William Butler Yeats’ verse has been described as “…an exacting instrument and national inquiry” (1113). In fact, it was his critical eye that separated him from other Irish poets of his era; their poetry was “sentimental, self-indulgent luxury” (1113). Yeats’ insights might have come from the fact that he did not gloss over painful subjects; he wrote about them. He had a miserable childhood, and many years of unrequited love, but these experiences only seem to have made him stronger and more perceptive. He was wise beyond his years. For instance, although William Butler Yeats did not pass away until 1939, he started thinking about it well before then. Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium”, written in 1926, is a meditation on aging, dying, and the afterlife.
The poem begins by lamenting the place of an old man in society and the human life cycle. The old man, it seems, is destined to be a wanderer. He has no home, as “There is no country for old men…” (line 1, 1124). He is homeless because he has already procreated and therefore cannot fit in with the young lovers and their children. The younger people are “In one another’s arms, birds in the trees/-Those dying generations-at their song” (lines 2-3, 1124). They are masses of biological clocks going off, consumed with the urgency of their desire. They are blind to the fact that death awaits them at the end of their lives; they are instinctive and animalistic. As such, Yeats’ compares the young lovers with animals during mating season, “The salmon falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, /Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long” (lines 4-5). The old man, however, is no longer driven by a desire to reproduce. He cannot join the throngs of young lovers. He is no longer “caught in that sensual music…” (line 7, 1124). Yet he has a clarity of perception that these rash lovers lack. He knows that life is short and nothing lasts forever, “Whatever is begotten, born, and dies” (line 6, 1125). In other words, after they make babies the young lovers, like the salmon, will dwindle away.
The second stanza highlights the occupation and worth of an old man. Yeats seems to feel that an old man who has not learned from his mistakes is worthless, a “…paltry thing, /A tattered coat upon a stick…” (lines 9-10, 1125). He is not even human, just a stick. An old man’s purpose is to “Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing/For every tatter in its mortal dress” (lines 11-12, 1125). The old man is supposed to give advice so others do not repeat his same mistakes. He should be a repository of wisdom. However, there is no one who can teach the old man this wisdom if he has not already gained it. This self-reflection can only by done by the old man himself, “Nor is there singing school but studying/Monuments of its own magnificence” (lines 13-14, 1125). This magnificence, it seems, can be both personal and historical. The old man could be reflecting upon his own history or ancient history or both. Still, his homeless condition makes him a traveler, so he has many opportunities both for reflection and to visit historical sites. The old man notes, “And therefore I have sailed the seas and come/to the holy city of Byzantium” (lines 15-16, 1125).
The third stanza is about the struggle of dying. In the holy city of Byzantium, the old man becomes aware of a conflict between his body and his soul. His soul is “…fastened to a dying animal” (line 22, 1125). He is intensely aware of the decay of both his body and his mind. This dying animal “...knows not what it is…” (line 23, 1125). He has lost a sense of self; he does not know what he is, yet alone who he is. Perhaps the old man is afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease, losing a grip on reality. In advanced stages, Alzheimer’s patients may not know their own names or ages. They even lose the ability to manage their bodily functions or speak clearly. Alzheimer’s disease is ultimately terminal, so it might be an appropriate diagnosis for this old man given his age, failing mental and bodily capabilities, and that this stanza is about death. In any case, the old man prays to the gods to hasten his death, “O sages standing in God’s holy fire/As in the gold mosaic of a wall/Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,/And be the singing-masters of my soul” (lines 17-20, 1125). The fact that he wants the sages to be “singing-masters” of his soul indicates that the old man wants his confusion to end. He wants to be sure of himself again. More than that, he realizes that a part of him, his soul, is immortal, and wishes to separate that part of himself from his feeble mortal body. He asks the sages to “…gather me/Into the artifice of eternity” (lines 23-24, 1125).
The final stanza centers upon the old man’s wishes in the afterlife. Having been freed from his human body, the old man’s soul comments that it “…shall never take/My bodily form from any natural thing” (lines 25-26, 1125). No bodily form is sufficient for this immortal soul. Instead, he seeks a form that rivals the grandeur of Byzantium. The soul describes its ideal form, “But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make/of hammered gold and gold enameling/To keep a drowsy Emperor awake-” (lines 27-29,1125). In line with his Christian upbringing, Yeats seems to view the spirit as immortal, and a clean soul as a beautiful thing. Only once it is clean is it equal to all the hammered gold and gold enameling. The soul then presumably just glorifies God, the Emperor. The soul could also have another occupation, however. This other option is described, “Or set upon a golden bough to sing/To lords and ladies of Byzantium/Of what is past, or passing, or to come” (lines 30-32, 1125). The soul evidently is sent back to earth to fulfill some mission, almost like an angel of some kind. I tried to make sense of these last few lines in terms of Christian theology, since Yeats was brought up a Protestant, but to no real coherency. Though Christian theology does contain a belief in angels, angels are considered pure spirits, and distinct from human souls. Anyhow, Yeats was not strictly a theologian, and he is certainly entitled to his own ideas about the afterlife.
The fact that Yeats was able to write so clearly about aging, dying, and the afterlife, well before his own demise shows the perceptivity that made his poetry so famous. He does not make getting older seem any easier than it really is; his descriptions of the sense of isolation and the difficulty of wisdom are really quite astute. Not all the elderly get to be surrounded by their families, nor are all of them wise. Neither is Yeats sentimental about death; there is no rapture, only a longing for body and soul to be separated. As to the afterlife, well, we all can dream.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
World War I Poets: Siegfried Sassoon
Survey classes have the advantage over classes that focus just on one author or time period in that one gets to see the pendulum of ideas swing back and forth. Each new movement is a reaction against the former movement: writers, poets and artists strive to break out of the confines of recent precedent into something new. Siegfried Sassoon’s “Glory of Women” is not only a commentary about World War I but also a critique of the principles of the former Victorian age.
The Victorian age was an age of ideals, at least for the upper class. Men were to be gentlemen and women were to be ladies, and both were to always appear polished and morally spotless. Sassoon chastises the women of his own era who buy into such outdated idealism. There is an implication that the women only love heroes with all the trappings of honor and courage; they “worship decorations” (line 3). The women want a man with an idealized appearance. Sassoon writes, “You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave” (line 1). What they love, it seems, is not the soldier himself, but the idea of a soldier. They care more for appearances than for the actual man inside the uniform. As Sassoon notes, “You make us shells” (line 5).
What is interesting is that the soldiers do not even have to be physically whole to be loved; they can be harmed as long as they lived to tell about it and have served their country honorably. Sassoon ridicules the Victorian ladies’ pastime of visiting and gossiping, and the modern women for continuing it. The women love soldiers “wounded in a mentionable place” (line 2). Note that there is no compassion for any unmentionable wounds a man might suffer. If he is wounded in an unmentionable place, the woman involved cannot parade him around as much. She cannot show him off and share in the limelight. What the woman really wants, it seems, is a uniform that can talk and that affirms her preconceived ideas. The women “…listen with delight, /By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled” (lines 5-6).
Perhaps the women’s reluctance to let go of their ideal soldier is that they do not know how to deal with any other type of soldier. The women know what to do when the soldiers are at war. Sassoon writes, “You crown our distant ardours while we fight” (line 7). In other words, the women are proud of the men’s devotion to their country and try to support them from overseas. However, the fact that the women seem to make war romantic is given by the fact that they “crown” the men’s supposed zeal. The crown is an article that makes the bearer majestic, so the women are extrapolating the awful reality of war in a positive way. The women even know how to deal with the death of an honorable soldier. They “mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed” (line 8). Again, the women idealize the soldier even after death by “laurelling” their memory. Laurels are a symbol of achievement, implying the women just focus on the soldiers’ merits in battle.
Yet Sassoon is right to critique the English women. They are buying into outdated ideas, but what is even worse is that those ideas are false. Sassoon believes that these women are perpetuating the myth of glory in war. He notes that women “believe/That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace” (lines 4-5). The women have some idea that the war is costly in terms of lhuman ife, but also have notions of heroic charges, daring rescues, and an overall sense of humanity and decency that Sassoon does not find in the Great War. Sassoon believes that there is no glory in war, and cites an example from the battlefield to bolster his argument. He describes war not in euphemisms but in graphic detail. He writes, “You can’t believe that British troops ‘retire’/When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run, /Trampling the terrible corpses-blind with blood” (lines 9-11). The image that Sassoon presents is the exact opposite of the courageous charges the women would have been expecting. Their soldiers are not boldly going forward, but running for their lives. It is to the soldiers’ credit, perhaps, that this is not just stage fright, but the reality that it was “hell’s last horror” that broke them is not very comforting. The image of the soldiers blinded with blood, trampling corpses is not one of glory. It is hellish and frightening. There is nothing noble in stumbling over a dead body as one wipes blood from one’s eyes.
Sassoon makes one final jab at the English women’s character when he describes the German mother. The English women, it seems, talk about the soldiers, but do not do anything practical to help them. They too are empty shells, devoid of compassion. The German mother, in contrast, is a figure of love. She is described, “O German mother dreaming by the fire, /While you are knitting socks to send your son” (lines 12-13). She does not gossip about her son, but thinks fondly about him, and is actively helping him by making his socks. The fact that Sassoon chose to make the mother German makes the contrast between the mother and the English women even more interesting. English propaganda during World War I demonized Germans, so the fact that this mother was German shows that in reality the English women are the ones who are devilish. As pointed out in podcast #15, the inclusion of the German mother also serves to give humanity to the German soldiers; they have mothers too.
The final line of the poem drives home Sassoon’s point that there is no glory in war and those who think so are fools. His ending image is of stark reality as he chronicles the German soldier’s fate, “His face trodden deeper in the mud” (line 14). The English women can no longer ignore the fact that they are wrong; there is no way to politely explain away this image. Their beloved soldiers are trampling the German mother’s beloved son into the mud as the soldiers flee. Such is the grim reality of war.
* “Glory of Women” is on page 1099 of our anthology.
The Victorian age was an age of ideals, at least for the upper class. Men were to be gentlemen and women were to be ladies, and both were to always appear polished and morally spotless. Sassoon chastises the women of his own era who buy into such outdated idealism. There is an implication that the women only love heroes with all the trappings of honor and courage; they “worship decorations” (line 3). The women want a man with an idealized appearance. Sassoon writes, “You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave” (line 1). What they love, it seems, is not the soldier himself, but the idea of a soldier. They care more for appearances than for the actual man inside the uniform. As Sassoon notes, “You make us shells” (line 5).
What is interesting is that the soldiers do not even have to be physically whole to be loved; they can be harmed as long as they lived to tell about it and have served their country honorably. Sassoon ridicules the Victorian ladies’ pastime of visiting and gossiping, and the modern women for continuing it. The women love soldiers “wounded in a mentionable place” (line 2). Note that there is no compassion for any unmentionable wounds a man might suffer. If he is wounded in an unmentionable place, the woman involved cannot parade him around as much. She cannot show him off and share in the limelight. What the woman really wants, it seems, is a uniform that can talk and that affirms her preconceived ideas. The women “…listen with delight, /By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled” (lines 5-6).
Perhaps the women’s reluctance to let go of their ideal soldier is that they do not know how to deal with any other type of soldier. The women know what to do when the soldiers are at war. Sassoon writes, “You crown our distant ardours while we fight” (line 7). In other words, the women are proud of the men’s devotion to their country and try to support them from overseas. However, the fact that the women seem to make war romantic is given by the fact that they “crown” the men’s supposed zeal. The crown is an article that makes the bearer majestic, so the women are extrapolating the awful reality of war in a positive way. The women even know how to deal with the death of an honorable soldier. They “mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed” (line 8). Again, the women idealize the soldier even after death by “laurelling” their memory. Laurels are a symbol of achievement, implying the women just focus on the soldiers’ merits in battle.
Yet Sassoon is right to critique the English women. They are buying into outdated ideas, but what is even worse is that those ideas are false. Sassoon believes that these women are perpetuating the myth of glory in war. He notes that women “believe/That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace” (lines 4-5). The women have some idea that the war is costly in terms of lhuman ife, but also have notions of heroic charges, daring rescues, and an overall sense of humanity and decency that Sassoon does not find in the Great War. Sassoon believes that there is no glory in war, and cites an example from the battlefield to bolster his argument. He describes war not in euphemisms but in graphic detail. He writes, “You can’t believe that British troops ‘retire’/When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run, /Trampling the terrible corpses-blind with blood” (lines 9-11). The image that Sassoon presents is the exact opposite of the courageous charges the women would have been expecting. Their soldiers are not boldly going forward, but running for their lives. It is to the soldiers’ credit, perhaps, that this is not just stage fright, but the reality that it was “hell’s last horror” that broke them is not very comforting. The image of the soldiers blinded with blood, trampling corpses is not one of glory. It is hellish and frightening. There is nothing noble in stumbling over a dead body as one wipes blood from one’s eyes.
Sassoon makes one final jab at the English women’s character when he describes the German mother. The English women, it seems, talk about the soldiers, but do not do anything practical to help them. They too are empty shells, devoid of compassion. The German mother, in contrast, is a figure of love. She is described, “O German mother dreaming by the fire, /While you are knitting socks to send your son” (lines 12-13). She does not gossip about her son, but thinks fondly about him, and is actively helping him by making his socks. The fact that Sassoon chose to make the mother German makes the contrast between the mother and the English women even more interesting. English propaganda during World War I demonized Germans, so the fact that this mother was German shows that in reality the English women are the ones who are devilish. As pointed out in podcast #15, the inclusion of the German mother also serves to give humanity to the German soldiers; they have mothers too.
The final line of the poem drives home Sassoon’s point that there is no glory in war and those who think so are fools. His ending image is of stark reality as he chronicles the German soldier’s fate, “His face trodden deeper in the mud” (line 14). The English women can no longer ignore the fact that they are wrong; there is no way to politely explain away this image. Their beloved soldiers are trampling the German mother’s beloved son into the mud as the soldiers flee. Such is the grim reality of war.
* “Glory of Women” is on page 1099 of our anthology.
World War I Poets: Rupert Brooke
World War I set many precedents with the use of technology such as tanks, mustard gas, and machine guns. The high death toll was also a new record. One thing the war did not change, however, was the patriotic feeling of those on the home front. Due to propaganda, and perhaps simple naïveté, the English public held a vision of the war as a noble endeavor on England’s part. Like much of the English public, Rupert Brooke never actually saw combat. His “The Soldier” depicts the simple patriotism of the English home front.
Brooke’s sonnet, like all sonnets, seeks an answer, a resolution to a conflict. However, I think his sonnet is distinctive in that he is really trying to answer two questions, not just one. The first question is “what to do when a loved one is killed in battle.” The poem opens with the lines “If I am dead, think only this of me:/That there’s some corner of a foreign field/That is forever England…” (lines 1-3, 1098). The problem, then, is not only that the beloved soldier has been killed, but also that his body will remain on the battlefield. This means, of course, that it is highly unlikely that family and friends will get to inter or cremate the body, or otherwise dispose of it in a respectful manner. They will have to follow a different path of mourning than they would if the young man had died at home; there can be no easy sense of closure. Brooke hints at this different grief in mentioning that they should think only of England. If the soldier has to tell his family what to think, that means that there are a multitude of thoughts they could have, not all of which would be so patriotic. The family’s reaction might be to ask, “why him?” and to then feel anger towards their government for getting involved in the war, and for the war itself.
Another question the family might ask, which is the second question the sonnet addresses, is simply “why? For what purpose did this man die?”. The response, resoundingly, is “for England.” The word “England” appears four times in the poem, “English” twice. This repetition of both the proper noun and the adjective serves to rouse strong nationalistic feelings: pride and a feeling that England is superior to other nations. As mentioned in podcast#15, there is a sense that this man’s spot of England makes the world a better place. His body, euphemistically called dust, will enrich the ground where he fell, “…There will be/In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;/A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware” (lines 3-5, 1098). Here Brooke becomes nostalgic. He lists all the benefits this man has had by growing up an Englishman, perhaps to make the reader also grateful to live in a nation where such benefits could be had. He concentrates on the happy past rather than the present cruel reality of war and death and loss. England gave the soldier, “…her flowers to love, her ways to roam,/A body of England’s, breathing English air,/Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home” (lines 6-8, 1099). Brooke is highlighting England’s natural beauty, and that this man had the freedom to enjoy it.
