if all the trillions of dollars the U.S. government has spent
tracking down terrorists and overthrowing hostile regimes over the years were to be spent on non-military
projects at home, the tangible benefit would be a thousand times more significant. As a typical American,
you are far more likely to be killed at home by a fellow countryman in an event that is not political or
religious terrorism. If we spent a fraction of our war money on improving the lives of Americans in
ghettos, educating and training gun owners, making it more difficult to acquire an illegal firearm and
making America a safer place in general, a thousand times more lives would be improved than if the
money were spent hunting down angry tribesmen in another continent. If the money were spent curing
cancer, heart disease, or AIDS (surely such a thing could be done with such vast resources!), millions
upon millions of lives would be saved and improved in America and worldwide; we would be loved.
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It’s obvious that the U.S. government doesn’t pursue Al-Qaeda and other terrorist networks purely in the
interest of the life and quality of life of the American people; if that were the case, the budgets of the
Department of Defense and the Department of Homeland Security would instead be spent on the things I
mentioned. Al-Qaeda has been hunted down to prove a point: you do NOT attack the United States of
America on American soil. If Al-Qaeda is not dealt with, it and other extremist groups (and the rest of the
world) will see America as weak. They will almost certainly attack again. In the long run, proving a point
to the world is as valuable as investing in quality of life at home. This is partly because things like the
violence of poor American neighborhoods and the ravages of disease are seldom on the minds of many
Americans. If you are a middle-class working American, you will almost never need to worry about your
physical safety; you don’t live in a violent neighborhood. If you take decent care of your body, you will
be able to live most of your life without worrying at all about heart disease. If you think that at any
moment an airplane could strike your workplace and kill you instantly, this is a huge distraction. If you
are scared to travel and never get on airplanes, that’s bad for business. Keep in mind that you vote. You
drive the economy. The government simply has more reason to care about you and your happiness and
your productivity than about a poor person in an inner city ghetto. The government has good reason to
care that you’re happy and productive, and being free from a (albeit statistically irrational) powerful fear
is good for everyone, even if the nation is actually less safe with Al-Qaeda out of the way than it would be
with inner city crime rates cut in half. With this in mind, what Bush did makes more sense.
Where we went wrong, however, is that he wasn’t able to resolve the conflict quickly and efficiently like
his father. Had the Shrub managed to get into Afghanistan and Pakistan quickly, locate and take down bin
Laden and other high-ranking terrorists and get out without turning the whole thing into a national
embarrassment, he would have been justly loved. Sadly, he is not his father. Had Bush been able to
resolve the conflict and get the troops back home by, say, 2004, the American people, especially those
who vote, make money, and matter (in the eyes of politicians) would have been more confident and proud
of their nation than they had been in a long time. It would have been like the aftermath of World War II:
we would all go back to work and be glad to have that over with. The economy would do well. One could
even go so far as to argue that America, from an economic, political and cultural point of view, would
have improved as a result of the attacks, as awful as they were. We would all have renewed faith in our
leadership, a great foe would have been slain and, with the enemy gone, we would be able to go to work
and be confident. The war would have been a morale-boosting, community-fostering distraction from the
problems at home. I don’t mean to insinuate that the government would have wanted the attacks to occur.
Once they did, however, the government really had no choice but to track the perpetrators down: if not for
safety reasons, then for business reasons and for political reasons. If the American people think the
government is taking steps to keep them safe, that matters more in some ways than if the government
actually makes things safer but in a less noticeable way. By taking so long and spending so much on the
wars, Bush allowed unwanted attention to be drawn to the government’s real actions; when America’s
jingoistic post-9/11 fervor wore off, Americans still felt unsafe, and now they were fearful and in debt and
bothered by the insinuations of the Patriot Act. This is more of a failing of Bush’s administration’s
capabilities than of the things it tried to do. There is of course the ethical question of whether it’s right to
wage a war in order to keep your people happy and your economy running. This only half applies to the
fight against Al-Qaeda, since bin Laden and his comrades actually committed such deplorable acts, but
the invasion of Iraq and its thinly disguised quest for oil took it too far. There is only so much you can do
to manipulate the American people, and when they saw that the President could put so many lives in
danger (not to mention bomb Baghdad, one of the oldest and most historically significant cities in the
world) for such a relatively superficial thing, Bush’s whole scheme fell apart. We don’t like to have it
made so obvious that so much of what the government does is done to keep us content and productive
rather than safe and happy. That, however, is the way America has worked for a long, long time, and it’s
precisely the traits that radical Islamists despise so much that make us tick.
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