The final stanza is the resolution. Comfort is given to the family in knowing that the soldier is no longer suffering and in a better place, “And think, this heart, all evil shed away,/A pulse in the Eternal mind, no less” (lines 9-10, 1099). There is some security in knowing that, although the man’s life on earth is ended and his body is far away on a lonely battlefield, his spirit is immortal and without confines of place. The poem ends by reaffirming once again that the man died for England, not just the nostalgic, beautiful England that raised him, but also for the glorious future England. Brooke notes that by his death the soldier, “Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given,/Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;/And laughter, learnt of friends and gentleness,/In hearts at peace, under an English heaven” (lines 11-14, 1099). The soldier dies that others may be happy and enjoy England’s beauty. He dies for the dreams of a nation. He dies so that there might be peace at last in his beloved England.
Brooke’s sonnet, like all sonnets, seeks an answer, a resolution to a conflict. However, I think his sonnet is distinctive in that he is really trying to answer two questions, not just one. The first question is “what to do when a loved one is killed in battle.” The poem opens with the lines “If I am dead, think only this of me:/That there’s some corner of a foreign field/That is forever England…” (lines 1-3, 1098). The problem, then, is not only that the beloved soldier has been killed, but also that his body will remain on the battlefield. This means, of course, that it is highly unlikely that family and friends will get to inter or cremate the body, or otherwise dispose of it in a respectful manner. They will have to follow a different path of mourning than they would if the young man had died at home; there can be no easy sense of closure. Brooke hints at this different grief in mentioning that they should think only of England. If the soldier has to tell his family what to think, that means that there are a multitude of thoughts they could have, not all of which would be so patriotic. The family’s reaction might be to ask, “why him?” and to then feel anger towards their government for getting involved in the war, and for the war itself.
Another question the family might ask, which is the second question the sonnet addresses, is simply “why? For what purpose did this man die?”. The response, resoundingly, is “for England.” The word “England” appears four times in the poem, “English” twice. This repetition of both the proper noun and the adjective serves to rouse strong nationalistic feelings: pride and a feeling that England is superior to other nations. As mentioned in podcast#15, there is a sense that this man’s spot of England makes the world a better place. His body, euphemistically called dust, will enrich the ground where he fell, “…There will be/In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;/A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware” (lines 3-5, 1098). Here Brooke becomes nostalgic. He lists all the benefits this man has had by growing up an Englishman, perhaps to make the reader also grateful to live in a nation where such benefits could be had. He concentrates on the happy past rather than the present cruel reality of war and death and loss. England gave the soldier, “…her flowers to love, her ways to roam,/A body of England’s, breathing English air,/Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home” (lines 6-8, 1099). Brooke is highlighting England’s natural beauty, and that this man had the freedom to enjoy it.
The final stanza is the resolution. Comfort is given to the family in knowing that the soldier is no longer suffering and in a better place, “And think, this heart, all evil shed away,/A pulse in the Eternal mind, no less” (lines 9-10, 1099). There is some security in knowing that, although the man’s life on earth is ended and his body is far away on a lonely battlefield, his spirit is immortal and without confines of place. The poem ends by reaffirming once again that the man died for England, not just the nostalgic, beautiful England that raised him, but also for the glorious future England. Brooke notes that by his death the soldier, “Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given,/Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;/And laughter, learnt of friends and gentleness,/In hearts at peace, under an English heaven” (lines 11-14, 1099). The soldier dies that others may be happy and enjoy England’s beauty. He dies for the dreams of a nation. He dies so that there might be peace at last in his beloved England.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy’s pessimism directly contrasts the optimism of the Victorian age. Whereas they saw progress, he saw, as mentioned in podcast #14, that “there is no bad without a worse.” His pessimism could stem from his lack of faith; again, a quality that puts him at odds with the Industrial society and its firm beliefs. His occupation as an architect that renovated churches is especially ironic, considering his religious views. However, his lack of faith was accompanied by a strong desire for faith. He wanted the religious comfort that the believers enjoyed. Instead, he was constantly torn between his desire for belief and his view of the universe as uncaring.
Hardy evidences this struggle in “Hap.” The title is a reference to Hardy’s worldview; his lack of faith has led him to believe in a lack of purpose as well. If there is no guiding principle, all is just happenstance, or “hap.” Hardy’s pessimism is exposed in the first stanza, “If but some vengeful god would call to me. From up the sky, and laugh: ‘Thou suffering thing,/Know that they sorrow is my ecstasy,/That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting” (lines 1-4). He longs to know that what he goes through in life is worth something, even if he were nothing but a marionette. The idea that human beings simply live and die is intolerable to Hardy. There is too much feeling involved in the process for it all to amount to nothing; wasted emotion is very frustrating. Suffering, sorrow, and love are some of the deepest human experiences, and they seem to lack a point if the end is to be six feet underground rotting away.
Hardy discusses the comfort he seeks in the second stanza. He explains that knowing of a divine plan would make life much more bearable, “Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,/Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;/Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I/Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.” (lines 5-8). The reassurance he searches for comes from surrendering his life to a higher power’s whims. What scares Hardy, surprisingly, is the idea he might be in charge of his own life. He could deal with it if his misfortunes were dealt by some being with power over him. However, the idea that perhaps he made his own destiny does not cross his mind. Maybe he feels that there were events in his life that he had no control over. Yet the fact remains that people make a good many choices every day: what to eat, whom to talk with, when and how much to exercise, what to read, whether to pray and about what to pray. All of these daily decisions have profound impacts on our health, be it physical, social, mental, or spiritual and our fitness in each of these areas greatly affects our overall mood and outlook on life. I think part of Hardy’s problem is that he has a victim complex and does not want to own up to the decisions he has made and their direct impacts upon his life.
The final stanza explains Hardy’s current faithless, pessimistic worldview. He has found no evidence of purpose, and it depresses him, “But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,/And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?” (lines 9-10). Instead of a religious god or gods directing events on earth, Hardy instead personifies Causality and Time signifying again that everything happens by chance. Causality, or the cause and effect relationship, is “crass” and “obstructs the sun and rain” (line 11). Hardy is offended that the universe is insensitive and there seems no pattern to the sun and rain. Time does not seem to care at what stage of life one is at, “dicing”, it “for gladness casts a moan” (line 12). Hardy sees Time as a gambler who rolls dice to decide his life’s direction. Any chance that the reader thought Causality and Time had any sympathies for the human condition are dispelled with the christening of the pair as “purblind Doomsters” (line 13). They are not attentive to the human condition, as they can only see half of it, being “purblind.” Indeed, they really cannot see what they are doing and so have “as readily strown/ Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain” (line 14).
Yet Hardy’s hope for faith is present even as he explains in the final line that blisses and pain are doled out at a happenstance, because he describes life as a “pilgrimage.” If Hardy truly believes life is nothing but chance, why call not call it a journey or an excursion or some other such synonym? The word “pilgrimage” has religious and purpose-driven undertones. Pilgrimages are acts of devotion, with a specific deity and destination kept constantly in mind. So although Hardy maintains throughout the poem that life has no real meaning, his indecision comes out at the end. He believes in chance and yet clings to hopes of order and purpose.
* “Hap” is on page 1073 of our anthology.
Hardy evidences this struggle in “Hap.” The title is a reference to Hardy’s worldview; his lack of faith has led him to believe in a lack of purpose as well. If there is no guiding principle, all is just happenstance, or “hap.” Hardy’s pessimism is exposed in the first stanza, “If but some vengeful god would call to me. From up the sky, and laugh: ‘Thou suffering thing,/Know that they sorrow is my ecstasy,/That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting” (lines 1-4). He longs to know that what he goes through in life is worth something, even if he were nothing but a marionette. The idea that human beings simply live and die is intolerable to Hardy. There is too much feeling involved in the process for it all to amount to nothing; wasted emotion is very frustrating. Suffering, sorrow, and love are some of the deepest human experiences, and they seem to lack a point if the end is to be six feet underground rotting away.
Hardy discusses the comfort he seeks in the second stanza. He explains that knowing of a divine plan would make life much more bearable, “Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,/Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;/Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I/Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.” (lines 5-8). The reassurance he searches for comes from surrendering his life to a higher power’s whims. What scares Hardy, surprisingly, is the idea he might be in charge of his own life. He could deal with it if his misfortunes were dealt by some being with power over him. However, the idea that perhaps he made his own destiny does not cross his mind. Maybe he feels that there were events in his life that he had no control over. Yet the fact remains that people make a good many choices every day: what to eat, whom to talk with, when and how much to exercise, what to read, whether to pray and about what to pray. All of these daily decisions have profound impacts on our health, be it physical, social, mental, or spiritual and our fitness in each of these areas greatly affects our overall mood and outlook on life. I think part of Hardy’s problem is that he has a victim complex and does not want to own up to the decisions he has made and their direct impacts upon his life.
The final stanza explains Hardy’s current faithless, pessimistic worldview. He has found no evidence of purpose, and it depresses him, “But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,/And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?” (lines 9-10). Instead of a religious god or gods directing events on earth, Hardy instead personifies Causality and Time signifying again that everything happens by chance. Causality, or the cause and effect relationship, is “crass” and “obstructs the sun and rain” (line 11). Hardy is offended that the universe is insensitive and there seems no pattern to the sun and rain. Time does not seem to care at what stage of life one is at, “dicing”, it “for gladness casts a moan” (line 12). Hardy sees Time as a gambler who rolls dice to decide his life’s direction. Any chance that the reader thought Causality and Time had any sympathies for the human condition are dispelled with the christening of the pair as “purblind Doomsters” (line 13). They are not attentive to the human condition, as they can only see half of it, being “purblind.” Indeed, they really cannot see what they are doing and so have “as readily strown/ Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain” (line 14).
Yet Hardy’s hope for faith is present even as he explains in the final line that blisses and pain are doled out at a happenstance, because he describes life as a “pilgrimage.” If Hardy truly believes life is nothing but chance, why call not call it a journey or an excursion or some other such synonym? The word “pilgrimage” has religious and purpose-driven undertones. Pilgrimages are acts of devotion, with a specific deity and destination kept constantly in mind. So although Hardy maintains throughout the poem that life has no real meaning, his indecision comes out at the end. He believes in chance and yet clings to hopes of order and purpose.
* “Hap” is on page 1073 of our anthology.
Gerard Manley Hopkins-"Felix Randal"
As mentioned in podcast #14, part of the appeal of Gerard Manley Hopkins as a poet is that he produced at least two distinct types of poetry. His earlier works reflect his decision to become a Jesuit and serve as a spiritual exercise. They are generally more upbeat and focus on God and nature. Later in life, however, Hopkins began to question his purpose in life, as he was often sick and his faith was “tested sorely” (773). His poetry became much more pensive as a result. “Felix Randal” is a transitional work; while it still has a Christian theme, the poem has a much more reflective and personal tone than his former works.
In fact, though the title is “Felix Randal”, the poem is just as much and perhaps even more about Hopkins’ ministry. Note that Hopkins’ reaction to the news that Felix is dead is neither sorrow nor joy but a comment that Hopkins own duty toward Felix is “all-ended” (line 1,776). He does not go on to speak of the good times in the man’s life, but rather how his greatness diminished. He describes how he has watched the physical decline of this man, “…his mould of man, big-boned and hardy handsome/pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some/Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended” (lines 2-4,776). Felix Randal was a “farrier” (line 1,776), a blacksmith. It is interesting that his decline suits his profession; he loses his shape like a piece of metal in the forge, becoming amorphous.
The second stanza concentrates on Felix as the object of Hopkins’ ministries. Hopkins gives Felix Extreme Unction, “Sickness broke him. Impatient he cursed at first, but mended/Being anointed and all;…” (lines 5-6,776). Extreme Unction is the final sacrament in the Catholic Church, meant to prepare one’s soul to enter heaven. However, Felix’s attempt to skirt Hell began before the Anointing of the Sick near his deathbed, “though a heavenlier heart began some/Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom/Tendered to him” (lines 6-8,776). Notice that the emphasis is on the sacraments the man has received even more than the attitude change that has occurred. This is not a tale of a deathbed conversion. The focus is not on the dying man, but on Hopkins’ work with the man.
The next stanza is explicitly about Hopkins’ specific ministry to Felix. Hopkins describes the connection between the two of them, “This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears./My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,/Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal” (lines 9-12,776). It is interesting that Hopkins portrays the relationship as reciprocal. Hopkins and Felix are both endeared to each other. Felix’s tears which he wipes away touch his heart. That a whole stanza is given to the mutual aspect of the relationship rather than just Hopkins’ one-sided ministry to the man is significant. Perhaps Hopkins was trying to console himself to the idea of ministry, that it was not a constant giving with nothing in return. He needed to know that his personal sufferings had a purpose. Not only that, he wanted his spiritual exercises, his writings, to be missionary. He longed for recognition and was “…preoccupied with his lack of an audience” (774).
The final stanza highlights the difference between the Felix Randal of life versus on his deathbed. In life, Felix Randal was a productive citizen, lively and “boisterous” (line 12,776). His work as a blacksmith garnered him respect, as he was “powerful amidst peers” (line 13,776). However, as he approached death, he seemed the exact opposite: weak, cursing, and unlikeable. Hopkins notes the distinct difference, “How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years” (line 12,776). It is possible that this illustration of a distinct difference in personality and form between youth and old age had its roots in Hopkins’ own disenchantment with his vocation. His later years found him frustrated with a sense of “poetic infertility” (774). In addition, his ministries were tiring, as he later noted, “It made even life a burden to me” (773).
Maybe “Felix Randal” should really be titled “Gerard Manley Hopkins”, as Hopkins seems to have as much trouble reconciling himself to his life as Felix has to his deathbed. Hopkins, like Felix the blacksmith, created much in his early years, but later was overwhelmed by a sense of thwarted purpose. Indeed, the poem focuses more on Hopkins’ reactions and musings on Felix Randal than on Felix Randal himself.
In fact, though the title is “Felix Randal”, the poem is just as much and perhaps even more about Hopkins’ ministry. Note that Hopkins’ reaction to the news that Felix is dead is neither sorrow nor joy but a comment that Hopkins own duty toward Felix is “all-ended” (line 1,776). He does not go on to speak of the good times in the man’s life, but rather how his greatness diminished. He describes how he has watched the physical decline of this man, “…his mould of man, big-boned and hardy handsome/pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some/Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended” (lines 2-4,776). Felix Randal was a “farrier” (line 1,776), a blacksmith. It is interesting that his decline suits his profession; he loses his shape like a piece of metal in the forge, becoming amorphous.
The second stanza concentrates on Felix as the object of Hopkins’ ministries. Hopkins gives Felix Extreme Unction, “Sickness broke him. Impatient he cursed at first, but mended/Being anointed and all;…” (lines 5-6,776). Extreme Unction is the final sacrament in the Catholic Church, meant to prepare one’s soul to enter heaven. However, Felix’s attempt to skirt Hell began before the Anointing of the Sick near his deathbed, “though a heavenlier heart began some/Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom/Tendered to him” (lines 6-8,776). Notice that the emphasis is on the sacraments the man has received even more than the attitude change that has occurred. This is not a tale of a deathbed conversion. The focus is not on the dying man, but on Hopkins’ work with the man.
The next stanza is explicitly about Hopkins’ specific ministry to Felix. Hopkins describes the connection between the two of them, “This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears./My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,/Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal” (lines 9-12,776). It is interesting that Hopkins portrays the relationship as reciprocal. Hopkins and Felix are both endeared to each other. Felix’s tears which he wipes away touch his heart. That a whole stanza is given to the mutual aspect of the relationship rather than just Hopkins’ one-sided ministry to the man is significant. Perhaps Hopkins was trying to console himself to the idea of ministry, that it was not a constant giving with nothing in return. He needed to know that his personal sufferings had a purpose. Not only that, he wanted his spiritual exercises, his writings, to be missionary. He longed for recognition and was “…preoccupied with his lack of an audience” (774).
The final stanza highlights the difference between the Felix Randal of life versus on his deathbed. In life, Felix Randal was a productive citizen, lively and “boisterous” (line 12,776). His work as a blacksmith garnered him respect, as he was “powerful amidst peers” (line 13,776). However, as he approached death, he seemed the exact opposite: weak, cursing, and unlikeable. Hopkins notes the distinct difference, “How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years” (line 12,776). It is possible that this illustration of a distinct difference in personality and form between youth and old age had its roots in Hopkins’ own disenchantment with his vocation. His later years found him frustrated with a sense of “poetic infertility” (774). In addition, his ministries were tiring, as he later noted, “It made even life a burden to me” (773).
Maybe “Felix Randal” should really be titled “Gerard Manley Hopkins”, as Hopkins seems to have as much trouble reconciling himself to his life as Felix has to his deathbed. Hopkins, like Felix the blacksmith, created much in his early years, but later was overwhelmed by a sense of thwarted purpose. Indeed, the poem focuses more on Hopkins’ reactions and musings on Felix Randal than on Felix Randal himself.
Gerard Manley Hopkins-"God's Grandeur"
Gerard Manley Hopkins’ attempt in “God’s Grandeur”, as may be inferred from the title, is to expound upon the greatness of God. Hopkins accomplishes his mission not only by explaining the awesomeness of God by spending each stanza on one person of the Trinity, but also by contrasting the qualities of God with those of humanity. In addition, he draws the reader in by appealing to three of the five senses.
Visually, he demonstrates God’s greatness with images of extreme brightness and order. God’s greatness is so obvious that it is literally flashing at humanity, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God./It will flame out, like shining from shook foil” (lines 1-2,774). The fact that the whole world is charged with God’s grandeur hints at God the Father’s omnipresence and omniscience. If He can be everywhere, He can know everything. The reference to the foil speaks to God the Father’s omnipotence; the reflection off foil is very intense and almost impossible to ignore. For humanity to not see something so obvious indicates a high degree of blindness. It is ironic, because humanity is not blinded by the light but rather blind to the light. However, the future tense indicates that humanity will not be blind forever; something will change it. Given that the next stanza can be interpreted to be about Jesus, the second person of the Trinity, it seems that Jesus may be the one to open the people’s eyes. Or perhaps their eyes will not be opened until the Second Coming and Final Judgment, as implied by the mention of God’s “rod” in line 4 (774).
Yet the fact that we do not recognize something that is literally right in front our eyes is a strong criticism. Hopkins asks, “Why do men then now not reck his rod?” (line 4, 774). In other words, Hopkins is having a hard time understanding our blindness to God. If God is so powerful, and ever present, why do men not heed Him? Man’s indifference to God seems especially puzzling in light of men not “reck[ing] his rod.” It was unclear to me whether Hopkins’ meant “rod” in the sense of an instrument of discipline or as a symbol of authority; in either case, the line asserts God’s omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipotence are something to be admired and possibly even feared.
In the first stanza, Hopkins also gives an image of God’s greatness in the coherency of His saving plan for creation. God’s grandeur is described, “It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil/Crushed.” (lines 3-4, 774). In other words, all things come together for good when God is in charge. This image of harmony and order directly contrasts the image of earth that bears a human imprint. Hopkins notes in the second stanza, “And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;/And wears man’s smudge” (lines 6-7, 775). It is interesting to note that Hopkins blames the searing of the earth on trade. Perhaps it is a reference to deforestation by the cut and burn method, as he later comments, “…the soil/Is bare now” (lines 7-8, 774). The blearing and smearing of the earth with toil could refer to the fact that mankind’s creations, be they fields of grain or looming cities, lack the diversity and order innate in nature.
The sense of smell has also been muted. Hopkins notes that the earth “shares man’s smell” (line 7, 775). This could be a reflection of pollution of God’s good clean air. This smell of man could be many things; I am inclined to think of a more mechanized, industrial smell. Movements are generally a contrary reaction to the era before, so Hopkins could have been criticizing Industrialism. Man’s smell could be the smoke of a factory or the stink of the streets that sometimes served as sewers in the crowded inner cities.
The most primal sense, the sense of touch, has also been lost. Hopkins writes, “…nor can feet feel, being shod” (line 8, 775). Mankind has lost its sense of connection to nature and self, perhaps even to God. What is interesting is that this disconnect is self imposed. According to the Biblical account in Genesis, Adam and Eve, the first man and woman, clothed themselves out of shame for their nakedness after falling into temptation and eating an apple from the tree of knowledge of Good and Evil. Being a Jesuit priest, Hopkins might have been insinuating that mankind’s fall from grace was the root of all humanity’s problems. This fall from grace necessitated the incarnation of Jesus, the second person of the Trinity.
In the second stanza, Hopkins shows over and over that humans have only ever made a mess of the original perfection; they have lost their senses repeatedly. His note that “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod” (line 5, 775) shows that humans did not learn from their mistakes. This lack of progress toward anything resembling God’s plan is shown not only by Hopkins’ use of the word “generations” but also by his use of repetition. The phrase “have trod, have trod, have trod” gives the reader a feeling that successive generations have only continued to muddle up the earth. The consecutive, almost constant nature of the mistakes also points to the second stanza being about Christ. Christians commonly believe that Christ bore on the cross the sins of the whole world, and not only the whole world, but of all time.
In the final stanza, however, Hopkins hopes to restore the reader to God’s sight with images of hope. God is not only omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, but ever faithful. Hopkins notes “And for all this, nature is never spent;/There lives the dearest freshness deep down things” (lines 9-10, 775). In other words, spring always arrives despite the desolation of winter; God has a plan to set things right. The image of God the Spirit as a caring entity is given, “…The Holy Ghost over the bent/World broods…” (lines 13-14, 775). It is a very protective and conscientious posture. The tenderness of God (and joy in salvation) is given in the final line with mention that the Spirit watches everything with “warm breast and with ah! Bright wings.” (line 14, 775). The Spirit’s posture indicates that the world is against God’s warm chest; He cares very deeply for it.
Hopkins, as a Jesuit priest, believed in a Trinitarian God. Trinitarian theology states that there are three persons in one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It is interesting to note that there are three stanzas in this one poem, one for each person of the Trinity. The first stanza relates to God the Father with its images of omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence coupled with a divine will or plan. The second stanza relates to God the Son, by explaining mankind’s downfall with images of disgrace to the beautiful world God the Father had created; in other words, describing the lack of sense and the conditions that necessitated the Incarnation. The final stanza centers upon God the Spirit, with the comforting image of the Spirit watching over the whole world. “God’s Grandeur” is ultimately a poem with a message of unconditional love: God watches over the earth and is attentive to it despite mankind’s many mistakes.
Visually, he demonstrates God’s greatness with images of extreme brightness and order. God’s greatness is so obvious that it is literally flashing at humanity, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God./It will flame out, like shining from shook foil” (lines 1-2,774). The fact that the whole world is charged with God’s grandeur hints at God the Father’s omnipresence and omniscience. If He can be everywhere, He can know everything. The reference to the foil speaks to God the Father’s omnipotence; the reflection off foil is very intense and almost impossible to ignore. For humanity to not see something so obvious indicates a high degree of blindness. It is ironic, because humanity is not blinded by the light but rather blind to the light. However, the future tense indicates that humanity will not be blind forever; something will change it. Given that the next stanza can be interpreted to be about Jesus, the second person of the Trinity, it seems that Jesus may be the one to open the people’s eyes. Or perhaps their eyes will not be opened until the Second Coming and Final Judgment, as implied by the mention of God’s “rod” in line 4 (774).
Yet the fact that we do not recognize something that is literally right in front our eyes is a strong criticism. Hopkins asks, “Why do men then now not reck his rod?” (line 4, 774). In other words, Hopkins is having a hard time understanding our blindness to God. If God is so powerful, and ever present, why do men not heed Him? Man’s indifference to God seems especially puzzling in light of men not “reck[ing] his rod.” It was unclear to me whether Hopkins’ meant “rod” in the sense of an instrument of discipline or as a symbol of authority; in either case, the line asserts God’s omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipotence are something to be admired and possibly even feared.
In the first stanza, Hopkins also gives an image of God’s greatness in the coherency of His saving plan for creation. God’s grandeur is described, “It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil/Crushed.” (lines 3-4, 774). In other words, all things come together for good when God is in charge. This image of harmony and order directly contrasts the image of earth that bears a human imprint. Hopkins notes in the second stanza, “And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;/And wears man’s smudge” (lines 6-7, 775). It is interesting to note that Hopkins blames the searing of the earth on trade. Perhaps it is a reference to deforestation by the cut and burn method, as he later comments, “…the soil/Is bare now” (lines 7-8, 774). The blearing and smearing of the earth with toil could refer to the fact that mankind’s creations, be they fields of grain or looming cities, lack the diversity and order innate in nature.
The sense of smell has also been muted. Hopkins notes that the earth “shares man’s smell” (line 7, 775). This could be a reflection of pollution of God’s good clean air. This smell of man could be many things; I am inclined to think of a more mechanized, industrial smell. Movements are generally a contrary reaction to the era before, so Hopkins could have been criticizing Industrialism. Man’s smell could be the smoke of a factory or the stink of the streets that sometimes served as sewers in the crowded inner cities.
The most primal sense, the sense of touch, has also been lost. Hopkins writes, “…nor can feet feel, being shod” (line 8, 775). Mankind has lost its sense of connection to nature and self, perhaps even to God. What is interesting is that this disconnect is self imposed. According to the Biblical account in Genesis, Adam and Eve, the first man and woman, clothed themselves out of shame for their nakedness after falling into temptation and eating an apple from the tree of knowledge of Good and Evil. Being a Jesuit priest, Hopkins might have been insinuating that mankind’s fall from grace was the root of all humanity’s problems. This fall from grace necessitated the incarnation of Jesus, the second person of the Trinity.
In the second stanza, Hopkins shows over and over that humans have only ever made a mess of the original perfection; they have lost their senses repeatedly. His note that “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod” (line 5, 775) shows that humans did not learn from their mistakes. This lack of progress toward anything resembling God’s plan is shown not only by Hopkins’ use of the word “generations” but also by his use of repetition. The phrase “have trod, have trod, have trod” gives the reader a feeling that successive generations have only continued to muddle up the earth. The consecutive, almost constant nature of the mistakes also points to the second stanza being about Christ. Christians commonly believe that Christ bore on the cross the sins of the whole world, and not only the whole world, but of all time.
In the final stanza, however, Hopkins hopes to restore the reader to God’s sight with images of hope. God is not only omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, but ever faithful. Hopkins notes “And for all this, nature is never spent;/There lives the dearest freshness deep down things” (lines 9-10, 775). In other words, spring always arrives despite the desolation of winter; God has a plan to set things right. The image of God the Spirit as a caring entity is given, “…The Holy Ghost over the bent/World broods…” (lines 13-14, 775). It is a very protective and conscientious posture. The tenderness of God (and joy in salvation) is given in the final line with mention that the Spirit watches everything with “warm breast and with ah! Bright wings.” (line 14, 775). The Spirit’s posture indicates that the world is against God’s warm chest; He cares very deeply for it.
Hopkins, as a Jesuit priest, believed in a Trinitarian God. Trinitarian theology states that there are three persons in one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It is interesting to note that there are three stanzas in this one poem, one for each person of the Trinity. The first stanza relates to God the Father with its images of omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence coupled with a divine will or plan. The second stanza relates to God the Son, by explaining mankind’s downfall with images of disgrace to the beautiful world God the Father had created; in other words, describing the lack of sense and the conditions that necessitated the Incarnation. The final stanza centers upon God the Spirit, with the comforting image of the Spirit watching over the whole world. “God’s Grandeur” is ultimately a poem with a message of unconditional love: God watches over the earth and is attentive to it despite mankind’s many mistakes.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde was an unconventional man. Known in literary circles for his satires of Victorian society, he is just as well known for his personal life and homosexuality. He was a man who just did not fit in. As noted in podcast # 13, he was an outsider in high society. His Irish ancestry, lack of a title, and the fact that he had to work for a living separated him from the idle rich with whom he wished to associate himself. Wilde’s writings reflect this sense of being a stranger, evidencing ideas quite contrary to those held by Victorian society and past literary movements.
As noted in podcast #13, Oscar Wilde’s depiction of nature is quite opposite that of the earlier Romantics. He does not worship nature, or even draw inspiration from it. In “The Decay of Lying”, he comments, “What Art really reveals to us is Nature’s lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition” (832). This flies directly in the face of such Romantic classics as William Wordsworth’s “Lines Written in Early Spring” or Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” , which take nature as their subjects, exploring its beauty and power. If anything, the Romantics saw man as dwarfed and put in his proper place by nature; Wilde had no such respect for nature. Oscar Wilde puts forth the idea that art shapes nature, and not the other way around. This is contrary to the Romantics who used art as a canvas for nature; Wilde used nature as a canvas for art. He notes, “Nature is no great mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life” (840).
Wilde also differs from earlier writers in his views on the purpose of art. Wilde feels that historians and art critics who look to the past to find “representative” works of art have no business applying such labels. Art, he feels, is not to inspire or to show things as they really are. He states, “Art never expresses anything but itself” (842). To make something out of a piece of artwork is to apply a false meaning to it. Rather, he notes, “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself” (839). Wilde, in typical Aesthetic fashion, valued beauty. He felt that the true object of art “…is not simple truth but complex beauty” (836). However, Wilde did not qualify his notion of beauty. Beauty, the superficial quality, could be based on a thousand untruths, but as long as it was beautiful Wilde thought it was worthy of adoration. He notes, “…Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art” (846).
Wilde’s superficial emphasis might have stemmed from his own life experiences. He did not value truth and lying in the same way as the highly moral Victorian society, perhaps because he felt obliged to tell so many lies in his lifetime. He was constantly putting on airs, trying to fit into a high society that did not accept him. He was also living a double life, putting on a face of heterosexuality while being in a homosexual relationship. His wore a mask throughout most of his life. His outward side was the only one that society even came close to accepting; his plays were canceled after his homosexuality came out in the libel trial.
Wilde also puts forth the Aesthetic view that the impression is more important than the subject. The subject, in Wilde’s view, was highly dependent on the point of view. The impression was more reliable than the object, no matter how stationary. He explains, “Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us” (840). In other words, man defines reality. It is a rather subjective view, for what each man sees will differ depending upon what he has read, where he grew up, his personal trials and triumphs, etc.
Indeed, if everything exists because we make it so, and everyone has different opinions, no one person can be more or less correct. What one person sees may be different from what another person sees, but no one can negate either point of view. Perhaps this philosophy underscores Wilde’s lax views about the difference between truth and lying. Wilde seems to feel that there is no truth at all, or at least that we do not believe things because they are true. He writes, “it is style that makes us believe in a thing-nothing but style” (843). Content does not matter. It is the superficial appearance that inspires confidence, not veracity.
For all his attempts to blend in, Oscar Wilde was a rebel. He tried to fit in, but did not, and so challenged the society that failed to accept him. His view of nature was cocky. His ideas about art defied conventional definitions. His view of the world put the human at the center of the universe, and questioned commonly held ideas about the reliability of perception.
As noted in podcast #13, Oscar Wilde’s depiction of nature is quite opposite that of the earlier Romantics. He does not worship nature, or even draw inspiration from it. In “The Decay of Lying”, he comments, “What Art really reveals to us is Nature’s lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition” (832). This flies directly in the face of such Romantic classics as William Wordsworth’s “Lines Written in Early Spring” or Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” , which take nature as their subjects, exploring its beauty and power. If anything, the Romantics saw man as dwarfed and put in his proper place by nature; Wilde had no such respect for nature. Oscar Wilde puts forth the idea that art shapes nature, and not the other way around. This is contrary to the Romantics who used art as a canvas for nature; Wilde used nature as a canvas for art. He notes, “Nature is no great mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life” (840).
Wilde also differs from earlier writers in his views on the purpose of art. Wilde feels that historians and art critics who look to the past to find “representative” works of art have no business applying such labels. Art, he feels, is not to inspire or to show things as they really are. He states, “Art never expresses anything but itself” (842). To make something out of a piece of artwork is to apply a false meaning to it. Rather, he notes, “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself” (839). Wilde, in typical Aesthetic fashion, valued beauty. He felt that the true object of art “…is not simple truth but complex beauty” (836). However, Wilde did not qualify his notion of beauty. Beauty, the superficial quality, could be based on a thousand untruths, but as long as it was beautiful Wilde thought it was worthy of adoration. He notes, “…Lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art” (846).
Wilde’s superficial emphasis might have stemmed from his own life experiences. He did not value truth and lying in the same way as the highly moral Victorian society, perhaps because he felt obliged to tell so many lies in his lifetime. He was constantly putting on airs, trying to fit into a high society that did not accept him. He was also living a double life, putting on a face of heterosexuality while being in a homosexual relationship. His wore a mask throughout most of his life. His outward side was the only one that society even came close to accepting; his plays were canceled after his homosexuality came out in the libel trial.
Wilde also puts forth the Aesthetic view that the impression is more important than the subject. The subject, in Wilde’s view, was highly dependent on the point of view. The impression was more reliable than the object, no matter how stationary. He explains, “Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us” (840). In other words, man defines reality. It is a rather subjective view, for what each man sees will differ depending upon what he has read, where he grew up, his personal trials and triumphs, etc.
Indeed, if everything exists because we make it so, and everyone has different opinions, no one person can be more or less correct. What one person sees may be different from what another person sees, but no one can negate either point of view. Perhaps this philosophy underscores Wilde’s lax views about the difference between truth and lying. Wilde seems to feel that there is no truth at all, or at least that we do not believe things because they are true. He writes, “it is style that makes us believe in a thing-nothing but style” (843). Content does not matter. It is the superficial appearance that inspires confidence, not veracity.
For all his attempts to blend in, Oscar Wilde was a rebel. He tried to fit in, but did not, and so challenged the society that failed to accept him. His view of nature was cocky. His ideas about art defied conventional definitions. His view of the world put the human at the center of the universe, and questioned commonly held ideas about the reliability of perception.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
John Stuart Mill
John Stuart Mill’s arguments for liberty and equal rights for women, as mentioned in podcast# 12, are based on his Utilitarian beliefs. This philosophy asks, “what is the use of it?” and consequently Mill approaches the subjects of individuality and freedom of women not from a natural rights perspective but from a desire to see the greatest good for the maximum number of people.
In “On Liberty”, Mill promotes the idea that discussion is necessary for society to progress. He states, “…the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it” (515). Discussion only comes about from introducing individuals to ideas different from those they already hold. Thus, diversity of ideas is necessary, as is freedom of speech to express those ideas.
Mill notes that his society is not one to embrace new ideas, “In the present age-which has been described as ‘destitute of faith, but terrified at scepticism’-in which people feel sure, not so much that their opinions are true, as that they should not know what to do without them…” (516). This obstinacy is ironic, as Industrialism was supposed to herald new technologies, modes of travel, and presumably, newer ideas. However, Mill’s description is probably accurate for upper class Victorian ladies and gentlemen. They are locked into gender roles, separate spheres, and feel that to change the status quo would only bring disaster. The ladies spend a good part of each day visiting one another, but avoid topics of conversation that would be upsetting. While the ladies are contributing to a social calm, they avoid the real education that a good argument could bring.
This lack of individuality Mill mentions can also be applied to the struggle of women. It could be said that women lose themselves in marriage. The common attitude was that “husband and wife are one person, and the husband is that person” (564). These sentiments are reflected in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “The Princess”, which indicates that “woman’s cause is man’s” (583). Caroline Norton states the problem even more clearly in her “A Letter to the Queen.” A victim of an unhappy marriage, she notes, “A married woman in England has no legal existence: her being is absorbed in that of her husband” (565).
Indeed, Mill was aware of and against the subjection of women. He views the enslavement of marriage as worse than common slavery. In “The Subjection of Women”, he explains, “Men do not want solely the obedience of women, they want their sentiments. All men, except the most brutish, desire to have, in the woman most nearly connected with them, not a forced slave but a willing one, and not a slave merely, but a favourite” (523). Slaves are only required to be obedient, while wives must love their masters. Slaves still have freedom of thought and feeling; they may privately disagree with their masters and escape punishment but the wife is not so lucky.
The closest Mill gets to the natural rights arguments for women’s rights is in asserting that the natural cannot be known. Whatever is the status quo appears natural, because no alternative is acknowledged. He asks, “…was there ever any domination which did not appear natural to those who possessed it?” (522). Citing ancient Greek practices and the slavery in the American South, Mill explains that the slave-owner mentality is not just a disease of the Victorian husband. Indeed, it is an outdated way of thinking that society as a whole would be better without. Free speech and equal rights for all!
In “On Liberty”, Mill promotes the idea that discussion is necessary for society to progress. He states, “…the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it” (515). Discussion only comes about from introducing individuals to ideas different from those they already hold. Thus, diversity of ideas is necessary, as is freedom of speech to express those ideas.
Mill notes that his society is not one to embrace new ideas, “In the present age-which has been described as ‘destitute of faith, but terrified at scepticism’-in which people feel sure, not so much that their opinions are true, as that they should not know what to do without them…” (516). This obstinacy is ironic, as Industrialism was supposed to herald new technologies, modes of travel, and presumably, newer ideas. However, Mill’s description is probably accurate for upper class Victorian ladies and gentlemen. They are locked into gender roles, separate spheres, and feel that to change the status quo would only bring disaster. The ladies spend a good part of each day visiting one another, but avoid topics of conversation that would be upsetting. While the ladies are contributing to a social calm, they avoid the real education that a good argument could bring.
This lack of individuality Mill mentions can also be applied to the struggle of women. It could be said that women lose themselves in marriage. The common attitude was that “husband and wife are one person, and the husband is that person” (564). These sentiments are reflected in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “The Princess”, which indicates that “woman’s cause is man’s” (583). Caroline Norton states the problem even more clearly in her “A Letter to the Queen.” A victim of an unhappy marriage, she notes, “A married woman in England has no legal existence: her being is absorbed in that of her husband” (565).
Indeed, Mill was aware of and against the subjection of women. He views the enslavement of marriage as worse than common slavery. In “The Subjection of Women”, he explains, “Men do not want solely the obedience of women, they want their sentiments. All men, except the most brutish, desire to have, in the woman most nearly connected with them, not a forced slave but a willing one, and not a slave merely, but a favourite” (523). Slaves are only required to be obedient, while wives must love their masters. Slaves still have freedom of thought and feeling; they may privately disagree with their masters and escape punishment but the wife is not so lucky.
The closest Mill gets to the natural rights arguments for women’s rights is in asserting that the natural cannot be known. Whatever is the status quo appears natural, because no alternative is acknowledged. He asks, “…was there ever any domination which did not appear natural to those who possessed it?” (522). Citing ancient Greek practices and the slavery in the American South, Mill explains that the slave-owner mentality is not just a disease of the Victorian husband. Indeed, it is an outdated way of thinking that society as a whole would be better without. Free speech and equal rights for all!
Victorian Ladies and Gentlemen
Given that the period from 1837-1901 is christened the “Victorian Age”, it is interesting to consider the writings of the famous Queen Victoria. Described as a “believer in the notion that men and women should occupy different spheres”, her personal feelings about the place of women seem more unconventional (576). Not only did she “pioneer” the use of chloroform in childbirth, her letters to her daughter display not a glowing account of marriage and motherhood, but rather a sort of melancholy that such is the role of women. I found it ironic that the most powerful woman in England felt so trapped. Queen Victoria, of all women of her age, should have been able to have the freedom to live how she felt best.
Instead, she proceeds to complain in almost every letter. It appears that being a pioneer is neither so glorious nor as easy at it seems. Queen Victoria had to take on the responsibilities of the Crown at a young age, “Think however what it was for me, a girl of 18 all alone, not brought up at court as you were-but humbly at Kensington Palace-with trials and difficulties, to receive and be everywhere the first! No, no one knows what a life of difficulties mine was-and is!” (577). It is strange to me that such a complainer could head an era of idealism. She does not seem to appreciate the fact that at least she is Queen and not a poor factory worker or cart-hauler in a coal mine. However, in typical Victorian fashion, she was simply concerned with her own progress; the sensational reports of parents killing their own children for money, as mentioned by Carlyle, or Dickens’ report of the condition of the prisoners at Newgate probably never graced her ears.
Queen Victoria demonstrates an acute sense of the physical inequality between men and women; she believes women must suffer more than men must. This difference is because men, luckily, do not bear children. Indeed, pregnancy and childbirth seem to be Queen Victoria’s chief complaints about being a woman. She describes her feelings during her pregnancies as “pinned down-one’s wings clipped-in fact, at the best (and few were or are better than I was) only half oneself-particularly the first and second time” (577). She is not a sentimental mother at all, nor does she pretend to be one. She admits to her daughter that she does not see childbearing through such a rosy lens, “What you say of the pride of giving life to am immortal soul is very fine, dear, but, I own I cannot enter into that; I think much more of our being like a cow or a dog at such moments, when our poor nature becomes so animal and unecstatic…” (578). Evidently, Victoria thinks that giving life is not one of woman’s better capabilities, since animals were commonly considered to be beneath humans. Her feelings of being trapped may have stemmed not only from the Victorians’ lack effective birth control strategies, but the fact the woman was encouraged and expected to like having children. Any sentiment to the contrary was almost heretical.
Queen Victoria views not being forced to have kids as an “unbounded happiness” that would leave a woman free to worship her husband (577). It is interesting that although Victoria was against women having equal political rights as men, there is an element of balance in the ideal marital relationship she depicts. Not only would the wife, in a “foretaste of heaven” be free to adore her husband, the husband would adore her in return and be “ready to meet every wish and desire of your’s” (577). The idea that the husband and wife would be at each other’s beck and call in an era when the elite had many servants is very intriguing. Queen Victoria seems to imply that romantic adoration involves mutual servitude.
Queen Victoria sees that women get the “short end of the stick” not only in the physical aspect of being a wife and then a mother, but also in the institution of marriage itself. She notes, “This I call the ‘shadow side’ as much as being torn away from one’s loved home, parents and brothers and sisters. And therefore-I think our sex a most unenviable one” (577). Indeed, Victoria states that if she had her way, none of her daughters would be married (578). She seems very against the institution of marriage. Her reasoning is that marriage involves a loss of freedom and personal joy for the woman involved,
Queen Victoria seems to be of a contrary nature. On the one hand, she decries the women’s rights movement as “…dangerous & unchristian & unnatural…” (580) but at the same time complains about the sacrifices involved in being a wife and mother. It seems if she really felt that women were being treated badly, she of all women could change it as she had the most direct influence upon the King and therefore more influence over the laws of England. Ultimately, Queen Victoria is the quintessential Victorian: lots of talk and little real change to show for it.
Instead, she proceeds to complain in almost every letter. It appears that being a pioneer is neither so glorious nor as easy at it seems. Queen Victoria had to take on the responsibilities of the Crown at a young age, “Think however what it was for me, a girl of 18 all alone, not brought up at court as you were-but humbly at Kensington Palace-with trials and difficulties, to receive and be everywhere the first! No, no one knows what a life of difficulties mine was-and is!” (577). It is strange to me that such a complainer could head an era of idealism. She does not seem to appreciate the fact that at least she is Queen and not a poor factory worker or cart-hauler in a coal mine. However, in typical Victorian fashion, she was simply concerned with her own progress; the sensational reports of parents killing their own children for money, as mentioned by Carlyle, or Dickens’ report of the condition of the prisoners at Newgate probably never graced her ears.
Queen Victoria demonstrates an acute sense of the physical inequality between men and women; she believes women must suffer more than men must. This difference is because men, luckily, do not bear children. Indeed, pregnancy and childbirth seem to be Queen Victoria’s chief complaints about being a woman. She describes her feelings during her pregnancies as “pinned down-one’s wings clipped-in fact, at the best (and few were or are better than I was) only half oneself-particularly the first and second time” (577). She is not a sentimental mother at all, nor does she pretend to be one. She admits to her daughter that she does not see childbearing through such a rosy lens, “What you say of the pride of giving life to am immortal soul is very fine, dear, but, I own I cannot enter into that; I think much more of our being like a cow or a dog at such moments, when our poor nature becomes so animal and unecstatic…” (578). Evidently, Victoria thinks that giving life is not one of woman’s better capabilities, since animals were commonly considered to be beneath humans. Her feelings of being trapped may have stemmed not only from the Victorians’ lack effective birth control strategies, but the fact the woman was encouraged and expected to like having children. Any sentiment to the contrary was almost heretical.
Queen Victoria views not being forced to have kids as an “unbounded happiness” that would leave a woman free to worship her husband (577). It is interesting that although Victoria was against women having equal political rights as men, there is an element of balance in the ideal marital relationship she depicts. Not only would the wife, in a “foretaste of heaven” be free to adore her husband, the husband would adore her in return and be “ready to meet every wish and desire of your’s” (577). The idea that the husband and wife would be at each other’s beck and call in an era when the elite had many servants is very intriguing. Queen Victoria seems to imply that romantic adoration involves mutual servitude.
Queen Victoria sees that women get the “short end of the stick” not only in the physical aspect of being a wife and then a mother, but also in the institution of marriage itself. She notes, “This I call the ‘shadow side’ as much as being torn away from one’s loved home, parents and brothers and sisters. And therefore-I think our sex a most unenviable one” (577). Indeed, Victoria states that if she had her way, none of her daughters would be married (578). She seems very against the institution of marriage. Her reasoning is that marriage involves a loss of freedom and personal joy for the woman involved,
“All marriage is such a lottery-the happiness is always an exchange-though it may be a very happy one-still the poor woman is bodily and morally the husband’s slave. That always sticks in my throat. When I think of a merry, happy, free young girl-and look at the ailing, aching state a young wife is generally doomed to-which you can’t deny is the penalty of marriage” (579).The description of marriage as a “lottery” reveals a view of marriage as a crapshoot for marital bliss, the price to play being the wife’s happiness. Yet she also admits in the same sentence that marriage can be happy. Her own feelings upon her husband’s death are evidence that her marriage, at least, was a happy one, “Oh! How I admired Papa! How in love I was with him! How everything about him was beautiful and precious in my eyes! ….Oh! the bitterness of this-the woe!” (580). Her views on marriage vary; she seems to imply that happy marriages are wonderful, but unhappy marriages enslave women.
Queen Victoria seems to be of a contrary nature. On the one hand, she decries the women’s rights movement as “…dangerous & unchristian & unnatural…” (580) but at the same time complains about the sacrifices involved in being a wife and mother. It seems if she really felt that women were being treated badly, she of all women could change it as she had the most direct influence upon the King and therefore more influence over the laws of England. Ultimately, Queen Victoria is the quintessential Victorian: lots of talk and little real change to show for it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnets have a definite form, in general fourteen lines and a certain rhyme scheme, but more than that, sonnets seek answers. Sonnets are an attempt to answer a question. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “#43” from Sonnets from the Portuguese is her endeavor to describe the love between herself and Robert Browning.
The famous poem begins by stating the question it intends to answer, “how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” (line 1, 534) The main problem Barrett Browning runs into in trying to describe love is its myriad expressions because love is, as commonly said, “a many splendored thing.” Her “#43” is a poem of contrasts. Love is a grand phenomenon, so immense it is of indefinite proportions, “…to the depth and breadth and height/ My soul can reach” (lines 2-3, 532). Love makes the couple involved better people in an ideal sense, “…when feeling out of sight/For the ends of Being and ideal Grace” (lines 3-4, 532). Yet love is also simple and personal. It is not confined to fairy tales, but is a miraculous every day occurrence. Barrett Browning notes, “I love thee to the level of everyday’s/ Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light” (lines 5-6, 532). Not only is Robert Browning a light in her life, she loves him “everyday”, from the first rays of sunrise until after sundown when candles must be lit to light the darkness.
Another contrast given in the poem is between the heights of love and the lost passion of childhood. Adult love seems to outweigh, or at least match in intensity, any sorrows from childhood. Barrett Browning seems to have rediscovered love with Browning. She notes, “I love thee with the passion put to use/In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. /I love thee with a love I seemed to lose/With my lost saints” (lines 9-12, 532). It is interesting that Browning notes that she loves him “with my childhood’s faith” (line 10,532). Children are known to see right to the heart of matters of faith in a way that adults cannot; hence, the saying “out of the mouth of babes.” There is also a certainty and purity in her love implied by the comparison to a child, as children are innocent beings, incapable of malicious wrong. The fact that she lost the love with her “lost saints” seems to imply that she admires Browning in a similar way. Just as Christians look to the saints as models of Christ-like behavior, so too may Elizabeth Barrett Browning have esteemed Robert Browning. Indeed, her admiration may even approach a sort of reverence, as she earlier compares love and worship, “I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise” (line 8, 532). Since Sonnets from the Portuguese was written before Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning became husband and wife, they probably represent the idealized “honeymoon” stage of the relationship in which one cannot find fault in one’s lover.
Love, in Barrett Browning’s case, was almost certainly a choice. Robert Browning had to ask for an audience to see her, and she was certainly free to refuse him. Their eventual romantic relationship directly defied Barrett Browning’s father’s command that none of his children marry. Marrying Browning was a momentous decision for Barrett Browning. Perhaps this is why she included the line, “ I love thee freely, as men strive for Right” (line 7, 532). However, it is also said of love that it is a destiny. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, at least, seems to feel that her life built up to her meeting and falling in love with Robert Browning. She exclaims, “…I love thee with the breath, / Smiles, tears, of all my life!” (lines 12-13, 532). So it was not just a chance encounter that led to their becoming Mr. and Mrs. Browning, but a fulfillment of fate.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in typical form, focuses on the present. According to the podcast, she was a proponent of authors writing about their own eras. However, it is also interesting to note that she writes about both the past and the future in addition to the present. She mentions the past in her discussion of how she loves Robert Browning with a love she lost in childhood (line 10, 532). Her focus on the past shifts to the present and then finally to the future in the final lines, “… and, if God choose,/ I shall but love thee better after death” (lines 13-14, 532). She indicates that although the past led to her present joy, their love can only soar to new heights.
Whatever the reader’s personal feelings about love, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet “#43” makes one thing very clear: counting the ways one lover loves the other is an effort to describe the indescribable. Love is so many things, fourteen lines can barely scratch the surface, yet alone comprise a complete list. Love is about the past, the present, and the future. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s writing about love is reminiscent of the earlier Romantics trying to describe the infinite; I do not think it can ever really be done accurately or fully, but throughout history writers have never ceased to try.
The famous poem begins by stating the question it intends to answer, “how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” (line 1, 534) The main problem Barrett Browning runs into in trying to describe love is its myriad expressions because love is, as commonly said, “a many splendored thing.” Her “#43” is a poem of contrasts. Love is a grand phenomenon, so immense it is of indefinite proportions, “…to the depth and breadth and height/ My soul can reach” (lines 2-3, 532). Love makes the couple involved better people in an ideal sense, “…when feeling out of sight/For the ends of Being and ideal Grace” (lines 3-4, 532). Yet love is also simple and personal. It is not confined to fairy tales, but is a miraculous every day occurrence. Barrett Browning notes, “I love thee to the level of everyday’s/ Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light” (lines 5-6, 532). Not only is Robert Browning a light in her life, she loves him “everyday”, from the first rays of sunrise until after sundown when candles must be lit to light the darkness.
Another contrast given in the poem is between the heights of love and the lost passion of childhood. Adult love seems to outweigh, or at least match in intensity, any sorrows from childhood. Barrett Browning seems to have rediscovered love with Browning. She notes, “I love thee with the passion put to use/In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. /I love thee with a love I seemed to lose/With my lost saints” (lines 9-12, 532). It is interesting that Browning notes that she loves him “with my childhood’s faith” (line 10,532). Children are known to see right to the heart of matters of faith in a way that adults cannot; hence, the saying “out of the mouth of babes.” There is also a certainty and purity in her love implied by the comparison to a child, as children are innocent beings, incapable of malicious wrong. The fact that she lost the love with her “lost saints” seems to imply that she admires Browning in a similar way. Just as Christians look to the saints as models of Christ-like behavior, so too may Elizabeth Barrett Browning have esteemed Robert Browning. Indeed, her admiration may even approach a sort of reverence, as she earlier compares love and worship, “I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise” (line 8, 532). Since Sonnets from the Portuguese was written before Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning became husband and wife, they probably represent the idealized “honeymoon” stage of the relationship in which one cannot find fault in one’s lover.
Love, in Barrett Browning’s case, was almost certainly a choice. Robert Browning had to ask for an audience to see her, and she was certainly free to refuse him. Their eventual romantic relationship directly defied Barrett Browning’s father’s command that none of his children marry. Marrying Browning was a momentous decision for Barrett Browning. Perhaps this is why she included the line, “ I love thee freely, as men strive for Right” (line 7, 532). However, it is also said of love that it is a destiny. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, at least, seems to feel that her life built up to her meeting and falling in love with Robert Browning. She exclaims, “…I love thee with the breath, / Smiles, tears, of all my life!” (lines 12-13, 532). So it was not just a chance encounter that led to their becoming Mr. and Mrs. Browning, but a fulfillment of fate.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in typical form, focuses on the present. According to the podcast, she was a proponent of authors writing about their own eras. However, it is also interesting to note that she writes about both the past and the future in addition to the present. She mentions the past in her discussion of how she loves Robert Browning with a love she lost in childhood (line 10, 532). Her focus on the past shifts to the present and then finally to the future in the final lines, “… and, if God choose,/ I shall but love thee better after death” (lines 13-14, 532). She indicates that although the past led to her present joy, their love can only soar to new heights.
Whatever the reader’s personal feelings about love, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet “#43” makes one thing very clear: counting the ways one lover loves the other is an effort to describe the indescribable. Love is so many things, fourteen lines can barely scratch the surface, yet alone comprise a complete list. Love is about the past, the present, and the future. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s writing about love is reminiscent of the earlier Romantics trying to describe the infinite; I do not think it can ever really be done accurately or fully, but throughout history writers have never ceased to try.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
As mentioned in podcast #10, one issue to consider in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Ulysses” is the degree of selfishness that is present in Ulysses’ desires to have grand adventures once more. As a dramatic monologue, part of “Ulysses” purpose is to create turmoil: the speaker is not necessarily right, and there is a degree of judgment required of the reader. Indeed, there appears to be textual support for both a positive and negative view of the hero.
It is interesting to consider, as mentioned in the podcast, that Ulysses’ last voyage consisted of sinking in the harbor, killing his crew. This crime landed him in hell him in Dante’s Inferno. According to http://novaonline.nvcc.edu/eli/eng251/dante.html, Ulysses was in the eighth circle of hell, reserved for the fraudulent, and the eighth bolge for being an evil counselor. Tennyson would have been familiar with Dante’s Inferno, so this is evidence for an unfavorable interpretation of Ulysses’ decision to travel abroad again. Tennyson depicts him as an “idle king” (line 1, 593). Ulysses is bored in Ithaca, “by this still hearth”. He feels unappreciated, “...I mete and dole/Unequal laws unto a savage race, /That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me” (lines 3-5, 593). He longs for recognition, “I am become a name” he notes (line 11, 593). He misses being “honor’d of them all” (line 11, 593). It appears that Ulysses has a greedy, “hungry heart” (line 12, 593).
Whether or not Tennyson agreed with Dante’s view of Ulysses, it is also significant that “Ulysses” was written soon after Tennyson’s best friend passed away. It seems that death makes us appreciate life by contrast, and perhaps in light of Tennyson’s ongoing struggle with grief he was searching for a meaning and direction in life. Tennyson was trying to view positively the shocking death of his friend. Perhaps that is why at times Ulysses describes his longing to travel rather favorably, “And this gray spirit yearning in desire/To follow knowledge like a sinking star,/Beyond the utmost bound of human thought” (lines 30-32,593). Life and death, then, are a journey, an expanding of mankind’s limitations. Given the chance to encounter such heights, wasting one’s life hardly an option, “How dull it is to pause, to make an end/ To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!/As’ tho to breathe were life…” (line 24, 593). He implies that life is much more than mere existence, that life is being fully present, fully alive. Ulysses notes that his advanced age makes time seem even precious, “Little remains: but every hour is saved/From that eternal silence, something more,/A bringer of new things…” (lines 26-28, 593). Actually, time has not changed value, but aging brings a sense of the limited nature of time and therefore a new awareness of time’s worth. Time is running out, so Ulysses sees the endless possibilities each new day brings. He continues in this favorable vein toward the end of poem, “Come, my friends,/’Tis not too late to seek a newer world” (lines 56-57, 594).
In fact, the poem ends on a very rousing and positive note, “Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’/ We are not now that strength which in old days/ Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;/ One equal temper of heroic hearts,/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will/To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield” (lines 65-70, 594). There is a sense of acceptance, with the line “that which we are, we are” (line 67, 594). Perhaps that line was Tennyson’s attempting to give himself some closure. Often those in grief find solace in accepting that however awful their loved one’s passing was, it was somehow “meant to be.” The message at the end of the poem seems to be that age cannot take one’s spirit, that age does not matter; life is worth living no matter how old one is.
So was Ulysses selfishly motivated? The answer depends upon which part of the poem with which the reader agrees. The ending of the poem meets with the expected view of Ulysses as an epic hero, while the Ulysses of the beginning seems a tarnished version. Due to confirmation bias, the reader will look for a point of view that agrees with his or her preconceived notions, which will probably be the optimistic, rousing Ulysses of the end.
It is interesting to consider, as mentioned in the podcast, that Ulysses’ last voyage consisted of sinking in the harbor, killing his crew. This crime landed him in hell him in Dante’s Inferno. According to http://novaonline.nvcc.edu/eli/eng251/dante.html, Ulysses was in the eighth circle of hell, reserved for the fraudulent, and the eighth bolge for being an evil counselor. Tennyson would have been familiar with Dante’s Inferno, so this is evidence for an unfavorable interpretation of Ulysses’ decision to travel abroad again. Tennyson depicts him as an “idle king” (line 1, 593). Ulysses is bored in Ithaca, “by this still hearth”. He feels unappreciated, “...I mete and dole/Unequal laws unto a savage race, /That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me” (lines 3-5, 593). He longs for recognition, “I am become a name” he notes (line 11, 593). He misses being “honor’d of them all” (line 11, 593). It appears that Ulysses has a greedy, “hungry heart” (line 12, 593).
Whether or not Tennyson agreed with Dante’s view of Ulysses, it is also significant that “Ulysses” was written soon after Tennyson’s best friend passed away. It seems that death makes us appreciate life by contrast, and perhaps in light of Tennyson’s ongoing struggle with grief he was searching for a meaning and direction in life. Tennyson was trying to view positively the shocking death of his friend. Perhaps that is why at times Ulysses describes his longing to travel rather favorably, “And this gray spirit yearning in desire/To follow knowledge like a sinking star,/Beyond the utmost bound of human thought” (lines 30-32,593). Life and death, then, are a journey, an expanding of mankind’s limitations. Given the chance to encounter such heights, wasting one’s life hardly an option, “How dull it is to pause, to make an end/ To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!/As’ tho to breathe were life…” (line 24, 593). He implies that life is much more than mere existence, that life is being fully present, fully alive. Ulysses notes that his advanced age makes time seem even precious, “Little remains: but every hour is saved/From that eternal silence, something more,/A bringer of new things…” (lines 26-28, 593). Actually, time has not changed value, but aging brings a sense of the limited nature of time and therefore a new awareness of time’s worth. Time is running out, so Ulysses sees the endless possibilities each new day brings. He continues in this favorable vein toward the end of poem, “Come, my friends,/’Tis not too late to seek a newer world” (lines 56-57, 594).
In fact, the poem ends on a very rousing and positive note, “Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’/ We are not now that strength which in old days/ Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;/ One equal temper of heroic hearts,/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will/To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield” (lines 65-70, 594). There is a sense of acceptance, with the line “that which we are, we are” (line 67, 594). Perhaps that line was Tennyson’s attempting to give himself some closure. Often those in grief find solace in accepting that however awful their loved one’s passing was, it was somehow “meant to be.” The message at the end of the poem seems to be that age cannot take one’s spirit, that age does not matter; life is worth living no matter how old one is.
So was Ulysses selfishly motivated? The answer depends upon which part of the poem with which the reader agrees. The ending of the poem meets with the expected view of Ulysses as an epic hero, while the Ulysses of the beginning seems a tarnished version. Due to confirmation bias, the reader will look for a point of view that agrees with his or her preconceived notions, which will probably be the optimistic, rousing Ulysses of the end.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Charles Dickens' "A Visit to Newgate"
As was mentioned in podcast #9, the early Victorians were influenced by growing up in the Romantic Era. As such, many tell stories in eyewitness account mode. Charles Dickens channels Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by writing “ A Visit to Newgate” in the first person. He writes, “We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and what we thought, we will tell at once in our own way” (2). Dickens’ format certainly made much more of an impression on the reader than other modes of reporting could have done. Dickens contrasts his report with others, “We have only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the reader with any statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found at length in numerous reports of numerous committees…” (1). Dickens personal approach includes putting the reader in the mind of the condemned man. He asks the reader to, “conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth…” and goes on in great detail to describe the man’s internal struggle during his last hours (9).
It was important that Dickens told about his visit to Newgate in such a personal manner rather than an official one. Reports of the dimensions of the prison leave out the human element. Or rather, such reports allow the reader to forget the humanity of those in prison, and to distance himself from the condemned. Dickens implies that no one wants to really think about the prison, for to do so would be to admit that not only are these condemned men living in close proximity with regular citizens, they are also being put to death in such a proximity. People do not want to think about death, as Dickens notes, “Contact with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the dying-to men in full health and vigor, in the flower of youth or prime of life…” (1).
As was also mentioned in the podcast, Dickens’ mother-daughter pairs raise some of the same issues William Blake’s chimney sweeps did. They bring up the same questions about the value of innocence versus experience. In this case, innocence is excluded as a possibility due to the social rank and poverty of the prisoners and their families. Experience, if the first mother-daughter pair is any indication, leads to one of two extremes: agony or indifference. The mother, having gained worldly experience by committing a crime, is now an extremely sorrowful figure. The daughter, having had a hard life, is wholly uncaring. Dickens’ comment on society seems to be that society, like the daughter, is becoming too worldly and indifferent. The mother speaks earnestly, but the daughter and society are both unsympathetic. They ignore a woman worn both physically and spiritually, “…a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had once been black...It is impossible to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old woman” (3). Both society and the daughter disregard “…that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound that ears can hear” (3). The daughter is “perfectly unmoved”, “hardened beyond all hope of redemption” (3). The only interest the daughter takes in the prisoner is to briefly inquire after an acquaintance and then “…eagerly catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her…” (3).
Like the daughter, the Industrial society was more concerned with wealth than maintaining human connections. It is worth noting that the second mother-daughter pair shows the same lack of care. The girl feels nothing for the mother, or the mother for her child, “…neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on either side” (4). These two, who should have had such a close connection, approached each other with “careless indifference” (4). This new era, it seems, is severing the very closest of relations and is certainly, contrary to popular opinion, not a time of progress for all. This second daughter’s very being is a sign of the hardness of the times, “The girl belonged to a class-unhappily but too extensive-the very existence of which, should make men’s hearts bleed” (4). She lacks innocence, “born and bred in neglect and vice” and understands nothing but “hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the pawnbroker’s” (4). While the rich grow richer, the poor only become worse off; the poor lose their compassion in a struggle to survive while the rich lose their compassion by distancing themselves from the poor. It seems no one wants to think either about the prisoners or their families, much less help them. The citizens are “…one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures…” (1). Some good all this “progress” appears to have done, when people cannot relate to their fellow human beings!
*"A Visit to Newgate" is an e-text. The page numbers refer to how the Microsoft Word document printed off, without changes to font size or other formatting.
It was important that Dickens told about his visit to Newgate in such a personal manner rather than an official one. Reports of the dimensions of the prison leave out the human element. Or rather, such reports allow the reader to forget the humanity of those in prison, and to distance himself from the condemned. Dickens implies that no one wants to really think about the prison, for to do so would be to admit that not only are these condemned men living in close proximity with regular citizens, they are also being put to death in such a proximity. People do not want to think about death, as Dickens notes, “Contact with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the dying-to men in full health and vigor, in the flower of youth or prime of life…” (1).
As was also mentioned in the podcast, Dickens’ mother-daughter pairs raise some of the same issues William Blake’s chimney sweeps did. They bring up the same questions about the value of innocence versus experience. In this case, innocence is excluded as a possibility due to the social rank and poverty of the prisoners and their families. Experience, if the first mother-daughter pair is any indication, leads to one of two extremes: agony or indifference. The mother, having gained worldly experience by committing a crime, is now an extremely sorrowful figure. The daughter, having had a hard life, is wholly uncaring. Dickens’ comment on society seems to be that society, like the daughter, is becoming too worldly and indifferent. The mother speaks earnestly, but the daughter and society are both unsympathetic. They ignore a woman worn both physically and spiritually, “…a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had once been black...It is impossible to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old woman” (3). Both society and the daughter disregard “…that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound that ears can hear” (3). The daughter is “perfectly unmoved”, “hardened beyond all hope of redemption” (3). The only interest the daughter takes in the prisoner is to briefly inquire after an acquaintance and then “…eagerly catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her…” (3).
Like the daughter, the Industrial society was more concerned with wealth than maintaining human connections. It is worth noting that the second mother-daughter pair shows the same lack of care. The girl feels nothing for the mother, or the mother for her child, “…neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on either side” (4). These two, who should have had such a close connection, approached each other with “careless indifference” (4). This new era, it seems, is severing the very closest of relations and is certainly, contrary to popular opinion, not a time of progress for all. This second daughter’s very being is a sign of the hardness of the times, “The girl belonged to a class-unhappily but too extensive-the very existence of which, should make men’s hearts bleed” (4). She lacks innocence, “born and bred in neglect and vice” and understands nothing but “hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the pawnbroker’s” (4). While the rich grow richer, the poor only become worse off; the poor lose their compassion in a struggle to survive while the rich lose their compassion by distancing themselves from the poor. It seems no one wants to think either about the prisoners or their families, much less help them. The citizens are “…one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures…” (1). Some good all this “progress” appears to have done, when people cannot relate to their fellow human beings!
*"A Visit to Newgate" is an e-text. The page numbers refer to how the Microsoft Word document printed off, without changes to font size or other formatting.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thomas Carlyle
Thomas Carlyle depicts not blissful progress but the societal downfalls of the Industrial mindset. In his “Past and Present-Midas”, he calls the riches of the Industrial Revolution “enchanted wealth” (479). He asserts that this wealth helps no one, only increases the divide between the have and have-nots, “In Poor and Rich, instead of noble thrift and plenty, there is idle luxury alternating with mean scarcity and inability” (479). He points out that this new age of hope has done little for the poor, who are not helped by these magical riches. He describes the silent inhabitants of a workhouse, “They sit there, pent up, as in a kind of horrid enchantment; glad to be imprisoned and enchanted, that they might not perish starved” (478). Even more indicative of these men’s sad situation is their countenances, “…the gloomiest expression, not of anger, but of grief and shame and manifold inarticulate distress and weariness…” (478). If these impoverished men are any indication, society is not booming but on a decline. Indeed, Carlyle notes that the workhouse scene reminds him of “Dante’s Hell” (478).
Another sign of the desperate times are the desperate measures the poor must take to survive. Carlyle mentions a horrifying case, wherein, “…a Mother and a Father are arraigned and found guilty of poisoning three of their children, to defraud a ‘burial-society’ of some 3l.8s due on the death of each child…” (479). Yet he does more than just decry this horrific event; he makes sure the lesson sticks with the reader. He describes the parents’ hopeless outlook and consequently horrifying conversation,
Carlyle seems to argue that even those who benefit financially from the Industrial Revolution do not really gain much. Carlyle notes, “We have sumptuous garnitures for our Life, but have forgotten to live in the middle of them” (479). Carlyle obviously puts financial gain at the bottom of his list of life priorities. Instead of celebrating with the rich, he contemplates this new society and its effect on the individuals. He asks, “…what increase of blessedness is there? Are they better, beautifuler, stronger, braver? Are they even what they call ‘happier’ ?” (479). He seems to feel that character is much more important than wealth. I agree. I find it ironic that a search for progress and happiness could bring about so little real improvement and such a false sense of happiness and security. After reading Carlyle’s works, I am starting to wonder if the optimism seen in the writings of other Victorians such as Fanny Kemble and Thomas Macaulay was in reality quite phony and misinformed.
I think Carlyle makes an apt association in comparing English Industrial society to the fable of King Midas. Just as Midas’ wish to have everything he touched become gold was granted, so too was England increasing exponentially in wealth. However, like Midas, they have yet to realize the isolation of wealth. Midas could touch no one, or he would turn that person into gold. Similarly, the Industrial society was comprised of people who, as Carlyle notes in “Past and Present-Captains of Industry”, are “encased each in his transparent ‘ice-palace’; our brother visible in his, making signals and gesticulations to us;-visible, but forever unattainable…” (485).The Industrial Society also has yet to really feel the sorrow that Midas felt upon turning his beloved child into a piece of gold. They actually are turning their children into gold, with the parents killing the children for money just to survive, and more prevalently with the child labor in unsafe factories.
* I realized in retrospect that I expanded a bit above the details of the King Midas story than what Thomas Carlyle gives. I had been read the story from The Book of Virtues as a child, and I guess some of the details just stuck with me. The story of King Midas is retold as “The Golden Touch” in The Book of Virtues by William J. Bennet. The story is on pages 63-66 in the version published by Simon & Schuster, presumably in New York, in 1993.
Another sign of the desperate times are the desperate measures the poor must take to survive. Carlyle mentions a horrifying case, wherein, “…a Mother and a Father are arraigned and found guilty of poisoning three of their children, to defraud a ‘burial-society’ of some 3l.8s due on the death of each child…” (479). Yet he does more than just decry this horrific event; he makes sure the lesson sticks with the reader. He describes the parents’ hopeless outlook and consequently horrifying conversation,
Carlyle’s description makes this a highly personal and memorable scenario. Not only does Carlyle put the reader in the parents’ place by describing the child as “our” child, he also names him. Naming this innocent and unfortunate child gives the reader one more mental hook with which to remember this horrific event. In appealing to family emotions and a sense of justice, Carlyle ensures that no one who reads his Midas can possibly walk away without a strong feeling that something is highly amiss in such a society.“What shall we do to escape starvation? We are deep sunk here, in our dark cellar, and help is far…. Our poor little starveling Tom, who cries all day for victuals, who will see only evil and not good in the world: if he were out of misery at once; he well dead, and the rest of us perhaps kept alive? It is thought, and hinted; at last it is done” (479).
Carlyle seems to argue that even those who benefit financially from the Industrial Revolution do not really gain much. Carlyle notes, “We have sumptuous garnitures for our Life, but have forgotten to live in the middle of them” (479). Carlyle obviously puts financial gain at the bottom of his list of life priorities. Instead of celebrating with the rich, he contemplates this new society and its effect on the individuals. He asks, “…what increase of blessedness is there? Are they better, beautifuler, stronger, braver? Are they even what they call ‘happier’ ?” (479). He seems to feel that character is much more important than wealth. I agree. I find it ironic that a search for progress and happiness could bring about so little real improvement and such a false sense of happiness and security. After reading Carlyle’s works, I am starting to wonder if the optimism seen in the writings of other Victorians such as Fanny Kemble and Thomas Macaulay was in reality quite phony and misinformed.
I think Carlyle makes an apt association in comparing English Industrial society to the fable of King Midas. Just as Midas’ wish to have everything he touched become gold was granted, so too was England increasing exponentially in wealth. However, like Midas, they have yet to realize the isolation of wealth. Midas could touch no one, or he would turn that person into gold. Similarly, the Industrial society was comprised of people who, as Carlyle notes in “Past and Present-Captains of Industry”, are “encased each in his transparent ‘ice-palace’; our brother visible in his, making signals and gesticulations to us;-visible, but forever unattainable…” (485).The Industrial Society also has yet to really feel the sorrow that Midas felt upon turning his beloved child into a piece of gold. They actually are turning their children into gold, with the parents killing the children for money just to survive, and more prevalently with the child labor in unsafe factories.
* I realized in retrospect that I expanded a bit above the details of the King Midas story than what Thomas Carlyle gives. I had been read the story from The Book of Virtues as a child, and I guess some of the details just stuck with me. The story of King Midas is retold as “The Golden Touch” in The Book of Virtues by William J. Bennet. The story is on pages 63-66 in the version published by Simon & Schuster, presumably in New York, in 1993.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Industrialism and Fanny Kemble
Fanny Kemble’s “Record of a Girlhood” includes a description of her first ride on a steam engine. She was the first woman to ride on this new contraption (490). Her writing reflects not only the optimism of the Victorian age but also the sheer newness of the experience. The novelty of traveling by steam engine is difficult for her to describe. Part of this difficulty may have been that language had yet to catch up with technology. Language evolves as it is needed, and the purpose of language is to convey meaning. However, at the time of Kemble’s writing there were no adequate words with the same meanings to describe either the steam engine or her feeling on the actual journey. The ideas and sensations were hitherto inconceivable. There were no precise, standardized terms with which to describe the ride, because traveling by steam engine was by no means routine yet. Kemble hints at this inability to properly describe the experience somewhat explicitly. She states, “You can’t imagine how strange it seemed to be journeying on thus…” and later, “You cannot conceive what the sensation of cutting the air was…” (491). Indeed, the whole experience is “strange beyond description” (491). It is such a new experience that it does not yet seem real or concrete, as Kemble explains,“…I felt as if no fairy tale was ever half so wonderful as what I saw” (491). The steam engine is truly a “magical machine” (491).
Kemble could not adequately describe her ride on the steam engine except by comparison. Throughout the work, the steam engine is anthropomorphized as a horse, or compared to a horse and given its qualities. The steam engine is the new horse. She notes,“…they make these curious little fire-horses all mares” (490). The steam engine’s barrel contains enough water to “prevent her being thirsty for fifteen miles” (490). Indeed, the locomotive is a living “creature” that “wants water” (491). Like any animal, it needs not only water but food as well; the coals are the oats (491). To describe the composition and operation of the steam engine, Kemble expands the horse analogy. The wheels are the feet, the pistons the legs, and the “reins, bit and bridle of this wonderful beast” are a “small steel handle” (490-491). The train is further described as a “snorting little animal, which I felt quite inclined to pat” (491).
If the steam engine is the new horse, man has finally in some way succeeded in improving upon nature. Mankind has not only matched nature but also exceeded both it and popular expectation. Just the construction of the railroad tunnels is an example of man mastering nature. Creating tunnels involves moving massive pieces of stone, quite an undertaking as bits of formerly impassible but majestic mountains are now under human control. Kemble reflects, “…these great masses of stone had been cut asunder to allow our passage thus far below the surface of the earth” (491). The steam engine not only improves upon the horse, but the bird as well. Kemble describes the top speed of thirty-five miles an hour as “swifter than a bird flies (for they tried the experiment with a snipe)” (491). The locomotive literally seems to fly, smoothly “cutting the air” (491). Kemble notes, “…this sensation of flying was quite delightful” (491).
This new technology is beyond exciting. Indeed, it evokes emotions perhaps even more intense than common adoration. As Kemble begins her letter, “A common sheet of paper is enough for love, but a foolscap extra can alone contain a railroad and my ecstasies” (490). Yet despite the novelty, Kemble “…had a perfect sense of security, and not the slightest fear…” on her train ride (491). Kemble’s security in the steam engine speaks to that era’s sense of security in human progress. Kemble is extremely optimistic, and her attitude reflects a major segment of the Victorian population.
Kemble could not adequately describe her ride on the steam engine except by comparison. Throughout the work, the steam engine is anthropomorphized as a horse, or compared to a horse and given its qualities. The steam engine is the new horse. She notes,“…they make these curious little fire-horses all mares” (490). The steam engine’s barrel contains enough water to “prevent her being thirsty for fifteen miles” (490). Indeed, the locomotive is a living “creature” that “wants water” (491). Like any animal, it needs not only water but food as well; the coals are the oats (491). To describe the composition and operation of the steam engine, Kemble expands the horse analogy. The wheels are the feet, the pistons the legs, and the “reins, bit and bridle of this wonderful beast” are a “small steel handle” (490-491). The train is further described as a “snorting little animal, which I felt quite inclined to pat” (491).
If the steam engine is the new horse, man has finally in some way succeeded in improving upon nature. Mankind has not only matched nature but also exceeded both it and popular expectation. Just the construction of the railroad tunnels is an example of man mastering nature. Creating tunnels involves moving massive pieces of stone, quite an undertaking as bits of formerly impassible but majestic mountains are now under human control. Kemble reflects, “…these great masses of stone had been cut asunder to allow our passage thus far below the surface of the earth” (491). The steam engine not only improves upon the horse, but the bird as well. Kemble describes the top speed of thirty-five miles an hour as “swifter than a bird flies (for they tried the experiment with a snipe)” (491). The locomotive literally seems to fly, smoothly “cutting the air” (491). Kemble notes, “…this sensation of flying was quite delightful” (491).
This new technology is beyond exciting. Indeed, it evokes emotions perhaps even more intense than common adoration. As Kemble begins her letter, “A common sheet of paper is enough for love, but a foolscap extra can alone contain a railroad and my ecstasies” (490). Yet despite the novelty, Kemble “…had a perfect sense of security, and not the slightest fear…” on her train ride (491). Kemble’s security in the steam engine speaks to that era’s sense of security in human progress. Kemble is extremely optimistic, and her attitude reflects a major segment of the Victorian population.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Felicia Hemans
Although Felicia Hemans portrays women in traditional roles, she was by no means traditional. As an educated woman who published many acclaimed works, she was very different from the housewives she portrayed in The Homes of England. The biography of her in the textbook mentions that she shared a publisher with Lord Byron, who referred to her as “your feminine He-Man” or “Mrs. Hewoman’s” (404). Lord Byron’s attitude toward accomplished women was probably more common in that era, as the women’s rights movements was still several decades away. Hemans seems to undermine that perception of women, if not always outright.
In The Homes of England, Hemans presents the image of a family around their hearth at night (line 10, 412). However, she does not just concentrate on the wealthy family gathered around their ornate fireplace. This notion of equality of all is perhaps a throwback to the first generation Romantics. Hemans is like fellow Romantics Wordsworth and Blake in her inclusion of different social classes. She writes about both the “stately” homes (line 1, 412) and the “cottage” homes (line 25, 412). She sees both extremes as representing England; neither is more important than the other. She exclaims, “The free, fair Homes of England! / Long, Long in hut and hall” (lines 33-34, 412). Her inclusion of both “hut and hall” shows again that England is not cut of one cloth; England has a diversity that cannot be ignored and yet in that diversity there is equality.
Even though Felicia Hemans depicts women in traditional roles in The Homes of England, there is an undercurrent of feminism. The women in the poem are homemakers, doing traditional women’s tasks. They are the creators of “household love” (line 11, 412). Yet no matter the family’s social or financial standing, the mother is a very active figure. In one household, “woman’s voice flows forth in song” (line 11, 412). It is assumed that the woman is teaching music to her children or otherwise entertaining the family. Women are also storytellers of “childhood’s tale” (line 12, 412). In addition, they nourish the education of the child by encouraging reading (line 16, 412). The mention of “church-bells’ chime” (line 21, 412) shows that women would be involved in the child’s religious education as well. The home is “where first the child’s glad spirit loves/Its country and its God!” (lines 39-40, 412). Given all of Hemans’ examples of women’s work, it seems the mother plays a key part in shaping the child. There is a saying that “the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.” Despite the women’s apparently more traditionally and more submissive rules, they actually wield a good deal of influence. Note that these homes of which each “hallowed wall” (line 36, 412) should be guarded are the domains of the mothers. The soldiers who fight for England fight not only for England in its greatness and beauty, but also with the nostalgic memories of their homes and their own mothers.
Hemans' The Homes of England also displays a Romantic appeal to emotion, especially national pride and familial tenderness. The opening quote from Marmion sets up this poem as being about patriotism, “Where’s the coward that would not dare/To fight for such a land?” (412). Throughout the poem, Hemans goes on to extol England’s goodness. She illustrates its majestic beauty with various nature scenes. England is a land of “tall ancestral trees” (line 3), “rejoicing stream[s]” (line 8), “silvery brooks” (line 27), and “glowing orchards” (line 29). To Hemans, England is not only beautiful, but should be and shall be beautiful and adored forever, “And green for ever be the groves, / And bright the flowery sod” (lines 37-38, 412).
In The Homes of England, Hemans presents the image of a family around their hearth at night (line 10, 412). However, she does not just concentrate on the wealthy family gathered around their ornate fireplace. This notion of equality of all is perhaps a throwback to the first generation Romantics. Hemans is like fellow Romantics Wordsworth and Blake in her inclusion of different social classes. She writes about both the “stately” homes (line 1, 412) and the “cottage” homes (line 25, 412). She sees both extremes as representing England; neither is more important than the other. She exclaims, “The free, fair Homes of England! / Long, Long in hut and hall” (lines 33-34, 412). Her inclusion of both “hut and hall” shows again that England is not cut of one cloth; England has a diversity that cannot be ignored and yet in that diversity there is equality.
Even though Felicia Hemans depicts women in traditional roles in The Homes of England, there is an undercurrent of feminism. The women in the poem are homemakers, doing traditional women’s tasks. They are the creators of “household love” (line 11, 412). Yet no matter the family’s social or financial standing, the mother is a very active figure. In one household, “woman’s voice flows forth in song” (line 11, 412). It is assumed that the woman is teaching music to her children or otherwise entertaining the family. Women are also storytellers of “childhood’s tale” (line 12, 412). In addition, they nourish the education of the child by encouraging reading (line 16, 412). The mention of “church-bells’ chime” (line 21, 412) shows that women would be involved in the child’s religious education as well. The home is “where first the child’s glad spirit loves/Its country and its God!” (lines 39-40, 412). Given all of Hemans’ examples of women’s work, it seems the mother plays a key part in shaping the child. There is a saying that “the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.” Despite the women’s apparently more traditionally and more submissive rules, they actually wield a good deal of influence. Note that these homes of which each “hallowed wall” (line 36, 412) should be guarded are the domains of the mothers. The soldiers who fight for England fight not only for England in its greatness and beauty, but also with the nostalgic memories of their homes and their own mothers.
Hemans' The Homes of England also displays a Romantic appeal to emotion, especially national pride and familial tenderness. The opening quote from Marmion sets up this poem as being about patriotism, “Where’s the coward that would not dare/To fight for such a land?” (412). Throughout the poem, Hemans goes on to extol England’s goodness. She illustrates its majestic beauty with various nature scenes. England is a land of “tall ancestral trees” (line 3), “rejoicing stream[s]” (line 8), “silvery brooks” (line 27), and “glowing orchards” (line 29). To Hemans, England is not only beautiful, but should be and shall be beautiful and adored forever, “And green for ever be the groves, / And bright the flowery sod” (lines 37-38, 412).
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley is a Romantic poet of the second generation, but even so, his political views seem similar to those of the first generation. The major event in the lives of the first generation of Romantics was the fall of the Bastille and the French Revolution. With those events came a disdain for centralized authority and a love of freedom and general liberal philosophy. While the French Revolution would not have had as large an impact on Shelly’s life, his works display that same disdain for centralized power as would have been found in the first generation of Romantic poets. Examining Ozymandias as a prime example, I agree with the assertion put forth in the podcast that Shelley’s view was that political power wanes over time.
The pedestal, a symbol of power, bears an intimidating inscription, “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair” (lines 10-11, 399). It was most likely a commissioned sculpture bearing a commissioned message. What an epitaph! It speaks ultimately of a definite sense of superiority: note that Ozymandias is not just a king, but “King of Kings.” The government was a monarchial system, with one supreme head. Ozymandias’ message is that others should despair of ever being such a supreme being as he was. Indeed, his immense pride is clear in his face. His face is described, “…whose frown/and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command” (lines 4-5, 399). This is not a ruler who was pleased by anything, as demonstrated by his perpetual frown. His “wrinkled lip” points to disgust. With such a high point of view of himself, maybe nothing could impress him. The “sneer of cold command” points to the selfishness of this tyrant; he was perhaps cold and unfeeling towards the people he ruled. Or maybe the coldness refers to his stubbornness in not taking pertinent advice from his advisors. In any case, what is interesting is not the power he had but the present state of his statue and reputation. It is located in an “antique land”, hinting at its being outdated. By extension, this might be a veiled suggestion that the system of vesting the power of the state in one person was outdated. Meanwhile, Ozymandias’ statue has not stood well the test of time and the elements, “half sunk” and “shattered” (line 4, 399). Any of his accomplishments, any palaces or other testaments to his greatness have passed away, “Nothing beside remains” (line 12, 399). Indeed, the statue is in decay, a “colossal wreck” (line 13, 399).
One definition of “Romantic” given in the “Definition of Romantic” handout is “redolent or suggestive of romance; appealing to the imagination and feelings” (2). Like other Romantic poets (Blake especially comes to mind), Shelley had a sense of the infinite. It is this belief in the immortality of art that makes Shelley a romantic. Art is essentially an attempt to express the inexpressible, to harness the imagination. Since the imagination is infinite, and art partakes some of that character in its creation, it has a magic and wonder that can never die. In Ozymandias, the infinite is represented as the art and nature which persist. Ozymandias’ grandeur has been survived by “the lone and level sands” which stretch around it, as well as the artist’s original intentions. It is noted that the visage “tell [s] that its sculptor well these passions read/Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,/The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed” (lines 6-8, 399). The artist’s depiction of Ozymandias is what remains, nothing Ozymandias made himself, save his epitaph. The sculpture is described as “boundless” (line 13, 339). It is as endless as “the lone and level sands” that “stretch far away” (line 14, 339).
The idea was put forth in the podcast that second generation Romantics were pessimistic. This is also evidenced in Shelley’s Ozymandias. The statue has a very desolate setting, being “in the desart” (line 3, 399). It is ultimately a scene of destruction with the “vast and trunkless legs of stone” (line 2, 399) dominating the immediate landscape, but ultimately dwarfed by the endless sands. There is some hope in the immortality of art, but overall Percy paints a scene of ruin. A statue crumbles to pieces, almost unnoticed.
The pedestal, a symbol of power, bears an intimidating inscription, “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair” (lines 10-11, 399). It was most likely a commissioned sculpture bearing a commissioned message. What an epitaph! It speaks ultimately of a definite sense of superiority: note that Ozymandias is not just a king, but “King of Kings.” The government was a monarchial system, with one supreme head. Ozymandias’ message is that others should despair of ever being such a supreme being as he was. Indeed, his immense pride is clear in his face. His face is described, “…whose frown/and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command” (lines 4-5, 399). This is not a ruler who was pleased by anything, as demonstrated by his perpetual frown. His “wrinkled lip” points to disgust. With such a high point of view of himself, maybe nothing could impress him. The “sneer of cold command” points to the selfishness of this tyrant; he was perhaps cold and unfeeling towards the people he ruled. Or maybe the coldness refers to his stubbornness in not taking pertinent advice from his advisors. In any case, what is interesting is not the power he had but the present state of his statue and reputation. It is located in an “antique land”, hinting at its being outdated. By extension, this might be a veiled suggestion that the system of vesting the power of the state in one person was outdated. Meanwhile, Ozymandias’ statue has not stood well the test of time and the elements, “half sunk” and “shattered” (line 4, 399). Any of his accomplishments, any palaces or other testaments to his greatness have passed away, “Nothing beside remains” (line 12, 399). Indeed, the statue is in decay, a “colossal wreck” (line 13, 399).
One definition of “Romantic” given in the “Definition of Romantic” handout is “redolent or suggestive of romance; appealing to the imagination and feelings” (2). Like other Romantic poets (Blake especially comes to mind), Shelley had a sense of the infinite. It is this belief in the immortality of art that makes Shelley a romantic. Art is essentially an attempt to express the inexpressible, to harness the imagination. Since the imagination is infinite, and art partakes some of that character in its creation, it has a magic and wonder that can never die. In Ozymandias, the infinite is represented as the art and nature which persist. Ozymandias’ grandeur has been survived by “the lone and level sands” which stretch around it, as well as the artist’s original intentions. It is noted that the visage “tell [s] that its sculptor well these passions read/Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,/The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed” (lines 6-8, 399). The artist’s depiction of Ozymandias is what remains, nothing Ozymandias made himself, save his epitaph. The sculpture is described as “boundless” (line 13, 339). It is as endless as “the lone and level sands” that “stretch far away” (line 14, 339).
The idea was put forth in the podcast that second generation Romantics were pessimistic. This is also evidenced in Shelley’s Ozymandias. The statue has a very desolate setting, being “in the desart” (line 3, 399). It is ultimately a scene of destruction with the “vast and trunkless legs of stone” (line 2, 399) dominating the immediate landscape, but ultimately dwarfed by the endless sands. There is some hope in the immortality of art, but overall Percy paints a scene of ruin. A statue crumbles to pieces, almost unnoticed.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The comparison of William Wordsworth as being a poet of the ordinary and Samuel Taylor Coleridge as a poet of the supernatural mentioned in the podcast seems an apt one. Wordsworth seems to stress the extraordinary in the ordinary, while the challenge of Coleridge is making sense of his improbabilities. Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is certainly supernatural, featuring a mysterious mariner who tells a chilling tale. The unexpected abounds and it would be easy to write reams on this unexpected series of events, but I consider it more interesting to try to tie the story together. Trying to tie the story together involves a search for a moral, some overarching message to stick with the reader.
One possible moral is given at the end of the poem:
“He prayeth well, who loveth well/ Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best/ All things great and small; / For the dear God who loveth us / He made and loveth all” (lines 611-617, 340).
What makes this moral so seemingly obvious is its direct connection to the ancient mariner’s story. If the mariner had not shot the albatross, his troubles would not have been so severe. It was the death of the albatross which led to his current condition. When asked why he looks so haunted by fiends, the mariner replies, “With my cross-bow/I shot the ALBATROSS” (lines 81-81, 328). Every misfortune that befalls him befalls him because he has shot the albatross. The ship cannot sail because of what he has done, “And I had done a hellish thing/And it would work ‘em woe:/For all averred, I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow!” (lines 91-94, 329). As a result, the crew is stranded in the middle of the ocean without water to drink. The crew forces the mariner to wear the albatross, “Instead of the cross, the Albatross/About my neck was hung” (lines 142-143, 330). However, this is not a sincere repentant action on the part of the mariner and his misery continues. His crewmates die, and still he cannot escape the memory of killing the albatross. Each death just increases the nightmarish feel, “every soul, it passed me by, /like the whiz of my CROSS-BOW!” (lines 222-223, 331). Even attempts at prayer do not release the mariner from this torment, “I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, / A wicked whisper came, and made/my heart as dry as dust” (lines 244-247, 332). To be released from this torture, he must know how it feels to respect the wildlife; he must really feel the loss of an animal. His killing the albatross offended the Polar Spirit, who “loved the bird that loved the man/ Who shot him with his bow” (lines 404-405, 336). The mariner’s release comes when, upon observing the water snakes, he notices their loveliness, “O happy living things! No tongue/ Their beauty might declare:/And I blessed them unaware!” (lines 282-285, 333). He is finally able to speak, and even more significant, he literally has a weight lifted off him. He no longer has to bear the actual albatross, “The self same moment I could pray;/And from my neck so free/The Albatross fell off, and sank/Like lead into the sea” (lines 288-291, 333). This is a turning point in the story; after this point, the mariner has his thirst satiated and can sleep; finally, he reaches land. The enormity of this event is key evidence for the given theme to be the theme of the work.
A question raised in the podcast is whether this given moral is enough of a moral or not enough. I would argue that it is both too much and not enough. It is too fitting of a moral to satisfy me; it has great textual support and makes sense but it just seems too perfect. In that sense, it is too much of a theme, much too obvious. Going with the given moral makes this a wild adventure for a very simple theme. It is also sort of a let down, too little of a moral. Where is the ingenuity of a renowned poet in such a straightforward moral? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is hardly a child’s bedtime story. Given the wild adventure and supernatural occurrences, I am still searching for a more appropriate moral.
It was mentioned in the podcast that Coleridge was interested in the workings of the mind. Psychologically, the mariner has very complex and intense feelings. His telling of the stories is a sorting through of these events and feelings, making sense of them. It has been said that authors write about what they know. Perhaps an underlying moral for Coleridge, with his feelings of worthlessness due to his opium addiction and inability to finish tasks, is to talk about his problems. In the same way that Coleridge might have had a need for some sort of talking therapy, the ancient mariner must tell his tale. It is a compulsion he cannot escape, “Forewith this frame of mine was wrenched/With a woeful agony, /Which forced me to begin my tale; /And then it left me free” (lines 578-581, 340). Is this perhaps example of the subconscious informing the conscious? Coleridge telling himself that things would be better if he could just work through his problems? It is not a once and for all deal, but an intermittent need, “Since then, at an uncertain hour, /That agony returns:/And till my ghastly tale is told, /The heart within me burns” (lines 582-585, 340). It is perhaps a sign that we must all tell our tales, that lessons learned must be shared for the good of others as well as ourselves. At the same time, we must be good listeners to others, as the bridegroom who “cannot choose but hear” (line 19, 327).
One possible moral is given at the end of the poem:
“He prayeth well, who loveth well/ Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best/ All things great and small; / For the dear God who loveth us / He made and loveth all” (lines 611-617, 340).
What makes this moral so seemingly obvious is its direct connection to the ancient mariner’s story. If the mariner had not shot the albatross, his troubles would not have been so severe. It was the death of the albatross which led to his current condition. When asked why he looks so haunted by fiends, the mariner replies, “With my cross-bow/I shot the ALBATROSS” (lines 81-81, 328). Every misfortune that befalls him befalls him because he has shot the albatross. The ship cannot sail because of what he has done, “And I had done a hellish thing/And it would work ‘em woe:/For all averred, I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow!” (lines 91-94, 329). As a result, the crew is stranded in the middle of the ocean without water to drink. The crew forces the mariner to wear the albatross, “Instead of the cross, the Albatross/About my neck was hung” (lines 142-143, 330). However, this is not a sincere repentant action on the part of the mariner and his misery continues. His crewmates die, and still he cannot escape the memory of killing the albatross. Each death just increases the nightmarish feel, “every soul, it passed me by, /like the whiz of my CROSS-BOW!” (lines 222-223, 331). Even attempts at prayer do not release the mariner from this torment, “I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, / A wicked whisper came, and made/my heart as dry as dust” (lines 244-247, 332). To be released from this torture, he must know how it feels to respect the wildlife; he must really feel the loss of an animal. His killing the albatross offended the Polar Spirit, who “loved the bird that loved the man/ Who shot him with his bow” (lines 404-405, 336). The mariner’s release comes when, upon observing the water snakes, he notices their loveliness, “O happy living things! No tongue/ Their beauty might declare:/And I blessed them unaware!” (lines 282-285, 333). He is finally able to speak, and even more significant, he literally has a weight lifted off him. He no longer has to bear the actual albatross, “The self same moment I could pray;/And from my neck so free/The Albatross fell off, and sank/Like lead into the sea” (lines 288-291, 333). This is a turning point in the story; after this point, the mariner has his thirst satiated and can sleep; finally, he reaches land. The enormity of this event is key evidence for the given theme to be the theme of the work.
A question raised in the podcast is whether this given moral is enough of a moral or not enough. I would argue that it is both too much and not enough. It is too fitting of a moral to satisfy me; it has great textual support and makes sense but it just seems too perfect. In that sense, it is too much of a theme, much too obvious. Going with the given moral makes this a wild adventure for a very simple theme. It is also sort of a let down, too little of a moral. Where is the ingenuity of a renowned poet in such a straightforward moral? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is hardly a child’s bedtime story. Given the wild adventure and supernatural occurrences, I am still searching for a more appropriate moral.
It was mentioned in the podcast that Coleridge was interested in the workings of the mind. Psychologically, the mariner has very complex and intense feelings. His telling of the stories is a sorting through of these events and feelings, making sense of them. It has been said that authors write about what they know. Perhaps an underlying moral for Coleridge, with his feelings of worthlessness due to his opium addiction and inability to finish tasks, is to talk about his problems. In the same way that Coleridge might have had a need for some sort of talking therapy, the ancient mariner must tell his tale. It is a compulsion he cannot escape, “Forewith this frame of mine was wrenched/With a woeful agony, /Which forced me to begin my tale; /And then it left me free” (lines 578-581, 340). Is this perhaps example of the subconscious informing the conscious? Coleridge telling himself that things would be better if he could just work through his problems? It is not a once and for all deal, but an intermittent need, “Since then, at an uncertain hour, /That agony returns:/And till my ghastly tale is told, /The heart within me burns” (lines 582-585, 340). It is perhaps a sign that we must all tell our tales, that lessons learned must be shared for the good of others as well as ourselves. At the same time, we must be good listeners to others, as the bridegroom who “cannot choose but hear” (line 19, 327).
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth, in his preface, defines a poet as a “man speaking to men” (210). In terms of how this definition relates to his poetry, Wordsworth tries to write about humanity and human issues using language that is readily understood. His aim is not just self-expression but ultimately communication. He is not one to become the misunderstood artist type; it really does matter to him if his readers understand what he is talking about. Above all, he emphasizes connections, whether in discussions of people or nature.
In line with his poet definition, Wordsworth tends to focus on human relationships. Simon Lee, for instance, focuses on the bonds of friendship and love. There is a friendship between the speaker and Simon Lee. The speaker is able to describe Simon Lee with a detail that hints at this event being more than just a single chance encounter between the two. Simon Lee is depicted not only with a physical description but also with a history. Wordsworth does not gloss over the fact that Simon Lee is older and that with age comes physical decay. Indeed, Simon Lee’s physical losses are described in great detail, “And he is lean and he is sick/his little body’s half awry/His ankles they are swoln and thick; /His legs are thin and dry” (lines 33-36, 198). Simon Lee is not what he once was. He is now “a little man” who “once was tall” (197). In addition to his shrinkage, Simon Lee is “bereft/of his right eye” (lines 25-26, 198). However, despite his missing eye, “his cheek is like a cherry” (line 16, 197). This description of his cheeks hints that perhaps Simon Lee’s real beauty lies not in his physical appearance but in his personality. It is Simon Lee’s ability to find joy that makes him so loveable, “And still there’s something in the world/at which his heart rejoices” (lines 45-46, 198). Really, Simon Lee is a very unique subject for a poem. He is not beautiful in the classic sense of the word. He lacks the symmetry of renowned sculptures or the glow of the idealized lover or the awe-inspiring power of nature. Perhaps this unconscious contrast with more common subjects of poetry is part of what makes Simon Lee so engaging for the reader. In any case, Simon Lee has a different worth: he cannot do much physically, but he can still enjoy human connections.
The other relationship Wordsworth highlights in Simon Lee is the union between Simon Lee and his wife Ruth. They have a beautiful, sweet relationship. They are a couple who help each other out. The speaker notes, “Old Ruth works out of doors with him/And does what Simon cannot do” (lines 49-50, 198). They are not very strong or productive due to their advanced age, but they both have a pride in at least trying to work their land. The speaker comments, “And though you with your utmost skill/from labour could not wean them” (lines 53-54, 198). They could simply give up and accept their failing health and poverty, as Simon has “few months of life left”; however, their perseverance is refreshing and inspiring (line 65, 199). The reader, at the end of the poem, feels a connection to old Simon Lee and his wife. They are very real characters, not unique in their circumstances. Simon Lee and Ruth are a couple one could run into just about anywhere. As Dr. Glance mentioned in the podcast, Wordsworth’s writing about people of Simon Lee and his wife’s class is significant. Their inclusion shows that everyone is important and interconnected; it is not just the rich that matter. It is also important that these characters have names. The naming of the characters gives the poem a much more personal feel. Simon Lee is not just some poor man that the author helped. In addition, the fact that Ruth is named speaks of the importance of women and not just women in general but poor women too.
Simon Lee’s joy at being helped with the stump is much greater than one would expect at simple relief from a chore. Simon Lee’s reaction is described, “The tears into his eyes were brought/And thanks and praises seemed to run/So fast out of his heart, I thought/They never would have done” (lines 97-100, 199). Simon Lee’s joy is that the speaker would see him in need and help him. It is the joy of human connection. It is a very strong and very real joy. The intensity of Simon Lee’s reaction is mirrored in the speaker’s reaction, his reflection, “Alas! The gratitude of men/Has oftener left me mourning” (lines 104-105, 199). As Dr. Glance noted in the podcast, the reason for the author’s feeling of sadness given Simon Lee’s joy is not explicitly given in the poem. However, I would venture that, in view of Wordsworth’s connection concentration, it is the speaker’s feeling of attachment to Lee that makes him express this view. Perhaps the speaker realizes that the fact that a simple act of kindness made such an impact on Simon Lee speaks to our innate interdependence as human beings.
As human beings, we have a need to feel wanted and needed. Social connections and intimate relationships help us fulfill that need. Yet we also have, for lack of a better term, a spiritual component. This spiritual component revels in being part of something greater than ourselves. Being out in nature is one way to keep this part of ourselves alive. Nature puts us in perspective. It tells us where we belong in the universe. Wordsworth’s view on nature, as mentioned in the podcast, is that nature is precious because it is disappearing due to industrialization. Wordsworth values both nature and human connections. His The world is too much with us demonstrates that being too busy and materialistic leads to a deprivation of feeling and an under-appreciation of nature. He writes, “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers” (line 2, 234) and later “We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!” (line 4, 234). Being too busy does not make a human being feel more fully alive, but instead leads to a void or a deadened feeling. This too worldly person seeks “glimpses that would make me less forlorn” (line 12, 234). The irony is that this person is ignoring the beauty of nature which is right in front of him. The greatness of nature does not move him anymore, “The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours/And are up-gathered like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.” (lines 5-9, 234). This speaker, who could exemplify the Industrial society with its emphasis on progress, has lost the ability to see beauty and so feels disconnected. Indeed, this person and by extension the Industrial society seems to be becoming more and more like the machines and technologies in which they put such faith and less like human beings. He (and they) have lost a sense of the immense interconnectedness and worth of both people and nature.
In line with his poet definition, Wordsworth tends to focus on human relationships. Simon Lee, for instance, focuses on the bonds of friendship and love. There is a friendship between the speaker and Simon Lee. The speaker is able to describe Simon Lee with a detail that hints at this event being more than just a single chance encounter between the two. Simon Lee is depicted not only with a physical description but also with a history. Wordsworth does not gloss over the fact that Simon Lee is older and that with age comes physical decay. Indeed, Simon Lee’s physical losses are described in great detail, “And he is lean and he is sick/his little body’s half awry/His ankles they are swoln and thick; /His legs are thin and dry” (lines 33-36, 198). Simon Lee is not what he once was. He is now “a little man” who “once was tall” (197). In addition to his shrinkage, Simon Lee is “bereft/of his right eye” (lines 25-26, 198). However, despite his missing eye, “his cheek is like a cherry” (line 16, 197). This description of his cheeks hints that perhaps Simon Lee’s real beauty lies not in his physical appearance but in his personality. It is Simon Lee’s ability to find joy that makes him so loveable, “And still there’s something in the world/at which his heart rejoices” (lines 45-46, 198). Really, Simon Lee is a very unique subject for a poem. He is not beautiful in the classic sense of the word. He lacks the symmetry of renowned sculptures or the glow of the idealized lover or the awe-inspiring power of nature. Perhaps this unconscious contrast with more common subjects of poetry is part of what makes Simon Lee so engaging for the reader. In any case, Simon Lee has a different worth: he cannot do much physically, but he can still enjoy human connections.
The other relationship Wordsworth highlights in Simon Lee is the union between Simon Lee and his wife Ruth. They have a beautiful, sweet relationship. They are a couple who help each other out. The speaker notes, “Old Ruth works out of doors with him/And does what Simon cannot do” (lines 49-50, 198). They are not very strong or productive due to their advanced age, but they both have a pride in at least trying to work their land. The speaker comments, “And though you with your utmost skill/from labour could not wean them” (lines 53-54, 198). They could simply give up and accept their failing health and poverty, as Simon has “few months of life left”; however, their perseverance is refreshing and inspiring (line 65, 199). The reader, at the end of the poem, feels a connection to old Simon Lee and his wife. They are very real characters, not unique in their circumstances. Simon Lee and Ruth are a couple one could run into just about anywhere. As Dr. Glance mentioned in the podcast, Wordsworth’s writing about people of Simon Lee and his wife’s class is significant. Their inclusion shows that everyone is important and interconnected; it is not just the rich that matter. It is also important that these characters have names. The naming of the characters gives the poem a much more personal feel. Simon Lee is not just some poor man that the author helped. In addition, the fact that Ruth is named speaks of the importance of women and not just women in general but poor women too.
Simon Lee’s joy at being helped with the stump is much greater than one would expect at simple relief from a chore. Simon Lee’s reaction is described, “The tears into his eyes were brought/And thanks and praises seemed to run/So fast out of his heart, I thought/They never would have done” (lines 97-100, 199). Simon Lee’s joy is that the speaker would see him in need and help him. It is the joy of human connection. It is a very strong and very real joy. The intensity of Simon Lee’s reaction is mirrored in the speaker’s reaction, his reflection, “Alas! The gratitude of men/Has oftener left me mourning” (lines 104-105, 199). As Dr. Glance noted in the podcast, the reason for the author’s feeling of sadness given Simon Lee’s joy is not explicitly given in the poem. However, I would venture that, in view of Wordsworth’s connection concentration, it is the speaker’s feeling of attachment to Lee that makes him express this view. Perhaps the speaker realizes that the fact that a simple act of kindness made such an impact on Simon Lee speaks to our innate interdependence as human beings.
As human beings, we have a need to feel wanted and needed. Social connections and intimate relationships help us fulfill that need. Yet we also have, for lack of a better term, a spiritual component. This spiritual component revels in being part of something greater than ourselves. Being out in nature is one way to keep this part of ourselves alive. Nature puts us in perspective. It tells us where we belong in the universe. Wordsworth’s view on nature, as mentioned in the podcast, is that nature is precious because it is disappearing due to industrialization. Wordsworth values both nature and human connections. His The world is too much with us demonstrates that being too busy and materialistic leads to a deprivation of feeling and an under-appreciation of nature. He writes, “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers” (line 2, 234) and later “We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!” (line 4, 234). Being too busy does not make a human being feel more fully alive, but instead leads to a void or a deadened feeling. This too worldly person seeks “glimpses that would make me less forlorn” (line 12, 234). The irony is that this person is ignoring the beauty of nature which is right in front of him. The greatness of nature does not move him anymore, “The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours/And are up-gathered like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.” (lines 5-9, 234). This speaker, who could exemplify the Industrial society with its emphasis on progress, has lost the ability to see beauty and so feels disconnected. Indeed, this person and by extension the Industrial society seems to be becoming more and more like the machines and technologies in which they put such faith and less like human beings. He (and they) have lost a sense of the immense interconnectedness and worth of both people and nature.
Monday, June 1, 2009
William Blake
On the surface, William Blake is a poet of contrasts. His works play with, among others, the theme of innocence/experience. However, he departs from the common philosophers of his era in not lapsing immediately into value judgments. Blake does not imply that one alternative is better than the other is, nor that these are the only choices; there is no dichotomy, no forced dilemma. Instead, Blake presents the two options equally; neither is preferable, but both options seem necessary by their inclusion in his works. Indeed, neither option is really that pure of an option. For example, innocence is tainted, and experience is not represented as the ultimate opposite of innocence.
Compare, for instance, the two versions of “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Innocence and Experience. The chimney sweeper from Innocence exemplifies the qualified innocence discussed in the introduction (78). The originally clean child has been soiled not only physically by the soot but also by tragedy. The little boy has not had the happy childhood portrayed in other of Blake’s Innocence poems, such as “The Ecchoing Green.” The speaker’s mother died while he was young, and his father sold him into the chimney sweep business while he was still young. He was innocent before all this, sold while he “could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep” (line 3, 81). Innocence is spoiled by experience. If little Tom Dacre’s head had not been shaved, the soot would have spoiled his white hair (lines 8-9, 81). Also, Tom’s hair is described as curling like a lambs back (line 6, 81). The reference to a lamb shows just how innocent Tom was, as lambs are known as gentle, docile creatures. The original innocence of the children is reinforced by the description of their appearance after being set free from their “coffins of black” by the angel. The boys are “naked & white” after washing in a river (line 17, 81). This washing does not change their natural state; rather, it brings them back to their original state. After the washing, they frolic like children in Blake’s other Innocence poems, leaping in the sun (81).
The speaker is expected to take on added responsibilities that the innocent children do not share. Not only must the sweeps rise early and work, they are also much more mature. The speaker consoles little Tom Dacre, taking on a more parental role than a child normally would. The child is not as kind in his observations, concluding wryly that “if all do their duty they need not fear harm” (line 24, 81). Yet it is supposedly not a child’s duty to work in such wretched conditions as being a chimney sweep requires. It is ironic because the child will have fear whether or not he does his duty. If he works as a sweep, he risks death by falling down a chimney or catching some fatal illness as a result of being continually dirty and breathing dust. If he refuses to work, having been sold, he faces abuse by his master or possibly malnutrition. Being a poor sweep, he probably already faces malnutrition and abuse. No matter what choice he makes, he faces a bad situation.
Compare this outwardly dirty but more inwardly pure sweep to “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Experience. Instead of being described as a white being darkened by black, he is “a little black thing among the snow” (89). He is set apart from the pure snow, which could symbolize the innocent children. This sweep, like the speaker of “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Innocence, has been abandoned by his parents. His parents have deserted him, gone to the church to pray. It is assumed that the parents go, not to petition God for a better life, but to celebrate that their son has such a fine occupation! They go to church to “praise God & his Priest & King/Who make up a heaven of our misery” (lines 10-11, 89). The child has fooled his parents because he feels he must, “And because I am happy & dance & sing, /They think they have done me no injury” (lines 9-10, 89). Yet his circumstances are no less desperate than those of the sweep in Songs of Innocence. He is dressed in “clothes of death” (line 7, 89) and suffers in the snow. All his suffering, instead of making him more imaginative like the boy in Innocence, makes him more of a realist. The boy in Innocence can at least dream of an Angel; the boy from Experience sees nothing but misery. He has no bleak hope that death will rid him of this suffering. His worldview is pessimism. It is ultimately very depressing, and not at all a good alternative to the very guarded hope of presented in “The Chimney Sweeper” in Innocence.
Blake presents guarded joy versus no joy; a boy spoiled physically and a boy who is physically dirty and whose spirit is broken. The best alternative is not pure joy, for that would be naïve. Indeed, it is hard to make a value judgment about which poor chimney sweep is better off. It all depends on perspective. I agree with Dr. Glance in his assertion that Blake’s aim in writing was to challenge readers’ previously held ideas and perspectives. Blake does not make it an easy “either/or” proposition. Instead, he wants the reader to see beyond the proverbial black and white to gray; and not just to gray, but to shades of gray. As Blake says in “Marriage of Heaven and Hell”, “If the doors of perception were cleansed/ every thing would appear to man as it is: In-/finite” (102). Indeed, his very titles evidence the continuum of possibilities. He does not write of the divorce of heaven and hell, but rather of their marriage and he writes of both innocence and experience.
Compare, for instance, the two versions of “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Innocence and Experience. The chimney sweeper from Innocence exemplifies the qualified innocence discussed in the introduction (78). The originally clean child has been soiled not only physically by the soot but also by tragedy. The little boy has not had the happy childhood portrayed in other of Blake’s Innocence poems, such as “The Ecchoing Green.” The speaker’s mother died while he was young, and his father sold him into the chimney sweep business while he was still young. He was innocent before all this, sold while he “could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep” (line 3, 81). Innocence is spoiled by experience. If little Tom Dacre’s head had not been shaved, the soot would have spoiled his white hair (lines 8-9, 81). Also, Tom’s hair is described as curling like a lambs back (line 6, 81). The reference to a lamb shows just how innocent Tom was, as lambs are known as gentle, docile creatures. The original innocence of the children is reinforced by the description of their appearance after being set free from their “coffins of black” by the angel. The boys are “naked & white” after washing in a river (line 17, 81). This washing does not change their natural state; rather, it brings them back to their original state. After the washing, they frolic like children in Blake’s other Innocence poems, leaping in the sun (81).
The speaker is expected to take on added responsibilities that the innocent children do not share. Not only must the sweeps rise early and work, they are also much more mature. The speaker consoles little Tom Dacre, taking on a more parental role than a child normally would. The child is not as kind in his observations, concluding wryly that “if all do their duty they need not fear harm” (line 24, 81). Yet it is supposedly not a child’s duty to work in such wretched conditions as being a chimney sweep requires. It is ironic because the child will have fear whether or not he does his duty. If he works as a sweep, he risks death by falling down a chimney or catching some fatal illness as a result of being continually dirty and breathing dust. If he refuses to work, having been sold, he faces abuse by his master or possibly malnutrition. Being a poor sweep, he probably already faces malnutrition and abuse. No matter what choice he makes, he faces a bad situation.
Compare this outwardly dirty but more inwardly pure sweep to “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Experience. Instead of being described as a white being darkened by black, he is “a little black thing among the snow” (89). He is set apart from the pure snow, which could symbolize the innocent children. This sweep, like the speaker of “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Innocence, has been abandoned by his parents. His parents have deserted him, gone to the church to pray. It is assumed that the parents go, not to petition God for a better life, but to celebrate that their son has such a fine occupation! They go to church to “praise God & his Priest & King/Who make up a heaven of our misery” (lines 10-11, 89). The child has fooled his parents because he feels he must, “And because I am happy & dance & sing, /They think they have done me no injury” (lines 9-10, 89). Yet his circumstances are no less desperate than those of the sweep in Songs of Innocence. He is dressed in “clothes of death” (line 7, 89) and suffers in the snow. All his suffering, instead of making him more imaginative like the boy in Innocence, makes him more of a realist. The boy in Innocence can at least dream of an Angel; the boy from Experience sees nothing but misery. He has no bleak hope that death will rid him of this suffering. His worldview is pessimism. It is ultimately very depressing, and not at all a good alternative to the very guarded hope of presented in “The Chimney Sweeper” in Innocence.
Blake presents guarded joy versus no joy; a boy spoiled physically and a boy who is physically dirty and whose spirit is broken. The best alternative is not pure joy, for that would be naïve. Indeed, it is hard to make a value judgment about which poor chimney sweep is better off. It all depends on perspective. I agree with Dr. Glance in his assertion that Blake’s aim in writing was to challenge readers’ previously held ideas and perspectives. Blake does not make it an easy “either/or” proposition. Instead, he wants the reader to see beyond the proverbial black and white to gray; and not just to gray, but to shades of gray. As Blake says in “Marriage of Heaven and Hell”, “If the doors of perception were cleansed/ every thing would appear to man as it is: In-/finite” (102). Indeed, his very titles evidence the continuum of possibilities. He does not write of the divorce of heaven and hell, but rather of their marriage and he writes of both innocence and experience.
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